Cirrus@Austlit

The night air smelled stale and damp. It reminded Ibu of the pandan rice she left out yesterday. It will be sour by now , Ibu thought. She adjusted the sarong until it sat comfortably, flattening her sagging breasts. She sat back on her favourite rattan chair, enjoying how it had curved to the shape of her body. She thought about her visit to Bogor last week. As she made her way on foot into the kampung, a gaggle of children tugged on the ends of her sarong to ask for spare change. Ibu didn't have anything to give. She had brought just enough money to pay the Dukun, and he had accepted what little Ibu had in her savings tin. That day, Ibu learned that even the blackest of magicians were capable of compassion.