Chapter 6: Getting Circumcised

In my village at that time, kids were circumcised only after the age of ten, never at a younger age. I myself was twelve years old; my older first cousin, Maskur, was fourteen when he was circumcised with me.

For us boys, circumcision was an important event in our lives, one which left traces in our souls. For, at that time we began to be aware that we differed from girls, and we began to become bashful and respectful around women.

Our hearts pounded, embarrassed and scared: if say, all of it got cut off, surely we'd die. Maskur was even more scared than this—he actually ran away. Only after he was threatened with a rattan switch did he come home. If his parents would have allowed it, he would rather not have been circumcised at all. But his elders always frightened him, saying, "If you're not circumcised, you aren't a Muslim, because circumcision is one of the stipulations of Islam. Do you want to be an infidel?"

He obeyed. After all, didn't he fear being viewed as an infidel?

Usually we'd be circumcised during vacation, in the Fasting Month [Ramadan, a month of fasting from dawn till dark] when we didn't have to go to school. Mother put on a small religious meal, sacrificing two chickens to serve the circumciser and several santris (religious adepts). By early morning Mother had already gone to market—to the Thursday Market—to shop. All day long she had been at home cooking.

In the afternoon, at four, the circumciser arrived from Gunung Radja. His scalpel was renowned and his knife was very sharp. Three days before, Dad had summoned him. From the noon prayertime, Mother had told us to go soak in the water tub so our skin would get soft and easily cut. Upon seeing the circumciser arrive with a bag full of instruments, our hearts pounded even harder, Maskur's face went pale, and his knees shook. I made an effort at smiling, but actually my heart tightened with fear.

Mother told us to get right out of the tub and put on sarongs. We weren't allowed to wear trousers. Several of our friends watched the scene from the yard.

"Well, you know, I'm afraid maybe he'll die," said a friend who had already been circumcised, to those standing beside him.

"Maybe so," said his friend, "and, you know, I'm surprised: Why haven't graves been readied for both of them?"

We were walking by them and shrunk back in fear, even though we knew they just intended to tease and frighten us.

The circumciser was waiting at the surau along with Father and two of his students, who were going to hold us down firmly, just in case we revolted and put up a fight. The others out in the courtyard weren't allowed up into the surau because we'd be embarrassed if lots of people were standing around watching. I was told to sit on a box with my legs akimbo, while on the floor in front of me was the tray filled with ash from the kitchen hearth, to catch the blood. My sarong was rolled up; one of the two students held my hands from the back while the other one held my feet and I couldn't move anymore. The circumciser knelt down in front of me reading mantras out loud, and took out his tweezers and knife. My body trembled.

Then I was told to look outside the window at the top of the jambak tree. I had just begun to pay attention to a jambak tree whose fruits were red and ripe up near its top, when I felt a smarting sensation, and in the wink of an eye the job was done. Really skillful! Blood dripped into the ash and the part of my body that had been thrown away got buffed in the ash. The pain wasn't so bad since I had been soaking for so long.

Right away I was put onto a mattress that had been made ready, in a corner of a small room in the surau. In the corner there was another one for Maskur. On top of the mattress was also some ash, placed on top of banana leaves. I was made to lie down on my back with my knees bent up in the air, and I had to keep my legs apart all the time. I wasn't allowed to stretch them out straight. While this was going on I heard Maskur scream and start calling for his mother. I was praised by Father because I hadn't cried. Later on when Maskur was laid on his back like me, he was still crying.

That night many friends came over to where we were, congratulating us and wishing us good luck.

"Now you've become real men and real Muslims," they said.

Some brought us rambutans, lychees, jambaks, duku fruits, and so on. Father didn't allow us to have roasted peanuts or young coconuts. Chicken and eggs also weren't allowed. For us, these taboos weren't much of a problem, although sleeping in the same position continually was wearying and made us quite stiff. We weren't allowed to turn to the right or the left; we always had to lie stretched out on our backs so we got very hot back there. It was lucky that the mattress was lined with banana leaves on top.

We did not have to follow the fast because we were considered invalids. It also wasn't necessary for us to say the prayers. Our joy knew no limits!

One time, an acquaintance who wasn't fasting came by for a visit, bringing along some boiled peanuts. I wasn't strong enough to withstand the desire to eat them. After all, I hadn't tasted peanuts for several days. He gave me five. Father found out. He beat me on the knees, and my whole body shook.

Eleven days afterward, we'd almost fully healed. We were allowed to go for walks, though not very far away, and we had to wear our sarongs. At this point, Maskur was allowed to go home to his mother's house. In fact, Maskur had already gone home.

The night before market day I'd asked Father, might I be allowed to go to market the next day, since all the while I was sick I hadn't gotten to go? Father did give me permission, and he gave me a quarter guilder as spending money. That was a great deal for me at the time; normally I'd only get five cents per market day.

"You go on ahead tomorrow at eight o'clock." Dad said.

All that night I could not close my eyes. My thoughts kept floating off to the market place, imagining what sorts of things I might buy tomorrow. Two and a half cents' worth of fried peanuts, two and a half cents' worth of coconut and rice syrup, sauteed along with its rice in platted little coconut leaf bundles, two cents' worth of sugar cane, two cents' worth of glutinous rice lupis cakes—and then I'd just save the rest of the money.

All this was reflected before my eyes along with the exact way I was going to eat all this food. And, oh yes—two cents' worth of fermented cassava, that fermented cassava with black sticky rice made by the folks out in Pitalah. That's the best. And not two cents' worth—how about three cents' worth so I'll get full. That leaves three cents. Well, let that be. Probably tomorrow something delicious will show up to spend that three cents on. For hours I dreamed about what I'd do tomorrow, all the while rubbing the quarter guilder with my finger in my pocket. How was I supposed to get sleepy?

I woke up really early in the morning, at five, and wanted to go to the market right away. I turned on the wall lamp. No one else had gotten up to go say their dawn prayers yet, for during the Fasting Month normally they'd sleep in till eight or nine o'clock. After washing up I went in search of the rice that Mother had left for me in the cabinet after the midnight meal. It was already cold, and I ate it with some delicious rind-kerupuk (kerupuk crisps made from water buffalo leather), also a leftover from the midnight meal. It tasted extraordinarily delicious this one time. Especially its oil, which was all mixed with salt and hot pepper—I even licked the plate.

I still had lots of rice left, after the oil had already run out, so I took hold of the bottle of coconut oil over in the corner of the room and threw all of the remaining kerupuk crisps on the plate and added an appropriate shake of salt. But, I was surprised. Why was the oil's color greenish and

its taste sort of bitter? To finish up all the rice I mixed the oil in with it anyway. But the dish wasn't as tasty as it had been. And my stomach was sort of queasy.

When Mother got up I asked her why the oil didn't taste very good. Mother said, that's not coconut oil, it's rat poison. I was shocked! Rat poison? But it wasn't a big problem because my body was much larger than that of a rat; I wasn't going to die from just that little amount of poison. At least, I cheered myself up by saying that.

Before seven o'clock I already had my clothes on. I had walking stick in hand (made of an umbrella shaft), ready to set off to the market. It already felt like I'd been walking to and fro forever out in the yard, but eight o'clock was still a long way off. Father had said I was allowed to go at eight o'clock. But I had no patience anymore. My feet were itchy to get to the market quickly. Everything I was going to buy I could taste on my lips already. So, what sort of plan could I put into effect?

Oh yes, better that I just turn the annoying clock forward! Because the clock was hanging way up high, I got a chair that Father usually sat on reading his sermon. At that moment it was exactly seven o'clock. An hour more to wait—I had no patience for that! I turned the long hand around till it chimed eight times. Well, now it's eight o'clock, I said. I went right off.

"If Father asks later, what time did you go, I'll answer eight o'clock."

Upon arriving at the market I found it wasn't crowded and busy yet. Not many market sellers had come. I bought whatever happened to be there first. By doing that, my planned program of last night was ruined. Seeing something, I'd want to buy it. Seeing something else, I'd want to eat it. My plan fell into disarray. Things I'd seen versus things I had not yet seen had different powers of attraction.

Between nine and ten o'clock was when things were busiest: everything had been brought to the market by that time. But my money had run out. I regretted the fact that I hadn't had much patience. Now there was lots of delicious food that hadn't been bought yet. Whereas, a while ago, things I didn't particularly need I had bought anyway.

Before twelve o'clock I came home, since my money had run out. Lots of friends were still at the market. Upon arriving back at the surau I lay down; my body was overtired from running all over the marketplace.

Not long afterward Father came along, with two friends of his. While they were conferring over something, Father happened to look over toward the clock and saw that it was already one o'clock. Although the mosque drum hadn't sounded yet? According to his watch it was only twelve o'clock. The sun had not yet sloped down toward the west: it could not be one o'clock. But the wall clock, which he took such pride in because it had never been wrong in twenty years, showed one o'clock. Was the watch wrong? He questioned his two friends. The two of them took out their

watches from their pockets. One of them said five minutes before twelve; the other one said six minutes past twelve. The time was definitely twelve. Father stepped down into the yard and looked up into the sky. The sun was exactly overhead.

Seeing Father and his friends look up at the sky and glance at their watches, I began to get worried—would they find me out? Would Father launch an investigation into who had changed the clock, or would he just fix it himself without trying to find out who had altered it?

He was still amazed: what had caused it? Had there been someone who had changed the hour? One of his friends came up to him. The first thing Father asked him was what time did he have on his watch.

"Why, it's twelve-ten," he said.

Who could have changed it? It occurred to Father: "Oh, it must be Ridjal! Who else: no one else would be daring enough."

I was called in. I began to get scared: I'd be punished for sure.

"Do you happen to know who changed the time on the wall clock?"

"I don't know, Father."

"You, maybe!"

"No, Father," I answered, afraid that I'd get my ears boxed if I confessed.

"Confess it! Nothing will be done to you if you confess," Father cajoled me. "Who else could it be if not you?"

"It wasn't me. What would I need to change it for—besides, by hand won't reach up there."

"Maybe you were just playing. You certainly could change it by standing on the chair."

"I didn't change it, Father."

Dad began to get angry, and his hands started moving to smack me in the head. But, afraid he might break my head and brain, he got a stout palm leaf rib whose whip end was as thick as a thumb. He hit me hard several times on my back with it. I started crying from the pain.

"Confess whether you did it or not!" he scolded.

"It's true, I changed it," I answered.

"Why did you change a clock that was keeping good time?"

"Because Father said I was allowed to go to the market at eight o'clock. At seven o'clock I ran out of patience and then I went ahead and changed the clock."

"So why did you change the clock.^[1] You could have left it at seven o'clock without turning the clock back," he said.

Father's words were true enough. I only just remembered! If I had gone at seven o'clock I'd be lying to say it was eight, but without changing the clock back surely Father wouldn't have gotten mad at me, because he wouldn't have seen me leave anyway. Ah, why had I been so stupid!

"I thought I had to leave exactly at eight o'clock."

"It didn't have to be eight o'clock. Seven or six o'clock would have been all right too, but don't you go disturbing the clock again, you understand!"

I got another beating and was told to ask for forgiveness and made to promise not to do it again.

"I promise I shall not set the clock back again," I said, sobbing.

"Now you go off and say the prayers and tomorrow start fasting—you're fully recovered!"

That was really an ill-omened day: after caring rat poison I got a bearing to boot, and then I had to start fasting the very next day.