Aminah’s Goats
A Short Story by Puspa Seruni
No one went to Aminah’s funeral, the old woman 65 years of age who passed way earlier that morning. The graveyard was quiet. There was only one mourner, and two grave diggers. It was as if not even one other person mourned the passing of the old woman who had lived on the edge of the village out by the forest.
Aminah lived in a bamboo hut with a thatched roof built over a dirt floor, a typical village house. Since her husband had died, Aminah lived alone, kept company by only her five goats. Every morning Aminah would take the goats to graze near the forest, letting them range freely in the field.
As she waited for the goats to finish feeding, Aminah would sit under an Acacia tree reading the Quran, or just sit and rest. Sometimes she would venture into the forest to collect some of the cassava she had planted to cook later. The goats would wander, searching for grass or anything edible. No matter how far they roamed, they never lost their way and they would finally find their way back to where they had started.
The goats would wander back to Aminah once they had had their fill. Then she would lead them to the river for a drink, and finally she would herd them back to their pen after the sun was past its peak.
When she arrived home at her hut, Aminah would boil the cassava, or cook whatever she had on hand just to put something in her stomach. Aminah’s daily life was a routine she had followed since her husband, Dudung, had passed away five years ago. They had no children or relatives. Aminah rarely mixed with others, except for Tarno, a clerk at the village office who would often help Aminah out.
Tarno would sell Aminah’s goats for her and deposit the proceeds at the village bank. Aminah and Dudung had raised goats ever since Dudung was still strong and healthy. Every six months, Aminah and Dudung would select a goat that was ready for sale. The money from the sale of the goats was deposited into an account that helped people save to go on the pilgrimage to Mecca. The savings that had been collected over the last 15 years had finally borne fruit a year ago.
***
Tarno scattered a few flowers on Aminah’s grave, flowers he’d collected along the road from Aminah’s hut to the graveyard. He also sprinkled some water from a special clay container he had brought. There was no tombstone inscribed with a name, only a simple wooden stake at one end of the grave as a marker that there below it a person had been laid to rest.
The village clerk, in his usual black cap and old worn out safari shirt, rose to his feet. He headed off back in the direction of Aminah’s hut. Along the way from the grave he thought about his last conversation with Aminah, before he had found the old woman dead that morning.
“There’s been an announcement from the government, grandma. They say the departure for the hajj has been postponed.”
Tarno had come to Aminah’s hut especially. Even though it was scorching hot Tarno ignored the biting sun that could burn his skin even blacker. He pedaled his bicycle all the way, his back wet from the sweat.
There was news that the government had postponed the hajj departure again. The Covid-19 pandemic was the reason hundreds of thousands of pilgrims weren’t able to depart. This was the second time the hajj had been postponed, after the same thing happened the previous year.
At the time Aminah was sitting on a wooden bench in the side yard of her house. She was stunned to hear Tarno’s explanation as he sat down facing her. The old woman furrowed her brow, straining to comprehend what the 30-year-old man was saying.
“Oh god, what is going on? Postponed again? Isn’t there enough in the account?”
Aminah stared at Tarno in confusion. As far as she could remember she had paid off the reminder of the fee for the hajj last year, even though it was eventually postponed and rescheduled to this year.
Tarno shook his head as he responded to Aminah’s question.
“No, the fee has been all paid off. Maybe the Saudi government isn’t allowing pilgrims in again yet, grandma. Maybe they’re still frightened about Corona.”
Aminah had nodded her head as she listened to what Tarno was saying. She didn’t fully understand the reason for the postponement. She lowered her head, hiding the tears that started to well up in her eyes. She remembered her husband’s hard work to save for over ten years. Her memory was etched with Dudung’s tired face each time he arrived home after searching for grass. Aminah again had to bury her wish to fulfill the requirements of the fifth pillar of Islam this year.
“The Lord doesn’t want me to be His guest.” The old woman’s voice was weak, smothered in the sobs that started to moisten her wrinkled cheeks.
Aminah glanced over at her goats. The white-haired animals were enjoying their afternoon rest in the pen.
“They were supposed to be sold so I could go on the hajj. So while I was there I could perform the hajj and pray for Dudung too.” It was obvious from Aminah’s face, she was deeply disappointment.
“Who knows, maybe next year there’ll be even more goats, grandma. You’ll have even more spending money,” said Tarno, trying to cheer Aminah.
“If I’m still alive. If I’m not…” Aminah’s elderly voice had trailed away, quivering, and caught in her throat.
***
Tarno had not expected that his arrival this morning at the little hut would actually find Aminah now cold and lifeless. He had stopped still as he arrived at the front of Aminah’s hut, almost reluctant to enter the yard. The sturdy man looked over the small yard.
He entered the dilapidated hut. The woven bamboo walls were rotting in places, and the thatched roof was wearing thin and falling apart. The earthen floor was damp and dirty, and the hut was not very large. In fact it was hardly fit to be called a home.
Tarno could not imagine how Aminah had spent her nights. Didn’t the wind blow right through the gaps in the woven bamboo walls? Didn’t the rain drip through the roof thatching?
He opened the door and stepped into the three by four meter hut. A wooden bench with a thin kapok mattress used as a bed was stood on the right side. A wooden cupboard with no doors was on the left. Tarno walked over to the cupboard that contained a few items of clothing.
He picked up a bundle containing Aminah’s long white blouse. The garment had been bought at the district market the previous year. To prepare for purification on the hajj, Aminah had said when Tarno asked why she wanted to be taken to the market.
Tarno felt the white blouse. The fabric was coarse and hot. It was a cheap blouse Aminah was forced to buy because of her limited means.
“The important thing is the intention. This one is perfect, if you ask me,” said Aminah at the time, when Tarno had suggested she choose a better one that was more comfortable to wear.
Tarno folded the white blouse and placed it in his own shoulder bag. He intended to donate the garment, maybe it would be more use to someone else.
His eyes scanned the room to make sure there were no other items that could be of use. After finding nothing else of value to remove, Tarno stepped outside, towards the goat pen in a corner of the back yard.
He looked at the goats in the pen. They looked hungry, from their weak bleating. He felt sorry for them. He opened the pen gate and lead them to the field near the forest not far from Aminah’s hut. As he waited for them to feed, Tarno sat under an Acacia tree resting. He placed his black cap over his face, and soon he feel into a deep sleep.
A touch awakened him. Slowly Tarno opened his eyes, the goats were bleating nearby. He rubbed his eyes and slowly realized he’d been herding Aminah’s goats. The man stood up and led the goats back again. But this time not to Aminah’s hut, instead to his own house.
***
Tarno pedaled his bicycle away from the district market. It was Saturday and the market was filled with livestock traders. Aminah’s goats had changed hands. Tarno carried home with him ten million rupiah in his black bag. His face was a little anxious, furrowed lines of worry were etched across his forehead.
Aminah’s face flashed in his memory. Her stories about the Ka’bah and her longing to breathe its scent and touch the black surface of the Hajar Aswad played in his mind. Aminah’s eyes had always sparkled as she related her dreams to him. The old woman would sit contentedly on the bench at the side of her house, repeating the same stories to Tarno.
Tarno had once asked. He was amazed that Aminah, who hadn’t mixed with many people, knew so much about the Masjid al-Haram. Aminah had just smiled shyly.
“I learned the stories from Dudung,” replied the old woman.
The midday sun made beads of sweat trickle down Tarno’s face and neck. His brown shirt was soaked through. He kept pedalling his bicycle along the rocky village road.
“Pay your debt tomorrow or I’m going to throw you out of the house.”
He remembered the words of Bakri the village moneylender as he had demanded payment of his debt. Tarno repeated he couldn’t promise anything, that he didn’t have any money to pay back the debt.
Tarno had been forced to borrow to cover the cost of his wife giving birth to their second child. After six months, a loan of one million rupiah had ballooned into ten million. Bakri used a very high interest rate.
“Just sell the goats!” a voice had told him in his sleep. The words had kept ringing since Tarno herded Aminah’s goats near the forest. He did not know who was whispering. Maybe it was the voice of someone who knew the difficulties he was facing.
“No, poor Grandma Aminah. The goats were for her to pay for the hajj and for her to pray for her husband.”
Another part of his heart whispered.
“And besides, the goats aren’t yours,” the voice continued.
His head ached, his mind seemed to be wrung out. Tarno was confused. As the head of his family he had to save his wife and children. He wouldn’t let them become homeless. But his conscience wouldn’t allow him to take Aminah’s goats.
Even so, Tarno continued pedaling his bicycle in the direction of Bakri’s house. He didn’t care about the scorching sun that stung against his parched dark skin.
Published in the daily newspaper Republika on July 11, 2021 https://ruangsastra.com/4332/kambing-kambing-aminah/. Featured image credit https://www.laduni.id/post/read/73360/kisah-nabi-musa-dan-si-penggembala-kambing.
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