The evenings in Pasir Batang were never truly quiet; there was always the rustle of palm fronds and the faint steam rising from the earth after a brief rain. On the veranda, the scent of Van der Leijden's Señoritas cigar clashed with the jasmine planted by Raden Arya.
On a small table near the pillar, a copy of De Preangerbode lay like a surgical knife. The section Willem had underlined that morning was still visible:
"Landsbelasting—adjustment of production quotas for quinine and tea."
Raden Arya had glanced at it—only once. Enough to understand: this was not an offer. This was a verdict on how much sweat must be converted into guilders.
"I am not speaking about harvest seasons, Raden,"
Van der Leijden tapped the ash of his cigar into a porcelain tray with measured rhythm.
"I am speaking about Order. Stability. Batavia does not appreciate graphs that decline merely because 'the soil is tired.'"
Raden Arya Wicaksana sipped his tea. The golden liquid remained still, unshaken, though his voice carried weight.
"The land of Pasir Batang has memory, Mister Van. It knows when to give, and when to withhold. Force it, and the roots will rot faster."
Van der Leijden chuckled, dry as archived paper.
"Roots can be replaced, Raden. Seedlings from Buitenzorg (Bogor) are always available. What is not available is time—for the Queen in Den Haag to wait for malaria quotas to be fulfilled."
He leaned forward, his voice lowering—dangerous.
"One plantation for the Government—that is absolute. The rest? Let your people feel they have rights. But remember, on my administrative map, green has only one meaning: export."
Raden Arya stared toward the fields.
"Then let us agree upon this wound, Mister. The western plantation for the people—but let them believe they are planting for their own lives, not for your machines. Your administrative language may call it Grondverhuur (land lease)—but to them, it will remain 'ancestral soil.'"
Van der Leijden smiled, satisfied.
"Elegant cunning, Raden. You preserve your face before your people, while I secure my numbers."
Raden returned the smile.
"In matters of land, Mister, what matters is not who wins—but who is still allowed to plant."
"Very well," Van der Leijden said, extending his hand.
"We agree: one plantation for the government, one for your people. I will record it in the report—of course, in more… 'administrative language.'"
"And I will translate it into something more human," Raden Arya replied, shaking his hand.
"Or," he added softly before standing,
"because they do not yet know the price required to keep it."
Van der Leijden smiled.
"Raden, you know that contracts from Batavia are always thicker than agreements made on verandas."
They laughed lightly—not because it was amusing, but because they understood: in a world governed by power, the best agreements are often wounds agreed upon together.
***
For a moment, only the wind moved, carrying the scent of young tea leaves.
From behind the glass, Mrs. Van der Leijden appeared, tapping gently—an elegant signal that dinner was nearly ready. Her face was calm, distant, like a painting never fully completed.
In the backyard, the children lived by a different law.
Purbararang, six, crouched at the edge of a fishing pond. Her slightly reddish hair caught the sunlight, contrasting with her darker skin beside Purbasari. She held a twig, striking the water's surface until her reflection shattered into fragments.
"The water won't stay still," she muttered.
She blew at the surface. It only grew more chaotic.
"I want to see my reflection, but it keeps running away."
Guruminda, eight years old, stood behind her with a small shovel. He glanced over, expression flat.
"If you want to see your reflection, stop disturbing it."
Purbararang pouted.
"Know-it-all!" She threw the twig.
"Well, you keep disturbing it," Guruminda replied.
"Try being still. Even water gets tired."
"Water doesn't teach anything!"
"It teaches patience," Guruminda said, kneeling to dig.
Purbasari, six, approached quietly, hugging a cloth doll, her porcelain dress brushing against the damp grass.
"May I help plant?" she asked carefully.
Guruminda nodded without looking. Purbararang cut in immediately,
"You can't. Your dress is expensive. It'll get dirty."
Purbasari looked at her dress, then at the soil, and smiled faintly.
"If it gets dirty, I'll be scolded," she said softly.
"But… if we don't plant it, then nothing will grow."
Purbararang fell silent—as if struck by something subtle. Guruminda held back a laugh.
"She's right, Rarang. The soil doesn't choose hands."
The three of them crouched together. Purbasari pinched a small seed from Guruminda's pouch.
"What is it called?"
"Hydrangea," he said proudly.
"Father says the flower can change color depending on what it eats beneath the soil."
"Really?" Purbasari's eyes widened.
"Like magic?"
"If the soil is acidic, it turns blue—blue like the sky. If there's more lime, it turns pink," Guruminda explained.
"If it were me," Purbararang added,
"I'd be pink—so people know I can be angry and still be beautiful."
She pressed the seed deeper than the others—almost burying it. Then she laughed, though something unfamiliar lingered in it. She pinched the reddish soil between her fingers, as if making sure the color truly belonged to her.
They fell silent for a moment, then laughed together.
"Then," Purbasari said softly,
"I want blue."
"Why?" Guruminda asked.
"Blue is calm," she whispered, glancing toward her mother on the balcony above.
"…like when no one is shouting at home."
Guruminda planted his last seed.
"As for me, I'll let it grow first. Any color is fine—as long as the roots are strong. So it won't be easily pulled out when a storm comes."
They stared at the soil before them—three tiny seeds planted in the quiet of evening. They might not understand life yet, but they understood how to wait for something to grow.
From the veranda, the two men watched them. Van der Leijden sipped his now-cold tea, his gaze softening.
"Look at them, Raden. They plant more peacefully than we negotiate."
"That is because they do not yet know how expensive peace is," Raden Arya replied calmly.
The sky turned orange, as if listening. Three children laughed below—innocent, unaware of the boundaries of blood and language that separated them.
***
From another corner of the yard, Nyai Sasmita stood silently behind a mango tree. Her batik cloth was slightly disheveled, her gaze sharp toward the veranda. Servants passed by with trays, bowing their heads—not because they did not see her, but because they knew they must pretend not to.
She watched her daughter, Purbararang, laughing among the others. The laughter stirred something in her chest—not tenderness alone, but something more complex: a mixture of love, guilt, and a long-contained anger.
"Ulin weh, Neng…" she whispered, barely audible.
(Play, my child…)
"Biar batur nyaho, sanajan maranehna nyebut anjeun anak bayangan, haté anjeun tetep caang."
(Let them know, even if they call you a child of shadows, your heart still shines.)
Footsteps approached from inside the house. Mrs. van der Leijden appeared on the balcony, calling gently:
"Purbasari! It's late, darling. Wash your hands and change your clothes."
Purbararang turned. The smile on her face slowly collapsed. She looked at her mother—then at the mistress—and for the first time, she seemed to see two worlds that would never merge.
Nyai Sasmita watched it all in silence. Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell—only a faint reflection, like firelight from a distant kitchen.
"Maranehna bisa ngukur kanyaah tina warna kulit…"she murmured.
(They may measure love by the color of skin…)
"Tapi biarkeun taneuh Pasir Batang nu nangtoskeun — anjeunna henteu pernah ngabohong, ngeunaan saha anu mibanda akar pangkuatna."
(But let the soil of Pasir Batang decide—it never lies about who has the strongest roots.)
The evening wind passed through the garden, carrying the scent of tea leaves and burning wood. In that air, her voice dissolved like a prayer without script—a woman's faith that sometimes, love born in darkness waits most faithfully for light.
A swallow darted low, nearly brushing Purbasari's head. She shrieked softly; Guruminda laughed; Purbararang joined—but her laughter sounded fractured, like glass waiting for the next crack.
From the veranda, Raden Arya watched the darkening sky.
"Storms always come slowly, Mister," he said without turning.
"And sometimes, we only realize it once the roots begin to tremble."
Van der Leijden looked at him, puzzled, but said nothing. He finished his tea—unaware that in the yard, among three planted hydrangea seeds, one had been buried deeper than the others.
And no one had noticed.
—To be Continued—