The young philosophy grad Riki from West Java, the region from where his namesake Kurniawan the writer hailed, needed to get off for his prayer. The day before it was the same at a similar time of day, though now it was Friday.
Interesting shared judgement on Eka K, incidentally. Despite all the fanfare, the compatriot was found to be a rather pale and suspect shadow of the magic realism masters, transposed to these other Asian Tropics here.
Shortly after leaving the kopi shop after Riki, the gathering at the nearby masjid surprised. Two hours south of Singapore, the Friday prayer was one hour earlier—noon local time. (The fajr same, 4AM, with Nurul Huda standing twenty metres from the room in the losmen.)
Last Friday’s prayer at NH had been forgotten between times.
This kind of Friday gathering spilling out onto the pavement had been seen a number of times, not in Singapore, but up in Malaysia at a couple of mosques in KL.
There was no real mind to stop and watch, certainly not before the rows had been passed a little way.
Finally, a weak impulse was acted upon; the shade of a sapling provided sufficient shelter beside a young girl seated on a bench.
The fear of intrusion was always a factor at places of worship, even in Christian churches. There seemed something a little indecent looking upon people at prayer, especially people prostrating themselves. That someone might take exception to the matter would not surprise, a bystander perhaps, as the congregation in this kind of case had their backs turned, of course.
Here numerous becak drivers remained seated in their vehicles and others continued along the street with their touting, unconcerned. The old fruit-seller had moved out from her usual perch to make room and sat on a bench closer to the masjid. Shoppers continued to-and-fro, numerous Indo males among them. As usual, there were no women visible among the congregants standing before the mats. Forty-five minutes later, three or four were found lacing their shoes by the entryway of the mosque, having come from indoors somewhere.
Late-comers were still arriving during the stop. It must have been ten or more minutes past the hour. Nothing from indoors was audible on the street; almost certainly nothing by even the men closest to the entryway. This always made for an odd scene of stationary figures standing stranded, heads bowed, without any order or structure apparent. Even Nurul Huda, hidden within a narrow gang, used some amplification for calls at least, if not the imam’s sermon or the prayer.
Men at the ends of rows made space for the late-comers, which was not easy, as some of the latter had not brought their own mats. It seemed some kind of light and flimsy aluminium-backed sheeting was being improvised for those without. With bags and sandals the sheets were anchored well enough in the breeze.
There may have been one prostration before the last three young lads arrived on the scene, with a sizeable gap before the men went down on the mats again. Three young handsome men in their twenties, who did not appear Indos, though that may have been wrong.
The body of men stretched about fifteen metres either side of the mosque entry, stationary, settled, heads bowed and arms crossed on their chests, hands clasping elbows, or low on the bicep. Three or four deep from the wall and in places five or six deep.
Among the three late late-comers there was some hurry; very likely they had missed the first prostration.
The lads came to a halt and made toward the edge of the pavement. In the gutter there drivers waited in their becaks and others by them in their fancy horse-drawn carriages.
A quick scan failed to find Riki the Phil student among the pavement congregants. Many of the men there were of his age, in their late twenties, with lesser number older interspersed. The haircuts and colour of the three late-comers suggested they might be from elsewhere.
Along the edge of the tiled pavement speckled spheres of composite concrete with a glazed finish stood in a row. These barriers against motorbikes and becaks had been added in the recent civic beautification. There was no more broken tiling along Malioboro, no more volcanic ash or refuse. The former crowded street stalls had all been moved into new quarters in a number of locales close behind the shop rows. The colourful becaks that had long been a feature of the strip had been cut back by perhaps more than half. With less hustle and movement the scene had lost a degree of its charm.
One of the chief candidates in the forthcoming presidential election was the governor of Western Java, who was also a practicing architect. In Bandung some of the civic space that had been created under the influence of this man had produced a favourable impression.
The baubles on Malioboro measured about 500mm in diameter, often serving as seating and photographic staging posts. They seemed unobjectionable, though not especially inspired.
By a couple of the baubles along that section of pavement near the mosque there stood half-filled plastic water or tea containers, left possibly by members of the congregation.
In the quick it was unclear what the men were doing stopped by the stones. One of them was observed washing his hands it seemed at first, from waters or liquids taken from somewhere.
The lad was clasping and folding his hands together. A companion beside him was bent at the stone rounds. Another, the third, began patting the stone spheres.
One of the threesome began caressing the stone, beginning at its top and then along either side.
Having swiped over a good portion of the rounded stone, this man brought his hands up to his face and made as if washing. The cheeks were first pretend-cleansed, then his brows, his neck and finally behind his ears.
Beside him at the stone one back his companion was beginning with the same.
Glazed and gleaming a little, the stones would be far from clean sitting there by the ceaseless traffic. The grime might not have been readily visible and perhaps the young men did not feel any on their fingers or hands.
There had not been any water sprinkled over the stone. Becak drivers and stall-holders often turned aside from their places to wash their hands from water bottles. These young men at the Friday sermon had not brought any provisions, neither water for their ablutions, nor mats their prostrations.
You could not possibly imagine a more inspired improvisation.
One could not perform the prayers without the carefully established protocol. The procedure of the ablutions was carefully laid out step by step in the Qur’an, it must have been. At first reading the detailing in a book of revelation surprised.
The onlooker in this instance very nearly broke into hosannahs on the spot. No exaggeration. A man hailing from a country of stone, stunning white karst that hurt the eye during some seasons in this particular case, perhaps a reader could understand.
Yogyakarta, Indonesia 2023
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