Krisses

Through the window pane I was looking at the rain that had fallen heavily ever since I left Gambir station in Jakarta. The bluish sky seemed to have been painted with dark clouds that had been hanging oppressively since dawn.

I looked at my wristwatch. It was a quarter after twelve. I uttered a long sigh while returning to a reclining position. The train would arrive about four hours late. I lit a cigarette, then looked out through the window. Stretches of green fields looked fresh and wet. A few water buffaloes were roaming in the middle of freshly weeded dikes. Two shepherd boys were running around stark naked while laughing cheerfully. It was a normal scene on such a journey in Java. Nature and humans seemed to be one, forming an alluring living picture. It was alluring to me sitting inside a train, sheltered from the raindrops.

Cigarette smoke billowed again out of my nostrils, but I could not enjoy it because my own feelings were chasing my thoughts. A telegram came from Solo, yesterday. Father asked me to come immediately; he said it was important. Father had been ill for several months. I had gone to see him two months before that. He had just had an operation. He looked pale with an unshaven face and his gray long hair was scattered on the pillow. He had trouble breathing, as if he had lost all of the willpower we used to know him from early on. Father was a strong-willed person, an old man that knew only things unquestionable in his life. What he wished happened.

His philosophy of life concerned things unquestionable. He never knew the meaning of compromise at all. When we met Father looked just like a wooden puppet. He had lost his personality, lost his strong will. If any of it was left, then it was only directed towards Mother the woman who had faithfully given him eight children, including myself.

I vividly remembered how Father looked at me, when with a hoarse and rather sustained voice, he asked "Did you come alone?"

I nodded and got myself closer. Then I held his thin arm hidden in the seemingly oversized shirt. Father looked at me briefly. His sharp and dark eyes blinked for a moment. And when our eyes met again he looked harsh with fiery eyes. "Are you still living in the same house with that woman?"

Such a question from Father never crossed my mind. I had forgotten that event from long time ago. But this question of really shook me up. How could it not?

It happened ten years before that. I fell in love with Pratiwi, the daughter of an elementary school teacher. Our love blossomed just as the bougainvillea was lush. Then came the time to ask for her hand. I asked for Father's permission, but he said no.

"That woman is not of the same social rank, Prasodjo. We are descendants from royal blood. I want a daughter-in-law of the same rank as ours."

"But times have changed Father." I tried to defend myself to no avail. Father opened his eyes wider. Anger had boiled in the old man's heart.

"Damn your words! I say it can't happen," he shouted, hitting the marble table with his right hand.

I looked down in silence. My heart was boiling with rebellion. I knew Father's blood also flowed in my body. Perhaps that was why I rebelled against his wishes. We finally got married. But I had foreseen the result and I was told to leave the family. Only Mother took the chance to reach out to me. I cried in her blossom after my misfortune. And we parted. Years passed without giving me peace with myself. Pratiwi, fortunately understood my problem and tirelessly comforted me. What a noble woman.

Mother came and held my shoulders. Her soft and gentle voice subdued the anger in my heart, "Have patience my son."

For a moment my wife's complexion flashed in my mind. A few hours before we said goodbye, she said to me, "Father is very ill. You've got to go."

I was at a crossroads. To go to see Father meant to open up old wounds we had started to forget. But my wife kept urging me. "For your love for me and our kids, go," she said. "Anyway, he's your own father; your children's grandfather, right?"

My heart melted as if rain water splashed on it. I embrace Pratiwi tenderly. She was a woman who tried to understand me.

"Tickets!" the train conductor's voice shattered my reverie.

The cigarette had gone out a while back. I rubbed my hands to get rid of the cold seeping through the train's door. The train sped on in the midst of the rain that bored me. The view outside had killed my spirit. "Could Father have another relapse?" I suddenly thought.

We were raised in a hope that did nothing but bring about fear. I remember when I was about seven years old Father lashing me for spilling a little bit of coffee. I wailed in pain, ran and hid behind my bother. And the long whip often tortured me many more times. That was what my father was like, very harsh.

The train started to enter Balapan, the main station of the city of Surakarta or Solo. The passengers were getting ready to get off. I carried my bag and walked towards the door. Rain water was dripping from the train's roof, wetting my hair. I stood looking around until someone called my name. I turned and saw Mas Arjuno standing beside one of the platform's pillars, grinning and greeting me. We shook hands. Then walked out of the station, straight into his new Mercedes.

Mas Arjuno had been back from abroad for half a year. All the way home he talked about his three kids, He was very proud of them because they were successful. I was waiting for him to ask about my kids and wife, but I was disappointed.

The black Mercedes entered the yard of my parents' residence. Bright lights pierced the darkness of the cold night. I shook out my shirt's collar when I got out. Mas Arjuno invited me straight into the house. I followed his steps, going into the bright big house. Oh, how I was shocked. Father was sitting in the big chair, facing the door I entered.

"Have a seat," said my brother, pointing at an empty chair.

I sat down full of questions. One of my brothers sitting next to me asked, "Are you by yourself?" I nodded.

"How are your kids?" he asked.

"Fine," I gazed at his face. His honest face soothed my heart. "They're all fine thank you. Say what's all this about?"

My brother smiled. "Didn't they tell you at all?"

I shook my head again.

"Father is going to talk about his inheritance."

"Inheritance?" I almost cried-out rather loudly.

I saw many eyes staring at me. So I lowered my heart promptly.

The room was quiet. No one spoke. One could clearly hear the big clock ticking. I felt as if its ticking was shaking my own heart. Why?

Father started to speak.

The twenty-hectare plantation and rice fields was distributed equally among my four sisters. Then I heard his shrill, hoarse voice. "I have four heirloom krisses. These were handed down by your grandfather, and had in turn been handed down by your ancestors who were founding fathers of the Mataram kingdom. You must remember that I am the only heir left. Because I am your late grandfather's only son. And I have taken care of these four krisses year after year. Now the time has come for me to hand them down to my sons, but on one condition."

"I am handling them down, on the condition that my sons have in them the character and attitude of obedience, according to Javanese teaching; to respect elders and to understand the meaning of life as Javanese. This is something unquestionable for me because my life has come forth from it. Please understand it is not my intention to discriminate among my own children, no. But the character of obedience, obeying and respecting elders is the precondition one must fulfill to own these heirlooms. Well then, do you all understand?"

I felt my heart seize. Father had shattered me.

Those who were present stared at me. I felt cornered and beaten. For a moment I imagined my only son Prahasto's face. My son heir to the dynasty of Raden Mas Sinduprodjo my father.

I heard Father saying again, "To you, Arjuno, I hand down these two krisses. Take care and keep them well. Later when the time comes, these will belong to your two sons."

Mas Arjuno, Father's beloved son. He always won. Always.

""And this is one for you, Pramono. And this kris-shaped cundrik which was formerly used by women, is for you."

I raised my head, I also saw my other brother, Mas Nugroho, receiving a heirloom from Father's hands.

It was getting very late.

I was lying on a mattress in a bedroom, I felt my heart torn and I felt low and small in my parent's family. Why had Father not forgiven me? Was my wife's family too low for him?

How I had sinned? How unjust of Father and how hurt I felt.

I burst out crying. I begged God for His blessings and forgiveness. I cried for Prahasto, my only son, who did not yet understand the real meaning of this world; and also for my wife Pratiwi who had also fallen victim to Father's spitefulness all this time.

Someone knocked on the door. Then I heard those very familiar footsteps. And those hands with the soft, though wrinkled, fingers caressed my hair. I felt the warm breath blowing in my face. Mother's loving kisses repeatedly touching my forehead and cheeks.

"Prasodjo, my son, listen to me. I've only got a Dutch silver coin. Don't look at its worth, I know it is worthless; but I'm giving it to you, sincerely. Accept this, and give it to my grandson, Prahasto."

I gazed at the old face in front of me.

Her tears welled up there, slowly spilling over and wetting her cheeks and flowing warmly over my arms. Those cheeks, the cheeks I used to kiss and kiss. So we poured out our feelings in the middle of the cold, quiet and dark night.

Calm started to creep into my heart again. God had listened to the cry of my heart. My prayer had been answered.

Translated by Dede Oetomo

Purnawan Tjondronegoro was born in East Java in 1934 and died in Jakarta in 1989. This translation of the short story appeared in Our Heritage, 16 modern Indonesian stories, which was printed here in 1993 by Pustaka Binaman Pressindo.

Raden Mas = Javanese minor nobility title for males Mas = Javanese way of addressing elder brothers