New York, Almost Evening

When Grandmother said she wanted to cook Anyang Pakis for the iftar meal, Father and Mother laughed. "Mak, this is New York. Did you forget, Mak?" said Father amidst his laughter, which had not yet completely subsided.

Grandmother flashed a smile. Thin and cold. On the other side of the table, Naura and Anamira briefly looked puzzled, then continued their pre-dawn meal without much enthusiasm. These children were born in cities far from Indonesia. Far from North Sumatra. Naura in London, Anamira in Johannesburg. They knew nothing about Anyang Pakis. They had no idea that, in the land of their father and grandmother's birth, the Malay land, with its perfect balance of sour, salty, and spicy flavors, Anyang Pakis had conspired with Ramadan to make its presence felt every time it was time to break the fast.

In my village, this collusion does not occur, but I remember cooking it a few times. About six years ago in Singapore. At that time, I was working in the home of a Malay-Chinese woman married to an Indian man.

Fern is, of course, the main ingredient. For a portion of one large bowl, at least three medium-sized bundles are required. Then, grated coconut; it should not be too young nor too old, but most importantly, it must still be fresh and not left overnight. The quality of the coconut, which coats the entire vegetable, greatly influences the aroma and flavor.

Next are bean sprouts, shallots, garlic, curly red chilies, candlenuts, galangal, turmeric, lemongrass, kaffir lime leaves, roasted coriander, salt and sugar to taste, as well as lime juice extracted from limes.

I suspect that Father and Mother’s laughter stems from this. Indeed, there are no ferns at Trader Joe’s or Key Food. There is no grated coconut or bean sprouts at Stop and Shop. There is no lemongrass at Price Chopper or Wegmans, let alone Walmart.

Father and Mother are not wrong, but they are not entirely correct either. In recent years, small grocery stores have been growing in New York, providing ingredients for Asian cuisine, including those from Indonesia. Perhaps I can help Grandmother look for them there. I remember a friend once uploaded a photo of a refrigerated shelf containing spinach and sweet mustard greens. Who knows, there might also be fiddlehead ferns.

***

ALMOST an hour of walking around. At the third shop we found a whole coconut that had been removed from its shell. “We can grate it at home, Grandma,” I said. “I have a small grater that I use to grate lemons.”

Grandmother smiled broadly. Her teeth were still neatly aligned. "I suddenly remembered Kak Piah, Laila," she said in a tone that suddenly sounded more cheerful.

Chilies are replaced with paprika even though the spiciness is different. If so, can lime leaves be replaced with mint leaves too?

“Our houses are exactly the same. In the past, Kak Piah’s house had pillars and stairs, a large garden with several rambutan, water apple, Chinese stink bean, mango, and jackfruit trees. It was very shady. Unfortunately, it’s no longer there. The trees were cut down. The damar laut wooden house under which we liked to sit and chat while waiting for the evening, was renovated by her son after he got home from work in Japan, into six stone houses that were rented out. When news spread that Munawar invited me to New York, Kak Piah told the neighbors that this city was not fixed. It only looked luxurious in movies and television. I laughed in my heart. She was jealous. Of her six children, two worked abroad. One in Japan and the other in Saudi, and as far as I can remember they never once invited her to go. But now I realize that Kak Piah was not wrong at all, Laila. Compared to Lubuk Pakam, when it comes to grated coconut, New York is nothing.”

We moved to the spice and herbs rack. Shallots, garlic, and limes were safely in the basket. Chilies were replaced with paprika even though the spiciness was different. If so, could lime leaves be replaced with mint leaves too? Don't both serve to provide a fresh sensation while strengthening the aroma?

When I asked, Grandma laughed so hard that her shoulders shook. Several shoppers near us turned to look at her, showing a look of half-annoyance and half-amused. Grandma didn't care.

“Lime leaves and mint, huh? Alahai, previously, when it came to tricks like this, I thought there was no one more patent than Marjili Samsuri," he said after his laughter subsided. “I was wrong again. Even though it's not exactly the same, you also have similar talents."

Marjili, the youngest of Mainunah, another close friend of Grandma. An old bachelor; 40-41 years old, a drunkard, but as far as Grandma can remember, he never caused trouble in his own village. At most, when his drunkenness had reached its limit, Marjili would stagger and drag his steps while babbling and singing loudly. I remember again when we were about to part, you cried on my lap...

This is a form of venting sadness and disappointment. Maybe anger too. Marjili used to be cheerful and resourceful, but the love that collapsed and shattered into pieces left a deep impression on her heart. Grandma said, the father of the woman she liked, a retired police commissioner, rejected her because he believed Marjili was a communist lackey of the PKI. When he was still active, the Commissioner often guarded demonstrations. On the contrary, Marjili was almost always in the middle of the ranks of the protesters. She clenched her fists, shouted slogans and gave speeches. But don't be mistaken! Don't think she was an idealistic activist who always upheld principles and ideology. Not at all. Marjili demonstrated just to show off; to attract women, and most importantly, to hunt for her wages.

“Marjili doesn’t remember them ever meeting, but the policeman does. He knows Marjili’s face because she’s been cursed at repeatedly. Marjili even threw a plastic bag filled with shit at him once,” Grandma said with a chuckle.

The matter of Marjili stopped here. After briefly shifting to Mr. Gelowo, the neighborhood head who she called a good man, pleasant, and still had a bit of handsomeness left, Grandma moved to Haji Zainuddin Tambi and Mira Marcela. We had moved shops again, moving from shelf to shelf, and I felt Grandma was more enthusiastic about telling stories than looking for the ingredients she needed to make Anyang.

For the children, said the grandmother, there was a time when Ramadan felt incomplete without Haji Zainuddin. Specifically, without the bamboo cannon he made.

“Our houses are flanked by two elite complexes, Laila, separated by high walls that we often jokingly call the Berlin Wall and the Chinese Wall. Haji Zainuddin once had problems with the residents of this complex. They, who were disturbed by the sound of cannons, reported him, accusing him of making a racket. Haji Zainuddin went to jail, as far as I remember three times, but he still made the bamboo cannons. He said he was happy to see the children happy. Lately the sound of cannons has receded. The children prefer to play war games on their cellphones. Shouting excitedly without breaking a sweat. Haji Zainuddin was disappointed but what can be said. The will of the times cannot be fought. I hope he is okay. Mira too. This child, hmmm... Many are annoyed with him, Laila, but I like him. He really is not good at pretending.”

Rather than dressing modestly and singing religious songs, he preferred to stay aside.

Mira Marcela is the stage name of Nur Aisyah binti Jamal. Grandma said, she was born two months after Father went to Thailand to carry out his first assignment as a diplomat. After college, her parents wanted her to take part in the civil service selection, but Nur Aisyah sang dangdut instead, and in a short time Mira Marcela skyrocketed to fame throughout Lubuk Pakam and the surrounding cities. There was almost no stage without Mira Marcela. However, she always had difficulties every time Ramadan arrived.

The dangdut stage never fully rolls out during the fasting month. The stages remain standing with a number of compromises that must be adhered to. No mini skirts, tight t-shirts or blouses with too low a cleavage. There can be no shaking. You can't flirt with fishing. There should be no whining or sighing.

“Most of her friends compromised. Mira did not. Rather than dressing modestly and singing religious songs, she chose to stay away,” said Grandma as she examined the price tag on the candlenut bottle.

Grandma kept telling stories and looked happy. Just like in the early days of her arrival six months ago. I know, Grandma tried hard to get closer to Mother, Naura, and Anamira. But their world was too far from her reach. Mother, the children, never broke Grandma's words. They listened to her, showed sweet faces, laughed along, occasionally asked questions when she told stories. They let her cook. Didn't forbid her from drying clothes on the balcony while playing Indian songs. A series of beautiful, subtle pleasantries, but slowly revealed too. Grandma became sparing in her words, more often alone in her room, or sitting watching the passing vehicles from behind the window.

Munawar promised to buy me a return ticket, Laila.

“Come on, Grandma, we’re running out of time.”

We're on our fifth store, and so far, three items on our shopping list are missing: lemongrass, bean sprouts, and ferns.

Oh my! What would Anyang Pakis be without ferns?

“You don’t need to worry,” Grandma said as if she knew what I was thinking.

“Even if it is served later, I think I will be the only one who will enjoy it. My son-in-law and grandson? I doubt it. Munawar? This is a matter of the tongue, Laila. Similar to his father, my late husband, Anyang used to make a mountain of rice on his plate, then add more than once. Even with Gulai Patin, Bubur Pedas, Pajri Nenas, Nasi Lemak, Kari Kambing Roti Jala. Is it still like that now? I don’t know.”

***

FINALLY there was no Anyang Pakis on the dining table. It was almost evening when we arrived home and I didn't have time to cook anything complicated. So just Burrito, Nachos, and Quesadilla. Just heat it up and it's ready to eat. I added Ramyeon and Tteokbokki so there was something fresh.

“Hey, how are you Anyang Pakis?” asked Dad.

From the end of the table Grandma replied flatly. “I changed my mind.”

Dad laughed. Mom too. Naura and Anamira smiled, then stared back at the phone screen. I hurriedly went to the kitchen. There was a sudden feeling of emotion that crept into my chest. Especially because I remembered Grandma's sentence that she said when we left the last shop earlier, which I thought was the answer to why she had been so cheerful all day.

“Munawar promised to buy me a ticket home, Laila.”

"Go home? Isn't Grandma going to stay here?”

"Who said that?"

Medan, 2024

T Agus Khaidir, born in Bima, West Nusa Tenggara, 1977. Through cyberspace, you can interact on the Facebook account T Agus Khaidir, Twitter/X @aguskhaidir, and Instagram @khaidir46. Several short stories have been published in the mass media, both print and online, as well as a number of joint anthologies. The short story "Ihwal Nama Majid Pucuk" was selected as the 2022 Kompas Selected Short Story. Recently published the novels Kekalahan Kedua (Basabasi, 2024), Taksi Malam (Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2024), and most recently, a collection of short stories That Time It Was Raining and I Felt Strange and Alone (Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2025). Currently living in Medan, North Sumatra. Works as a journalist and photographer.

Bonie Sudarso, born in Bandung 1974, graduated in Textile Arts Craft STISI Bandung. Became a vendor for several distro brands and worked on Textile and fashion motif designs since the early 2000s. In late 2018 started a digital painting project for interior needs. Has participated in several solo and group exhibitions.