Searching for Mother

By Aminudin

I am now 20 years of age but I still have never seen my mother. I live with my father who has repeatedly refused to explain to me who my mother is and what has happened to her. Father seems to believe that one wife is one too many for him. But, occasionally, he does need a woman. He has brought home different women, each for a day's visit.

Once I was curious enough to know who the women were but my father was too upset to answer my question.

"Hey child, you're too young to know about this adult business, understand?" He said.

Since then I have had no interest in asking any more questions. In fact, I had every reason to know who they were because father always ushered them to his bedroom after a brief conversation in front of the TV which is in the living room. Before he would enter the bedroom he always ordered me to enter my bedroom to do my home work. No sooner was I inside than he had locked my door from the outside.

Actually, my father did not know or ever bother to find out what I was doing in my room. He also did not want to know about my performance at school. Never did he ask me to show my school report cards.

Every night while my father was in his room with a woman, I used my freedom to jump out through the window and run away to join my friends enjoying a drinking feast at a nearby stall. I usually returned home in the wee hours. In the morning my father would unlock my door but once I was in the living room I never saw him or his woman anymore.

What my father's main activities were besides enjoying life in this particular way was not my business. The only thing I knew was he left some money for me on the dinner table before he went out every morning. But this strange father-son relationship left a lot of questions in my mind.

One thing I was sure of was that I must have been born from the womb of a woman, not from a man's buttocks or a mother's ear like Karna, the famous wayang figure in the Indonesian shadow play.

"Papa, where is my mother?" I asked him once after I had conjured up all the courage I had.

"Ask any other question, but not about your mother," was his brief answer. I never repeated the question. Although I was polite to my father, he still refused to show his approachable side to me. Given the circumstances, I did not dare to repeat the question for fear of being slapped on the face.

The other source of information about my mother was my grandmother. But the old woman would only answer my questions with tears.

At last, when I reached 20 years of age recently my grandmother answered my question, but only briefly. "It is useless for you to expect your mother's presence here." This is the last explanation I got from her before she died soon afterwards. I concluded that my mother died a long time ago.

But on the day my grandmother was buried, my father turned on me, "Hey, you son of a bitch, I told you several times not to ask about your mother but you had to ask, didn't you. Now look what has happened to your grandmother. You are really a bastard of a street walker."

His words were too uncivilized for me to accept. I lost control of myself and slapped him on the face. My father fell to the floor. He tried to stand up but was too weak to do so. It gave me the opportunity to stab his chest with the kitchen knife which I pulled from my waist. He fell again right at my feet.

My action landed me in jail and I was cursed by both my father's and my mother's relatives. But I have no regrets whatsoever. During the dark years I served in jail, none of them came to visit me. I could understand their reaction.

In the prison I tried to tell the other inmates that I had tried to defend my honor but none agreed with what I had done. If my grandmother were still alive she would have come to my side and defended me. And if my mother were here with me I'm sure she would caress my forehead every day and justify what I had done for her. I told the wall of my cell how much I loved her. I also tried to paint many women's faces, some of which I hoped would resemble my mother's visage and expression.

I was released after I had spent eight years plus seven months and 13 days in the gloomy prison. The wardens said I had been one of the politest and most cooperative inmates. I think they were right because I was one of the shy inmates there. I spoke to no one. I only talked to the drawings which I made in every nook and cranny, including the toilets, bathrooms and prayer halls.

However, the faces of the women I painted were different from each other. Some looked like my beautiful class mates at school, others like my teachers, famous actresses, feminist leaders or just neighbors. But all looked brooding. I did try to paint smiling women but not successfully, they always ended up with pugnacious or sullen faces. In short, none of the paintings satisfied me because I was sure that none looked like my mother. However, I myself did not know what she looked like because even in my most realistic dreams she had never come to show herself.

But, when I set foot outside the prison I could walk strongly although I did not know where to go. I wished to go back to jail because the institution could protect and feed me. But this was impossible.

I headed to the house where I had once lived but I found it no longer belonged to my family. From there I proceeded to my parents' relatives but on seeing my face all of them cursed and drove me away. They barked that they had no room for a criminal like me.

In this situation I decided to seek a place where I could lie down and have a nap. The place might be a market at night, a bus terminal or a spot under a bridge. I hoped this nomadic life would provide me with the chance to look at the faces of uncountable women and try to guess which one was similar to that of my mother.

After months of cruising many such places, I found myself in the same predicament as when I was painting woman's faces on the prison walls. I grouped the facial expressions into three types: gloomy, unfriendly and funky. I also found smiling faces but, to my regret, they looked more cynical than attractive. Meanwhile, many old people told me that my mother looked very motherly, smiling, and very supple. Her hair was loose and long.

But I have to admit that I failed to record all these qualities in my paintings because my mind was also disturbed by other stories which claimed my mother was a vindictive, wanton woman who had no respect for any man. They also said I was not the son of the man I killed a long time ago but of one of my mother's many clients.

However, to me the last-mentioned story had no logic at all because I strongly believed that it was my father who was a prostitute. By killing him I have wiped the dirt of my family's face although many relatives think otherwise.

Now I feel very frustrated. Years have passed since the first day I started hunting for my mother's impression. Not only have I failed to find her replica but I have also lost the ability to see her image in my mind.

"I might be a product of a cloning technique carried out on a monkey, which was later killed by my father." This is the conclusion I wrote below my painting of a dead monkey. I held this painting tightly close to my breast while swearing I wished to die in this town. Death of hunger. I also wished to be blown to death by the strong wind. But I did not know what I wanted really.

Today I have another wish as I feel my body very light, as light as a gas-filled balloon. I was flying away in the air holding a monkey head in my right hand and a sculpture of a faceless woman in the left. She has long hair which caresses my face from time to time.

"Thank you my dear son, I'm proud of your endless love," the woman whispered in my ears.

"Eureka!" I woke up from my dream and stood up on the soil, which I had used as my bed. I danced, whirled and shouted out loud: "My mother is still alive, my mother is still alive!"

Translated by Thayeb Ibnu Sabil