Stepping outside the door first thing in the morning and slipping on the sandals the beggar was going to be denied. Too early, gimme a break.
Briefest of looks in her direction, before turning on the heels.
Thin bent old woman, the type that is hardest to ignore. But not bushwhacked first thing in the morning, please.
—….Kasihan, calling weakly from behind.
Oh. Oh. Kasihan?...
— Something makan belum, she replied. Pity; she hadn’t eaten.
Inside her little bamboo cylinder was some kind of typed notice of an official sort, stating she was a widow, perhaps, or homeless, perhaps. 2,000 rupiah equaled less than twenty cents Australian. (The night before tea on the other side of the rail-line at one of the stalls was one thousand.)
Mental buffeting thereafter going up through the lanes toward the library. How did they endure? Was it harder in an urban setting?
In a mail Yanasagaran had suggested in an $8 per night place one might be able to bring out the yogi in oneself. Yana guessed kos accommodation, with shared bathroom & WC, the drain from the latter trailing out to a field where cows and chickens would feed on the waste. Not quite Yana.
The room was small, about 2.5 x 3m, fan on the wall and private bathroom. For the push-ups at night you angled from the bathroom mat across to the front of the bedhead, swivelling hands at an angle in order to achieve the space. Louvre window, a mosque directly across the lane and a rooster vying with the muezzin again as at Chow Kit, KL.
With cheap accommodation one had more for the beggars and buskers and for a little targeted charity. (It was Mahshushah who was now staying in a kos, where she was paying 150 Rupiah per month, conventionally sewered was the guess.)
The usual remarkable sleeping postures on the streets brought the usual thought that in a Western country you could only see the intimates of your household sleeping. Little shade available, few awnings either side of the road. When a tree canopy was passed a strong mini impression of the vanished forests in this region and everywhere else.
Because of the river crossing the narrow cut-through lanes were tricky; there seemed to be only two crossing points in the stretch. Half the becak drivers were asleep in their vehicles. Security guards, parking attendants, railway-men, office and shop-workers all in their various uniforms. One recalled the early days of the Yugoslav Federation when a job that provided a uniform was counted as particular blessing.
As usual outside the Kedaulatan Rakyat gates the glass stands for the day’s edition brought a gathering of men reading carefully, one note-taking.
The library was the best option. Back at the losmen there were tables for guests on the enclosed veranda and even an internet annex with printer tacked onto the house. Still, the library with its mostly earnest students across the benches was preferable.
Even after a week there was some recognition along the roads, familiar faces, the panama no doubt a good aid to memory.
Either side of the bridge over the Code small tumbledown stalls of various kinds—eating places, motorbike parts & repairs, a stamp shop (red-knobbed stamps for impressive documents). Crossing the river it was best to hold onto your hat, especially a fine, stylish article.
This morning the slim figure approaching was initially mistaken as a pretty young girl. After she had passed the cheeky gallantry came to mind for the next occasion. Of course, it should be, Pagi sayang, Morning my dear / my honey. One would be ready for the next opportunity.
On the other side of the bridge the most notable figure was the old woman leaning against the wooden screen of a little store that was yet to open. A rough staff was angled beside her and the woman had raised the folds of her dress. Sometimes she noticed the approach and seemed to await the greeting. This morning her face was averted and it was necessary to touch her old, liver spotted hand.
— Selamat pagi, ibu.
Even without the traffic and distance her voice would not have been audible. Reed-thin fitted here.
In early days at home many of the migrants in our orbit called Baba mother, or aunt. The latter was standard: children routinely called any older woman Teta, aunt. Majko, mother was rather different.
Even we children rarely called mother, mother, just as she never called us by our names. Never once did mother call her son any of the variants of his name. It had never once been heard from her lips, though the suspicion was she would have commonly used it in conversation with others. How otherwise? Some kind of superstition from the village was at work; or else a practice inherited from her own mother, who was known to use one or two standard endearments as a kind of avoidance of the christened name. In other communities in the Balkans and elsewhere a similar superstition has been reported. Drawing the evil eye was the fear.
One had become aware of the general practice among the Malays: an old woman was a generic type. It was perfectly natural; one had become accustomed some time ago. Indeed it was a pleasure to be able to make such a greeting. A kind of daily blessing returned from the exchange.
Yogyakarta, Indonesia
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