by Fanny J. Poyk
I opened my mother's antique dresser. I noticed a pile of batik cloth neatly arranged on a shelf in the closet. My eyes were fixed on the dark brown batik cloth with a little color fading. I do not know whether or not it's batik. I also do not understand where it comes batik cloth.
I pulled it from the pile of batik cloth batik others carefully. However, before the fabric was actually out of the group, shouting rude sounding.
"Do not grab the fabric. Save it back in its place! "Helen's voice sounded loud and full of emotion.
I was stunned. After more than ten years, I heard again recently bentakkannya. This is the second time I yelled like that. Mother was furious when I got home benighted ushered Dedy, son Mr. Headman classmates.
"Remember, you do not ever again the way with the child. Mother did not like! "He said fiercely.
"Why, Mom? Dedy, is not well-intentioned. Anyway it was night. "
"Already, many do not ask. Anyway she does not like you to go home with him! "
I got confused with the ban. The reason is very conventional, I thought. Nevertheless, I tried to understand, maybe she was afraid, because at that time I was a teenager. Since then I never ask male friends who mengantaku home, up in front of the house. They are quite take to the end of my alley.
But this time, it made me curious screaming. Why mother is so curt and emotion. Female patient that tenderhearted, already a month lying in bed caused by diabetes.
"Mom, other fabrics are still that good, unfortunately if used bed linen. This fabric is a bit worn, some sections there are torn ... "
"You are, are Mom says keep the fabric in place, I still remained obdurate. Quick, back to the closet! "He barked.
"Yes, yes, I put it back!" Bandwagon I'm upset. I closed the closet door with a bang.
After bathing and gave him bread, I rushed out of the room. I was really disappointed. Because it's dull batik cloth, had early contact with the spray. I picked up his briefcase and put a tape recorder and tustel 16 mega pixelku into the bag. Today I will be interviewing a businessman orchids in South Jakarta area. I would meet him after the lunch hour.
As an editor at a magazine ornamental plants and the environment, my duty double. I could be an editor, journalist, and photographer. Properly, I do not need to go to the field, just done my boys. But I never could stand sitting behind a desk all day.
"Praaang!" Sudden sound of broken glass from the room mother. The sound was very loud. Then followed a long tirade filled with emotion.
"You're just the same as Diah. Mother has repeatedly told me not to take the cloth. But still stubborn! "
"But Mom, it's been ugly fabric, the others are still good!" Nina's voice, sounding hoarse brother-in-law.
"There, you outwards. Out! "
Nina out of the mother's room with bloodshot eyes filled with tears. A few minutes after that, appearing Doni and straight into the mother's room. A quiet morning, enlivened by the sound of blaring Doni. He saw his wife crying inflamed Mom yelled.
"Mom what the hell? Only because this batik fabric battered mother yelling my wife. What the heck is the problem? Why do you behave so? You know, a month-long illness, Nina, I, and Ms. Diah keep rotating. We took turns staying up, now, why are you being like this? Why just because these batik cloth mother being rude? If indeed this kucal batik cloth, making her grumpy, from now this thing should not be here anymore! "
Doni batik cloth tore it into pieces. Then throw it in the garbage in the corner of the room. After that, it's my brother, to the outside of the room mother. Then, I was greatly saddened to hear the cries of the room. I undo my intention to leave immediately. Slowly, I walked into Mom's room. There, I saw my mother was trying to get up to take scraps of batik cloth in the trash basket. Tears still floating in his cheek. I was stunned!
Throughout the interview centered on Mother's mind. What's behind the batik cloth? Is there a cloth mat that keeps a story that made you so angry? I'm trying to dig up any memories associated with the batik cloth. All the same. All do not have a special story ever told mom. Since I was a child, to an adult, never once mentioned my mother diverse stories of batik fabrics in his closet. I understand she is only paying attention to all the batik fabric collection on certain days, such as approaching the Feast of Eid for example. The entire collection of batik cloth removed from the cabinet. Folded over and given a jasmine-scented deodorizer.
I never asked, whether the mother intends to sell the entire collection of batik? Because, after my father died, my mother no longer dress up as perfect as the father is still there. Sesehari he was only wearing a negligee. If invited to the streets, mothers just wearing cotton pants and a simple shirt. I suggested that the batik fabrics sold to boutiques that I knew. But the mother refused.
"When I'm not there, just enter the batik fabrics in my coffin. Not be given or sold to anyone, "he said.
"Well, so what? Honey, you know, would go into the grave. Than in eating termites, mending distributed to other people, it is more useful, "I said teasing mother. There is no response. Since then, I no longer wanted to bring up the matter of batik.
But this time, the problem was different. I feel there is a faint thread of batik fabric is being torn Doni with a mother's life journey. Mother's tears floating in her cheeks full of meaning. Not the right reason when she just said it was just a regular batik cloth. If the mother to tell the fabric was put into his grave when he died later, of course, there are interesting stories that were covered. She must keep a secret, I thought.
That day, after completing my chores, I immediately went to Bandung. I will see Om Dada mother's youngest sister. At least, Om Dada know what's behind a collection of batik fabrics brother. Particularly dark brown batik fabric whose color has faded. I should know. Must! If not, I will be haunted by a lifetime of curiosity. Had Om Dada also shut up, all the people in the village my mother would ask. At the very least, of the people who kuinvestigasi, there are stories that "connect" with the mysterious batik cloth.
Kutumpangi bus drove at moderate speed. Malay songs are played on the TV screen right on the left side of the bus driver's head, lilting accompaniment memulintir diverse thoughts fill my head. Bustami Iyet melodious voice with the song in the Sea King was not making me comforted. Batik cloth torn Doni sister and mother tears still made an impression. I was dizzy, I was struck by the bus conductor when my wake.
"Neng, had reached terminal Leuwi Long, a bus going back again to Jakarta!" Admonished kenek surprised me.
Om Dada arrived home, I was greeted by a surprised stare him and his wife. Not usually super busy girl like me, came suddenly to her home village.
"What Diah? How khabar mother? "Om Dada asked anxiously. He had heard that my mother sadly past few months.
"Mom is still sick. Diabetes was getting worse. Now he is being treated at home. We hired a nun who monitor their health every day. "
"Hm ... what should Om Jakarta to accompany your mother?"
"Oh do not bother, Om. So far, everything can still be overcome. There Kak Nina who also care for my mother when work. Anyway, we work together to look after each other. "
Om Dada nodded. I know, behind a face full of signs that she said, she wanted to ask the purpose of my coming suddenly into his home. So, before Om Dada looks more confused, I immediately expressed my intention.
"Om definitely know why she was so angry at me and Kak Nina took a batik cloth faded it out of the closet. I am not a kid anymore, Om. Om least can tell what's behind the batik cloth. If I do not get an explanation, I'd be curious lifetime. Om Please, tell me. After this, I will go back to Jakarta! "
Om Dada looked at me doubtfully. There is a feeling not willingly in his face. He drew a deep breath. Then, as he breathed slowly, he said, "Eventually, all will be revealed as well."
"I mean, Uncle?"
"Well that's a life story. But do not blame your mother. He has lived with the play of pain, struggle and suffering. Almost all his life he had struggled with his feelings, verbal abuse, and grief nestapanya. Diah, batik cloth that was worn silent witness mother spends his days are gray. "
I looked at Dada Om sharp. Pounding heartbeat, "Om, proceeded on the subject, do not spin. Suffering and sorrow-sorrow what she had experienced? "
Om Dada back a sigh. "Since my grandfather and grandmother died, Ibumulah are the backbone of our. At that time, he worked in a family of Dutch landlord rich. Your mother was a maid as well as caregivers of children's landlords. Once a week he came home. If the home he always brought rice, canned food, money and other necessities for us. Imagine, in the age of just sixteen years old, a mother is the breadwinner for the four younger siblings. Until one day, your mom did not come-come to the house. We confusion, I was crying from hunger. Then with determination, Om ndang uncle went to the house the landlord, "Om Dada bleary eyes.
"What happened to Mom, Uncle?"
"Om ndang home with a gloomy face. At first he did not want the story to us. But Tea Imas, aunt, kept insisting Om ndang to the story. He was constantly crying forced Om ndang talk. Finally Om ndang wailing. We cried together. "
"Why, why did the mother, Om?"
"Yes, she is pregnant. When abortion was nine months old, he returned home. However, villagers protest greeted his arrival. Mother evicted by the village head. Our village is very agamais village. Mother deed is pregnant out of wedlock, an unforgivable disgrace. Old is pregnant, she went to Jakarta. We do not know where he went. Two months later he was back in a state of flat stomach. "
"The child was brought into the house quietly. Mothers fear angry villagers. He was wrapped in batik cloth that you took from the closet mom. A month after his return, the baby died. He suffered pneumia and malnutrition. "
I was silent. My mind is messed up.
"Om, who impregnates mother? Why men do not marry her? "
"The child was blue-eyed, fair-skinned and employers alike with your mother."
"Why do not you sue the employer?"
Om Dada laughed bitterly. "Diah, Diah ... we have no power? Eating was difficult. Anyway, we were orphans. You should be thankful your mother's husband is not accused of seizing people. When he knew she was pregnant, his wife evict the mother of the house. The baby was probably aware of the unwanted presence in this world, so that it goes so fast. I believe your mother a good person. He was not a bad girl who loves to annoy the husband. If he does not think of us, he probably would have run away from the house. Diah, sacrificing himself for the sake of our mother. When he went in the pregnant state, we do not know what happened to him. Maybe he suffered hunger, pain, or disrepute. He deliberately did not want to tell us. Your mother bore her suffering alone. "
"After that, what do you?"
"He worked as a laborer in the tea plantations. Almost all of the wages given to us. There he met the father. They married a year later. "
"I know all the story of Mother?"
"Yes. And you know what happens next to your mother, do not you? "
Kuanggukkan head. Kerongonganku dry. Shadow of the past when the father is alive again revealed. I shudder to remember how my father treated my mother. Almost every day I see my father cursing and issuing harsh words to him. I never fight when he cursed, reviled and despised father. My poor mother was just silent and still. I often saw her crying alone in her room.
Mother ... I shed tears. Fog indelible black bear and accompanies him wherever he is. Even so husbands also spot treat with the rest of his life is not fair. In fact, his mother is not a woman who just stand idly by expecting a gift from her husband. He also made a living by being a cook, porters wash, to make cakes. All the results are used to help her husband and her children.
"Poor mother. He bore it all alone. I'm sad, I'm disappointed Om. Why do not you want to tell all that happened to us. Why is she on her own? The batik fabric, batik fabric that ... ah ... no wonder he was asked to put it to the grave when the dead. "
"That was your mother. Now, go home. Take care of him properly. Follow what he asked, because now that's all you can give, "message Om Dada.
On the bus that took me to Jakarta, my mind wandered. Now the common thread that has been revealed. Suddenly I remembered when I was nine years old, she asked me to clean the small tomb located right next to the tomb of the father.
"Tomb of who it is, Mom," I asked at the time.
"Son, someday you will know who is buried here." Helen's voice sounded sad. It could be the tomb, the tomb of my brother.
I shrunk my tears. Memories of when I wake up in the morning to accompany the mother to make fried banana, banana cake, cake trays, and coffè still made an impression. Simple greeting mother, that as long as we humans have become useless, kept ringing in my mind. That day, I was in a hurry to get home. I want to kneel and beg forgiveness for all the mistakes.
And my tears never stopped flowing when I saw the reality. Mother lay cold in her bed. Her eyes closed tightly. I called many times women who have given birth name me that. But it's mighty woman remained silent. He went with an old wound in the piece of batik cloth worn that kept stored in his closet.
"In addition to cloth, also save the mother," Nina showed me a piece of paper rather thick.
"This looks like an insurance policy, Sis." He continued.
I was shaking. True. The policy paper Bumiputera Life Insurance 1912. In a life insurance policy worth hundreds of millions of dollars that my name and my brother's name as ahi heir Doni. I limp, I fall on the side of his body are stretched stiff.
"Ibuuuuuuuu ... Ibuuuu ...." Ratapku. But she could never hear my voice again. Never will!