Yafqahu Qauli

Morning in Sleman, Yogyakarta, always arrives unhurried. A thin mist still hung on the slopes of Merapi as an old man swept mango leaves that had fallen overnight in his yard. The house was modest, its walls not high, its garden filled with sapodilla trees, jasmine, and several pots of orchids beginning to bloom. In a corner of the terrace, an old rattan chair faced the rice fields that were slowly turning into housing estates. No one passing by that morning would have guessed that the man holding the broom was once one of the most careful people in this country when it came to choosing words. He had been retired for almost eight years since leaving the central bank building. There were no more meeting rooms filled with inflation charts. No more press conferences broadcast live on television and awaited by investors. No more late-night calls from ministers, the president, or market players awaiting the next day’s decision. What remained was a simple routine: sweeping the yard, brewing tea, watering the flowers, and enjoying a morning he had almost never had time to feel before. That morning, a car stopped in front of the house. A young man got out, carrying a backpack that seemed too heavy for a weekend break. ‘Your grandson is home,’ the old man murmured with a smile. The young man kissed his grandfather’s hand, then entered the house without much talk. Soon, he was seated at the dining table with his laptop open, macroeconomics books scattered around, and a look of annoyance on his face. The old man watched from a distance. ‘Why the long face on a holiday?’ The young man sighed deeply, ‘It’s not a holiday, Grandfather. It’s an assignment.’ ‘What assignment? Macroeconomics, that is very heavy.’ The old man chuckled softly, ‘Your grandfather once studied macroeconomics too, but in my day there wasn’t this much reading.’ The young man turned the laptop screen towards his grandfather. ‘Here, Grandfather, I was told to read a central bank statement.’ The old man sipped his tea without saying a word. Then the young man said in an annoyed tone, ‘I really don’t understand.’ ‘What don’t you understand?’ ‘Why does the central bank always talk like this?’ He pointed at the screen. ‘The sentences are long, convoluted, going in circles. Why not just write it as it is? If you want to raise interest rates, just say you’re raising interest rates. If the economy is struggling, just say it’s struggling. If the rupiah is under pressure, just say it’s under pressure. Why use sentences that feel… unfinished?’ The old man did not answer immediately. He just took the teapot, poured warm tea into his grandson’s cup, then sat down slowly in front of him. It had been years since anyone had asked him about the central bank. He stared at the small garden in the front yard for quite a while before finally speaking softly, ‘Because, my boy, a central banker never speaks to just one person.’ The young man frowned, ‘What do you mean, Grandfather?’ The old man smiled. ‘Today, we will not study macroeconomics. We will study why a single sentence can be heard with eight different meanings.’ And for the first time since retiring, the old man reopened a lesson never taught in any lecture hall. A lesson on the heavy burden of carrying words. The old man took a blank sheet of paper from the desk drawer. With handwriting still neat, he wrote a short sentence: The central bank raised the interest rate by 25 basis points. Then he pushed the paper towards his grandson, ‘What do you think this sentence means?’ His grandson answered quickly, ‘Well… it means the interest rate went up.’ The old man shook his head slowly, ‘That is a student’s answer.’ ‘Then what is a central banker’s answer?’ ‘That sentence never just means the interest rate went up.’ The grandson looked confused. The old man pointed again at the sentence he had just written. ‘Let’s say this sentence is announced tomorrow morning. Who hears it first?’ ‘Well… everyone?’ the grandson replied. ‘No,’ said the grandfather. ‘The first to hear it is not everyone. The first to hear it is their own self-interest.’ He paused for a moment, then began to count. ‘A pensioner living off deposit interest will smile, because his income might increase. But a father who has just applied for a home loan will come home with a gloomy face because his instalments could become heavier. An entrepreneur who plans to build a factory next week starts reopening his investment calculation sheets, asking if the project is still feasible. In an office in Jakarta, an investment manager stares at his screen with slightly relieved eyes. He manages the pension funds of thousands of primary school teachers. Over the last three years, interest rates that were too low forced him to take greater risks than he should have. That morning, for the first time in a long while, his numbers began to speak better. He did not cheer; he just sighed. Because behind those numbers are elderly teachers who wait every month for their pension money.’