Agus Noor, A Death in Ramadan

first published as "Ia Ingin Mati di Bulan Ramadhan Ini", in Kompas (Jakarta), 16.10.05.

How relaxing it is to imagine a pleasant death: with no blood gushing from a cracked skull; without the screams of pain caused by a neck being slit open. He closed his eyes and pushed out such images. Images of a bloody death. He could smell the stench of blood, as if it was entrenched within his nose.

He took a bath and washed himself thoroughly. He whistled softly while combing his hair and cutting his fingernails. He felt refreshed seeing everything neat and clean. There weren’t any piles of cigarettes or dirty clothes piled up in the corner of his room. Every year before Ramadhan he had always cleaned up his rented room. And this year was no different. Last Ramadhan he had even re-painted the walls. Earlier, he had put his mouldy mattress out to dry in the sun. He had folded up his blankets and folded clothes. He had sprayed some airfreshner throughout the room. He did this every Ramadhan. It was like some kind of death ceremony.

He stood in his doorway, looking at the bright midday sun.

***

Several of his neighbours who were sitting together saw him whistling and immediately started to whisper to each other. Children stopped playing and frowned when they saw. Then, a woman hurriedly grabbed the children and took them away. His appearance always caused a sense of unease.

He was rarely in his room. It was as if he would just disappear. Sometimes he was gone for months. If he was home, though, he stay cooped up in his room. Once, some of his neighbours saw him go out in the middle of the night wearing a black leather jacket, while carrying something which looked like a guitar case. Some thought he was a bar musician. But who really knew? Many people had seen him drinking tuak with the prostitutes under the bridge. Maybe he was a thief. It seemed that way from his looks and the tattoos on his right arm. There are scars on his shoulders, where he might have been stabbed. During the demonstrations against the increase in petrol prices, other neighbours had also seen him selling es cendol. At that time, his eyes were darting around - full of concentration as if he was surveying the scene. Maybe he was a spy. Someone else, who frequently took part in payed demonstrations, also saw him once, demanding the release of a former-minister convicted of corruption. One of his neighbours, a tukang ojek, accidentally saw him once: he was looking neat, dressed in a shirt and tie – just like a seller of aphrodesiacs. His neighbours were curious. His cold, tough, attitude meant that no one was brave enougd to ask him any questions. It seemed as if he didn’t want anyone to know who he was. He shut himself off from others. He was mysterious. Strange.

One of his habits was to stand still, looking out at who knows what. It was an odd routine. He would emerge just before the start of Ramadhan. He would tidy up his room and his windows which were usually closed were opened. Throughout the night he would walk back and forth in his room. Maybe he was preparing a meal for his sahur.

But his neighbours weren’t sure that he was fasting. They often saw him smoking during the day. Every afternoon he would go out. But he wasn’t going to the mosque to listen to study the Qur’an or to break the fast with others. Instead, he was going to a cemetary. This made his neighbours even more curious. Then, someone found out: he had bought a plot of land for his own grave. The security guard said how he would often see him tending to the plot, pulling out weeds, cleaning it up and then staring at the grave site. It was as if he was visiting his own grave. People shivered when they heard this story.

The neighbours were nervous. Was he a dukun? What would happen if he raped one of the local girls? Was he still perfecting his black magic? They often heard long groans coming from his room…

Like the devil being expelled from hell, corpses with blistered and burnt faces emerged from a dark hole. They growled wickedly and encircled him. The skin on their faces dripped like wax from a candle. He groaned when he recognised their distorted faces. They were the faces of people he had killed. A student stricken with fear as his thumb was slowly being sliced off. The pale face of a mistress who had had her neck cut. The distraught face of a young girl covered in blood after he had killed her family. Faces which made him groan.

He woke with a start. Bloody dream! It had made him want to die – to die peacefully during Ramadhan. Even though, as a hired killer he could expect the worst kind of death. Maybe another hired killer would visit him and stab him to death. He would try to fight back, but without any strength. He would be sprawled out, writhing and watching the other hired killed enjoy his satisfying moment looking down upon him as he slowly perished.

Ever since he was young he had always liked the smell of death. Whenever his grandfather slaughtered a chicken, he always wanted to be close by. He didn’t like it when his mother told stories about beautiful princesses and princes who did nothing but enjoy themselves. He much preferred the fables of the frightening creatures which lived in the forests. Or stories of man-eating giants. He enjoyed imagining himself cutting off the head of a giant. When he was seven, he secretly killed his uncle’s cat. In high school fights, he would beat his opponents within an inch of death. He was a feared fighter. His friends said, ‘when you’re older, you should join the army.’ Such comments made him swell with pride.

He enjoyed imagining himself as a soldier. In his kampung, people were very afraid of soldiers. Once, when there was a disturbance at the market in the town square he saw a soldier beating up a carpark attendant. People gathered to watch, but no one was brave enough to intervene. How good it would be to be a member of the army?, he would think to himself. You could beat up others as much as you liked. So, he eventually signed up with the army and was then sent off to fight. He was happiest when he to go to torture rebels. He could torture them calmly, efficiently and with great discipline. His commandant liked him.

‘You’re talented. But, you’re are wasting your time if you stay in the army. At the most, you could probably only become a sergent’, said his commandant. Then, when he returned from the battlefield, he was given a job. It wasn’t that difficult: all he had to do was finish off some minister’s wife. Then, several other small jobs followed: kill a businessman, a journalist, a judge. He was paid well. His commandant’s words were true: payment as a hired killer was much better than that of a sergeant.

He earned enough money to be able to buy a house to live in when he had retired. But for the moment he preferred to live in a flat. It was a place for him to hide, even though the smell of the drain filled his room. He was able to overcome the suspicion of his neighbours. He would live in his house once he had stopped working as a hired killer.

He continued to dream of a peaceful old age. He knew several ex-hired killers who had suffered in their old age. Some had died in jail. Some had gone crazy.

***

Then something happened which made everything turn out differently from what he had planned.

The order was clear and simple: kill Kiai Karnawi. So, he had started to watch him. He followed him when he was giving sermons. He observed Kia Karnawi’s appearance. He had brown skin and hollow cheeks, which made him seem even older with his long white beard. He had a calm look in his eyes and was softly spoken. He was surprised: what kind of threat did he pose to the state? Was he a militant leader? But that was none of his business. He only had to kill the kiai and to leave no traces so that later his murder would not be uncovered. ‘Kiai Karnawi died in a car accident.’

He waited for Kia Karnawi to finish giving his sermon. He didn’t listen to it too closely. He just heared bits and pieces which mentioned the holiness of the month of Ramadhan. And, those who die during Ramadhan are fortunate. That, to die during Ramadhan is a noble death. He smiled, then sniggered to himself. Would a hired killer also have a holy death were he to die during Ramadhan?

Everything was going according to his plan. He had manage to disguise himself as an angkot driver who would drive Karnawi home. He thought that everything would run even more smoothly when Kiai Karnawi refursed the offer of two of his students to go with him. He would lock the kiai up in the angkot and then push the car into a valley.

All was going as planned, until Kiai Karnawi spoke. ‘I know you want to kill me. I just want to make your job easier. That is why I didn’t let anyone come with me. So that no one else would be killed. It is enough to kill me. You don’t need to make a fuss by killing others.’

The car slowed to a halt, but he hadn’t used the brakes.

‘Let’s get out here’, said Kiai Karnawi. ‘You can kill me here. No need to push me over the cliff inside of that car. It would be a waste of an expensive car. You could use it if you chose to become an angkot driver if you retire from being a hired killer.’

This was the first time the hired killer had started to tremble. Kiai Karnawi asked to pray. ‘After that you can kill me. But, please, do it gently. I don’t want to suffer.’ Kiai Karnawi laughed. Then he rolled out his prayer mat. The hired killed stroked his knife. He trembled nervously. Then he felt his pistol, which he had with him - just in case. He could shoot him if he had to. But when Kiai Karnawi had finished praying, he just looked at him, confused and still.

‘Now, perform your duty. Maybe God has decided that I should die during Ramadhan. Alhamdulillah. If I could choose of course, I would want to die peacefully during Ramadhan. I don’t want to bother you, sir.’ Then, Kiai Karnawi laughed softly once more.

He felt the evening turn into night. What happened next was full of frightening shadows. There was the sound of a small explosion. The shadow of a bird flash past. The soft sound of a leaf falling to the ground. The shrill of crows in the distance. The sound of millions of insects encircling him. It was like there were millions of eyes watching him from behind the darkness of dusk. Millions of eyes – which since then – always followed him. Eyes which reminded him of the people he had killed and were now after his own death.

He was stricken with fear. He started to enjoy imagining his own death. It made him desire a calm death. A death during Ramadhan. Nothing could make him happier than to die during Ramadhan. He hoped that he would be blessed by dying during Ramadhan.

And let’s hope, that he truly does die during this Ramadhan. Amin.

Translated by A.C.S.Fuller, 19.10.05, Kuningan