Blue Blood of the Big Astana
Ibrahim Jubaira
1
Although the heart may care no more, the mind can
always recall. The mind can always recall, for there are always things to
remember: languid days of depressed boyhood; shared happy days under the glare
of the sun; concealed love and mocking fate; etc. So I suppose you remember me
too.
2
Remember? A little over a year after I was orphaned, my
aunt decided to turn me over to your father, the Datu. In those days datus were
supposed to take charge of the poor and the helpless. Therefore, my aunt only
did right in placing me under the wing of your father. Furthermore, she was so
poor, that by doing that, she not only relieved herself of the burden of
poverty but also safeguarded my well-being.
3
But I could not bear the thought of even a moment’s
separation from my aunt. She had been like a mother to me, and would always be.
4
“Please, Babo,” I pleaded. “Try to feed me a little
more. Let me grow big with you, and I will build you a house. I will repay you
some day. Let me do something to help, but please, Babo, don’t send me
away....” I really cried.
5
Babo placed a soothing hand on my shoulder. Just like
the hand of Mother. I felt a bit comforted, but presently I cried some more.
The effect of her hand was so stirring.
6
“Listen to me. Stop crying—oh, now, do stop. You see,
we can’t go on like this,” Babo said. “My mat-weaving can’t clothe and feed
both you and me. It’s really hard, son, it’s really hard. You have to go. But I
will be seeing you every week. You can have everything you want in the Datu’s
house.”
7
I tried to look at Babo through my tears. But soon, the
thought of having everything I wanted took hold of my child’s mind. I ceased
crying.
8
“Say you will go,” Babo coaxed me. I assented finally,
I was only five then—very tractable.
9
Babo bathed me in the afternoon. I did not flinch and
shiver, for the sea was comfortably warm, and exhilarating. She cleaned my
fingernails meticulously. Then she cupped a handful of sand, spread it over my
back, and rubbed my grimy body, particularly the back of my ears. She poured
fresh water over me afterwards. How clean I became! But my clothes were
frayed....
10 Babo instructed me
before we left for your big house: I must not forget to kiss your father’s
feet, and to withdraw when and as ordered without turning my back; I must not
look at your father full in the eyes; I must not talk too much; I must always
talk in the third person; I must not... Ah, Babo, those were too many to
remember.
11 Babo tried to be
patient with me. She tested me over and over again on those royal, traditional
ways. And one thing more: I had to say “Pateyk” for yes, and “Teyk” for what,
or for answering a call.
12 “Oh, Babo, why do I
have to say all those things? Why really do I have...”
13 “Come along, son;
come along.”
14 We started that
same afternoon. The breeze was cool as it blew against my face. We did not get
tired because we talked on the way. She told me so many things. She said you of
the big house had blue blood.
15 “Not red like ours,
Babo?”
16 Babo said no, not
red like ours.
17 “And the Datu has a
daughter my age, Babo?”
18 Babo said yes—you.
And I might be allowed to play with you, the Datu’s daughter, if I worked hard
and behaved well.
19 I asked Babo, too,
if I might be allowed to prick your skin to see if you had the blue blood, in
truth. But Babo did not answer me anymore. She just told me to keep quiet.
There, I became so talkative again.
20 Was that really
your house? My, it was so big! Babo chided me. “We don’t call it a house,” she
said. “We call it astana, the house of the Datu.” So I just said oh, and kept
quiet. Why did Babo not tell me that before?
21 Babo suddenly
stopped in her tracks. Was I really very clean? Oh, oh, look at my harelip. She
cleaned my harelip, wiping away with her tapis the sticky mucus of the faintest
conceivable green flowing from my nose. Poi! Now it was better. Although I
could not feel any sort of improvement in my deformity itself. I merely felt
cleaner.
22 Was I truly the boy
about whom Babo was talking? You were laughing, young pretty Blue Blood. Happy
perhaps that I was. Or was it the amusement brought about by my harelip that
had made you laugh. I dared not ask you. I feared that should you come to
dislike me, you’d subject me to unpleasant treatment. Hence, I laughed with
you, and you were pleased.
23 Babo told me to
kiss your right hand. Why not your feet? Oh, you were a child yet. I could wait
until you had grown up.
24 But you withdrew
your hand at once. I think my harelip gave it a ticklish sensation. However, I
was so intoxicated by the momentary sweetness the action brought me that I
decided inwardly to kiss your hand everyday. No, no, it was not love. It was
only an impish sort of liking. Imagine the pride that was mine to be thus in
close heady contact with one of the blue blood....
25 “Welcome, little
orphan!” Was it for me? Really for me? I looked at Babo. Of course it was for
me! We were generously bidden in. Thanks to your father’s kindness. And thanks
to your laughing at me, too.
26 I kissed the feet
of your Appah, your old, honorable, resting-the-whole-day father. He was not
tickled by my harelip as you were. He did not laugh at me. In fact, he evinced
compassion towards me. And so did your Amboh, your kind mother. “Sit down, sit
down; don’t be ashamed.”
27 But there you were,
plying Babo with your heartless questions: Why was I like that? What had
happened to me?
28 To satisfy you,
pretty Blue Blood, little inquisitive One, Babo had to explain: Well, Mother
had slid in the vinta in her sixth month with the child that was me. Result: my
harelip. “Poor Jaafar,” your Appah said. I was about to cry, but seeing you
looking at me, I felt so ashamed that I held back the tears. I could not help
being sentimental, you see. I think my being bereft of parents in youth had
much to do with it all.
29 “Do you think you
will be happy to stay with us? Will you not yearn any more for your Babo?”
30 “Pateyk, I will be
happy,” I said. Then the thought of my not yearning any more for Babo made me
wince. But Babo nodded at me reassuringly.
31 “Pateyk, I will not
yearn any more for... for Babo.”
32 And Babo went
before the interview was through. She had to cover five miles before evening
came. Still I did not cry, as you may have expected I would, for—have I not
said it?—I was ashamed to weep in your presence.
33 That was how I came
to stay with you, remember? Babo came to see me every week as she had promised.
And you—all of you—had a lot of things to tell her. That I was a good
worker—oh, beyond question, your Appah and Amboh told Babo. And you, out-spoken
little Blue Blood, joined the flattering chorus. But my place of sleep always
reeked of urine, you added, laughing. That drew a rallying admonition from
Babo, and a downright promise from me not to wet my mat again.
34 Yes, Babo came to
see me, to advise me every week, for two consecutive years—that is, until death
took her away, leaving no one in the world but a nephew with a harelip.
35 Remember? I was
your favorite and you wanted to play with me always. I learned why after a
time, it delighted you to gaze at my harelip. Sometimes, when we went out wading
to the sea, you would pause and look at me. I would look at you, too,
wondering. Finally, you would be seized by a fit of laughter. I would chime in,
not realizing I was making fun of myself. Then you would pinch me painfully to
make me cry. Oh, you wanted to experiment with me. You could not tell, you
said, whether I cried or laughed: the working of lips was just the same in
either to your gleaming eyes. And I did not flush with shame even if you said
so. For after all, had not my mother slid in the vinta?
36 That was your way.
And I wanted to pay you back in my own way. I wanted to prick your skin and see
if you really had blue blood. But there was something about you that warned me
against a deformed orphan’s intrusion. All I could do, then, was to feel foolishly
proud, cry and laugh with you—for you—just to gratify the teasing, imperious
blue blood in you. Yes, I had my way, too.
37 Remember? I was
apparently so willing to do anything for you. I would climb for young coconuts
for you. You would be amazed by the ease and agility with which I made my way
up the coconut tree, yet fear that I would fall. You would implore me to come
down at once, quick. “No.” You would throw pebbles at me if I thus refused to
come down. No, I still would not. Your pebbles could not reach me—you were not
strong enough. You would then threaten to report me to your Appah. “Go ahead.”
How I liked being at the top! And sing there as I looked at you who were below.
You were so helpless. In a spasm of anger, you would curse me, wishing my
death. Well, let me die. I would climb the coconut trees in heaven. And my
ghost would return to deliver... to deliver young celestial coconuts to you.
Then you would come back. You see? A servant, an orphan, could also command the
fair and proud Blue Blood to come or go.
38 Then we would pick
up little shells, and search for sea-cucumbers; or dive for sea-urchins. Or run
along the long stretch of white, glaring sand, I behind you—admiring your soft,
nimble feet and your flying hair. Then we would stop, panting, laughing.
39 After resting for a
while, we would run again to the sea and wage war against the crashing waves. I
would rub your silky back after we had finished bathing in the sea. I would get
fresh water in a clean coconut shell, and rinse your soft, ebony hair. Your
hair flowed down smoothly, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Oh, it was beautiful.
Then I would trim your fingernails carefully. Sometimes you would jerk with
pain. Whereupon I would beg you to whip me. Just so you could differentiate
between my crying and my laughing. And even the pain you gave me partook of
sweetness.
40 That was my way. My
only way to show how grateful I was for the things I had tasted before: your
companionship; shelter and food in your big astana. So your parents said I
would make a good servant, indeed. And you, too, thought I would.
41 Your parents sent
you to a Mohammedan school when you were seven. I was not sent to study with
you, but it made no difference to me. For after all, was not my work carrying
your red Koran on top of my head four times a day? And you were happy, because
I could entertain you. Because someone could be a water-carrier for you. One of
the requirements then was to carry water every time you showed up in your
Mohammedan class. “Oh, why? Excuse the stammering of my harelip, but I really
wished to know.” Your Goro, your Mohammedan teacher, looked deep into me as if
to search my whole system. Stupid. Did I not know our hearts could easily grasp
the subject matter, like the soft, incessant flow of water? Hearts, hearts. Not
brains. But I just kept silent. After all, I was not there to ask impertinent
questions. Shame, shame on my harelip asking such a question, I chided myself
silently.
42 That was how I
played the part of an Epang-Epang, of a servant-escort to you. And I became
more spirited every day, trudging behind you. I was like a faithful, loving dog
following its mistress with light steps and a singing heart. Because you, ahead
of me, were something of an inspiration I could trail indefatigably, even to the
ends of the world....
43 The dreary monotone
of your Koran-chanting lasted three years. You were so slow, your Goro said. At
times, she wanted to whip you. But did she not know you were the Datu’s
daughter? Why, she would be flogged herself. But whipping an orphaned servant
and clipping his split lips with two pieces of wood were evidently permissible.
So, your Goro found me a convenient substitute for you. How I groaned in pain
under her lashings! But how your Goro laughed; the wooden clips failed to keep
my harelip closed. They always slipped. And the class, too, roared with
laughter—you leading.
44 But back there in
your spacious astana, you were already being tutored for maidenhood. I was
older than you by one Ramadan. I often wondered why you grew so fast, while I
remained a lunatic dwarf. Maybe the poor care I received in early boyhood had
much to do with my hampered growth. However, I was happy, in a way, that did
not catch up with you. For I had a hunch you would not continue to avail
yourself my help in certain intimate tasks—such as scrubbing your back when you
took your bath—had I grown as fast as you.
45 There I was in my
bed at night, alone, intoxicated with passions and emotions closely resembling
those of a full-grown man’s. I thought of you secretly, unashamedly, lustfully:
a full-grown Dayang-Dayang reclining in her bed at the farthest end of her
inner apartment; breasts heaving softly like breeze-kissed waters; cheeks of
the faintest red, brushing against a soft-pillow; eyes gazing dreamily into
immensity—warm, searching, expressive; supple buttocks and pliant arms; soft
ebony hair that rippled....
46 Dayang-Dayang,
could you have forgiven a deformed orphan-servant had he gone mad, and lost
respect and dread towards your Appah? Could you have pardoned his rabid
temerity had he leapt out of his bed, rushed into your room, seized you in his
arms, and tickled your face with his harelip? I should like to confess that for
at least a moment, yearning, starved, athirst... no, no, I cannot say it. We
were of such contrasting patterns. Even the lovely way you looked—the big
astana where you lived—the blood you had... Not even the fingers of Allah
perhaps could weave our fabrics into equality. I had to content myself with the
privilege of gazing frequently at your peerless loveliness. An ugly servant
must not go beyond his little border.
47 But things did not
remain as they were. A young Datu from Bonbon came back to ask for your hand.
Your Appah was only too glad to welcome him. There was nothing better, he said,
than marriage between two people of the same blue blood. Besides, he was
growing old. He had no son to take his place some day. Well, the young Datu was
certainly fit to take in due time the royal torch your Appah had been carrying
for years. But I—I felt differently, of course. I wanted... No, I could not
have a hand in your marital arrangements. What was I, after all?
48 Certainly your
Appah was right. The young Datu was handsome. And rich, too. He had a large
tract of land planted with fruit trees, coconut trees, and abaca plants. And
you were glad, too. Not because he was rich—for you were rich yourself. I
thought I knew why: the young Datu could rub your soft back better than I
whenever you took your bath. His hands were not as callused as mine... However,
I did not talk to you about it. Of course.
49 Your Appah ordered
his subjects to build two additional wings to your astana. Your astana was
already big, but it had to be enlarged as hundreds of people would be coming to
witness your royal wedding.
50 The people sweated
profusely. There was a great deal of hammering, cutting, and lifting as they
set up posts. Plenty of eating and jabbering. And chewing of betel nuts and
native seasoned tobacco. And emitting of red saliva afterwards. In just one
day, the additional wings were finished.
51 Then came your big
wedding. People had crowded your astana early in the day to help in the
religious slaughtering of cows and goats. To aid, too, in the voracious
consumption of your wedding feast. Some more people came as evening drew near.
Those who could not be accommodated upstairs had to stay below.
52 Torches fashioned
out of dried coconut leaves blazed in the night. Half-clad natives kindled them
over the cooking fire. Some pounded rice for cakes. And their brown glossy
bodies sweated profusely.
53 Out in the astana
yard, the young Datu’s subjects danced in great circles. Village swains danced
with grace, now swaying sensuously their shapely hips, now twisting their
pliant arms. Their feet moved deftly and almost imperceptibly.
54 Male dancers would
crouch low, with a wooden spear, a kris, or a barong in one hand, and a wooden
shield in the other. They stimulated bloody warfare by dashing through the
circle of other dancers and clashing against each other. Native flutes, drums,
gabangs, agongs, and kulintangs contributed much to the musical gaiety of the
night. Dance. Sing in delight. Music. Noise. Laughter. Music swelled out into
the world like a heart full of blood, vibrant, palpitating. But it was my heart
that swelled with pain. The people would cheer: “Long live the Dayang-Dayang
and the Datu, MURAMURAAN!” at every intermission. And I would cheer,
too—mechanically, before I knew. I would be missing you so....
55 People rushed and
elbowed their way up into your astana as the young Datu was led to you. Being
small, I succeeded in squeezing in near enough to catch a full view of you.
You, Dayang-Dayang. Your moon-shaped face was meticulously powdered with
pulverized rice. Your hair was skewered up toweringly at the center of your
head, and studded with glittering gold hair-pins. Your tight, gleaming black
dress was covered with a flimsy mantle of the faintest conceivable pink. Gold
buttons embellished your wedding garments. You sat rigidly on a mattress, with
native, embroidered pillows piled carefully at the back. Candlelight mellowed
your face so beautifully you were like a goddess perceived in dreams. You
looked steadily down.
56 The moment arrived.
The turbaned pandita, talking in a voice of silk, led the young Datu to you,
while maidens kept chanting songs from behind. The pandita grasped the Datu’s
forefinger, and made it touch thrice the space between your eyebrows. And every
time that was done, my breast heaved and my lips worked.
57 Remember? You were
about to cry, Dayang-Dayang. For, as the people said, you would soon be
separated from your parents. Your husband would soon take you to Bonbon, and
you would live there like a countrywoman. But as you unexpectedly caught a
glimpse of me, you smiled once, a little. And I knew why: my harelip amused you
again. I smiled back at you, and withdrew at once. I withdrew at once because I
could not bear further seeing you sitting beside the young Datu, and knowing
fully well that I who had sweated, labored, and served you like a dog... No,
no, shame on me to think of all that at all. For was it not but a servant’s
duty?
58 But I escaped that
night, pretty Blue Blood. Where to? Anywhere. That was exactly seven years ago.
And those years did wonderful things for me. I am no longer a lunatic dwarf,
although my harelip remains as it has always been.
59 Too, I had amassed
a little fortune after years of sweating. I could have taken two or three
wives, but I had not yet found anyone resembling you, lovely Blue Blood. So,
single I remained.
60 And Allah’s Wheel
of Time kept on turning, kept on turning. And lo, one day your husband was
transported to San Ramon Penal Farm, Zamboanga. He had raised his hand against
the Christian government. He has wished to establish his own government. He
wanted to show his petty power by refusing to pay land taxes, on the ground
that the lands he had were by legitimate inheritance his own absolutely. He did
not understand that the little amount he should have given in the form of taxes
would be utilized to protect him and his people from swindlers. He did not
discern that he was in fact a part of the Christian government himself.
Consequently, his subjects lost their lives fighting for a wrong cause. Your
Appah, too, was drawn into the mess and perished with the others. His
possessions were confiscated. And you Amboh died of a broken heart. Your
husband, to save his life, had to surrender. His lands, too, were confiscated.
Only a little portion was left for you to cultivate and live on.
61 And remember? I
went one day to Bonbon on business. And I saw you on your bit of land with your
children. At first, I could not believe it was you. Then you looked long and
deep into me. Soon the familiar eyes of Blue Blood of years ago arrested the
faculties of the erstwhile servant. And you could not believe your eyes either.
You could not recognize me at once. But when you saw my harelip smiling at you,
rather hesitantly, you knew me at least. And I was so glad you did.
62 “Oh, Jafaar,” you
gasped, dropping your janap, your primitive trowel, instinctively. And you
thought I was no longer living, you said. Curse, curse. It was still your
frank, outspoken way. It was like you were able to jest even when sorrow was on
the verge of removing the last vestiges of your loveliness. You could somehow
conceal your pain and grief beneath banter and laughter. And I was glad of
that, too.
63 Well, I was about
to tell you that the Jafaar you saw now was a very different—a
much-improved—Jafaar. Indeed. But instead: “Oh, Dayang-Dayang,” I mumbled,
distressed to have seen you working. You who had been reared in ease and
luxury. However, I tried very much not to show traces of understanding your
deplorable situation.
64 One of your sons
came running and asked who I was. Well, I was, I was....
65 “Your old servant,”
I said promptly. Your son said oh, and kept quiet, returning at last to resume
his work. Work, work, Eting. Work, son. Bundle the firewood and take it to the
kitchen. Don’t mind your old servant. He won’t turn young again. Poor little
Datu, working so hard. Poor pretty Blue Blood, also working hard.
66 We kept strangely
silent for a long time. And then: By the way, where was I living now? In
Kanagi. My business here in Bonbon today? To see Panglima Hussin about the cows
he intended to sell, Dayang-Dayang. Cows? Was I a landsman already? Well, if
the pretty Blue Blood could live like a countrywoman, why not a man like your
old servant? You see, luck was against me in sea-roving activities, so I had to
turn to buying and selling cattle. Oh, you said. And then you laughed. And I
laughed with you. My laughter was dry. Or was it yours? However, you asked what
was the matter. Oh, nothing. Really, nothing serious. But you see... And you
seemed to understand as I stood there in front of you, leaning against a mango
tree, doing nothing but stare and stare at you.
67 I observed that
your present self was only the ragged reminder, the mere ghost, of the Blue
Blood of the big astana. Your resources of vitality and loveliness and strength
seemed to have drained out of your old arresting self, poured into the little
farm you were working in. Of course I did not expect you to be as lovely as you
had been. But you should have retained at least a fair portion of it—of the old
days. Not blurred eyes encircled by dark rings; not dull, dry hair; not a
sunburned complexion; not wrinkled, callous hands; not....
68 You seemed to
understand more and more. Why was I looking at you like that? Was it because I
had not seen you for so long? Or was it something else? Oh, Dayang-Dayang, was
not the terrible change in you the old servant’s concern? You suddenly turned
your eyes away from me. You picked up your janap and began troubling the soft
earth. It seemed you could not utter another word without breaking into tears.
You turned your back toward me because you hated having me see you in tears.
69 And I tried to make
out why: seeing me now revived old memories. Seeing me, talking with me, poking
fun at me, was seeing, talking, and joking as in the old days at the vivacious
astana. And you sobbed as I was thinking thus. I knew you sobbed, because your
shoulders shook. But I tried to appear as though I was not aware of your
controlled weeping. I hated myself for coming to you and making you cry....
70 “May I go now,
Dayang-Dayang?” I said softly, trying hard to hold back my own tears. You did not
say yes. And you did not say no, either. But the nodding of your head was
enough to make me understand and go. Go where? Was there a place to go? Of
course. There were many places to go to. Only seldom was there a place to which
one would like to return.
71 But something
transfixed me in my tracks after walking a mile or so. There was something of
an impulse that strove to drive me back to you, making me forget Panglima
Hussin’s cattle. Every instinct told me it was right for me to go back to you
and do something—perhaps beg you to remember your old Jafaar’s harelip, just so
you could smile and be happy again. I wanted to rush back and wipe away the
tears from your eyes with my headdress. I wanted to get fresh water and rinse
your dry, ruffled hair, that it might be restored to flowing smoothness and
glorious luster. I wanted to trim your fingernails, stroke your callused hand.
I yearned to tell you that the land and the cattle I owned were all yours. And
above all, I burned to whirl back to you and beg you and your children to come
home with me. Although the simple house I lived in was not as big as your
astana at Patikul, it would at least be a happy, temporary haven while you
waited for your husband’s release.
72 That urge to go
back to you, Dayang-Dayang, was strong. But I did not go back for a sudden
qualm seized: I had no blue blood. I had only a harelip. Not even the fingers
of Allah perhaps could weave us, even now, into equality.
(1941)
Meet the Writer
Ibrahim Jubaira is perhaps the
best known of the older generation of English language-educated Muslim Filipino
writers and one of the most prolific, with three volumes of short stories
published and two more collections of unpublished material. Born in 1920,
Jubaira began writing in high school. He was editor of the Cresent Review
Magazine and the Zamboanga Collegian, as well as a columnist for the
Zamboanga City Inquirer and Muslim Times. His own education and
social standing—he came from a family of minor royalty—put him on a path
familiar in colonial history. Coming of age under the colonial American
government, his English-language education led him to government service: first
as a teacher in Zamboanga and later with the Department of Foreign Affairs,
which took him to Sri Lanka (1969-78) and Pakistan (1982-85). A number of his
later stories were set outside the Philippines. In 1970, Jubaira received the
Presidential Medal of Merit in Literature from Ferdinand Marcos.
As a young
man, he published frequently in The Free Press, a magazine which was
established in 1907 and published until it was shut down by the Marcos
government in the 1970s. Throughout the 1940s, 50s, and 60s, The Free Press was—to
paraphrase literary historian Resil Mojares—a middle-class bible, carrying
articles on culture and current affairs, as well as a steady supply of
English-language short-stories. The Free Press actively sought
contributions from unknown or lesser-known writers in the provinces outside
Manila, and it came to serve as a venue for such young writers. To publish in The
Free Press was to be given a national, English-language audience for
subject matter about which the readership may not have been knowledgeable.
“Blue Blood of the
Big Astana” was published in 1941, on the eve of World War II. Philippine
independence was not formalized until 1946, and the great migration of
Christian Filipinos to Mindanao did not get underway until the 1950s. But like
many intellectuals and political leaders of his generation, Jubaira advocated
an integrationist approach in the southern Philippines, believing that only a
measure of accommodation with the “Christian state” could protect Muslims from
unscrupulous newcomers. For a time in the 1950s he served on the ill-fated
Commission on National Integration.
Both as a writer
and as a high-status Muslim with the benefit of a colonial education, his voice
assumes a distance from the world he describes in “Blue Blood.” Jubaira’s
curious use of the Anglo-English term “Mohammedan,” for example, is an
important marker of his complicated “debt” to American schooling and sets him
apart as one empowered and knowledgeable enough to convey the world of datus, astanas
(palaces), and “Mohammedans” to others.
Ibrahim Jubaira died in 2003. (http://kyotoreview.cseas.kyoto-u.ac.jp/issue/issue4/article_341.html)
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