As the children played badminton, Mr. Urwani walked to the market. He purchased a brand new pack of clove cigarettes, a sachet of kindling logs, and several packs of marshmallows.
As he returned from the market, Reine saw him carrying the grocery bag in one hand and toting the bundle of kindle in the other.
“Uncle Yong, what are you doing?”
“You’ll see,” he replied.
Without another word, he went up the front steps and into the house. Moments later, the screen door slammed as Mr. Urwani exited the back of the house.
He sat everything on the ground and pulled a whittling knife out of his pocket. He flicked the knife open and unfastened the kindling. Then, he built a small log cabin with the sticks. He emptied the grocery bag before crumpling the bag and stuffing it into the center of the log cabin. As soon as he lit the paper bag, it caught fire. The fire quickly spread to the kindling. Mr. Urwani added a few bigger logs and the fire was well underway.
Darkness from the disappearing sun and light from the growing campfire drew the children like fireflies to the Urwani’s backyard.
Mr. Urwani had yet another surprise as he went to the farthest edge of the backyard and pulled branches from a gorse bush. He shaved the twigs until they were smooth and clean.
“What are these for?” asked Susi.
“Roasting marshmallows,” replied her father.
He pierced a marshmallow with a twig and handed it to one of the boys. He continued until every child had a marshmallow roasting over the fire. Mrs. Urwani came outside and sat next to her husband. He whittled one more skewer and placed a marshmallow on the end before handing it to Mrs. Urwani.
“Let’s make s’mores,” suggested Susi.
“Ooh, That’s a good idea! I love roasted marshmallows and chocolate bars between two graham crackers,” replied Reema, “but we don’t have any graham crackers or chocolate bars.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” replied Mrs. Urwani.
She handed her marshmallow to her husband and went back inside. She came out with a platter full of butter cakes and other goodies.
“We can’t make S’Mores with that,” said Susi.
“These will be better than S’Mores,” said Mrs. Urwani.
Everyone watched while Mrs. Urwani sliced the butter cake into thin pieces and laid each piece in the center of a plate. The butter cake was a sweet bread that tasted like a light, fluffy angel food cake.
She slid one the marshmallow off her skewer, resting it atop the butter cake. She drizzled peanut sauce from the Nasi Goreng over the top. Mr. Urwani cut fresh coconut meat into tiny cubes, sprinkling it over the melted marshmallow. Then, Mrs. Urwani shaved nutmeg, cinnamon, and cloves over the top.
She did this for every child. Every child gobbled their dessert before proceeding to roast more marshmallows for more of Mrs. Urwani’s dessert.
“What do you call this?” asked Susi..
“I don’t have a name. I just made it up.”
“May I have another?” asked Reine.
“That’s what we’ll call it!” exclaimed Yudhi.
“What will we call it?” asked Mrs. Urwani.
“Nothers! May I have a ‘nother’?”
“Very clever,” said Mr. Urwani.
All the children asked for a ‘nother. Then, then asked for another ‘nother until every ‘nother was gone.
After the sun was long gone, the neighbor children returned home. Mr. Urwani fetched his rocking chair from the front porch and sat it next to the dwindling campfire.
Mrs. Urwani grabbed a chair and an unfinished dress from the sewing room and sat down next to her husband. Yudhi put away the sports equipment while Reema fetched her Conglak board from her room.
“Anyone want to play Conglak?”
“I do,” replied Susi.
Reema sat the Conglak board next to the fire. Reine watched as Reema and Susi set up the game. The board was fashioned like an outrigger canoe, long and narrow. There was dragon’s head facing outward on each end. Sixteen holes were drilled inside the canoe. There were two rows of seven round holes along each side. At each end, just behind the dragon’s heads, were two oblong holes.
Susi and Reema poured seven puka shells into each of the seven holes in each of their rows. Then, they began their game. Reema and Susi each picked up a random handful of shells from one of the cups on their side of the playing board. Simultaneously, they distributed the shells from their hand, pouring one into each bowl. The act of pouring the shells into the holes was called sowing.
When they reached the oblong end bowls, they sometimes skipped them and sometimes they placed a shell inside, just as they had with the remaining bowls.
“Why are you skipping bowls?” asked Reine.
“This is my ‘house’. I collect stones in my house, while I skip my sister’s house. This is just one of the rules,” stated Reema.
When they dropped the last shell in their hands into the appropriate hole, they picked up all the shells in that hole and continued sowing their ‘seeds’. It was only when the last shell landed in an empty hole or their own house that a player ended their turn. Susi finished first.
Reema finished sowing her ‘seeds’. Since her turn lasted longer, she got to go again, grabbing the shells out of any hole on her side and dispersing them around the board, hole-to-hole.
Meanwhile, Yudhi set up his telescope at the farthest edge of the backyard to stargaze, The sky had turned blue-black. Like all people living near the equator, the Indonesians were used to the quick sunsets.
Mrs. Urwani finished the hem on the plain white dress before setting it aside. She fetched a a brick of paraffin wax and placed it in a shallow pie pan. Slowly, the paraffin melted into a soupy liquid.
“What are you doing?” asked Reine.
“I’m creating batik,” replied Mrs. Urwani.
“Mom,” said Reema, “I don’t know why you spend weeks at a time creating just one dress. There are hundreds, maybe thousands for sale on Malioboro Street.”
“I do it because I love doing it. You have to remember, I used to do this for a living,” replied Mrs. Urwani.
“It’s what sent you to school as a child,” added Mr. Urwani.
Mrs. Urwani stirred the paraffin until it was smooth. Then, she added part of a beeswax honeycomb. The beeswax quickly melted into the paraffin. She stirred the wax until it was smooth again.
“Reine, could you hand me that tool?” asked Mrs. Urwani.
Reine grabbed the tiny tool. It had a wooden handle at one end and a metal spout at the other. Mrs. Urwani used a spoon to scoop wax from the pie plate to the batik tool.
“I use this device, which is called a ‘canting’, to put wax onto the dress.”
Mrs. Urwani drew a floral design upon the front of the dress. She patiently worked on one part of the dress before moving onto another area. After she finished, most of the dress was spattered with wax.
“Aunt Maly, it looks horrible.”
“Just be patient, Reine.”
Mrs. Urwani laid the dress upon her chair and went inside. When she returned, she carried a small washtub in her arms.
“What do you have in there?” asked Reine.
“A little bit of everything,” replied Mrs. Urwani, “Would you like to help?”
Reine nodded.
Mrs. Urwani unloaded the washtub. Inside, there were bottles of brown and blue ink, a pair of hot dog tongs, and some rubber gloves.
“We’ll start by squirting blue ink into the washbasin.”
Reine did as she was told. Afterward, Mrs. Urwani added water to the ink until the washbasin was half full.
“Now place the dress into the ink, but don’t place your hands in the ink.”
“Why not?”
“See my hands?” asked Mrs. Urwani.
Reine had never noticed before, but Mrs. Urwani’s fingertips were slightly blue colored.
“The ink will permanently stain your hands, just like mine.”
Reine was careful not to touch the water. Mrs. Urwani used the hot dog tongs to submerge the dress completely into the ink.
“The longer we leave the dress to soak, the darker the color.”
Everyone sat by the fire as they waited for the ink to stain the dress. After about an hour, Mrs. Urwani handed a pair of gloves to Reine. Both Reine put on her gloves, ready for the next step.
Mrs. Urwani fished the dress out of the washbasin with the tongs.
“Wow! It’s as dark as the nighttime sky!”
“It’s called Indigo,” replied Mrs. Urwani.
“Where does indigo come from?”
“Most people say it comes from India. The word ‘indigo’ comes from a Greek word which means to indicate, or mark something.”
“Like you’re marking the dress with ink?”
“Exactly.”
“But I really meant the ink…where does it come from?”
“It’s made artificially nowadays, but there was a time when Indonesians used crushed flowers to make inks and dyes. In fact, the artificial Indigo is used in every pair of blue jeans made today.”
Mrs. Urwani grabbed the tongs and fished in the ink for the dress. The dress was dark blue, just as dark as a brand new pair of jeans.
“Grab the dress and squeeze out all of the ink,” said Mrs. Urwani.
“The wax is breaking in my grip,” said Reine.
“That’s okay. It’s one of the tricks to batik,” said Mrs. Urwani.
Reine finished squeezing. Then, Mrs. Urwani twisted the dress between her hands, wrining out the last bit of excess ink. She draped the dress over the clothesline and returned inside.
“I forgot something,” she said.
After a long wait, Mrs. Urwani returned with a second washtub. This one was filled with hot water. She removed the pie plate from the fire, replacing it with the washtub.
“What are you doing now?” asked Reine.
“I’m going to remove the wax,” said Mrs. Urwani.
“How will you do that?”
“By melting it.”
Mrs. Urwani felt the dress. The ink was still not quite dry. Mrs. Urwani held it in front of the fire, switching from one side to the other. When the dress was dry, she dropped it into the water.
“Any moment now,” said Mrs. Urwani.
Reine peered into the washtub. Melted wax floated to the surface. Mrs. Urwani scooped it off until no more wax was left in the washtub. At that point, she grabbed the tongs. She fished the dress from the blue lagoon of ink and water and held it high in the air.
“Look at that design!” said Reine.
The places where Mrs. Urwani had painted the wax design, there was only the unstained white dress showing.
“It’s beautiful,” said Reine.
“It’s not finished yet,” said Mrs. Urwani.
“What now?”
“Now we wait.”
“We always have to wait,” said Reine.
“Tomorrow, I will paint new designs on the dress and use the brown ink. The colors blue, brown, and white represent the symbols of Hindu culture. There were times when different styles of batik were used to determine to whom you were talking. The more intricate the design, the more important the person.”
“So, how important is the person who will wear this dress?” asked Reine.
“Very important,” replied Mrs. Urwani.
“Who is it?”
Mrs. Urwani poked Reine on the nose and gave a laugh.
“It’s you, my sweet princess.”
Reine’s smile lit up the campfire. She looked around at the Urwani family. Susi and Reema both had beautiful pieces of batik clothing. Reema had a long dress and Susi wore one of her batik scarves, which tied back her hair.
Reine would have to wait, though. Tomorrow, she would be able to wear a dress hand-made by her Aunt Maly. As the fire waned, so did Reine’s ability to stay awake. As she admired the half-finished dress hanging on the clothesline, she drifted off to sleep.
Yudhi abandoned his stargazing for just a moment. He lifted his tiny cousin in his arms, carrying her on his shoulder, like a bag of rice. When they arrived upstairs, he tucked her in for a pleasant night’s sleep. When he returned downstairs, the rest of the girls were ready for sleep, too.
“Yudhi,” said his mother, “will you put the fire out when you’re finished?”
“Sure thing, ma.”
Mr. Urwani, however, did not go to bed quite yet. He lit a clove cigarette and gave it a puff. He joined Yudhi at the telescope. As Mr. Urwani looked through the telescope, Yudhi narrated the position of each and every star he knew. It was a long list. In fact, the list lasted longer than Mr. Urwani’s clove cigarette.
Mr. Urwani flicked the cigarette butt intot he fire. The flames consumed the cigarette.
“I guess that about does it for me, too,” said Mr. Urwani.
“I’m just about finished,” said Yudhi.
“Don’t forget to put out the campfire when you’re finished.”
“I’m going to do that right now,” said Yudhi.
He dumped the contents of the washbasins on the fire. The ink mix stained the ground around the campfire dark blue. As steam rose from the half-dead fire, Yudhi returned to his work.
The night, as dark as the darkest of inks, still allowed room for each and every star. This made Yudhi think of all the Indonesian people.
“Many yet one,” he whispered to himself.
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