It is the hour around sunset, around the hour of namaz, and Mother and Father are walking on a bridge overlooking the Martapura river of Banjarmasin, when the phone rings. Father knows it is serious because he accidentally hangs up, only to get a call immediately back. He notices it is his older brother, Ekot, who is calling. It is rare for him to get a call from his older brother at all. Father answers the call, and Ekot says:
“Our mother has . . . she . . . move. What should we do?”
Father does not understand the words his brother has said because of the amount of noise around him. Right under the bridge that he is crossing, a bunch of boys swimming and splashing about as a woman wrings the laundry and slaps the clothes onto a clothesline next to her hovel. They must not be Muslims. The azaan is blaring loudly. All the while Ekot is shouting, “Hello? Can you hear me?”
The call disconnects. Father calls again, but the line is busy. His village is deep in the Meratus mountains, and often the connection is terrible. Father calls over and over again. In the meantime, Mother has gotten worried.
“Hanyi, what is the problem? Hanyi, what is happening?”
“Can you give me a minute?” Father shouts. He is confused, distracted. The children swimming under the hovel are staring at them, and something about their gaze gets Father to focus. He pieces together the words he thinks that his brother has said. There is no longer a disorienting emotion but a clear sentence.
“Something is wrong with my mother,” he tells his wife.
But he is not sure exactly what it is.
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