My Prostration was Granted

All day long I kept myself busy in the kitchen, in our simple house in the transmigration area on the outskirts of Gorontalo. Since the death of my husband, I decided to move back here and take care of the family’s inherited rice fields, leaving the small house in the city where I spent the rest of my life.

Rendang and nasi bungkus (rice with side dishes wrapped in banana leaves), are my specialties for the last fast-breaking meal of Ramadan. The rendang, rich with its deeply layered spices, simmered until the tender beef absorbed every nuance of flavor, sent a mouthwatering aroma swirling through the house. Alongside it, packets of nasi bungkus—rice wrapped in fragrant banana leaves—released an earthy, slightly sweet scent as the steam drifted into the air, evoking memories of childhood feasts. Preparing these dishes for the last iftar of Ramadan, I felt the textures and warmth of tradition under my hands, each taste and scent weaving together the story of my family across generations.

I was only blessed with one biological child, Sudarman. He is now an adult, works in the city, has a wife, and also a beautiful little daughter. Besides Sudarman, I have another son, who was not born from my womb. But I was blessed with the opportunity to care for him from the age of 3 months until I moved, when he was in high school. His name is Albert. A boy from a Christian family, who was entrusted to me by his parents to be cared for. And I love him very much, just as I love Sudarman. Similarly, A’a Darman, as he calls him, also loves Albert as if they were biological brothers. There were no boundaries that hindered our affection, even though we are of different religions.

Sudarman usually came to visit me with his wife and child, at least once a month on the weekend. I understood, they came on a motorbike only because of the long journey. And there were so many things they had to prepare so that their little one would not get cranky. “Who is that, Emak?” Sudarman’s daughter asked, pointing to a photo on the wall. “That’s Albert, your uncle. He is an Apoteker now. He often calls Emak, he always asks how Emak is,” I answered, with a hint of longing in my voice. Sudarman’s daughter, with her innocent questions, often made me remember him.

“Emak, how about a video call with Albert?” Sudarman suggested one day. I smiled and shook my head. I was too shy and felt awkward communicating with him through video calls. I preferred communicating with him through messages. It made me feel like he was still a little boy. I didn’t want him to know that I had grown old and sick. I wanted him to remember me as the young, strong, and energik Emak he used to know.

I put the rendang on the table, which was now filled with food for the fast-breaking meal. I looked at the food, but my heart was not here. My mind wandered, thinking about Albert. I knew he was very busy with his work and rarely got leave. “Lord, please keep Albert safe wherever he is. Please send him home for a while, just for me,” I whispered to myself, bowing my head in prayer.

The sound of a vehicle’s engine stopped in front of the house. I thought it was Sudarman and his family. I was about to open the door, but my legs felt weak. I knelt down and cried, not knowing why.

Suddenly, a pair of wide and warm hands, hugged and lifted me, helping me to stand up. With hope bursting in my chest, I turned around and hugged the tall and strong neck tightly. Without having to see his face, I knew it was my son. Albert! His tall, sturdy body was now in my arms. What a beautiful gift of victory I received. My prostration was granted by Him.

“Abe is home, Emak,” he said softly, full of emotion.

“Welcome home, lilBro! Did you not know this house anymore? Did you not get lost on the way?” Sudarman burst out, hugging us.

“Is this Uncle Abe, Pa?” asked his little daughter, who only knew her uncle from her father’s stories.

“Yes, my dear, this is Uncle Abe. We met once, but you were still a baby,” Albert said, carrying Sudarman’s daughter.

“Come on, eat. The rendang and nasi bungkus on the table are getting cold, and you guys are just ignoring them,” Emak said with her Sundanese-Manado-Indonesian accent.

“No way, Emak. The smell of the food showed me the way home. Once I smelled this rendang, I wouldn’t get lost, even if I haven’t been here for a long time,” Albert said, followed by the cheerful laughter of everyone in the house.

The dining table that used to be empty, was now full of food and all the hardcore rendang and nasi bungkus lovers made by Emak, who now feels so very grateful…

Kreator : Vidya D’CharV