Some fermented cassava sellers sometimes wondered about Darsem’s fermented cassava. Hers wasn’t mushy, very sweet, and seemed beautiful. When asked what the secret was, Darsem couldn’t answer. She just did what Narsem taught her. All the processes were the same as the usual fermented cassava making. Once smeared with yeast, the soon-to-be fermented cassava would then be placed in woven baskets lined with banana leaves, then tightly covered with banana leaves. The soon-to-be fermented cassava would be left for 1-2 days, and when opened, the cassava would turn into delicious and sweet fermented cassava. Some fermented cassava sellers in the market where Darsem sold often spread rumors that Darsem used magical ingredients to make her fermented cassava tasty. Something funny, according to Darsem. Because if she did indeed use magical ingredients, her fermented cassava would not only be delicious but also very popular and prosperous. Then she would have enough money to fix her house with concrete and cement, not just bamboo weaving that was already rundown and had holes here and there. And what is more certain is that on this Eid day, she would definitely wear new clothes and a new prayer rug. If there really were magical ingredients, surely.
However, as delicious and special as her fermented cassava was, Darsem still came to the mosque for Eid prayers wearing clothes that were not new, a prayer rug that was not new, and a prayer mat that was also not new. The clothes she wore were a worn-out white dress. The color had faded, it was shabby, and yellowish. No matter how hard she tried to wash it with cheap bleach costing a thousand rupiahs. But that was the only best dress she had. The prayer rug she wore was just as worn-out as her clothes, while her prayer mat, the only one she had, had a few holes at the bottom that were usually stepped on by her skinny legs when standing to pray.
And on that morning, Darsem walked to the mosque with long steps. Meanwhile, her mother, Narsem, stayed at home because she could no longer walk far. Although the distance from Darsem’s house to the mosque was five kilometers. Age made Narsem unable to walk more than two kilometers without panting in exhaustion. That’s why Narsem stayed in her rundown house while Darsem headed to the mosque to pray on Eid al-Fitr.
Upon arriving at the mosque, dozens of people from Tajur village had already crowded inside and spilled out into the mosque’s yard. Darsem smiled at the people she met, extending her hand for a handshake. Some who greeted her handshake merely reciprocated, their faces still sour, not a hint of a smile. It was quite different when it was the respected people in the village who invited handshakes. Like the teacher, the neighborhood chief, the community leader, and the wealthy individuals who controlled the village’s economy as rice merchants, palm sugar merchants, or owners of stalls. Their way of shaking hands was different. With Darsem, they only extended their hands, without a firm handshake or embracing, let alone cheek kisses.
Darsem scanned the area, looking for an empty spot to spread her prayer mat. Up front, the ladies in the latest Muslim attire, with bright colors, jingling gold bracelets, and prayer mats adorned with flower embroideries, raised their chins as they laid out their prayer mats resembling tapestries. Their little children were dressed like princesses, in glamorous outfits, colorful prayer mats, and cute little prayer rugs. Darsem smiled wistfully, imagining that someday when she got married and had a daughter, her child would surely bow beside her, too afraid to raise her chin due to the glare of all the glittering adornments worn by her friends on their necks, wrists, and fingers. Such a small child surely wouldn’t know that the world they carry on their bodies would oppress and burden them for a lifetime. Asking for more and more to fulfill their need for the glittering allure of those around them.
However, Darsem, though sidelined in the back corner, on her worn-out prayer mat, smiled nonetheless. She understood that perhaps this was God’s way of making her bow, not raising her head in arrogance when her lips uttered the takbir. So she went through the morning ritual with a wide smile. Even though those who shook hands with her failed to create a single smile on their lips adorned with expensive lipstick. And Darsem smiled even more, reminded of the can of biscuits priced at Rp 36,000 arranged on the table in her rundown house, which she would present to the guests who might visit her house to exchange greetings. A can of biscuits alongside a few plates of sweet fermented cassava she made with love, so that whoever ate them would always feel that even in the bitterness of life, there was sweet fermented cassava to bite into and enjoy.