Waiting
written by: Kathy Whipple
The crowded train platform was abuzz with anticipation, until the announcement of another delay. Then, like wilted flowers, locals hung their heads and dropped their crates of chickens and bags of produce to the hot pavement. We all settled in to wait. The equatorial sun beat relentlessly. I wiped my brow with my sleeve and looked for shade, but every small patch was crammed by people and livestock, seeking the same relief.
Beside me a girl, looking too young to have a baby, clung to the limp bundle pressed against her chest. Sweat seeped through her clothing, forming a wet halo around the sleeping baby’s head. On her back, a basket of chili peppers bulged full. I estimated its weight at half the girl’s.
Whatever my inconvenience from the train’s delay, hers was worse. I smiled my sympathies her way. She nudged closer to me, sidestepping a man sprawled on a rattan mat puffing a cigarette. Choking smoke and the pungent smell of chilies lingered in the stagnant heat and mingled with the acrid swelter of people and animals under an inhumane sun.
‘Dapatkah saya membantu anda?’ I used my limited Indonesian to ask the girl if I could help her.
In return, she rattled off a string of words, only the gist of which I understood. The child was her brother. He would need to be fed when he woke. She hoped the train would come soon.
I thought about her responsibilities at such a young age and the fact my own children had grumbled over making their bed.
I stretched out my arms in an offer to carry the chili peppers. I thought I could manage the basket to ease her burden.
Without hesitation, she thrust the baby into my arms.
‘Oh my,’ I said.
The girl then took my hand and drew it to her forehead. A common gesture of respect towards someone older. A gesture I long admired.
It had been years since I held my babies, now grown. But on that train platform in Central Java, with the heat beating down on the waiting crowd like a hammer on a spike, I remembered to steady the baby’s head, and to rock gently. His hot breath met my neck in tender wisps. His newborn smells brought back a tender memory. A newborn’s soft cooing sounds are the same in any language. He was a sticky, wet bundle who fit perfectly and familiarly in my arms.
I held the baby tight, willing him to sleep on.
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