When Mother Came
Dwi Ratih Ramadhany
Translated by Clarissa Goenawan
When Mother said she would come sooner than originally planned, I remembered I hadn't scrubbed the bathroom, hadn't ironed the clothes, hadn’t wiped the windows, hadn’t changed the bedsheets, and hadn't pulled the weeds in the front yard. I felt so short of time, even though I was heavily pregnant and there was no way I could finish all the tasks at such quick notice. Over the phone, my mother told me in her high-pitched voice, she had a strong feeling that in a matter of days, I would meet the infant in my womb.
Two days later, Mother came with Father, carrying boxes of snacks and baby clothes that once belonged to my niece. The sun was just rising when I saw their tired faces. We had been living hundreds of kilometers apart for nearly a year. Their wrinkles seemed to disclose anxiety and joy that, somehow, they couldn’t express out loud. Mother hugged me, kissed my forehead and cheeks. I saw small waves rolling in her wistful eyes. Inhaling my mother’s scent, I felt like a young girl again, giddy with excitement, before turning into a child, timidly hiding behind a door, hoping she couldn’t find me.
In the afternoon she said, “I brought herbs and param for you. Have you got a pitcher for the placenta? Where did you buy it?”
My husband nodded in response to the first question. I shook my head in answer to the second. I told Mother that my grandmother-in-law’s neighbor gave us one.
Her questions continued. “Why did they give it to you? Are their children and grandchildren well? Do they suffer from any particular illness?”
I couldn’t understand the connection between the pitcher and the owner’s life history, or why it made Mother so anxious. When I was about to reply, her cell phone rang. She spoke briefly and forgot her questions about the pitcher.
On her second day in our home, Mother said she felt refreshed enough not to linger too long in bed. She began to unpack the cardboard boxes of baby clothes, finally putting down her cell phone, which had been ringing since yesterday. Each time, she’d answered half-whispering. I was curious. Who could it be?
“All these clothes have been rewashed, scented, and ironed. All spanking clean, no germs. Your grandma taught me to do it this way,” she said. “Where do you keep the baby stuff you just bought? Don't use the washing machine for the clothes.”
I pointed to the small cupboard where I’d put away my baby's belongings. I’d washed all the clothes. Clean, sweet-scented, neatly folded. I wanted to ask why we couldn’t use the washing machine; but I didn’t tell her I’d used mine, selecting the delicate option. More practical that way.
According to my husband, I shouldn’t argue with Mother. She would say it had been done that way for generations. That’s how Grandma taught me to do it. Well, never mind. Apart from these issues, I enjoyed Mother’s company. She often talked about the year we had lived apart—about how she’d had to take care of Grandma, who always felt it was time to say farewell to this world, but instead had witnessed the deaths of her much younger and healthier relatives. Mother also spoke about her efforts to prepare low-cholesterol and low-sugar meals for Father, so his high blood pressure wouldn’t act up again.
“Your father takes his medicine because he doesn’t want to get scolded, not because he’s worried about his illness,” she said.
Father retorted that being scolded by Mother would also cause illness. I laughed. The little girl hiding behind the door was no longer tense.
On Mother’s third day at home, I saw my underwear spotted with blood. Am I about to give birth? My husband packed the delivery bag. Mother made me honey water and a bottle of milk. “To give you enough fluid and energy during the labor,” she said. Father, who chose not to follow us to the delivery clinic, prepared the house to welcome the arrival of the new bundle.
Yes, it seemed my child had chosen to be born that day. Dripping amniotic fluid and blood onto the clinic floor, I made my way to the delivery room, heart racing. Mother’s face was pale. She kept handing me honey water and milk to drink.
“Oh, don't complain. Just say your prayers and be patient. You really are—" Mother didn’t finish her sentence.
My stomach hurt, but I was afraid if I died in labor, I would go to hell for not obeying my mother.
Two hours later, I gave birth. I cried when I saw Mother's expression slowly relax and the corners of her lips curl upward. I had a daughter. Healthy, beautiful, and adorable. I named her Lira. Full of delight, we brought her home. As people say, the long-awaited happiness had finally come.
But no one told me that this long-awaited happiness would be accompanied by loneliness, even though I had people around me. And loneliness seems endless and tiring when you don’t know where you’re headed. What happened afterward was not as beautiful as I’d imagined. I couldn’t breastfeed well. I even rushed through showers so the baby wouldn’t have to wait too long to be fed. I was often sweaty and smelly.
Every day, Mother dictated what I should do with my baby, and even with myself. But she didn't scold me as she’d used to each time I’d made the slightest mistake. Before, she’d say, “You should’ve done what I told you,” whenever I was wrong, or “Mother always knows what’s best for her children” if I was disobedient, or “It’ll be your fault if you don't listen to me,” when I insisted on defying her. This time was different. I began to be suspicious. Is she finally sick of yelling at me? I was worried about her.
The fifth day Mother was around, she said my breasts were infested with jinn and demons. That was why my child wouldn’t suckle. But I couldn’t be bothered to deal with this frustrating notion, especially since Mother didn’t say it in a serious tone. She’d probably just passed on what had been conveyed to her via her cell phone, which rang more and more often. During the next few days, I often saw Mother become restless after hanging up the phone.
One morning, I found her sobbing in the kitchen. She wiped her eyes with the collar of her housedress, trying to hide her tears. Strange. Over the past three days, I’d often forgotten to smear param on my body after showering. I had also tried to loosen my tight waist binder whenever I’d had the chance. I knew she knew, but she didn’t pay much attention to my negligence.
Later on, I asked her about the tears she’d tried to hide.
“I’m just sad. In three days, we have to return home. We still want to help you take care of your child. Ten days passed so quickly,” she lamented.
But I could tell she wasn’t being honest. Finally, I learned the real reason from Father. After only two days of being here, Grandma had repeatedly contacted Mother, asking her to come home immediately.
"Your grandma is getting senile,” Father said while my mother was showering. “Your mother always tries to be patient and tolerant, but your grandma is never satisfied. She always needs your mother by her side, even though your aunties and uncles are there, and they have domestic helpers. As you know, your mother would be terrified of not getting into heaven if she ever disobeyed your grandma."
Mother took a long time in the bathroom, not making a sound. Perhaps to brood. Perhaps to cry.
On the tenth day, while bringing out my parents’ suitcases as they got ready to return to their house, I heard a piercing cry from the kitchen. It made me feel as if a giant hammer had struck my heart—so sudden and crushing. All of us rushed to the kitchen and we saw my mother, her pain streaming down her cheeks. I could sense the fear and anxiety weighing on her.
"Grandma wants me to go home right now or she’ll kill herself. " Mother gasped as if her throat were closing up. And then, she returned to weeping silently.
We did everything we could to calm her: offering her water, patting her back, holding her hand. The most effective method was to hold her close, telling her that her granddaughter was fussing because she had been shocked by her screams and cries. And also how impossible it would be for Grandma to commit suicide since she was never left alone and couldn’t get out of bed by herself.
"I already asked her for permission. I said it would only be to spend time with my daughter and teach her how to take care of her baby. I mean, aren't you her grandchild? And isn’t your daughter her great-grandchild?” Mother spoke in a soft voice.
She wiped the corners of her eyes, trying to hold back the streams of anxiety about to flood her face again. I passed the baby to my father and husband. I sat next to Mother. When she leaned her head on my shoulder, I felt like we were sharing the burden of her pain.
“Have you ever been disappointed with me, Anti?”
I turned to her. Hesitantly, I nodded.
“Am I too demanding, Anti?"
Her question left me stunned. Mother stared at me.
“Anti, do you think I’m sinful? Do you think I’ll go to hell?”
© Dwi Ratih Ramadhany
English translation © Clarissa Goenawan
KETIKA IBU DATANG
Dwi Ratih Ramadhany
Ketika Ibu bilang akan datang lebih cepat dari rencana semula, mendadak aku ingat belum menyikat kamar mandi, belum menyetrika baju, belum melap kaca jendela, belum mengganti sprei, dan belum mencabuti rumput liar di halaman depan. Seketika aku merasa sangat kekurangan waktu, bahkan untuk sekadar memikirkan bahwa aku sedang hamil tua dan tak bisa mengerjakan semuanya dalam waktu singkat. Dan ibuku, dengan pekikan yang kudengar dari ponsel, punya firasat kuat bahwa dalam hitungan hari, aku akan bertemu bayi yang selama ini menghuni rahimku.
Dua hari berikutnya Ibu datang bersama Ayah, membawa kardus-kardus berisi camilan dan baju-baju bayi lungsuran anak kakak perempuanku. Matahari masih setinggi bahu ketika aku akhirnya menatap langsung wajah lesu mereka setelah hampir setahun jarak ratusan kilometer membentang di antara kami. Dari keriput kulit itu, aku seolah menemukan kecemasan sekaligus sukacita yang entah mengapa tidak mereka lontarkan kepadaku saat ini. Ibu segera memelukku, mencium kening dan kedua pipiku. Sempat kulihat ombak kecil bergulung di kedua matanya yang sayu. Aku seperti menjelma anak gadis yang amat girang karena kembali menghirup aroma tubuh Ibu, lalu berubah menjadi anak yang takut-takut bersembunyi di balik pintu dan berharap Ibu tak menemukanku
“Ibu bawa jamu dan param. Sudah dapat kendi untuk tempat ari-ari? Beli di mana?” tanya Ibu menjelang petang.
Suamiku mengangguk untuk pertanyaan pertama. Aku menggeleng untuk menjawab pertanyaan kedua. Kuceritakan kepada Ibu bahwa tetangga Nenek Ipar yang memberikan kendi kepada kami. Pertanyaan Ibu berlanjut, “Mengapa tetangga Nenek memberikannya padamu? Apakah anak dan cucunya masih hidup? Apakah anak dan cucunya menderita sakit tertentu?” Aku tak mengerti apa hubungan kendi itu dengan riwayat hidup pemiliknya dan mengapa itu menyebabkan Ibu menjadi risau. Ketika aku hendak menerangkan alasannya, ponsel Ibu berbunyi. Dia berbicara sangat singkat dan segera melupakan pertanyaannya tentang kendi.
Hari kedua di rumah, Ibu bilang dia sudah merasa lebih bugar untuk tidak lagi berlama-lama merebahkan diri di kasur. Ibu mulai membongkar kardus berisi baju bayi lungsuran. Dia meletakkan ponselnya yang sejak kemarin sering berdering, serta jawaban-jawaban Ibu yang kudengar seperti setengah berbisik. Aku mulai penasaran. Siapa yang meneleponnya?
“Semua baju ini sudah dicuci lagi, diberi pewangi, bahkan disetrika. Biar bersih, kuman-kumannya mati. Nenek dulu juga mengajari Ibu seperti itu. Di mana barang-barang bayi yang baru kamu beli? Jangan pakai mesin cuci untuk baju bayi.”
Aku menunjuk lemari kecil tempat kusimpan barang keperluan bayiku. Semua pakaian sudah kucuci. Bersih. Wangi. Tertata Rapi. Aku ingin bertanya mengapa tak boleh menggunakan mesin cuci? Tetapi aku tidak mengatakan kepada ibuku bahwa aku mencucinya dengan mesin cuci, menggunakan pengaturan khusus pakaian bayi. Lebih praktis.
Namun, menurut suamiku, aku tak perlu mendebat ibuku. Terlebih karena kami tahu, Ibu juga pasti akan berkata itu sudah turun-temurun dilakukan. Nenek dulu juga mengajari Ibu seperti itu. Namun,tak mengapa, selebihnya aku menikmati keberadaan ibuku. Dia banyak bercerita tentang ketidakbersamaan kami selama satu tahun. Tentang bagaimana Ibu merawat nenekku yang selalu merasa sudah waktunya dia undur diri dari kehidupan ini, tapi justru menyaksikan kepergian-kepergian kerabatnya yang jauh lebih muda dan bugar. Juga tentang upaya Ibu menjaga pola makan Ayah dari gempuran kolesterol dan gula agar tidak terserang hipertensi lagi.
“Ayahmu minum obat karena takut dimarahi, bukan karena takut sakit.”
Ayah menimpali, dimarahi Ibu juga sama-sama bisa menyebabkan sakit. Aku tertawa. Gadis kecil yang bersembunyi di belakang pintu sudah tak terlihat tegang lagi.
Hari ketiga Ibu di rumah, aku melihat bercak darah di celana dalamku. Apakah aku akan melahirkan sebentar lagi? Suamiku mengepak tas persalinanku. Ibu membuat bekal air madu dan sebotol susu untukku, agar aku punya asupan cairan dan energi selama persalinan, katanya. Ayah, yang memilih tidak ikut mengantar ke klinik persalinan, menyiapkan rumah kami untuk menyambut kedatangan manusia baru nanti.
Ya, anakku sepertinya memilih lahir hari ini. Dengan air ketuban dan darah berceceran di lantai klinik, aku berjalan dengan jantung berdebar cepat menuju ruang persalinan. Wajah Ibu pucat pasi. Dia menyodorkan air madu dan susu bergantian untuk kuminum.
“Jangan mengeluh begitu. Nyebut saja yang banyak! Kamu ini—” Ibu tak meneruskan kalimatnya.
Perutku sakit, tapi aku takut masuk neraka jika aku mati dalam proses persalinan karena tak menuruti ibuku.
Dua jam kemudian, aku melahirkan dengan baik. Aku menangis ketika melihat wajah Ibu perlahan semakin tenang dengan kedua sudut bibirnya meruncing naik. Anakku perempuan, sehat, cantik, dan lucu. Lira namanya. Kami membawanya pulang dengan hati riang, seperti kata orang-orang, kebahagiaan yang ditunggu-tunggu telah datang.
Namun, tak ada yang bilang bahwa kebahagiaan yang ditunggu-tunggu itu juga akan dibarengi dengan kesunyian, meski tidak sendiri. Dan kesunyian itu akan terasa lama dan melelahkan jika kita tidak tahu ke mana kita ingin menuju. Yang terjadi selanjutnya ternyata tidak seindah yang kubayangkan. Aku tak bisa menyusui dengan cantik. Aku bahkan mandi dengan buru-buru agar si kecil tidak terlalu lama menungguku untuk menyusu, dan aku sering berkeringat bau.
Setiap hari Ibu mendikte apa yang harus kulakukan kepada bayiku, bahkan kepada diriku sendiri. Tapi Ibu tidak memarahiku seperti dulu setiap kali aku melakukan kesalahan sekecil apa pun. Biasanya Ibu akan berkata ‘Seharusnya kamu menuruti perkataan Ibu’ jika aku salah, atau ‘Ibu selalu tahu mana yang baik untuk anak-anak’ jika aku tak patuh, atau ‘Tanggung sendiri akibatnya jika tak dengarkan kata Ibu’ jika aku nekat membangkang. Namun, kali ini tidak. Aku mulai curiga. Apakah Ibu sudah jengah memarahiku? Aku mengkhawatirkan ibuku.
Hari kelima Ibu datang, dia bilang payudaraku dihinggapi jin dan setan. Karena itulah anakku tidak mau menyusu. Tetapi aku tak mau lagi ambil pusing dengan ujaran pemantik frustrasi itu. Apalagi kali ini Ibu tidak mengatakannya dengan nada serius.Kupikir Ibu hanya meneruskan informasi yang didapat dari ponselnya yang akhir-akhir ini semakin sering berdering. Beberapa hari berikutnya aku kerap melihat Ibu gelisah setelah menutup percakapan telepon.
Hingga pada sebuah pagi yang tersungkur, aku menemukan Ibu sesenggukan di dapur. Ibu melap kedua mata dengan kerah dasternya, berusaha menyembunyikan air matanya dariku. Aneh. Selama tiga hari ini aku sering lupa melumuri param di tubuhku setiap habis mandi. Juga mencuri-curi kesempatan melonggarkan lilitan korsetku. Aku tahu Ibu tahu, tetapi dia tak banyak menggubris kelalaianku.
Kemudian kutanyakan kepadanya perihal airmata yang dia sembunyikan.
“Ibu hanya sedih, tiga hari lagi kami pulang. Kami masih ingin membantumu mengurus anakmu. Sepuluh hari rasanya sangat cepat berlalu,” akunya.
Tetapi aku tahu Ibu tidak mengatakan hal yang sebenarnya. Dari Ayah akhirnya aku mengetahui duduk perkaranya. Baru dua hari di sini, Nenek berkali-kali menghubungi Ibu dan memintanya agar segera pulang.
“Nenekmu mulai pikun. Ibumu selalu berusaha telaten dan sabar mengurusnya, tapi nenekmu seperti tak pernah puas. Padahal di sana banyak saudara ibumu, juga pembantu. Dan kau tahu sendiri ibumu sangat takut kehilangan surga di bawah telapak kaki nenekmu,” terang Ayah ketika Ibu sedang berlama-lama tanpa suara gebyur air di kamar mandi. Entah merenung. Entah menangis.
Hari kesepuluh, ketika sedang menyiapkan koper Ayah dan Ibu yang bersiap pulang, kami mendengar jerit tangis dari dapur yang membuat jantung seperti ditabuh palu besar. Sangat mendadak dan meremukkan. Kami bergegas ke dapur dan melihat rasa pedih mengalir di kedua pipi Ibu. Aku bisa merasakan ketakutan dan kecemasan yang melingkupi Ibu.
“Nenek ingin Ibu pulang sekarang atau dia akan bunuh diri,” kata terakhirnya seolah tersekat di tenggorokan sehingga membuatnya kembali menangis tanpa bersuara.
Segala upaya kami lakukan untuk membuat Ibu tenang, memberinya minum air putih, mengelus punggungnya, menggenggam tangannya. Yang paling ampuh adalah dengan memeluknya, mengatakan bahwa cucunya menjadi rewel karena kaget oleh jerit dan tangisnya, juga ketidakmungkinan Nenek bunuh diri karena dia tak pernah benar-benar ditinggal sendirian dan tak bisa bangun dari tempat tidurnya.
“Aku sudah pamit. Kubilang hanya sebentar menemani dan mengajari anakku merawat bayinya. Bukankah kau cucunya dan anakmu adalah cicitnya?” ujar Ibu lirih. Dia menyeka sudut matanya, berusaha menahan aliran deras keresahan yang siap membanjiri wajahnya lagi. Aku menitipkan bayiku kepada Ayah dan suamiku. Lantas aku duduk dan turut memikul sedikit beban kepedihannya ketika dia sandarkan kepalanya pada bahuku.
“Anti, apakah kau pernah kecewa pada Ibu?”
Aku menoleh. Lalu mengangguk ragu.
“Anti, apakah Ibu terlalu menuntut?”
Aku terpaku. Ibu menatapku.
“Anti, apakah Ibu telah durhaka dan akan masuk neraka?”
© Dwi Ratih Ramadhany
DWI RATIH RAMADHANY, born in Sampang, Madura, received her bachelor's degree in English Language and Literature at Malang State University. She was a participant in the 2014 Jakarta Arts Council’s Novel Writing Academy, the 2015 Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, and the Southeast Asian Literary Council 2016. Her novel, Badut Oyen (GPU, 2014), has been translated into Malay. Her short stories are scattered across various national newspapers, have won competitions, and have been published in a short story collection entitled Pemilin Kematian (PSM, 2017). Her latest novel, Silsilah Duka, was published by Penerbit Basabasi in 2019. Besides being a freelance editor and a writer, Ratih is involved in the Ruang Perempuan dan Tulisan program and devotes much of her time to reading books and playing with her daughter.
CLARISSA GOENAWAN is an Indonesian-born Singaporean writer and translator. Her award-winning short fiction has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in Singapore, Australia, Japan, Indonesia, the UK, and the US. Rainbirds, her first novel, has been published in eleven different languages.
HANA MADNESS (born Hana Alfikih) is a Jakarta-based visual artist and mental health activist. In 2012 she talked on national media about her mental health struggles. Her art is her ultimate weapon to be seen, heard, and appreciated by her community. Most of her artworks are her interpretations of her mental conditions and turmoils. She has participated and exhibited her works in numerous festivals and exhibitions. She has also spoken in many seminars about mental health. In 2017 she was honored by Detik.com as one of the “Top 10 most promising young Indonesian artists” and in 2018 by Opini.id as one of the “90 young Indonesians with inspiring works and ideas”.