Thus Falls Our Prayer-house
Took a few tries, but finally! Hope I can post the Malin Kundang story after this, too.
Yesterday I was angsting about whether I could finish the translation to Robohnya Surau Kami ontime. I managed to steal hours here and there (like the unexpected delay in moving from one site to another, stealing lunch times, and whatnots) and got a very rough translation out. Yay! That means I still have two days to spit and polish this thing before the new year's! I hope it makes sense (though I'm sure I'll end up looking at people's blank stares). I'm still hoping that I can find the proper english translation of this work online, because I really want people to be able to appreciate the work in all it's linguistic glory, not some cheap hack translation made by someone who thinks she could write (or translate, or both). But since I'm delusional and vain:
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Robohnya surau kami - A. A. Navis
Sir, if you’d come to the town of my birth a few years ago, by bus, you would’ve stopped near a wet market. Then, about a kilometre from there, you’d have arrived at the road leading to my village. At a small intersection to the right, the fifth intersection, you should turn into that narrow road. At the end of it, you’d find an old prayer-house. In front of it, you’d find a fish pond, its water flowing through four bathing founts.
In the yard, on the left hand side, you’d find an old man, who usually sat there, behaving in ways reflecting his old age and his pious religious observance. He’d been the prayer-house’s watchman, a garin, for many years. The people here called him Kakek - grandfather.
As the prayer-house’s watchman, he earned nothing. He lived off alms collected every Friday. Once every six months he would receive a fourth of the share of the yield from the gold fish pond. And once a year, people would deliver Eid fitrah to him. However, he’s not really recognised as a garin professionally. He’s better known as a knife sharpener, so skilled was he at his trade. People would ask him to help them, and he never asked for any sort of return. The womenfolk would ask him to sharpen their knives or scissors, paid his service with chili paste. The menfolk who sought his help would repay him with cigarettes, and sometimes also money. But the most he received were words of thanks with a hint of a smile.
But Kakek is no longer with us. He’s passed away. And so the prayer-house stands there, bereft of its watchman. The children uses it as a playground, they play with everything that catches their fancy. When the womenfolk find themselves in need of firewood, they will come at night to peel off the wooden walls or floor planks.
Sir, if you’re to come there now, you’ll only find a spectre of something pure surely heading towards its ruin. And it is soon in coming; as quick as the children running within it, as quick as the women tearing off plank by plank of wood off it. Most of all, though, you’ll see the stupidity of men nowadays, who insistently refrain from preserving what is no longer watched. The cause of this break down is a story within which lies a truth that cannot be denied. Such is the story.
Once I came to visit Kakek. Usually he was happy to receive me, because I often gave him money. But that time, he looked so crestfallen. He sat at the very corner, with his knees straight up to prop his hands and chin. His wistful eyes cast ahead, it seemed that there’s something warring within his mind. A milk can filled with coconut oil, a soft grindace, a long leather sole, and an old shaving knife laid abandoned around his feet. Never in my life had I seen Kakek so morose and never had my greetings went unanswered, as it was that day. Then, I sat next to him and I reached for the knife. And I asked him,
“Whose knife is this, Kakek?”
“Ajo Sidi.”
“Ajo Sidi?”
Kakek did not reply. Then I remembered Ajo Sidi, the tall-tale-teller. It’s been a while since I met him last. And I wanted to see him again. I liked to hear his boastful stories. Ajo Sidi could captivate his audience with his stories all day long. But lately, they were few and far in between because he was so busy with his work. As a storyteller, his greatest achievement was when all the characters in his story turned to resemble people - people being mocked - and that his stories would evolve into slogans at the end of it. It always turned out that there were people in the village who matched the descriptions of the characters in his story. Once, he told a story about a frog’s nature, and lo and behold there was someone in the village who was addicted to power, behaving just as the frog did. Since then, we called that person ‘the Frog Leader’.
Then I suddenly remembered about Kakek and Ajo Sidi who had approached him. Did Ajo Sidi make a slur against Kakek? Was it what made Kakek so sad? I decided then that I wanted to know. Then I asked him again. “What’s the story, Kakek?”
“Who?”
“Ajo Sidi.”
“Oh how dare he,” Kakek replied.
“Why?”
“I pray that this shaving knife, which I will hone until it’s as sharp as possible, will cut through his throat.”
“You’re angry?”
“Angry? Oh yes, if I was still young, but I’m already very old. Old people stay their hands. It’s been a while since I was angry last. I’m afraid my faith will corrode because of it, my worship tainted because of it. For so long I’ve lead a virtuous life, prayed, worshipped, placed my trust in God. It’s been so long that I’ve placed myself in His care. God loves people who are long in patience and trust.”
I became more and more curious about what Ajo Sidi might have said about Kakek. I asked again. “What did he say, Kakek?”
But Kakek remained quiet. Maybe it burdened his heart to retell it. Because I asked him again and again, he finally asked back, “You know me, don’t you? From when you were a small child, I’m already here. From my youth, right? You know what I did, don’t you? Were they bad, everything that I did? Does God really find my work abhorrent?”
But I really didn’t have to answer. Because once Kakek opened his mouth, it would be hard to stop him from speaking. So I left Kakek with his own question.
“I’ve been here since I was young, haven’t I? I don’t remember to have a wife, a child, a family like all the others, you know? I don’t care about my own life. I don’t seek riches, or to build myself a house. All my life, body and soul, I gave to Allah Subhanahu wataala. I don’t ever bring hardship to other people. I’m even reluctant to raise my hand against a single fly. But now I’m regarded as an accursed man? Hell’s bait? God’s angry at what I’ve done, you think? Will he condemn me even when I dedicate my whole life to serving Him? I don’t think about my future, because I believe that God is present and full of love and full of grace to the people who place their trust in him. I wake up early in the morning. I purify myself. I sound the *beduk* to wake people from their slumber, so they can humbly show their obeisance to Him. I observe the salat. I praise and worship Him. I read His holy book. ‘Alhamdulillah’ I will say whenever I receive His blessings. ‘Astagfirullah’ I will say whenever I’m astonished at something. ‘Masya Allah’ I will say when I’m full of admiration. What wrong is there in what I do? For now I am called condemned.”
When Kakek fell into a long silence, I posed my question, “He called you that, did he?”
“He didn’t say that I’m condemned or accursed. But that is what he meant.”
And I saw his eyes tearing up. I fell into pity for him. And in my heart I cursed Ajo Sidi who had laid a battering against Kakek’s heart. Though my curiosity made me ask my questions further. And finally Kakek spoke again.
“Once upon a time, ‘Ajo Sidi said as an introduction, ‘in the afterlife, Allah came to examine the souls that had returned. His angels attended to Him. In their hands were lists of sins and merits of everyone. There’s a lot of souls to examine. You must understand, there’s a lot of war going on around the world. And amongst all those souls was the soul of one Haji Saleh - such he was called when he was still alive. Haji Saleh smiled all the way, because he was so very sure that he was going to get into heaven. Both his hands rested on his hips, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chins very high. Whenever he saw someone being sent into hell, his lips curved into a condescending smile. And when he saw someone being sent into heaven, he waved his hand, as if saying, ‘see you later’. So that was how it was: neverending line of souls - with every soul leaving the head of the line, a few more were added to the back of the line. And God examined them with all His attributes.
Now, came the time for Haji Saleh to step forward. Smiling proudly, he prostrated himself in front of God. Then God set him the first question.
‘You?’
‘My name is Saleh. But because I’ve been to Mecca, Haji Saleh is my name.’
‘I did not ask for your name. Name is of no consequence. It is not important. Name is only for you in your earthly life.’
‘Yes, Lord.’
‘What was it that you do on earth?’
‘I worship You always, Lord.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Every day, every night. Even every time I have Your name upon my lips.’
‘Anything else.’
‘Yes, Lord, there was nothing else I do other than worshipping You, calling upon Your name. Even in Your benevolence, when I was ill, Your name remained upon my lips also. And I was always praying, praying for Your mercy to bring reason to the hearts of men.’
‘Anything else?’
Haji Saleh found himself unable to answer. He’d told everything. But he realised, God wouldn’t ask empty questions, surely there were answers that hadn’t yet left his lips. But, he wondered, hadn’t he told everything. He fell silent, bowed his head. The flames of Hell leapt up suddenly, warming Haji Saleh’s body. He cried. Each time a tear rolled out of his eyes, it disappeared instantly, devoured by the heat of hell.
‘Any others?’ God asked again.
‘Your subject has told everything, o God Almighty, All-Loving, All-Merciful, Fair and All-Knowing.’ Haji Saleh, now withered, applied himself to humbling himself, praising God, with the hope that God would be lenient upon him and ceased all other questions.
But God asked again: ‘No more?’
‘O, o, ooo, that is… Lord, I’ve always read Your holy book.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’ve told you everything, o Lord. But if there’s anything I’ve forgotten to say, I am always thankful of how omniscient You are.’
‘Was there really nothing else you do in the world other than those you’ve told Me?’
‘Yes. Those are all there is, Lord.’
‘In you go.’
And an angel swiftly pulled him by his ear into hell. Haji Saleh could not understand why he’s being sent to hell. He didn’t understand what God had wanted from him though he also knew that God’s never wrong.
How very astonished was he when he saw that many of his friends already there, in hell, being roasted alive, crying out in pain. And he found himself increasingly baffled, because all the people he saw in hell were equally diligent in their prayers as he. Even, one of them had gone to Mecca fourteen times, and was given the title ‘Syekh’. Then Haji Saleh approached them, and asked why they were condemed in such a way. But, like Haji Saleh, neither of them understood.
‘Why is our God like this?’ Haji Saleh asked thereafter, ‘Did He not tell us to be devout, to be steadfast in our faith? And all of his commands we had done all our lives. But now, He threw us all into hell.’
‘Yes, we’re also as astonished as you. Look, those are people from the same country as us, and they’re as pious and as devout,’ one of them said to him.
‘This isn’t fair.’
‘Yes, it isn’t,’ they said in a chorus, repeating Haji Saleh’s words.
‘Then, we have to ask for an explanation for our wrongs.’
‘We have to remind God, just in case He made an error in putting us here.’
‘True. True. True.’ All the others chorused, reaffirming Haji Saleh’s words.
‘If God doesn’t want to admit to his error, then what?’ a voice rose from the crowd.
‘We’ll protest. We’ll make a resolution,’ Haji Saleh said.
‘Are we going to stage a revolution, too?’ another asked, seemed like he was a revolutionary leader back when he was still alive.
‘It will depend on the situation,’ Haji Saleh replied. ‘The most important thing now is to march in protest to see God.’
‘Yes, just about right. Back on earth, there’s much we could obtain by staging a march in protest,’ another voice piped in.
‘Agreed. Agreed. Agreed.’ They chorused loudly.
Then, off they went to meet with God.
And God asked, ‘What do you all want?’
Haji Saleh, now appointed leader and spokesperson, stepped forward. With a loud voice and deep besides, he began his speech: ‘O, Lord Almighty. We who are assembled before You are Your most loyal subjects, who are most pious, most diligent in worship. We are the ones who always speak Your name, praising Your might, spreading words about Your justice, etc, etc. We’ve memorised Your holy book. You won’t find any faults in our recitation. However, once You’ve called us to return here, You put us in hell. So, before anything untowards may happen, here, in the name of everyone who loves You, we demand that this punishment You have decreed upon us to be changed, put us into heaven just as You’ve promised in Your holy book.’
‘Where do you all live, on earth?’ God asked.
‘We are Your subjects who live in Indonesia, Lord.’
‘O. In the land where everyhing grows in abundance, is it?’
‘Yes, that is true, Lord.’
‘It’s a land of plenty, full of precious metals, oil, and other minerals, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes. You are correct, Lord. That’s our country.’ They answered together. A sliver of hope passed through their faces. And they were convinced now that God must’ve made a mistake in sending them to hell.
‘You live in that land where the soil is so fertile, that plants can grow without you deliberately planting them?’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s our country.’
‘The country where the people are in a miserable state?’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes. That’s our country.’
‘The country that has long been under the rule of others?’
‘Yes, Lord. Cursed be those colonisers, Lord.’
‘And the fruits of your land, are those colonisers the ones who benefit from those, taking the yield back to their land?’
‘Yes, Lord. So that there’s nothing left for us. Curse them.’
‘You live in the country that’s in a constant state of disorder, where you quarrel between yourselves, even when the riches of your land are being squirrelled away by others, is that correct?’
‘Indeed, Lord. But those riches, we did not care about. What we care about was to praise and worship You. Always.’
‘You’re willing to live your whole life in misery, then?’
‘Yes, we’re very willing, Lord.’
‘And because of your willingness, your sons and grandsons, your descendants, will also live a life of misery, won’t they?’
‘Even though they’re miserable, they’re very good at reciting the Koran. They have memorised your holy words quite thoroughly.’
‘But like you, what they’ve memorised, they do not apply them to their hearts.’
‘They do, Lord.’
‘If they do, then why do you let yourself be miserable, letting your descendants be miserable, too. Then all your possessions and properties you let others take away from you, to give to their descendants. And you prefer to quarrel amongst yourselves, to swindle one another, to extort one another. I gave you a rich country, but you’ve become lazy. You only like to pray, because praying wasn’t very tiring, it didn’t involve toiling in the fields. Though I told you be charitable even though you’re poor. You think I like praises, drunk on glory alone? No. It’s correct that you should all be sent into hell. Angels, I command you to take them back to hell. Put them in the hottest part of it.’
Everyone turned pale, unable to say anything anymore. Then, they finally could see clearly the path Allah had meant for them to take when they were still alive. But Haji Saleh still wanted to be sure whether the things he had done back on earth was right or wrong. But he didn’t dare to ask God. He asked the angels escorting them instead.
‘Was it wrong, you think, that we worshipped God on earth?’ Haji Saleh asked.
‘No. Your mistake is that you’re too engrossed in yourself. You’re so afraid to go into hell, that’s why you’re so diligent in your prayers. But then, you’ve forgotten the lives of the people around you, your own people; you neglected the lives of your wife and your children, so much so that they’re scattered forever. This is your greatest mistake, you’re too egotistical. Even though you live amongst other people, a brother unto another, you ignored them all.’”
Thus was Ajo Sidi’s story that I heard from Kakek. It was the story that had made Kakek so morose. And the next day, when I was about to leave my home in the morning, my wife asked me if I were going to make a visit of condolence.
“Why? Who passed away?” I asked, shocked.
“Kakek.”
“Kakek?”
“Yes. Just this dawn, they found Kakek had died in the prayer house in a very sorry state. He had slit his own throat with a shaving knife.”
“Astaga! This is all Ajo Sidi’s doing!” I said, as I hasten to leave my wife who was flabbergasted.
I ran in search of Ajo Sidi at his home. But I only met with his wife. So I asked her.
“He’s gone out,” Ajo Sidi’s wife replied.
“Did he know that Kakek has passed away?”
“Yes. And he left word so that we may purchase for Kakek a seven-layered shroud.”
“And… and now,” I asked, already shaken, hearing how Ajo Sidi - who had caused all this - did not feel any remorse at all. “And now, where has he gone to?”
“Work.”
“Work?” I parroted back.
“Yes. He’s gone to work.”
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Notes:
surau is an Islamic prayer-house, a communal building suitable for any devotional act, except Friday prayer.
fitrah is a compulsory offering usually in the form of staple food (rice, wheat, etc), given at the end of the Ramadan month (the night before the first day of Syawal to the time before the Eid-ul-Fitr salat commences); zakat fitrah refers to the tithe in rice or money paid on last day of fasting month. zakat-maal refers to the tithe paid by rich people.