Introduction to 2025 series of short stories.

Kain Tapis Mak Unyan

Jauza Imani, a mother of two boys, has actively written since 2016. Her writings include several collections of short stories, children’s stories, and poetry.

Piknikita (Basabasi Publisher, 2021) is a collection of poems Imani wrote in collaboration with poet Kurnia Effendi. The children’s story Cerita Pertama Untuk Rara was self-published in September 2021 through Epigraf Publisher. In 2017, Imani also self-published a poetry collection, Hujan Kau Selalu Begitu, through Gong Publishing.

Siger Nunu Ketinggalan was named one of the five best short stories in Tak Kenal Maka Tak Indonesia, the Children’s Story Competition held by Toonesia x IKSI in 2022.

Imani is currently active in the Lampung Arts Council and is a member of several other literary groups, including: the Indonesian Female Poets; the Nulis Aja Dulu Community; Dapur Sastra Jakarta; and Hari Puisi Indonesia.

Imani’s winning question: What method do you use to capture the essence of an incident in a way that captivates the reader?

Jauza Imani: nurhikmah.imani126@gmail.com.

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Kain Tapis Mak Unyan

Berita tentang hilangnya kain tapis di Pekon Way Sindi membuat desa di Kabupaten Pesisir Barat, Provinsi Lampung itu geger! Berita itu bukan sekadar berita biasa. Kain tapis itu akan digunakan sebagai penutup jenazah Mak Unyan, dukun beranak desa itu yang meninggal dunia pada dini hari.

“Di dipa tapis seno?” Terdengar suara Masri yang menggelegar di tengah suasana duka. Lelaki tua berperawakan kurus tinggi itu menanyakan keberadaan kain tapis milik Mak Unyan yang dibuat saat istrinya itu masih remaja. “Khadu kusegok ko, tibungkus dilom lemari!” Dalam logat bahasa Lampung yang kental, Masri seolah-olah berbicara kepada semua pelayat yang hadir di rumahnya. Dia merasa sudah membungkus dan menyimpan kain itu dalam lemari.

Tangan Masri bergetar saat mengaduk-aduk isi lemari kayu yang sudah reyot dimakan usia. Pakaian sederhana milik Mak Unyan berserakan di lantai. Baju dan celana panjang miliknya pun ikut terjelempah. Masri penasaran karena baru dua minggu lalu dia merapikan lemari bersama Mak Unyan usai salat Subuh berjamaah di rumah.

***

Masri masih ingat betul saat istrinya mengeluarkan bungkusan kain tapis itu dan menunjukkan kepadanya. Seolah-olah pertanda bahwa kain itu hendak digunakannya dalam waktu dekat.

Terdengar kembali pertanyaan Mak Unyan, “Sudah berapa puluh tahun usia tapis ini, ya?” yang dijawabnya sendiri, “Lupa, saya.” Tangannya yang renta merentangkan satu-satunya kain yang dia banggakan. Setidaknya, dengan kain tapis itu dia bangga dilahirkan sebagai gadis Lampung.

Pikiran Masri sekadar menerawang ke saat itu. “Ai, nah! Lupa juga, saya!” timpalnya sambil tertawa kecil memperlihatkan gigi ompongnya. Gigi sampingnya di kanan dan kiri tampak jelas sesaat dia lanjut, “Waktu itu kamu sikop nihan!” Masri teringat memuji istrinya yang cantik jelita di saat hari bahagia mereka. “Saya tunggu kamu sampai selesai membuat tapis itu. Biar bisa saya lamar. Dan, kamu memakainya saat pernikahan kita.”

Larut dalam kenangan, Masri mendekati Mak Unyan yang saat itu duduk di ranjang besi peninggalan neneknya. Bentangan kain tapis masih di pangkuan istrinya. Masri ikut memegang ujung kain tapis itu. Warna benang emasnya belum memudar. Hasil sulaman tangan Unyan – sangat rapat dan rapi sesuai dengan sifatnya yang rajin dan telaten, apalagi dalam merawat bayi. Pantas saja dia menjadi dukun beranak yang terkenal. Dalam hati, Masri mengucap syukur bisa mempersunting Unyan yang menjadi rebutan pemuda-pemuda sebaya di kampungnya sekian tahun yang lalu.

Di benak Masri muncul kembali secara jelas Mak Unyan yang tersenyum bahagia karena dia masih ingat kisah kain tapis itu dan pernikahan mereka. Ingatan Masri melayang ke masa lalu. Usai akad nikah dinyatakan sah oleh para saksi barulah Unyan keluar dari kamar. Semua mata memandang ke arahnya dengan decak kagum. Kecantikan istrinya menjadi sempurna karena dia mengenakan kain tapis yang indah ⸺ susunan benang emasnya rapat dan halus serta berkilau memukau ⸺ hasil sulamannya sendiri.

Masri teringat Mak Unyan yang masih saja tersipu bila dibilang cantik olehnya. Saat itu, kedua tangan yang digunakan Mak Unyan untuk membantu persalinan sebagai dukun beranak di pekon Way Sindi, menutupi wajahnya yang bersemu merah. Semua guratan berebut tampil di wajahnya yang kini tidak berdaging lagi seperti dahulu. Masri mengundang kembali dan mempertahankan kenangan itu.

“Selamat, ya! Anakmu perempuan.” Ucapan seusai membantu persalinan seorang warga itu selalu dilanjutkan dengan pesan khas Mak Unyan. “Dang lupa, sanak muleimu ditawaiko napis!” Dia selalu mengingatkan warga yang ditolongnya untuk mengajari anak gadisnya membuat tapis.

Bagi masyarakat adat Lampung di kampung mereka, membuat kain tapis adalah keharusan. Sejak kecil, sepulang sekolah, selain mengaji, anak-anak perempuan belajar menenun dan menyulam kain yang berbentuk sarung itu dengan benang emas atau benang perak. Coraknya pun beragam. Di antaranya adalah Raja Medal yang menampilkan pernak-pernik berbentuk manusia; Laut Linau yang menunjukkan kupu-kupu; dan Tapis Inuh yang terpengaruh oleh hal-hal tersangkut dengan laut.

Masri yakin, tentu saja Unyan tidak akan lupa dengan tata cara menapis yang merupakan peninggalan leluhur ratusan tahun lalu. Tapis Inuh yang dipilihnya terpengaruh oleh lingkungan sekitarnya yang akrab dengan laut, misalnya, kapal, rumput laut, dan hewan laut. Meski penyelesaian membuat kain tapis itu memakan waktu berbulan-bulan, Unyan dan perempuan lain di kampungnya tetap bersabar bahkan seakan berlomba merampungkannya. Kelak, saat hari pernikahan mereka tiba, kain tapis itu akan dipakainya sebagai seorang pengantin. Demikian juga saat kematian datang, sebagai penghargaan dan penghormatan terakhir, kain tapis itu pula yang akan digunakan untuk menutup jenazahnya.

***

Masri masih mencari kain tapis Mak Unyan. Kini pencarian berpindah ke lemari di kamar Bayan, anak lelaki semata wayang yang hingga kini belum menikah. Mekhanai Tuha. Selama ini Bayan tidak tertarik dengan gadis-gadis di desanya. Katanya, dia tidak menemukan seorang mulei yang sepandai ibunya dalam hal membuat tapis. Konon, hasil sulam tapis seorang perempuan bisa menunjukkan sifat sang pembuatnya, apakah dia seorang yang penyabar, penyayang, pemarah, rajin, pemalas, atau yang lainnya.

Ada satu gadis yang paling dewasa umurnya di antara mereka. Gadis itu, Suri namanya, terkenal paling lamban dalam menapis. Bahkan Suri tertinggal jauh oleh penapis-penapis di bawah usianya. Sudah lama dia menaruh hati kepada Bayan. Meski lambat, lantaran berharap barangkali saja Bayan berkenan melamarnya, dia berusaha menyelesaikan tapisnya. Namun, Bayan tidak mengacuhkannya.

Sambil melihat ayahnya mencari kain tapis di lemarinya, Bayan teringat saat Mak Unyan bertanya, “Kapan kamu menikah, Bayan?”

Bayan memahami perasaan ibunya yang sudah tua. Pasti, dia ingin mendampingi anaknya hingga ke pelaminan dan mewariskan kain tapis buatannya kepada menantu dan cucunya kelak, andai dia sudah tiada.

“Nantilah, Mak,” Bayan teringat dia menjawab pelan saat itu.

“Mak khadu tuha,” terngiang di kuping Bayan ucapan ibunya yang lirih. Karena tidak ingin melukai hati ibunya, saat itu Bayan hanya terdiam. Sedangkan, ibunya seakan-akan memberi restu dengan berkata, “Suri anak baik, lajulah! Mak lihat dia menapis Inuh juga seperti Mak,”

“Jangan paksa Bayan, Mak,” Bayan ingat kembali ketika membujuk pelan ibunya seraya melangkah meninggalkannya.

“Bukan memaksa. Kekalau kalian berjodoh!” Suara ibunya yang berandai-andai, sayup-sayup masih terdengar di telinga Bayan.

***

Berita meninggalnya Mak Unyan dan hilangnya kain tapisnya menyebar cepat terbawa angin. Para tetangga dan kerabat yang datang selain sebagai pelayat juga ingin membuktikan kebenaran berita itu. Mereka seolah-olah berebut cepat datang untuk berbelasungkawa sekaligus menaruh tanda kasih. Mereka agaknya juga mencari bahan cerita.

Sebagian besar pelayat pasti tidak percaya dengan pemandangan di depan matanya – jenazah Mak Unyan tanpa kain tapis. Hampir tidak mungkin perempuan yang telah menikah tidak memiliki tapis buatannya sendiri. Apalagi Mak Unyan yang sesekali terlihat mendatangi gadis-gadis yang sedang menapis selama ini dikenal sebagai orang yang cerewet mengingatkan akan pentingnya anak gadis membuat tapis.

Detak jam dinding di ruang tamu tidak pernah berhenti. Namun, bagi Bayan kehidupannya seakan-akan sudah berakhir. Dia berduka kehilangan ibunya. Terbayang hari-hari indah bersamanya. Namun, suara ayahnya yang menggelegar menyadarkannya dari lamunan panjang.

“Bayan! Niku pandai di dipa tapis seno?” tanya Masri kepada Bayan, memastikan tahu tidaknya Bayan tentang keberadaan tapis Mak Unyan. “Ngeliak tapis seno, mawat?” tanya Masri, memastikan sekali lagi.

“Nyak mak pandai,” jawab Bayan. Suara lemahnya berusaha meyakinkan ayahnya bahwa dia tidak tahu. Pikirannya yang sedang kalut memaksanya berkata bohong kepada ayahnya di depan jenazah ibunya. Keributan yang ditimbulkan oleh lenyapnya kain tapis itu kini menyadarkannya betapa pentingnya benda itu bagi keluarga dan masyarakat adat di kampungnya.

Rumah panggung itu kian ramai didatangi tetangga. Pasangan sandal berjajar di anak tangga pertama dan kedua bagian bawah. Meski angin berembus dari sela-sela susunan kayu, ruangan itu terasa gerah karena banyak orang.

Masri membuka satu dari dua daun jendela lebar di sisi kanan ruangan. Dia sejenak memandangi kebun rambutan di samping rumah. Dengan begitu dia dapat menyembunyikan mata merahnya dari pandangan orang-orang. Dia berusaha menjinakkan gemuruh di dadanya yang menderanya sejak diketahuinya kain Mak Unyan tidak ada di lemari. Suara ayam jago berkeruyuk semakin jelas terdengar. Masri mendengarnya seperti celoteh cibiran yang dilagukan.

“Bayan, coba kamu pinjam saja tapis milik kerabat. Tidak apa. Usahakan agar ibumu bertapis, setidaknya sesaat sebelum dimakamkan, sebagai bentuk penghormatan kepada almarhumah,” bisik seorang pengtuha, orang yang dituakan di pekon Way Sindi, kepada Bayan. Sang pengtuha itu tidak ingin pelayat yang mestinya berduka malah bergunjing tentang hilangnya tapis Mak Unyan.

Di saat Bayan mengangguk menyetujui saran sang pengtuha, Suri datang bersama keluarganya. Mendengar kabar hilangnya tapis Mak Unyan, Suri, yang rumahnya tidak jauh dari rumah Mak Unyan, teringat kebaikan Mak Unyan selama ini sebagai tetangga dekatnya. Suri meminta izin kepada keluarganya dan bergegas kembali ke rumahnya. Dia berniat untuk meminjamkan kain tapis yang baru saja diselesaikannya.

“Nerima nihan, Suri.” Bayan mengucapkan terima kasih dan menerima kain tapis dari tangan Suri. Pandangan mereka sesaat bertemu. Bayan sempat melihat kesungguhan di mata Suri. Bayan seakan menemukan bukti dari kata-kata ibunya kala itu. Benar, Suri adalah perempuan yang baik.

“Jejama, dengan senang hati,” jawab Suri pelan tetapi hangat. Baru saat itulah dia bertatapan langsung dengan Bayan. Suri merasakan jantungnya berdegup lebih cepat. Dalam hatinya dia bertanya, mengapa selama ini, laki-laki yang berada di hadapannya itu, begitu acuh kepadanya? Dengan sedikit kikuk Suri membantu melepas ikatan pada bungkusan kain itu dan membiarkan Bayan yang membentangkannya.

Bayan mengganti kain panjang yang menutupi jenazah Mak Unyan dengan kain tapis milik Suri, perempuan yang pernah dipuji ibunya, tetapi selama ini tidak dia pedulikan. Ada rasa sesal menyusup di hatinya yang sedang berduka. Sementara itu, Suri tampak ikhlas kain tapisnya digunakan pertama kali untuk kematian Mak Unyan, bukan di hari pernikahan dirinya. Rasa haru pun diam-diam menyelinap di hati Suri.

Suasana duka dan khidmat berlangsung di ujung persemayaman jenazah Mak Unyan. Sejak tadi di rumah kayu itu ayat-ayat Alquran dilantunkan. Sesekali terdengar isak tangis dari beberapa pelayat yang datang bercampur dengan bisik-bisik tentang Suri dan Bayan.

Masri berhenti mencari kain tapis Mak Unyan ketika dilihatnya jenazah istrinya sudah tertutup tapis. Meski demikian, amarah di wajahnya sulit disembunyikan. Di antara sedih dan kesal dia mencoba bersabar sambil menerima uluran tangan pelayat yang turut berbelasungkawa.

Bayan terduduk lemas di samping jenazah ibunya. Dia tidak sanggup berdiri menegakkan badan untuk memberi penghormatan kepada para pelayat yang masih berdatangan. Ingatannya melayang kepada perempuan bule yang dia temui di Pulau Pisang seminggu lalu.

“Sarrah.” Suara perempuan bule itu masih terngiang-ngiang di telinga Bayan saat dia menyebutkan namanya dan menjabat tangan Bayan. Kecantikannya membuat Bayan terpukau dan tidak bisa melupakannya. Wisatawan dari Australia yang baru saja dikenalnya itu berbicara banyak tentang indahnya kebudayaan Indonesia. Salah satunya adalah kain tapis, warisan budaya takbenda dari Lampung. Dia sengaja datang ke Indonesia, khususnya ke Provinsi Lampung, untuk mengadakan penelitian tentang tapis dan menuliskannya.

“Saya datang ke sini untuk melihat kain tapis,” ujar Sarrah saat itu dengan bersemangat meski terbata karena menggunakan bahasa Indonesia. “Saya dengar kain tapis yang dibuat di desa ini terkenal karena sulamnya rapi dan coraknya indah,” lanjutnya.

“Betul sekali!” ucap Bayan dengan bangga. Dia merasa bisa membuktikannya. Dia melihat sendiri bagaimana indahnya kain tapis yang dibuat oleh gadis-gadis di desanya. Apalagi kain tapis milik ibunya.

***

Sekarang, sambil duduk di samping jenazah ibunya, Bayan mengutuk dirinya sendiri. Berkali-kali dia mengusap wajah dan kepalanya. Dia seperti melihat ratusan gulungan benang emas. Bahan untuk menyulam kain tapis itu menari-nari mengelilinginya. Wajah ibunya yang sudah tertutup rapat di sampingnya pun tampak di pelupuk mata.

Bayan menyesali tindakannya yang gegabah tanpa berpikir panjang. Kini, meski jenazah ibunya sudah ditutupi oleh kain tapis milik Suri, tetapi hati Bayan justru semakin galau. Dia membayangkan ibunya yang bersusah-payah membuat kain tapis. Namun, di akhir hidupnya, kain itu malah tidak bisa digunakan untuk dirinya sendiri. Bayan tiba-tiba beranjak dari tempat duduknya menuju pintu.

“Bayan! Bayan! Haga dipa?” Suara-suara para pelayat yang menanyakan dia hendak ke mana, tidak dihiraukannya – termasuk panggilan ayahnya dan Suri. Bayan mula-mula melangkah cepat, kemudian berlari dan terus berlari menembus semak belukar. Hatinya berteriak dalam kebimbangannya.

Bayan tahu harus ke mana dia menuju, ya, ke arah pondok kecil tidak jauh dari pantai yang jendelanya menghadap ke laut. Jarak sekira tiga kilometer itu berusaha ditempuhnya dengan melalui jalanan tidak biasa agar tidak terlihat orang. Dia harus mendapatkan kembali kain tapis milik ibunya, sebelum jenazah Mak Unyan terlanjur dibawa ke luar rumah untuk dikebumikan.

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Mak Unyan’s Tapis

Yuni Utami Asih has loved poetry, short stories, and novels since elementary school. She stepped into the world of translation after hosting the launch of Footprints/Tapak Tilas (Dalang Publishing, 2023), a bilingual short story compilation in celebration of Dalang’s tenth anniversary. The first novel she translated was Pasola (Dalang Publishing 2024), by Maria Matildis Banda. Her most recent work was translating the 2025 series of six short stories to be published in installments on Dalang’s website.

Apart from teaching at the English Language Education Study Program, Faculty of Teacher Training and Education, Mulawaran University, Asih is involved in educational workshops for teachers in Samarinda, East Kalimantan, Indonesia, and surrounding areas.

Yuni Utami Asih: yuniutamiasih@fkip.unmul.ac.id. 

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Mak Unyan’s Tapis

News of the disappearance of Mak Unyan’s tapis in Way Sindi sent the village in the West Pesisir Regency of the Lampung Province into an uproar. It was not just any news. The hand-woven cloth, traditionally embroidered with gold and silver thread was to be used to cover the body of the village’s old traditional midwife, Mother Unyan, who had passed away in the early hours of the morning.

“Where is the tapis?” Old Masri’s booming voice cut through the thick, grieving atmosphere. The tall, thin man wanted to know the whereabouts of his wife’s tapis — the cloth she had woven and embroidered with gold thread when she was a teenager. “Khadu kusegok ko, tibungkus dilom lemari!” In his thick Lampung accent, Masri addressed all the mourners in his house. He was certain he had wrapped and stored the cloth in the dresser that he and his wife shared.

Masri’s hands shook as he again rummaged through the contents of the rickety wooden dresser. His wife’s simple wardrobe lay scattered on the floor. Masri’s own shirts and trousers were among them. Masri was baffled. Only two weeks ago, he and Mak Unyan had tidied up the dresser after performing the dawn prayer together at home. The tapis had been there.

Masri vividly remembered his wife taking out the tapis and showing it to him, as if she were going to wear it soon. He heard Mak Unyan’s question: “How old is this tapis, huh?” only to answer herself, “I forget.” Her frail hands had unfolded and held up the only cloth she was proud of. The tapis showed her pride to have been born a Lampung girl.

“Ai, nah! I don’t remember either!” Masri had replied with a chuckle, exposing his toothless gums. His remaining teeth gleamed as he continued, “You were sikop nihan at that time!” Masri remembered complimenting his wife on her beauty on their special day. “I waited for you to finish making the tapis so I could propose to you. And you wore it at our wedding.”

Masri had approached Mak Unyan, sitting on the iron bed she had inherited from her grandmother. The tapis lay in her lap. He had fingered the edge. The gold thread still sparkled. Unyan’s hand embroidery reflected her diligence and patience — the stitches were tight and neat. Her tenacious nature was also evident in the way she cared for babies in the village. No wonder she had become a famous midwife. In his heart, Masri was grateful for being the one to marry Unyan, who, at that time, was favored by the young unmarried men in his village.

Masri recalled Mak Unyan’s happy smile when he retold the story of the tapis and their wedding at her parents’ house. Only after the clergy declared the marriage contract valid, did Unyan come out of her room. Everyone admired her. His wife’s beauty was accentuated by her beautiful tapis. The tightly woven threads were smooth. She had embroidered the cloth with gold threads herself.

Mak Unyan had blushed when he called her beautiful. The two hands Unyan used to deliver children as the traditional midwife in Way Sindi had flown up to cover her embarrassed face. With age, lines had creased her once-smooth face, but Masri cherished each wrinkled memory.

“Congratulations! Your child is a girl!” After helping a villager deliver her baby, Unyan always reminded the new mother to teach her daughter to weave a tapis. “Dang lupa, sanak muleimu ditawaiko napis!”

For the native Lampung people, weaving a tapis is an obligation. During childhood, in addition to reciting the Quran, girls are taught to weave and embroider the sarong-shaped cloth with gold or silver threads. The patterns vary. The Raja Medal pattern depicts human-shaped ornaments; Laut Linau shows butterflies; Inuh carries a marine theme.

Masri knew that unlike the younger generation, Unyan would not forget the traditional weaving technic passed down from her ancestors throughout hundreds of years. The Inuh pattern she had chosen was influenced by her aquatic-rich environment. She had grown up with the oceanic life, for example, ships, seaweed, and sea animals. Although making the tapis took months to complete, Unyan and other girls in her village remained patient and even seemed to be racing each other to see who could complete theirs first. Later, when their wedding day came, they’d wear their tapis as a bride. Likewise, with death, the same tapis would cover their body as a final tribute and honor.

***

Masri kept looking for Mak Unyan’s tapis. Now he moved his search to the dresser in Bayan’s room. Bayan was their only son and still unmarried. Mekhanai tuha, the old bachelor. He had not been interested in any of the muleis in his village. He said he could not find a girl who was as good as his mother at making tapis. It was believed that the results of a woman’s tapis embroidery reflected the nature of the maker. It showed whether she was patient, loving, angry, diligent, lazy — or something else.

Among the girls in the village at that time, Suri was known for being the slowest at weaving. In fact, even the younger weavers left Suri far behind. She had long been secretly in love with Bayan, and even though she was slow at completing her tapis, she kept hoping that Bayan might propose to her as she tried to finish. Bayan, however, ignored her.

Now, watching his father rummage through his dresser for his mother’s tapis, Bayan recalled her asking, “When will you get married, Bayan?”

Bayan understood his old mother’s feelings. She would have loved to guide him to his wedding and pass on her tapis to her daughter-in-law and future grandchildren. “Later, Mak,” Bayan had answered quietly.

“Mak khadu tuha.” His mother’s soft words, reminding him she was growing older, now rang in Bayan’s ears. Not wanting to hurt his mother’s feelings, he had not replied. But his mother continued to encourage him. “Suri is a good girl, go ahead! She is also weaving the Inuh pattern, just like I did.”

“Don’t force me, Mak,” Bayan had retorted as he walked away.

“I’m not forcing you!” his mother called after him. “It’s only a suggestion, just in case you’re a match!” He could still hear his mother’s words.

***

The wind had quickly spread the news of Mak Unyan’s death and the disappearance of her tapis. Neighbors and relatives came not only to mourn, but also to be a firsthand eyewitness that the news was true. They scrambled to be the first to offer their condolences and show their love — while looking for a story to spread.

Most of the mourners would not have believed it if someone had told them what they were going to see: Mak Unyan’s body laid out without a tapis. It was unheard of for a married woman not to have her own tapis. Moreover, Mak Unyan was known as a chatty person who liked to visit the girls making tapis and remind them of the importance of doing so.

Although the wall clock in the living room continued ticking, life seemed to stand still for Bayan. He mourned the loss of his mother and recalled the good days with her. Then, his father’s booming voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Bayan! Niku pandai di dipa tapis seno?” When Bayan didn’t reply to his father’s direct question if he knew where his mother’s tapis was, Masri rephrased his question, “Ngeliak tapis seno, mawat?”

“Nyak mak pandai.” Bayan’s voice quivered as he spoke his lie that he did not know. He couldn’t believe he was so blatantly deceitful to his father in front of his mother’s dead body. The uproar caused by the missing tapis now made his frantic mind realize how important the cloth was to his family and to the traditional community in his village.

Neighbors continued crowding into Masri’s stilt house. Pairs of sandals lined the first and second steps of the stairs. Even the wind blowing through the wood-shuttered windows could not cool a room filled with so many people.

Masri opened one of the two wide shutters. He took a moment to look out at the rambutan garden beside the house, hiding his red eyes from the mourners’ probing stares. He tried to tame the rumbling in his chest that had been plaguing him since he found out Mak Unyan’s tapis was not in the dresser. The clear sound of a rooster crowing hit Masri’s ears, sounding like a chorus of chuckles.

“Bayan,” whispered a pengtuha, “go try to borrow a relative’s tapis.” The village elder of Way Sindi did not want the mourners, who were supposed to be grieving, to start gossiping instead about Mak Unyan’s missing tapis. “It’s okay. Get your mother a tapis to cover her before the funeral, as a form of respect.”

As Bayan nodded to the pengtuha, Suri arrived with her family. Upon hearing the news of Mak Unyan’s missing tapis, Suri thought about the old woman’s kindness as a close neighbor. Suri asked her family’s permission to leave and hurried back home.

When Suri returned, she held the tapis she had just finished. “Nerima nihan, Suri.” Bayan thanked her and took the tapis from Suri’s hand. Their eyes met. Bayan sensed Suri’s sincerity and saw proof of his mother’s words spoken a long time ago. Suri was truly a good woman.

“Jejama, it’s my pleasure,” Suri replied, softly and warmly. This was the first time she had stood face-to-face with Bayan, and her heart pounded. She wondered why, all this time, the man in front of her had treated her so indifferently. Awkwardly, Suri helped untie the tapis so Bayan could spread it out.

Bayan replaced the long cloth covering Mak Unyan’s body with Suri’s tapis. Suri, the woman his mother had always praised, but he had ignored. Regret crept into his grieving heart. Suri looked sincerely happy that her tapis was being used first at Mak Unyan’s funeral, instead of at Suri’s own wedding day. Secretly, Suri felt touched.

At the end of Mak Unyan’s funeral service, a sad and solemn atmosphere filled the wood house. Verses from the Quran were recited. Occasional sobs mixed with whispers about Suri and Bayan traveled among the mourners.

Masri stopped his search when he saw that another tapis had been placed over his wife’s body. Still, his anger was hard to hide. Fluctuating between sadness and annoyance, he tried to remain patient while shaking hands with mourners offering their condolences.

Bayan sat weakly beside his mother’s body, unable to stand to receive the mourners still arriving. His memory drifted to the Caucasian woman he had met on Pisang Island a week ago.

“Sarrah.” The Caucasian woman’s voice, as she said her name and shook his hand, still rang in Bayan’s ears. Her beauty had transfixed Bayan, and he could not stop thinking about her. The woman, an Australian tourist, had come to Indonesia, especially to the Lampung Province, to conduct research on tapis and write about it. She had talked a lot about the beauty of Indonesian culture — and the tapis cloth, an intangible cultural heritage from Lampung.

“I came here to see the tapis,” Sarrah had stammered excitedly in Indonesian. “I heard that the tapis cloth made in this village is famous for its neat embroidery and beautiful patterns.”

“That’s right!” Bayan had said proudly. He had seen for himself how beautiful the tapis cloths made by the girls in his village were — especially his mother’s. He had felt compelled to prove it.

***

Now, sitting beside his mother’s body, Bayan regretted his rash and thoughtless behavior. Rubbing his face and head, he felt encircled by dancing, golden threads. His mother’s face, tightly covered beside him, appeared in his mind’s eye.

Even though Suri’s tapis now covered his mother’s body, Bayan cursed himself. He imagined his mother patiently making hers but, at the end of her life, the traditional cloth could not even be used for her funeral.

Bayan jumped up from his seat and hurried to the door.

“Bayan! Bayan! Haga dipa?” The mourners asked where he was going. He ignored them and paid no attention to the calls from his father and Suri. Instead, Bayan broke into a run, his heart giving way to his anxiety and fueling his legs as he raced through the bushes toward the beach. He took unused paths so no one could see him.

Three kilometers away, a small cabin stood with windows facing the sea. He had to retrieve Mak Unyan’s tapis before her body was taken for burial.

*****