by Barry Heard
His wife frowned. ‘And?’
‘I was conned. No money, no tip, just a grateful receiver who thought I had already been paid.’ Quickly he changed the subject, realising his wife would discern he was lying. ‘The man I gave the parcel, he too was sorry. We talked for a bit and then, just like that, he said he might be able to help me get a job. Yes, as a conductor on a local train. I have to report on Monday.’
Azka gave no details, just showed her the card. His wife jumped up and down, clapping. Then husband and wife joined hands and started to twirl. The children stared, began clapping, and, moments later, in a ridiculous move, attempted to become part of this exhilarating spinning scene. Ridiculous because the room barely had space to stand.
That night, after dinner, Azka went outside and sat on the edge of a gutter. He needed a space, somewhere to sit, alone — though surrounded by neighbours, motor scooters, pedestrians, and animals. The gutter was his personal privacy zone. It allowed him to think. His tiny dwelling offered no such luxury.
With his knees tucked under his chin to keep the narrow lane free, he waved one arm to scatter the annoying mosquitoes, closed his eyes, and began the delicate journey of deciphering the vague information concerning his daughter. He guessed she worked in the city. The photo had confirmed she dressed as a young adult. She used drugs or alcohol, more likely drugs. She had grown up in a caring, loving environment — why run away? She was too young to make such decisions. Azka dithered around the truth. Yes, before he’d sat, before he’d come home, before he’d even read the note, he’d known the answer. This poor child, his sweet angel, Layla, had been addicted to some drug (heroin) forcefully. It gave her captors complete control. The truth — she had been kidnapped.
He acknowledged it was only by chance and determination that he had found her. So why had those men contacted him? Why, after having him taken to that expensive car, did the driver remain hidden? Why the job? There was something missing in this story, but what? Surely they could hire anyone, so why him? It concerned him. Where would this job lead? He was a dupe, a fall guy, or something sinister. Such a conundrum, yet no doubt he would follow through. A job, an income, and his daughter back home — eventually.
He looked up into the grey-smudged sky. ‘I am so sorry, Allah, for lying to my wife. Please understand.’
Come Monday, at the station manager’s office, the meeting went very well. In two days, Azka would have a provisional job, a uniform, a name badge, and an income. This new wage would be enough to raise his family, even school his children part-time. He had been allocated two carriages — C and D. Both third class. The train went from Bandung to Jakarta and then returned to Bandung on a different line. The entire journey could take up to nine or ten hours, the circuitous route due to the high volcanic mountains between the two major cities.
Azka’s duties were simple: keep control, clear disruptive passengers, and answer the phone in the corridor between his carriages if it rang. It would be one of the two other conductors on the train calling. All of this was explained in the briefest of interviews. Brief and confusing. There would be no trial run or assisted training — just start work on Wednesday for three, maybe four, days a week thereafter. Perhaps full-time if needed. Then the station manager made an oblique statement about extra earnings. When Azka attempted a hesitant enquiry, the manager just smiled and said that details would follow.
The reality was that Azka had been hired for one reason only — to partake in the occasional kidnap scheme. His wage would be a pittance compared to the overall amount of money that flowed from each abduction.
Azka should have been excited. He had to make his family believe this was all good. Yet on the long walk home from the local train station, Azka continually wiped tears from his large brown eyes. He was again pondering the connection between his precious daughter and this job.
As if a switch that allows a light to shine had been flicked, he remembered — yes, that person in the car — yes, they knew I could read — that’s right. They had only asked him to confirm it.
This small opening of discovery told him something. That these people, they knew his daughter quite well. Why? Because, of all his children, Azka held a special bond with Layla, a distinctive link that deserves some explanation.
As a young boy growing up, Azka had learnt to read. No, not at a school, under a paid tutor, or via Sesame Street. He learnt at home, in a tiny, overcrowded slum dwelling. As well, he learnt other languages, science, and mathematics. Originally, he had a teacher of sorts — his father, a frail, dying man in his late twenties, who in his last years of existence put most if not all of his energy into encouraging and helping Azka to learn. Such an effort, such a treasure, such a gift. Azka loved him totally, still did, always would. Their story, however, really began when Azka’s father had started work as a young boy some decades earlier.
Long before Azka was born, his father, Saqib, worked as a cleaner for a wealthy family and enjoyed the extravagant luxuries of two meals a day and a bed in their large storage room. Being from a slum area, Saqib not only delighted in the new bed, he also kept a companion — the owner’s dog. Both the dog and Saqib slept on a bulky covered mattress. Everyone was happy with this arrangement, particularly Saqib. His duties as a cleaner included washing clothes, cleaning windows, vacuuming, polishing woodwork, and emptying bedroom chamber-pots. A very long list. Once a month, Saqib returned home for three hours, bearing wonderful gifts and surprises, such as old clothes, worn shoes, very short pencils, and the odd book. The best gift — food.
There were four children in the well-to-do family that hired Saqib: two sons, the eldest already attending university, and two daughters. Saqib started the job as a ten-year-old. He rarely saw the parents of this wealthy family, only other staff, and their number varied between six and a dozen depending on the season and school holidays. If by chance the father or mother entered a room while he was working, he stopped, lowered his head, and awaited permission to continue. The children had few exchanges with Saqib, though Saqib was the same age as the youngest, a boy named Pratham. Pratham’s life in this affluent family came with many a privilege — this is true for any son in such circumstances. He had a large bedroom he no longer shared with his older brother, a wardrobe, an armchair, a desk, and a bookcase; his own record-player, a piano, and a small transistor radio. His sisters shared the one large bedroom separated by a thick silk screen. What more could he, Pratham, want or wish for? Nothing really, until he started missing his brother. Then, you guessed it, he wanted a friend.
After his brother left, Pratham’s life was restricted to the family yard and his bedroom. Their property was encircled by a security fence that shut out neighbours and made the place look like an internment centre. Where could he find fun by interacting with others? He wanted to throw a ball to someone, chase another child, or just sit together. He got on well with his older sister, Shiwangi, true, yet however many times he asked his parents if he could visit a boy schoolmate or cousin, he was told no, not a chance — Pratham’s needs were a low priority when it came to social decisions. This lack of companionship with someone his age and gender saw Pratham often just sitting in his room, alone, trying to read a book or to enjoy music on the radio. He needed a friend.
School holidays saw a completely different yet somehow even more lonely arrangement for Pratham. He attended tennis lessons and piano lessons, sat through formal visits, and spent many hours in his bedroom revising topics learnt in the previous school term. In summation, he couldn’t wait to get back to school. His parents had one goal: Pratham must excel — in every subject, particularly those involving numbers, economics, statistics, and records. Pratham complied, tried his hardest, and made his parents proud. The father, he wanted their empire, a chain of hotels, to remain in the family. Yet this enforced harmony within the family ignored the fact of his son being a young boy looking for pleasure.
When Pratham first asked Saq
ib to swing with him on a large rope in their backyard one day after school, Saqib refused very politely. Both had recently turned twelve. But when Pratham offered a bribe, a small syrupy biscuit, Saqib submitted. He promised to swing with Pratham for five minutes. From that one simple moment of joy, a secret bond developed. They met regularly and, before parting, always agreed on a plan and a place for their next meeting. Just as importantly, Pratham convinced his sisters, particularly Shiwangi, only two years older, to maintain a level of discretion. Put simply, ‘Don’t tell our parents.’ The staff said nothing.
The boys became good friends. They shared boys’ laughter, boys’ games, and boys’ secrets. However, the day Saqib asked Pratham to teach him to read, a new world evolved. Secretly, they met, in the storage room, its darkness lit only by a tiny torch. Within weeks, Saqib could read a grade-one schoolbook. Two months later, he had reached the same standard as Pratham. Saqib was a gifted young boy with a sharp brain. In the evenings, in the early mornings, at home every month, he read. In Saqib’s bedroom — the storage room — Pratham set up a small reading lamp. The bond between them not only strengthened but endured for many years.
Eventually, Pratham left home to work in another country. Saqib married, his wife chosen for him by his parents. She moved into his parents’ room, a slum dwelling, where he now lived on weekends. He continued to work for the rich family. He got up at 5.00 a.m. Monday, walked for forty-five minutes, and took a cheap rickshaw ride to work, where he stayed until Saturday. After six months of marriage, there came a pleasant surprise for Saqib: Pratham returned home to work in the local branch of the family hotel business, in Bandung.
Then another surprise, that precious moment. Saqib became a father — Azka arrived, a beaming little boy.
Saqib tried so hard to be the father, the worker, the husband, and the son to his ageing mother. Failure was almost inevitable. Was it the strain, his overworked body, or the constant exhaustion? Whatever, the worst outcome for this family occurred — Saqib contracted malaria. Azka was five. Saqib tried to work part-time. After six months, he was reduced to one day a week. Then, after a year of desperation and declining physical strength, he stopped work. He had no choice. The tired man, older than his years, had deteriorated to a fragile skeleton.
Home with his wife, bedridden, surrounded by love, he found his greatest joy in teaching his precious Azka to read. He died two weeks before Azka’s eighth birthday.
Prior to his death, Saqib arranged for Azka to have ‘that box’, the large cardboard box Pratham had given Saqib when he finally accepted the fact that his friend had to resign. Parting after all those years was devastating for both, particularly Pratham. He wanted to remain in touch. Saqib refused. Embarrassment won that request. Secretly, Pratham arranged for someone to follow Saqib home the day he left, a sick, shrunken shadow of a man. When the person following Saqib returned and informed Pratham of the whereabouts of his dear friend, Pratham knew he couldn’t visit. Instead, he packed that special box and had it delivered along with a letter and a very generous parcel of money — enough money for the family to survive until Azka could go to work. (Pratham could not guess that Azka, at six, had already been working for a year.)
Saqib was overwhelmed by his old friend’s generosity. The box contained children’s books, a measuring tape, a protractor, graph paper, plans for making kites to fly from the top of rubbish tips — and so on. However, all the amazing things Saqib took out of the box were nothing compared to what remained. On dying, Saqib had but one wish: that one day his son should become as inquisitive, curious, and questioning as himself. He hoped Azka would be consumed by the box’s contents.
And this is what they were: Books on physics, mathematics, and languages; an encyclopaedia; and classic novels. Dozens of empty notepads waiting for an excited student. And a microscope and its instructions.
Azka, when time permitted, and like his father, devoted his life to learning. To absorbing every ounce of the information in that box. Weeks became years, then decades. He proudly passed on his wisdom to Layla. His precious daughter. She never attended any formal class, but her knowledge and understanding of many subjects equalled that of any top student on completing high school.
As she came of age, Azka often pondered one question — how to get her a job, a career, anything to use her brilliant young brain.
Sadly, she did get a job.
It shattered him.
Chapter 8
Azka the train conductor held his first pay packet with pride. After finishing his first fortnight of six days working on the train from Bandung Station, he couldn’t wait to get home and show his wife. He had already obtained a surprise present for the family, a most unexpected gift — for nothing. Again, he held it up, the present, checked the string around the top of its bag twice, patted the bag, and looked skywards in a gesture of thanks.
Then he remembered the note from the station manager. It stated:
Azka, you are now part of an enterprise called the ‘White Suit’. Today, after work, once home, you will meet a man called Bagus. He will come to your home and explain the business ‘White Suit’.
He was tired. He hadn’t forgotten the note handed to him several weeks back about ‘helping’ with an unusual task as the conductor on the train. Yet over the past weeks he’d almost begun to believe it wouldn’t happen. Surely, if something were going to happen, it would have happened by now.
His bus home arrived one hour behind schedule. Mind, there was no such thing as an accurate timetable for local buses. Scooters ruled the roads.
Today, the gift was a pleasant distraction. As Azka plodded from the bus stop, head down, the hessian bag over his shoulder, his mood gradually changed. He built up speed. He smiled. With long strides and one arm swinging high, he whistled. He enjoyed carrying the moving hessian bag. Several times, he had rehearsed the story about the bag he carried. Now that the story was complete, word for word almost, he could not get home quickly enough.
Finally, he turned into his own narrow lane, the familiar clutter, smells, banter, busyness. He smirked as he clutched his moving bag and knocked on the canvas entrance to his home. As usual, squeals greeted him. Everyone gathered round. He sat, pretending to ignore the bag, and chatted to the children. He asked questions about their day — how did they get those eggs from the neighbour? Many a frown came from the family, as all wanted to ask what was in the large hessian bag. Azka only put his finger to his lips. He loved the drama. More importantly, he wanted to clear the news of the day so that he could explain at length the details about this sack. Yes, about something funny that had happened at work. Amid groans and gasps, he began.
‘Today, on the train, in the peasant-poor cattle carriage, D, I was beckoned by someone from the regular third-class carriage, C, to please quell the noise coming from my carriage. So I squeezed my way past an angry fruit-drink salesman and the five deformed beggars trying to slide around demanding food or — well, anything really. One was on a small lump of timber, on wheels, like a skateboard. In this same tight area, several farmers guarded sacks of rice, while someone played music. It was so crowded. Then, finally, there they were — the noisy ones. Yes, one man trying to give another man a haircut, the two of them almost exchanging blows.’
Azka stopped talking, laughed loudly, and was about to continue when a strange sound came out of the moving bag he was holding.
‘Sqwark!’
Azka shook the bag; the noise stopped, and he resumed his story.
‘The man in this carriage with the scissors was a chicken farmer. He had something like twenty chickens hanging upside down on his short bamboo pole. This same man struggled and cursed while he snipped with scissors at the long hair of a legless beggar. Sometime earlier, by accident, when the train lurched, a beggar with rollerskates strapped to his knee stumps had rolled under the bamboo pole as it tipped to one side. The chickens went berserk, attacked the begg
ar with their beaks — and somehow their flapping wings and heads swishing frantically became entangled in his very long hair. By the time I arrived, there was a riot. Some could see the beggar was of a faith that must never have their hair cut. Most, however, egged on the dispute. For them, it was free entertainment, hilarious. Even some who were sitting outside, up on the roof, hung down and peered through the window upside down to check out the noise. One held a small boy by his ankles. Anyhow, we had a problem, and I was the boss, the conductor. I must say, though, in my training instructions, they never talked about haircuts and religion, ha ha. So, I made the decision, yes, I stepped in and said I would cut the man’s hair myself. If not, I would have the police remove them both at the next station. Next, I cut as little as I could and told the beggar he could travel in C — that doesn’t happen very often. And the man with the pole gave me a chicken, a big fat one, and here it is.’
Azka held out the bag, which moved and squawked. His family clapped. A chicken was a very special treat when cooked with curry and rice. They clapped with joy. His wife was about to speak when a smack on the canvas door made everyone jump. Even though Azka was expecting a visit sometime today, from someone important, he had almost forgotten, and he certainly hadn’t mentioned it to his family. More to the point, he had expected this man well after dinner. Yet when Azka opened the door, there stood Bagus. He looked tired, hot, and flustered.
There was a reason Bagus looked both put out and exhausted. From central Bandung to Azka’s slums was a long, busy, and erratic drive, one that never failed to frustrate him even to the point of endless tooting on the Audi’s loud horn. He had an Audi in every town in which he did business, not that it helped him here. Traffic jams were a permanent thing in the slums. Road rules just didn’t exist. From narrow alleyway to narrow slum lane, Bagus continually manoeuvred among pedestrians, thumping the wheel while madly honking. Finally, he arrived, found a very narrow park, almost hit his door on a wall, and squeezed out near the place he had met Azka months before — the local market, on the last street that allowed cars.