June/July, 1998
No. 035/VI/98
cover story
After The Boom
What future is there for
Bali's modern theatre
scene?
Warung Society
Bali has its own history of
communal philosophising
and coffee-drinking
Renaissance
Twenty years of Bali's
Festival of the Arts
beyond
bali
Sumbawa's
Secrets
Photographs from
Kuang Amo
regular
features
Dangerous
Times
Orchestrating a
cremation in Ubud
Home Grown
A preview of
the Quicksilver Pro
Adventure
Getting over a fear
of diving
Health and Beauty
Foreign aid for
optic
health
Books
The Painted Alphabet
reviewed
Food
Two boutique hotels,
two top chefs
'Our Moon'
by Mas Ruscitadewi
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Hurriedly, she put the books in order. Piles and piles of books, which she had barely touched for she could never understand what they contained, were now neat and in place. Actually they were not too neat, only enough to show that they had not been left in a state of anger, rage, sadness, hate, fear or anxiety. But nor did they suggest burning ambition, great joy, pride or conviction. No, these stacks of books were expressionless, lacked spirit, just like herself who did not fear being left and was not disappointed by her failure.
"Ah." She released a long breath and in the clouded mirror she could see her smiling lips and her glazed-over eyes. Once she had tidied up the clothes, shoes and bits and pieces that lay sprawled about, she was ready. A light breeze sent a shiver through her body.
"Enough," she said with conviction without knowing who she was talking to, whether the ever-white walls or to the ceiling hollowed out by termites, or whether it was just to make herself feel better. All she knew was that it was what she always said when she started out on a journey.
"I have to leave," she announced, and her lips trembled when she said it just as they would tomorrow, the next day, a week, a year, a century later and every time she uttered those words. "This is but one resting place in my journey, it is but one part of my happiness." It felt like something was forcing itself against the sockets of her eyes.
"Excuse me." She descended the deep steps one by one. She resented having to make her way down this long stairway only to have to crawl up another. She was so tired. And then she stopped.
"No!" she cried, pulling herself out of her fatigue. "To stop is to blow away with the wind, and that is defeat. I will not be defeated, even though I never hope to win." She allowed herself a cynical smile and lifted her pace.
"Excuse me," she said again on reaching the bottom of the stair. A small bag swung around her neck. There were never any goodbyes, like the goodbyes she always hoped to hear when she took up her journey again. She breathed a sigh of relief, smiled, looked up to the moon all alone, patted the dog which was licking her calf, and continued on, feeling victorious.
The narrow road was muddy after the rain and littered with damp clumps of twigs and leaves, which seemed to make the night even darker. But she neither quickened nor slowed her pace.
"Good evening," said a voice. She wasn’t sure if someone was really there, in this dark and lonely place, or whether the voice came from within her, because she so longed to be greeted.
"Good evening." Somebody appeared before her and shook her hand, taking her by surprise.
"Good morning for tomorrow," she said, not easily beaten.
"Ha..ha...ha," the person let out a loud laugh, embraced her firmly and patted her on the back. It was then that she realised who it was. She recognised the shoulders and the way the lips moved. She had seen this person before.
"Ha...ha...ha. You are a ping pong ball, lobbed and ripe for the smash." And then they laughed together, to chase away the loneliness of the night and any unease there might be between them.
"Where are you going?" The inevitable question had finally been posed. She fell silent for a moment before being forced to answer: "Everywhere."
"Everywhere? Rising to a challenge that you don’t understand? So, you’re still just as stupid and clueless as ever, eh?" The person spat in front of her. She was offended and anger began to well up inside her. Her eyes reddened and her lips trembled.
"Good," said the person. "You ought to be offended." And the person shook her hand.
"Our journey is like a casting of the dice," she responded."We are gambling with fate, because we never know on what number the dice will fall. Once again I’ve placed my bets on the wrong number." The person bent over and two drops fell from the hollow eye sockets.
"Why?" she asked, and the person smiled, understanding that the question was directed at the person who had posed it and that the only reply was to smile and remain speechless.
"You travel to reach a certain pre-determined destination, and to continue from there to another pre-determined place," she went on. "Whereas I only travel to flee boredom. Eventually I will arrive somewhere, but it’s only by chance that we have met up here." Her reflections lacked spirit, and eventually she flopped down beside the person, looking out at the ever-lonely night, and feeling its cold air. Suddenly, the person jumped up.
"You see how beautiful the moon is? We must go there, to underneath the moon, so we can let its gentle rays into our hearts." The person’s face filled with joy, and she also felt pleased to have a clear destination.
"Yes. Let’s start now," she said, brimming with enthusiasm.
The person went north, she went south. The person went west, she turned east. The person took a right, she took a left. She traveled over sealed roads and dirt roads, over rocky roads, hills and valleys. She made friends with cats, dogs, bats, butterflies, owls and robots. And she came to underneath the moon. Awaiting the arrival of the person, her friend and muse, she gazed at the full moon. Maybe the person had also come to underneath the moon, or was weeping over their fate somewhere, or had completely forgotten about the challenge, or was already no more than a bundle of white cloth. The person only appeared in her mind’s eye, laughing loudly.
"Our moons are not the same." She wiped away two tears and the story of their joy was closed once again.
Mas Ruscitadewi, November 1985.
Mas Ruscitadewi is a journalist at Bali Post and her short stories have been appearing in that publication since the mid 1980s. ‘Our Moon’ was translated from the Indonesian ‘Bulan Kita’.
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