The turtle dove

The turtle dove

By Abrar Yusra

Two days after his return from his hometown in Java -- to visit one of his children, in-laws and grandchildren -- Pak Darwis carried the cage of his turtle dove from his wife's house to her daughter Sakdiyah. It was still very early in the morning. The old man grumbled in his deep and hoarse voice.

"My turtle dove almost died in its cage," he grumbled, "so I got rid of your aunt, damn wife! While I was gone my bird suffered from want of water and wheat because your aunt spent the whole day dressing up and then gossiping with the neighbors. And you forced me to remarry. She never loved me!"

Pak Darwis continued to grumble. Complaining was his habit.

Sakdiyah, who was far into her pregnancy, could only listen. It was hard for her to decide whether to laugh or cry listening to her father's complaints. She had not yet started cooking, not yet taken her bath, and not yet changed into fresh clothes. She was busy trying to figure out how not to get pregnant again. As it was, having two children was already too much for her. Her husband Kulipah, a trader who hawked his merchandise from one market to another around Bukittingi, had left at dawn.

Now, her father was bothering her with such trivial, inconceivable things, adding to her problem of raising two delinquent children. It would be useless for Sakdiyah to try to find the core problem behind the turtle dove issue and calm her father.

"Look, it's skinny," he said, "must have been ill. It has not sung ever since my return from Java. It used to sing all the time, my bird."

"It's all right, Pak, I understand," said Sakdiyah calmly, "We are happy to have you back with us."

She was only trying to stop her father's grumbling, thinking all men were incomprehensible and irresponsible. Only thinking of their personal pleasures. Her husband did not give a damn about her, whether she would get pregnant again. His only interest was his merchandise and the money he owed people and the sum people owed him. But this man was her own father. Sakdiyah could only picture herself going to Aunt Yuliana, her stepmother, and telling her, "Don't ignore father, I've told you he is a complainer. It's easy actually, it can be managed, as long as you don't fight back. If he grumbles, let him. Okay?"

Pak Darwis is a small man. He was a former government employee who served his superior like a slave, running errands in the town. But at home in the city's outskirt he was like a king and was respected by the villagers. That was because he did not have to kill himself working in the rice fields and the farm. Now, in his old age, his only task was to go to the post office on the fifth of each month to collect his pension.

Meanwhile it was common knowledge that his rice fields and farm which he inherited from his parents were well tended. Pak Darwis always hired people to work in his fields and farm under the heat of the sun and the deluge of rains. When he did go to his rice fields it was only to step on the paths, a sign that he owned the rice fields.

That morning he stayed at his daughter's house. Whenever someone who happened to come by asked him why he was there he would start rattling about his bird and reproaching his young wife.

Soon the whole village found out about the big problem faced by little Pak Darwis. That his young wife did not take good care of his bird. The villagers, who were mostly elderly, shared Pak Darwis' predicament.

"His wife must have been a mischievous woman who married an old man for his pension. But she does not give a damn about his bird," they all said.

At Sakdiyah's house, Pak Darwis spent most of the time alone. Morning and afternoon was spent drinking coffee on the verandah. His son-in-law usually returned home at dusk or at night, so all Pak Darwis did was play with his bird in the house compound. So immersed was he with his bird, his only enjoyment in this world, he often forgot to take a bath or eat breakfast.

Pak Darwis felt lonely and forlorn at his daughter's house. He was actually facing a new problem but did not know what to do. And it was, he thought, about his turtle dove.

It had been quite sometime since Pak Darwis lived in the house he built and now he felt there was something strange there. The house looked unkempt. Although they were both patient and diligent, Sakdiyah was not as detailed as her mother in taking care of the house.

"What do children and women do these days?" Darwis thought. His mind then flew to Yuliana, his irksome wife. He felt his marriage to Yuliana a burden. It was understandable as Yuliana was still young, loved to dress up, and was very demanding and restless. She demanded a lot of attention instead of giving it. The rumbling passion in Yuliana's body and heart simply discouraged her aging husband.

Pak Darwis stepped into the front yard. He carried his bird cage -- the round, cute cage with its square velvet cover embroidered in gold, whose ends were adorned with four velvet balls as red as the skin of the reddest mangosteen and as big as a mango. It was very expensive.

He hung the cage on a branch of the mangkajilu tree. The same old place when his wife was still alive and before he married Yuliana. He slid up part of the velvet cover to allow the morning sun to bathe his bird.

The turtle dove in the cage was restless. It never stayed still, especially when it saw the morning light. The bird ran around frantically, trying to find a way out. Its eyes were bright. The bird's clear heavy-lidded eyes reflected loneliness and life's simple freedom in the small space that sometimes made it restless and confused.

His only delight was to dream of listening to his bird singing to the world. No, to his gloomy heart.

It was rare for ordinary people to have an interest in a turtle dove. Only Saona, his late wife, although she knew nothing about turtle doves, always felt it necessary to compliment the bird or her husband whenever she heard it singing.

"Your bird reminds me of my late grandfather," she said. "Grandfather said only the kings like turtle doves. Or the top officials in the olden days. In our village, that's what my grandfather said, only Tuanku Laras and rich officials could afford to have a turtle dove. There are many who own turtle doves, but only a few can sing."

Since then Pak Darwis, who was basically an errand man, felt he had a higher status at home and in his village because he owned a turtle dove. However, not to feel inferior to his wife Saona, Pak Darwis boasted to his wife.

"What do you know about turtle doves?" Pak Darwis started, laughing, trying to look down at the woman who was slightly taller than him. "There are turtle doves with mystical power. Magical power. If he sings in the middle of the night that means there will be danger or chaos. Maybe there are robbers who will try to get into the house or there will be a fire. You don't know anything, but in Java it is called perkutut and it can cost up to millions of rupiah. It is no ordinary bird and not a plaything of ordinary men. If your husband were an ordinary man there would not be a turtle dove in this house."

Saona did not say anything anymore. Everything her husband said passed through her ears like a breeze. But that was the beginning of Pak Darwis' infatuation with the turtle dove. Eventually Pak Darwis preferred to stay at home.

The bird always reminded him of his late wife. Then of his loneliness and gloomy life. Then, unexpectedly, the bird stopped singing. For hours Pak Darwis plucked his fingers and made a throaty sound "A-aa, a-aa," to urge the bird to sing. But the turtle dove only stared at him with his simple, questioning eyes. Sometimes Pak Darwis felt it was a mistake to own the bird and felt like letting it loose or crushing it to death.

The bird's refusal to sing created a problem once Pak Darwis left Yuliana. The world became smaller at Sakdiyah's house and all things that brought pleasure became a burden after his son-in-law Kulipah gave his view on the bird.

Kulipah was only a junior high school graduate, however, he was a cheerful man. He was carefree and very resourceful like most traders are, which was why he succeeded in marrying Sakdiyah. At least that was what Pak Darwis thought. At a glance, Pak Darwis' relationship with his son-in-law was good. However, the two had always been at odds because Pak Darwis had always wanted a government employee for a son-in-law. Although they lived in a same house, they rarely saw each other. When his son- in-law returned home late at night from his business, Pak Darwis would pretend he was asleep.

Pak Darwis thought his son-in-law did not like turtle doves and probably did not give a damn about any kind of bird. However, one night Kulipah asked his wife,"How 's father's bird?"

"Poor thing, it refuses to sing although father laughs at it."

Kulipah laughed. To Pak Darwis he sounded as if he was making fun of him.

"The bird is sick and is given pills. But it's no use. Poor father," Sakdiyah was heard saying.

"Then, why not let it free," Kulipah asked.

It was hard to judge whether his son-in-law was serious or simply joking. What Pak Darwis felt was that he was alienated in his own world, the world of his turtle dove, which was only a joke to others or created a feeling of pity. A joke to a prestigious world his late wife Saona imagined.

That morning when he hung the cage on the mangkajilu tree the turtle dove looked fine. Nothing had changed with the tree or the bird. But that morning Pak Darwis felt he had hung the cage on the wrong branch. And unlike before, the bird refused to sing.

The only thing Pak Darwis wanted to do was to leave Sakdiyah's house, leave the house he built himself. Or strangle the cursed bird to death, the bird which refused to sing.

Both impossible wishes as he was old.

Translated by Adhi I.M.

Abrar Yusra was born in Lawang, Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, on March 28, 1943. From 1973 until 1986 he was a reporter and then managing editor of Singgalang daily in Padang. He supports his family of four children by writing. His poems have been published in various anthologies. His short story Burung Ketitiran appears in Kado Istimewa: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 1992 (A Special Gift: An Anthology of Kompas Short Stories 1992). It is reprinted here by courtesy of the Kompas daily.