AN

“Dondong opo salak, Duku cilik-cilik, gendong opo

mundak, mlaku timit-timit
Ati nderek ibu, Teko menyang pasar, ora pareng rewel,
If there is a song that could take me to the year and the place where
she used to live in the era of Dutch’s second aggression to Indonesia, it
will be “Dondong opo salak”. The song was a rhapsody that came out of
her little soft lips when she was a child. Indeed, the song took me to the
year of 1949, even though I was not born at that time. A moment when a
6 year old little girl who grew in a small village in Kampung Sewu, Solo,
struggled for her life. She used to hum the song and enjoyed the petrichor
on the way home from a rice field after raining. The little gallop on her
tiny feet, expressing her exuberant intention to listen to the next part of a
story about a traditional market she’d never been before. Sometime, she
needed to stop her little walk while the Dutch airplane passed over, hid in
the paddy field before continue walking. It was the second aggression of
the Dutch army against our country, March 1949. She could not wait until
she reached home to listen to her grandmother’s story about Klewer
market. She was only a little girl, born in the year where Japanese troops
were searching around for productive age local citizen, to strengthen their
troops against the allied armies or employed as unpaid labors to produce
goods and help the Japanese to strengthen their economic income to
support the war. She was luckier than her father who ran away from the
family, trying to avoid to be recruited as a soldier of HEIHO and labors.
Everybody told that the Japanese troops were very rude to local citizens.
After 1943, they kidnapped productive people to support their war. She
was still 4 months in her mother’s tummy during that time. If you see her
closer, you can see part of me in her. Every body told me that I really look
a like my beloved mother. She was the only child before she heard news
that her father had married to another woman in Surabaya after his
escaped. Her mother, my grandmother, left her when my mother was
learning to talk; she was about 2 years old. My grandmother had to work
with an Indonesian commodore family, Yos Sudarso; one of our national
heroes who struggled for the west Irian independent. She spent most of
her childhood together with her grandmother, Mbah Pokariyo. An old
woman who used to take her in an adventure around the village and told
interesting story about a traditional market where she used to sell colorful
fabric belonged to a rich Chinese family in Pasar Klewer. My mother
loved to use her imagination to view things she had never seen before. I
still remember when she said,” Dreams are for free, you don’t have to be
charged for that. Who knows someday it might come true as long as we
keep on trying to reach it”.
 When she was 6, she imagined visiting Pasar Klewer and saw colorful
fabrics as her grandmother told her. She was not that lucky to have such
beautiful fabrics as her grandmother told her. Since the Japanese came in
1942, the Indonesian citizen’s life was miserable. The economic condition
was very poor since the Japanese troops forced them to submit their goods,
gold, and other precious things to support the Japanese’s war.
Once, mother told me that she used to eat “Nasi Aking”. It was rotten
rice that had been washed and dried under the sun’s heat to be steamed again
and eaten. Though sometime, they were able to eat rice given by the field
owner during cultivating time since they worked in his field. I could imagine
how suffer they were. Once my mother told me that they frequently had to
skip their dinner or lunch because they needed to hide under the ground when
they heard the Dutch airplane was flying over their head. When the plane left,
the rice in the pot was overcooked and inedible.
Since her very young age, my mother had learned how to survive and
work hard. She used to look after the cows belonged to the field owner and
play in the mud with her friends who used to call her “buntut tikus” or
“mouse’s tail”. It was because of her curly hair that was always tighten with a
rubber band and looked like a tail of a mouse. Once my mother told her
friends about her wish to go to Pasar Klewer and see the unordinary crowd of
the place and colorful fabric sold in there. My mother’s grandmother
promised her one day to take her to Pasar Klewer after she helped her carried
the Paddies. It was rain heavily as she described. It usually flooded too. She
was no longer able to hum on the way home since the road and the bridge
made of bamboo tree was muddy and slippery. The paddy stacked on her
back felt very heavy as she lost her balance and fell into the edge of the
Bengawan Solo river. My mom described that her tiny body was played by
the unfriendly stream of the water, spinning around that made her head dizzy.
She was sunk and floated over and over again in the river until she reached
bushes at the edge of the river, and she finally saved. Her tummy was full of
water before she tried to put her little pointed finger in her mouth and threw it
out. She finally arrived home and told about the accident at the edge of the
river. Her grandmother hugged her so tight and told great news about going
to Pasar Klewer. My mom was happy because her dream was about to come
true. It was the crowd she wanted to experience with, and it was the colorful
fabrics she wanted to enjoy. She knew her grandmother could not buy her
anything there. Visiting the market was an extraordinary experience for her.
Her eyes were obviously scintillate that she could not wait until tomorrow to
tell her friends in the field about her plan going to Pasar Klewer.
 “Buntut tikus..buntut tikus, kowe arep ngopo neng Pasar Klewer? Ra’
ndue uang kok pergi-perg, ojo mimpi” her friends made a joke on her.
“Kowe arep kerjo karo sopo? Noni Londo koyo mbok mu…??” her
friend teased her again, and this time even worse because they kept
mentioning her mother who was working with a half Dutch blood woman.
The wife of the Commodor Yos Sudarso. My mother did not reply their
statement. The most important thing was her trip to Pasar Klewer.
The day came. My mother and her grandmother left the village to the
citym Kecamatan Pasar Kliwon. There, they visited Pasar Kliwon and Pasar
Klewer to sell fabric. My mother was humming along the way to the market
with her soft little voice came out from her lips and sang the song over and
over again behind her grandmother who carried the fabrics.
My mother loved the view she saw at the market. It was true what
people said about Pasar Klewer. So many people sold fabrics there, mostly
were Chinese or Arabian. Mom was only admiring the scenery, wished she
could buy one and changed her dirty clothes, she thought in her mind.
Not longer until she was awake from her imagination wearing those
beautiful fabrics, her grandmother tapped her shoulders from behind,” ndo…
nih dicoba bajunya” her grandmother told my mom to try putting on the
fabric.
It was beautiful as she told me, a brown blouse with batik pattern
printed on it. It was not a new cloth actually, since 1942 people started to sell
their used clothes because of their poor economic condition related to the
world war two. Pasar Klewer was the centre place for selling and buying
fabrics and clothes. In 1940, so many Chinese and Arabian people sold
fabrics in bamboo basket until the fabrics dangled onto the ground. It was
how the place got its name from, “Pasar Klewer”.
My mother and her grandmother went home on foot, it was too
prestigious to ride on a train from Jebres station and they could not afford it.
Though it was tiring, my mother was happy to get her new cloth, though it
was not really new, it was her first new cloth since she was four. Indeed, her
glamour dream came true, but she never stops dreaming, even until now she
still shares her dreams with me, especially after the rain fall as she breathes
the petrichor sensation that remind her of the village she used to live in.
Dreaming is a power for setting up the next planning for the future as she said.
I believe, I was once one of her dreams.

The End