Read Online Home by Leila S. Chudori - Free Book Online Page A

looked to me like privileged daughters of aristocrats who had never known hardship. One day as I was passing by their boarding house, I saw a man I guessed to be Surti’s father pull up to the curb in front of the house in a white Fiat 1100, a car that only a member of the upper economic class could aspire to own. As I came closer and was able to see the man more clearly, my suspicion was confirmed: Surti was the daughter of Dr. Sastrowidjojo, “the” Dr. Sastrowidjojo who lived on Jalan Papandayan in an elite and leafy residential area in Bogor, south of Jakarta. Not only was he famous, he was the son and grandson of equally famous doctors, members of the crème de la crème in pre-independent Indonesia. Surti’s father was known to have played a leading role in the founding of Jakarta’s central hospital, the Centraal Burgerlijke Ziekenhuis. The fact that Surti had not followed her father’s footsteps and gone into medicine suggested that there might be something special about her; but later, when I heard Mas Nug and Mas Hananto talk about her family background, my interest in knowing her better dwindled. I could neither afford nor be bothered with all the things that having a girlfriend from her social and economic class entailed.
    The problem was that Risjaf was attracted to Rukmini, she with the luscious red lips and very sharp tongue. Yet the more caustic her words, the more infatuated Risjaf became. In the end, it was for Risjaf—who swore that if he could go out with Rukmini just once he would be happy to die and go to heaven, and who often woke me when he talked about her in his sleep—that I decided to approach these three lovely women and invite them on a group date with my friends.
    At first, the three girls paid no attention to my advances, pretty much ignoring me altogether. They were too busy flirting with the male students in the Faculty of Law, who were given to citing legal statutes. (And what for? What was sexy about citations from law books, which were still in Dutch no less? Wouldn’t they find our skill in reciting poetry more interesting?) But I knew from the way they pretended to ignore me that they noticed me. At least Surti, for one, sometimes smiled. Once, I even caught her staring at me, her eyes like stars shining their light on me; but when she saw me staring back, she immediately turned her head. At that instant, I knew that she was the jasmine flower I wanted to pluck and store in my heart.
    One day, as she was going into class, I slipped into her fingers a verse from the poem “She Walks in Beauty” by Lord Byron—“She walks in beauty, like the night / of cloudless climes and starry skies …”—but when she opened her mouth to speak, I immediately walked away, worried that she wouldn’t like the poem. The next day, however, she was the one who slipped a note to me: two lines from the poem “Elegy” by Rivai Apin: “what is it that we feel, yet have no need to express / what is it that we think, yet have no need to speak…” I almost swooned—not only from the sentiment of the poem but from the paper on which it was written, with its fragrant smell of jasmine.
    For a few days thereafter, we communicated almost only through lines of verse, with very few words spoken. One time I copied in longhand a romantic section from Romeo and Juliet and gave that to her. She replied with a quote from the poem “Bright Star” by Keats: “Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art / Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night.”
    Surti Anandari was a stem of jasmine; she was a bright star in the midnight sky.
    One day I waited for Surti outside her classroom. As usual when she saw me, she opened her hand to receive from me a slip of paper on which was written a romantic verse or scene. I smiled and when she raised her hand towards me, I took it and clasped it tightly. Startled, she instantly