Read Online The Rainbow Troops by Andrea Hirata - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Andrea Hirata
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kilometers.
Lintang's father had thought his son would give up within the first few weeks, but he was proven wrong. Day by day, Lintang's enthusiasm didn't fade, but rather it skyrocketed—he really loved school and his classmates, and he began to be addicted to unlocking the secrets of knowledge. When he arrived home, he didn't rest; he joined the other village children his age to work as copra coolies. That was the price he paid for the " privilege " of schooling.
His father now thought of the decision to send Lintang to school as the right one. If nothing else, he was happy to see his son's bubbling enthusiasm. He hoped that one day Lintang could send his five younger siblings—each born one year after the other—to school and also free them from the cycle of poverty. So, as hard as he could, he supported Lintang's education in his own way, to the best of his ability.
When Lintang was in first grade, he once asked his father for help with a homework question about simple multiplication. "Come here, Father. How much is four times four?"
His illiterate father paced back and forth. He gazed wistfully through the window at the wide South China Sea, thinking very hard. When Lintang wasn't looking, he quietly snuck out the back door and ran like the wind, cutting through the tall grass. The pine tree man ran at top speed as swift as a deer to ask for help from people at the village office. Not much later, like a flash of lightning, he slipped back into the house and was suddenly standing attentively before his son.
"Fffooh ... fffooh ... fourteen, son, no doubt about it, no more, no less," he answered while panting to catch his breath, but wearing a wide smile full of pride.
Lintang stared deep into his father's eyes. He felt a pang in his heart, a pang that made him make a promise to himself, I have to be an intelligent person . Lintang knew that answer didn't come from his father.
His father had even misquoted the answer he had gotten from village office's employee. Sixteen should have been his answer, but his father could only remember the number 14—the amount of mouths he was responsible for feeding every day.
From that day on, Lintang's enthusiasm for school burned even more intensely. Because his body was too small for his big bicycle, he couldn't sit on the saddle. Instead, he sat on the bar that connects the saddle to the handlebars. The tips of his toes barely reached the pedals. Every day he moved slowly and bounced up and down greatly over the steel bar as he bit his lip to gather his strength to fight the wind.
Lintang's house was on the edge of the sea. The house was a shack on stilts, in case the sea rose too high. The roof was made of sago palm leaves and the walls were meranti tree bark. Anything happening in the shack could be seen from outside because the bark walls were already dozens of years old and were cracked and broken like mud in the dry season. Inside, it was a long and narrow space with two doors, one in the front and one in the back. None of the windows or doors locked. They tied the frames shut at night with cheap twine.
Both Lintang's maternal and paternal grandparents lived with them. Their skin was so wrinkly you could grab it in handfuls. Each day, the four grandparents bent over a winnowing tray to pick maggots out of their third-class rice, the only kind they could afford. They spent hours on that arduous task—the rice was that putrid.
There were also Lintang's father's two younger brothers: a young man who wandered around all day because he was mentally ill, and an obsolete laborer unable to work because he suffered from inflamed testicles—a result of a nutrition deficiency. With these people, plus Lintang, Lintang's five little sisters and his mother, the long, narrow house was very crowded. There were 14 people total, and all of them relied on Lintang's father.
Each day Lintang's father waited for neighbors with boats or skippers to give him work. He didn't get a
Lintang's father had thought his son would give up within the first few weeks, but he was proven wrong. Day by day, Lintang's enthusiasm didn't fade, but rather it skyrocketed—he really loved school and his classmates, and he began to be addicted to unlocking the secrets of knowledge. When he arrived home, he didn't rest; he joined the other village children his age to work as copra coolies. That was the price he paid for the " privilege " of schooling.
His father now thought of the decision to send Lintang to school as the right one. If nothing else, he was happy to see his son's bubbling enthusiasm. He hoped that one day Lintang could send his five younger siblings—each born one year after the other—to school and also free them from the cycle of poverty. So, as hard as he could, he supported Lintang's education in his own way, to the best of his ability.
When Lintang was in first grade, he once asked his father for help with a homework question about simple multiplication. "Come here, Father. How much is four times four?"
His illiterate father paced back and forth. He gazed wistfully through the window at the wide South China Sea, thinking very hard. When Lintang wasn't looking, he quietly snuck out the back door and ran like the wind, cutting through the tall grass. The pine tree man ran at top speed as swift as a deer to ask for help from people at the village office. Not much later, like a flash of lightning, he slipped back into the house and was suddenly standing attentively before his son.
"Fffooh ... fffooh ... fourteen, son, no doubt about it, no more, no less," he answered while panting to catch his breath, but wearing a wide smile full of pride.
Lintang stared deep into his father's eyes. He felt a pang in his heart, a pang that made him make a promise to himself, I have to be an intelligent person . Lintang knew that answer didn't come from his father.
His father had even misquoted the answer he had gotten from village office's employee. Sixteen should have been his answer, but his father could only remember the number 14—the amount of mouths he was responsible for feeding every day.
From that day on, Lintang's enthusiasm for school burned even more intensely. Because his body was too small for his big bicycle, he couldn't sit on the saddle. Instead, he sat on the bar that connects the saddle to the handlebars. The tips of his toes barely reached the pedals. Every day he moved slowly and bounced up and down greatly over the steel bar as he bit his lip to gather his strength to fight the wind.
Lintang's house was on the edge of the sea. The house was a shack on stilts, in case the sea rose too high. The roof was made of sago palm leaves and the walls were meranti tree bark. Anything happening in the shack could be seen from outside because the bark walls were already dozens of years old and were cracked and broken like mud in the dry season. Inside, it was a long and narrow space with two doors, one in the front and one in the back. None of the windows or doors locked. They tied the frames shut at night with cheap twine.
Both Lintang's maternal and paternal grandparents lived with them. Their skin was so wrinkly you could grab it in handfuls. Each day, the four grandparents bent over a winnowing tray to pick maggots out of their third-class rice, the only kind they could afford. They spent hours on that arduous task—the rice was that putrid.
There were also Lintang's father's two younger brothers: a young man who wandered around all day because he was mentally ill, and an obsolete laborer unable to work because he suffered from inflamed testicles—a result of a nutrition deficiency. With these people, plus Lintang, Lintang's five little sisters and his mother, the long, narrow house was very crowded. There were 14 people total, and all of them relied on Lintang's father.
Each day Lintang's father waited for neighbors with boats or skippers to give him work. He didn't get a
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