For the Sake of Rice

For the Sake of Rice

By Sartono Kusumaningrat

Kuntet was still struggling to earn a living at one of
Jakarta's crossroads. He simply ignored the capital's burning
heat and the noisy buzzing of the motorized vehicles. He went on
singing in his rasping voice, though he only half-remembered the
lyrics.

His played his home-made musical instrument, a string of
pressed bottle caps skewered on a short wooden stick. Though what
he produced could hardly be considered melodious, this kind of
singing was the only way for him to expect people to have mercy
on him. He would stop his singing the moment someone threw a Rp
100 coin to him.

Obviously these people in their cars did not actually enjoy
his singing. They threw the Rp 100 coins not as an expression of
gratitude or appreciation for his songs, but rather their coins
were intended to move Kuntet away from their vehicles.

They were afraid that the touch of Kuntet's body would scratch
their cars. His flesh and blood body, unlike their metal cars,
seemed worthless in their eyes.

Kuntet collected the coins in the pocket of his rumpled
trousers, but he still had no thought of returning home. He did
not even want to go home. His house was no longer a comfortable
and safe place for him. He had lost a home where he could rest,
play, study and enjoy his life.

He no longer had a home where he could find support or where
he could find someone to whom he could unburden himself, voicing
his complaints and worries about his life.

"Never come to this house anymore if you only bring home coins
which cannot even be used to buy one kilogram of rice!" his
father would always yell at him when he returned home from
roaming Jakarta as a street singer.

"It's not easy to get money today, Dad. It's the monetary
crisis."

"That is no reason! Lazy bum!"

"What about you, Dad? It is yours and Mom's duty to feed me,
right? Not the other way round, Dad!"

"You SOB! Are you blind? I was fired from the factory two
months ago, wasn't I? Now I'm a scavenger, just for your sake.
For the sake of the three of us."

"I know, Dad. But you should not force me to collect a sum of
money which is worth a kilogram of rice. If I can collect just a
small amount of money, we must be thankful for that. I can't
force people to give me more money, can I?"

"Dammit! Stop speaking!" Prapto, Kuntet's father, shouted
furiously.

Then he slapped Kuntet across the face. Kuntet fell down from
the force of the blow. He had gotten used to this kind of
treatment since Prapto lost his job and turned to scavenging.
Since then, Prapto's days have been filled with hunger and
frustration, which often found expression in his outbursts of
rage. Kuntet was always the victim in these circumstances.

The first thing that happened when Prapto lost his job was
that Kuntet had to drop out of school. The next thing was a
shortage of routine foods. No more tea with sugar. No more snack
foods.

Then they no longer ate rice, but would eat anything they
could find, such as sweet potatoes and cassava. They no longer
had any side dishes with their potatoes and cassava, only using
salt. They would salt their boiled cassava and this would have to
do to help them withstand the torture of hunger.

There was nothing else they could do. Prapto had lost his job.
His wife did not have a job either. Both had become scavengers to
survive. Then, out of desperation, 11-year-old Kuntet began to
roam the streets, singing in his raucous voice and playing his
instrument.

"Kuntet has not returned home for five days now, Pak. You
don't want to go searching for him?" Prapto's wife asked,
realizing that her household was quiet in the absence of Kuntet,
their only child.

"It's not necessary to look for him. Now that he has run away
our responsibility is less. We no longer have to think about
money, food and shelter for Kuntet. In difficult times like
these, it is no use thinking about children. Just thinking about
ourselves is very difficult, Yah," he told his wife, with an air
of diffidence.

"Yet, you still have to think twice."

"I don't care. We can earn our living by ourselves. What's the
use being a family when we will all just die of starvation. I
believe, Yah, Kuntet can feed himself as a street singer."

"Still, Kuntet is our child, Pak. Our flesh and blood. I love
him and I miss him, Pak," Jiyah sobbed, thinking about Kuntet.

"Don't cry too easily, Yah. This age needs no tears. It's no
use. It won't solve any problems. In this age of confusion we can
only think about how to survive. You see for yourself, Yah, that
there are now more and more scavengers like us. I also believe
that there are more and more street singers like Kuntet. There is
no longer any need for a home now.

"No more need for children, wives, family members or even
friends. All we think about is how to feed ourselves. Everyone,
just like in our poor family, will no longer have time to think
about the plight of family members. Just thinking about how to
feed yourself is already very difficult, never mind thinking
about other people!"

"I'm afraid of losing Kuntet, Pak"

"Throw away your fear. It is quite common to lose a child or
other family member. Perhaps we will not only lose our family but
also our sound reasoning because of the crush of starvation.
Perhaps starving and hopeless people like us do not need any
reasoning to get our spoonfuls of rice. Perhaps in this way we
are just the same as animals, Yah. We also have our jungle law. I
won't even mind your becoming a whore if this is the only way for
us to survive, Yah."

Jiyah was speechless hearing the words of her husband. But
when the economic suffering was no longer bearable, Jiyah had no
other choice. She offered her body at bus stops, railway
stations, road sides, places where taxis and bajaj stopped to
pick up passengers. Any place she considered safe for her trade.

Jiyah did not set a price for herself; she could not earn much
for her body. She would happily accept less than Rp 50,000.
Better than being a scavenger, she told herself every time she
concluded a transaction.

Jiyah's new profession improved the economic condition of her
family. The last few days, Prapto and his wife could afford rice
and some side dishes. At least they could again savor the
pleasure of eating a plate of rice.

They enjoyed eating rice much more than boiled cassava with
salt. Once in a while they could even buy a bowl of delicious
meatballs at a roadside stand. For months they had abstained from
such luxuries. They had not even dreamed about eating this kind
of food because such impossible dreams would have only tortured
them.

"It's a pity, Pak, Kuntet has run away. If he were with us
now, he would be very happy to eat the rice that we can buy now."

"I'm not sure. If he knew that the money to buy this food came
from you selling your body, he would perhaps cry hysterically and
condemn us!"

That afternoon, Kuntet, who had by then had been gone from his
house for several weeks, was sleeping under a flyover. He wrapped
himself with a sarong that he had bought in a flea market. While
he was sleeping, he felt someone touch one of his shoulders.

"Sleeping alone, Dik?"

Kuntet was reluctant to wake up. It was usual for him to be
awakened like this. Just a fellow tramp, he thought to himself.
However, this person did not just shake his shoulders, but sat
down on the lower part of his legs and began to stroke his
calves, forcing Kuntet to wake up.

"What's the matter?" he asked, rubbing his eyes and looking at
the stranger.

"Alone, Dik?" this person, a gaudily dressed woman, wearing an
excessive amount of makeup, asked again.

The woman gazed at Kuntet. As she stared closely she was
surprised and shouted.

"Kuntet? Kuntet! You are Kuntet, my child!"

"Mother?" Kuntet asked, feeling as amazed.

"Kuntet, come home now, Tet?"

"Mother, mother you are...?" Kuntet asked, but could not
bring himself to finish the question.

"Yes... yes... your mother is a prostitute, Tet," Jiyah said
in a soft, low voice. Then she looked down. Her tears streamed
down her cheeks. She withdrew her arms, put forward to hug
Kuntet, letting them fall weakly to her sides.

"Oh God..."

Kuntet managed to say only this much. He could not understand
what had happened. He could only regret his destiny.

Glossary:

Pak: (literally, "sir") a respectful term of address

Dik: (literally, "younger brother/sister") a polite term of
address used to address a younger person.

bajaj: a motorized, three-wheeled vehicle

-- Translated by Lie Hua