Often, while waiting for the Saturday evening film to start at Domaine de Saint-Cloud, we’d talk about stories from the shadow theater, mostly ones from the Indian-based Ramayana and Mahabharata but also ones from the Panji cycle, tales that were indigenous to Java. The sky overhead became a huge shadow screen. With his low but soft and velvety voice, Ayah became the dalang, the shadow master extemporaneously reciting a section from the Mahabharata. Ayah was very good at playing with his deep and heavy voice. If he had ever wanted to, I’m sure he could have been a dalang or a singer.
Except for a few brief demonstrations at Nara’s home and at Tanah Air Restaurant, I’ve never seen a real wayang orang performance, where, in a reversal of what is normally the case in live theater, people play the roles of puppets and not the other way around; but when I was young I always enjoyed it when Ayah mimicked the basso profundo voice used by the character of Bima on the wayang orang stage. He often used that same technique to dissipate tension in the air when Maman was irritated with him. Like in the mornings, for instance, when he’d make fried rice. Almost every morning, before Maman left home to teach, Ayah would prepare a breakfast of fried rice for us—“special fried rice,” he called it, because of the shredded omelet he always put on top. Maman always grumbled at the sight because, like most French people, she thought fried rice was much too heavy a morning meal. But Ayah always ignored her. Switching his voice back and forth, he’d make up a conversation between Bima and Ekalaya, as he tickled Maman’s neck. No matter how hard she tried to maintain the scowl on her face, Maman would finally break into laughter and then join us in eating a plate of Ayah’s fried rice: hot and tasty to the tongue and rich from the oil he’d used to fry the rice. Ayah always like to make his fried rice with minyak jelantah, oil which had already been used to fry something else, shallots and onions, for instance, so that their taste, too, was imparted in the rice.
That evening, I succeeded in coaxing Ayah to reveal Ekalaya’s tale.
And so it was, one dark night that was blacker than a night, with no moon, Resi Dorna went into the forest pervasive with the scent of lotus. Suddenly, a young man of exceptionally dark skin appeared as if out nowhere, stopping the teacher in his tracks, and startling him with the light that shone from his eyes.
“Who are you, young man?” Resi Dorna asked.
The younger man was very tall and fit, his body all muscle and dark pliant skin. With a poised movement, he bowed deeply before the elderly man.
“Resi Dorna, teacher of all teachers, I am Ekalaya, the son of Hiranyadanush…” Impatiently interrupting the young man’s introduction, which he expressed in a slow and measured pace, Resi Dorna said, “Go on, go on, young man. What is it?”
With his hands still raised in a sembah sign of obeisance, Ekalaya stated his desire to study under Resi Dorna, who was known throughout the universe for his mastery of the bow.
Not waiting even one second to answer, Resi Dorna said that it would be impossible for him to be his guru, because his teaching and mentorship skills were reserved exclusively for the sons of Kuru. What Dorna didn’t say is that he wanted his favorite warrior pupil, Arjuna, to hold the title of best bowman in the world. But Ekalaya would not back down. Before him stood the master who he had long vowed would be his guru. He could not let Dorna leave him without obtaining from him some form of consent.
“Guru…”
“I am not your guru.”
“For this humble servant, you will always be my guru. I beg of you to grant your servant’s request.”
Ekalaya bowed at Resi Dorna’s feet. As he did this, his long and loosened hair fell forward, brushing the elderly man’s toes and causing him to finally feel the sincerity of the young man’s plea.
He stroked Ekalaya’s head. “All right then, my son, I shall grant your wish.”
Fireworks exploded in Ekalaya’s eyes. His happiness was so real, he kissed Dorna’s feet and then ran off shouting through the forest. He cried to all of nature that one day he would be the best bowman in the world.
Dorna watched the young man with a slight but distinct feeling of unease. What might transpire in the future, he wondered, as a result of his rashness in granting the wishes of a young man, a stranger to him, who had suddenly appeared before him in the forest?
“And then what happened?” I asked, because Ayah had paused for such a long time.
“Shush, the film is about to begin.”
Ayah turned his head and pointed to the other film-goers who were preparing their blankets on the ground. As twilight fell on Domaine de Saint-Cloud, Akira Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai began to play on the large outdoor screen. Usually, this was the time I had been waiting for, this shared time of easy intimacy with my parents as we snuggled together between blankets. Maman always brought an extra blanket with her to these viewings, because lying on the ground, close together in the open air, was something the Dimas Suryo family always did. We felt as one together. Warm and close. To this day Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai and Rashomon are for me two of the best films ever made. Between childhood and the time I enrolled at the Sorbonne, I must have watched Rashomon eight times, and at least four of those times with my parents. At each viewing, my father always said the same thing: “Everyone has his own version of history.”
When I was older, I often fantasized about Akira Kurosawa being entrusted to adapt the Mahabharata to screen, as he had done with King Lear and Macbeth, transforming them into distinctly Japanese films. As an adolescent I also watched and came to love the works of Federico Fellini and Jean-Luc Godard; but for me their films could never compare with shadow tales from the Mahabharata, the Ramayana, and Panji Semirang. In wayang tales there are always unexpected surprises — which is why, when Ayah stopped telling me the story of Ekalaya before it was finished, I was unable to concentrate on watching Seven Samurai.
As soon as the film was over, we dug into the hamper Maman had brought along containing food Ayah had prepared: nasi kuning, tiny potato sticks seasoned with chili, and dried rendang. Usually after a film, it being late in the evening, I was so hungry that I wouldn’t speak until I had gobbled all my food. But that night, even with my mouth full, I tried to force Ayah to finish the story of Ekalaya. He resisted my pleas, saying that he wouldn’t tell me the rest until after he’d finished his meal. He chewed his rice slowly as if he had all the time in the world ahead of him. Meanwhile, I hurriedly finished my rice, expecting that Ayah would take notice and heed my wishes. And, after ever so long, he finally did…
Years passed, and after the five Pandawa brothers and their one hundred Kurawa cousins reached adulthood, the third brother, Arjuna, came to be the best bowman in the entire universe, just as it had been foretold. No one could deny this; no one could challenge him. From every shooting contest, large or small, Arjuna always emerged victorious.