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The Last Offering

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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The Last Offering

“Bury Emba immediately; we don’t have anything to wait for.” For Iga, those words were a mantra that lengthened her days and shortened her sleep.

Iga had become a woman who was accustomed to living alone and supporting herself. Her love for her late husband, Emba, had taken her all the way to this remote village in the hinterland of South Sulawesi, which was very different from the urban area where she came from. Iga grew up among towering buildings; now, a dense forest surrounded her. But all that no longer mattered; she had made her choice — a choice that now prevented her from ever going home to visit her parents.

If Iga returned home, she would be killed to uphold her family’s dignity. This had been a hereditary legacy for them. Despite living in an urban area, the family had retained her father’s Bugis traditions which said that if a girl left home to silariang, marry without the family’s consent, she had to return with a dowry amount determined by the family. If she returned without the dowry, the family had the right to kill her.

Iga’s past three years since moving to Emba’s village had been quite turbulent. She had to do without the warm family love that once surrounded her. Emba had been buried along with Iga’s hopes of being able to return to her family. Her husband’s death had deeply affected her. A year ago, Emba had gone to work, filled with enthusiasm to earn Iga’s dowry money so he could take Iga home to visit her family. But that sunny day became his last; Emba had been killed in an accident.

Iga persisted on living in the village, even without Emba. She had adapted to the customs there. She had become familiar with the high tone of people’s speech, and how to make a living by relying solely on farming.

One of the village traditions Iga had decided to adopt after Emba’s death was the welcoming of the holy month of Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar, observed by Muslims worldwide as a month of fasting, prayer, reflection, and community.

Ramadan was welcomed in various ways in the village. Some people walked around holding torches and laughing happily. Some busily cleaned each corner of their homes. Others welcomed the holy month with the fragrance of incense.

Iga chose to welcome Ramadan by burning incense and feeding a deceased loved one — her Emba. The villagers believed that loved ones who had passed away could enjoy the fragrance of incense and the delicious food served in celebration of Ramadan. Serving a loved one’s favorite food was considered a form of expressing love for that person. This required the preparation of different colors of rice, as well as ketupat — rice cakes cooked in a diamond-shaped pouch of woven palm leaf — and side dishes, usually made with chicken and eggs.

As Ramadan approached, Iga became a busy person, preparing many things to welcome the month. She believed that the aroma of her food would make Emba’s spirit visit her in the evening. The ceremony would be solemnized by a shaman in the village.

“Two pieces of chicken, please,” Iga told the old meat peddler who passed in front of her house every day, pushing a worn-out cart. Iga looked eagerly at the peddler’s wares before choosing. “My late husband really liked that.”

Without saying much, the man wrapped the chicken and handed it to her. Iga bought the chicken and cooked it, believing that Emba would enjoy it, too.

After preparing the food, Iga used the energy she had left to take her husband’s clothes out of the closet and iron them. The villagers also believed that providing clothes for the deceased loved ones was a tribute to them. The clothes would be laid out when welcoming the holy month during dusk, after the Maghrib prayer.

Emba had been a neat man, and Iga did not want him to wear wrinkled clothes that had been stored in the closet for a long time. As Iga was ironing each shirt, she came upon a worn-out blue shirt that had been his favorite. Almost every time Iga had finished ironing this shirt, Emba had worn it again. Smiling, Iga looked at the old shirt and thought, He would love to wear his favorite shirt.

After she finished ironing, Iga went to the kitchen and took out the plates she only used on special occasions. Village custom said the plates for each kind of food had to be an odd number, not even. Iga chose to serve nine plates of rice and nine plates of side dishes. She cheerfully and carefully cleaned the plates using a new cloth.

The heat of the afternoon sun streamed in through the kitchen window. Iga kept checking on the coconut milk chicken soup cooking before her. She looked radiant, as if she had received a love letter. She believed that all her arrangements to welcome Ramadan would lead her husband home to enjoy the dishes she had prepared so enthusiastically. The villagers believed that the soul of the deceased would find its way home in the evening and be ready to enjoy the food the family had prepared.

She filled the serving plates with her food: four plates of black rice, four of white rice, and one of ketupat. The other nine plates were filled with side dishes prepared with eggs, chicken, and a coconut soup of young papaya from Iga’s garden.

After filling the serving dishes, Iga went to the living room and spread out a mat to sit on during the ceremony.

As late afternoon turned into early evening, Iga believed that her husband was probably on his way, and she wanted to prepare herself as well — at least put a little makeup on her face so she would appear attractive.

In her room, Iga looked at herself in the closet mirror. The clothes she had bought a year ago still looked new because she rarely wore them. She saw how thin she was now, and how sad she looked. She saw a sense of longing in her gaze, a longing for her husband, for her family, especially for her mother, who had taken good care of Iga for nineteen years and now had to bear the shame of her daughter’s choice.

Iga sighed. There was no point in regretting her decision now. She never expected to face such a long and lonely road when she chose Emba and left her family. Now, no matter how hard Iga tried to feel the warmth of her husband’s love, she remained in a cold place, alone in a village far away from where she grew up.

A knock on the door snapped Iga out of her reverie. She glanced at the wall clock in her room and smiled. The time had come, and the person knocking on the door had to be Daeng Tompo, a well-known shaman in the village. The villagers had always trusted him to guide traditional events, such as the welcoming of the holy month, without considering his religious credentials. Shamans were believed to have special powers that enabled them to understand the unknown and to speak with spirits in the supernatural realm.

Smiling, Iga rushed to open the door. Daeng Tompo met her haughtily. His stature indicated that he was around eighty years old or more. The shaman did not come alone. His wife stood behind him with a blank expression on her face. She was usually the one entrusted with arranging the dishes for the meal.

Daeng Tompo and his wife entered Iga’s house. As their host, Iga invited them to take a seat while she prepared something to drink. This was not only a token of appreciation, but also to give Daeng Tompo time to enjoy his coffee while waiting for the dishes to be served.

Iga placed the cup in front of Daeng Tompo.

“Let me help you,” his wife said as she rose and followed Iga back to the kitchen.

Standing behind Iga, Daeng Tompo’s wife noted that all the plates had been filled. She nodded. They started carrying the plates to the mat in the living room.

Four plates of black rice were placed on the left side of the mat, and four plates of white rice were placed on the right. The plate of ketupat was set in the center. The side dishes were arranged close to the rice plates.

While Daeng Tompo’s wife was busy arranging the dishes, Iga prepared the burner for the frankincense. She placed a cube of it on the embers in the burner, and the fragrance quickly curled into every corner of the house. Iga loved the smell. She believed that the dead liked the scent as well.

After all the dishes were neatly arranged, Iga placed the incense holder on a corner of the mat. Iga and Daeng Tompo’s wife knelt on the mat and sat back on their heels. Daeng Tompo, who had finished his coffee, now rose. He walked towards the incense burner and seated himself cross-legged in front of it. The two women immediately adjusted their posture to that of a tahiyat, in prayer, shifting their seated weight sideways onto their folded left leg and arching the sole of the right foot, placing it just behind the left foot, as if on tiptoe.

“Wait!” Iga’s voice caused Daeng Tompo to turn to her. Iga had just realized her husband’s clothes were missing. Without waiting for Daeng Tompo’s response, Iga rose and walked quickly to her bedroom. Seconds later, she returned with Emba’s favorite blue shirt.

Iga placed the shirt next to the incense burner and resumed her prayerful posture. The room became quiet. Iga hoped what she was doing would bring her together with Emba, even if it only happened in her mind.

Iga looked at the platters of food arranged neatly on the mat. She imagined her husband, wearing his favorite blue shirt she had ironed that afternoon, enjoying his food.

Meanwhile Daeng Tompo recited the ceremonial chant used to welcome Ramadan.

“What was his father’s name?” Daeng Tompo’s question signaled the conclusion of the ceremony.

“Samir,” Iga answered with a smile of relief.

Daeng Tompo rose and said goodbye.

Iga escorted the shaman and his wife to the doorway, where she handed him some money as a token of gratitude for his kindness in taking the time to welcome the month of Ramadan at her house.

Iga felt happy. She didn’t care that she had gone to the trouble of preparing so much food and not eaten any of it. The matter of enjoying food was not important to her at all. Even though she was truly happy, she could not deny her exhaustion. All she wanted to do now was lie down on her bed and sleep.

***

The distant noise of people chanting “Sahur! Sahur!” outside her house woke Iga slowly. Outside, it was still dark. She heard the chanting grow louder as the crowd grew closer. It sounded like they were going to pass by her front yard. Iga rose and stood in her doorway to watch them. She recalled her first month of Ramadan in this village. Every morning before dawn, Emba and other men would wake the villagers so they could prepare sahur, the pre-dawn meal essential for sustaining Muslims during the fasting day ahead. Iga imagined her husband walking among the passersby.

As Iga watched the people passing her house, she noticed a piece of paper on the floor. It must have been tucked into her doorjamb and fallen when she opened the door. Iga glanced at the paper, but returned her attention to the chanters. After everyone had passed, she picked up the paper, stepped inside, and sat down on the mat which still displayed the meal.

It was village custom that at every sunset during Ramadan, the residents took a turn to provide iftar, the meal eaten to break the Muslims’ daylong fast, at the mosque. Iga assumed that the paper she held was a list of the people who were scheduled to donate iftar to the mosque’s congregation each evening. Last year, Iga’s turn to provide iftar fell on the first day of fasting. Now, she wanted to know when it would be her turn to provide the meal this year. She opened the note.

Is the food you provided for your deceased husband a form of your ignorance or your disobedience of Muslim law? The sentence, written boldly on the paper, shocked her. This was not a list of iftar providers, but a question. Who had slipped this note into my doorjamb and why did that person do it? Iga thought back to her activities the prior evening with the shaman and his wife. She believed that her welcoming of Ramadan had been conducted properly, the same as that of most people.

Before dawn broke, Iga sat in her kitchen, eating her first sahur and thinking about the note. The question about whether she was ignorant about preparing food to honor Emba’s spirit did not make sense to her. She definitely still grieved and still could not accept her husband’s death. On the other hand, she had never intended to disobey Muslim law or do wrong on purpose. She had always performed the prayers, even when she was ill.

Iga had not questioned herself about why she had prepared so much food to welcome the holy month. She believed she was just following the customs of the community and that the food was a manifestation of her love for Emba.

The question disturbed Iga so deeply that she decided to see a village ustazah, female priest. Nur was believed to have a deep religious knowledge. Iga recounted to Nur her actions of welcoming the month of Ramadan, from start to when she discovered the paper with the question.

Nur listened carefully to Iga’s story. “Traditions are steeped in our lives,” Nur told her. “The belief that the food you serve, the clothes you prepare, and the fragrance of the incense you burn will be enjoyed by your deceased loved ones is one example. You did all these things as a manifestation of how much you love your husband. We express our love in many different ways. Sometimes we don’t realize that the method we have chosen is wrong.”

Back home, Iga thought about Nur’s words. She felt overwhelmed with anxiety about what she had done. She considered consulting Daeng Tompo. Perhaps the shaman’s perspective would relieve her anxiety. Walking to his house, she thought about how to frame her words in order not to offend him.

Before she reached Daeng Tompo’s house, Iga felt someone gently tugging her wrist. Iga turned. “No need to go there,” Nur said softly.

Confused, Iga asked why.

“My point is,” Nur repeated, “you don’t need to go there.” Her tone had become stern.

Iga stared at the woman in front of her, not understanding. “I want Daeng Tompo to give me an explanation,” Iga said, “just like you did.”

“What is your religion?” Nur’s sharp voice shocked Iga into silence. This was not the gentle woman she had known.

Iga was a Muslim, of course, and Nur knew that. Nur grasped both of Iga’s shoulders. Shaking them lightly as if trying to wake her up she said, “You should be aware, lest your heart be blinded by your love for your deceased husband.”

Iga took a deep breath.

Still clasping Iga’s shoulders, Nur said, “I left the paper in your door to awaken your conscience,” Then Nur took Iga’s hand. Each absorbed in their own thoughts, they walked silently away from Daeng Tompo’s house.

Minutes later, they arrived at Nur’s home. They entered the living room, and Iga saw the imam of the mosque and other men wearing a religious peci, hat.

Nur called out a greeting, “Assalamualaikum.” She invited Iga to sit down, but before Iga could seat herself, Nur asked, “How would you feel about undergoing a rukiah?”

What does she mean? thought Iga. Rukiah was an Islamic form of exorcism, a healing method that used the Quran and hadith to treat sickness and other problems. I’m neither a witch nor possessed. Most villagers observe Ramadan the same way I did. Why am I the one who needs to be prayed for and bathed in holy water?

“Your heart will be calmer if you get a rukiah.” Nur’s voice was soft, but Iga felt imposed upon.

“I’m fine,” Iga said, as she turned to leave. “I don’t need to be treated like this. If you feel that what I did was wrong, then the other villagers need a rukiah, too.”

At the doorway, Nur pulled Iga back and looked at her with tearful eyes. “I’m sorry. I worry about your dark fate.” Nur embraced Iga and rubbed her back gently.

Iga had not been held like that for a long time. Touched, she began to cry, and the two women hugged each other.

“Use this Ramadan as a way to get closer to God, not get closer to evil,” said Nur. “Your love for Emba is admirable, but the way you show your love for him is wrong. You’re right in saying that I should administer rukiah to all the people of this village, too, but I haven’t been able to stop anyone from making offerings to the dead — especially those who were born and raised here. But you are different. I believe that your parents raised you with good Muslim values. I would feel guilty if I now allowed you to stray.”

Nur’s explanation stirred Iga’s feelings. She accepted Nur’s words as the truth. But she still questioned what her parents had taught her about their beliefs which condoned killing girls who committed silariang marriages. Emba’s death had made Iga vulnerable ⸺ she had not known what to do. So in the end, she had done what she had never done before: accepted the customs of the village she and Emba had made home. All she had wanted to do was express her love for Emba, and preparing food for someone she loved, didn’t seem like such a bad thing to do.

That night, after the Taraweeh, late evening prayer during the month of Ramadan, Iga decided to follow Nur’s suggestion and undergo a rukiah. Iga hoped that it would give her tranquility and return her to the right path in accordance with Muslim law. In truth, Iga did not believe that the rukiah would calm her. She was not possessed by an evil spirit or such. She just did not want to disappoint Nur, who had invested so much of herself in Iga’s religious well-being — much more than Daeng Tompo or any of her other neighbors ever had.

*****