Radiance

By Yusrizal KW

When dusk gradually approaches, I don't know why a feeling of restlessness overcomes me. Only when the call to sunset prayer is over will I drink a glass of warm tea, taste some dates and break my fast. But then strange thoughts form in my mind.

That old man there, does he break the fast with real delight or does he proceed with the sunset prayer followed by the evening prayer and then sleep? Or does he recite Koranic verses and repeatedly chant part of the confession of faith until morning and then continue fasting for another day, joining others? I don't know!

Sometimes a strong urge overwhelms me to knock on his decrepit wooden house, located across the road from the dirty canal. Then I would ask him if rice and side dishes were already prepared for breaking the fast in the evening and for his meal before daybreak.

However, all my thoughts are fantasies only and over time they transform into an ever-increasing clot of restlessness in my heart. Night drags me forward -- performing religious service only to meet religious requirements -- until sleep takes me away from the non-obligatory evening prayer in this fasting month.

I have not done my best to perform virtuous deeds during Ramadhan. I should strive harder. Why do I quench my thirst and feed my hunger only? Why can't I go on to improve myself by performing the evening prayer with other Muslims? Why don't I follow them to the small building specially designed for the performance of religious duties, repetitively chanting my confession of faith, faithfully reciting Koranic verses? Why don't I give alms?

I fast only because tradition dictates so: during the month of Ramadhan every Muslim is urged to endure thirst and hunger. Well, perhaps I belong to the requisite-only category or the cluster of people who dislike the imposition of adversity.

I'm like two eyes, one of which is blind. One eye is open to fasting, the other is closed to the performance of ritual prayers as my religion requires. I'm forever intending to change for the better. Oh God, show me the way!

The frail old man is an image which drops in and out of my thoughts, mentally teasing me day in, day out. My wife and neighbors only shrug their shoulders when I ask them about him. The only person from whom I glean information is the food stall vendor who is set up close to the cross roads.

The vendor tells me that the man lives alone. He leaves early in the morning and returns only when dusk sets in. Since the beginning of Ramadhan, he regularly walks past our new house moments before the drum call sounds signifying the time to break the fast.

Where does he go every morning?

No one knows. Begging? Again, nobody knows. He does not look like a beggar, though. His clothes are patched here and there but they are clean and neat. His hair, his beard, his moustache are all gray.

When he meets someone or a group of people cross his way, he simply smiles or says "assalamu'alaikum" in a voice hardly audible, leading one to think that he has not eaten anything for days on end.

A strong impulse inside me says I will follow him, some day, wherever he goes.

One morning, when passing my place he looked at me briefly, his eyebrows were clearly knitted. I was thrilled. Feeling restless -- although I couldn't pinpoint the cause -- I was stunned when he said: "assalamu'alaikum".

Speechless, I managed a smile. But he had kept on walking. Too late, I blurted "Wa'alaikumussalam Old Man ".

I ran to catch him, increasing my speed. The closer my quarry the more confused I became. I didn't know a proper response. Ideas flew into my mind, ideas so scrambled they confused me further. What am I seeking from this old man? What do I want to ask him? How may I know him better?

A moment before I turned back to leave him, the old man turned his head to me and smiled a little. Briefly I experienced a kind of radiance; a light bright and dazzling. Taking a deep breath, I said: "assalamu'alaikum".

"Wa'alaikumussalam," he replied, turning around to leave me. I was transfixed and could do nothing but let him go. Somehow, it gave me great delight to watch his slow limping progress, which was marked also by a surety in his steps, take him away. When he disappeared at the crossroads, I returned home.

There, I felt as if I had just met the incarnation of an angel in the form of an old man; the meeting had brought me great comfort and cheer. "Perhaps he is indeed an angel," I thought. Another part of me retorted: "You're out of your mind!" Perhaps God has shown His affection by bestowing upon him a radiant face. Perhaps his expression was a result of professing his religion properly. By successfully bringing himself close to God, the old man had become as innocent as a child.

I told my wife about the brief meeting with the man and then left for the office. It was midday; the sun was scorchingly hot. Inside the car I set the air-conditioning unit to maximum level.

On the way an idea struck me which I thought I should immediately share with my wife. I wanted to invite the old man to come to my home and break the fast with me and my family.

Preoccupied by this notion, I was startled to see the very man in my thoughts cross the road. The traffic lights were red. Something ignited inside me. Among the pedestrians hurriedly crossing the road, the old man was remarkable for his slow pace. His face was just as I had seen it earlier in the morning.

The blistering sun seemed powerless against him. Once more, I experienced a strong impulse to catch up with him, greet him and deliver him wherever he liked.

When the traffic lights turned green, I suppressed this urge and instead drove back home. I rushed into the house to speak with my wife.

"Are you thinking of inviting the old man here to break the fast with us?" my wife asked.

I nodded.

"When?"

"Today. I'll wait for him. He'll walk past our house as usual."

As the dusk set in, I waited in anticipation for the old man. I imagined how happy he would be to participate in the breaking of the fast meal. I imagined it to be a very beautiful occasion. "And, in this way I'll be able to hear some of his stories or at least discover who he really is and what he does every day," I thought.

When the drum call for breaking the fast sounded, the old man, strangely, was nowhere to be seen. I became disappointed. Where had he gone? Was he overwhelmed by fatigue somewhere in the big city or had someone else offered him an opportunity to share the breaking of the fast? Or ... : many other scenarios kept entering my thoughts.

Towards the time of evening prayer, I made up my mind to go to his house. Deeply uneasy - due, in part, to my overworked imagination -- I knocked on the door of the decrepit house, dimly lit from within by a kerosene lamp. I knocked on the door again, saying "assalamu'alaikum".

Several times I knocked and every time I heard only the meow of a cat in response. Eventually, I carefully pushed open the unlocked door.

Inside the room, I was shocked by my discovery: a skinny old woman was lying on a pandanus plaited sleeping mat on the floor of the small one-room house. Her eyes were closed. She looked as if she was suffering from a certain ailment and could only alleviate it when asleep. Presently, an immaculate cat licked my feet. He uttered a soft meow.

"Where is the old man?"

The cat's eyes looked directly at mine as if to say something of importance. However, I barely had time to stroke its thick furry head, when the enfeebled old woman slowly opened her eyes. She turned her head weakly towards me. I smiled at her.

"Assalamu'alaikum," I greeted her. I wondered whether she had broken the fast. Her old lips trembled but I failed to hear anything emerge from them. Nonetheless, I felt she was responding to my greeting.

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I was suddenly overwhelmed by a strong need to come here. I thought this house was occupied by an old man - the one who has walked past my house every morning and evening until this evening. I'm Imran. I was thinking of inviting the Old Man to break the fast at my house. But ..."

"Assalamu'alaikum." From behind me came the greeting and the sound of limping steps. When I turned my head I saw a familiar old face, a face I had waited to see from the time when dusk set in up to the time when the drum call for the sunset prayer was sounded. "Well, he is not alone," I told myself.

I was speechless for some moments. We simply looked at each other. I was overjoyed as well. Under the dim light originating from the weak-flamed kerosene lamp, I saw tear drops wet his sunken and wrinkled cheeks.

"I'm sorry, old man. Mmmm ... sir."

I wiped his tears and smiled. Then he looked at his wife and said, "Hopefully I can get the dates tomorrow, my wife ..."

I took leave of the couple in a hurry. At home, I opened the refrigerator and closed it again quickly. I called my wife.

"What's up?"

"Dates? Where is the box of dates I just bought?"

"The children finished them. Why?"

"Why did you allow that?!"

"The dates are usually for them, aren't they?"

While my wife reeled from my touchy behavior, I revved the car in the garage. I was on my way to the market to buy dates. Undoubtedly I was jittery, especially whenever I had to stop at traffic lights.

The words of the old man with the wrinkled but radiant face kept echoing in my ears.

"My wife has been ill for ten days. Nothing is particularly wrong, it is only brought on by old age. In the past few days, however, she has longed to eat dates. I've no money to buy them. Usually Padil has some money for the three of us to survive ..."

"Who's Padil?"

"Our only child. A factory hand..."

"Where is he now?"

"In prison ..."

"Prison?"

"He was arrested by the police during the recent riot. Some said he pelted stones at the police and set fire to shops. Others said he was arrested for looting. I don't believe either, though. When I visited him once, he said he had been arrested on his way home from work. He happened to walk past the streets where the rioting took place."

"So?"

"Since then, we have been unable to buy rice. We depended on Padil for everything. He used to provide us with our every need. I went to the city market to ask for just one date. Not a single person was willing to grant this small request. We manage to eat once a day only because we receive aid from the prayer house close to the intersection leading to the housing compound."

Horns blared behind me. My thoughts had carried me away. Then I sped on again. A short while later, I was ecstatic with my purchase of several boxes of dates.

"Thank you. Thank you...," the old man -- who I would later call grandpa -- said. A single tear glistened at the corner of each of his eyes. He gave the dates to his wife. She smiled at me and nodded very, very weakly.

As she slowly munched the dates, I was entranced with every movement of her mouth. I observed the old man, who could not help himself from crying. Then I also saw a sheen of radiance in the eyes of the old woman, who, also, could not help weeping. She looked up at me several times and then smiled. Her smile touched me to my core. I felt as if God's lips were kissing my heart. Perhaps it was just the exhilaration of the moment.

She smiled. The old man put up his hands, palms upwards, "Thank you, Allah!"

The frail old woman smiled again. When I thought that the old man and the old woman had regained control over themselves, I left their house. I had also parted with several Rp 20,000 banknotes. I was profoundly moved, somehow even by the cat. For some reason I felt my life to be more meaningful than before.

A powerful blow reduced these feelings in me the next morning. The old man, inexplicably ever-radiant, came to my house and broke the depressing news.

"My wife is gone now. She died with a smile on her lips. It had been quite a long while since I last saw her smile - perhaps since Padil went to prison. Thank you for the dates. She left us without yearning any longer for them. She really savored their flavor. After eating some, she told me that she had met Padil in her dream. Shortly afterwards, she gently breathed her last breath."

Her death had a deep impact on me. I mourned her passing. The old man walked his usual limping shuffle back home, calmly. He seemed to express no deep sorrow. The radiance which seemed to be transmitted from his whole body appeared to be a permanent emanation.

When we arrived at his house, there were not many people present to pay their condolences. "Well, it is just the death of an ordinary person," I said to myself. But when I lifted the cloth covering the body (which was yet to be washed), the small wooden house became filled with a radiant aura -- only God knows where from. Then I saw the smile on the lips of the venerable woman; a smile I had never seen before on the lips of hundreds, thousands, possibly millions of people.

I was briefly abstracted in my wonder, but then regained my presence when an ustadz began reading the Epistle of Yassin. From behind me I heard a whisper: "This old man is full of radiance. He loves his wife. He is resigned to God's will and always feels united with Him."

I turned my head in the direction of the whisper. Haji Murad had uttered the words. Then I heard another voice: "Who will break the news to Padil?"

The old man calmly replied: "Allah. Allah has broken the news through the heartbeat of the son who loves his parents."

For me, this year's Ramadhan is bursting with radiance. In front of me is a tall palm yielding dates; it emits a shimmering glow which illuminates human lives. Tear drops are suspended on the tip of my nose. God has granted me His precious guidance in this holy month.

Padang, December 23, 1998

Glossary:

Assalamu'alaikum: Peace be unto you (a greeting)

Wa'alaikumssalam: And peace be unto you. (In reply to the above)

Ustadz: a term of address for Islamic teacher

Translated by Lie Hua