It doesn’t feel like a morgue.
Apart from the fact that grandma Kala’linggi’s embalmed body lies peacefully in the next room, right behind a thin bleached curtain. Never think of the word “corpse” for she’s called “Nene’ “ until the great funeral rite. For Torajan people in South Sulawesi, she’s literally no different from us, except that she always misses breakfast, lunch and dinner.
It means when I intend to spend some time at their traditional house Tongkonan, I need to ask her permission since she is also my host.
“Hello Nene’. It’s nice to meet you. I’m staying in Makale for a couple of days,”
Draped in several layers of zigzag patterned Torajan batik, Nene’ only seems like she’s having an early siesta. This part of the room definitely belongs to her because her pile of clothes, her comb, her tiny black velvety purse are scattered over. The palm mat beneath her appears soft, the wooden wall and floor feel warm. Hanging on the beam in the ceiling is a yellowish light bulb dangling with cobwebs--as if she’s afraid of the dark. Despite its ornately colourful façade, the interior of the Tongkonan is drab. The only garish decoration is a poster of Jesus adorned with bright pink plastic flowers. There’s also a family picture attached on the east partition showing some people standing stiffly like a style from the 50s. A calendar with a photo of a famous Indonesian actress stuck up next to it, level to a small closed window. From the crack of its panel a ray of sun slips in, falls straight on Nene’’s bosom. I guess I’ve already got her approval.
Nene’ has been there for almost a year, waiting for the family to gather from every corner of Indonesia to throw her a grandiose party involving the slaughter of many Tedong, or buffaloes, dancing, costumes and drinking of balok, Torajan palm wine. Meanwhile, she doesn’t need to worry about feeling lonely because her daughter and grandchildren always talk to her and keep her informed of the latest news.
“Your brother from Rantepao is coming to visit us today,”
“We are having fish curry for dinner,”
“The electricity is off. Here is your candle,”
Nothing changes for Nene’ since she was living in the house, other than she has become much quieter. It’s not a joke at all when I tell her I’m setting off.
“I’m leaving for Ke'te' Kesu' soon,”
A gust of fresh morning air rushes in, richly filled with the aroma of fragrant boiled rice from the kitchen next door. Smoke sneaks out from the rattan roof to the sky. It gets brighter as the round red sun climbs up, leaving a reflection in the pellucid water from a distant rice field. It’s only 5.30 but the day has begun. A farmer perches on a plough on the hilly landscape, children bring Tedong to the river to bathe.
For that short moment I sense the spirit of Nene’ has bid me goodbye.
