Eulogy

By Jujur Prananto

After two months in a coma my father died recently of an unspecified illness. He took his last breath in a hospital early in the morning. It was an tragic death. None of his family members was beside him then.

His final minutes were witnessed only by a nurse who happened to stare into his room through a slightly opened door. Father's condition had become worse after he been very weak for several days. During his final days his body was stiff but his hands rebelled wildly against everything, detaching all the tubes connecting parts of his body to medical devices.

I was informed of his death at about 12.30 p.m. that day. I was visiting him for the first time in ten days. When I left home I thought he was still alive. Later I realized I had committed a serious mistake by not notifying the hospital of the change in my telephone number. This had caused them some inconvenience as they tried to reach me to no avail. But what had been done could not be undone.

Having learned from my experience when my mother passed away two years previously, to smoothen the job of burying my father I called in a funeral parlor and a food catering business, and ordered their services for all the needs to host the visits of the many well-wishers who would pay their last respects to the deceased at my parents' home.

I also called a family gathering and asked my brothers and sisters whether we should take our father directly to the cemetery from home or if his body should be laid out at some other place. They said he should be interred as soon as possible.

"After the burial who among us will say prayers?"

"Nobody," they said. "We can ask a preacher from the funeral parlor to do it."

"So, there will be only a eulogy from our part?" I asked.

"Eulogy?" They asked back in unison.

I really had never thought about this problem before. According to tradition after someone is interred a representative of the family should say some words in remembrance of the deceased. But in our family the question was who was the most appropriate person for the job.

"Not me," shouted Zul, one of my brothers, when I raised the problem at the gathering.

"Not me either," said Alex, another brother. "You know, I'm not a good public speaker. Just imagine how embarrassing it would be if I got nervous half way."

"No, it wouldn't be a problem. It is usual for a eulogist to stammer a little bit," said another brother.

"How about you?" he said, looking at me. "You're the best person for that since you're a lecturer."

"Oh, how can you ask the youngest among us to speak on our behalf? It should be the oldest."

"Our problem is that our brother Amir has called from Surabaya to say that he cannot come because his construction project is at that stage which demands his direct supervision."

"How about Tiran?"

"Of course not me," Tiran said adding that he was just a son- in-law. "It must be one of you, father's own children. Perhaps, my wife would be more appropriate than me."

"Me? Oh, no." Listi reacted abruptly. "How can a woman act as a eulogist?"

"That is right. Why a woman?" said Maya, our youngest sister, in an apparent effort to save herself.

So, the meeting ended without reaching a consensus. For me the most important thing was not who would say something but what to say.

I have heard an old adage saying that a person's good name is crowned by a good eulogy. I believe in that because in front of well-wishers at the burial ceremony a eulogist speaks only about the deceased's good deeds, sincerity, generosity, and benevolence, burying deep all negative sides.

That is why in our society, a great manipulator who has been involved in a billion rupiah scam can be a hero to his family. He is remembered as a responsible father by his children. On the other hand an irresponsible father can be a hero to his enterprise for having turned it into a conglomerate. And a notorious outlaw can also be loved by the members of his gang for his concern for their welfare.

My family's question was how we should remember our father. This, I believed, was the core of the problem. None of us was willing to deliver the eulogy at the graveside because we had difficulty finding even the smallest positive example from our father's life.

He was not a responsible head of the family. When we were small children we only witnessed our mother working from morning to night to make ends meet. She was the sole breadwinner of the family. And Mom was the only one who showed us love.

Our father, on the other hand, came home once in a while and every time he was among us we were gripped with tension.

Every time he arrived he took off his shoes and threw them in the corner of the living room and took off his shirt while shouting at mother. He then sat on a sofa, watching TV, stretching out his legs. He never called our mother's name in a polite way. To us he was a stranger.

But he did not want to be unfriendly to us all the time. Sometimes when sitting on the sofa our father asked -- actually instructed -- us to appear before him like a commoner in front of a king. In this situation we kissed his hands in turn, they smelled strongly of tobacco.

We took his words obediently, but we felt forced to do so. But what we could not understand was that our mother was always angry with us if we failed to obey our father's requests on time. Mom told us to be filial, but she failed to make us respect our father.

While our father sat on the sofa he also continuously shouted, gave instructions, grumbled or verbally abused everyone.

"Where is my coffee?" he would shout. After he tasted it, he shouted again, "Is this coffee or rat poison?"

"Hey, woman, buy me cigarettes at the shop nearby, pay with your money, first."

"Bitch, if you are just going to the shop don't dress so well, you understand?" he told our mother. "Even if you dress that neatly not a single crook will fall in love with you!"

We were angered by his abusing words but could do nothing. But the worst thing was his comments when Mom was massaging or manicuring him, or when he saw her putting his shoes away. He also used to scoff at her when she was cleaning the spilt coffee from the table. (It was him who spilt it, not her).

During that time our father did not have a permanent job. As someone who had studied economics for three years earning the prestigious local academic title of Sarjana Muda, he did not want to take a job which did not match up to it.

His activities then were talking with friends about potential millions of rupiah projects they were expecting to happen. It was not very clear to me what kind of projects they were. But I had seen him borrowing a lot of money from Mom "to finance a feasibility study" of a project.

"If one wants a big catch, one should spend a lot on an expensive bait," was his slogan. I could not understand why Mom continued to lend him money while no project was in sight.

"You cannot expect all of your efforts to yield positive results. Sometimes you get some and often you get nothing," he sermonized.

At last our father got a permanent job from a friend of his who ran a capital market and foreign currency business. That was when my brothers and sisters and I came of age.

The activity changed him, although his relationship with us did not improve. But now he liked to shower us with surprise gifts. But his new habit did not make us altogether happy because he gave us what we did not need and did not want to give us things we were badly in need of.

The most precious gift I received from him was a Japanese sedan car. He presented me with it after I graduated from high school. I was very happy, although I did not like its blinding red color.

But I did not get to enjoy the gift for long. One day my father took it from me to lend it to his friend, he said.

"Just for a few hours," he added, but by midnight he had still not shown up. He knocked at the door only just before dawn to say that the car had been stolen. He refused to elaborate.

To me his story was highly unreasonable, but I did not try to investigate. So gone was my car and our improving relationship.

Since that day father hardly ever paid us a visit. If he did, he always came past midnight, went to bed to wake up late on the next day. He left again after his "noon breakfast." The frequency of his appearances became more irregular with the march of time.

One day we complained to Mom about father's behavior but to our surprise she, who had been physically and verbally abused by him so many times, came to his defense although near tears.

"It is true that your father is rude and stubborn but marital life is not as it looks to other people, including children."

Until her death Mom had never explained what she meant by the statement nor did we try to ask her for an explanation. Perhaps because we had been a priori against him.

It was 03:00 p.m when relatives started to arrive at our home. Those who failed to attend expressed their condolences by telephone or facsimile. But it was not very clear to me for whom the expressions were meant.

Seven young men who were members of a certain social organization arrived at our home with grim faces on motor cycles. They came in uniform with yellow paper flags, the sign of bereavement. Some of them were armed with walkie-talkies, the purpose of which was not clear.

At 03:30 the well-wishers, using three sedan cars and a minibus, left our home for the burial ceremony. The young men on motor cycles formed a motorcade, they drove noisily and in zigzags, transgressed traffic signs, and beat at cars which refused to slow down with the flag sticks in the hands of those riding pillion on the motorbikes.

"Keep aside, bastards!" they shouted at the stubborn cars.

Those who retorted barked loudly, "May God send your dead relative direct to hell."

After a tense hour on the road we arrived at the cemetery. The funeral workers were busy lowering the deceased into the grave, shouting orders on how to do it properly.

Meanwhile the family had not yet reached a consensus on who would deliver the eulogy.

I stood and asked myself, "Was that dead body once my father? Had he ever become my mother's husband?"

My other questions sounded even more preposterous: "Why did God create such a creature? What purpose did he bring with him when he was born. Is there a minute of his worldly achievements during such a long span of life which is worth remembering?"

The answers to my questions did not come as father's body, wrapped in white cloth, was placed in the niche of the grave.

Verses from the Holy Scripture were read and funeral workers started tipping soil into the grave but nobody cared to say prayers for the departed, no tears were seen. Only sighs of relief were heard. I also saw no sign of any emotion on the faces of the well-wishers. They were busy talking about matters unrelated to the deceased.

"I heard this cemetery will be demolished, is it true?" one of them asked his neighbor a low voice.

The latter did not say a word but someone else did, "Who cares? You will be relieved of visiting the graves."

Others giggled. As more people found the statement funny, more broke into laughter.

Suddenly a federal officer approached me with a serious look.

"So, none of the family members will say a few words for the deceased?" he whispered.

I stared at my brothers, sisters, uncles and aunts, but all of them tried to dodge my look. They pretended to be brooding on some serious thought or busy discussing something with each other.

"No, Sir," I answered with a feeling of a disappointment.

"The lady would, perhaps," he said pointing at an attractive woman in black who was about 35 years old. The woman, who looked sorrowful, was accompanied by a small boy and girl, who looked very cute.

The woman seemed to have a question for which she did not know the answer and nor did she knew anybody who she could ask.

I approached her and asked, "Anything I can do for you, madam?"

"Was the deceased Mr. Budiluhur."

"Yes."

"I beg an opportunity to say a prayer for him..."

Before I had time to ask who she was, the woman took her two children nearer to the graveside. They squatted there in a very polite manner.

She murmured something, then closed her eyes and shed tears. She sobbed.

Looking at the scene everyone kept quiet. They heard the woman telling her children: "Vivi, Ongky, let's say prayers to Papa."

"God the Compassionate and Merciful, forgive our father, a noble man who took care of us and gave us eternal love. God, place him in the best place near you, and give us strength to face this bereavement."

The two children tried to repeat the words and then placed the flowers they had brought in three big plastic bags on the grave.

Before leaving the woman came to me and politely said, "I'm sorry if our presence has caused any inconvenience to all of you."

She and the children left. Nobody said a word, everyone seemed to be touched by the scene.

The people's eyes followed her slow steps. She left by car, the color of which was bright red. I was sure it was the car my father said had been stolen several years ago.

-- Translated by TIS

The writer was born in the Central Java town of Salatiga on June 30, 1960. He graduated from the Cinematography Academy of the Jakarta Institute of Arts (IKJ) in 1984 after which he started writing for Zaman magazine. His first short story appeared in Kompas daily in 1985 and his second,entitled Parmin, was later developed into a film scenario for TV. It was chosen as the best TV teleplay. Another of his short stories was selected as best short story in 1992 by the country's largest newspaper. From then on he has concentrated on writing scenarios for TV. His short story Eulogy appears in Anjing-anjing Menyerbu Kuburan: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 1997 (The Dogs Storm the Grave). It is printed here courtesy of Kompas.