Never too late

By Sori Siregar

In Abas's eyes, everything around him was darkness. In the darkness everyone was dumb as if the sound of a voice was something very costly. Loneliness stabbed him ruthlessly. He wanted to hear the sound of something. Even the sound of a cough might be enough to rid himself of the feeling of solitude.

Why should there have been such a dark and deathly stillness? Would the wheel of fortune still be able to rotate under such conditions? He tried to find an answer which could give him a ray of light and hope. Hope was the only way for him to survive.

As an old man, he had nothing to make him happy. His wife had been dead for years and his children, Malawati and Yazanul, never came to see him. They were busy with their jobs and their own children.

He had to accept the reality with understanding. The big house he lived in was now his own. Apart from himself, the only person living in the house was Tirah, his maid, who had been working there for twenty years. It was only Tirah who took care of the big house and she was the sole person to whom he could talk.

As a matter of fact, Abas was only 55 years old, an age which was not too old and could still be considered as productive. But he had preferred to retire although his job allowed him to work until he was sixty. He hoped his choice would give him peace of mind in his old age after serving for years in his office.

Unfortunately, the peace of mind he sought had never come to him, although he had tried hard to successfully pass the time. For three hours every morning he tuned in to various radio stations, and for the next two hours he read newspapers and magazines. The next ritual was clipping the hedge and mowing the lawn. In the evening, he killed the time by watching TV for hours on end.

This routine ended up in boredom. He felt he had become an automaton. An automaton which had to cycle the same path every day. But, at the same time, another question had been nagging at him. How come, while you were still working, the boredom had never disturbed you? The job you did was also routine, wasn't it? For thirty years you had been shackled to the routine and you had enjoyed it. Why now did you consider yourself to be an automaton?

He always answered the question with a seven-word sentence. "Because I had to earn a living." Later he began to hesitate. Was it true that the boredom would vanish automatically if he worked? Was it true that the compulsion involved in work killed the boredom?

Since he didn't want to keep on asking himself the same question or even endlessly debating with himself, he had jumped to the following conclusion: Anything with a compulsory character would get rid of the boredom factor. A convict would never get bored because he or she was compelled to serve his or her sentence. An employee, a factory worker and all those who had to do their work during office hours never felt themselves bored because they were compelled to work. Even high school and university students never tired of going to school and attending classes because they had to do so in order to broaden their horizons.

***

Abas was writing and leaning against a chair. But the memoir he was writing had only got as far as a few pages. He stopped writing not because he had become tired, but due to his inability to answer a series of questions about himself. Who do you think you are? Are you sure that someone wants to read your memoir? Do you think you are an important person? Do you think you are an important figure who has played a significant role in history? Or, as would probably be the case, are you going to be the publisher of the your own memoir and do you plan to distribute the memoir free of charge to everybody you know?

Such questions were certainly very disturbing to him. "Do you think you are some sort of a big shot, an important person or a personality in the news who is well-known enough to write a memoir?

But one could easily say that his answers lacked what was needed to help him. And then, unexpectedly, the persistent doubts raised by all the questions completely discouraged Abas from persisting with his memoir.

In fact, he had made a new addition to his daily itinerary over and above what he had been doing before. Under the new itinerary he had promised himself to write every day. The writing would begin with a memoir. Later other kinds of writing would follow. But the insulting questions had sapped his spirit to write.

Actually, he had just started to write when the trouble started. He said to himself, "Do I have to give up?" "No, of course not," he answered full of self-confidence. OK, I can stop writing a memoir because I'm a nobody. I'm only a retired employee of an oil company who has no significance for others.

But, am I not capable of writing other things that are useful for people? By asking that question, he really meant to please himself. He believed he could write about the oil industry, for instance. He would try hard to make himself useful and comfortable.

He reached out for another writing pad and had barely opened the first page before he was deep in thought again. He realized that there was nothing he could write here either.

"What do I know about oil industry?" he asked himself. Nothing, he said. While I was working for the oil company, I was continually employed in the treasury department until I was promoted to department chief. I'm only a former treasury department boss who knew about nothing except counting.

He took a deep breath. Then he looked upward. Looking at the ceiling and thinking over something that had, in fact, been joyful. Page after page of the past appeared and told him everything. What a joy!

Where are they now? Where are those who used to bow before me when they came to see me to collect their cheques or when they asked me to transfer the funds they needed to undertake a project?. Where are those who used to call me all the time asking whether the funds were ready for them.

Do they still remember my account number now because in the past they used to transfer some of their fortunes into my account?. When will they invite me to expensive parties, or give me free tickets for holidays abroad or send me costly gifts as they used to do?

Abas shook his head. How come there were so many questions hanging in the air? Even though the earlier questions had not been answered yet, more questions were arising. He rose from his chair and started to pace back and forth in the living room.

What a tiring and boring retirement. He only became aware of that when he felt that all he had been doing was trying to kill the excessive spare time he had on his hands. In the past, time was very precious for him and he had to use it efficiently.

If I were a writer, this is the right moment for me to write a masterpiece, he thought. Reading and writing, reading and writing. How happy are those who can write fiction and non- fiction, because they are unfamiliar with the word retirement. For them, retirement means death.

***

That evening, Tirah couldn't believe what she was hearing. From her boss's room was to be clearly heard the sound of someone reciting the verses of the Koran, the Muslim holy book. This was astonishing to her. She came out of her room and stepped slowly to the door of Abas's room. Tirah stood there for quite a long time. She still didn't believe what she was hearing.

To convince herself, she moved closer to the room. Slowly her hand touched the door which was ajar. She hesitated a moment and held her hand back. But, she felt something encouraging her. She touched the door again. With a great curiosity, she slowly opened it.

Now she stood in awe. While Abas moved his fingers holding a palm leaf rib as a pointer to the verses of the Koran, the sound of the verses being recited was actually coming from a tape recorder. Tirah stood there speechless. What a shock! For twenty years she had worked for Abas and had never heard, not even once, anyone reading the Muslim holy book in his house. What she knew was that her boss, his late wife and their two children only ceremonially observed the Idul Fitri festival every year. No more than that.

Tirah slowly closed the door. As a true believer who solemnly said the five obligatory prayers daily, her mouth slowly opened and, with a soft voice, she said alhamdulillah. Then she returned to her room.

****

While Abas was putting on his shirt after performing the ablutions for the afternoon prayer, he was surprised to see a new prayer mat spread neatly on his bed. He gazed at the prayer mat for a long time. It must have been Tirah who had put it there, he said to himself. The sixty-five-year-old maid must have heard the Koranic recital last night.

After putting on his shirt he called Tirah. The maid came in with an apparent expression of worry on her face.

"Thank you, Bu. Don't worry. I know it was you who put the prayer mat there."

Again, Tirah couldn't believe what she was hearing. Ibu? Abas had honored her with such an expression of respect? Ibu? After twenty years? In the past he usually called her Rah or Tirah. She still didn't believe what she had heard.

"When I was a kid I diligently read the Koran. When I was a teenager I completed reading the Koran twice. When I was a university student I was active in the Muslim student organization."

Tirah nodded, paying full attention to what her employer was saying.

"But, since I haven't read the Koran for quite a long time, now I feel I can no longer read it as well as before. The cassette recorder is only a means for me to improve my reading. Hopefully it will not take too long."

Tirah nodded again. Abas looked at the old maid smilingly.

"Thank you, Bu, for the prayer mat," Abas said. He left the maid and returned to his room. After looking at the prayer mat once more, Abas wanted to go out and call Tirah again. But suddenly he felt ashamed. He told himself that he should go out to buy a compass in order to check the true direction of the kiblat, the direction for Muslims to face when praying.

***

In the following days Abas no longer found himself bored because he felt he had found a new spiritual resourcefulness. He felt himself to be as useful a being as he used to be. In a short space of time, he progressed greatly to the surprise of his two children and his friends.

Abas also decided to donate his big house to a humanitarian foundation which sheltered the poor. He planned to occupy only a small room at the rear which was originally used as a storeroom. And Tirah would still work for him to take care of his children.

When Yazanul and Malawati rejected the idea of giving the house to the foundation and appealed to Abas to bequeath it to them, Abas only said, "this is the thing I would like to bequeath to both of you. Dozens of children who need our helping hands. If both of you are still unable to help them, it is I who will do it for you."

The children felt there was nothing they could say as their father was fully determined to donate the building to charity. They only nodded their agreement, although deep in their hearts they rejected his idea. Abas himself could read their minds.

From the small room at the back in which he now lived, Abas spent the rest of his life with a sense of pride. He was aware that he wasn't too old, meaning he could still do a lot of things to help the needy. From that small room Abas also held out new ideas.

"In life it is never too late to do beneficial things, Bu," he said to the faithful Tirah one day. "It was you who reminded me of my obligation to God by putting the prayer mat in my bedroom that day."

Tirah nodded in complete understanding. She also understood that it was Abas who had chosen the right path. In seeing this spiritual development within her employer, tears often began to stream down Tirah's cheek. She felt she had found a brother, an adopted younger brother who had long gone astray.

In the past she had always been all alone. Now, life was more meaningful for her. ***

Glossary: Ibu or Bu, Indonesian for Madam or Mrs. Alhamdulillah, Arabic for praise be to God.