Without Rice Fields, Without a Fixed Salary: How We Survive on the Edge of the Southern Regency

Chapter 2

The next morning at nine o’clock. The dilapidated bamboo-roofed house suddenly fell silent, leaving a pressing hush that made the ears ring. Slamet had rushed off to the project site since the break of dawn, carrying along a smoldering wrath that had yet to fully extinguish. Their child had walked off to school. Sumi sat limply on the cold, dusty kitchen floor, staring at the bottom of the rice container (cethit), which now held less than two meager handfuls.

The forty thousand rupiah left over from yesterday's daily allocation had vanished without a trace within hours. Everything had evaporated to buy fever-reducing medicine for their child, a single block of tempeh, and a few bruised vegetables. Nothing was left for today. Absolutely nothing.

Suddenly, a knocking sound shattered the quiet of the alley.

It was not the gentle tap of fingertips, but the heavy strike of an iron object—perhaps a set of motorcycle keys or a heavy metal latch—against the fragile wood of the front door. The knocks fell in a rhythmic, tight, and supremely confident pattern, instantly sending a stinging thump to the core of Sumi’s chest.

Tok! Tok! Tok!

Sumi startled. Her cold hand instinctively rubbed her chest. She straightened her faded batik house dress (daster), worn thin at the elbows, and walked slowly toward the front. Every step felt heavy, as if she were trudging down a corridor toward a slaughterhouse.

Behind the slightly ajar door stood a young man. He wore a black faux-leather jacket peeling at the collar, despite the blazing sun beginning to beat down harshly. He wore a half-face helmet with the clear visor pushed up. Draped over his left shoulder was a small crossbody bag made of thick tarpoinline canvas, while his left hand tightly clutched a small, folded notebook with a dull cover and closely spaced rows of numbers.

A friendly smile was plastered across the man's face, yet his sharp eyes scanned the surroundings with a cold glance, sweeping quickly over every detail of the house: the unplastered brick walls, the dusty partitions, the dilapidated wooden roof. He was one of the "field agents" from the informal financial institutions that the villagers dubbed Bank Titil or Bank Thothok—a moniker born of the collectors' habit of aggressively tapping on residents' doors every single morning.

"Good morning, Ibu Sumi," the young man greeted. His tone swung cheerfully to sound friendly, though an unmistakable firmness lay beneath it. "How are you? Doing well, I hope?"

Sumi forced a bland smile, her fingers gripping the wooden doorframe tightly to hide the tremor in her hands. She knew full well that once this door was thrown wide open and she stepped into the trap of those sweet words, the vicious cycle of poverty would officially snare her. Yet, she was also acutely aware that the remaining two handfuls of rice in the storage bin would never multiply on their own.

Slamet’s command from the night before echoed back in her ears, ringing like a cursing mantra that demanded without mercy: “You're just at home managing the kitchen, how can you not make it work? Just make it enough, I don't want to know how!”

"Morning, Mas... Mas Anto, right?" Sumi’s voice trembled thinly. She tried to recall the name whispered by the neighbors at Mbok Nur’s stall a few days ago.

"Yes, exactly, Bu. Anto," the young man replied swiftly. He flipped through the pages of his tattered pocketbook with the skill of someone who had done the exact same thing thousands of times.

"Look, Ibu Sumi. I got word from Ibu Atik next door, she said Ibu Sumi has an urgent need to cover the electricity bill and stock up on kitchen rice? Well, our institution happens to have a new program this week, Bu. The process is fast, cash dispatches immediately right now, and no complicated requirements. Just a picture of your ID card and your Family Card."

Anto explained the mechanism with practiced smoothness. His voice sounded so reassuring, as though he were offering humanitarian aid rather than loan-shark bondage.

Borrowing five hundred thousand rupiah, the net cash received in hand would be four hundred and fifty thousand rupiah after deductions for administrative fees and stamp duty. The repayment method was simple: paid off in daily installments (titil) of fifteen thousand rupiah every single morning for forty consecutive days. Fifteen thousand rupiah a day.

In the instant calculation running through Sumi's distressed mind, that fifteen-thousand figure sounded so small. It sounded remarkably down-to-earth and unburdensome. Yet on the flip side, the stack of five hundred thousand rupiah in cash looked as glittering as a basket of gold amidst the gloom of her destitution. That amount of money could settle the threatening electricity cut-off, secure a full month's stock of medium-grade rice, and ensure her child wouldn't have to endure hunger or embarrassment on the way to school.

As for how to scrape together fifteen thousand rupiah for tomorrow morning? Sumi chose not to think about it now. That was tomorrow's problem. Perhaps tomorrow Slamet would land a concrete-casting overtime gig, perhaps a neighbor would hire her to wash clothes, or perhaps some minor miracle would fall from the sky.

Sumi looked into Anto's face. The field agent's gaze seemed to broadcast a deeply persuasive subtext: “Go on, Bu. Just take the money. Your husband doesn't need to know where it came from. What matters is the kitchen stays lit, your husband doesn't get angry, and you are seen as a clever wife who knows how to run a household.”

"Can it... be disbursed right now, Mas?" Sumi asked softly. Her voice was terribly thin, nearly drowned out by the hiss of the morning breeze.

Anto widened his smile, the triumphant grin of a hunter locking onto his prey. "Right now, Bu. No delays. You just sign this page, and I'll count the net cash right in front of your eyes."

Anto handed over a black plastic ballpoint pen along with his pocketbook. With a hand shaking violently and breath trapped in her chest, Sumi accepted the pen. She pressed her signature onto the tattered paper already filled with rows of her neighbors' names.

At that exact second, Sumi realized she had just mortgaged the peace of her upcoming nights for the weeks ahead. She traded it away simply to conform to her husband's ego and his demand that he "didn't want to know how."

Moments later, the roar of Anto's moped engine faded away, kicking up a high-flying cloud of alley dust into the scorching air. Sumi stood frozen in the doorway, her fingers clutching a bundle of crisp fifty-thousand-rupiah notes still smelling of fresh printing ink. The money felt cold against her skin, yet at the same time, it radiated a scorching heat that burned from her palms straight to her chest.

Sumi closed her eyes tightly. Deep down in the recesses of her heart, she understood all too well that the bills in her hand were no solution to their poverty. That money was merely a hazardous way to postpone their ruin—a ticking time bomb whose fuse had been lit by a single knock on a quiet morning.