Idul Fitri pilgrimage

Idul Fitri pilgrimage

By Umar Kayam

On that Lebaran morning, as in all the years before, they tucked into the special repast cooked by their grandmother. Chicken opor, fried chili liver, dendeng ragi, and boiled rice cakes, accompanied by soy crumbs. They ate heartily because Grandmother's cooking was always delicious. Yusuf was always glad to be able to stay over at his mother-in-law's house. Besides being able to be near to Eko, his only child, he was also happy that he could be party to the old woman's brand of spoiling through her cooking and the many tidbits that she provided. It was as if, for his mother-in-law, life was purely for spoiling her only grandchild and her son-in-law. "And why not," Yusuf would sigh. Ever since Siti, his wife, and long before his father-in-law had died, what other sort of attention could the widow direct herself to if not towards her only grandchild and son-in-law?

"Eko, how about another chicken drumstick? And you, Sup, another helping of fried chili liver and dendeng ragi?" she asked.

"For sure, Grandmother, one more drumstick. You know how chicken drumsticks are Eko's favorite," Yusuf replied, looking at his son falling onto the chicken leg offered by his grandmother. Because of his enthusiasm, the opor sauce spurted left and right. If Siti were still here, he thought, she would surely tell her son off. But not Grandmother.

"Enough, Bu. I've had enough. Everything, as usual, is delicious. Thank you so much, Bu," he said, refusing the liver.

"How come you're through, Sup? That's not like you."

As he shook his head, Yusuf began to ponder whether his refusal was really because he felt full, or whether it was because of he had things on his mind. He immediately decided it was the matters on his mind.

In the beginning, when he had mustered up enough courage and when his breathing began to feel hot around his nostrils, just like that he had kissed Yati, his colleague at work. When he saw Yati not putting up any resistance, in fact merely closing her eyes, Yusuf became even more daring. Again and again he kissed the woman's lips and cheeks. His male ardor, caught in the clutches of three years of widowerhood, apparently could no longer be contained. The two came to meet more often, dating at the cinema, dining together at restaurants, even staying over at a hotel once or twice.

"Yat, do you like little children?" he had asked.

"It depends on the kind of child, and whose child it is," was her reply.

"Oh, gee."

Slowly, and in stages, Yusuf declared his love for Yati. He assured the woman that their love affair was not a hit and run. He wished to marry Yati. He wanted Yati to become Eko's mother. And, when finally Yati agreed, Yusuf decided to stop being a widower and bring Eko back home.

The Idul Fitri agenda was always the same. The Ied communal prayer at the field near the housing complex, prostrations at Grandmother's knee and seeking her forgiveness, having breakfast, the pilgrimage to the graves of his father-in-law and Siti. Pilgrimages to his own parents' graves were seldom undertaken.

"Why, I wonder?" he asked himself. Maybe because it was that his own parents had been dead so long, or maybe it was because his siblings always had already done the pilgrimage and taken care of the graves (while cursing Yusuf at the same time). Or maybe it was because the grave of Siti, his beautiful wife with the very long hair, was more binding. Or was it because Eko was at the moment in the care of his mother-in-law? Wasn't compensating for one year's worth of missing his son, only assuaged once a year after a long tiring train journey, also very important?

"Oh, how come every year more and more beggars line up at this grave?" his mother-in-law had grumbled.

In his heart Yusuf agreed with her complaint. "How could such a small town multiply its beggars every year," he wondered.

"Grandmother, why are all the beggars at the grave always maimed?" Eko had asked.

Yusuf had smiled proudly. "For his age, my son has very sharp powers of observation," he thought.

"If they weren't handicapped, then they would be able to work, they wouldn't have to resort to begging, Ko," was Grandmother's reply.

At Siti's grave they pulled out the weeds that had sprouted in various spots They had then sprinkled it with flower petals. And then Eko took over the ceremony.

"Because I can now recite the Fathiha, I will say the prayer out loud. Grandmother and father can follow my lead," he had insisted.

"Of course, Eko, of course."

"Yes, little one."

And with that, Eko fluently recited the first verse of the Koran, maybe showing off a bit, followed by his grandmother and his father. After, Eko had hugged his grandmother, and the old woman kissed both his cheeks in return. Once again Yusuf had felt a surge of pride as he came to the realization that his son was now bigger than he was one year ago. Suddenly without warning, Eko had knelt down at his mother's grave and talked to his mother.

"Mother in heaven. This is Eko, Bu. Eko has now grown, Bu. Eko can now guard over grandmother here. Father also guards over grandmother and Eko from Jakarta, Bu. By the way, father bought me a Nintendo game. It's really great, Bu."

When Yusuf stood up from his crouch he felt his bones aching more. He gazed at his son still crouching, while his sobbing grandmother continued to caress her grandson's head.

On his journey back to Jakarta, in the train crammed with people, Yusuf let out a sigh. The air was stuffy, clammy, the sweat on his body felt sticky. There was a foul odor in the air. Maybe next year, at the next Idul Fitri, he would have a bit more courage, a bit more courage to reveal all to his mother-in-law, to Eko. That he was going to marry Yati, that he was going to bring Eko back to Jakarta. Yes, next year. For sure, he was determined.

As he looked out of the train window, he wished he could also briefly see Yati's smile, which in turn he hoped would churn up his desire. But no. All he could see were flooded paddy-fields, cut-off bridges, and roads tangled with buses and cars.

Translated by Debra H. Yatim

Born in Ngawi, East Java on April 30, 1932, Umar Kayam, a former Director General of Radio, Television and Film, is a well-known Indonesian author. He teaches at the Gajahmada University in Yogyakarta, where he leads its cultural research center. His books, Bawuk and Sri Sumarah, have both been translated into French. His latest novel is Para Priyayi. Among his best works is Mangan ora Mangan Kumpul, a collection of his articles published in the Kedaulatan Rakyat daily. His short story Ziarah Lebaran first appeared in the Kompas daily on March 20, 1994 and is printed here by courtesy of Kompas.

Note: Lebaran = Idul Fitri opor = chicken or meat boiled in coconut milk with various spices dendeng ragi = thin slices of meat deep fried with many spices and mixed with grated coconut fried without oil Bu = short for Ibu, meaning mother or madam Fathiha = a verse in the Koran