The romance of a former dancer

By Agung Mabruri

Lastri? Everyone in the village knew the jaipong (1) dancer, who was dear to the hearts of her many fans. She was the main reason, the only reason rather, that people came to each and every performance by her jaipong troupe, Mekar Sari.

Other groups tried in vain to lure Lastri to join them, trying to entice her with the promise of more money. But Lastri was always unwilling. It was a kind of uneasiness that always crept over her at such moments. She felt uncomfortable thinking about leaving her uncle, the owner of Mekar Sari. She owed a lot to her uncle, who had raised her from the age of four after her parents passed away.

Karjo and I were two of Lastri's most ardent fans, and we never missed any of the group's performances. But seeing Lastri perform was not enough, so we frequently called on her at her home. We were well received, but I knew this kind of reception was due to our being such loyal fans. But Karjo saw it differently. He interpreted Lastri's kindness as a sign that she had special feelings for him. I repeatedly warned Karjo not to get the wrong idea, but my words fell on deaf ears.

Three years after we graduated from high school, mustering all the courage he could, Karjo went to propose to Lastri. Prior to that he had sold his three buffaloes. This was at the same time that, like a balloon soaring high in the sky, Lastri was rocketing to stardom.

"Pray for me, OK?" Karjo said a day before he proposed.

"All right. You know my prayers are always with you," I replied a bit jokingly.

Two days later I heard that he had been rejected. Having already guessed that he would be, I was not surprised by the news. But, strangely, Karjo was nowhere to be found. He disappeared completely, as if the earth had opened up and swallowed him. Rumor had it that he had gone to Jakarta, but who could tell.

Almost without notice, the years flew past. It was now 25 years since Karjo disappeared from the village. I got married rather late, and am now the father of two: the eldest in the fourth grade and the youngest still in kindergarten.

Life had not treated Lastri well. Now more often addressed as Mak (2) Lastri, she spent her days alone. No longer in her uncle's house, she rented a little house next to the filthy river by the market. Who could have guessed this was to be Lastri's fate? Her glory days were short-lived, like a passing puff of smoke, soon to be replaced by bitterness.

Now almost 50, Lastri made ends meet by selling snacks in the market. The fame she once enjoyed had been forgotten by most, and the younger people had not even heard of her.

And Lastri herself seemed intent on burying her past. Yes, what good was it to reminisce about the old times when all that was left was bitterness. And why should anyone care about Lastri? Not even her uncle, whose krupuk (3) factory -- built with profits from the jaipong troupe -- was thriving, seemed to spare her a thought. Her uncle wouldn't even give her a job, preferring to use younger people whose hands were still deft compared to the stiff and sluggish movements of Lastri. He did not seem to realize that it was Lastri who made the dance group popular, and that without her he would have no krupuk factory.

One day a gleaming, luxury car stopped in front of my house. To my surprise, out stepped Karjo. The reunion felt like a dream. I had already heard about Karjo's success in Jakarta. He had made a name for himself photographing famous actors and models.

"Great. Wonderful. You are someone now," I said on meeting him at the front door.

"Er ... don't think anything of it. How about you?"

"Well, as you can see, I haven't changed much," I said flatly. There was a sourness in Karjo's smile.

"Hey, how's Lastri doing?" he blurted out suddenly.

I did not feel like talking about her life, but Karjo was persistent and finally I told him everything.

"Are you telling me the truth?" Karjo asked, somewhat doubtfully.

I nodded.

"Then take me to her house."

It was a short drive to where she lived. Nobody answered when we knocked on the door, so I turned the handle of the unlocked door. Summoning up a bit of courage, I opened the door wide and was shocked by what I saw. Lastri was cowering next to a bamboo wall, terrified at seeing us. She was trembling and tried to move away from us.

"We don't mean you any harm," I said in a soft and hesitant voice.

Lastri gazed at me and then Karjo. Her lips moved as if she was trying to speak, but no words came out.

"Come on, tell her what you want," I whispered to Karjo.

Karjo moved forward a few steps. "I've come to take photographs of you. You don't mind, do you?" Karjo's voice was unemotional. "If it's OK with you, you can change into your dance costume," continued Karjo, while pulling his camera from his bag.

Lastri stared at us in turn. Then she smiled. The smile exuded the beauty of her youth. Suddenly she giggled. Then she began to laugh loudly, her body moving like a person possessed. Mak Lastri dashed to the cupboard. She got hold of a scarf and started dancing, accompanied by the weird noises that escaped her throat, her imitation of music.

Karjo focused his camera on her. He seemed enthralled by an enchanting object, something he rarely found anywhere else.

Someone came rushing into the house. "Hey, don't you know, she's nuts!" he said, placing his index finger on his forehead.

But Karjo did not give a damn. He kept on taking pictures. Somehow he seemed energized, invigorated.

1. Jaipong: Sundanese traditional dance

2. Mak: Mother or elderly woman

3. Krupuk: Flour chips flavored with shrimp or fish

Translated by Leo PN Landep