by Gwee Li Sui
“There – that must be Tarukan village already… where we’re supposed to spend the night at Auntie Kadek’s. Would you like that?” he asked Memeri. The duckling did not respond. Nyoman peered down at it and saw that its head was already tucked underneath its wing, sound asleep. Nyoman smiled. “Lazy little thing,” he said and held Memeri a little closer to him.
***
Auntie Kadek, whose house was at the edge of fields, greeted Nyoman with a toothless smile. Nyoman could only remember her vaguely, but the old woman seemed to know everything about Nyoman’s family. She asked after his parents, his grandmother, his sisters and brothers. “Seems like only yesterday that your brother was herding his ducks to market,” she said, then frowned. “So how is he, your brother?”
“He’s fine,” Nyoman said, hoping that he wouldn’t be asked any more questions about that. But the questions kept coming. How long had his brother stayed at the hospital? Had he been knocked unconscious by that bomb blast? What could he remember of it now? Nyoman answered as briefly as it was polite to, but he knew that his brother didn’t like to talk about it, and so he rarely asked. For months after the incident, his brother would have nightmares, thrashing about under the mosquito net they shared as Nyoman tried to shake him awake. Those were the only times that his brother would moan about the flames, the blood, the screaming, the terror of it all.
And so it was with relief now that Nyoman accepted Auntie Kadek’s invitation to come into the house for some supper. As for the ducks, they were shut inside a makeshift pen in a nearby walled garden, nestling down for the evening in some straw. They would be let out into the padi fields at dawn to forage for any rice grain spilled from the threshing after the recent harvest. If they laid any eggs, those would be Auntie Kadek’s to keep as a fair exchange for the night’s lodging.
It was a time-old arrangement, this exchange of freshly laid duck eggs for a night’s lodging and food, with perhaps even a nicely packed lunch for the day’s journey ahead, if the farmer was kind.
After a simple supper, the old woman rolled out a rattan mat for Nyoman to sleep on. “And that one – it sleeps with you?” she asked, pointing to Memeri.
Nyoman nodded shyly. “It has a broken leg,” he explained, showing the little splint on the duck’s bent leg. “I thought the other ducks might bully it if I left it out in the pen with them.” What he did not admit, not even to himself, was that he welcomed the thought of having a warm, feathery body next to him, on this first night that he slept alone, far away from home.
***
The next morning, Nyoman opened his eyes and reached out for the duck. It wasn’t there. Then he saw it, silhouetted against the open window, a shaft of sunlight glossy on its feathers. Its round head was tilted against the light, and the curve of its long neck was as graceful as a maidenhair fern unfurling. Absolutely still, it sat there – like a gleaming wood carving. For a moment, Nyoman wondered if it was indeed a wooden duck, like the ones his father carved in the lazy days between the rice planting and harvest.
Moving cautiously so as not to disturb the duck, Nyoman got out the knife and the block of mahogany his brother had given him. Yes, the rich brown of the burnished wood was the same shade as the duck’s feathers in the morning light. He ran his fingers along the wood, feeling the smooth grain of it, remembering the satiny smoothness of Memeri’s feathers when he stroked them yesterday.
Almost without his being aware of it, he started chipping away at the wood, whittling and paring it. First the round nubbin of its head, then the flat bill jutting out, and finally that lovely curve of its neck. Nyoman could feel the shape of the duck emerging from the wood.
But then the duck – the real duck – shook itself, ruffling its feathers, and the spell was broken. It stretched out one wing in a graceful arc and moved off to one side slightly. There, smooth and white against its brown tail feathers, was an egg.
Nyoman laughed in delight. It seemed so natural to him that, while he was making a duck, his duck was making an egg.
“Look!” he said proudly to the old woman, who had come into the house with a bucket of well-water. “A fresh egg!”
He handed it over to the woman and started to put away his knife and carving, careful to sweep up the wood shavings away so that Auntie Kadek wouldn’t have to clean up after him.
“Why the rush?” the old woman said, holding the egg in her cupped palm. “This egg was meant for you, you know. The other eggs, down in the duck pen, I’ll keep. But this one I will fry up – specially for you.”
For form’s sake, Nyoman protested politely, but the old woman brushed him aside and busied herself with fanning the charcoal cooking fire. Soon, there was the delicious smell of onions and garlic being sautéed.
Well-fed and rested, Nyoman took his leave of the old woman and flushed his ducks out of the pen. The sun was just rising above the hills when he started walking down the road behind his flock of ducks, swishing his stick at the ones who strayed too far off.
And so, together, they established an easygoing pattern. By day, Nyoman would herd the ducks along the road, and, by night, they would sleep in a farmhouse along the way, exchanging a night’s lodging with duck eggs.
During his free time, in the twilight after the ducks were penned away for the night, Nyoman would take out his piece of wood and whittle away at it, smoothing and refining its familiar curves. Once in a while, he would glance over at Memeri as if checking for her approval. The duckling would cock her head and look back at him with that steadfast gaze of hers.
The time passed quickly, and, when he set out on the fourth morning, Nyoman knew that he was already on the outskirts of Kuta and would head into its lively morning market the next day.
It’s too soon, Nyoman thought. He had liked the way the road unfurled ahead of him, the changing scenery, the new people he met. He wished that the journey would take another few days, months even. He was not ready for it to end so soon.
Memeri squirmed in his arms, and he realised that he had been holding onto her too tightly.
“And you,” Nyoman murmured. “Are you going to be all right?” Silently, he also wondered what it would be like without her as a constant companion.
***
The next morning, Nyoman set off for the last time behind his flock of fifty ducks, with Memeri tucked under his arm. It was not a long walk, but, by the time they reached the market, the boy’s steps were slow and reluctant. He knew that the marketplace would be noisy, and he dreaded that. But more than that, he realised, he dreaded the thought of parting with Memeri.
In the far corner of the market, where chickens and ducks, and pigeons and geese, were all cooped up in rattan coops, Nyoman found the plump woman who sold ducks. He stood there and waited. It was a while before the owner of the stall noticed him.
“How many do you have there?” she called out, waving at his ducks. She was so fat that the skin under her arms swung to and fro, like wet laundry.
Nyoman hesitated. “Uh… forty-nine,” he said.
She squinted at the flock, counting them under her breath. Then she looked at the duck curled up in Nyoman’s arms. “What about that one?” she said.
“You… you won’t want this one,” Nyoman stammered. “It… it’s got a bad leg.” He held up the broken leg, but the market woman ignored it.
Instead, she leaned over and poked Memeri’s glossy brown breast. “Nice and plump,” she said. “Probably fatter than the others, being carried around like that. “
“But it can’t walk…”
“So what? Does a roast duck need to walk?” She laughed so hard that her belly quivered.
Nyoman swallowed. Hard. He held onto Memeri more tightly.
“Tell you what,” the woman said impatiently. “I’ll give you three and a half million for the whole lot. That’s a good price! Here!” She thrust out a wad of bills at him. “Take it,” she said. “I haven’t got all day!” She reached out and pried Memeri away from his arms and tossed
it into a coop already crowded with other ducks.
Stunned, Nyoman took the wad of bills. He pretended to count them, but he was having trouble blinking his tears away, and he couldn’t really see them.
Clutching his handful of money, he glanced around for a last look at Memeri. She was standing alone, her steady eyes fixed on his.
Abruptly, Nyoman turned and started to walk away, groping his way blindly through the bustle of the market until he was running, running past the stalls and out into the dusty, noisy street.
***
Long before he saw it, he could sense the quiet of the ocean, and intuitively he headed for it. How he got there, he didn’t know. But, when he had stopped running, dodging people and the Bemo cabs and buses, Nyoman found himself staring out onto the vast ocean.
Bigger than the biggest rice field he had ever seen it was, but, instead of rippling green rice stalks, there was wave after wave of foamy blue water, cresting and breaking onto the sand. For a long time, Nyoman stared out at the ocean, letting the rhythm of its movement calm him.
As his breathing slowed and became regular again, Nyoman sat down. It was already mid-morning, and the shadows of the palm trees stretched out long and spindly on the sand.
He realised that he still had the sheaf of money in his hand. He took out his rattan basket and shoved the bills into it. His hand touched the wooden duck, and he took it out. Golden brown in the sunlight, it tilted his head up at him. Nyoman looked at it. I’ve got the curve of her neck just right, but her wingtips need to be sharper, he thought. He got out his knife and whittled a bit of the wood away. Next, he worked on the feet, scratching out the pattern of webbing on it. It comforted him, holding the wooden duck in his hand, etching out the pattern of her feathers.
He was so absorbed in his carving that it was only after he had put the finishing touches on the wooden duck that he noticed a man and a woman sitting nearby. The sound of their quiet talking, and then of the woman’s crying, reached him.
He looked at them. They were foreigners, their skin a chalky white under their curly grey hair. The woman was weeping silently, her tears shiny in the sunlight. Nyoman stared at her and thought of Memeri. Her eyes reminded him of the way the duck gazed at him, caged in the marketplace. She looks like how I feel, he thought.
“You know why she’s crying?” a voice asked behind Nyoman.
He turned around and saw a boy about his own size and age, but better dressed and paler, Chinese-looking. He spoke with a funny accent. “Because of the bombing. Their daughter died in it.”
“How do you know?” Nyoman asked.
The boy shrugged. “I heard them talk about it.”
“You understand them?”
“Sure! I can speak English, just like them. They’re from Australia.”
“And you?”
“Singapore. I’m on holiday with my family, but there’s nothing to do here. It’s so boring…”
Nyoman absorbed this in silence. Then he said, “My brother was hurt in the bombing. His leg was crushed.”
The boy looked impressed.
“Just like this duck,” Nyoman added, turning over his carving to show the Chinese boy the wooden duck’s maimed foot, which jutted out at an awkward angle. He found himself talking about Memeri, how quiet and calm she was tucked under his arm, how she slept against him each night, on their trip down, and, finally, how woebegone she had looked, stuffed into the crowded duck coop in at the marketplace.
The boy from Singapore listened intently. “That’s tough,” he said. “About your brother, I mean. And your duck.”
“But at least they’re not dead,” Nyoman said. He looked at the woman weeping quietly as she stared out to sea, her shoulders hunched.
Then, on impulse, he got up and walked over to her. Gently, he tugged at her skirt and held out his hand to her: on his outstretched palm sat the little wooden duck. “For you,” he said.
Her husband shook his head and said something.
“He said he doesn’t want to buy anything,” the boy from Singapore translated, coming up behind Nyoman again.
“I’m not selling it,” Nyoman said. “It’s a gift.”
The boy said something in their language to them. The woman looked at Nyoman through her tears.
“I told them about your brother too,” Singapore said.
Silently, she took the carving from Nyoman. The wooden duck gleamed in the sun, its long neck curved and smooth. It was, Nyoman knew, a thing of beauty.
“It has a name. Memeri,” he said, careful to speak slowly for their benefit.
“Memeri,” she repeated.
The boy from Singapore launched into another commentary, during which the name Memeri was mentioned several times. At the end of it, the Australian man said something, then rummaged in his pocket and tried to hand Nyoman some money.
Nyoman backed away, frowning. The carving was a gift. Did these people not understand that?
But the boy from Singapore reached out and took the money, then started running off. “Come on,” he shouted back at Nyoman. “We’re going back to the marketplace!”
“But why?” Nyoman asked.
“They want to buy your duck!” Singapore explained.
“Why?”
“To give it to you, of course! Don’t you get it?”
Nyoman blinked, confused. Things seemed to be happening so quickly.
“A gift for a gift, silly!” The Singapore boy said, and laughed. “Where I come from, we call it a trade!” With that, he trotted off, and Nyoman ran after him, back to the marketplace. Back to Memeri.
***
When they returned to the beach, with Memeri tucked safely under Nyoman’s arm, the Australian couple was still sitting there. The woman had wiped away her tears and actually smiled when she saw the duck. She said something to Nyoman.
“She wants to see if your duck can swim,” the Chinese boy translated.
Slowly and solemnly, Nyoman walked down to the sea. The tide was coming in, and he waded into it until he was knee deep in water. Then he set Memeri onto the water so carefully that she might have been a delicate flower garland. And, like a lotus, she floated on the water, tilting at first to one side before she righted herself, paddling with her one good leg until she was bobbing gracefully in the water.
On the shore, the couple was clapping. The Singaporean boy too. But Nyoman had eyes only for the duck. Already she was swimming, a little clumsily, but managing to move in a straight line. She quacked and opened up both wings, fluttering her feathers. Nyoman laughed.
It was as if a big tight band across his chest had suddenly snapped, and he could breathe again. A feeling of joy welled up in him and exploded into the morning sky. Oh, what a wonderful world this is, Nyoman thought, gazing at the sun flecked waves stretching far to the horizon. On those waves, in that vast ocean was his small, brown duck, bobbing up and down, swimming with its one good leg.
கொக்கொக்கக் கொக்கு
எழுதியவர்: சிங்கை மா இளங்கண்ணன்
கீழ் வானம் சிவந்தது. இளங்கிளிகள் ஒவ்வொன்றாகப் பொந்துகளை விட்டு வெளியே வந்தன. கீச்சிட்டுக்கொண்டு பறந்து போய் மாமரக் கிளைகளில் அமர்ந்தன. அவற்றுள் ஒரு கிளி தம் கூட்டத்தைக் குன்றின்மணிக் கண்களால் நோட்டமிட்டது. பழங்களைத் தின்று பழுத்துவிட்ட பழங்கிளி அங்கு இல்லை.
பதறியபடி, “எங்கே நம் கிழக்கிளியைக் காணோம்…?” என்று கேட்டது.
எல்லா இளங்கிளிகளும் கத்துவதை நிறுத்�
��ி விட்டுத் தம் கூட்டத்தை நோட்டமிட்டன. கூட்டத்தில் அகவையும், அறிவும் நிறைந்த கிழக்கிளியைக் காணவில்லை.
பதற்றமடைந்த இளங்கிளிகள்:
“நம்ம கிழக்கிளி பொந்தை விட்டு இன்னும் வெளியே வரலே போலிருக்கே...!”
“அது எப்படி இன்னும் வெளியே வராமல் இருக்கும்...? இன்றைக்குனு பார்த்து வெளியே வராமல் இருக்காதே...! நம்ம ஊரின் பிறந்த நாளுனு அதுக்கு நல்லாத் தெரியுமே…! அதுவும் அரை நூற்றாண்டு பிறந்த நாள் என்றால் சொல்லவா வேணும்! அதைக் கையில் பிடிக்க முடியாதே...! அதுதானே முன்னே நிற்கும்...! எப்போதும் வெள்ளெனக் கண் விழித்து நம்மை உசுப்பி விடும் அது இன்றைக்கு இவ்வளவு நேரம் தூங்குதுனா இதுக்கு ஏதோ காரணம் இருக்கு...!”
எல்லாக் கிளிகளும் இறக்கைகளின் நுனிகளை நெற்றிப் பொட்டுகளில் வைத்துக்கொண்டு சிந்தனையில் ஆழ்ந்தன.
“என்ன காரணமாக இருக்கும்…?”
“காரணம் புரியவில்லேயே…!”
“நேற்றில் இருந்தே நம் கிழக்கிளி பித்துப் பிடித்ததைப் போல இருக்கு…! காய் கனி எதுவும் தின்னலே...! கவலையாகவும் இருக்கு…!”