Our life was beautiful back then, more beautiful than the aurora above the Amazon wilderness or the sunrise I often saw on my way home from the mosque after dawn prayer and congregational religious study. We had wonderful dreams for the future as we built the small family so many people hoped and yearned for. Just as Emak embroidered wool onto the squares of her embroidery canvas, perfecting an artistic, enchanting mosaic a little at a time, so did our steps remain steady as we made our way through each passing day.
Our family could be called harmonious and comfortable. Comfortable in every way, as we liked to say. We had enough clothing, food, and shelter. There were three children, a number Muslims in our area commonly called the Prophet's tradition. As I grew older, I came to understand why my parents so often described our family with words once spoken by the Prophet: my home is my paradise. Because beneath the tiled roof of this house, we felt a million dreams and a million kinds of love. There was an unbroken bond of affection between us. Many experts and scholars have expressed the opinion that families are the measure of whether a country advances or declines. After all, isn't a family a miniature version of a country? To understand a great nation, all you have to do is look at what its families are like. If too many of them are disorderly, the country will be like a tangled skein of thread, with problems everywhere. The opposite is true as well: healthy families reflect a strong nation. That was why my parents guarded our family like priceless treasure. We, their children, learned so much from them, and had every reason to be proud, because they had become the greatest heroes of our lives. Counting all they had done for us was as difficult as counting the air we breathed every moment.
No one could ever replace them. Not ever. We loved being with them, sitting side by side, joking and laughing together. And so many other things we would one day miss terribly. So terribly. Because in the years to come, those things would be difficult for us to have again. More difficult than finding money or even gold and precious stones. If only that day could happen again, just once…
All right. I'll tell you how it began.
Ayah's work was very much a villager's work: farming and selling goods. If he wasn't wallowing in the mud of his rice fields, he was standing under the blazing sun selling fruit at the Karang Ampel market, a grimy, stifling, foul-smelling, noisy place all day long. He had a sturdy build like Samson's, since he trained his muscles every day by lifting basket after basket of fruit or hoeing his vast rice fields. He was the kind of hard worker who knew no limits, battling all day in the field of labor. He left to sell goods just before dawn, at three-thirty in the morning, before we, his children, had even awakened from our dreams. I almost never found him there when I woke up, and we rarely had time to eat breakfast together except on certain days. Alhamdulillah, through his hard work, Ayah was able to buy several plots of rice fields and land, and build a house.
He leased some of his rice fields to other people, splitting the proceeds evenly. He tended the smaller portion himself, to fill his free time when he had a break from selling goods. As a result, our family income was fairly abundant, and we lived comfortably. Ayah usually came home in the late afternoon, just minutes before the call to Maghrib prayer. As darkness began to fall, the atmosphere in our home became something beautiful to remember. That was when the family was finally complete and we could gather together, even if only to eat dinner or watch a soap opera. My siblings and I would talk at length about everything we had done that day, breaking into open laughter whenever something funny came up. Sometimes Ayah even advised me through stories Emak had told him.
“Galih, stop making your Emak upset! Do you want to be cursed like Malin Kundang?”
I fell silent and lowered my head. Even though it was only a folktale, it was enough to frighten me.
“Emak” was our beloved name for our mother, a master storyteller whose tales we had heard since we were very young. We didn't merely know them—we, her children, had memorized many stories, legends, and Malay tales, such as the story of Malin Kundang, who was cursed and turned to stone. Besides that, Emak was a stay-at-home mother who spent most of her time at home with us. She knew little about Ayah's work and was rarely involved in it. So there was no doubt that Emak had a far greater influence on our personalities than Ayah did. To tell the story of my mother, I would need page after page, which I will discuss later.
That morning, the house was quiet. Near the low window in the living room, Emak sat lost in thought by herself. The elongated shape of her face betrayed an unease she had not managed to express to anyone. Her eyes gazed out the window, far into the distance, passing over the green gardens and rice fields and piercing the cotton-white cumulus clouds drifting high above. She probably didn't hear the noisy chirping of bulbuls and other birds on the water-apple branches at all. Her mind was troubled by memories of what had happened the previous afternoon.
“Tomorrow, there's something I want to give you.”
“What is it?”
The loving man smiled sweetly. It was his familiar smile, one she had seen thousands of times by now.
“Something you'll never forget…”
That was all he said. Then he walked away and disappeared behind the door.
That brief exchange with her husband after he returned from selling goods was still fresh in her memory. It kept dancing through her mind. Her husband really was good at giving surprises. He was a romantic sort of man. For example, several times, without warning, he had invited Emak out while she was cooking or washing clothes. She secretly loved moments like that. They were unique, different, and memorable.
And, honestly, she was waiting to see what surprise he had planned this time. His words—“you'll never forget it”—convinced her that this occasion was especially important. Her curiosity surged like a high tide beneath a full moon. Just trying to guess what it was had kept her awake almost the entire night.
She thought her husband would reveal the highly secret “surprise” that evening. Her chest kept pounding like that of a job applicant about to be interviewed. She was dying to know. But in the middle of the night, her husband suddenly developed a high fever, occasionally grimacing as though from cold or pain. Only a short while earlier, he had looked healthy and full of energy. There had been no sign of a fever at all.
The loving man's jokes and laughter at the dinner table just hours earlier still felt so vivid. So did his cheerful face, lacking nothing. And now, this morning, instead of being amid the bustle of the market, earning a living and negotiating with buyers and customers, her husband was still curled up beneath the blankets on the bed. He was powerless against the illness that had forced him to take the day off. Every so often, his sturdy, dark body shivered. Soft moans followed, almost whispers, though she couldn't make out what he was saying. Emak worried that her husband's illness might grow worse. That was the anxiety churning in her chest: the surprise, and her husband's fever that had not yet broken.
This time, she took a sip of the warm tea she had made. She lifted her head again. Ultraviolet light fell across part of her body, casting a silhouette behind her shoulder.
I hope he gets well soon. Maybe it's just from working too hard yesterday, she thought.
More than anything, she wanted to drive away the worry weighing on her. A gentle breeze slipped through the gaps in the window, caressing her skin and carrying her thoughts far away, reminding her once more of the previous night's conversation with her husband.
“Minah, Akang would be jealous if someday you belonged to someone else.”
For the next few seconds, they sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
The shy woman heard words unlike any he had spoken before. Jealous. Ah, it was the first time the man she loved so dearly had ever said that word. Since when did a villager know how to say something like that? He must be joking.
“Have I ever made you jealous, Akang…?”
Silence. Her husband answered her question only with a smile. After all, his wife had always been faithful and had never once been unfaithful.
“But will you promise me something, Minah?”
“What should I promise?”
“That you won't betray me?”
“Akang, why would you say that?” Her brow furrowed until her eyebrows met. Her husband never usually spoke like this, with the probing manner of a detective.
Did I do something wrong? she asked herself.
“I'm afraid someone will take you away from me. But hopefully that will never happen.”
Her face suddenly flushed red. She was offended.
“Have I ever cheated on you, Akang?”
Again, her husband smiled, even more broadly, gazing intently at the woman before him who had been his wife for more than a decade. An immense flash of love shone behind his brown eyes, traveling swiftly with his gaze and instantly soothing her heart.
“You're not like that. You're an extraordinary woman to me. That's why I love you so much. To be honest, Akang is afraid of losing you…”
“But why are you talking like this?”
“I just wanted to say it. I don't know why.”
That had been their last conversation before bed the previous night, before her husband was struck by the fever that left behind a great question mark. But she didn't want to dwell on it. Maybe this was simply how her husband expressed his love.
She took another sip of the warm tea. Its aroma, taste, and warmth flowing into her body slowly calmed the turmoil within her. Then she let out a long breath, as if releasing the burden in her mind. Like morning gradually giving way to afternoon, her worry slowly faded.
Her gaze remained distant, reaching far beyond the boundaries of time.
All this time, she had felt that she was living a beautiful life with her husband. Even without a surprise, it was already more than enough, she thought. Quietly, happiness slipped into her heart. It burst like a grenade, driving away the unease that had tormented her since morning.
Why should she be disappointed that she still hadn't received the surprise by today?
I don't need to be disappointed. Isn't living with him the most beautiful gift of all?
And yet, suddenly, the unease returned from another direction. She was afraid that someday the loving man she knew might betray her love. Perhaps he would grow tired of living with her and divorce her. Or perhaps there might be some other reason she had never even considered.
It could happen. There was plenty of evidence of husbands divorcing their wives after falling for other women who were, of course, more beautiful. Or over some trivial reason that nevertheless managed to crack the foundation of a marriage the two of them had built over so many years. There were countless other incidents that could sever the sacred bond between a wife and husband.
I hope not! she thought.
Creeeak!! Creakkkk!!!
The groan of the door was like a great wave crashing against the reef of her imagination. It shattered into pieces. She suddenly awoke from her reverie and turned toward the sound. Her husband appeared from inside the bedroom, wearing a sarong and a loose white T-shirt. Despite his pale face, a smile curved across it. The sweet smile she had known for more than a decade. The smile of a loving man who had sacrificed so much for her. His brief, sincere smile shook her heart, always strengthening her resolve and fortifying her determination to face a bright future. Before she realized it, her lips moved into a smile of their own, returning his.
“Akang, you're awake. Where are you going?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Do you need help?”
“No, thank you.”
“Should I make you some tea?”
He nodded.
Without another word, she rose from her chair and hurried down the hallway toward the back of the house.
The clock on the wall read 10:13…
Her youngest child, still a toddler, suddenly began crying for no reason. She knew it was disturbing her sick husband. She quickly carried the child outside. Perhaps the child wanted a snack, or a change of scenery and some fresh air. But lately, her youngest had often begun crying suddenly in the middle of the night, waking her just after she had fallen asleep. It wasn't because of wet clothes, hunger, or pain. She had no idea why. Then she remembered that there were some ingredients she had not bought for lunch. That meant she needed to hurry to the vegetable stall, which was quite far from her home.
On the way there and even after they arrived, the youngest child's crying only grew worse. She gave the child a snack, but it was thrown away. She carried the child, but the little one kept struggling, as if asking for something she couldn't understand.
She was overwhelmed. Several friends and neighbors tried to help, but nothing eased her son's hysterical crying.
After shopping, she immediately headed home. The sun had climbed higher in the sky. Its heat was stinging. Perhaps it was because greenhouse gases were thinning the ozone layer. The noise was deafening.
The living-room clock read 10:55.
The house was still quiet. Empty. Only the youngest child's crying had eased slightly. She knew her first and second children would soon be home from school. The tea she had left on the table before leaving was still untouched, exactly as she had left it.
“Akang…” she called as she sat down in the living-room chair.
Silence. No answer came from the bedroom.
Is my husband asleep again? She hurried to the bedroom to make sure.
The man was lying on the bed in his prayer clothes: a sarong and a long-sleeved white shirt. A smile curved across his face. So sweet.
“Akang… Akang… wake up!” she cried, gently shaking her husband's body with her right hand. Her other hand struggled to keep hold of her child, who continued to whine.
The man remained asleep. But this was not normal. Her skin felt the coldness and stiffness of his sturdy, dark body. Suddenly, a terrible premonition struck her with tremendous force.
“Akang, wake up! Wake up!!” Her voice rose.
She panicked.
It was as if a whip had struck her, lashing her with brutal force. Her heart suddenly began pounding, racing like a marathon runner. She jerked in shock because the smiling man remained utterly silent, still sleeping soundly. Perhaps forever.
“Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed to Him we shall return!”
Suddenly, her chest tightened. Her head spun. Her vision blurred and filled with spots. Her strength drained away. Collapsed. Everything around her turned hazy.
Then black. Dark. At the same time, her body went completely limp, and her legs could no longer support her. She collapsed with her child, who continued crying hysterically. And everything became pitch-black.***