In the quiet corner of a rice field, a woman cried out loudly from a house, her voice no less powerful than the rain pouring down tonight. Amidst the thunderous sound, a woman groaned loudly, as if competing with the roar of the rain. The atmosphere was so silent, suddenly interrupted by the sounds of God’s creatures present in the night.
“What’s his name?”
“Abdullah Cekka.”
The child whimpered, squirming behind his mother’s embrace. When a beam of light peeked through the roof, the woman was astonished by her child’s eyes.
His feet were swift at the edge of the riverbank. Playing in the orderly rows of langsat orchards around the Batanghari river, his tiny feet never tired of running. But the atmosphere in his heart was different. Abdullah Cekka often experienced bullying because his eyes were different from other children.
As a result, he refrained from meeting his peers. He stayed at home, busy playing with stove ash. Smearing it on his face, he imitated his father’s mustache. He laughed and thickened it again. His mother stood in front of the kitchen, surprised to see the bald child, happy at home, and rarely playing by the river anymore.
His mother quickly grabbed Cekka’s hand before his face was smudged with ash. “Hey, no more of that,” she said. The child ran, quickly sandwiched by his mother. As she washed Cekka’s face, his mother began to ask.
“Are you not playing by the river, dear?” his mother asked Cekka, while occasionally washing his round face with water.
“No, Mom,” Cekka replied, stuttering as his mother rubbed his face with water.