The wind blows one way

Chairil Gibran Ramadhan

The blazing sun was high in the sky. Kartam sat facing the village square, swaying his feet from a bamboo couch under a shady mango tree, his sandals left on the ground.

Eight hundred meters away from him was the huge leafy banyan tree with hanging roots reaching down, and on its left was a small muddy river flowing slowly.

Nobody dared to hang about under the banyan tree. According to the elderly, it was already 425 years old and haunted by various demons and spirits of the dead. On Thursday nights, the groans of a woman, said to have hanged herself there after her husband's death in a battle with the Dutch, could be heard from dusk to dawn. Nobody, however bold and powerful, was able to fell it.

Kartam was now crosslegged on the 24-year-old couch, which had been built for chatting and relaxation by local villagers and several times repaired to replace its termite-infested legs. At this time, they chose to idle away the day or catnap on their own porches.

By August, Kartam had to collect enough donations for the opening ceremony, contests and night fairs of the special event while his regular job, barely a month working with village head Ganjar, was already demanding. Sukra, who was supposed to be in charge of the collection, had been hospitalized with malaria. Kartam carried a pink file and black wallet stuffed with Rp 500 and Rp 1,000 banknotes contributed by villagers.

It was the first day and first time he gathered the money.

Kartam was lucky. Hardly had he spent a week in Losarang -- his own village, where all his family had lived since the time of his great grandparents, had been leveled for a dam's construction -- when he won Ganjar's confidence to help the village chief with household chores (in fact, it was only because he had bought one of Ganjar's houses opposite the village hall and he was still jobless).

He remained crosslegged, watching the road and square now already clean.

Within three weeks, over a dozen popular sports events would be held there for seven days. Lots of local villagers had signed up for the events regardless of the prizes offered. A famous singer from the northern area was slated to open the competition at midday.

The same rituals would be repeated on the eve of Aug. 17, Independence Day. People would clean roads, fly national colors, hold ceremonies with patriotic songs and organize games for young and old.

Wise men in the village once said the time had not come yet for people in this country to rejoice and be engaged in merrymaking, "because our flags are only worth flying at half mast all the time".

A light breeze made Kartam sleepy, but he resisted dozing off. A lot more homes were yet to be visited. He chose to rest later that night.

In his sleep he dreamed he received prize money from Ganjar for his good fund-raising work. Then he saw all flags in Losarang being flown at half mast.

* * *

The sun was setting, it was Friday afternoon. Kartam was walking along the side of a cemetery, still holding the pink file and some donation money. At a T-junction near the plantation of Haji Usin, somebody called him from behind. Kohar had just returned from fishing.

"Everything's OK today, Tam?"

"Thank God, kang, I'll finish my job after several more visits."

"Are you going to work with the village head for good?"

"No, kang. I plan to open a motorcycle workshop. For all the youths work as motorcycle-taxi drivers here, racing every afternoon near the square. I used to work at a repair workshop so I've learned some skills."

"Good,but there's only Iduh's repair shop here."

"This year I'm saving to get some capital for my own."

"Have you spent all the compensation from your eviction?"

"You know, the government has never made up for our loss properly. And aren't you aware of village officials' pilfering? Who cares, kang. It's too upsetting to talk about it."

Kohar could only take a deep breath. "Yes it is."

* * *

At noon, Kartam again sat under the mango tree, gazing at the huge, haunted banyan tree nearby.

On Thursday night of the preceding month, drops of a foul- smelling liquid fell on the heads of two thieves hiding under the ghostly tree. People said it was the saliva of Perut Karung, a "sack belly" evil spirit.

Fortunately, village elderly Ki Anom gave a prompt helping hand. He bathed the men in water with seven kinds of flowers, while reciting a Koranic verse seven times. "Otherwise, they would have been bald after a week's persistent high fever and died, their bodies like charred remains."

Kartam was thankful this was his last day of going door to door.

He was crosslegged, looking at the hundreds of red-and-white pennants stuck to nylon threads hanging on all trees around the square. Dozens of flag-flying poles and banners were decorated both sides of the road, as far as the outer edges of the square.

In the coming week, for seven days, the different contests would take place at the square. Everybody looked forward to it with great joy, with the events to end with a dusk-to-dawn golek (wooden puppet) show by a famous player from the western part of the village.

His mind wandered as he thought of the historical records describing how the country was controlled by tall blonde whites for three and a half centuries, followed by three and a half years' occupation by a nation of short people notorious for their cruelty. Later, the people in this country screamed "Freedom! Once and for all!", "We're a free nation!"

So went our history. But even with such freedom, one could still see and hear or experience the same cruelties. Which one should be trusted: history or one's own experience?

That night he dreamed of his great grandfather, who had died at the hands of Japanese soldiers for shouting "Freedom!" with his right arm raised. They had gouged his eyes out.

Kartam asked the old man: "Great grandpa, when will we live peacefully?"

* * *

The sun was obscured and the sky darkened. The wind was blowing strongly.

That morning, at a quarter past seven, the villagers were shocked by the sight of a policeman carrying Kartam's lifeless body.

"He must have been run over by a truck loaded with bricks. It's a lesson to you all. Be careful when crossing the road. His body was found near the village border bridge."

Nobody knew the truth: Kartam had died after being tortured for hours at the local police station. His crime was persistently denying that he was one of the robbers who had plundered Boss Setra's house of all valuables and killed the whole family.

The police wouldn't listen though he repeatedly swore he had told the truth about his job and village. In fact, Kartam arrived just as the robbers fled. He reported the robbery as a witness but became a suspect at the police station when the trail for the real robbers ran cold.

After his evening prayer, Kartam left for a nearby village across the river as ordered by Ganjar earlier in the afternoon. He had to collect money from Setra, the village head's old friend who owned a roof-tile and brick factory, for the payment of the puppet player's fee.

"If you're still there at eleven, just stay overnight. I have a letter for Setra so he'll trust you. I'm also drawing a map to show you the way to his house. It's rather deserted, dark and isolated from other village homes. You can walk there."

His wife, Sumiarsih, along with her fifth child and parents-in-law, immediately went to the police station, accompanied by two village security men. Ganjar could not join them because he had gone to his third wife's home to get back Oneng, who had sought a divorce for not being bought a gold bracelet and necklace offered by a jewelry hawker.

By nine in the morning, they arrived at the station, where they were served in a casual manner as usual. It was apparent at the office that death was nothing special, nothing to fuss about, let alone be regretted.

"He's been bathed and wrapped in the shroud, awaiting burial. Remember, there's no need to open the shroud," a forbidding looking policeman told the guests.

None of those on duty expressed their condolences. They even demanded reimbursement for the shroud and corpse handling costs.

Kartam had departed this life. He could observe the couch under the mango tree that had sheltered him. A stage measuring 6x 5 meters was now erected at the edge of the square for the night's entertainment and the awarding of prizes to contest winners. On the other side, a golek show stage was being prepared for the next day, when the nation would commemorate its 50th independence anniversary.

On that day, Kartam saw none of the flags in Losarang flown at half mast to mark his death. Only the wind was blowing in one direction.

Translated by Aris Prawira

Note: Kang: Sundanese term of address for an older man