The Rainbow Troops (11 page)

Usually, after taking the box, A Miauw wrote in his debt book, and Pak Harfan would pay the bill at the end of the month. We children didn't deal with financial matters. Every time we passed through, A Miauw didn't even look at us. He flicked at the
sempoa
loudly with his fingers, as if to remind us of our mounting debt.

For A Miauw, we were unprofitable customers: in other words, we were just troubling him. If once in a while Syahdan approached him to borrow the bicycle pump, he'd lend it to us even as he exploded with complaints. He didn't like lending his pump to anyone—especially to us. I really hated seeing his tank top.

The air grew hotter. Being in the center of the shop, I felt like a vegetable boiling in soup. I couldn't stand it anymore and was going to puke. Fortunately a Miauw barked a command to the mysterious girl to pass the box of chalk through the pigeon cage door. With a powerful glance, A Miauw signaled for me to take the box of chalk.

I moved quickly through the garlic sacks, plugging my nose. I hurried so the torture-filled task would soon be over with. But just a few steps toward the pigeon cage door, a cool breeze blew into my ear, lingering only a brief moment. I didn't realize my destiny had crept up on me in the decrepit shop, circling, then mercilessly grabbing hold of me. Without knowing it, the coming seconds would determine the man I would become in the years ahead; right at that moment, I heard the young girl yell loudly, "Haiyaaaaa!"

Along with that yell, I heard dozens of pieces of chalk falling down to the tile floor.

Apparently the girl with the gorgeous nails had been careless. She dropped the box of chalk before I had a chance to take it. The chalk scattered all over the floor.

"Ah," I complained.

I had to get down and crawl to pick up the pieces of chalk, one by one from the gaps between sacks of wet, raw candlenuts that emitted a dizzying smell. I needed Syah dan's help, but I saw that he was talking animatedly to daughter of the
hok lo pan
cake seller as if he had just sold 15 cows. I didn't want to interrupt his phony moments.

So I had no choice, I painstakingly picked up each piece of chalk. Some of it had fallen under an open door with a curtain of small seashells neatly strung together hanging in front of it. I knew behind that curtain the young girl was also picking up pieces of chalk because I heard her grumbling, "Haiyaaa ... haiyaaa ..."

When I arrived at the pieces of chalk under the curtain, my heart said that she'd surely close the door so not to give me the chance to see her face. But what came next was completely out of the blue, and it happened so quickly. All of a sudden, the mysterious young girl unexpectedly drew back the curtain, nearly causing our startled faces to collide, leaving them less than an inch away from each other.

We were staring at each other closely ... it was suddenly very quiet. We looked into each other's eyes with a feeling I cannot describe with words. Her hands loosened around the pieces of chalk she had gathered, sending them back down to the ground. My own hands gripped the chalk even tighter, and it felt like I was holding tubes of popsicles.

At that moment it seemed as if all the hands on all the clocks in the entire world stood still. All moving things froze as if God had captured their movement with a giant camera from the sky. The camera flash was blinding. I saw stars. I was stunned; I felt like flying, dying, fainting. I knew that A Miauw was yelling at me but I didn't hear it, and I knew that the shop was becoming smellier in its stuffy air, but my senses had already died. My heart stopped beating for a few seconds before starting up again with an irregular rhythm, like an SOS distress code. I guessed the young girl with the heavenly nails standing stunned before my nose felt the same way.

"Siun! Siun! Segere ...!"
shouted a Sawang coolie telling me to get out of the way quickly, but it sounded far away, echoing as if it were yelled in a deep cave. My tongue was immobilized; my mouth was locked, gaping to be exact. I couldn't utter a single word, couldn't move. That little girl absolutely paralyzed me. The look in her eyes squeezed my heart.

I was fascinated looking at her exquisite, oval-shaped face. She looked very much like Michelle Yeoh, the Malaysian movie star. Her clothes were fitted and fancy like she was going to attend a wedding ceremony, with a motif of small
portlandica
flowers. It was the moment of truth, as years of secrecy unexpectedly came to an end: The owner of the heavenly nails was indeed a very beautiful girl with an indescribable charisma.

The incident made her cheeks flush and her eyes were on the brink of tears. Beside the millions of feelings erupting inside both of us, she also felt awfully embarrassed. She got up and slammed the door. She paid no heed to the chalk, or to me, still lost in space and time.

The slam of the door woke me from an intoxicating spell. I was swaying, my head dizzy, my vision flashing. I fell to my shaking knees and tried to catch my breath. Blood tingled throughout my clammy body. I had just been hit forcefully by my very first love at very first sight—a most incredible feeling that only some are fortunate enough to experience.

I attempted to get up and, turning around, beheld people all around me—A Miauw pointing all over, Sarong people leaving the shop—each one of them moving in slow, beautiful motion. The Sawang coolies lugging
jengkol
sacks somehow turned into models sauntering down the catwalk in elegant gowns.

The stinky shop that had made me dizzy suddenly smelled as aromatic as musk oil. The dark, small and unattractive Syahdan became handsome. A Miauw immediately transformed into a very courteous shop owner who treated all of us customers fairly and equally, a bandit turned monk.

Not bothering with the half-empty chalk box, I turned to leave the shop and felt weightless. My steps were so light, like I was a holy man who could walk on water. I approached Pak Harfan's decrepit bicycle, which suddenly resembled a brand new bike—complete with a basket. A strange feeling of happiness settled on me, like I had never known before. It far exceeded the happiness I felt when my mother gave me a 2band transistor radio for complying with my circumcision.

As I prepared to return home, I glanced back inside the shop and caught sight of the young girl with the heavenly nails sneaking a peek at me from behind the curtain. She was hiding herself, but not her feelings. I was flying again through the stars, dancing on a cloud. Oh God, right there, among the stinky candlenut sacks, cans of kerosene and sacks of
jengkol
beans, I found love.

I flashed Syahdan the best smile I had, receiving only a puzzled look in response. I then hoisted up his small body and set him on the bicycle. I had become a man with un limited strength, and I was more than willing to cart Syahdan on the back of the bike to anywhere in the world. My friend, if you really want to know, that is what they call being madly in love.

On our way home, I intentionally violated our earlier deal. After the Chinese grave, I didn't ask Syahdan to take my place because I was exuberant. All the cosmic positive energy had given me this magical power. Love often turns things upside down.

It seems everything is fair when one is in love. That the law never sides with the poor is untrue; corrupt people roamed about like wild chickens because the law was still busy. Wait and see, they will be put behind bars sooner or later. The bicycle saddle being too high was my own fault for coming from a short family. Syahdan being heavy, despite being so small, was something to be grateful for because it meant he was healthy. The world is not fair, but that's only temporary, one must be patient. I regretted always cursing the government, especially the President and the Ministry of Education. Deep in my heart, I apologized for all the disrespectful remarks that had come out of my uneducated mouth. I also apologized to all the human beings I had ever disappointed.

After school, Syahdan and I were summoned by Bu Mus to be held accountable for the shortage of chalk. There I stood, still as a statue, not wanting to lie, to answer, or even to deny any accusations. I was prepared with a full heart to accept the punishment, no matter how severe, including retrieving the bucket that Trapani dropped yesterday into the well of horror. The only things on my mind were the girl with heavenly nails and the magical moment when I was blitzed by love. Let anything happen—a cruel punishment would only sweeten my romantic feelings. I was willing to enter the well of death for my sweetheart; I would perish floating in the well of demons a first love hero.

While being interrogated by Bu Mus, Syahdan shrugged his small shoulders and crossed his index finger over his forehead—the equivalent to twirling your finger beside your temple, signaling that I had become crazy and thereby blaming everything on me. The punishment was as I anticipated. I entered the well to retrieve the bucket, but miraculously, the satanic well was now charming. Ah, love!

THE AUGUST 17
^th
Independence Day Carnival was an event with the potential to raise a school's dignity. Prizes were awarded for Best Costume; Most Creative Participant; Best Decorated Vehicle; Best Parade; Most Harmonic Participant; and the most prestigious of all, Best Art Performance.

Bu Mus and Pak Harfan had actually been pessimistic about the carnival because of our ages-old problem: funding. We were so poor that we never had enough money for a good carnival performance. We were so ashamed because our parade was so lowly and remained the same each year. However, this time, we had a glimmer of hope: Mahar.

The PN School typically snatched 1st to 3rd place in all categories. Occasionally, state schools from the regency's capital, Tanjong Pandan, took some third place rankings. Village schools like ours were never awarded any prizes because we were just there for show, nothing more than cheerleaders.

The state schools could afford to rent traditional costumes that made their performances charming. The PN School was even more impressive. Their parade was the longest, their position the most strategic, and their formation the biggest. Their front line consisted of brand new, basketed, colorfully decorated bicycles. The riders also were adorned in cute outfits. The bikes' bells rung loudly and simultaneously. It was truly festive.

Their second line was made up of cars decorated as boats and airplanes. On them rode small girls in Cinderella gowns and crowns.

Right behind them were future professionals, students wearing outfits inspired by their aspirations. Many of them wore white coats, stethoscopes and thick glasses. Surely those children wanted to be doctors when they grew up.

Then there were the engineers wearing overalls and carrying various devices, such as test pens, screwdrivers and different kinds of keys. A couple of students brought thick scientific books, microscopes and telescopes; I guess they wished to be professors, scientists and astronomers when they grew up. The rest were pilots, stewardesses and ship captains. The PN School's parade was topped off with a marching band, the part I loved the most. The bellowing of dozens of trombones sounded like the thunderous explosion of trumpets on the judgment day. The pounding of drums shook my heart in my chest.

The PN School's marching band was not your average marching band. It was fully sponsored by PN. The choreographer, stylist and music conductor were specially hired from Jakarta for the occasion. There were at least 80 students playing in the marching band, including the attractive color guards. Without PN School's marching band, the August 17
^th
Carnival would lose its soul.

The climax of the carnival was when the marching band formed two circulating squares while saluting the VIP podium. Without fail, they always snatched first place for the most prestigious category. They simply dominated; no one ever beat them. The supreme award for Best Art Performance had been eternally displayed for at least 40 years in the prominent glass display case at the PN School.

The VIP podium was the place for the most respect able attendees, including the head of PN operations. Also in attendance were his secretary, who was always carrying a walkie-talkie, along with a couple of PN managers, village heads, wealthy sundry shop owners, the post master, the BRI Bank supervisor, the Sawang tribe chief, the Sarong people's chief, the Chinese community leader, the shamans and various other "heads," all accompanied by their doting wives. The podium was positioned in the center of the market, and most of the crowd gathered around it.

The audience was likely to watch the carnival close to the podium, because that is where the carnival participants gave their ultimate performances. An intimidating jury also sat on the podium ready to judge the performances.

For most of us from Muhammadiyah, the carnival was an unpleasant, if not traumatic, experience. Our carnival performance was merely comprised of a bunch of children led by two village teachers holding a banner with the symbol of our school. The banner was made of very cheap fabric and drooped sadly between two yellow bamboo sticks. Behind them lined up three rows of students wearing sarongs, traditional Muslim caps and Islamic outfits. They represented the founders of
Sarekat Islam
—the first Indonesian intellectual Muslim organization—and the founding fathers of Muhammadiyah.

Every year for the carnival, Samson donned a dam gatekeeper's uniform. He certainly did not do so because that's what he aspired to be, a dam keeper like his father, but because it was the only carnival-ready costume he had. Syahdan wore a fisherman's outfit, also in accordance with his father's profession. A Kiong, every carnival, chose an outfit like the gong keeper of a
shaolin
temple.

Trapani had put on high boots, overalls and a helmet. The uniform belonged to his father. He had dressed up as a PN laborer. Kucai, who lacked both boots and a helmet, was determined to join the parade in overalls. When asked, he explained that he was a low-level PN laborer on leave.

To be more dramatic, Syahdan brought along a sack of dragnet. Lintang blew a whistle because he was a football referee, and I ran around, back and forth, as the assistant referee. One handsome student had dressed very neatly, sporting black shoes and dark trousers, a long belt, a white longsleeved shirt, and carrying a big briefcase. That remarkable student was in fact Harun. It was unclear what profession he represented. In my eyes, he looked like someone who'd been kicked out by his motherin-law.

That's the way we appeared year after year. It didn't symbolize our aspirations, because we didn't dare have any. It was suggested to every student to use their father's work uniform because we didn't have the funds to rent carnival costumes. Accordingly, we represented the jobs of the marginalized community, and in this context, Mahar was dressed as neatly as Harun. Mahar waved to the spectators a retiree ID card, as his father was already retired, while Sahara reluctantly sat out because her father had been laid off.

When passing the VIP podium, we walked quickly and prayed for the parade to be over. There was no enjoyment because we felt so inferior. Only Harun, with his Beatles-themed briefcase, walked with his head held high, exuding confidence as he smiled to the VIPs perched upon the podium.

Given the reality of our situation, we had to face the pros and cons of participation each time the carnival came around. Trapani, Sahara and Kucai suggested we not participate instead of performing and embarrassing ourselves. However, Bu Mus and Pak Harfan had another idea.

"The carnival is the only way to show the world that our school still exists on the face of this earth. Our school is an Islamic school that promotes religious values! We must be proud of that!" Pak Harfan said optimistically. "We must participate in the carnival! No matter what! If we pull off an impressive performance, who knows, Mister Samadikun might be pleased and reconsider trying to close down our school. This year, let's give Mahar a chance to show us what he's got. You know what? He is a very gifted artist!"

Pak Harfan was rightfully proud of Mahar. Recently, Mahar had given Pak Harfan a good name by solving the problem of an overcrowded audience trying to watch the black and white TV in the village hall. Mahar came up with a solution to reflect the TV screen off a couple of mirrors, thereby allowing the village hall to accommodate a bigger audience.

We loudly applauded his speech. Pak Harfan had ignited our spirits, readying us for battle, and we were de lighted because we were going to be spearheaded by Mahar. We sung his praises, but he wasn't there. It turned out he was perched on one of the
filicium
's branches, grinning mischievously.

Mahar immediately appointed A Kiong as his General Affairs Assistant—his servant, basically. A Kiong told me that he couldn't sleep for three nights because he was so proud of his promotion. Mahar stayed up for three nights as well, meditating for inspiration. He couldn't be disturbed.

Every time he entered the classroom, he was as silent as the Danube clouded yellow butterfly. I had never seen him act so seriously. He was aware that everyone hung their hopes on him. We were anxiously waiting to see what surprising artistic concept he would offer.

All evening, Mahar sat alone in the middle of the field behind our school. He beat a
tabla
—traditional drum— searching for music; he didn't allow anyone to come near him. He stared at the sky and suddenly got up, jumped around, ran in circles, yelled like a madman, threw his own body onto the ground, rolled around, sat down again and, without warning, dropped his head down like an animal suffering because pestering insects.

Was he creating a masterpiece? Would he be successful in redeeming our school from dozens of years of being looked down on in the carnival? Was he truly a pioneer, a renegade capable of phenomenal achievements? Should he even be carrying the burden to impress Mister Samadikun so he wouldn't close down our school? That's a heavy burden, my friend. After all, he was just a child.

I watched Mahar from a distance. Poor Mahar was the lonely artist, never receiving his due appreciation, always the butt of our jokes. His face was discombobulated. Already one week had passed, and he hadn't come up with a concept yet.

Then, on one bright Saturday morning, Mahar came to school whistling. It was clear to us he had been enlightened. Angels had washed his discombobulated face with inspiration. Dionysus, the god of theater, had rushed into the soft spot on his head that dawn. Mahar would certainly reveal an excellent idea. We gathered around him. He looked at each of us directly, one by one, as if he was about to show a magical light bulb to a group of little kids.

"No farmers, no PN laborers, no Koranic teachers, and no dam keepers for this year's carnival!" he yelled loudly. We were shocked.

"All the power of Muhammadiyah School will be united for one thing!"

We were bewildered, not yet understanding.

"What's that, Mahar? Come on, how are we going to perform? Stop beating around the bush!" Kucai whined. This was to be the eruption of Mahar's extraordinary idea.

"We are going to perform a choreographed dance of the Masai tribe from Africa!"

We all looked at each other, not believing our own ears. The idea stung like an electric eel wrapping around our waists. We were still in shock from the incredible idea when Mahar yelled again, enlivening our spirits.

"Fifty dancers! Thirty
table
drummers! Spinning around like tops, we are going to blow up the VIP podium."

Oh, God, I was going to faint. We jumped up and down, clapped and cheered imagining the greatness of our coming performance.

"With tassels!" shouted Pak Harfan from the back.

"With manes!" Bu Mus added. We were ecstatic.

Mahar was so unpredictable. His imagination jumped wildly all over the place, smashing, new and fresh. Performing as a faraway tribe from Africa was a brilliant idea. That tribe must be meagerly dressed. The fewer the clothes—or in other words, the less that tribe wore—the less funding required. Mahar's idea wasn't just brilliant from an artistic point of view, it was also accommodating of our school's cash condition.

After that, every evening after school, we worked very hard practicing a strange dance from a faraway land. According to Mahar, it had to be performed quickly and energetically. Feet stomped the ground, arms were flung up to the sky, a circle formed as we spun simultaneously. Then, heads were quickly bowed down like bulls ready to attack, a jump and turn was executed, we dispersed in all directions and the original formation was assumed once again like bulls backing off. The feet had to fiercely scrape the ground. There could be no gentle movements; everything was fast, fierce, passionate and fractured. Mahar's choreography was difficult, but full of artistry. Fun to dance, and a healthy exercise too.

Do you know, my friend, what happiness is? It's what I felt at the time. I was completely taken in by art and would be in a performance with my best friends with the possibility of it being seen by my first love.

We really liked Mahar's energetic choreography and were certain that we were dancing about the Masai tribe's joy because their cows had just given birth. During the dance, we had to yell words that we didn't know the meanings of: Habuna! Habuna! Habuna! Baraba, baraba, bara ba, habba, habba, homm!

When we asked Mahar what those words meant, he acted like he possessed knowledge that spanned the continents and replied that it was a traditional African rhyme. I had just found out that African people shared a custom with Malays: an obsession with rhyming words. I tucked that knowledge away in my memory.

However, I was mistaken about the meaning of the dance. I had formerly been under the impression that the eight of us—Sahara had opted to sit out and Mahar himself played the
tabla
—were a Masai tribe, happy that our cows were pregnant and giving birth. But to my surprise, we were the cows themselves; following some enthusiastic dancing, we were going to be attacked by cheetahs. They circled us, disrupted the harmony of our dance formation, and then pounced on us. Chaos overcame the cows, but at that moment the Morans, or famous Masai soldiers, came to our rescue. The soldiers would battle the cheetahs for the sake of saving us, the cows. Mahar adroitly orchestrated the cheetahs' movements, they looked exactly like animals that hadn't eaten in three days.

That was the story behind Mahar's choreography. The whole scenario was accompanied by
tabla
s
,
their rhythm ceaselessly piercing the sky, the drummers dancing dynamically. The choreography represented an exciting drama— the collective fight of man versus beast in the wilds of Africa, an exemplary work of art, Mahar's masterpiece.