By A.A. Navis
HAD you come to my hometown several years ago by bus, you would have stopped near a market. Just about a kilometer from the market, you would arrive on the street of my village. At a small intersection to the right, the fifth intersection, turned to that narrow street. And on the end of the street you would find an old surau1. In front of it, there was a pond in which the water flew through four shower baths.
And at the left porch of the surau you would find an old man who used to sit there with his all decrepit behaviors and religious observance. It had been years he served as garin2, the keeper of the surau. People used to call him Kakek3.
As a keeper, Kakek bargained nothing. He lived from alms collected once a week every Friday. Once a month he earned a quarter of gold fish harvest of the pond. And once a year, people brought fitrah eid4 to him. Yet as garin he didn’t really well known. He was actually known as knife-sharpener. As he did excellent at his work, most people used to ask him for a help, while he never got payoff at all. Women who asked him for a help sharpening knives or scissors gave sambal as its payoff, while men gave him cigarette and, occasionally, money. However, the most he got from them as payoff was gratitude and a bit smile.