Unfurled Flag

By Teguh Winarsho AS

The evening was like a giant black screen. Pitch dark. Gripping tension. The wind blew through the foliage, sending twigs and dry leaves rustling down. Bats periodically flitted into the deep bushes like someone awakening from a deep slumber. Then a lull and quiet. No human eyes, without the help of a flashlight, could penetrate this deep darkness. Some distance away, a mass of figures carrying torches approached at a half- run. The nearer they got, the clearer it became that the mass, all men, was increasing in number. Swords, machetes and crowbars gleamed under the flames of the torches against the backdrop of the pitch black night.

A man, who for quite some time had been moving stealthily in a crouching position, hid behind the thick bushes, holding his breath as the men passed by a few meters from his position. His head was still throbbing and wet with blood. Someone had thrown a stone at him and it had hit home on the back of his head. The man had peered into the bushes for a few seconds, trying to pierce the darkness. Yes, he was used to the inky blackness but he could not make out anything but the darkened foliage. Something was telling him this was not a normal night: no, this was blacker, darker and fiercer.

The man breathed in relief when the mass passed by his hiding place. Good God, he had managed to evade dozens of people in hot pursuit of him. Never mind having to jump over a fence over two meters tall. Now all I've got to do is wait for the right time to get out of here, he said to himself. Of course, as usual, he would have to get some new clothes or he would be spotted easily.

It was cold. Hesitantly, the man felt the back of his head and pulled back his hand, stained with his own stinking blood. Just one of his misfortunes in life. The pale face of his wife dying in bed alone played in slow motion on the screen in his mind. She should at least be taken to the local community health center, if not to the hospital. Fortune, however, never favored him, and he couldn't take home anything that could be sold.

He glanced at his watch but it was too dark to see anything. Mosquitoes swarmed around him, buzzing into his ears and making a bloody feast of his body. As the seconds crawled into minutes, his hiding place became a living, buzzing hell. Dozens of times he had had to hole up in abandoned plantations, rice fields, under bridges and once in a garbage dump, but never before had he been targeted by a horde of ravenous mosquitoes. He would have liked to crush the mosquitoes in his hands, but feared this would betray his hiding place to his pursuers. Surely, he did not want to die a foolish death like Kadir or Roso, both caught stealing in the market. They were beaten to bloody pulps by mobs of screaming people, and then as they lay dying they were doused in gasoline and set on fire. There was nothing left of them but ashes, which the wind soon blew away.

The man sniffed out of annoyance. He kept cursing his lot. This night all he needed were some used shoes or worn-out trousers, anything he could quickly sell in the market. He did not need much money, only Rp 40,000 or Rp 50,000. It seemed he was not in Fortune's favor and couldn't take home even a single piece of cloth of any value. Gone from his mind were the banknotes he had been thinking about earlier. Two night watchmen found him trying to pry open the window of a house in a corner of the market. The house belonged to a tobacco boss who had fired him for no reason. The quiet of the night turned into the clamor of a night bazaar when the two night watchmen shouted "Thief, thief!" Men rushed out of their homes and, their eyes shot with wildness, beat the bamboo drum to sound the alarm. Swords, machetes, crowbars and sickles gleamed in the flames of torches as their owners brandished them as if going into battle.

The cold of the night assaulted the man as he crawled out of his hiding place. A thin layer of clouds, like the wafting smoke from burning incense, spread across the night sky. The bamboo drum had been quiet for some time. His pursuers must have returned to their homes, going back to their beds to finish their interrupted dreams. Cautiously, he picked his way through the darkness. His knees hurt, wounded by shards of glass when he tumbled to the ground after jumping over the fence.

At a bend in the path, he stopped, breathing rapidly and with difficulty. He looked ahead, far ahead, not really sure of what he saw. In the distance, outlined by the dim light thrown down by the moon as it slowly emerged from a clump of clouds, a house came into view: dull white with some of the cement having been chipped away. The man's eyes fixed on the house and suddenly his body trembled. It was like something stabbing his heart. The ashen face of his wife, Tari, lying weakly on her bed, appeared again before his eyes, causing a great pang in his heart. He felt uneasy and worried. He did not want to go home but he did not have the heart to leave her alone to her fate.

"Why do you still do it?" Tari's voice was gentle and was followed by a soft sob. A clear tear spilled from the corner of one eye, flowing down the hollow, pale cheek of the woman.

It was quiet. The man, Karma, stood like a statue in front of the door. His head drooped, his eyes gazed at the floor. His face was pale and sweaty. Something he had always dreaded was now really happening. He was incapable of answering the question, except with a lie. But now he didn't think he was even able to lie. That gentle face ... that radiant and transparent gaze ... they had always paralyzed him.

"Sorry .... " Karma's voice was low and hoarse.

"Are you still afraid of the poverty that has gripped our family? You're afraid that we'll starve to death? Remember ... God is supremely fair. God will not let us starve to death as long as we endeavor using His permitted methods. Wasn't it you who once told me these things? Have you forgotten?" Tari was sobbing. She cast a sharp gaze at the man in front of her. She recalled it was this very man who had offered her a helping hand, leading her out of the black valley. But why was he now entering that same valley himself?

Karma was speechless. His mouth couldn't open, as if it was clogged by a piece of black cloth.

"I'm quite happy living like this ...," said Tari holding back her sobs.

Karma raised his head. "But you are sick. You need treatment .... " His voice was closer to a sigh.

"Sick? I will get worse if you keep stealing."

Again Karma bowed his head. The coldness embraced him. Shame was repeatedly stabbing him. He wanted to stop stealing, but poverty lashed him on; a poverty akin to roaming ghosts lurking wherever he went.

"Promise you'll stop stealing." Tari pushed the blanket off her body, trying to get up.

Karma did not answer immediately. His gaze was glued to the woman in front of him, as if searching for strength in her. Then he nodded. "I promise ...," said Karma softly, but Tari knew there was an earnestness in his words.

Tari wiped the fine tears from the corners of her eyes and smiled. Happiness radiated on her face, a soft glowing happiness. Tari got down from the bed and walked toward the decrepit wardrobe in the corner of the room. She opened it and from a pile of clothes pulled out a small piece of cloth whose colors had begun to fade. "Put up this flag, tomorrow people are celebrating Independence Day." Tari slowly handed the flag to Karma.

He looked at it waveringly. His hands were trembling.

Then someone began pounding on the door. Others were shouting wildly, swearing and cursing.

"Come out, Karma! You are surrounded!" someone shouted.

"Or we'll break the door down!" someone else shouted.

"Come on out!"

Karma was shaking. He had a premonition something bad would happen to him.

"Don't be afraid. Let me talk to them," said Tari, walking calmly toward the door. But as her hand reached out for the handle, the flimsy door caved in. People rushed into the house. They were furious, slashing the air with their knives. Karma panicked. Without thinking he darted through the back door.

The night closed its eyes. It was pitch dark.

The next morning, very early, Karma came back. He was again attacked by guilt for leaving his wife alone. As he neared the broken front door, he could see a bloodied body sprawled on the floor. The stomach was cut open. From the groin oozed a dark brownish liquid. Next to the body lay a torn red-and-white flag smeared with blood.

"Tari .... " Karma's voice disappeared in his throat. His body fell to the ground.