straw. I stole a peek back and saw the boy Hercules hurl over and clutch his legs before falling down with a thud.
For days, my chest was encircled by two dark red circular marks, traces of unbelievable idiocy.
My mother asked me about the marks. I wanted to lie, but I couldn't. Muhammadiyah Ethics class taught us every Friday morning that we were not allowed to lie to our parents, especially not to our mothers.
I was forced to expose my own stupidity. My older brothers and my father laughed so hard they were shaking. And then, for the very first time, I heard my mother's sophisticated theory on mental illness.
"There are 44 types of craziness," she said with the authority of a psychiatric expert as she gathered tobacco, betel leaves, and other ingredients from her pillbox containers for making tobacco chew, squashed them into a small ball and chewed the concoction.
"The smaller the number, the more critical the illness," she said, shaking her head back and forth while staring at me as if I were a patient in a mental hospital.
"When people lose their minds and wander the streets nude, that is mental illness number one. I think what you did with that tennis ball falls into the category of mental illness number five. Pretty serious, Ikal! You'd better be careful—if you don't use common sense, that number will soon get even smaller!"
On another morning, at ten o'clock, the jalak kerbau flock should have already arrived. But that morning it was quiet. I smiled to myself as I thought about the unique characteristics of my classmates. Most of us came to school berkaki ayam — chicken footed , literally, but in other words barefooted. Those who weren't chicken footed wore shoes that were much too big. Our underprivileged parents deliberately bought shoes that were two sizes too big so they could be worn for at least two school years. By the time the shoes fit, they were usually falling apart.
Malay people believe that destiny is a creature, and we were ten baits of destiny. We were like small mollusks clinging together to defend ourselves from the pounding waves in the ocean of knowledge. Bu Mus was our mother hen. I looked at my friends' faces one by one: Harun with his easy smile, the handsome Trapani, little Syahdan, the pompous Kucai, feisty Sahara, the gullible A Kiong, and the eighth boy, Samson, sitting like a Ganesha statue. And who were the ninth and tenth boys? Lintang and Mahar. What were their stories? They were two young, truly special boys. It takes a special chapter to tell their tales.
Chapter 9
Crocodile Shaman
LINTANG WAS uncharacteristically late this morning. We were dumbfounded when we heard his reason.
"I couldn't pass. In the middle of the road, blocking my way, lay a crocodile as big as a coconut tree."
"Crocodile?" echoed Kucai.
"I rung the bell on my bike, clapped my hands and coughed loudly so he'd leave. He didn't budge. All I could do was stand there like a statue and talk to myself. His size and the barnacles growing on his back were clear signs that he was the ruler of this swamp."
"Why didn't you just go home?" I asked.
"I was already more than halfway here. I wasn't about to turn around just because of that stupid crocodile."
I could only imagine what Lintang was thinking at that moment: The word absent isn't in my vocabulary, and today we study the history of Islam—one of the most interesting classes. I want to debate the holy verses that foretold Byzantium's victory seven years before it happened.
"You didn't ask anybody for help?" asked Sahara apprehensively.
"There wasn't anyone else around—just me, the giant crocodile, and certain death," Lintang said dramatically.
We were fretful yet astounded thinking about Lintang's struggle to get to school.
"I was almost hopeless. Then suddenly, from the currents of the river beside me, I heard the water rippling. I was surprised. I was frightened!"
"What was it, Lintang?" asked a wide-eyed Trapani.
"The shape of a man
For days, my chest was encircled by two dark red circular marks, traces of unbelievable idiocy.
My mother asked me about the marks. I wanted to lie, but I couldn't. Muhammadiyah Ethics class taught us every Friday morning that we were not allowed to lie to our parents, especially not to our mothers.
I was forced to expose my own stupidity. My older brothers and my father laughed so hard they were shaking. And then, for the very first time, I heard my mother's sophisticated theory on mental illness.
"There are 44 types of craziness," she said with the authority of a psychiatric expert as she gathered tobacco, betel leaves, and other ingredients from her pillbox containers for making tobacco chew, squashed them into a small ball and chewed the concoction.
"The smaller the number, the more critical the illness," she said, shaking her head back and forth while staring at me as if I were a patient in a mental hospital.
"When people lose their minds and wander the streets nude, that is mental illness number one. I think what you did with that tennis ball falls into the category of mental illness number five. Pretty serious, Ikal! You'd better be careful—if you don't use common sense, that number will soon get even smaller!"
On another morning, at ten o'clock, the jalak kerbau flock should have already arrived. But that morning it was quiet. I smiled to myself as I thought about the unique characteristics of my classmates. Most of us came to school berkaki ayam — chicken footed , literally, but in other words barefooted. Those who weren't chicken footed wore shoes that were much too big. Our underprivileged parents deliberately bought shoes that were two sizes too big so they could be worn for at least two school years. By the time the shoes fit, they were usually falling apart.
Malay people believe that destiny is a creature, and we were ten baits of destiny. We were like small mollusks clinging together to defend ourselves from the pounding waves in the ocean of knowledge. Bu Mus was our mother hen. I looked at my friends' faces one by one: Harun with his easy smile, the handsome Trapani, little Syahdan, the pompous Kucai, feisty Sahara, the gullible A Kiong, and the eighth boy, Samson, sitting like a Ganesha statue. And who were the ninth and tenth boys? Lintang and Mahar. What were their stories? They were two young, truly special boys. It takes a special chapter to tell their tales.
Chapter 9
Crocodile Shaman
LINTANG WAS uncharacteristically late this morning. We were dumbfounded when we heard his reason.
"I couldn't pass. In the middle of the road, blocking my way, lay a crocodile as big as a coconut tree."
"Crocodile?" echoed Kucai.
"I rung the bell on my bike, clapped my hands and coughed loudly so he'd leave. He didn't budge. All I could do was stand there like a statue and talk to myself. His size and the barnacles growing on his back were clear signs that he was the ruler of this swamp."
"Why didn't you just go home?" I asked.
"I was already more than halfway here. I wasn't about to turn around just because of that stupid crocodile."
I could only imagine what Lintang was thinking at that moment: The word absent isn't in my vocabulary, and today we study the history of Islam—one of the most interesting classes. I want to debate the holy verses that foretold Byzantium's victory seven years before it happened.
"You didn't ask anybody for help?" asked Sahara apprehensively.
"There wasn't anyone else around—just me, the giant crocodile, and certain death," Lintang said dramatically.
We were fretful yet astounded thinking about Lintang's struggle to get to school.
"I was almost hopeless. Then suddenly, from the currents of the river beside me, I heard the water rippling. I was surprised. I was frightened!"
"What was it, Lintang?" asked a wide-eyed Trapani.
"The shape of a man
Similar Books
