Madre - English Translation

Madre
Written By: Dee Lestari
Translated By: Mirna Adzania
Dark clouds that loomed since dawn finally spilled down in torrential rain.
Right at the time I arrived to the funeral of a stranger. Who is he? That was my first
question. Why me? This was my next question. Both would be answered this morning.
A teenager appeared from behind the frangipani trees. Quickly he sheltered
me under his umbrella with an pay-me-a-penny-for-this expression on his face. He
then said, "You're a family, mister?"
"No." Family? Hardly even knew him.
This oddity must have been a stark contrast. In the middle of a Chinese
cemetery, here was a dark skinned man, with dreadlocks, sleeveless shirt, ripped jeans.
Alone.
Nobody else was there. The funeral was over since about half an hour a go. I
deliberately came late to avoid meeting anyone. The mystery did not need
complication by extra drama.
I read the tombstone: "Tan Sin Gie." Died in the age of 93. He had lived so
long, putting my name as his heir; and not once had I known he existed. Who are you?
Why me?
A man with a neat shirt approached in a hurry, covering his head with his bag.
"Tansen?" he half shouted.
I nodded. The pouring rain muffled any sound. It's useless to say anything.
"Can we talk in my car?" he asked again.
Anywhere but here.
The conversation that he planned to be done in the car ended up in a cafe.
"You really never heard of Mr. Tan?"
“Not at all.”
"But your name sounds Chinese. Tansen Wuisan." He fanned out documents
on the table.
"Wuisan is a Manado family name, Sir. Tansen is an Indian name."
"You have Indian descendant?"
"Was being told so. A bit," I replied casually. Brought straight from Lahore in
the 1920s, my grandmother was raised in Indonesia. She married a man from
Tasikmalaya. My mother, thus half-Indian, diluted her Indian blood further by
marrying a man from Manado. And here I was. Tansen Roy Wuisan. My skin was
only darker because of the sun. The name "Tansen", the long nose, and the big eyes
with curly eyelashes, are the only Indian-ness there was left in me.
***
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When I was young, I had several friends from real Indian family. They were
very different. My family seemed to be uprooted. Plus there's this dying young curse
on the women of my family. Grandmother died shortly after giving birth to mother.
Mother, her only child, died not long after giving birth to me, her only child. There
were no Indian relatives I knew of. My father, a free-souled man, let me grew up on
my own. As if I was a vegetation that could grow without being cared of. My teen
years until today was spent in Bali. Alone. I inherited my father's free soul, so they told
me. Although the limit between freedom and ignorance is sometimes blurred.
you."
"So, you're an only child, yes?" The man confirmed.
"Yes."
"Had your mother lived, she'd be the heiress. But since she's gone, so it goes to
"Who is this 'Mr. Tan', really?"
The man slipped down his reading glasses. "I am just a lawyer hired by his son
to take care of Mr. Tan's last testament. What I know, Mr. Tan used to be a
businessman. Not sure if he went bankrupt or what. He left nothing. Good thing his
children are rich, have businesses of their own, that's why this bequest for you is not
an issue."
"It's not money then," I projected immediately.
The man pulled out a single envelop with a red wax seal. "I don't know what's
in here. Only you have the right to open it."
I opened the envelop in front of him. Opening it alone, opening it later, the
content won't change anyway. It's definitely not money.
The man leaned forward. Curious.
I laid on the table what I had fished out of the envelop: a key. And a
handwritten paper. Not a letter. Just an address.
"You know where this is?" I asked him.
He read it too, "That's near my office. If you're going there, you can come
with me. I'm going back there anyway."
As a domestic tourist stranded in the capital city, that's an offer I had been
waiting for. Nothing I wanted more than to get this done and over with. Go back to
Bali. Out of the stuffed city that is Jakarta.
***
Rain had abated when I reached the address. The sun that had been hiding
began to scorch, displaying the true climate of the capital city.
The place used to be an old shop without a signpost in the old city Jakarta. An
abandoned ancient two stories shop house; peeling paints, walls mildewed by moisture
and molds, here and there were gaps in the ceiling, wood eaten by termites and rain. I
wasn't sure the place was inhabited. There were no signs of life except for some
spiders that had spun webs everywhere.
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I pressed a thing I suspected to be the bell. A long and hoarse "peeep" was
heard. Surprised, I flinched. I didn't expect it to be a real bell and that it was still
working.
The big door in front of me opened. An old man in a tracksuit welcomed me.
Excerpted from Madre (anthology) by Dee Lestari. Copyright © 2006 by Dee Lestari.
Translation copyright by Mirna Adzania. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt
may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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