Inem

A Short Story by Pramoedya Ananta Toer, 1950

Inem is my friend from among my friends who are girls. She is eight years old, so she is two years older than me. She is no different from my other friends. But if there is something different, it’s this. People say she is pretty for the young girls in our village. People are happy when they see her. She is polite, not spoilt, skillful and hard working. Things that straight away make her name famous even among the villages around our village. Inem is just right to be my friend.
And one time as she is boiling water in the kitchen, she says to me, “Gus Muk, I’m going to be married.”
“Go on?” I say.
“Yes. The proposal came last week. Mother and father and my other relatives have accepted it.”
“How wonderful to be a bride!” I call out joyfully.
“How wonderful. Indeed! They are going to buy me beautiful clothes. I am going to be dressed up in bridal clothes, with flowers, make up, mascara and eye liner. How wonderful. How wonderful!”
And that is right. One afternoon, her mother arrives to see my mother. At the time Inem had been sent to be raised by my parents. Her work every day is to help cook in the kitchen, and to play with me and my siblings.
Little Inem’s mother earns an income from making batik for pay. If they’re not working in the rice fields, the women in our kampong work making batik cloth. Some of them make batik cloth to be used as dresses, and others make smaller batik cloths to be used as head scarves. The poor ones make batik scarves because they can finish scarves faster and get paid faster too. And little Inem’s mother earns an income from making batik scarves. She receives the cloth and wax from her employer, the Green Shop. For every two scarves she finishes, she receives a wage of one and a half cents. On average someone can make eight to eleven headscarves per day.
Inem’s father cockfights and spends his days just gambling on cockfights. When he loses, his rooster is taken away by the winner and he has to pay one guilder, or at least seven-five cents. When he isn’t cockfighting, he’s playing cards with the neighbors betting one cent each time. Sometimes Inem’s father is away for a month or weeks at a time, wandering from place to place on foot. When he arrives home again, it means he has some money in hand.
One time my mother tells me that Inem’s father mainly works as a highway robber, out in the depths of the teak forests between our town Blora and the coastal town Rembang. I was in first grade at the time, and I heard all sorts of tales about banditry, robbery, and murder. Those stories along with the stories from my mother made me afraid of Inem’s father.
Everyone knows that Inem’s father is a criminal. Still, no one dares to report him to the police. And no one can prove he’s a criminal. Because of this he’s never been arrested by the police. In fact, nearly all of Inem’s mother’s relatives are police. Some of them are even police inspectors first class. And Inem’s father himself has even been a police officer, but he was fired for taking bribes.
My mother also tells me that in the past Inem’s father was a big criminal, that to wipe out the widespread crime, the Dutch Indies government made him into a policeman to eliminate his friends. And that after, he never robbed again. But in our neighborhood, people are still very suspicious of him.

When Inem’s mother visits my mother, Inem is boiling water in the kitchen. I join in greeting her mother. So, the guest, my mother, and I sit in the low red divan.
“Milady,” says Inem’s mother, “I’ve come to ask for Inem.”
“Why are you asking for Inem? Wouldn’t it be better if she stayed here? You have never had to spend anything on her, and she can learn to cook here.”
“But, milady. After the harvest is in, I plan to marry her off.”
“What?” exclaims mother surprised. “Marry her off?”
“Yes, milady. She’s a maiden now—eight years old now,” says Inem’s mother.
Now my mother laughs, and seeing mother laugh our guest is bewildered.
“Eight years old is still a child, isn’t it?” my mother asks then.
“We’re not from the noble class, milady. I am thinking she’s already a year past due. Misses Asih over there married her daughter two years younger than mine.”
My mother tries to convince her, but Inem’s mother has more excuses. Finally, our guest speaks again, “I think it’s lucky someone is asking. If we don’t accept this proposal maybe no one else will ask for Inem. How embarrassing to have a spinster daughter. And perhaps she’ll be able to help lighten the burden of our daily needs.”
My mother does not respond. Then she turns to me and says, “Fetch us the betel nut chest and brass spittoon.”
And I leave to fetch the betel nut set and brass spittoon.
“And what does Inem’s father say?”
“Oh, Inem’s father agrees. Especially since Markaban is from a wealthy family, the only child. He’s started trading livestock now, in Rembang and Cepu, Medang, Pati and Ngawen, and here in Blora too,” says Inem’s mother.
My mother appears pleased at this news, a joy I do not understand the reason for. Then she calls for Inem who is boiling water in the kitchen. Inem arrives. My mother asks, “Inem, are you willing to be married?”
Inem lowers her head. She is deeply respectful towards my mother. It is true that one often finds a person who is incapable of rejecting anything they are told.
At this meeting I watch Inem light up. She often looks like this. Give her anything that will make her even just a little happy, and she will light up. But she’s not used to saying thank you. In the interactions among the families of simple people in our village, saying ‘thank you’ is still foreign. Only in the glow that beams forth from someone’s face does the expression find expression.
“Yes, milady,” whispers Inem, almost inaudibly.
Then Inem’s mother and my mother chew some betel nut. My mother herself doesn’t like chewing betel nut often. She indulges only when there are female guests. From time to time, she spits into the brass spittoon.
“Missus Inem,” says mother as Inem goes back to the kitchen, “we should not marry off small children.”
Inem’s mother is surprised to hear what my mother says. But she doesn’t say a word. Her eyes do not appear to question either.
“I was married at eighteen,” my mother adds.
Inem’s mother’s surprise disappears. She isn’t surprised anymore, but she still does not say anything.
“Missus Inem, we should not marry off children,” my mother repeats.
And Missus Inem is again surprised.
“Their children will be deformed.”
Missus Inem’s surprise fades again.
“Yes, milady,” she says, finally, coolly, “my mother was married at eight.”
My mother pays no heed and continues, “Not only will their body be deformed, but their health will also be affected.”
“Yes, milady, but our family is known for our long lives. My mother is still alive, even though she’s over 59. And my grandmother is still alive. I would say she’s 74, still strong. Strong enough to pound corn.”
My mother remains unmoved. She persists, “Especially if the husband is still a child.”
“Yes, milady, but Markaban was seventeen.”
“Seventeen! Little Mamuk’s father married me when he was thirty.”
Inem’s mother falls silent. She continues to turn over the tobacco wedged between her lips. Sometimes she moves it to the right. Then she moves it to the left. And sometimes she rolls it to clean her charcoal-colored teeth.
Now my mother is left with no more excuses to resist her guest’s wish any longer. “If it is your wish to marry her off, well, at least I hope that Inem finds someone good who can take care of her. May she find her true match.”
Inem’s mother departs for home still rolling the tobacco in her mouth.
“I do hope that no accidents befall the little child.”
“Why would an accident befall her?” I ask.
“Nothing, Muk. It’s nothing.”
Then my mother changes the subject. “If the family’s situation improves, we won’t lose any more of our chickens.”
“Are our chickens being stolen, mother?” I ask.
“No, Muk, it’s nothing,” mother says slowly. “Such a small child. Only just eight years old. Poor thing. But they need the money. And the only option is to marry off their child.”
Then mother goes to the field at the back of our house to pick some long beans ready to be cooked into vegetables.
Fifteen days after her visit, Inem’s mother returns to retrieve her child. She seems very pleased when Inem doesn’t protest at being taken away. And as Inem is about to leave from our home never again to be a part of our family, she speaks to me at the kitchen door. “It’s alright, Gus Muk. I’m going home, Gus Muk,” she says very softly.
She always speaks slowly. And speaking slowly is one of the customs in our small town to show deference. She leaves with the joy of a child about to receive new clothes.

From that moment, Inem no longer lives at our house. I feel the loss of my close friend keenly. And from that time on it isn’t Inem who takes me to the bathroom to wash my feet at night before bedtime. It’s my foster sister.

Sometimes I deeply long to see Inem. Often as I lie in my bed, I think about the moment she was led away by her mother by the hand. And both of them leave our house. Inem’s house is behind our house, separated only by a wooden fence.

She has been gone for a month. I often visit her house to play together, and my mother is always angry when she discovers I have been there. She always says, “What can you possibly learn by visiting Inem’s house?”

And I always say nothing. Mother always has a reason whenever she tells me off. Each word she utters builds an impenetrable wall which can be brooked by no excuse. Because of this it is better for me to say nothing. And at the heart of her anger, without fail will she repeat the sentence she often repeats, “Why do you play with her? Aren’t there lots of other children you can ask to play with? Always it’s her the girl who any time now is going to be married off.”

But still, I sneak away and go over to her house. It truly puzzles sometimes why the prohibition exits and why it is important to break the rule. And in breaking the rule that what I do gives me a sense of enjoyment. And for small children like me at the time—oh, how many restrictions and taboos were piled onto us. Yes, it is like everything in the world is watching us, not will not let us do anything that we want to do. Like it or not us children feel like the world is truly meant only for the grownups.

Then the wedding day arrives.

Five days before the wedding, Inem’s family is busy cooking a variety of sweat meats and dishes in the kitchen. This entices me to go over to her house even more often.

A day before the wedding, Inem is adorned beautifully. Mother instructs me to take five kilos of rice and twenty-five cents as a contribution. That evening we children gather around her and admire. The baby hair on her forehead, eyebrows, and fringe have been shaved off and shaped neatly and darkened with kohl make up. Her small bun is enlarged with a hairpin decorated with paper flowers on spring stems that we call “sunduk mentul“. Her outfit is made of satin silk, an expensive fabric from the town of Solo. Everything is rented from a Chinese vendor in the Chinese quarter near the town square. Even the rings and bracelets that are made of gold are just rentals.

The house is decorated with banyan tree and young coconut leaves. Tricolored flags flutter across each of the walls within circles of palm leaves. Even the electricity poles are adorned with tricolored ribbons.

My mother herself arrives and joins in helping with the preparations. But not for long. This is something my mother does not often do unless it’s for one of the closest neighbors. She is back at home again in less than an hour. And at that moment a delivery arrives from Inem’s future husband: a sack of sweat meats, a goat, a sack of rice, a packet of salt, a sack of husked coconuts and half a bag of white sugar.

At the time the harvest has just been brought in. Rice is cheap. And if rice is cheap, every other food is cheap too. That is the reason why after the marrying season a lot of celebrations are held. This is the reason Inem’s family can’t find a shadow puppet performance. The puppeteers have accepted requests from other families and kampongs. Shadow puppet performances are the most popular entertainment in our area. And in our town, there are three types of shadow performance – the traditional wayang purwa shadow puppet performances that play the stories of the epic Mahabarata and Ramayana legends, as well as stories related to the main stories. Then performances of wayang krucil shadow puppets, made from wood shaped to look like people, perform stories from Arabia, Persia, India, China, and from the time of the kingdom of Majapahit. And also, performances of the wooden wayang golek puppets. But people don’t really like them.

Because there aren’t any puppeteers available, Inem’s family thinks of dancers. At first there’s an argument. Missus Inem’s family comes from the ranks of religious teachers. But Mister Inem is not to be overruled. And so, dancers are brought in, along with their gamelan musical ensemble. Traditional tayuban dancing is put on.

Usually, tayuban dancing in our area is attended by people who want to join in the dancing, and small children who want to watch, small children whose knowledge of the birds and the bees doesn’t yet go beyond kissing. More mature young people don’t like to watch, they’re embarrassed. And as for the women, absolutely not. And tayuban dancing in our area – used to heat up the sexual appetite – is always accompanied by liquor: rice spirits, beer, whiskey, jenewer or gin.

And so tayuban dancing goes on for two days and two nights. Us small children really enjoy watching the men and women dance and kiss and sometimes bang glasses and down hard liquor as they dance and shout.

And even though my mother forbids me from going to watch, I sneak out.

“Why did you go over to the place where those wicked people are? Look at your religious teacher, even though he’s Mister Inem’s brother-in-law, he hasn’t gone to watch. You can see that for yourself.”

Our religious teacher lives behind our house too, on the right of Inem’s house. In the future Teacher’s absence will become a topic of conversation that always heats up the conversation. It also brings up two topics that just lingered on the tip of the tongue: Teacher is indeed a pious person. And Mister Inem is a real bastard.

Mother sharpens her anger at me with words that I cannot understand at the time: “You know what? They are people who do not know how to respect women,” she says in a cutting voice.

And when the groom arrives to be united with the bride, Inem, sitting on the dais, is escorted by someone. The groom has already reached the pavilion. Inem bows and kneels to her future husband, then washes his feet with scented flower water from a brass basin. Then the couple are sashed together and led together to the dais. At that moment the attendees exclaim together, “One child becomes two. One child becomes two. One child becomes two.”

The women watching seem overjoyed, as if they themselves are about to become the recipients of happiness.

That’s when I see Inem crying so hard that her makeup is ruined, and tears streak her beautiful face. At home I ask mother, “Why was the bride crying, ma?”

“If the bride cries, it’s because she is remembering her long-departed ancestors. Their spirits also attend the ceremony. And they rejoice that their descendants have married safely,” mother replies.

Her words never occur to me at the time. But later I understand why she is crying. Inem needs to go to the toilet, but she doesn’t dare say so.

The ceremony is fades into cold emptiness. No more guests arrive bearing gifts. The house returns to its former state. And when the quarrels erupt, Inem’s father has already left Blora. Missus Inem and Inem herself continue making batik – day and night – after the wedding. And should anyone visit their house at three in the morning, they are often found still at their batik making, the kitchen emitting swirling candle smoke around them. Quarrels are also frequently heard in the house. ..

Once while I was sleeping in bed with mother, loud shouting woke me up: “No! No!”
It is still night-time. The cries are repeated, and accompanied by pounding on the door and banging sounds. I know it is Inem’s voice. I recognize it.
“Ma, why is Inem shouting?” I ask mother.
“They’re fighting. Hopefully no harm comes to the little child,” she says, but she does not explain any further.
“Why would harm come to her?” I press.
Mother refuses to provide an answer. And then when the commotion ceases, we fall asleep again. Those kinds of shouts are almost certain to happen every night. Shouting. More and more shouting. Every time I hear it I ask mother. But she will not answer properly. Sometimes she will just sigh, and say, “Poor child, so young.”
And one day Inem arrives at our house. She immediately seeks out my mother. Her face is pale, bloodless. Before saying anything, she expressed her plea with tears – polite tears.
“Why are you crying, Inem? Are you fighting again?” mother asks.
“Madam,” Inem says, “I hope,” through her sobs, “that you will accept me here again like before.”
“But aren’t you married, Inem?”
And Inem cries again. Through her tears, she says, “I can’t bear it, madam.”
“Why, Inem? Are you unhappy with your husband?” mother asks.
“Madam, have mercy on me. Every night, he just wants to wrestle, madam.”
“Couldn’t you say, ‘Please, don’t do that,’ to him?”
“Inem is scared, madam. He’s so big. And when he wrestles hard, I can’t breathe. Won’t you accept me again?” she pleaded pitifully.
“If you didn’t have a husband, Inem, of course, I would accept you. But you do have a husband,” says mother.
And Inem cries again upon hearing mother’s words. “Milady, I don’t want to a husband.”
“Even if you don’t want one, you do have one still, Inem. Maybe in the future your husband will become better, and you can both live happily. Didn’t you want to get married before?” says mother.
“Yes, milady…but, but…”
“Even so Inem, a woman has to be devoted to her husband. If you’re not devoted to your husband, you will be cursed by your ancestors,” mother says.
Inem cries still harder, unable to utter a word.
“Now, Inem, promise. You will always provide food for your husband. If you’re idle, you have to pray to God for his protection. You must promise to wash his clothes and massage him when he’s worn out from seeking a livelihood. You must massage his body if he catches a chill.”
Inem still does not respond. Only her tears continue to fall.
“Now, go back to your husband. If you leave your husband like this, things won’t turn out well for you either now or in the future,” mother added.
“Yes, milady,” she says obediently.
Slowly, she stands and walks back home.
“Poor thing. So young,” says mother.
“Ma, does father ever wrestle you?” I ask.
Mother carefully observes my eyes. Then her scrutiny dissolves and she smiles.
“No,” she says, “your father is the best person in the whole world, Muk.”
Then mother goes to the kitchen to fetch a hoe and works in the field with me.

A year passes without much notice. Then once again Inem arrives. A year has made her much bigger than before. Clearly, she has grown into adulthood, even though she is only nine. As usual she goes straight to mother, sits on the floor with her head bowed, and says, “Milady, now I no longer have a husband.”
“What?”
“I am not married anymore.”
“So, you’re a widow now?” mother askes.
“Yes, milady.”
“Why did you divorce him?”
She does not answer.
“Weren’t you devoted to him?”
“I think I have always been devoted to him, milady.”
“Did you massage him when he came home tired from looking for a living?” mother inquires, probing.
“Yes, milady, I followed all the instructions.”
“Why did you divorce, then?”
“Milady, he often beat me.”
“Beat you? A child this young being beaten?”
“I was very devoted, milady. And when he beat me, and I was in pain, is that devotion, milady” she asks seeking clarification.
Mother falls silent. Her eyes study Inem.
“Beaten,” whispers mother, softly.
“Yes, milady – beaten. Just like my mother and father used to beat me.”
“Perhaps you were not devoted enough to him. A husband wouldn’t dare to beat his wife if she was really devoted.”
Inem does not respond. She changes the direction of the conversation, “Will you take me back?”
Mother hesitates to respond. Firmly she says, “Inem, you are a widow now. There are many important men here. Wouldn’t it be improper for other eyes to look on you?”
“Is that because of me, milady?”
“No, Inem, because it would not be proper.”
“Wouldn’t be proper, milady? Because it wouldn’t be proper I can’t be here?”
“Yes, that’s the way it is, Inem.”

The widow does not say a word. She stays seated on the floor, seemingly without any intention of leaving her position. My mother approaches her. Pats her shoulders in consolation. “Now, Inem, it’s better you help your parents earn a living. It’s such a shame, but I cannot take you back again.”
Two teardrops cling to the corners of the small woman’s eyes. She rises. Drags her feet dejectedly as she leaves our house, headed towards her parents’ home. After that she rarely appears outside her own house.
And then, the nine-year-old widow – because she is a burden only on her parents’ household – can be beaten by anyone who wishes to, her mother, her younger brother, her uncle, her neighbor, her aunt. Even so, Inem never again arrives at our house.

Toer, Pramoedya Ananta. (1994). Inem. In Cerita dari Blora: Kumpulan Cerita
Pendek [Stories From Blora: Collection of Short Stories] (pp. 39-52). Jakarta: Hasta Mitra. https://archive.org/details/ceritadariblora. Retrieved from https://ruangsastra.com/32072/inem/.

Featured image credit: Kris and sheath early nineteenth century.
Iron, gilt, hardwood | 59.5 x 15.1 x 4.5 cm (whole object) | RCIN 62915, Grand Vestibule, Windsor Castle, Java – Kris and sheath (rct.uk)