following behind, mostly Margioâs friends who had been hunting boars on the mountain and gave no thought to their mud-smeared clothes. Margio was among them, right next to the coffin, scattering the flowers Mameh had picked along the way. Komar bin Syueb was to be buried at the Budi Darma public cemetery, accompanied by frangipani and champak, a furious little Marian waiting for him on the other side.
They left, and the house was quiet again, save for the slowly fading salawat chants. Mameh and Nuraeni were returned to silence. Nuraeni had come out of the kitchen, looking hungry and stiff, but there was no food, so she dragged herself past the living room, slouched onto the terrace and sat on the divan where Komar had been washed. She could see that most of her favorite flowers had vanished. Mameh followed her with her eyes, still carrying the image of her miserable mother from that terrible night, when Nuraeni was near dead on that trunk, lying beneath her husband, groaning like a cow with its throat cut. Suddenly a thought came. Mameh walked over to her, and spoke in a sharp voice.
âYou should remarry, mother.â
Nuraeni came to her senses and slapped her daughter hard. Mamehâs cheek was hot and stinging.
Three
They moved to House 131 when Margio was seven, a trip he would later refer to as the Cow Family Joyride. It was a dramatic three-hour journey to a place Komar repeatedly called âour own house,â passing along coral-paved paths that turned into swamps for the water buffaloes, which the family had to cross like the Jews at the parting of the Red Sea, a story Ma Soma would occasionally relate in the surau after teaching the Koran.
The family rode in a cart pulled by a pair of fat cows, borrowed at no cost from the owner of the rice mill. A truck was beyond their means. The man sat upfront, one hand dandling the reins ineffectively, the other energetically brandishing a whip to which the cows paid no heed. Beside him sat Nuraeni with little Mameh on her lap. Her head covered by a dark green veil with a silver floral motif, she tried to reassure her children as they whined about their relocation. Margio sat on the rolled-up mattresses, trying to keep their pan and buckets from falling off, despairing when a bump in the road threw their belongings to the ground. Margio would then have to get down to pick them up while the cart trundled on. Then heâd run after the cart, throw in the fallen objects, and leap back up, either to sit or lie down to watch the birds above.
There was actually a shortcut in the form of a wide asphalt road that hugged the coastline, much used by buses and trucks, but Komar bin Syueb worried about how the cows would react to the traffic. Instead, he pursued a meandering route, crossing hills, cutting through rice fields, passing through villages with rows of houses shaded by clumps of bamboo, the women out drying rice in the yards and the men collecting firewood. In every village people would stop working to stare in awe at the joyride, causing Nuraeni to sink deeper behind her veil, although Komar bin Syueb was unabashed. He said his hellos, and whenever someone asked where they were moving to, he would unhesitatingly reveal their destination.
Margio couldnât care less about the barefoot, half-naked children staring at them from the roadside. He was too busy reading his Mahabharata trading cards, chewing over which one was Arjuna and which Karna, and desperately trying to tell the twins Nakula and Sadewa apart. He was only disturbed when a poorly tethered teapot or bag of clothing sprang out as the wheels hit a fallen branch or a rock the size of someoneâs head. He did resent having to leave his previous home, losing the friends he traded cards and marbles with, who flew kites and went hunting for crickets with him. There was no guarantee that in the new place he would find anyone half as good.
Their home had stood at the intersection of two
They left, and the house was quiet again, save for the slowly fading salawat chants. Mameh and Nuraeni were returned to silence. Nuraeni had come out of the kitchen, looking hungry and stiff, but there was no food, so she dragged herself past the living room, slouched onto the terrace and sat on the divan where Komar had been washed. She could see that most of her favorite flowers had vanished. Mameh followed her with her eyes, still carrying the image of her miserable mother from that terrible night, when Nuraeni was near dead on that trunk, lying beneath her husband, groaning like a cow with its throat cut. Suddenly a thought came. Mameh walked over to her, and spoke in a sharp voice.
âYou should remarry, mother.â
Nuraeni came to her senses and slapped her daughter hard. Mamehâs cheek was hot and stinging.
Three
They moved to House 131 when Margio was seven, a trip he would later refer to as the Cow Family Joyride. It was a dramatic three-hour journey to a place Komar repeatedly called âour own house,â passing along coral-paved paths that turned into swamps for the water buffaloes, which the family had to cross like the Jews at the parting of the Red Sea, a story Ma Soma would occasionally relate in the surau after teaching the Koran.
The family rode in a cart pulled by a pair of fat cows, borrowed at no cost from the owner of the rice mill. A truck was beyond their means. The man sat upfront, one hand dandling the reins ineffectively, the other energetically brandishing a whip to which the cows paid no heed. Beside him sat Nuraeni with little Mameh on her lap. Her head covered by a dark green veil with a silver floral motif, she tried to reassure her children as they whined about their relocation. Margio sat on the rolled-up mattresses, trying to keep their pan and buckets from falling off, despairing when a bump in the road threw their belongings to the ground. Margio would then have to get down to pick them up while the cart trundled on. Then heâd run after the cart, throw in the fallen objects, and leap back up, either to sit or lie down to watch the birds above.
There was actually a shortcut in the form of a wide asphalt road that hugged the coastline, much used by buses and trucks, but Komar bin Syueb worried about how the cows would react to the traffic. Instead, he pursued a meandering route, crossing hills, cutting through rice fields, passing through villages with rows of houses shaded by clumps of bamboo, the women out drying rice in the yards and the men collecting firewood. In every village people would stop working to stare in awe at the joyride, causing Nuraeni to sink deeper behind her veil, although Komar bin Syueb was unabashed. He said his hellos, and whenever someone asked where they were moving to, he would unhesitatingly reveal their destination.
Margio couldnât care less about the barefoot, half-naked children staring at them from the roadside. He was too busy reading his Mahabharata trading cards, chewing over which one was Arjuna and which Karna, and desperately trying to tell the twins Nakula and Sadewa apart. He was only disturbed when a poorly tethered teapot or bag of clothing sprang out as the wheels hit a fallen branch or a rock the size of someoneâs head. He did resent having to leave his previous home, losing the friends he traded cards and marbles with, who flew kites and went hunting for crickets with him. There was no guarantee that in the new place he would find anyone half as good.
Their home had stood at the intersection of two
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