Blue Blood of the big Astana by Ibrahim

A. Jubaira Datu’s daughter, if I worked hard and behaved well.

I asked Babo, too, if might be allowed to prick your skin to see if
Although the heart may care no more, the mind can always recall.
you had blue blood, in truth. But Babo did not answer me anymore.
The mind can always recall, for there are always things to
She just told me to keep quiet. There, I became so talkative again.
remember: languid days of depressed boyhood; shared happy days
Was that really our house? My, it was so big! Babo chided me. “We
under the glare of the sun; concealed love and mocking fate; etc. So
don’t call it a house,” she said. “We call it Astana, the house of the
I suppose you remember too.
Datu,” So I just said oh, and kept quiet. Why did not Babo tell me
Remember? A little over the year after I was orphaned, my aunt
that before?
decided to turn me over to your father, the Datu. In those days,
Babo suddenly stopped in her tracks. Was I really very clean? Oh,
datus were supposed to take charge of the poor and the helpless.
oh, look at my hare-lip. She cleaned my hare-lip, wipping away with
Therefore, my aunt only did right in placing me under the wing of
her tapis the sticky mucus of the faintest conceivable green flowing
your father. Furthermore she was so poor, that by doing that, she
from my nose. Poi! Now it was better. Although I could not feel any
not only relieved herself of the burden of poverty but also safe-
sort of improvement in my deformity itself. I merely felt cleaner.
guarded my well-being.
Was I truly the boy about whom Babo was talking? You were
But I could not bear the thought of even a moment’s separation
laughing, young pretty Blue Blood. Happy perhaps that I was. Or
from my aunt. She had been like a mother to me, and would always
was it the amusement brought about by my hare-lip that had made
be.
you laugh? I dared not ask you. I feared that should you to dislike
“Please, Babo,” I pleaded. “Try to feed me a little more. Let me
me, you’d subject me to unpleasant treatment. Hence, I laughed
grow big with you, and I will build you a house. I will repay you
with you, and you were pleased.
someday. Let me do something to help, but please, Babo, don’t
Babo told me to kiss your right hand. Why not your feet? Oh, you
send me away…” I really cried.
were a child yet. I could wait until you had grown up.
Babo placed a soothing hand on my shoulder. Just like the hand of
But you withdrew your hand a once. I think my hare-lip gave it a
Mother. I felt a bit comforted, but presently I cried some more. The
ticklish sensation. However, I was so intoxicated by the momentary
effect of her hand was so stirring.
sweetness the action bought me that I decided inwardly to kiss your
“Listen to me. Stop crying—oh, now, do stop. You see, we can’t go
hand every day. No, no, it was not love. It was only an impish sort of
on like this,” Babo said. “My matweaving can’t clothe and feed both
liking. Imagine the pride that was mine to be thus in close heady
you and me. It’s really hard, son, it’s really hard. You have to go. But
contact with one of the blue blood….
I will be seeing you every week. You can have everything you want
in the Datu’s house.”
“Welcome, little orphan!” Was it for me? Really for me? I looked at
I tried to look at Babo through my tears. But soon, the thought of
Babo. Of course it was for me! We were generously bidden in.
having everything I wanted took hold of my child’s mind. I ceased
Thanks to your father’s kindness. And thanks to you laughing at me,
crying.
too.
“Say you will go,” Babo coaxed me. I assented finally. I was only
I kissed the feet of your Appab, your old, honorable resting-the-
five then—very tractable.
whole-day father. He was not tickled by my hare-lip as you were. He
Babo bathed me in the afternoon. I did not flinch and shiver, for the
did not laugh at me. And so did your Ambob, your kind mother. “Sit
sea was comfortably warm and exhilarating. She cleaned my
down, sit down; don’t be ashamed.”
fingernails meticulously. Then she cupped a handful of sand, spread
But there you were plying Babo with your heartless questions: Why
it over my back, and rubbed my grimy body, particularly the back of
was I like that? What had happened to me?
my ears. She poured fresh water over me afterwards. How clean I
To satisfy you, pretty Blue Blood, little inquisitive One, Babo had to
became! But my clothes were frayed….
explain: Well, mother had slid in the vinta in her sixth month with the
Babo instructed me before we left for your big house: I must not
child that was me. Result: my hare-lip “Poor Jaafar,” your Appab
forget to kiss your father’s feet, and to withdraw when and as
said. I was about to cry, but seeing you looking at me, I felt so
ordered without turning my back; I must not look at your father full in
ashamed that I held back the tears. I could not help being
the eyes; I must not talk too much; I must always talk in the third
sentimental, you see. I think my being bereft of parents in youth had
person; I must not… Ah, Babo, those were too many to remember.
much to do with it all.
Babo tried to be patient with me. She tested me over and over
“Do you think you will be happy to stay with us? Will you not yearn
again on those royal, traditional ways. And one thing more: I had to
any more for your Babo?”
say “Pateyk” for yes, and “Teyk” for what, or for answering a call.
“Pateyk, I will be happy,” I said. Then the thought of my not
“Oh Babo, why do you have to say all those things? Why really do I
yearning any more for Babo made me wince. But Babo nodded at
have?”
me reassuringly.
“Come along, son; come along.”
“Patek, I will not yearn any more for… for Babo.”
We started that same afternoon. The breeze was cool as it blew
And Babo went before the interview was through. She had to cover
against my face. We did not get tired because we talked on the way.
five miles before evening came. Still I did not cry, as you may have
She told me so many things. She said you of the big house had blue
expected I would, for—have I not said it? —I was so ashamed to
blood.
weep in your presence.
“Not red like ours, Babo?”
That as how I came to stay with you, remember? Babo came to see
Babo said no, not red like ours.
me every week as she had promised. And you— all of you— had lot
“And the Datu has a daughter of my age, Babo?”
Babo said yes—you. And I might be allowed to play with you, the
of things to tell her. That I was a good worker —oh, beyond
question, your Appab and Ambob told Babo. And you outspoken
little Blue Blood joined the flattering chorus. But my place of sleep
always reckoned of urine, you added, laughing. That downright
promise from me not to wet my mat again.
Yes, Babo came to see me, to advise me every week, for two
consecutive years— that is, until death took her away, leaving no
one in the world but a nephew with a hare-lip.
Remember? I was you’re your favorite and you wanted to play with
me always. I learned why after a time, it delighted you to gaze at my
hare-lip. Sometimes, when went out wading to the sea, you would
pause and look at you, too, wondering. Finally, you would chime in,
not realizing I was making fun of myself. Then you would pinch me
painfully to make me cry. Oh, you wanted to experiment with me.
You could not tell, you said whether I cried or laughed: the working
of my lips was just the same in either to your gleaming eyes. And I
did not flush with shame even if you said so. For after all, had not
my mother slid in the vinta.
Remember? I was apparently so willing to do anything for you. I
would climb for young coconuts for you. I would be amazed by the
ease and agility. With which I made my way up the coconut tree, yet
fear that I would implore me to come down at once, quick. “No.” you
would throw pebbles at me if thus refused to come down. No, I still
would not. Your pebbles could not reach me— you were not strong
enough. You would then threaten to report me to your Appab. “Go
ahead.” How I liked being at the top! And sing there as I looked at
you helpless. In a spasm of anger, you would curse me, wishing my
death. Well, let me die. I would die. I would climb the coconut trees
in heaven. And my ghost would shout, “Dayang-Dayang, I am
coming down!” Then you would come back. You see? A servant, an
orphan, could also command the fair and proud Blue Blood to come
or go.
Then we would pick up little shells, and search for sea-cucumbers;
or dive for the sea-urchins. Or run along the along the long stretch of
white glaring sand, I behind you— admiring your soft, nimble feet
and your flying hair. Then we would stop, panting, laughing.
After resting for a while, we would run again to the sea and wage
war against the crashing waves. I would rub your silky back after we
had finished bathing in the sea. I would get fresh water in a clean
coconut shell, and rinse your soft, ebon hair. Your hair flowed down
smoothly, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Oh, it was beautiful. Then I
would trim your fingernails carefully. Sometimes you beg you to
whip me. Just so you could differentiate between my crying and my
laughing. And even the pain you gave me partook of sweetness.
That was my way. My only way to show how grateful I was for the
things I had not tasted before: your companionship; shelter and food
in your big astana. So your parents sent you to a Mohammedan
school when you were seven. I was not sent to study with you, but it
made no difference to me. For after all, was not my work carrying
your red Koran on my top of my head four times a day? And you
were happy, because I could entertain you. Because someone could
be a water –carrier for you. One of the requirements then was to
carry water every time you showed up in your Mohammedan class,
“Oh, why? Excuse the stammering of my hare-lip, but I really wished
to know.” Your Goro, your Mohammedan teacher, looked deep into
me as if to search my whole system. Stupid. Did I not know our
hearts could easily grasp the subject matter, like the soft, incessant
flow of water? Hearts, hearts. Not brains. But I just kept silent. After
all, I was not there to ask impertinent questions. Shame, shame on
my hare-lip asking such question, I chided myself silently.
That was how I played the part of an Epang-Epang, of a servant-
escort, to you. And I became more spirited every day, trudging
behind you. I was like a faithful, loving dog following its mistress with
light steps and a singing heart. Because you, ahead of me, were
something of an inspiration I could trail indefatigably, even to the
ends of the world….
The dreary monotone of your Koranchanting lasted three years.
You were so slow, you Goro said. At times, she wanted to whip you.
But did she not know you were the Datu’s daughter? Why, she
would be flogged herself. But whipping an orphaned servant and
clipping his split lips with two pieces of wood were evidently
permissible. So, your Goro found me a convenient substitute for
you. How I groaned with pain under her lashings! But how your Goro
laughed; the wooden clips failed to keep my hare-lip closed. They
always slipped. And the class, too roared with laughter—you
leading.
But back there in your spacious astana, you were already being
tutored for maidenhood. I was older than you by one Ramadan. I
often wondered why you grew so fast, while I remained a lunatic
dwarf. Maybe the poor care I received in early boyhood had much to
do with my hampered growth. However, I was happy, in a way that I
did not catch up with you. For I had a hunch you would not continue
to avail yourself of my help in certain intimate tasks—such as
scrubbing your back when you took your bath— had I grown as fast
as you.
There I was in my bed at night, alone, intoxicated with passion and
emotions closely resembling those of a full-grown man’s. I thought
of you secretly, unashamedly, lustfully: a full-grown Dayang-Dayang
reclining in her bed at the farthest end of her inner apartment;
breasts heaving softly like breezekissed waters; cheeks of the
faintest red brushing against a soft pillow; eyes gazing dreamily into
immensity—warm, searching, expressive; supple buttocks and pliant
arms; soft, ebon hair that rippled….
Dayang-Dayang, could you have forgiven a deformed orphan-
servant had he gone mad, and lost respect and dread towards your
Appab? Could you have pardoned his rabid temerity had he leaped
out of his bed, rushed into your room, seized you in his arms, and
tickled your face with his hare-lip? I should like to confess that for at
least a moment, yearning, starved, athirst… no, no, I cannot say it.
We were of such contrasting patterns. Even the lovely way you
looked—the big astana you lived in—the blood you had….
Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could weave our fabrics into
equality. I had to content myself with the privilege of gazing
frequently at your peerless loveliness. An ugly servant must not go
beyond his little border.
But things did not remain as they were. A young Datu from Bonbon
came back to ask for your hand. Your Appab was only too glad to
welcome him. There was nothing better, he said, than marriage
between two people of the same blue blood. Besides, he was
growing old. He had no son to take his place some day. Well, the
young Datu was certainly fit to take in due time the royal torch your
Appab had been carrying for years. But I—I felt differently; of
course. I wanted…. No, I could not have a hand in your marital
arrangements. What was I, after all?
Certainly your Appab was right. The young Datu was handsome.
And rich, too. He had a large tract of land planted with the fruit trees,
coconut trees, and abaca plants. And you were glad, too. Not
because he was rich—for you were rich yourself. I thought I knew
why: the young Datu could rub your soft back better than I whenever
you took your bath. His hands were not as callous as mine….
However, I did not talk to you about it. Of course.
Your Appab ordered his subjects to build two additional wings to
your astana. Your astana was already big, but it had to be enlarged
as hundreds of people would be coming to witness your royal
wedding.
The people sweated profusely. There was a great deal of
hammering, cutting, and lifting as they set up posts. Plenty of eating
and jabbering. And chewing of betel nuts and native seasoned
tobacco. And emitting of red saliva afterwards. In just one day, the
additional wings were finished.
Then came your big wedding. People had crowded your astana
early in the day to help in the religious slaughtering of cows and
goats. To aid, too, in the voracious consumption of your wedding
feast. Some more people came as evening drew near. Those who
could not be accommodated upstairs had to stay below.
Torches fashioned out of dried coconut leaves blazed in the night.
Half-clad natives kindled them over the cooking fire. Some pounded
rice for cakes. And their brown glossy bodies sweated profusely.
Out in the astana yard, the young Datu’s subjects danced in great
circles. Village swains danced with grace, now swaying sensuously
their shapely hips, now twisting their pliant arms. Their feet moved
deftly and almost imperceptibly.
Male dancers would crouch low, with a wooden spear, a kris, or a
barong in one hand, and a wooden shield in the other. They
simulated bloody warfare by dashing through the circle of other
dancers and clashing against each other. Native flutes, drums,
gabangs, agongs, and kulintangs contributed much to the musical
gayety of the night. Dance. Sing in delight. Music. Noise.
Laughter. Music swelled out into the world like a heart full of blood,
vibrant, palpitating. But it was my heart that swelled with pain. The
people would cheer: “Long live the Dayang-Dayang and the Datu,
MURAMURAAN!” at every intermission. And I would cheer, too—
mechanically before I knew. I would be missing you so….
People rushed and elbowed their way up into your Astana as the
young Datu was led to you. Being small, I succeeded in squeezing
in near enough to catch a full view of you. You, Dayang – Dayang.
Your moon-shaped face was meticulously powdered with pulverized
rice. Your hair was skewered up toweringly at the center of your
head, and studded with glittering hold hair-pins. Your tight,
gleamingly black dress was covered with a flimsy mantle of the
faintest conceivable pink. Gold buttons embellished your wedding
garments. You sat rigidly on a mattress, with native embroidered
pillows piled carefully at the back. Candled-light mellowed your face
so beautifully you were like a goddess perceived in dreams. You
looked steadily down.
The moment arrived. The turbaned pandita, talking in a voice of
silk, led the young Datu to you, while maidens kept chanting songs
from behind. The Pandita grasped the Datu’s forefinger, and made it
touch thrice the space between your eyebrows. And every time that
was done, my breast heaved and my lips worked.
Remember? You were about to cry, Dayang – dayang. For, as the
people said, you would soon be separated from your parents. Your
husband would soon take you to Bonbon, and you would live there
like a country woman. But as you unexpectedly caught a glimpse of
me, you smiled at once, a little. And I knew why: my hare-lip
amused you again. I smiled back at you, and withdrew at once. I
withdrew at once because I could not bear further seeing you sitting
beside the young Datu, and knowing fully well that I who had
sweated, labored, and served you like a dog…. No, no, shame on
me to think of all that at all. For was it not but a servant’s duty?
But I escaped that night, pretty Blue Blood. Where to? Anywhere.
That was exactly seven years ago. And those years did wonderful
things for me. I am no longer a lunatic dwarf, although my hare-lip
remains as it has always been.
Too, I have amassed a little fortune after years of sweating I could
have taken two or three wives, but I had not yet found anyone
resembling you lovely Blue Blood. So single I remained.
And Allah’s Wheel of time kept on turning, kept on turning. And to,
once day your husband was transforted to San Ramon Penal Farm,
Zamboanga. He had raised his hand against the Christian
government. He had wished to establish his own government. He
wanted to show his petty power by refusing to pay land taxes, on the
ground that the land he had were by legitimate inheritance his own
absolutely. He did not understand that the little amount he should
give in the form of taxes would be utilized to protect him and his
people from swindlers. He did not discern that he was in fact a part
of the Christian government himself. Consequently his subjects lost
their lives fighting for a wrong cause. Your Appab, too, was drawn
into the mess, and perished with the others. His possessions were
confiscated. And your Ambob, died of a broken heart. Your
husband, to save his life, had to surrender. His lands, too, were
confiscated. Only a little portion was left for you to cultivate and live
on.
And remember? I went one day to Bonbon on business. And I saw
you on your bit of land with your children. At first, I could not believe
it was you. Then you looked long deep into me. Soon the familiar
eyes of Blue Blood of years ago arrested the faculties of the
erstwhile servant. And you could not believe your eyes either. You
could not recognize me at once. But when you saw my hare-lip
smiling at you, rather hesitantly, you knew me at last. And I was glad
you did.
“Oh, Jaafar,” you gasped, dropping you janap, your primitive trowel,
instinctively. And you thought I was no longer living, you said.
Curse, curse. It was still your frank, outspoken way. It was like you
to be able to jest even hen sorrow was on the verge of removing the
last vestiges of your loveliness. You could somehow conceal your
pain and grief beneath banter and laughter. And I was glad of that,
too.
Well, I was about to tell you that the Jaafar you saw now was a very
different – a much improved – Jaafar. Indeed. But instead: “Oh,
Dayang-Dayang,” I murmured, distressed to have seen you working.
You who had been reared in case and luxury. However, I tried very
much not to show traces of understanding your deplorable situation.
 One of your sons came running and asked who I was. Well, I was, I and rinse your dry, ruffled hair, that it might be restored to flowing
was…. smoothness and glorious luster. I wanted to trim your fingernails,
“Your old servant,” I said promptly. Your son said oh, and kept stroke your callous hand. I yearned to tell you that the land and the
quiet, returning at last to resume his work. Work, work, Eting. Work, cattle I owned were all yours. And above all, I burned to whirl back
son. Bundle of firewood and take it to the kitchen. Don’t mind your to you and beg you and your children to come home with me.
old servant. He won’t turn young again. Poor little Datu, working so Although the simple house I lived in as not as big as your astana at
hard. Poor pretty Blue Blood, also working hard. Patikul, it would at least be a happy, temporary haven while you
We kept strangely silent for a long time. And then: By the way, waited for your husband’s release.
where was I living now? In Kanagi. My business here in Bonbon That urge to go back to you, Dayang-Dayang, was strong. But I did
today? To see Panglima Hussin about the cows he intended to sell, not go back for a sudden qualm seized me: I had no blue blood. I
Dayang-Dayang. Cows? Was I a landsman already? Well, if the had only a hare-lip. Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could
pretty Blue Blood could live like a countrywoman, why not a man like weave us, even now, into equality.
your old servant? You see, luck was against me in sea-roving
activities, so I had to turn to buying and selling cattle. Oh, you said.
And then you laughed. And I laughed with you. My laughter was dry.
Or was it yours? However, you asked what was the matter. Oh,
nothing. Really nothing serious. But you see…. And you seemed to
understand as I stood there infront of you, leaning against a mango
tree, doing nothing but stare and stare at you.
I observed that your present self was only the ragged reminder, the
mere ghost, of the Blue Blood of the big astana. Your resources of
vitality and loveliness and strength seemed to have been drained
out of your old arresting self, poured into the little farm you were
working in. Of course I did not expect you to be as lovely as you had
been. But you should have retained at least a fair portion of it-of the
old days. Not blurred eyes encircled by dark ring; not dull, dry hair;
not a sunburned complexion; not wrinkled, callous hand; not….
You seemed to understand more and more. Why was I looking at
you like that?
Was it because I had not seen you for so long? Or was it something
else? Oh, Dayang-Dayang, was not the terrible change in you the
old servant’s concern? You suddenly turned your eyes away from
me. You picked up your janap and began troubling the soft earth. It
seemed you could not utter another word without breaking into
tears. You turned your back toward me because you hated having
me see you in tears.
And I tried to make out why: seeing me now revived old memories.
Seeing me, talking with me, poking fun at me, was seeing, talking,
and joking as in the old days at the vivacious astana. And you
sobbed as I was thinking thus. I knew you sobbed, because your
shoulders shook. But I tried to appear as though I was not aware of
your controlled weeping. I hated myself for coming to you and
making you cry. So…
“May I go now, Dayang-Dayang” I said softly, trying hard to hold
back my own tears. You did not say yes. And you did not say no,
either. But the nodding of your head was enough to make me
understand and go. Go where? Was there a place to go? Of course.
There were many places to go to. Only, there was seldom a place to
which one would like to return.
But something transfixed me in my tracks after walking a mile or so.
There was something of an impulse that strove to drive me back to
you, making me forget Panglima Hussin’s cattle. Every instinct told
me it was right for me to go back to you and do something-perhaps
beg you to remember your old Jaafar’s hare-lip, just so you could
smile and be happy again. I wanted to rush back and wipe away the
tears from your eyes with my headdress. I wanted to get fresh water