The heat of the afternoon beat down on Java's southern coast as the thirty days of Ramadan came to an end. With every passing minute, the sun seemed to grow more intense in its fiery wrath, even as it sank lower toward the western horizon. But Rifki wasn't bothered by it. The young man sat on the shore as the waves rolled in, not so much as a trace of shade in sight, and cast his line out again.
This was his ngabuburit routine, killing time before the evening call to prayer—maghrib—when he could finally break his fast. Not for sustenance, nor for sport, but simply for the tranquility the hobby brought, along with the excuse to roam. Something about the predictability of the waves combined with the unpredictability of a good catch was just that appealing.
Tomorrow was Eid Al-Fitr—or as locals called it, Lebaran—the celebration after Ramadan. This would be his last time here until next year. The beach would feel different after tonight. Just once more, he told himself, preparing to cast the line out on its final journey of the day. Letting his fingers wrap around the handle, he thought about where to cast, before deciding to let the tip fly out to the right, doing his best to avoid the volcanic rocks that poked out of the water in front of him.
...
Rifki trudged along the coastal road that led back to his town, the call to prayer echoing in the distance. His final cast, just like all his others, had ended unsuccessfully. He didn't let it bother him too much, doing his best to distract himself by gazing into the cemara trees accompanying him on his trudge, their gentle needles whispering to one another in the ocean's breeze.
The flat terrain and trees bade him a subconscious farewell as his walk continued, re-introducing Rifki to a landscape he was more familiar with; hills and broad-leaf trees, the occasional rice field situated in-between. As his eyes wandered to the crops, he spotted farmers, scythes in hand, cutting the rice for harvest, their long-sleeve button down shirts smudged with sweat. Unlike Rifki's college, the crops cared little about Ramadan to pause their ripening. The backbreaking work was a job that the young man certainly didn't envy as he walked.
As he was thinking of the farmers in their fields, he crossed a river. On the other side, he noticed more signs of civilization. Houses began to dot the road, growing more numerous as he moved, some already with lights strung up for tomorrow. Before he knew it, he came upon the street his house was on. Turning right, he saw the tightly packed building only a couple of blocks down, the two story beige and blue residence standing alongside its neighbors.
A hop and a skip later found Rifki at his front door, and it wasn't long after shuffling inside, walking from the foyer into the main living space, that he spotted his brother and sister, sitting down while the television played. On the screen, a news anchor was discussing the moon sighting—whether the hilal would be visible tonight to officially mark the end of Ramadan's thirty days.
"Oh, welcome back," Fajar greeted his brother, glancing away from the TV. "Wis done fishing?"
"No," Rifki shook his head, settling onto the floor. The adzan began to sound from the nearby mosque, calling the faithful to maghrib prayer. "I should have left earlier. I just slept in since we have the day off."
"You left pretty early," Fajar pointed out. "It's probably just a bad day for it. The fish are taking the day off as well."
"They probably are," Rifki agreed.
Kartika stood, heading to the kitchen. "I'll get the kurma and es kelapa."
Rifki nodded gratefully. When she returned, he reached for the dates first, then the glass of cold coconut water. That first sip after fasting all day never got old.
"So," Fajar began after a few minutes, "you coming to takbiran at the masjid tonight?"
Rifki knew what that meant—the mosque would be packed with people taking turns at the microphone, voices competing to proclaim the takbir the loudest. Kids, adults, everyone wanting their chance. It wasn't really his thing.
"Nah," Rifki said, still feeling the sunburn on his skin. "I'm exhausted. You two go ahead."
"You sure?" Kartika asked. "It's malam takbir."
"I'll probably just go to sleep soon," Rifki responded casually. "If I hear anything—which I'm sure I will—I'll go out and take a look."
Fajar shrugged. "Well, Fariq and his friends got a bunch of petasan—firecrackers. You know how they are."
"Aduh," Rifki groaned. "It's going to be noisy all night."
"Well," Kartika said, shaking her head, "kids will be kids."
"Don't forget to set an alarm, though." Fajar continued. "Uncle Fathan said he needs you to wake him up around two or three. He's hosting everyone for Lebaran and wants to start cooking early—opor ayam, sambal goreng, all that."
"What?" Rifki raised an eyebrow, clearly annoyed. "Who said that's my job? Can't he set an alarm or something?"
"You know Uncle Fathan," Kartika said with a sigh. "If nobody wakes him, the whole house will still be asleep when the guests arrive."
"Besides," Fajar added, "he said if you wake him, he'll make sure there's extra ketupat for us."
"Ah, bribery. Classic," Rifki muttered. "Fine. But I'm setting my alarm. If I'm up, I'll go. If not, well, the adzan subuh or those firecrackers should wake him."
As the name suggested, Fathan was their family member (and landlord) who lived about a block down in the same tranquil neighborhood. His meager amount of generosity in providing the three siblings with an affordable residence while they attended college was easily negated by his tendency to ask for favors from them constantly. Whether it was repainting his house, mopping his dirty floor, tending to his rambutan trees, or even cleaning his car's interior seemingly every day to mask the odor of cigarettes (an odor his girlfriend hated), it seemed his demands knew no bounds.
"We had to clean his car today without you," Fajar gave an unapologetic shrug. "It's the least you could do."
Kartika nodded in agreement.
"Alright, as you wish," Rifki stood up. "But seriously, I'll probably just go over there and he'll be watching a late night sinetron because the takbir woke him up."
"You'd be surprised what that man has slept through," Kartika pointed out.
"It's by the grace of God that he's survived this long, then," Rifki replied, his humor inviting snickers from his siblings as he departed the room.
Despite his begrudging pledge, Rifki had no intention of staying up late. He would set an alarm (something apparently Uncle Fathan couldn't do) and get up later. Hopefully the takbiran would still be going at that point, and he'd get to hear some of it.
As Rifki sat back down on his bed, he wondered what excitement the next day would bring, if anything at all. He had nothing specific planned—just the usual Lebaran visits and feasting. But what he would be looking forward to the most was the possibility of more fishing somewhere after the holiday crowds died down.
Whatever lay ahead for the young man, he was ready for it, Rifki told himself (or so he thought).
Today's fun fact: Over 17,000 islands make up the Indonesian archipelago. However, Java contains half of Indonesia's population.