Nichola Hunter - Ramadan Sky

For the next few days it seemed that everything in our house had changed, but around us the streets continued their song as if nothing had happened. Children rose like ragged birds in the mornings and chirped and screamed and laughed on the roadside where they always played. Women carried baskets of cakes through the neighbourhood and men pushed their breakfast carts selling bubur ayam and coffee and fried snacks. The ojek drivers watched the street and smoked and gossiped and waited for customers.

I wanted to stay there amongst the cheerful noises and the quiet shadows of our house, where my father’s presence could still be felt in the corners and around the windowsills, but my lessons had already been paid for the next two years and my mother was anxious to begin honouring my father’s wishes straight away. So, a week after the funeral, she packed my things. This was not an easy task as I had made up my mind not to return to school, so as soon as she had finished packing the case, I took everything out again and returned the case to the shelf where I kept my things. After I had unpacked for a third time, my mother called two of my sisters to help her. At the sight of me standing there, glaring fiercely, in front of the neatly stacked clothing, all three of them started giggling. That was an insult I was not prepared to take. I was surprised to find my legs moving of their own accord, and a loud screaming noise coming out of me.

You think it’s funny! Why are you sending me away from my father’s house? I started kicking at the case and then picked it up and threw it across the room. Unluckily, it hit my mother’s shelf of special family things, including flowers and photographs of my father, which came crashing down from the wall.

Suddenly nobody was laughing.

Fajar, I thought you were a good boy , said my mother, in a shocked voice.

My eldest brother, Rhamat, came running downstairs to find me standing amongst the debris, breathless and defiant. He swiftly grabbed me by the shoulders and then pulled down my trousers and took off his belt.

My mother tried to intervene.

Rhamat! No!

But Rhamat would not listen.

This kind of temper shows a very bad character , he said steadily, waving at them to stand back. Best to catch it early .

He pinned me down on the table with one hand and thrashed at my legs and buttocks many times with the belt, while my mother and sisters stood and watched him. That is the way it would be from then on: Rhamat taking over my father’s position in the family before we even had a chance to get used to his death, but unlike my father, Rhamat did not hesitate to use force. He would beat any of us, especially the boys, while the women would stand there like stunned deer, staring wide-eyed, and doing nothing.

I did not give Rhamat the satisfaction of crying out when he beat me. I kept silent, and afterwards walked out of the house without looking at any of them. That night when I returned, I lay awake with the red welts stinging, my skin itching, but I was determined not to show any feelings, even to myself.

The next morning, I ate the breakfast that my mother cooked for me, and then the two of us walked, without speaking, to the bus stop.

You must work hard and try to be gentle , she said, as she hugged me goodbye.

I did not answer. She looked small and worried as the bus the bus pulled away, but I did not return her wave.

On the way back to school, I stared out of the window, barely noticing the other people riding on the bus. I watched the sky change from dirty brown to pale blue and the tall city buildings dwindle into the distance. Nobody was waiting for me at the bus stop, so I walked down the laneway alone and found the latch on the gate at the back of the school grounds. I returned to my classes without any fuss – a cold stone boy, but nobody seemed to notice any difference.

All that was more than twelve years ago. I am not a child anymore, but that’s not easy to explain to five older brothers and six older sisters. Rhamat is still the bossiest and the worst. Although my mother is the head of the family, and she still tries to do things according to my father’s directions, Rhamat argues with everything and always wants the best of everything for himself and his dog-faced wife.

He is twenty years older than me, and all of us hate him. We wish he had not taken the place as the first man of the family. My mother has said that perhaps one day he will be run over by a bus. When she said that I told her that he is our brother and we must try to love him, but in my secret heart I was glad to hear it spoken.

Our mother works very hard and watches over us, especially me because I am the youngest, and my next brother Satiya because he is lazy and will not settle down to a wife or a job. He is ten years older than me and we have four sisters in between.

Everyone says that Satiya and I are the handsome ones in our family and also that we could be twins, but I don’t think so. For a start, he is shorter than me, and he covers his face with a beard. I can see that his eyes are dark like mine and he has high cheekbones and curly hair that he grows long and ties with a red bandana. I keep my hair short and my face clean-shaven. Satiya stays out most nights and refuses to answer to anyone when he comes home in the mornings. He eats and then goes off to work, his eyes sullen and drooping from lack of sleep. He did not like school and cannot speak a word of English, whereas I still have the certificates that I won in high school for best English student two years in a row – the year my father died and the next year. After that I came back home, to Jakarta, as there wasn’t any money to keep me there.

Night is the best time for Jakarta. Our houses are small and hot, so we hang out in the street or down by the river, where there are a few scraggly trees and a warung that sells tea. We also buy snacks there, and sometimes a little vodka, and other things if the right person is buying. There are piles of rubbish along the street and clouds of insects rising from the river, and a straight stretch of road that is good for racing. Our motorbikes roar like stallions, kicking up dust over the oily moon. There are no women here – all wives, mothers and sisters are in the homes that they are constantly spinning for us, like spiders. When we return at dawn, wives will be sulky and silent, mothers will scold.

Everyone who has a bike comes down here to try to earn a little extra money by racing and betting at the balap 1. We do this every Friday and Saturday night – unless the police come. Then they take whatever they can get out of us and send us home. Sometimes there is very big money to be won at the balap , and then the police will allow it, for a share of the prize money. If you want to win big, though, you have to put up top money. This is why you must be very careful about lending money to your friends. They will sometimes borrow from many friends on the same day, in order to do this racing. When they lose, they will have no way to pay anyone back.

One night I won three races, all of them against the second brother of my street enemy, who had cost me both my girlfriend and my job. My friend Budi was there, and he told me:

Take this bastard, Fajar, and show him who is the winner and who will be the winner, always, in the end.

We had put two hundred thousand rupiah on the first race. They called the start and from the beginning I felt the bike rush out fast and straight and I beat him easily. His face was blank as he called for another race. We always double the money if another race is called for. I told him he would be very sorry to lose four hundred thousand more. I could still feel the magic coming from my jeans and the warm seat of my bike, so I agreed and again, I beat him easily. This time he was sweating and showing his teeth after the finish.