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