Hog paintings

Manaf Maulana

Nina had been fond of painting hogs since her first-grade year. Our only child did it almost every day. We were a Muslim family, in fact. A pig was unclean to us in religious terms, even to the degree of mugholladhoh: its slightest touch on our skin or clothing would require us to wash with a rinse of water and dust seven times, according to the Islamic syariah law.

Our village people were all Muslims, too. And Muslim families found hogs very disgusting. It's a taboo to brush up against this animal, let eat them. In short, we Muslims have to stay clear of hogs.

One afternoon, when I was a boy, a boar entered into our village. Indeed, our rural settlement was on the fringe of a forest. Throngs of villagers set out to chase and hack the wild pig to death.

As the hunt was underway, the boar ran amok to dodge the crowds. It ran into clothes hanging on the lines in house yards, forcing their owners to immediately wash them with a water-dust mix, even though the fabrics were mainly white.

Manners were certainly alien to the harassed wild pig, which now entered a mosque, turning round and round on the carpet before stopping and peeing on the sajadah (prayer rug) spread over the mihrab, a small chamber where the imam leads ritual prayers.

All those hunting the boar were furious and swearing.

"Damned pig!"

"It's a disguise, it's the devil from hell!"

"The hog must be burnt alive!"

With the boar cornered in the chamber, the crowd easily seized on it. Bloodied and bruised after a beating with wooden sticks, the dying pig was dragged to a bamboo garden behind the mosque and set on fire, leaving only its charred remains.

Villagers then started the clean-up, busily washing the mosque's carpets and rugs after having being defiled by the abhorrent animal. It was a tiring job.

"We've got to hunt down all the boars in the forest until we've exterminated them! Never let them infest our village again!" urged Haji Saleh, the local community figure who served as the mosque's imam.

Haji Saleh was enraged by the wild hog's desecration of the sajadah he used for religious duties in the mosque chamber.

All adult males in our village formed groups to locate and eliminate all the boars left in the forest. Armed with cudgels and daggers, they discovered a lot of boars in the woodlands and killed them all until none was left.

As a father, I became increasingly worried seeing Nina absorbed in painting hogs. Therefore, one night before bedtime I told my wife to persuade Nina to stop drawing pigs. The little girl had painted numerous pigs, filling all the pages of her drawing books. Cardboard cut-outs of hogs also decorated her bedroom and the living room.

I had once tried to forbid her from drawing this animal but she grew even more interested in it. She hung one of her paintings on the wall of my bedroom, apparently in an attempt to display her obstinacy.

"You should strictly prevent her from painting hogs ever again," I whispered.

My wife promptly shook her head. "I don't want to ruin Nina's budding artistic talent, mas*. Just let her flair develop. Who knows, she could become a great painter," she said.

"It seems strange to see Nina painting hogs all the time. If she is really gifted, why does she only choose swine instead of other more attractive animals?" I argued.

"That's just the unique side of having a kid proficient in art. There's no need to wonder. Aren't there painters renowned for their portrayal of cats, birds, or nude girls only?" My wife appeared to be supporting Nina's hobby.

"I'm afraid if people become aware of Nina's interest, they will reproach her. They may also accuse us of failing to educate our child properly, and may even accuse Nina of allowing her talent to despoil syariah law."

"Don't speculate too far, mas. A hog is indeed unclean, but its pictures cause no defilement."

"But our community may charge Nina with relishing something disgusting if she keeps drawing pigs."

"Just don't be prejudiced, mas."

"I'll try to do something to make her stop doing it."

"What do you plan to do?"

"I'll buy Nina's pictures if she's prepared to draw flowers or butterflies, for instance."

"Don't use such a trick. It's the same as bribery."

"But painters selling their works on order is a common practice in the fine art world."

"Those serving buyers' orders are prostituting themselves."

My heart pounded and my hair stood on end as my wife spoke of prostitution in art. As a father certainly I would never allow my daughter to prostitute herself or become a prostitute.

"Forget it, mas, just let Nina paint as she's inclined to. If she's only interested in pigs as an object, we needn't force her to choose another."

I felt choked, with negative a thought striking me: well, Nina might be drawing no more if her painting kit was dumped and burnt in the trash can.

After my wife was sound asleep, I rose and left the bedroom. I took Nina's painting set and all of her pictures depicting pigs, tossed them to the can in the back yard and burnt them all.

Purposely, I left the back door unlocked as I returned from the backyard. In this way, my wife would surely suspect that a theft had come through the door. So any complaint by Nina about the loss of her belongings would meet with my wife's blaming a thief.

Nina burst into tears as soon as she woke up, telling us about the loss of all her valuable things.

"A thief must have stolen them," I commented.

"The thief must have been loony as he only got away with your painting kits and piggies, Nina," remarked my wife with a cynical smile at me.

Nina looked very sad and filled with vengeance toward the thief, who was none other than her own father. I felt I had sinned for causing her such grief.

"It's a mad thief!" cried Nina.

To console her, I bought her another painting set. "Nina, you shouldn't draw pigs if you don't want to lose your paintings again."

"To hell with the crazy crook! I will always paint hogs!" affirmed Nina.

"Don't be stubborn, Nina. Aren't you scared that another thief will steal your paint set and pictures, and even yourself?" I tried to sound intimidating.

"He wouldn't have the nerve to enter this house again unless he's really nuts," retorted Nina.

"You should be scared of a thief, he may be really be crazy, Nina." I still tried to deter her. But she seemed undaunted. And again Nina painted pigs on cardboard measuring a square meter in size, rather than in her drawing books.

The cardboard hogs again adorned her bedroom, the living room and even also the front porch. Nina apparently wished to exhibit the paintings to everyone.

Every time I gazed at the pictures, I had to withstand feelings of disgust and loathing. Frequently I imaged our home as a filthy barn. But I no longer snatched Ninas kit and drawings. Nor did I talk again with my wife about Ninas hobby.

I was always filled with abhorrence with the house covered with hog images. One evening after dinner, I even started vomiting.

"You may have a cold, mas. Let me scrape you," said my wife while picking up a coin and skin balm to relieve my sickness.

As she was scraping, I complained that I'd been nauseated by the feeling of disgust at the sight of Nina's pictures all over the walls.

"Avoid being over-fanatical, mas. And don't behave like a child. The sight of pigs made you throw up?!"

"But I haven't caught a cold. I don't break wind and belch after the scraping."

My wife then stopped scraping my back.

"You don't seem sick, mas."

"I'll seize Nina's kit and all the paintings again tonight," I threatened.

"Eh, please don't, mas. Have pity on Nina, she'll be very sad if she loses all those things."

But I didn't care. At midnight, I grabbed all of Nina's treasures and reduced them to ashes.

Nina was crying the next morning for losing her precious belongings. Her wails were incessant. And from that day on, Nina just sat and gazed into space, with continuous whimpers. My wife believed Nina was mentally disturbed.

People in the neighborhood shared this belief. And Ninas mental illness was widely rumored to be the consequence of her hog painting hobby, which in turn was due to her study at the local state primary school.

I got really offended hearing their gossip, because I was the principal of that state primary school. ***

* Mas = Javanese term of address for a younger man or husband.

Translated by Aris Prawira