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Talking Story |
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From The Asian Reporter, V17, #33 (August 14, 2007), page 7.
Confusion, and his close cousin: anger
There is, under Allah’s great heavens, two Forces, only two, at work every day." Our shaman auntie, Elder Auntie Kris, used to say. And say and say and say.
Auntie Kris said a lot of things. Usually to herself. Like a bent old professor retired from his lecture hall. Usually un-understandable stuff. Always, folks tried to ignore her. Of course, because she talked in riddles. But just as certainly because Auntie Kris could say dangerous things. Like bad things, like about misfortune in your future. And any rice-picker’ll tell you: bad words not heard, are bad things less likely to happen.
Like sickness — shhh! Say nothing, it could happen.
Like your woman leaving — not a word! She’ll get ideas.
Like death — Ayaaah, you tempt fate. Fate leaning on a corner street sign post; fate listening for a name. Your name. Then knocking at your door, later tonight.
Words clobber, words kill. So we think we do best by not heading words. Give them no gravity.
Still, Auntie Kris talked and talked. And because I loved her, and stayed near her, all those words seeped in while I played with my wooden top and my precious glass marbles under the protection of Auntie’s slight shadow.
"Two Grrreat Forces, Joh. Two, are at work every day. Everywhere."
"Ya, Tante Kris," I’d say. I had to say. To be polite and all, every so often. The way you do when elders’re speaking. But really, I was absorbed by my red djarum top spinning perfectly, spinning silently, spinning as if he would spin forever.
"Not bad, not good, these Forces," she’d go on, satisfied with her single pupil. "Just so, they are. Like breathing in then emptying out; like bright day and dark night; like babies born and grandpas passing. Each opposite Force necessary to keep our universe in balance.
"Not always been so, Joh," she’d pak-pak-pak my knee with her slender bamboo stick. "No, not always."
"Tidak, Auntie?" I’d say. I’d have to say. My top started to slow, started to wobble.
"No. Not until Hindus came to our papu’a. Our island home. Lord Shiva and Lord Vishnu together in their tall-tall ship. Taking turns sailing by day and by night.
"It was 1,000 years ago. It was a time of terrible disorder. Great sultans, each commanding grand armies of our boys and men, grew arrogant with their power. They destroyed families, their own subjects’ families and their rivals too, by feeding all those boys and men into their angry armies. And they wasted our precious island, our rice and water and forests, to feed their forces or to deny their enemies use of what Allah entrusted to all of us, since that early-early morning when He packed his special sampan and sailed leisurely away, a 1,000 years before that.
"So they came. Lord Shiva, the Destroyer. And Lord Vishnu, the Dreamer. So they stepped off their boat onto the white sand of Djakarta Bay. And Shiva quickly killed those kings. Efficient as a Chinese kitchen boy. Then Lord Vishnu dreamed us all anew. Elegant as a Bali village girl." Then shaman auntie stopped. Stopped her story. Cold.
And in our silence, her in deep thought, me in mild panic (had she asked me a big question, like my school teacher always did while I gazed out our window, thinking about my new tiger-eye marble?) — my wooden top went to wobbling badly, slowing dangerously, showing all his dents and scrapes. No longer a wonder to behold.
"Silah’kan, Auntie?" If you please? I said real fast, I said real polite, praying she wouldn’t crack her stick over my coconut head. For me not listening. For my disrespect.
But it was too late. I had not listened. I had not learned. For not listening, for not learning, sorrow would surely stalk me. Me and every other brown boy not paying attention when our nonyas talked to us.
Now I am big. And my heart is bruised. Many bones twisted, some snapped.
Now I know that Auntie Kris was not worrying about pain, about loss. Those occur naturally, in pairs, great joy assures intense suffering. Big love brings big betrayal. Lords Vishnu and Shiva arrive on the same boat.
What our shaman auntie was warning me about, what she wanted us to avoid, is the ravage of confusion. Loss happens. Dark follows day. Always. Accept these inevitabilities.
But ugly damage we do when we fight our disappointment. When we cannot accept Lord Shiva’s turn. He cannot be stopped. We can cut down and torch every elm and oak to keep the light of day or to keep cold winter at bay.
Our sultans send their ferocious fleets to tear up the next island east. Then the one after that. Great suffering grand kings and humble farmers, erudite scholars and stinky fishermen, cause to our tender souls, our precious families, our fragile islands — by our anger. Out of our confusion.
I gather up my favorite marbles. I pocket my little red top, its stretch of jute twine too. Worrying what lessons I still have to learn. Wishing I would listen better.