As I walk on the familiar soil of my mother’s village, the vibrant colours of batik greet me, an array of tapestries hanging from every corner. Every stroke of a brush holds meaning, acting as a mirror of my people’s heritage, telling tales of generations and my own childhood. The scent of wax and dye permeates the air, holding a purity that carries the aroma of a freshly rained on meadow - something the bustling city of Sydney deprived me of.
Entering my childhood home, serenity washes over me, engulfing me in a familiar warmth, like one of an old lover.
Sunlight filters through the scratched windows, casting a warm, golden glow on my childhood diary; a forgotten treasure patiently waiting to be rediscovered. It is adorned with a bold batik cover, a mosaic of earthy brown patterns mirroring the intricacy of my upbringing. Each entry, like a thread in a batik fabric, weaves a tapestry of my experiences growing up, a tribute to my time spent as a child in Central Java.
A sentimental yearning envelops my heart, urging me to embark on a voyage through the words penned by my younger self – an odyssey to my past life.
I surrender and open the diary… Undergoing metamorphosis, I am ten years old again, and I am wild and innocent and free.
I am cruising down a dirt path on my bicycle, lovingly crafted by the hands of my father - hands shaped by generations before him. Its chipped paint and creaking frame offers a glimpse into its companionship throughout the adventures of my life, from riding past cascading waterfalls to misty mornings past majestic mountains. The air is infused with the smell of blooming flowers, the earthy fragrance of the wet dirt beneath me, and the sweet essence of dew-kissed mornings. The cool rush of wind against my face carries the soft whispers of surrounding fields while the exhilarating feel of freedom rushes through my small body. My batik scarf flowing behind me like a cape - an heirloom of stories, fluttering in my wake...
I pass by my mother in the paddy fields, a tiny figure waving cheerfully to me amongst the vast, vast green of growing rice, her conical straw hat shielding her from the sweltering rays of Indonesia’s sun. Above, I spot a kite. The kaleidoscope of colours dance vividly against the pale, blue sky, its tail fluttering like colourful ribbon. Each corner is weaved with meticulous batik designs of flowers and mythical creatures, swaying in harmony with the wind as if breathing with a life of their own. I trace my gaze down the kite rope and see a ring of children - my cousins – barefoot in the soil, their wild, youthful laughter skipping like stones across the field…
I pedal along and approach the teeming market - the very heart of the village. As I ride through the labyrinth, I am greeted by the aroma of sizzling street food complemented by the bitter fragrance of freshly brewed coffee. Amidst the buzz of lively bartering, men in batik sarongs strum a bamboo instrument, evoking a soft melody that offers refuge from the market’s chaos. Scrawny cats sway calmly past me, brushing their soft ears against my bicycle wheel as they, too, sniff for Indonesian delicacies nearby. The cat stops when it reaches a vendor who grills chicken satay skewers over charcoal, sending wisps of smoke flying through the air. Pedalling onward, a horse trots alongside me, its hooves clattering against the stone path as it pulled a weathered wooden carriage – inside, a woman cradles her beaming child, his laughter rising like birdsong above the market’s racket…
The sky is bleeding pink, and the moon begins to show itself, so I decide it’s time to pedal home. The windy path is taking me past meadows and fields and flowing rivers - the moon following me all the while - until the familiar faces of neighbours greet me as they sit outside their homes, sipping tea and sharing smiles. Their faces are masked with competition as they play a round of congklak, moving marbles around the wooden board, crafted with batik shapes and geometric mazes. I ring my bicycle bell as a greeting as they wave back at me… How cool and calm the air is as I breeze past, under the sky, dotted with stars - too many for me to count. My bicycle, my loyal companion, rings out a song of arrival as I arrive back home. My aunty greets me at the front door as I slightly bow, taking her hand and raising it to my forehead - an Indonesian tradition to show respect to those older than ourselves. She asks me, “Dari mana nak?” Where have you been, child? And looking into the star-filled sky, all I can do is smile as the memories of the day wash over me...
As I awaken, the nostalgic dinging of the bell echoes in my mind…
I realise that by writing these entries, the whispers of my past find a voice. The ink breathes life into moments that would otherwise slip into the abyss of forgotten memories. My joys and my sorrows – as complex as the diary’s batik design – all find solace in the pages of my treasured tome. Etching my footprints upon the sands of time, I become the keeper of my own story.
The sunlight has disappeared, replaced by the moon’s glow. Looking out the window, I marvel at the velvet canvas stretching infinitely above, adorned with an embroidery of stars that ignite the darkness with their shimmering brilliance.
These same stars that have witnessed me growing up will continue to watch me live out my life. But as I choose to write, the stars will not be the only ones to remember.
