by Fairoz Ahmad
“Allah is beautiful and loves beauty. This is a beautiful keris. Look at the grains,” Tris Sastri said as he ran his thumb across the blade. “The pamor shines bright despite sleeping with rust for many days. I have rarely seen a blade that shines as bright as this. It is made with the help of angels.”
“Could you tell me its source, Pakdhe?”
“The grain running through this blade is smooth and carries a texture I would associate with keris made in Bali. The blade itself is short. A Sumatran blade, however, is long and thin, since its primary use is for attack. Yet, to determine the island from which the keris is made by looking only at its length and pamor is misleading for these characters also reflect the personal preferences of the maker. One must therefore look at the hilt, for the hilt reflects the society in which the keris maker lives. The great Empu of Bali, despite their prodigious talent, are unbelievers and spend generations trying to make the most realistic of hilts. They strive to be real. God forbid! Didn’t our beloved Prophet once said, ‘Those who make these pictures will be punished on the Day of Resurrection and it will be said to them, ‘Make alive what you have created’?”
Pak Guntur stared at the hilt and pointed out, “It is a Garuda.”
“A Garuda is neither man nor bird. This keris is made in Java. But the most beautiful part of this keris lies in its sheath. Look.”
Pak Guntur squinted his eyes as Tris Sastri moved the sheath sideways under the fire. As the light hit the sheath, he saw the eye of a tiger blinking at him. Tris Sastri added wistfully, “It is the blessing of the Empu who forged this keris to live in Parangtritis, for the trembalo tree only survives there, allowing him to make the most beautiful of sheaths. But who would have thought that by carving an instrument of beauty, he would arm another man with the tool to commit the ugliest of acts?”
Later that night, as Pak Guntur made his way home, droplets of rain began to fall. “Why is it that you always arrive at night but not in the day, when we need you most? You are so punctually and faithfully unreliable.”
7
Everyone called her Mbok-Ayu. But once, she was called Mlati, for on the night she was born, the jasmine in her garden began to bloom and her father had named her as such so that he could be forever reminded of the delicate sensuality of the flower each time he uttered her name.
Perhaps they started to cease using her name when she first began to stir the present and saw the future. And hence, they slowly erased her past, the smell of jasmine after the rain, the smooth curves of her lips, the memories of her as a child. Because the normality confuses them. And that was probably when she realised that a flower which had once bloomed will forever die.
And so, Pak Guntur, lying on his hammock that night, his mouth throbbing in pain and his eyes red from the strain, recalled the days of Mlati, the days when they first started saying, “It is incredible. By stirring the present, she sees the future.” And on some days, and this was long after her father had died, she would walk past the market and merchants would call out, “buy this” or “buy that” and she would say, “I have no money today.” And they would say, “Let us trade. What can you barter with?” And she would say, “The future. I can trade the future. For that piece of cloth.” But nobody wanted such a barter and so she walked away.
And as she walked into the past, Pak Guntur was gripping the sides of his hammock in the present. Tightly. Claws sharp as knives grated the inside of his left gums, slowly moving upwards to his inner temple, before making a swift and sudden slash at the back of his head. The jar of tamarind paste was long empty but did nothing right, except give the illusion of hope, which sometimes, was all that was needed. He stumbled into the kitchen and told his wife, “Make me that Dutch concoction.”
And the wife, who would have asked a hundred different questions, because it made her day, heard the tremble in her husband’s voice, and went pitter patter into the kitchen instead. “This will hurt,” she cautioned, as she handed him the small glass.
He poured the whole mixture in his mouth, dropped to the floor and thumped it several times with his fist and thumped it again for good measure. He felt the water scratch his gums with even deeper claws. He spit the water out and with it, that damned tooth. His wife would later say he had a smile on his face, but he would not believe her. He never knew how the tooth became dislodged, but he would always remember that mixture of blood, water, salt and pepper meshing into one congealed lump inside his mouth.
And like many others, he could only see the past, not the future. And in his past, his wife had said, “Let’s give Mr Meyers’ suggestion a chance.”
“It is a stupid idea,” he had replied, before going out to visit Tris Sastri.
8
The rain went about its affairs clumsily that week. After flooding the fields, it left the damage behind to cool the village, but succeeded only in exposing cracks in the roofs of huts. And when it went to entertain the children by creating awkward fountains of water by the banks of the river, angry mothers took out broomsticks to chase it away.
“What an incompetent job it has done,” Toha observed critically.
“Yes. We are, however, stuck with it,” Pranoto added with resignation.
Pak Guntur pulled from the wind a sliver of air, and rubbed it between his thumb and index finger. “The air has changed texture.” And bringing it closer to his nose, he said, “It smells of leaves, fruits and bark. Perhaps this is its usefulness—extracting the smells of the earth.”
“It should just stay away, if all it can do is extract smells,” said Toha.
“Extracting smells is useful. It is good that I do not smell sugarcane,” Pak Guntur replied.
“One day, that is what we will smell. Sugarcane. And they will make us buy our own sugar from them. I heard the Dutch have done this in other places,” Pranoto said.
“They have already started to teach us how to use our spices,” said Pak Guntur. And before giving them the chance to speak up, he turned to Toha, “Not everyone attended the slametan last night, Toha. Mbok-Ayu has never used blood to divine. If this is their concern, they have erred. It is unfortunate, for the feast would have brought the village together, in times of difficulties like this.”
“But at least your son was there,” Toha replied.
“Because he is my son.” When Pranoto left to refill their badek, Pak Guntur continued, “Toha, who would want to make sheaths from trembalo?”
“It is an expensive wood because under light, it twirls with a mixture of colours. It is a feature some will appreciate more than others. No one here has asked me to use trembalo before. It only grows in Parangtritis, and only in scarce amounts.”
“Pakdhe said it was not a typical keris. Its pamor shines brighter than others. He could have told me why, but he did not.”
“He is telling you to go to Parangtritis, Guntur. So, go.” Toha conjectured.
9
That night, he was sitting by the door when his son came up to him. “What are you doing, Pak?”
“Smoking. But if your mother asks, say that I am waiting for the carriage to arrive.”
“She will say that you can wait inside,” his son predicted, as he also lit a cigarette, fly swatter beside him.
“She knows that I don’t make any sense most of the time or most sense at any one time. You don’t need that anymore,” Pak Guntur said, pointing to the rolled-up newspaper.
“Why?”
“The wind is shifting. The flies will move with it. Do you remember what I asked you the other day?”
“They were false gods, Bapak. Our Prophet destroyed all the idols in Kaabah when he rode back to Mecca after his victory. Don’t you remember? They have all disappeared. Destroyed.”
“I don’t mean that, Sunir. There are other gods. They are still around, reminiscing about their glorious days in their faded temples and courts, wandering around with their hearts broken. Because gods don’t die, Sunir. They merely fade away.”
10
The last Empu of Parangtritis stayed in a leaking hut. He descended from a long line of master Empu, who traced their ancestry to the first Javanese master forger, the holy smith Ramadi, who made the first keris in the court of princes in the year 228 AD. This first keris, which had since been confiscated by the Dutch, had uneven curves, for they were forged by the strength of Ramadi’s thumbs as the molten iron solidified.
That evening, still wet from the rain, Pak Guntur greeted the Empu of Parangtritis, “My apologies for visiting you during this weather but I seek your wisdom in helping me with an extremely difficult task. Tris Satri advised that I seek you.”
“I know Tris Satri. We were both students of Ki Sendhang Warih of Kartasura, the great-great grandson of our revered Ki Supa of Majapahit. Your Pakdhe is a good person. Please send him my apologies for not visiting him for many years. I have not been well.” The Empu then poured a small glass of badek and offered it to Pak Guntur.
“Thank you, Mbah.”
“My son tells me I should not drink this anymore. Haram, he says, because it can make you drunk,” the Empu remarked as he drank from the glass heartily. “But you, you deserve at least a glass. It has been a long journey. How many days has it been?
“Four days, Mbah. It took longer because of the rain,” Pak Guntur explained as he gently pushed a bundle towards the Empu.
“Yes, the weather has been odd. I received word of the murder many weeks ago, from two dervishes who passed by Sindang Barang. Murder creates a deep stain in the human condition. It takes away what God has made sacred, replacing it with emptiness and grief.”
The Empu unwrapped the bundle and ran passed the uneven grooves of the blade with his forefinger, as if reliving the moments when he first forged the blade. “The person came to me asking for a keris that will bring him luck in high places. I remembered the fast I undertook before I commenced my work and the strength I asked from God to make the dagger a good companion for its master. But God has other plans for us. Sometimes we should not grasp what we cannot reach. When the pamor extracts the blood of an innocent person, the keris must be broken in half and abandoned. This you will do after you leave, because this is the most you can achieve,” instructed the Empu. Pak Guntur nodded although he was uncertain what the Empu meant.
“There are thirteen parts to this blade—pijetan, janggut, lambe gajah, telale gajah, janggut, peksi, ganja, aring, gereneng, sogokan, janur, luk and pocok. Each blade reflects the character of its owner. The commissioner of this keris seeks more the finite treasures of this world than the infinite treasures of the thereafter. I therefore made him an earthly keris, which is why the blade resembles a serpent in motion. For the hilt, I carved a Garuda so that it would keep the serpent in check.
“Air unites with earth,” observed Pak Guntur.
“And fire douses water. The Garuda comes to life in flames while the serpent sips in the moistness of the earth.”
“I admire your sheath the most,” revealed Pak Guntur.
“It is the luck of geography, not a testament of skill.”
“Pakdhe also admired your keris because the pamor shines bright. Brighter than any other keris. He said it was made with the help of angels.”
The Empu gave a low sigh and placed the dagger down. “Guntur, one hundred years ago, the sky was set on fire and a heavenly rock fell on earth. A tiny piece of this rock was offered to me by the person who commissioned this keris. Do you understand now why he will remain unpunished?”
Pak Guntur kept silent as he slowly digested the information. The Empu took the opportunity to emphasise, “We must always remember our position in society, Guntur. He escapes punishment in this world but not thereafter. Tris Sastri could have told you all this. He sent you to me so that I could tell you something more.” The Empu beckoned Pak Guntur to come closer and whispered the keris owner's name.
“Why?” Pak Guntur asked, in shock.
“We are not in a position to interpret evil. Just as we are never in a position to interpret good. What are you thinking of, Guntur?” the Empu asked.
“Gods don’t die, Mbah.” Pak Guntur muttered.
11
That Friday, it neither rained nor shined, for the moon ate up the sun. And during the darkness, people rushed to recite special prayers at the mosque and the local police barked orders to not stare at the sky unless you want to be blinded by the light.
“This has happened before, during my father’s time. I remember the stories they used to tell, of days that turned to nights,” Pak Guntur said to Toha.
“They used to tell many stories those days,” Toha reminisced.
“Do you remember the story of the rock, Toha? The rock that fell from the sky?” Pak Guntur asked.
“Yes. The meteor that fell here one hundred years ago. But no one has seen it since. It belongs to the royal court.”
Pak Guntur pulled the wooden bench closer to Toha, “You take a piece of that rock, Toha. Just a tiny piece. And you melt it with iron when you forge a keris. The keris will shine brighter under light. There is a metal in that rock which reacts with iron in this manner.”
“This means…” Toha began, gradually realising the implication of Pak Guntur’s words.
“It means that and nothing more,” Pak Guntur said decisively, closing the subject. “Toha, who is that young man?” Pak Guntur asked, discreetly pointing at one end of the warong.
“He is from Blitar. He said he wants to give a speech later today at the village. He came while you were away.”
“What does he want to speak about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Does Meyers know?”
“No.
“What is his name?”
“Soekarno.”
“An ordinary name.”
“Yes. An ordinary name. But I hear he makes very good speeches. The Dutch would know him by now. Guntur, about the keris…”
“We must know our place, Toha. That has never changed. But this, this world. I don’t understand much of it anymore. I thought as I grow older, I will understand it a bit more. I thought I will feel closer to God. That the questions I ask when I was younger will become clearer.”
“It is the madness of today, Pak Guntur,” Pranoto interrupted, bringing in more badek. “What about it?”
“It helps prepare us for the despair of tomorrow,” Pranoto finished.
12
It rained that night. But Pak Guntur could not smell anything.
The Day the Music Died
That Thursday was the day the music died. Those who woke up before dawn that day took their ablutions and stared at the minaret for the sign for prayers. But nothing came out from the muezzin’s mouth, except words abandoned by their rhythm and orphaned by their tunes. Someone eventually told him to stop, to please stop, because he was making a din so early in the morning. He retreated back to the mosque, while the rest went back to sleep. After all, it must all have been a dream.
When they rose again that morning, it dawned upon them that the music had indeed died. The radio played only static. Lovesick Malay men sitting at one corner strummed guitars but produced only dull thuds of dead air. The boy down the lane who liked to whistle only made haunting noises resembling wind squeezing past tight corners, causing a baby, maybe two, to cry; while the church bells faraway lost their majestic quality and clanged like rusty metal
. Hence, the rumour going around in the church that this death of music business was just a Muslim thing evaporated.
At noon, the people waited once more for the muezzin to call for prayers, thinking that the farce at dawn would be no more. Once again, nothing came out from his mouth except complicated Arabic words that scared them off. The exasperated man of God insisted that it was time for prayers, tuneless or not, but no one believed him. How could they, when his voice was toneless?
During tea time, the famous Muslim singer, who had made a fortune singing about Muslim things such as the importance of women covering up or else they will go to hell, about children not celebrating Halloween or else they too, will be thrown into hell, threw himself into the river. By now, the lack of music exhausted everyone. They only batted their eyes lazily and made feeble attempts to stop that famous Muslim singer from drowning. Even the river lost its will and splashed its water half-heartedly against the banks after the jump. In his mansion, a couple of interlopers found a wellstocked pornographic collection. They played one called ‘The Naked Veil’ but tiredness soon overcame them, because even in porn, the music died that day.
In the evening, the people got nostalgic. They reminisced about a time when they had music but squandered it all. A mini revolt took place at the ustazah’s house that evening. A group of old women who had been practicing the nasyid every Thursday with her for the past seven years could no longer sing any of the verses. They wailed and they cried, and continued in vain, till their throats went dry.
