Asia Literary Review - Asian writers

About That Man Killed Sometime Around Election Day

“God, give me Your vote.”

The silence was the silence that follows a dog’s howl when the night watchman stumbled into the corpse by the dyke. Face down, as if seeking the fragrance and warmth of paddy. But the fetid smell and the cold of the man’s cheeks were contorted by the moonlight. Then came the others – flashlights, torches and fireflies – but no one recognised him. He’s not one of us, the watchman said.

“God, give me Your vote.”

Beneath the kerosene lantern in the village chief’s office they found the gaping wounds. Bustling shadows; leftover whispers on the veranda. The man had no identity card. No name. No party affiliation. No emblem. He had no one to cry for him because we couldn’t. Whatever could his religion be?

“Great Mapmaker, where is my homeland?”

Two days later they read about it in the city paper, on the front page. Someone cried without knowing why. Someone did not cry and did not know why. A worn-out child fashioned a hat from the morning paper that was later blown away by the wind. Look up! To those kites in the air, in pairs, leaning on the breeze. Later the twilight birds perched on the wires as the cranes sailed towards day’s end, crossing the wasteland and those long streaks of colour, like fading smoke.

“God, give me Your vote.”

Pastoral

15 metres from the road to Batuan, there is a dyke on a river’s edge, and the din of

someone driving away birds,

someone wading down to the river, singing,

someone tasting the stream,

trailing the sound

of cold’s smacking

on the pores of the forest,

currents that comb the boulders,

boulders which, like the shoulders of an ox, hold you back.

At 7.15 the limpid river disrobes you

Sometimes I want

us to vanish like a pair of lizards

in wild grass

like lustre –

III

Perhaps the time has come

for us to let words

be bewitched by the spread of moss

or by torrents

and furrows

that shrivel

Perhaps the time has come

for us to be bewitched

Meanwhile in the south

hay has been stacked,

and folk are busy

driving away birds,

“Hai! Hai! Hai!”

A row of storks

punches its bulbous white

on rice

Tell me, why upon your perfect body,

the river doesn’t seem to touch

a thing?

Perchance tied is

lotus

to water

Perchance tied is

water

to green

Perchance tied is

eternity

to leaf

I still fear

death’s acrid odour

at nightfall

like sin

VII

Seconds are thorns

that spread

into mid October

And so the day itches,

and death descends,

upon the watch that weaves cotton

into dew

VIII

When you touch the petals of putrimalu

you see

the stems of time

The transient

cannot hold on to

stars lost

in the Milky Way

That which quivers

will be erased

Those who make love

will cease to make love

But I remember a poem

that pleads: “Lay your sleeping head, my love,

Human on my faithless arm.”

The next day, someone sends a postcard to the hut:

“I like Malacca. The walls of the Portuguese,

the street in early morning’s rumble,

old roof-tiles on a Chinese warehouse,

the port’s curvature, the colour of ships, and food stalls.”

That someone does not give a name.

Maybe indeed there is a city,

so far away. Or a bay

so far away

Hmm…

What is the meaning of an end?

XII

15 meters from the road to Batuan, there is a dyke

on a river’s edge. Sometimes I want

us to fall, like butterflies falling

from a branch

Before the certainty of death.

A Prayer for Refuge (in a Romanian Church)

Oh, my Lord who has vanished

into wooden walls so dark,

dark as tobacco,

let me hide thy name,

let me shelve my hunger,

my fear,

my sword.

Do not let this be thy kingdom.

Free me from these dark

narrows so like a fearful

heaven.

Give me

a spell, from a foreign chant,

like the Hebrew word

on the priest’s tongue.

Give me

the red of spilled wine

before they come

before they

cross the farmers’ graveyard

and seize you

from the sleeping congregation

of this Gethsemane.

Oh, my Lord who has vanished

into wooden walls

so dark, dark as tobacco,

let me hide thy name,

let me shelve my hunger,

my fear,

my sword.

The 12th Commandment

I do not know what is said in the 12th Commandment.

“Maybe something about the wind and the estuary,” you say.

I hear your voice.

I imagine salt scraped off waves,

and waves sundered on the shore.

I imagine a barge seeking space. Getting, not getting.

I do not know what is said in the 12th Commandment.

“Maybe a terse tale about an eternal journey,

somewhere far away, with a simple ending.”

And someone will depart; though I know not for long.

Perhaps stars are honed

at first light.

I imagine time carried away by the river.

translated by Laksmi Pamuntjak