Based on true story happened in Solo city, Indonesia.
Retold by Mr. Koeaing !
Retold by Mr. Koeaing !
Part I
The dawet vendor’s boy?
The dawet vendor’s boy?
I am Alif, I am the third boy of four brothers, Setro is my eldest brother. He was very naughty. The teacher once punished him to stand by all the time before the class. He was mad and soon went to the blackboard; he lifted and handed it over to the teacher’s body. Then he ran away. He did not go to that class ever since.
...if i am not my real father's son then who am I ? do you know itmy friend...?
My elder sister is klentheng, because she is black. Klentheng is the name for the black kapuk button. She is similar in hard-habit with my brother Setro. She often beats me by tenggok a bamboo container for the horse meal. Gabruuk ! It was painful you know, it needed three days to recover....
I have my youngest brother, Sakim. He was the most gorgeous one. That is why he became my mother most favorite’s son, it was OK for me, and even I loved him more. If he faced some problems, I helped him as good as I could. Sometimes when he fought against his friends, I helped him to fight them.
Our father Imam Munawar was a very hard man. No wonder where mas Setro and mbakyu klentheng habits were come from. He was a chariot’s wheel repairer. He studied at famous Tebuireng Islamic Boarding School, East Java Province. He loosed almost all his religion knowledge but not his martial arts, we didn’t now why.
As a chariot wheel repairer, he got so many silvery goods in his warehouse. No wonder so many thieves wanted to steal it anyway. One day a thief came in to his warehouse and then the magical things happened. Up to the mid day this thief just wandering around this warehouse. My father, Imam Munawar just gave him a little shock by his palm “plok"...then that thief aware and gave my father an ovation by turned his back down.
I have my youngest brother, Sakim. He was the most gorgeous one. That is why he became my mother most favorite’s son, it was OK for me, and even I loved him more. If he faced some problems, I helped him as good as I could. Sometimes when he fought against his friends, I helped him to fight them.
Our father Imam Munawar was a very hard man. No wonder where mas Setro and mbakyu klentheng habits were come from. He was a chariot’s wheel repairer. He studied at famous Tebuireng Islamic Boarding School, East Java Province. He loosed almost all his religion knowledge but not his martial arts, we didn’t now why.
As a chariot wheel repairer, he got so many silvery goods in his warehouse. No wonder so many thieves wanted to steal it anyway. One day a thief came in to his warehouse and then the magical things happened. Up to the mid day this thief just wandering around this warehouse. My father, Imam Munawar just gave him a little shock by his palm “plok"...then that thief aware and gave my father an ovation by turned his back down.
Guerilla boy...."Give me your mercy sir, I did not mean to steal, but this is my last thing I can do sir, my family is starving to death right now...”
My father did not even get angry at all, he even gave that thief some money to buy his family foods....
"Here it is I give you some money for your wife and children... but remember if you lie to me so let your penis goes to your forehead forever..."
“Thank you so much sir...I give my words to you..." he then hugged my fathers foots.
My father can be a very generous and good person to others but not to his own children, he often acted like as an algojo! I was the one who beaten often, because I was just a little kid not like my brother, Setro. He was a young boy so if my father got mad and wanted to ‘kill’ him he just ran away as fast as young horses. If this happened, he did not return to our house for a couple days. I could not do like that, I could not run anywhere.
Nowhere to go for me, I once had a terrible experience with my father’s anger. He bonded me to a chariot‘s wheel because I swam with my companies in the river. Not to mention when I was bonded to the spike right in the middle of the yard. Then he gave this spike dry grass surrounded and he burned it away! His action was similar with inquisitive armies of Catholic Church who burned the Protestants alive!
That was why I sometimes thought that I was not his real son. When I was saved by my mom from the burning grass, he got mad and gave my mom very bad words, "Why do you bother save this satanic boy? Let him burned to the hell anyway, besides he’s not even my real boy...he is a son of the dawet vendor nearby the market don’t he?”
When my father gave those words my mom replied the same,” you can say any words you like, but you are the one that cheat on my back, I know you have an affair with the bitch widow nearby the river don’t you asshole...!"
As I said before they always fought each other everyday, and the sad thing was, we were the victims.
It was nearby the year of 1942, finally my mom and my father were divorced, and my father then married a new wife nearby the mount of Lawu. We followed our mom still. We lived in Ngaglik village, a little kampong in the northern Surakarta district. A terrible happened in this village when the dry season was come, because we must seek fresh water harder. This neighborhood was very strong in Islamic teachings. Therefore, my name itself is the first Arabic font ; Alif , while my father’s name was Imam Munawar ( Munawar the great leader) isn’t it a great name huh? However, sometimes between name and habit is far away matched. Just like heaven and earth!
After my father was not in our house anymore, the situations became more difficult. Sometimes we ate once a day, sometimes did not. What we ate was just thiwul, the dry flours of cassavas. The corn rice was better than thiwul, because when you eat thiwul often, your stomach face a serious problems, you even could have a bloody shits...
My father did not even get angry at all, he even gave that thief some money to buy his family foods....
"Here it is I give you some money for your wife and children... but remember if you lie to me so let your penis goes to your forehead forever..."
“Thank you so much sir...I give my words to you..." he then hugged my fathers foots.
My father can be a very generous and good person to others but not to his own children, he often acted like as an algojo! I was the one who beaten often, because I was just a little kid not like my brother, Setro. He was a young boy so if my father got mad and wanted to ‘kill’ him he just ran away as fast as young horses. If this happened, he did not return to our house for a couple days. I could not do like that, I could not run anywhere.
Nowhere to go for me, I once had a terrible experience with my father’s anger. He bonded me to a chariot‘s wheel because I swam with my companies in the river. Not to mention when I was bonded to the spike right in the middle of the yard. Then he gave this spike dry grass surrounded and he burned it away! His action was similar with inquisitive armies of Catholic Church who burned the Protestants alive!
That was why I sometimes thought that I was not his real son. When I was saved by my mom from the burning grass, he got mad and gave my mom very bad words, "Why do you bother save this satanic boy? Let him burned to the hell anyway, besides he’s not even my real boy...he is a son of the dawet vendor nearby the market don’t he?”
When my father gave those words my mom replied the same,” you can say any words you like, but you are the one that cheat on my back, I know you have an affair with the bitch widow nearby the river don’t you asshole...!"
As I said before they always fought each other everyday, and the sad thing was, we were the victims.
It was nearby the year of 1942, finally my mom and my father were divorced, and my father then married a new wife nearby the mount of Lawu. We followed our mom still. We lived in Ngaglik village, a little kampong in the northern Surakarta district. A terrible happened in this village when the dry season was come, because we must seek fresh water harder. This neighborhood was very strong in Islamic teachings. Therefore, my name itself is the first Arabic font ; Alif , while my father’s name was Imam Munawar ( Munawar the great leader) isn’t it a great name huh? However, sometimes between name and habit is far away matched. Just like heaven and earth!
After my father was not in our house anymore, the situations became more difficult. Sometimes we ate once a day, sometimes did not. What we ate was just thiwul, the dry flours of cassavas. The corn rice was better than thiwul, because when you eat thiwul often, your stomach face a serious problems, you even could have a bloody shits...
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