BLUE BLOOD OF THE BIG ASTANA

by Ibrahim Jubaira

Although the heart may care no more, the mind canalways recall. The mind can always recall, for there are always
things to remember: languid days of depressed boyhood; shared happy days under the glare of the sun; concealed love
and mocking fate; etc. So I suppose you remember too.

Remember? A little over the year after I was orphaned, my aunt decided to turn me over to your father, the Datu. In
those days, datus were supposed to take charge of the poor and the helpless. Therefore, my aunt only did right in
placing me under the wing of your father. Furthermore she was so poor, that by doing that, she not only relieved herself
of the burden of poverty but also safe-guarded my well-being.

But I could not bear the thought of even a moment’s separation from my aunt. She had been like a mother to me, and
would always be.

“Please, Babo,” I pleaded. “Try to feed me a little more. Let me grow big with you, and I will build you a house. I will
repay you someday. Let me do something to help, but please, Babo, don’t send me away…” I really cried.

Babo placed a soothing hand on my shoulder. Just like the hand of Mother. I felt a bit comforted, but presently I cried
some more. The effect of her hand was so stirring.

“Listen to me. Stop crying—oh, now, do stop. You see, we can’t go on like this,” Babo said. “My matweaving can’t clothe
and feed both you and me. It’s really hard, son, it’s really hard. You have to go. But I will be seeing you every week.
You can have everything you want in the Datu’s house.”

I tried to look at Babo through my tears. But soon, the thought of having everything I wanted took hold of my child’s
mind. I ceased crying.

“Say you will go,” Babo coaxed me. I assented finally. I was only five then—very tractable.

Babo bathed me in the afternoon. I did not flinch and shiver, for the sea was comfortably warm and exhilarating. She
cleaned my fingernails meticulously. Then she cupped a handful of sand, spread it over my back, and rubbed my grimy
body, particularly the back of my ears. She poured fresh water over me afterwards. How clean I became! But my clothes
were frayed….

Babo instructed me before we left for your big house: I must not forget to kiss your father’s feet, and to withdraw when
and as ordered without turning my back; I must not look at your father full in the eyes; I must not talk too much; I
must always talk in the third person; I must not… Ah, Babo, those were too many to remember.

Babo tried to be patient with me. She tested me over and over again on those royal, traditional ways. And one thing
more: I had to say “Pateyk” for yes, and “Teyk” for what, or for answering a call.

“Oh Babo, why do you have to say all those things? Why really do I have?”

“Come along, son; come along.”

We started that same afternoon. The breeze was cool as it blew against my face. We did not get tired because we talked
on the way. She told me so many things. She said you of the big house had blue blood.

“Not red like ours, Babo?”

Babo said no, not red like ours.

“And the Datu has a daughter of my age, Babo?”

Babo said yes—you. And I might be allowed to play with you, the Datu’s daughter, if I worked hard and behaved well.

I asked Babo, too, if might be allowed to prick your skin to see if you had blue blood, in truth. But Babo did not answer
me anymore. She just told me to keep quiet. There, I became so talkative again.

Was that really our house? My, it was so big! Babo chided me. “We don’t call it a house,” she said. “We call it Astana,
the house of the Datu,” So I just said oh, and kept quiet. Why did not Babo tell me that before?

Babo suddenly stopped in her tracks. Was I really very clean? Oh, oh, look at my hare-lip. She cleaned my hare-lip,
wipping away with her tapis the sticky mucus of the faintest conceivable green flowing from my nose. Poi! Now it was
better. Although I could not feel any sort of improvement in my deformity itself. I merely felt cleaner.

Was I truly the boy about whom Babo was talking? You were laughing, young pretty Blue Blood. Happy perhaps that I
was. Or was it the amusement brought about by my hare-lip that had made you laugh? I dared not ask you. I feared
that should you to dislike me, you’d subject me to unpleasant treatment. Hence, I laughed with you, and you were
pleased.

Babo told me to kiss your right hand. Why not your feet? Oh, you were a child yet. I could wait until you had grown up.

But you withdrew your hand a once. I think my hare-lip gave it a ticklish sensation. However, I was so intoxicated by
the momentary sweetness the action bought me that I decided inwardly to kiss your hand every day. No, no, it was not
love. It was only an impish sort of liking. Imagine the pride that was mine to be thus in close heady contact with one of
the blue blood….

“Welcome, little orphan!” Was it for me? Really for me? I looked at Babo. Of course it was for me! We were generously
bidden in. Thanks to your father’s kindness. And thanks to you laughing at me, too.

I kissed the feet of your Appab, your old, honorable resting-the-whole-day father. He was not tickled by my hare-lip as
you were. He did not laugh at me. And so did your Ambob, your kind mother. “Sit down, sit down; don’t be ashamed.”

But there you were plying Babo with your heartless questions: Why was I like that? What had happened to me?

To satisfy you, pretty Blue Blood, little inquisitive One, Babo had to explain: Well, mother had slid in the vinta in her
sixth month with the child that was me. Result: my hare-lip “Poor Jaafar,” your Appab said. I was about to cry, but
seeing you looking at me, I felt so ashamed that I held back the tears. I could not help being sentimental, you see. I
think my being bereft of parents in youth had much to do with it all.
“Do you think you will be happy to stay with us? Will you not yearn any more for your Babo?”

“Pateyk, I will be happy,” I said. Then the thought of my not yearning any more for Babo made me wince. But Babo
nodded at me reassuringly.

“Patek, I will not yearn any more for… for Babo.”

And Babo went before the interview was through. She had to cover five miles before evening came. Still I did not cry,
as you may have expected I would, for—have I not said it? —I was so ashamed to weep in your presence.

That as how I came to stay with you, remember? Babo came to see me every week as she had promised. And you— all
of you— had lot of things to tell her. That I was a good worker —oh, beyond question, your Appab and Ambob told
Babo. And you outspoken little Blue Blood joined the flattering chorus. But my place of sleep always reckoned of urine,
you added, laughing. That downright promise from me not to wet my mat again.

Yes, Babo came to see me, to advise me every week, for two consecutive years— that is, until death took her away,
leaving no one in the world but a nephew with a hare-lip.

Remember? I was you’re your favorite and you wanted to play with me always. I learned why after a time, it delighted
you to gaze at my hare-lip. Sometimes, when went out wading to the sea, you would pause and look at you, too,
wondering. Finally, you would chime in, not realizing I was making fun of myself. Then you would pinch me painfully to
make me cry. Oh, you wanted to experiment with me. You could not tell, you said whether I cried or laughed: the
working of my lips was just the same in either to your gleaming eyes. And I did not flush with shame even if you said
so. For after all, had not my mother slid in the vinta.

Remember? I was apparently so willing to do anything for you. I would climb for young coconuts for you. I would be
amazed by the ease and agility. With which I made my way up the coconut tree, yet fear that I would implore me to
come down at once, quick. “No.” you would throw pebbles at me if thus refused to come down. No, I still would not.
Your pebbles could not reach me— you were not strong enough. You would then threaten to report me to your Appab.
“Go ahead.” How I liked being at the top! And sing there as I looked at you helpless. In a spasm of anger, you would
curse me, wishing my death. Well, let me die. I would die. I would climb the coconut trees in heaven. And my ghost
would shout, “Dayang-Dayang, I am coming down!” Then you would come back. You see? A servant, an orphan, could
also command the fair and proud Blue Blood to come or go.

Then we would pick up little shells, and search for sea-cucumbers; or dive for the sea-urchins. Or run along the along
the long stretch of white glaring sand, I behind you— admiring your soft, nimble feet and your flying hair. Then we
would stop, panting, laughing.

After resting for a while, we would run again to the sea and wage war against the crashing waves. I would rub your
silky back after we had finished bathing in the sea. I would get fresh water in a clean coconut shell, and rinse your soft,
ebon hair. Your hair flowed down smoothly, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Oh, it was beautiful. Then I would trim your
fingernails carefully. Sometimes you beg you to whip me. Just so you could differentiate between my crying and my
laughing. And even the pain you gave me partook of sweetness.

That was my way. My only way to show how grateful I was for the things I had not tasted before: your companionship;
shelter and food in your big astana. So your parents sent you to a Mohammedan school when you were seven. I was
not sent to study with you, but it made no difference to me. For after all, was not my work carrying your red Koran on
my top of my head four times a day? And you were happy, because I could entertain you. Because someone could be
a water –carrier for you. One of the requirements then was to carry water every time you showed up in your
Mohammedan class, “Oh, why? Excuse the stammering of my hare-lip, but I really wished to know.” Your Goro, your
Mohammedan teacher, looked deep into me as if to search my whole system. Stupid. Did I not know our hearts could
easily grasp the subject matter, like the soft, incessant flow of water? Hearts, hearts. Not brains. But I just kept silent.
After all, I was not there to ask impertinent questions. Shame, shame on my hare-lip asking such question, I chided
myself silently.

That was how I played the part of an Epang-Epang, of a servant-escort, to you. And I became more spirited every day,
trudging behind you. I was like a faithful, loving dog following its mistress with light steps and a singing heart. Because
you, ahead of me, were something of an inspiration I could trail indefatigably, even to the ends of the world….

The dreary monotone of your Koranchanting lasted three years. You were so slow, you Goro said. At times, she wanted
to whip you. But did she not know you were the Datu’s daughter? Why, she would be flogged herself. But whipping an
orphaned servant and clipping his split lips with two pieces of wood were evidently permissible. So, your Goro found me
a convenient substitute for you. How I groaned with pain under her lashings! But how your Goro laughed; the wooden
clips failed to keep my hare-lip closed. They always slipped. And the class, too roared with laughter—you leading.

But back there in your spacious astana, you were already being tutored for maidenhood. I was older than you by one
Ramadan. I often wondered why you grew so fast, while I remained a lunatic dwarf. Maybe the poor care I received in
early boyhood had much to do with my hampered growth. However, I was happy, in a way that I did not catch up with
you. For I had a hunch you would not continue to avail yourself of my help in certain intimate tasks—such as scrubbing
your back when you took your bath— had I grown as fast as you.

There I was in my bed at night, alone, intoxicated with passion and emotions closely resembling those of a full-grown
man’s. I thought of you secretly, unashamedly, lustfully: a full-grown Dayang-Dayang reclining in her bed at the farthest
end of her inner apartment; breasts heaving softly like breezekissed waters; cheeks of the faintest red brushing against
a soft pillow; eyes gazing dreamily into immensity—warm, searching, expressive; supple buttocks and pliant arms; soft,
ebon hair that rippled….

Dayang-Dayang, could you have forgiven a deformed orphan-servant had he gone mad, and lost respect and dread
towards your Appab? Could you have pardoned his rabid temerity had he leaped out of his bed, rushed into your room,
seized you in his arms, and tickled your face with his hare-lip? I should like to confess that for at least a moment,
yearning, starved, athirst… no, no, I cannot say it. We were of such contrasting patterns. Even the lovely way you
looked—the big astana you lived in—the blood you had….

Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could weave our fabrics into equality. I had to content myself with the privilege
of gazing frequently at your peerless loveliness. An ugly servant must not go beyond his little border.

But things did not remain as they were. A young Datu from Bonbon came back to ask for your hand. Your Appab was
only too glad to welcome him. There was nothing better, he said, than marriage between two people of the same blue
blood. Besides, he was growing old. He had no son to take his place some day. Well, the young Datu was certainly fit
to take in due time the royal torch your Appab had been carrying for years. But I—I felt differently; of course. I wanted….
No, I could not have a hand in your marital arrangements. What was I, after all?

Certainly your Appab was right. The young Datu was handsome. And rich, too. He had a large tract of land planted with
the fruit trees, coconut trees, and abaca plants. And you were glad, too. Not because he was rich—for you were rich
yourself. I thought I knew why: the young Datu could rub your soft back better than I whenever you took your bath.
His hands were not as callous as mine…. However, I did not talk to you about it. Of course.

Your Appab ordered his subjects to build two additional wings to your astana. Your astana was already big, but it had
to be enlarged as hundreds of people would be coming to witness your royal wedding.

The people sweated profusely. There was a great deal of hammering, cutting, and lifting as they set up posts. Plenty of
eating and jabbering. And chewing of betel nuts and native seasoned tobacco. And emitting of red saliva afterwards. In
just one day, the additional wings were finished.
Then came your big wedding. People had crowded your astana early in the day to help in the religious slaughtering of
cows and goats. To aid, too, in the voracious consumption of your wedding feast. Some more people came as evening
drew near. Those who could not be accommodated upstairs had to stay below.

Torches fashioned out of dried coconut leaves blazed in the night. Half-clad natives kindled them over the cooking fire.
Some pounded rice for cakes. And their brown glossy bodies sweated profusely.

Out in the astana yard, the young Datu’s subjects danced in great circles. Village swains danced with grace, now swaying
sensuously their shapely hips, now twisting their pliant arms. Their feet moved deftly and almost imperceptibly.

Male dancers would crouch low, with a wooden spear, a kris, or a barong in one hand, and a wooden shield in the other.
They simulated bloody warfare by dashing through the circle of other dancers and clashing against each other. Native
flutes, drums, gabangs, agongs, and kulintangs contributed much to the musical gayety of the night. Dance. Sing in
delight. Music. Noise. Laughter. Music swelled out into the world like a heart full of blood, vibrant, palpitating. But it
was my heart that swelled with pain. The people would cheer: “Long live the Dayang-Dayang and the Datu,
MURAMURAAN!” at every intermission. And I would cheer, too—mechanically before I knew. I would be missing you
so….

People rushed and elbowed their way up into your Astana as the young Datu was led to you. Being small, I succeeded
in squeezing in near enough to catch a full view of you. You, Dayang – Dayang. Your moon-shaped face was meticulously
powdered with pulverized rice. Your hair was skewered up toweringly at the center of your head, and studded with
glittering hold hair-pins. Your tight, gleamingly black dress was covered with a flimsy mantle of the faintest conceivable
pink. Gold buttons embellished your wedding garments. You sat rigidly on a mattress, with native embroidered pillows
piled carefully at the back. Candled-light mellowed your face so beautifully you were like a goddess perceived in dreams.
You looked steadily down.

The moment arrived. The turbaned pandita, talking in a voice of silk, led the young Datu to you, while maidens kept
chanting songs from behind. The Pandita grasped the Datu’s forefinger, and made it touch thrice the space between
your eyebrows. And every time that was done, my breast heaved and my lips worked.

Remember? You were about to cry, Dayang – dayang. For, as the people said, you would soon be separated from your
parents. Your husband would soon take you to Bonbon, and you would live there like a country woman. But as you
unexpectedly caught a glimpse of me, you smiled at once, a little. And I knew why: my hare-lip amused you again. I
smiled back at you, and withdrew at once. I withdrew at once because I could not bear further seeing you sitting beside
the young Datu, and knowing fully well that I who had sweated, labored, and served you like a dog…. No, no, shame
on me to think of all that at all. For was it not but a servant’s duty?

But I escaped that night, pretty Blue Blood. Where to? Anywhere. That was exactly seven years ago. And those years
did wonderful things for me. I am no longer a lunatic dwarf, although my hare-lip remains as it has always been.

Too, I have amassed a little fortune after years of sweating I could have taken two or three wives, but I had not yet
found anyone resembling you lovely Blue Blood. So single I remained.

And Allah’s Wheel of time kept on turning, kept on turning. And to, once day your husband was transforted to San
Ramon Penal Farm, Zamboanga. He had raised his hand against the Christian government. He had wished to establish
his own government. He wanted to show his petty power by refusing to pay land taxes, on the ground that the land he
had were by legitimate inheritance his own absolutely. He did not understand that the little amount he should give in
the form of taxes would be utilized to protect him and his people from swindlers. He did not discern that he was in fact
a part of the Christian government himself. Consequently his subjects lost their lives fighting for a wrong cause. Your
Appab, too, was drawn into the mess, and perished with the others. His possessions were confiscated. And your Ambob,
died of a broken heart. Your husband, to save his life, had to surrender. His lands, too, were confiscated. Only a little
portion was left for you to cultivate and live on.
And remember? I went one day to Bonbon on business. And I saw you on your bit of land with your children. At first, I
could not believe it was you. Then you looked long deep into me. Soon the familiar eyes of Blue Blood of years ago
arrested the faculties of the erstwhile servant. And you could not believe your eyes either. You could not recognize me
at once. But when you saw my hare-lip smiling at you, rather hesitantly, you knew me at last. And I was glad you did.

“Oh, Jaafar,” you gasped, dropping you janap, your primitive trowel, instinctively. And you thought I was no longer
living, you said. Curse, curse. It was still your frank, outspoken way. It was like you to be able to jest even hen sorrow
was on the verge of removing the last vestiges of your loveliness. You could somehow conceal your pain and grief
beneath banter and laughter. And I was glad of that, too.

Well, I was about to tell you that the Jaafar you saw now was a very different – a much improved – Jaafar. Indeed. But
instead: “Oh, Dayang-Dayang,” I murmured, distressed to have seen you working. You who had been reared in case
and luxury. However, I tried very much not to show traces of understanding your deplorable situation.

One of your sons came running and asked who I was. Well, I was, I was….

“Your old servant,” I said promptly. Your son said oh, and kept quiet, returning at last to resume his work. Work, work,
Eting. Work, son. Bundle of firewood and take it to the kitchen. Don’t mind your old servant. He won’t turn young again.
Poor little Datu, working so hard. Poor pretty Blue Blood, also working hard.

We kept strangely silent for a long time. And then: By the way, where was I living now? In Kanagi. My business here in
Bonbon today? To see Panglima Hussin about the cows he intended to sell, Dayang-Dayang. Cows? Was I a landsman
already? Well, if the pretty Blue Blood could live like a countrywoman, why not a man like your old servant? You see,
luck was against me in sea-roving activities, so I had to turn to buying and selling cattle. Oh, you said. And then you
laughed. And I laughed with you. My laughter was dry. Or was it yours? However, you asked what was the matter. Oh,
nothing. Really nothing serious. But you see…. And you seemed to understand as I stood there infront of you, leaning
against a mango tree, doing nothing but stare and stare at you.

I observed that your present self was only the ragged reminder, the mere ghost, of the Blue Blood of the big astana.
Your resources of vitality and loveliness and strength seemed to have been drained out of your old arresting self, poured
into the little farm you were working in. Of course I did not expect you to be as lovely as you had been. But you should
have retained at least a fair portion of it-of the old days. Not blurred eyes encircled by dark ring; not dull, dry hair; not
a sunburned complexion; not wrinkled, callous hand; not….

You seemed to understand more and more. Why was I looking at you like that?

Was it because I had not seen you for so long? Or was it something else? Oh, Dayang-Dayang, was not the terrible
change in you the old servant’s concern? You suddenly turned your eyes away from me. You picked up your janap and
began troubling the soft earth. It seemed you could not utter another word without breaking into tears. You turned your
back toward me because you hated having me see you in tears.

And I tried to make out why: seeing me now revived old memories. Seeing me, talking with me, poking fun at me, was
seeing, talking, and joking as in the old days at the vivacious astana. And you sobbed as I was thinking thus. I knew
you sobbed, because your shoulders shook. But I tried to appear as though I was not aware of your controlled weeping.
I hated myself for coming to you and making you cry. So…

“May I go now, Dayang-Dayang” I said softly, trying hard to hold back my own tears. You did not say yes. And you did
not say no, either. But the nodding of your head was enough to make me understand and go. Go where? Was there a
place to go? Of course. There were many places to go to. Only, there was seldom a place to which one would like to
return.
But something transfixed me in my tracks after walking a mile or so. There was something of an impulse that strove to
drive me back to you, making me forget Panglima Hussin’s cattle. Every instinct told me it was right for me to go back
to you and do something-perhaps beg you to remember your old Jaafar’s hare-lip, just so you could smile and be happy
again. I wanted to rush back and wipe away the tears from your eyes with my headdress. I wanted to get fresh water
and rinse your dry, ruffled hair, that it might be restored to flowing smoothness and glorious luster. I wanted to trim
your fingernails, stroke your callous hand. I yearned to tell you that the land and the cattle I owned were all yours. And
above all, I burned to whirl back to you and beg you and your children to come home with me. Although the simple
house I lived in as not as big as your astana at Patikul, it would at least be a happy, temporary haven while you waited
for your husband’s release.

That urge to go back to you, Dayang-Dayang, was strong. But I did not go back for a sudden qualm seized me: I had
no blue blood. I had only a hare-lip. Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could weave us, even now, into equality.

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