What Is Lost

By Pramoedya Ananta Toer

The Lusi River wraps around the southern half of the town of Blora. During the dry season, its bed of stones, gravel, mud, and sand gapes towards the sky. The water is only a few feet deep. But when the rainy season comes, the greenish water turns to thick yellow with mud, rising to a height of as much as sixty feet. Sometimes even more. The calm flow becomes wild, swirling crazily. It drags bamboo clumps from the banks like a child pulling up grass. It erodes the riverbanks and rips away fields from the villagers. Lusi! Tearing down its own banks.

And in this life, sometimes the swift current drags along the bodies and fates of people. And without them knowing, they lose parts of their very lives…

From the front of our house, the green-black tops of bamboo clumps are visible. When the wind blows, they sway and whistle, always stirring fear in my childhood heart. I would run to my mother’s lap and cry. And I still remember my mother asking, “Why are you crying?”

Her hands, no longer soft as in her youth, would stroke my thin cheeks. And my child’s voice, still lisping, would answer through sobs, “Mother… the bamboo is crying.”

My mother would lift my chin to her lap and say, encouragingly, “It’s not crying. No. It’s singing.”

Then my mother would sing a traditional local song. Her soft, melodious voice would lull my fears. I would caress her wind-blown hair, and play with her earring adorned with marquise diamonds. And then, her sweet voice would fill my heart, “You’re sleepy. Let me put you to bed.”

I would open my eyes wide to keep enjoying my mother’s song. But I couldn’t keep them open any longer…

But all of that is lost now. All of it has disappeared like the river banks and bamboo clumps dragged away by the Lusi River’s flood. And I can’t resist the powerful currents. I truly feel how easily people are tossed by the waves of time, from place to place, from feeling to feeling.

Once, I remember dreaming of finding a penny. And when I opened my eyes, my hand was tightly clenched to keep the penny I found from disappearing. I quickly clambered up and found my mother. Shouting joyfully, “Mother, mother, I found a penny.”

I saw my mother smiling, sharing my joy. Displaying her happiness, she asked, “Where did you find it? Where’s the penny?”

I held out my clenched hand to her. Shouting happily, “Here! Here!”

I opened my hand. But it was empty. And my mother’s sweet voice followed, “Where is it?”

I was stunned with shock and disappointment because the penny I had found in my dream wasn’t in my hand. And I cried from disappointment. And I heard my mother laugh. Then she soothed me, “You just woke up. You were dreaming. Don’t cry.”

But the disappointment still churned in my chest. And I continued to cry. My mother wiped away my tears with the edge of her kebaya. “Hush. Hush,” she said again.

She took out a half-penny from her the fold of her sarong and handed it to me. And I stopped crying. I played with the half-penny, still holding onto some of that disappointment in my chest.

“It’s late now,” said my mother, “go take a bath. Ask Nyi Kin to bathe you.”

And I got up from my mother’s lap. But I didn’t go to be bathed. I saw my mother’s face turn stern. Then her voice, no longer soft but full of certainty, “Go.”

Her certainty made me get up and walk slowly to find Nyi Kin in the kitchen. From behind, I heard a voice reminding me, “Hurry! It’s late now.”

Her certainty also made me afraid to cry. Slowly, I went to find Nyi Kin in the kitchen to ask for a bath.

To this day, I can still picture Nyi Kin. She was one of many women in this world who married a man she didn’t know beforehand. From that marriage, she contracted syphilis. The disease caused them to separate and find their own ways in life. Syphilis also took one of her eyes. It completely ruined her beauty. And besides that, it shattered one of her knees. She had to drag one of her legs when she walked. During the day, she had no chance for sadness over her fate. Daily life consumed most of her attention. Only when night fell, and her tired body couldn’t fall asleep, did she regret her lost beauty.

And when Nyi Kin became our maid, her eye was gone, and she dragged one leg when she walked. She had no children. Yes, before she could have children, syphilis had also taken her fertility. That was why she always loved us. And her love still lingers whenever I remember her.

Nyi Kin, once beautiful, had become a victim of her own beauty. Sometimes she would stroke my cheek as if she were stroking her own child. And I still remember when she carried me, she hid her face behind her shawl. Suddenly she would pull the shawl away quickly. And I would hear, “Boo.” –

Again and again, she does this. And I’m overjoyed each time she does. I laugh with glee, and she laughs too. But then suddenly, she doesn’t pull away the shawl covering her face. I yank it off myself. And I see that her once sweet face has lost its sweetness. Her eyes are red. Then she presses my cheek against hers for a long time: she longs for the children she never brought into this world.

Nyi Kin saves part of her wages. Almost half of it she uses to buy food. And that food is for me. Later, I learn that she receives eighty cents from my mother every month. Like my mother, Nyi Kin loves to tell me stories. The only difference is that my mother always tells stories of war heroes in the Near East, while Nyi Kin always tells tales of ancient animals that can talk, and build kingdoms in the forest.

I don’t remember clearly if she told me all this when I was four or five years old, or a few years later. Often she explains in her stories how pure the people of the past were, so much so that they could understood the language of the animals. But people today, she says, are full of sin. People now often harm each other, she says. That’s why people today can’t understand the language of the animals. She also shares stories of her childhood—stories from when she was a few years older than I am then. I always ask her to repeat the stories, again and again. And she never refuses. And I listen with wonder and admiration.

Here’s the story that always fascinates me: When she was little, the regent of Blora was Lord Raden Said. Once, our town experienced double the normal monsoon rains. The Lusi River overflowed her banks. Our peaceful town was flooded with muddy water. And because our town square was on the tip of a mountain range, it became an island in a vast sea of water. Our townsfolk were herded by the water to the town square. They brought their children, buffaloes, cows, and themselves. Anyone who didn’t leave quickly would be swept away by the water to the river’s mouth. The rain kept falling heavily. The regent’s house was crowded with people. Then Nyi Kin saw the regent come out of his house carrying a whip. He lashed the water that was licking the edge of the town square while enchanting magical spells. And slowly but surely, the water began to recede and return to the Lusi River.

I still remember it well to this day. She repeated the story twenty-five times, and I listened with complete attention. She also told of the cries of babies caught in the rain. She spoke of the regent’s bravery with the whip, and how the people respected him. How everyone knelt when the regent came out of his house to protect his people from the flood. That story made me admire Lord Raden Said. But when I was born, he had already been buried. But his memory lived on in the collective consciousness of the small town.

Nyi Kin’s stories about divine or semi-spirit creatures roaming day and night when people were inattentive were equally compelling. She could tell a great story about clouds moving across the sky—she would recount a scene from the Ramayana—and in those clouds, Dasamuka fought with Jatayu over a kidnapped princess. Usually, she would tell this story while watching the clouds. Often, she told stories of heroes from the Mahabharata. Everything she told was simple and beautiful. And I understood a little of it. My mind admired how extraordinary the people of ancient times were—just like me, back then, marveling at the past, just as people today lose themselves in admiration of bygone eras.

And when at night I couldn’t sleep, crying uncontrollably, my mother would pat my thigh and usually say soothing words. Sometimes she sang local songs, Dutch songs, and Arabic songs. But her beautiful voice wasn’t always beautiful to my ears—especially when my heart was filled with frustration. Yes, even children can feel frustration. Important moments are always hard to erase from the memory. Even from a child’s memory. And those memories stay with them until they too grow old.

I still remember, I cried all the time. Because our house was far from the electricity line, when night came, our house was gloomy. My mother took me outside. The dew made my body cold and tired. And the cool dew also washed away my frustration. Apparently, I was overheated inside. And in the yard, my mother kissed me, and whispered softly, “My dear, why are you crying? Don’t you know your mother is tired from working all day? Sleep, my dear. Tomorrow will bring a new day, with a new sky, a new sun, a new breeze. And you can play to your heart’s content, my dear.”

That voice was truly soothing for my feelings then. I hugged my mother, sending my sobs into her chest. She pressed her chest against my face. And I listened to the beating inside her chest. Then I heard my mother singing. I didn’t resist anymore. The cool night dew sharpened the sweetness of her song. Then I don’t remember what happened next. And when I opened my eyes, the sun was high: the new day my mother had promised. A new day with a new sky, a new breeze, and a new song.

But all of that is now lost. Lost from the touch of the senses, destined to reign eternally in the memory.

I still remember when Nyi Kin fell ill. Yes, she fell ill. And she left without telling me she was going. I searched for her everywhere. But I couldn’t find her. And I cried for hours. My mother tried to console me with some milk bananas. But I couldn’t stop crying. There was a great emptiness in my heart. And my mother kept saying, “Nyi Kin has gone home, dear. Nyi Kin is sick. When she’s sick, you can’t be near her. You might get sick too.”

But those comforting words couldn’t fill the emptiness in my heart. I kept crying. Only exhaustion set me to sleep. When I woke again, the emptiness was still there. And I went on crying. Tears flowed like Nyi Kin’s eyes, which no longer had their pupils, forever leaking, and being wiped with the corner of her shawl. But eventually as time passes the emptiness would lessen. New interests entered my mind. Only occasionally did I think of Nyi Kin, and I would ask my mother, “Why hasn’t Nyi Kin come back yet, Mom?”

“She’s still not well.”

At the time, I didn’t know that Nyi Kin’s house was not far from ours—just seven rooftops away. Yet I was satisfied with the answer. Later, from my mother’s own mouth, I learned why Nyi Kin had left our house: she had stolen kitchen spices, and my mother wouldn’t allow such things in her home.

Nyi Kin was replaced by a younger woman. By then, I already had a one-year-old sibling. I usually woke up at five in the morning back then. The reason was, my mother slept with my little sibling, and I slept with the maid. And the maid had to get up at five to fry rice for my parents’ foster children who were going to school. The two of us would face the stove, frying rice together. And whenever a crispy layer of fried rice formed, I would ask the maid for it and devour it. I don’t remember the maid’s name anymore. But, like Nyi Kin, she too cared for me. She was the daughter of a farmer, and had been the wife of a farmer too. Due to a failed harvest, they had divorced and they too had gone their separate ways.

I vividly remember what happened when I was three or four years old with that new maid. Every morning, we were the first to wake up. As usual, I would ask for crispy fried rice and nibble on it as I warmed myself by the fire.

Our kitchen was separate from the house. The roof was made from folded sheets of corrugated iron placed on the kitchen frame. This type of roof was called “bekuk lulang,” meaning folded skin. At each end of the roof, seen from inside the kitchen, there were two triangular holes. Through one of these holes, I witnessed many childhood wonders.

At five in the morning, the world outside appeared pitch black from inside the kitchen. It was even darker because we faced the stove fire. Through the triangular roof hole, I saw a big head peeking in. The hole was two meters high. I saw a white beard, white eyebrows, and a mustache, and the whole face was black—blacker than the outside world. I watched that big face silently as I nibbled on the crisp crust of rice. Once, I pointed at the head, and said to the maid, “Look! Look! The big head is peeking at us again.”

As usual, the maid looked up at the roof hole and, as usual, she just laughed and said in a cold voice, “I don’t see anything. What are you looking at now?”

“A head—a really big head.”

“I don’t see it. What does it look like?”

“Black. I see black.”

“You’re lying. I don’t see anything.”

And as usual, I didn’t press her to believe me. Conversations like that usually died out. The maid washed the dishes, and I stirred the fried rice. Sometimes, when the crisp crust did not form, I pressed the rice down with the spatula until it crackled. That sound was joy to my ears. And the smell of the rice being pressed into a crisp layer filled my nose with pleasure.

I once told my mother about what I had seen. My mother didn’t want to listen seriously. Sometimes, she would even frown. She looked at me with angry eyes: “Who told you stories about demons?”

And that’s when I learned the word demon. I asked, “So, is that a demon?”

“Who told you such things?”

“I saw it myself, Mom.”

“You shouldn’t lie. Who taught you to lie? Nyi Kin? The new maid? Who?”

“I saw it myself, Mom.”

Then my mother questioned the maid. And the maid said, “Every morning, she sees the demon. She tells me too. But when I look at the roof hole myself, I don’t see anything.”

“You must not lie to her,” my mother says finally.

“No, ma’am, I never lie to her.”

“Be careful, do not scare her.”

“Never, madam. Never.”

Since then, I never told my mother or anyone else about what I saw in the roof hole. But then something even more astonishing happened.

Here’s the story. One morning while in the kitchen, I saw that peeking head again. I watched it quietly. But suddenly, the head disappeared, and a monkey, as big as me, jumped from the hole. Straight away the creature chased the maid. She ran around the kitchen, circling the stove. I saw fear on her face, but she didn’t scream or call for help. She just kept running. I didn’t understand why she didn’t scream for help. Occasionally, the monkey brushed against my body. But it didn’t bother me. It only wanted to catch the maid. Both of them ran in circles around the stoves.

One wanted to catch, and the other wanted to avoid being caught. But then as I watched, the monkey disappear, just like that. I didn’t know where it went. I saw the maid squatting in exhaustion, her skirt wet with urine.

When my mother woke up, the maid said to her, “Madam, I’m resigning today.”

“Why? Don’t you feel happy here?”

“I do, madam, but…” she didn’t finish.

My mother didn’t insist on knowing. And that very day, the maid left our house. I didn’t dare tell my mother what had happened that morning to the new maid. So, her departure didn’t leave any impression on our household. Years later, I finally told my mother about that morning, and she said, “It was the neighbor’s monkey that had escaped at dawn.”

And indeed, the neighbor behind our house had a monkey. But that was years after the incident. But the large head with the white eyebrows, beard, and mustache, and the large monkey, have all vanished now—disappeared like the river banks and bamboo clumps washed away by the floods of the Lusi River.

My father was a teacher at a private school. When he was about to leave for school in the morning and I saw him, straight away I would ask to go with him. As usual, he refused my request. I cried. And my mother and father spoke kindly to me, “When you grow up, you can go to school.”

“Really, Mom? Really, Dad?”

“Of course. You will go to school all the way to high school, in Surabaya, in Batavia, or even in Europe.”

When my heart calmed down, my father kissed both my cheeks. Then he walked away peacefully. But sometimes I ran after him, and my mother would run to the street to retrieve me. And I cried again. But when my mother firmly told me to stop, I did not dare defy her.

I still remember well when my father wasn’t home. I dragged everywhere I went a paint tin with a spindle and a string made by my mother. But all that too has now disappeared, like the bank and bamboo clumps swept away by the floods of the Lusi River.

Usually, my father returned from school with a cheerful laugh. He would first call out my name and the name of my one-year-old sibling. Only after kissing us did he sit down with my mother at the dining table. And I would stand beside my mother, eating too. My mother would feed me during her meal. And after taking a spoonful, I would run around until the rice in my mouth was chewed and swallowed in one go.

“Is it good? Is it good?” my father would usually ask me.

And I would usually laugh while answering, “Yes, it’s good.”

My father ate very little. Usually, he ate only half a plate full. It was rare for him to have seconds. And before my father left the dining table, I would be drowsy from being full.

Only when he said, “Ah, you’re sleepy. Go to sleep,” did I realize that I was indeed sleepy and wanted to go to sleep. My mother would take me to bed. She would stroke my thigh until I fell asleep. In my drowsy vision, I saw her small, neat teeth as if they were cucumber seeds. And her slightly slanted eyes shone with affection. But all that too has vanished. Only beautiful memories remain in my mind.

My mother was a devout woman. When she wasn’t pregnant, she always prayed in her clean white prayer robe. Only her face and fingers were not covered when she prayed. Sometimes she held a string of pray beads. I never dared approach her in that state. I waited outside the room until she had finished praying.

“Why do people pray, Mom?” I once asked.

“To receive blessings from God,” she said. “When you grow up, you’ll understand the purpose of prayer. You’re still young now. It’s better for you to play.”

And I never asked about it again.

When night arrived, and my father hadn’t returned home, I often woke up to the sound of my mother reciting the Quran. Just like her singing, her Quran recitation was beautiful. And if my father hadn’t returned by morning, my mother would continue reciting. Once, I woke up and approached her. I asked, “Why are you still reciting the Quran so late at night?”

My mother took me and sat me on her lap. But she didn’t say anything. She kissed me. I still remember how warm her breath felt when her nose touched my cheek.

“Why do you keep reciting the Quran?” I asked again.

“So your father is always safe. So he puts away from him sinful deeds. Aren’t you sleepy anymore?”

“Why hasn’t Dad come home yet?”

And my mother answered that question with a kiss pressed hard on my cheek. But she didn’t say anything.

“Where is Dad, Mom?” I asked again.

“Dad is working.”

“At this hour?” I asked again.

“Yes, Dad has a lot of work.”

“When will Dad come home, Mom?”

“If you go back to sleep, your father will come home. Come on, off to sleep again, my child.”

She carried me to bed. Soon I was listening to her lullaby. When I woke up again, I could still hear her reciting the Quran. I wanted to ask if Father had come home yet, but I couldn’t get up. I fell asleep again and dreamed about Father, Mother, and my one-year-old sibling.

In the morning when I woke up, I called for Mother and shouted, “Where is Father, Mom?”

“Father has gone to school.”

“Did Father come home last night?”

“Yes. Before he left, he checked on you. He kissed you and then went to teach.”

“Why doesn’t Father like staying at home and playing with me, Mom?”

“Father has to make a living for all of us, to buy your clothes, to feed us and your sibling.”

And I didn’t ask anymore. When Father arrived home from school that afternoon, I went straight away to him and asked, “Why didn’t you come home last night? I woke up in the middle of the night, but you weren’t there.”

Father just laughed. Mother stayed silent in her chair.

“Mother was reciting the Quran all night, Dad.”

Father’s laugh vanished quickly.

“Why don’t you like to stay at home and playing with me?”

Father laughed again. He didn’t want to answer. Then we faced the dining table. During the meal, I asked him, “Can I go out at night, Father?”

Father laughed again. “You’re still little, my child. When you grow up, you won’t need anyone’s permission. You will be able to go wherever you want.”

I jumped with joy at the promise.

“Can I go alone to Grandma’s house, Dad?”

“Of course you can. But not now. You’re still little.”

“Enough with the questions,” Mother forbade. “Father is tired and wants to sleep. And you should sleep too.”

And all of that has been swept away and will never return.

It’s still clear in my memory how one day I was scared to approach Mother. It was a Sunday morning. The children who lived with us — they were not really adopted children, just kids entrusted to my parents — went on an outing to the young people’s hangout in our small town of Blora. Our house was quiet. Only Mother, my little sibling, and the maid were home. Father wasn’t there. I was feeling lonely. I looked for Mother. I found her lying next to my little sibling on the bed. My sibling was asleep then, and Mother was staring at the ceiling of the mosquito net.

“Mom! Mom!” I called.

Mother didn’t respond or move from her spot. I struggled to climb onto the bed. I saw Mother’s eyes were red, and occasionally she wiped them with my sibling’s blanket. I fell silent. For a long time. Silent from fear. “Why are you crying, Mom?” I asked.

Mother finally looked at me. She reached for me and laid me beside her.

“Why, Mom?” I asked again.

“It’s nothing, child.”

At that moment, I remembered a beautiful time — a train trip to Rembang — seeing the endless sea, always crashing with waves that chased each other to the shore. I asked again, “When will we take the train again, Mom? To Rembang? And see the blue sea?”

Mother’s parents lived in Rembang. Hearing the word Rembang made Mother sob. I didn’t know why. I asked, “Why are you crying, Mom?”

She rose and kissed me over and over. I felt her tears cool on my cheek. Then Mother said softly, “Soon we will leave Blora, my dear child, and live in Rembang forever.”

“Why forever, Mom?”

“Don’t you like seeing the sea, my dear child?”

“I love it, Mom. I’d love to stay by the sea for a long time. When are we leaving, Mom?” I asked happily.

But my happiness made Mother cry even more. Then she said, “Soon.”

“Really, Mom?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. But will you be happy living in Rembang, my dear child?” And Mother wiped her tears.

“Of course, Mom. And Father will come too, right?”

Mother was startled by that. I saw it clearly in her eyes that stopped moving and gazed at me. I didn’t know why. But her gaze suddenly filled me with fear. Suddenly, I screamed out loud. And immediately Mother kissed me again and said softly, “Don’t cry, dear.”

But before I could fully cry, my little sibling screamed — startled by my cry. Mother said again, “Father will come too, and see the sea.” She paused and nursed my little sibling. She continued, “Why are you crying?”

“I don’t want to go to Rembang. I’m happy here with you and Father. Where is Father, Mom?”

“Father has gone to work.”

And I repeated the question I had once asked her, “Why doesn’t Father like staying at home and playing with me, Mom?”

“Father has a lot of work.”

“Does Father work all the time, Mom?”

“Yes,” she said. And in that word, I felt something stir in my heart. But I didn’t quite know what it was.

I stopped crying completely, and asked again, “Why were you crying earlier, Mom?”

Mother didn’t answer. She only asked in a resigned voice, “Have you eaten?”

“Yes. Later, when Father eats, I’ll eat again. I like eating together with you and Father. But it takes so long — and Father hasn’t come home yet. Will he come home tonight, Mom? Will he come?”

“Maybe. Maybe he’ll come home.”

“Was Father home last night, Mom?” I asked again.

“Yes. Father was at home last night. But you were already asleep. You didn’t know. But Father came to your bed and kissed you four times.”

I laughed happily.

“Did you recite the Quran last night too, Mom?” And as I asked, I half-remembered hearing Mother reciting the Quran the previous night.

“No. Last night, I was doing some embroidery. And you were already asleep. Father was reading a book. And the other children were also asleep. Go to sleep now.”

“If Father arrives, wake me up, okay, Mom?”

“Yes.”

After that, I was silent and didn’t ask any more questions. I saw that Mother had finished nursing. Then she lay down quietly, staring at the top of the mosquito net. But I didn’t say anything. I also noticed her eyes were red. But I didn’t say anything else. Soon, I fell asleep.

When I woke, Mother was still beside me — silently staring at the top of the mosquito net. But her eyes weren’t red as they were before I fell asleep. Before I moved from my spot, I asked directly, “Has Father arrived, Mom?”

I saw Mother was surprised. She turned her body and looked at me. “Not yet, dear. You slept for a long time. You’re healthy. Go on, ask the maid to bathe you, okay?”

But my desire to see Father couldn’t be contained anymore. I protested to Mother, half whining, “Father. Father. Where is Father, Moooom?”

“Father will come home, dear.” Then her voice regained its usual certainty. “Go on, ask the maid for a bath.” This time, I didn’t care about the certainty in her voice: “Father is working,” Mother’s voice was still firm. “Go bathe!”

I ignored Mother’s voice. Suddenly, her certainty disappeared. She kissed me tenderly. She lowered me from the bed, and placed me on the floor. Then she spoke with love while kissing me, “Father will come home. Go bathe first, my child. When you’re clean, Father will be happy to play with you and kiss you. Go bathe now. It’s already late. When Father comes home, I’ll call you. Go on, bathe now.”

And the love in her words quelled my rebellion. Slowly, I went to the maid and asked for a bath.

After the bath, Father still hadn’t arrived home. I started to cry. I rejected all the promises and food placed in front of me. That night, Father didn’t come home. And I cried endlessly. I didn’t feel tired from crying and screaming. That night, Mother took me outside the house. But the cold night air didn’t affect the emptiness in my heart. I knew Mother was also upset by my crying. Her love, which she had showered on me, couldn’t touch my heart. I knew Mother was becoming irritated by it. The night grew late. Several times — amidst my crying — I heard Mother utter prayers and ask for forgiveness from the Almighty. But I kept crying, calling out for Father. The night outside was dark. Mother never tried to frighten me. When I cried, she always showed her complete love in her words.

Then I heard Mother call one of the children, “Dipo! Dipo!” And when he came, Mother said again, “Go look for Father.”

“But where is Father?” he asked.

“Look for him, I said. I don’t know where. But you have to find him. Tell him his child is crying out of great disappointment.”

Then, carrying me, Mother went back inside the house. And I my crying reduced. But when Father didn’t arrive, I started to yell again. I remember clearly. It was three in the morning. I knew it was three because Mother took me to the front room. She brought a wall lamp, illuminating the clock that hung in the front room. She spoke bitterly, “It’s already three in the morning.”

Then Mother returned to the back room, carrying the wall lamp.

“Father! Father!” I cried out over and over.

“Soon Father will come home, dear, sleep. Sleep.”

But Father didn’t arrive. And I kept crying, sometimes softly, sometimes screaming.

Eventually, Father did arrive, accompanied by Dipo.

“Father,” I shouted.

Mother approached Father. She didn’t say anything. She handed me over to him, then quietly went to her bed.

“Father!” I called again.

Father held me close to his body. Slowly but surely, my crying subsided. Then it stopped. Only sobs filled my chest. Slowly, while holding me, Father said, “My dear child. Dear. Don’t cry anymore. I am here now, okay? Sleep, sleep, my dear. It’s late now.”

“Why do you keep crying?” he asked.

Slowly but surely, my sobbing subsided and finally disappeared into the night. Father went to Mother’s bed while carrying me. And I heard Mother crying. She hid her face in the pillow. I saw Father gently stroke Mother’s hair. But Mother kept crying. He didn’t say anything to her. And Mother didn’t say anything to Father. Between the three of us, only Mother’s sobs moved our hearts. Then, quietly, Father left the room. He took me outside, into the cool and dark night.

“You didn’t come home,” I said, half-crying. “Mother said you would come home tonight, but you didn’t come home—”

“But I’m here now, aren’t I?” he said lovingly. “Now, sleep. Sleep.”

I heard Father singing softly. Then I don’t remember what happened next. Only when I woke up, Father was still sleeping beside me. Then I fell asleep again.

That morning was still a holiday. Father didn’t go to work. When I woke up, it was already late. I found Father and Mother sitting in the front room. After the maid bathed me, I went to them and shouted, “Father, you’re not going away, right?”

I saw Mother looking at Father. Father laughed and looked at me. He said, “No, today I’m not going to work. Don’t cry anymore, okay?”

“Father, yesterday Mother also cried.”

I saw Father looking at Mother, but she didn’t say anything. And Father didn’t say anything either. I cheered up as if nothing unusual was happening around me, “Mother said we’re going to Rembang.”

Once again, Father looked at Mother. But he didn’t say anything.

“And I’ll be going. So will little brother. And we’re going to see the sea. Father, you’ll come too, right? Right? You’ll come, won’t you?”

Again, I saw Father look at Mother. Then he said to me, “Of course, Father will come. When are we going?”

I turned to Mother. In my childish voice, I asked, “When are we going to Rembang, Mom?”

I saw Mother stay silent. She didn’t answer. And I saw her narrow eyes turn red. Then — then her eyes filled with tears. And when the tears were about to fall, she quickly wiped them with the edge of her kebaya. Seeing this, I screamed, shouting and crying. And when Mother got up from her bed and left us, I cried even more loudly. I ran and grabbed her skirt. I shouted, “Why are you crying, Mom?”

Mother picked me up, rocked me, and then carried me. But she didn’t say anything. When we got to the bed, she buried her face in my chest. And Father didn’t come to the bed.

Yes, the event is still clear in my memory. And like everything else, it has disappeared — like the banks and clumps of bamboo dragged away by the Lusi River floods. It amazes me. Why do all these events not stay the same? Each change that constantly shifts, sometimes unnoticed by humans, carries so many people around the world.

Every Eid, Father bought a cartload of firecrackers. My little brother and I, Mother, and our foster siblings received new clothes and money from Father. Firecrackers were set off, and their fragments scattered around the yard. Neighboring children gathered around to watch the firecrackers being let off. And I was incredibly happy on those Eid days. Yet, it never brought a smile to Mother’s face. I saw Mother always gloomy. And I saw Father often leaving the house. Eventually, I got used to Father’s departures and didn’t have to be consoled anymore. And Father didn’t have to be called back.

As I grew older, I didn’t know where Father went during the times he wasn’t teaching. Mother never asked where he had been. She remained silent when Father left, and didn’t say a word when he returned. Usually, Father left when Mother was in the back room, in the kitchen, or in the fields. And when I saw Father leaving the house, I stayed quiet. I did not ask any questions.

Once in a while, I did ask: “Where are you going, Dad?”

“Work,” he answered briefly.

And once I said more than that, “Can I come with you?”

And briefly and quickly, while walking away without looking back, Father answered my request: “No. When you’re older, you can go by yourself. Just play with your siblings.”

And I was satisfied with his answer.

During Eid, Mother watched the children setting off the firecrackers from her chair in the front room. She didn’t say anything, until one time she said to me as I approached her: “Firecrackers shouldn’t be used during Eid. It’s forbidden by religion,” she said. “Firecrackers are part of Chinese ceremonies and have nothing to do with Islamic rituals.”

But every Eid, Father continued to buy a cartload of the firecrackers, until one of the foster children had an accident, and Father never bought firecrackers again.

Then came an important event. My grandfather, who lived in Rembang, died after going on the Hajj twice. Father immediately rented a car and we went together. I don’t remember much about what happened during the event. Only when Mother returned to Blora, she seemed withered, as if she had suffered a great loss — the loss of her refuge in this world. Mother’s mother in Rembang was her stepmother. And for a week after that visit, Mother cried constantly.

“Death is an obligation for every human being,” I once heard Father try to console her.

But Mother didn’t want to listen to that advice. I saw Mother always crying. If I could have spoken then, I would have said that Mother was indeed feeling the loss of her refuge, someone she sometimes relied on when she needed a place to escape. In the future, I also felt a loss in my life — a loss of something irreplaceable. And I think everyone has experienced, or will experience such a loss at some point.

A week had passed. And if at that time I could have expressed my feelings, I would have said that Mother seemed resigned after that. Even when she saw Father leave at night in front of her, she didn’t say anything, as if nothing was happening around her. And all of that made Mother draw closer to us her children. We became her refuge.

In quiet moments, not the silence of the world, but the silence of the heart, she took us for walks one to one-and-a-half kilometers, and told us stories about the various elements of nature. Mother talked about birds, about the Lusi River when we crossed its bridge, about the rice fields and the crops, about the pests that often ruined the harvests and farmers’ hopes, about the wind and the clouds, the sun and the stars, and especially about the life of ordinary people. Our childhood knowledge grew because of her.

In the evenings, she took us to sit on the porch benches. And Mother talked about the plants, about the bamboo groves swaying in the wind, about fruits, about ships, trains, cars, and bicycles. Mother was good at storytelling. Sometimes she told us about the cities she had visited, about her relatives and her family in the past, about her school lessons, and about her teachers. And she didn’t forget to tell us, the little ones, about the colonial politics of the Dutch. Until now, I still remember how Mother told me about people who fought in political movements being exiled and imprisoned. And I still remember Mother telling us about Ki Hadjar Dewantoro, who was exiled to the Netherlands.

And like everything else, all of that has been swept away and disappeared from the reach of our senses.

Mother’s mother lived on the outskirts of our town, Blora, after marrying a local. Sometimes Grandmother came to visit us, bringing fruit. Her income had come from selling vegetables. She woke early in the morning to intercept farmers bring their vegetables to market. She bought their goods and sold them to the houses of officials, or those who considered themselves officials. Grandfather, who lived on the outskirts of town, earned his living by selling chicken satay at the market. Grandfather rarely visited except when he needed to borrow some money. He used to be a farmer, but his crops always failed.

The people in our small town had strange beliefs. And I came to know this when I was older. People would be doomed — doomed for their entire lives — if they bore children considered to be illegitimate. That was also the case with Grandfather. But about that, I wasn’t sure.

Sometimes I saw Mother looking unhappy when her stepfather visited. And once she indirectly said to me, “You must not follow the path of sin,” she said. “Look at your grandfather. That’s the result. All his efforts have failed. All his prayers and hopes have not reached their fulfillment.”

But as a child, I didn’t understand what she was saying. And once I even asked, “Why, Mom?”

“When you grow up, you’ll understand why,” she said.

And I stopped asking questions.

Mother used to work in the fields. And during those times, if I wasn’t playing, I would always join her. During those times, stories filled with lessons flowed from Mother’s mouth — lessons to make her child love nature, love a particular job, or work hard. My childish understanding couldn’t understand what she meant. It wasn’t until years after that I understood what she had meant.

“A person lives by their own sweat, my child. When you grow up, you’ll be the same. And anything you receive that isn’t from your own work isn’t legitimate. Even if it’s given to you by a generous person,” she said once.

And like everything else, all of that is gone. Gone forever from memory and recollection. The Lusi River experiences floods and recedes, rises and falls. So it is with everything that happens in childhood.

“And you may do as you please with the things you acquire — also with your life and body. Everything, everything acquired lawfully,” Father said once.

That voice was only heard for a few seconds in life. The sounding of a voice that echoed briefly, never to be repeated. But like the Lusi River, which forever marks the city of Blora, and like that river too, the voice stored in memory and recollection also flows — flows to its estuary, to its endless sea. And no one knows when the sea will dry up and stop having shores.

Lost.

All of that is lost from the perception of the senses.

Jakarta, 7-1950.

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Toer, Pramoedya Ananta. (1994). What Is Lost [Yang Sudah Hilang]. From Cerita dari Blora: Kumpulan Cerita Pendek [Stories From Blora: Collection of Short Stories] (pp. 1 to 26). Jakarta: Hasta Mitra, 1994. https://archive.org/details/ceritadariblora.