Blue Blood of the Big Astana —Ibrahim A.
Babo instructed me before we left for your big
Jubaira
Although the heart may care no more, the mind can
always recall. The mind can always recall, for there
are always things to remember: languid days of
depressed boyhood; shared happy days under the
glare of the sun; concealed love and mocking fate;
etc. So I suppose you remember me too.
Remember? A little over a year after I was
orphaned, my aunt decided to turn me over to your
father, the Datu. In those days datus were supposed
to take charge of the poor and the helpless.
Therefore, my aunt only did right in placing me
under the wing of your father. Furthermore, she
was so poor, that by doing that, she not only
relieved herself of the burden of poverty but also
safeguarded my well-being.
But I could not bear the thought of even a
moment’s separation from my aunt. She had been
like a mother to me, and would always be.
“Please, Babo,” I pleaded. “Try to feed me a little
more. Let me grow big with you, and I will build
you a house. I will repay you some day. Let me do
something to help, but please, Babo, don’t send me
away….” I really cried.
Babo placed a soothing hand on my shoulder. Just
like the hand of Mother. I felt a bit comforted, but
presently I cried some more. The effect of her hand
was so stirring.
“Listen to me. Stop crying—oh, now, do stop. You
see, we can’t go on like this,” Babo said. “My mat-
weaving can’t clothe and feed both you and me. It’s
really hard, son, it’s really hard. You have to go. But
I will be seeing you every week. You can have
everything you want in the Datu’s house.”
I tried to look at Babo through my tears. But soon,
the thought of having everything I wanted took hold
of my child’s mind. I ceased crying.
“Say you will go,” Babo coaxed me. I assented
finally, I was only five then—very tractable.
Babo bathed me in the afternoon. I did not flinch
and shiver, for the sea was comfortably warm, and
exhilarating. She cleaned my fingernails
meticulously. Then she cupped a handful of sand,
spread it over my back, and rubbed my grimy body,
particularly the back of my ears. She poured fresh
water over me afterwards. How clean I became! But
my clothes were frayed….
house: I must not forget to kiss your father’s feet,
and to withdraw when and as ordered without
turning my back; I must not look at your father full
in the eyes; I must not talk too much; I must always
talk in the third person; I must not… Ah, Babo,
those were too many to remember.
Babo tried to be patient with me. She tested me
over and over again on those royal, traditional
ways. And one thing more: I had to say “Pateyk” for
yes, and “Teyk” for what, or for answering a call.
“Oh, Babo, why do I have to say all those things?
Why really do I have…”
“Come along, son; come along.”
We started that same afternoon. The breeze was
cool as it blew against my face. We did not get tired
because we talked on the way. She told me so many
things. She said you of the big house had blue
blood.
“Not red like ours, Babo?”
Babo said no, not red like ours.
“And the Datu has a daughter my age, Babo?”
Babo said yes—you. And I might be allowed to play
with you, the Datu’s daughter, if I worked hard and
behaved well.
I asked Babo, too, if I might be allowed to prick
your skin to see if you had the blue blood, in truth.
But Babo did not answer me anymore. She just told
me to keep quiet. There, I became so talkative
again.
Was that really your house? My, it was so big! Babo
chided me. “We don’t call it a house,” she said. “We
call it astana, the house of the Datu.” So I just said
oh, and kept quiet. Why did Babo not tell me that
before?
Babo suddenly stopped in her tracks. Was I really
very clean? Oh, oh, look at my harelip. She cleaned
my harelip, wiping away with her tapis the sticky
mucus of the faintest conceivable green flowing
from my nose. Poi! Now it was better. Although I
could not feel any sort of improvement in my
deformity itself. I merely felt cleaner.
Was I truly the boy about whom Babo was talking?
You were laughing, young pretty Blue Blood. Happy
perhaps that I was. Or was it the amusement
brought about by my harelip that had made you
laugh. I dared not ask you. I feared that should you
come to dislike me, you’d subject me to unpleasant
treatment. Hence, I laughed with you, and you were
pleased.
Babo told me to kiss your right hand. Why not your
feet? Oh, you were a child yet. I could wait until you
had grown up.
But you withdrew your hand at once. I think my
harelip gave it a ticklish sensation. However, I was
so intoxicated by the momentary sweetness the
action brought me that I decided inwardly to kiss
your hand everyday. No, no, it was not love. It was
only an impish sort of liking. Imagine the pride that
was mine to be thus in close heady contact with one
of the blue blood….
“Welcome, little orphan!” Was it for me? Really for
me? I looked at Babo. Of course it was for me! We
were generously bidden in. Thanks to your father’s
kindness. And thanks to your laughing at me, too.
I kissed the feet of your Appah, your old, honorable,
resting-the-whole-day father. He was not tickled by
my harelip as you were. He did not laugh at me. In
fact, he evinced compassion towards me. And so
did your Amboh, your kind mother. “Sit down, sit
down; don’t be ashamed.”
But there you were, plying Babo with your heartless
questions: Why was I like that? What had happened
to me?
To satisfy you, pretty Blue Blood, little inquisitive
One, Babo had to explain: Well, Mother had slid in
the vinta in her sixth month with the child that was
me. Result: my harelip. “Poor Jaafar,” your Appah
said. I was about to cry, but seeing you looking at
me, I felt so ashamed that I held back the tears. I
could not help being sentimental, you see. I think
my being bereft of parents in youth had much to do
with it all.
“Do you think you will be happy to stay with us?
Will you not yearn any more for your Babo?”
“Pateyk, I will be happy,” I said. Then the thought
of my not yearning any more for Babo made me
wince. But Babo nodded at me reassuringly.
“Pateyk, I will not yearn any more for… for Babo.”
And Babo went before the interview was through.
She had to cover five miles before evening came.
Still I did not cry, as you may have expected I
would, for—have I not said it?—I was ashamed to
weep in your presence.
That was how I came to stay with you, remember?
Babo came to see me every week as she had
promised. And you—all of you—had a lot of things
to tell her. That I was a good worker—oh, beyond
question, your Appah and Amboh told Babo. And
you, out-spoken little Blue Blood, joined the
flattering chorus. But my place of sleep always
reeked of urine, you added, laughing. That drew a
rallying admonition from Babo, and a 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 harelip.
Remember? I was your favorite and you wanted to
play with me always. I learned why after a time, it
delighted you to gaze at my harelip. Sometimes,
when we went out wading to the sea, you would
pause and look at me. I would look at you, too,
wondering. Finally, you would be seized by a fit of
laughter. I 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 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?
That was your way. And I wanted to pay you back in
my own way. I wanted to prick your skin and see if
you really had blue blood. But there was something
about you that warned me against a deformed
orphan’s intrusion. All I could do, then, was to feel
foolishly proud, cry and laugh with you—for you—
just to gratify the teasing, imperious blue blood in
you. Yes, I had my way, too.
Remember? I was apparently so willing to do
anything for you. I would climb for young coconuts
for you. You would be amazed by the ease and
agility with which I made my way up the coconut
tree, yet fear that I would fall. You would implore
me to come down at once, quick. “No.” You would
throw pebbles at me if I 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 Appah. “Go ahead.”
How I liked being at the top! And sing there as I
looked at you who were below. You were so
helpless. In a spasm of anger, you would curse me,
wishing my death. Well, let me die. I would climb
the coconut trees in heaven. And my ghost would
return to deliver… to deliver young celestial
coconuts to you. 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 sea-urchins. Or run
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, ebony hair. Your
hair flowed down smoothly, gleaming in the
afternoon sun. Oh, it was beautiful. Then I would
trim your fingernails carefully. Sometimes you
would jerk with pain. Whereupon I would 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 tasted before:
your companionship; shelter and food in your big
astana. So your parents said I would make a good
servant, indeed. And you, too, thought I would.
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 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 harelip, 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 harelip asking such a 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 Koran-chanting
lasted three years. You were so slow, your 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 in pain under her lashings! But
how your Goro laughed; the wooden clips failed to
keep my harelip 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 did not catch
up with you. For I had a hunch you would not
continue to avail yourself 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 passions 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 breeze-kissed 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 ebony hair
that rippled….
Dayang-Dayang, could you have forgiven a
deformed orphan-servant had he gone mad, and
lost respect and dread towards your Appah? Could
you have pardoned his rabid temerity had he leapt
out of his bed, rushed into your room, seized you in
his arms, and tickled your face with his harelip? 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 where you
lived—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 Appah 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
Appah 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 Appah was right. The young Datu
was handsome. And rich, too. He had a large tract
of land planted with 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 callused as mine… However, I
did not talk to you about it. Of course.
Your Appah 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 stimulated 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 gaiety 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 gold hair-pins. Your tight, gleaming
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. Candlelight 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 countrywoman. But as you unexpectedly
caught a glimpse of me, you smiled once, a little.
And I knew why: my harelip 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 removing the last vestiges of your loveliness. You
knowing fully well that I who had sweated, labored, could somehow conceal your pain and grief beneath
and served you like a dog… No, no, shame on me to banter and laughter. And I was glad of that, too.
think of all that at all. For was it not but a servant’s
Well, I was about to tell you that the Jafaar you saw
duty?
now was a very different—a much-improved—
But I escaped that night, pretty Blue Blood. Where Jafaar. Indeed. But instead: “Oh, Dayang-Dayang,”
to? Anywhere. That was exactly seven years ago. I mumbled, distressed to have seen you working.
And those years did wonderful things for me. I am You who had been reared in ease and luxury.
no longer a lunatic dwarf, although my harelip However, I tried very much not to show traces of
remains as it has always been. understanding your deplorable situation.
Too, I had amassed a little fortune after years of One of your sons came running and asked who I
sweating. I could have taken two or three wives, but was. Well, I was, I was….
I had not yet found anyone resembling you, lovely
“Your old servant,” I said promptly. Your son said
Blue Blood. So, single I remained.
oh, and kept quiet, returning at last to resume his
And Allah’s Wheel of Time kept on turning, kept on work. Work, work, Eting. Work, son. Bundle the
turning. And lo, one day your husband was firewood and take it to the kitchen. Don’t mind your
transported to San Ramon Penal Farm, old servant. He won’t turn young again. Poor little
Zamboanga. He had raised his hand against the Datu, working so hard. Poor pretty Blue Blood, also
Christian government. He has wished to establish working hard.
his own government. He wanted to show his petty
We kept strangely silent for a long time. And then:
power by refusing to pay land taxes, on the ground
By the way, where was I living now? In Kanagi. My
that the lands he had were by legitimate inheritance
business here in Bonbon today? To see Panglima
his own absolutely. He did not understand that the
Hussin about the cows he intended to sell, Dayang-
little amount he should have given in the form of
Dayang. Cows? Was I a landsman already? Well, if
taxes would be utilized to protect him and his
the pretty Blue Blood could live like a
people from swindlers. He did not discern that he
countrywoman, why not a man like your old
was in fact a part of the Christian government
servant? You see, luck was against me in sea-roving
himself. Consequently, his subjects lost their lives
activities, so I had to turn to buying and selling
fighting for a wrong cause. Your Appah, too, was
cattle. Oh, you said. And then you laughed. And I
drawn into the mess and perished with the others.
laughed with you. My laughter was dry. Or was it
His possessions were confiscated. And you Amboh
yours? However, you asked what was the matter.
died of a broken heart. Your husband, to save his
Oh, nothing. Really, nothing serious. But you see…
life, had to surrender. His lands, too, were
And you seemed to understand as I stood there in
confiscated. Only a little portion was left for you to
front of you, leaning against a mango tree, doing
cultivate and live on.
nothing but stare and stare at you.
And remember? I went one day to Bonbon on
I observed that your present self was only the
business. And I saw you on your bit of land with
ragged reminder, the mere ghost, of the Blue Blood
your children. At first, I could not believe it was
of the big astana. Your resources of vitality and
you. Then you looked long and deep into me. Soon
loveliness and strength seemed to have drained out
the familiar eyes of Blue Blood of years ago arrested
of your old arresting self, poured into the little farm
the faculties of the erstwhile servant. And you could
you were working in. Of course I did not expect you
not believe your eyes either. You could not
to be as lovely as you had been. But you should
recognize me at once. But when you saw my harelip
have retained at least a fair portion of it—of the old
smiling at you, rather hesitantly, you knew me at
days. Not blurred eyes encircled by dark rings; not
least. And I was so glad you did.
dull, dry hair; not a sunburned complexion; not
“Oh, Jafaar,” you gasped, dropping your janap, your wrinkled, callous hands; not…
primitive trowel, instinctively. And you thought I
You seemed to understand more and more. Why
was no longer living, you said. Curse, curse. It was
was I looking at you like that? Was it because I had
still your frank, outspoken way. It was like you were
not seen you for so long? Or was it something else?
able to jest even when sorrow was on the verge of
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….
“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 seldom was there 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
Jafaar’s harelip, 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 and rinse your dry,
ruffled hair, that it might be restored to flowing
smoothness and glorious luster. I wanted to trim
your fingernails, stroke your callused hand. I
yearned to tell you that the land and the cattle I
owned were all yours. And above all, I burned to
whirl back to you and beg you and your children to
come home with me. Although the simple house I
lived in was not as big as your astana at Patikul, it
would at least be a happy, temporary haven while
you waited for your husband’s release.
That urge to go back to you, Dayang-Dayang, was
strong. But I did not go back for a sudden qualm
seized: I had no blue blood. I had only a harelip.
Not even the fingers of Allah perhaps could weave
us, even now, into equality.