Leila Chudori - Home

“Why Srikandi?” he asked.

“It’s like, in the story, she’s searching for the right body for herself.”

“And what about Panji Semirang?”

“He is looking for his identity.”

I noted the surprised look my parents gave each other.

“It’s interesting that you’ve chosen characters who change their gender,” Ayah said, not judgmentally. He seemed curious as to why I had chosen those two figures.

I was only ten years old at that time, and maybe my answers sounded too precocious, but it truly was because Srikandi and Panji Semirang were able to change their gender that they attracted me.

For me, the rules of the game in the world of wayang were as complex as they were baffling: imagine being able to switch genders back and forth! Ayah said my choices might be an indication of the kind of person I would become.

That night, after we were home and as I was beginning to fall asleep, I overheard my parents talking about our conversation in the park. My father said that he felt guilty, that I had probably chosen characters who were in search of their identity because he himself suffered from an identity crisis. She must be asking: who am I, an Indonesian who has never been to Indonesia, or a French person who happens to be half Indonesian?

Maman placated Ayah by telling him that she was sure I liked those two female characters because they were strong and their stories were action-filled, something that children always liked.

I found Ayah’s hunch to be the more interesting. He himself always said that his favorite wayang characters were Bima and Ekalaya from the Mahabharata. At first, I guessed that he liked Bima because the character was the epitome of masculinity: big and tall, strong and protective. But the fact was, he was attracted to Bima because of his faithfulness to Drupadi, the woman who — in the Indian version of the Mahabharata, at least — became the wife of all five Pandawa brothers. Bima’s devotion to Drupadi was even greater than that of Yudhistira, the eldest of the five brothers. It was Bima who defended Drupadi’s dignity when she was insulted by the Kurawa cousins at the time the Pandawa brothers had lost a bet with their cousins at a game of dice.

“It was Bima who protected Drupadi the many times that other men tried to force themselves on her during the twelve years the Pandawa brothers were forced to live in the forest,” said Ayah, with his lively interpretation.

“So why Ekalaya?” I asked.

“Because only he was able to match Arjuna’s skill with the bow — even without having studied under Resi Dorna.

According to Ayah, the lesson we find in the tale of Ekalaya is that a person is able to attain perfection of knowledge on his own accord, without having to study under someone. Ekalaya achieved his goal because of the strength of his commitment and will. Of course, the story actually begins with Ekalaya wanting to master the use of the bow and arrow beneath the tutorship of Resi Dorna. The arrow… What a unique and extraordinary weapon. So simple: just a rod, straight and thin, but with a sharpened tip capable of piercing the heart of its target. Arrows appear in some of my favorite stories; those from the Mahabharata and in films by Akira Kurosawa. But Ayah was frugal in sharing the story of Ekalaya with me. He waited for the right time.

I remember when I was little, Ayah received a package from his brother, my uncle Aji. In it were the two shadow puppets: Bima and Ekalaya. Ayah’s eyes glistened with joy as he removed them from their box and found a place for them to hang them on the wall in the living room. He kept saying how difficult it was to find an Ekalaya puppet, because he was not one of the main characters in the Indonesian Mahabharata. Ayah guessed that Om Aji could only have found the puppet in some out-of-the-way and forgotten corner of Solo.

Often, while waiting for the Saturday evening film to start at Domaine de Saint-Cloud, we’d talk about stories from the shadow theater, mostly ones from the Indian-based Ramayana and Mahabharata but also ones from the Panji cycle, tales that were indigenous to Java. The sky overhead became a huge shadow screen. With his low but soft and velvety voice, Ayah became the dalang, the shadow master extemporaneously reciting a section from the Mahabharata. Ayah was very good at playing with his deep and heavy voice. If he had ever wanted to, I’m sure he could have been a dalang or a singer.

Except for a few brief demonstrations at Nara’s home and at Tanah Air Restaurant, I’ve never seen a real wayang orang performance, where, in a reversal of what is normally the case in live theater, people play the roles of puppets and not the other way around; but when I was young I always enjoyed it when Ayah mimicked the basso profundo voice used by the character of Bima on the wayang orang stage. He often used that same technique to dissipate tension in the air when Maman was irritated with him. Like in the mornings, for instance, when he’d make fried rice. Almost every morning, before Maman left home to teach, Ayah would prepare a breakfast of fried rice for us—“special fried rice,” he called it, because of the shredded omelet he always put on top. Maman always grumbled at the sight because, like most French people, she thought fried rice was much too heavy a morning meal. But Ayah always ignored her. Switching his voice back and forth, he’d make up a conversation between Bima and Ekalaya, as he tickled Maman’s neck. No matter how hard she tried to maintain the scowl on her face, Maman would finally break into laughter and then join us in eating a plate of Ayah’s fried rice: hot and tasty to the tongue and rich from the oil he’d used to fry the rice. Ayah always like to make his fried rice with minyak jelantah , oil which had already been used to fry something else, shallots and onions, for instance, so that their taste, too, was imparted in the rice.

That evening, I succeeded in coaxing Ayah to reveal Ekalaya’s tale.

And so it was, one dark night that was blacker than a night, with no moon, Resi Dorna went into the forest pervasive with the scent of lotus. Suddenly, a young man of exceptionally dark skin appeared as if out nowhere, stopping the teacher in his tracks, and startling him with the light that shone from his eyes.

“Who are you, young man?” Resi Dorna asked.

The younger man was very tall and fit, his body all muscle and dark pliant skin. With a poised movement, he bowed deeply before the elderly man.

“Resi Dorna, teacher of all teachers, I am Ekalaya, the son of Hiranyadanush…” Impatiently interrupting the young man’s introduction, which he expressed in a slow and measured pace, Resi Dorna said, “Go on, go on, young man. What is it?”

With his hands still raised in a sembah sign of obeisance, Ekalaya stated his desire to study under Resi Dorna, who was known throughout the universe for his mastery of the bow.

Not waiting even one second to answer, Resi Dorna said that it would be impossible for him to be his guru, because his teaching and mentorship skills were reserved exclusively for the sons of Kuru. What Dorna didn’t say is that he wanted his favorite warrior pupil, Arjuna, to hold the title of best bowman in the world. But Ekalaya would not back down. Before him stood the master who he had long vowed would be his guru. He could not let Dorna leave him without obtaining from him some form of consent.

“Guru…”

“I am not your guru.”

“For this humble servant, you will always be my guru. I beg of you to grant your servant’s request.”