Return to Your Harmonica

By Martin Aleida

Recently the relationship between Husaima and his harmonica had been characterized by feelings of restlessness. You take advantage of something and then toss it away as mere rubbish. But no! This old adage is not suitable for our blind musician.

Husaima was fully aware that, thanks to this small musical instrument, he had been able to feed his family -- a wife and three children -- these past twenty years. No, Husaima was not an ungrateful person.

However things had changed. People were now generally reluctant to part with their coins and toss them to him as a token of either sympathy or pity. For some time temptation had been urging him to put this harmonica to rest. He wanted to play a new instrument.

Indeed, this harmonica clearly showed its age. Its nickel plating had almost completely come off, leaving the yellowish base color visible with the inscription of Made in Hongkong vaguely readable.

With a heavy heart Husaima arrived at the platform at Bojonggede railway station in the morning. He thought he should have started with something new that day. Yet, he found it terribly difficult to give up a habit that had shaped his very being for decades.

It would be more difficult, still, to part with his harmonica, to which he had once sworn that such a happening would never come to pass, no matter what. Earth and heaven were the witnesses. Besides, he still wanted to prove the correctness of the idea which had crept into his mind. Husaima wanted to have another discussion with Durasim, who had insistently prevented him from embarking on the new path.

Faithfulness. That was the key word of advice that Durasim, a fellow musician, had given him. Durasim had played the violin all his life in railway cars on the trains running between Jakarta and Bogor and back again.

He reminded Husaima of their pledge of loyalty made before they left the training house for the blind in Bandung, some twenty-five years back. Both swore that whatever happened, they would never discard the musical instruments they had opted for as a means to earn their livelihoods.

They had gone through rigorous physical training there, too, hadn't they? They were taught martial art skills, trained to climb the wall of a house and walked across a house ridge without any support. They were trained to be always firm and tenacious, despite their blindness. There was no reason renege on the pledge.

He felt hollow inside when the train sped along quickly. Husaima continued to play the harmonica as an accompaniment to the grinding sound produced by iron wheels running on steel railway lines. He knew some people would still throw coins or put red banknotes into a plastic bag attached tightly around his waist.

He maintained an indifferent attitude. Upon arrival at Kota railway station in Jakarta, he seemed to have lost any enthusiasm to count his plastic bag takings which he would usually then place in a separate pouch. Mirroring the movement of his halting steps, the plastic bag jingled as the coins shook against each other.

The tail wind carried them quicker than usual. When the train went back to Bogor, the cars were virtually empty.

A perky voice greeted Husaima, who was then on the verge of sitting down in a corner of the railway car.

"You've still got some money to commence the day with. You should consider yourself still lucky. Come on ... remember Bandung."

Husaima blushed: he felt mocked. His eyeballs rolled in their cavities. Suddenly he recognized the voice and grinned in reply: "Hey, is that you Sim? Call it luck, I've been looking for you!"

"Are you going to Bun Hwa's now?" The name Durasim mentioned was that of a Chinese shopkeeper who sold and rented traditional and electric musical instruments.

"I think I should go there. No harm in trying, right?"

"Up to you, Hus. When we left the training house, we never thought that electricity would make our lives difficult. Nevertheless, I am sure we won't die just because of this change. You know that there is a craze again for songs popular in the seventies. Tunes previously sung by Tety Kadi, Erni Djohan and even S. Effendi have made a comeback."

"Let progress take its natural course and let the wind blow in its own direction. Never try to reverse things. Youngsters now play music in groups of street musicians. They not only have electric guitars but also drums and bongos. And they use a microphone when they sing."

"I don't care, Hus. I will stick to this violin," Durasim said with his instrument pressed between one arm and the side of his body. His thoughts roamed far away to Bandung, to his past.

Reminiscing, Durasim said: "To cope with our blindness we have been trained to survive using as little equipment as possible. So, in our training, I chose a violin and you, a harmonica. We have lost one of our five senses so we can't be weighed down with too much baggage. You made the right choice ... a harmonica."

The blind men's candid conversation ended as abruptly as it had begun. Durasim, shifted his fingers along the violin's bow seeking the correct scale, rose and left his lifelong friend in the deserted railway car.

The train rumbled its way to Gambir, Gondangdia, Manggarai and thundered on its way to Bogor. Husaima remained squatting in his corner. His harmonica lay idle in his trouser pocket. He was certain that Durasim had made up his mind and would refuse to budge from his earlier comments. However he would stick to his own plans. After all, it was his decision: no tunes would emerge from the harmonica. From that moment, it was an object and a memory belonging to the past: one that formerly guided his life, his wife's and their three children's.

At Bojonggede, he disembarked and dragged his feet unsteadily but instinctively to Bun Hwa's music store. Several times in the past his wife and children had accompanied him there. Now, he was solitary in his resolve to forge a new life path.

The transaction was quick. Husaima's vision of a set of karaoke equipment was a reality! All memories of the harmonica's core role in his life vanished. The kit was rented to him at a rate of Rp 30,000 a week. All Husaima had to do was provide the batteries.

Karaoke enlivened Husaima's house. His wife and children felt like dancing when they saw his new shiny trappings. Laughter filled the room when the youngest child unintentionally blew into the mike. The sound attracted neighbors who crowded into Husaima's house proffering complimentary and envious reactions.

The equipment was not idle for long, for Husaima was eager to hear his voice accompanying the recorded music. The next morning, Husaima somewhat unsteadily set out tapping his route with a white cane, the karaoke equipment hanging heavy from his chest.

Some of the habitual train passengers were pleased to see a change in Husaima. They only knew him as the skillful blind harmonica player. Other passengers felt abandoned just as the harmonica itself was discarded: they missed the distinctive melodies.

Husaima hoped his comparatively high-tech kit would rescue him from the doldrums. Such hopes were quickly crushed. The rupiah value had dropped. More and more unfortunates were being laid off. Train passengers no longer purchased monthly or weekly tickets. Many of them traveled without even bothering to buy tickets. A karaoke based return to improved circumstances seemed increasingly unlikely. Husaima was lucky that up till now he had managed to collect the daily rent owed to Bun Hwa.

Thanks to the rigorous training at the house for the blind, Husaima maintains a smile although his circumstances reduce a little more each day.

A complaint to Durasim is out of the question. When they meet up, he plays their favorite songs. True, before he traded in the harmonica, there were tensions about the proposal. Yet, their friendship surmounts all problems. They have too much in common.

Each morning, when the sun's rays flicker through the bamboo leaf tips in Bojonggede, Husaima's karaoke emits tunes in the last train car, accompanying the rhythm of the iron wheels that carry the connecting cars through a cassava plantation, roaring behind the houses of local people and trundling over the flyover railway line to Beos, a railway station in Jakarta. The karaoke tunes accompany hundreds, even thousands of people in their daily excursions to scale new summits.

Husaima's music never stops. But destiny has its own course and ill-fate eventually swoops upon Husaima. One morning a joint security team carries out a raid. Scores of street vendors, newspaper boys, beggars reciting verses from the Holy Book and street musicians are nabbed. Husaima is one of them. All their goods are confiscated. At the police station, Husaima was aghast when informed by police that the karaoke would not be released when he was. Buffeted with emotions, he returned home.

The following morning the train car lacked any music as it set out from Bojong. Husaima stood near the door, sandwiching his white cane between an upper arm and the side of his body. His other hand clutched a pole.

The police station was his destination. His goal: his karaoke. He was ready to pay. But a police officer on duty lightly shook his head and shouted that only Rp 140,000 would return the kit. Husaima left with a very heavy heart, even heavier than the previous day.

The next day he took his wife. Who knows, he reasoned, perhaps the police would take pity on a husband and wife combination. His pleas was again rejected. Now the door to his heart was closed.

Their outing was the first time since their marriage that they had been out together. Some said that he had pressed his luck with the police and was fortunate they had not reproved him more severely. Some street vendors were beaten black and blue. Their crime? To not give answers as expected. Gaol inmates reported that various policemen were now learning to sing with Husaima's former possession.

Husaima and his wife returned to their home with hollow hearts and confused thoughts. Husaima grieved but refrained from crying. He remembered his obligation to Bun Hwa. Durasim's words suddenly came to him. His friend had been right after all. Suddenly he felt tears streaming down his nose. He wiped it with his shoulder.

"Rather than paying the fine of Rp 140,000, we'd better buy a new one. The difference is only Rp 10,000," Husaima grumbled. His wife was quiet.

"The police know that it is a new karaoke. They won't release it easily," his wife said, adding, "Come on, just forget it. Let them have it. Return to your harmonica."

Her reasoning seemed the best way out. He should return to his original tune. Birds will return to their nest after flying a great distance. But returning to his old tune seemed a step backwards. He understood that he had to accept his destiny, but he needed support. His dilemma over swapping the harmonica for the karaoke had been discussed first with Durasim. Despite their differences of opinion, Husaima needed to talk with his close friend.

In a deserted corner of one car of the first train returning to Bogor, he found Durasim. His friend acted normally. He did not show that his ideas had been right all along. He did not boast because his advice had failed to prevent Husaima's bad luck. His own violin was impounded at the police station for two days. But nobody was interested in the old battered instrument. Several thousand rupiah banknotes persuaded the police to release his violin.

"Come on... don't think about Bun Hwa. I'm alone. I'll help you as best I can to retrieve your karaoke," he said flatly.

"Thanks, Sim."

"By the way, do you still know how to play a harmonica?" he asked, jokingly.

Husaima took out his harmonica from his trousers pocket. "Of course, Sim. Now, let me play you some of your favorite songs. It's my way of expressing gratitude for your help." Husaima played Three coins in the fountain" -- their favorite song from the training house days. More than ever the song brought them great pleasure, uniting them in the deserted corner of the train car.

When he had finished, Husaima abruptly turned his head in one direction, deeply in thought. His thumb stroked the holes of the harmonica. His heart went into these holes. He remembered how this harmonica had enabled him to support his family. The instrument lay in his palm and he felt a strong urge to be reunited with it again. It was a strong urge to not forget the pledge he had once whispered to this simple musical instrument: never again to depart.

-- Translated by Lie Hua