Chapter 19: Lebaran

We rejoiced as it got closer and closer to the Fasting Month, and the same was true when Lebaran approached. Five days before the big day, villagers would be busy getting ready, buying new clothes and various and sundry sorts of foods. The marketplaces at Sumpur, Pitala, and Batu Tebal would be crowded and bustling; many people would be selling all sorts of cloth for making clothes, as well as firecrackers, cakes, and sweets. The tailors and barbers were busy, without letup (after all, everyone had to get a shave), and the same was true of the laundrymen. All the clothes had to be finished one day before Lebaran; naturally, the starch had to be a bit stiffer this one time. And even if that was a little more expensive, folks didn't mind. Package after package of firecrackers were bought, both small ones and large ones; these were safely stored away for Lebaran day.

For this Lebaran my Father bought me a cap, a jacket, trousers, and shoes. No need for dismay; my friends wouldn't show me up this time. The cap was black velvet, the jacket was white and like a goalie's jacket. The trousers were made of batik, the shoes were black with blunt-nosed tips. Mother was going to borrow a batik sarong for me and I'd have perfume squirted on me before I went to say the Lebaran prayers. Older Sister^[1] was going to borrow a handkerchief for me. So: everything was complete.

Three days before it came, the joyful atmosphere of Lebaran could already be felt. People's faces were glowing; the hunger of the fast almost wasn't felt anymore. Folks whose fast had not "sprung a leak" felt very

lucky. Those who had broken the fast regretted it, for that showed that they were still weak in the face of their desires and that they had been tempted by food and drink. Their hearts hadn't been strong enough to stick it out to the end, whatever all their good intentions might have been.

As for us young kids, we overflowed with merriment. Our chests felt like they would crack open. If we hadn't been a bit shy about it, we would have yelled and shouted hard all day, all along the road. We felt we wanted to grab ahold of Lebaran and pull it toward us so that it would come faster; what we really wanted was to eat during the day and wear all those fine clothes, which were still being sewn together, or were in storage. But if we set off the firecrackers right now, what could we set off later at Lebaran?

It was really strange: the last day of the fast we got extraordinarily hungry. The temptations were great but we just stuck it out whatever the case, until sunset. After all, isn't it just this one more day, we'd tell ourselves? Throughout the village residents were busy. The mothers were in the kitchen continuously. Wherever we'd go, when we'd pass by a kitchen, fragrant, delicious foods could be smelled—specially since Sumpur folks were famous for being great cooks.

Our parents told us to go clean up the house, sweep the yard and pull up the excess grass outside. Then we cleaned up the surau, all together, throwing out the spider webs. We cleaned until it was all spick-and-span and pleasant-looking. And the strings on the drumhead in the mosque were tightened so tomorrow the sound would be even more piercing.

Girls helped their mothers in the kitchen.

After finishing in the surau, each of us would go to the graves of our datuks, our grandparents, or out to our parents' graves if they had already departed this world. I went to Mother's grave and cleaned it off. I pulled up the grass that had grown there, while praying that she was happy in the hereafter. Then I went to the grave of my datuk, on the slope of the mountain. This ceremony was to show that in this happy moment we had certainly not forgotten our ancestors.

All of these tasks were done cheerfully, even though hunger gnawed at us.

That night, even though they weren't actually saying tarwih, the young guys all slept at the surau. After ending their fast, they all came over and talked animatedly about firecrackers, clothes, and the big feast tomorrow. From the start of the evening prayertime, we took turns beating the big mosque drum and setting off bamboo cannons as well as a few firecrackers. We planned on not sleeping that night; there'd be a lot of merit in that, old folks said. Our clothes were stored carefully away, perfumed with a medley of flowers; our shoes were polished as shiny as could be; our caps were brushed off, so that absolutely no dust remained on them at all. And everything was folded up very, very neatly.

Bamboo cannons were continually set off, and cannons from the other suraus answered in turn. The firecrackers started popping one after another, and all the while we'd steal a glance at our new clothes every moment or so. We had an extremely strong desire to put them on right now. Ah, daybreak took so long in coming! That whole night our eyes weren't drowsy at all and our brains grew feverish with high hopes for the next day, which would surely be glorious and brilliant. Our hearts pounded like the mosque drum that was being beaten incessantly.

Everyone rejoiced, perfectly blissful. All had smiling faces: the old folks, the middle-aged people, the youths, and the little kids. Their chests swelled with joy. No one remained sullen or bore a grudge. People who had hated each other all this time, who hadn't been talking to each other, damped down the fires of hostility on this one night and started to chat comfortably—in fact, they were much friendlier than they were normally, and they laughed all the time. Everyone was garrulous and wanted to chat—and any and everything became the subject of gossip. Agus, whose character it was to be a taciturn person, who rarely laughed, and who was always sitting there pondering things morosely, on this night would converse at great length. He'd take a turn at beating the big mosque drum and laugh heartily with all of us. But admittedly, his mouth would look sort of awkward laughing! This night everybody was really hassling and annoying each other, but nobody got angry, nor did anyone get their feelings hurt. A blanket of good cheer protected all.

Really early, at five o'clock, about half of us went out to bathe and work lime juice through our hair, while the others beat the drum and set off firecrackers. These burst noisily in the morning air, normally so quiet. Both men and women villagers came to the surau in ever greater numbers to bathe and shampoo with lime, and to pray and to say the takbir. Peals of merry laughter boomed out in waves from the surau's water tub. And when you listened to folks reading the takbir all together, the Lebaran atmosphere truly cloaked the village.

The sun appeared and half the fellows spread out mats for folks to do the Lebaran prayers on later, while the other half set off firecrackers and beat the drum nonstop. Mother fixed banana treats, a kind of sweet which every house would normally have for Lebaran. It was made of king bananas and rice flour densely packed together, made into little balls like the full moon, and fried—but not really cooked all the way through. You have to leave a little undercooked part down deep inside.

The day got sunnier, hearts got merrier, the golden rays of the sun scattered outward from the peak of Mount Galogandang and lit up Sumpur village. Little by little a great many people came into the surau. All of them wore new clothes of various colors—to cheer themselves up. My friends and I got all decked out too. We had been restrained for five days

from putting on these new clothes but this craving was finally satisfied. However, I couldn't wear the batik trousers yet because we had to go pray first. After we got all neatly decked out, Mother sprinkled us with perfume; when I borrowed a handkerchief from my older sister, my joy burst its bounds. Every moment or so each would look at his own shirt and then at those of his friends. With his inner voice, each praised his own clothes and his own appearance when he glanced in the looking glass. Our caps were set at an angle; they looked even more attractive. Then, once we went down the steps into the courtyard, we'd set off firecrackers with the other guys, and beat the big mosque drum. Meanwhile, the women would come in by the dozens and dozens carrying trays on their heads, filled with cooked rice and all sorts of side dishes.

Girls in lovely clothes would also come to pray, but before they'd go up in the surau they would flirt with their eyes with us—this bit of enjoyment added to Lebaran's splendor and happiness. They'd come with their mothers, acting shy. They'd glance out of the sides of their eyes while casting faint, knowing smiles at us. We didn't converse; that would seem peculiar according to adat! My sweetheart was among them; that was the most important thing. I asked myself, would she be attracted to my fine clothes here? Well, I sure had been dashing and fine-looking there in the looking glass just a while ago! Would her heart pound to see me looking so stylish this day, as I had been so deeply moved to see her own splendor and loveliness? . . .

She went up into the surau . . . . I had no reason to stay below in the courtyard now. I also went up, thinking I would join in the takbir. There were already lots of men sitting there lined up in columns. Haji pilgrims were there in Arabic dress, wearing big turbans and fine robes of various colors, like martyrs who just arrived from Mecca. Of all of them, Father's turban was the biggest.

Everyone prayed, some fiercely and some submissively, trying to be deeply engrossed despite the fact that their thoughts were actually always on the food sitting in its trays, lined up in rows out back along the wall. After the prayers, Father read the sermon, and when he came down from the pulpit, everyone rushed up to shake his hand. This was because according to the beliefs of Muslims, whoever is the first to shake the hand of the one who delivers the sermon when he comes down from the pulpit on Lebaran is doing the very same thing as shaking the hand of the Prophet Muhammad himself. I joined in too, and shook his hand and asked forgiveness for all my wrongdoings. But I came right at the end of the line. Father also asked me to forgive him because he'd beaten me. Tears flowed down my cheeks.

The surau resounded with the clamor of people greeting each other with handshakes and asking each other's forgiveness, everyone rejoicing. All slights were sincerely forgotten and all who had been enemies made peace

on that glorious day. Each and every person was as pure as an angel on that day: all were good, patient, sincere, and the sort who loved each and every creature of God. On that day people who usually criticize folks and ridicule and slander others were really good-hearted; they'd laugh ceaselessly and only say good things. No sharp or biting comments could be heard.

After all the mutual greeting and handshaking was over, those in attendance sat down facing each other and the delicious food was laid out. They all feasted; everyone got full. A moment had been spent as angels, but once they saw all these various foods, people's greed came fiercely to the fore. Their eyes were like those of cats seeing a mouse pass by. A haji pilgrim, I saw, greedily stuffed two chunks of spiced meat at once into his mouth. He asked for some roast chicken that was lying on my own tray, a full meter away from his seat, and it was flung onto his plate from that distance.

The Traditionalists still kept the custom of eating a meal in the surau after Lebaran prayers. According to their teachers' dictates, good Muslims must put on a big meal that day. The women of Upper Sumpur felt that providing a meal for folks after they'd finished praying afforded them an extra measure of religious merit; they thought it was just the same as inviting people over to their own house to eat. The Modernists in Lower Sumpur had abandoned this custom. They'd just invite several close friends over to their house to eat.

To add to Lebaran's splendor, before all the guests left for home a performance of fencing and the martial arts was held in the surau courtyard. Every single person who was skilled at fencing was asked to step forward into the center. For us young guys who had had the requisite training, this was a great opportunity to show off our skills, our loveliest hand and feet movements, and the rhythm and high standards of all the martial arts strides. All was done in strict accordance with the guidelines of the art form. We wore our new batik trousers for this performance. Our sweethearts watched from the windows, whispering to one another. What exactly were they whispering?

When the martial arts performance broke up, we put on our new shoes, which were still tight. Their leather was still fragrant. We put on quite a cocky show walking around. We felt that everyone was sneaking a peek at our shoes and admiring them. Our pride increased when we heard the shoes' clickety-clack noises on the ground. We ourselves would often look down, admiring our footwear and watching that we didn't stub our toes on a rock. It would be such a pity if our shoe tips got scratched the least little bit!

I got a rupiah in pocket money from Father. Now that was really a lot for us. But what was distressing was that rich people's kids got five rupiah.

We went over to Seberang on a pleasure trip, taking pony carts both

ways from Seberang to Tjintuk around the edge of the lake. This was a distance of two kilometers. This was the ultimate pleasure trip for us.

The pony carts (which were all owned by Malalo people) were all old and always squeaked as they rolled along. And if one of them ran over a big rock, the cart felt like it was going to split into pieces. Our bodies hurt from being bumped from one side to the other, but that didn't lessen our merriment or our pride in the whole endeavor. After all, this was the one sort of vehicle we could afford to hire, by all chipping in together. At that time only rich folks would hire autos, and even they couldn't afford to buy one.

We all smoked cigars that had little paper rings on them. Father would give us these only on Lebaran and we'd use the fire at the ends of the cigars to set off our firecrackers, which we'd toss at passersby. We kind of looked down on people who walked on foot—and we'd especially look down on their crummy clothes. This category of people were not sporting any new clothes.

When we happened to come across a person who was wearing crummy clothes and a crummy sort of sarong, we'd look at one another and ridicule him. We'd curl our lips downward and hunch our shoulders up, as if we'd seen something loathsome. After seeing such a person, we'd automatically look at our own clothes, to admire them, and if there was any dust on them, we'd flick it off and be very, very careful that the ironed pleats didn't get messed up.

In Tjintuk, folks were already milling about in large numbers. Some were bathing in the lake, others were just watching. Lots of young guys and girls from Malalo were strolling around. Every one of them, without exception, wore dark glasses.

"Do they have some sort of eye disease?" I asked our pony cart coachman. "No, it's just something to make them look smarter," he responded. "In town in Malalo nowadays almost everyone wears dark glasses—young men, girls, grandfathers, oldsters, and little kids. It's become a Lebaran custom over there. Right before Lebaran dark glasses are the thing that sells the most at the market. Just look, tomorrow is going to be the busiest time over there because it just so happens that tomorrow is marketday."

Indeed it was so! When I went there, almost everyone was wearing dark glasses. And not just that, hundreds of people were wearing tin watches (these normally were just children's toys and had their numbers and hands stamped onto tin of various colors; these watches showed just one time, which never varied).

The cost of the pony cart from Sebarang to Tjintuk was just five cents, and the round trip was ten cents. We were able to take several rides that way and eat gado-gado [vegetable salad with peanut sauce] and drink sweetened coconut milk and eat other kinds of sweets in Tjintuk and Sebarang.

The rich kids ate as many as three platefuls of gado-gado , but this was a contest that we weren't able to participate in.

More than twenty pony carts went back and forth between Tjintuk and Sebarang carrying hundreds of kids. When the carts would cross each other's paths the kids would all cheer and throw firecrackers at one another.

Having gotten enough of pleasure trips, enjoying ourselves immensely (but also having run out of pocket money), we went on home, with the sun inclining toward the west. Our feet hurt and were all blistered from the new shoes, but we were embarrassed to take them off and carry them along in our hands. The pain was unbearable, but we just kept roughing it out. Some of us, though weren't embarrassed to take our shoes off, because their wounds hurt too much when they kept them on. It's better to be embarrassed than to hurt, they said. For the other half of us, it was better to hurt than to be embarrassed.

Once we got back to our respective houses, our feet were all wounded and our heels were blistered and peeling; we didn't wear our shoes anymore at all. We were tired, our eyes were sleepy. Before failing asleep I heard a boy (who was only eight years old and was standing at the top of the surau stairs) say to a friend of his of the same age, who was passing by in the yard:

"Hey, Amir, who has the best-looking clothes, you or me?"

His pal didn't answer. But, I don't know the reason, it was my heart that was stabbed in pain. This child had let a feeling slip out that most adults keep carefully hidden inside them: a feeling that you're secretly comparing other people's clothes to your own. The boy's shirt wasn't very nice; it was just made of rough cotton, but he felt that it was really first-rate, so much so that he started to challenge his buddy about whose clothes were best.

I was embarrassed, embarrassed for myself. It was as though this boy had held up a mirror to me, one which showed everything going on down in the dark hollows and curves in my deepest inner self, feelings that were obscured from view or which I myself had hidden away. True enough, I myself had never uttered such words—I was never as crazy as all that—but still, hadn't a voice of pride whispered away in my heart (which others didn't hear, but which I certainly did) that my shirt was better looking than my friends' shirts were? And didn't we secretly feel more fortunate than others? And when we were about to go to sleep weren't we still smiling and reminiscing about that little bit of happiness? . . .

That night the surau felt really quiet and lonely. It was very moving. For a whole month it had been crowded and busy with men and women praying and with young guys and girls doing tadarus; now only four people had come over there, and they were really old, to boot. The surau was lit by an oil lamp, a weak one. How very lonely it was! All the folks who had

crowded in there earlier, making it so busy and fun, were all back at their own houses, sleeping. After all that overflowing good cheer and all the festivities of Lebaran, I felt that I had entered a desolate ravine, which was all dark inside and which made me melancholy.

This loneliness and desolation was very deep and left a strong impression in my heart. Could I perhaps go pay a visit to a friend of mine to forget all this, and to distance myself from the quietness and isolation? But this friend had gone back to his own house with his mother, his brother, and his grandparent. Well, maybe I could just go some other place, perhaps to the food stall: wouldn't there be folks gathered there? No, there weren't! The whole village was quiet, lonely, and dark, as if all the residents had just died from a plague. So where could I go?

This shift from great festiveness to a state of loneliness and quiet had been very fast, and it stabbed my emotions. In consequence I became confused and sad. After every Lebaran I experienced this loneliness. I almost started crying to see Father serving as imam; he was saying the sunset prayers with no more than two men following along, plus two gloomy-faced old grandpas. And the surau was all quiet, even though that morning there had been dozens of cheery-faced people here. Caught up in this sadness and loneliness, I fell asleep by myself in the surau.

The next afternoon, folks held a boat race in Batu Beragung. It was called a "pacu biduk" in the Minangkabau dialect. Hundreds of people came to watch. They lined up all along the edge of the lake, or sat with their legs dangling down on the big rocks. They came from all directions in Sumpur. Parents also let their girls come watch, and among them was my sweetheart, Jusna.

Along the edge of the lake there were thirty small craft that were going to join in the race. A friend of mine and I were going to compete. We were fully aware that we weren't going to win, because we weren't really very skilled at rowing boats, but we competed anyway to make it all more festive and to attract some public attention to ourselves. If we competed, we figured, the girls would respect us more than if we didn't join in. At the very least we would become a topic of conversation for them. Surely their thin, red, pretty lips would speak our names numerous times—and our names would come out of their mouths right along with their sweet breaths.

We had competed three times and hadn't won a thing. Unfortunately everyone's attention had been focused on the winner. Only he gained esteem and admiration. Even Jusna's eyes were on him. So, what to do? The fourth time I totally lost hope and turned my little boat back and suddenly the two of us fell right into the lake and got soaking wet! Everyone cheered and shouted; there was a tremendous clamor that sounded as if it would never die down. The attention of the hundreds of audience members was

no longer on the winner, but on us. Our faces reddened a bit from embarrassment, but the payoff was becoming the center of attention.

When I got to the edge of the lake, Jusna came up close to me, smiling, and the glow of her soft eyes reflected love.

"Why did you flip over? Had Uda [Older Kinsman] gotten dizzy?" she asked in a soft voice.

"Yeah," I answered, and my heart swelled out as if it were going to explode with happiness. There was no telling what I might have said at that moment.

"Go home quick and change your clothes so Uda won't get sick," said Jusna, with an even more enticing smile.

I went home, chilled, walking along for two miles—but happy. If that incident had not happened, there would hardly have been the chance to converse like this with Jusna.