Pasir Batang, 1907
The mist had not yet fully lifted when the small bell in the great house of Van der Leijden rang twice.
Not for prayer.
For breakfast.
In the long dining room, porcelain plates gleamed too brightly under the pale morning light. Silver spoons were aligned in perfect symmetry, their tips pointing toward the wall clock. The clock ticked like a supervisor.
Mr. Van der Leijden did not sit immediately. He stood at the head of the table, reviewing a stack of report papers before touching his chair. The ink was still wet in several places.
"The second-quarter target must not slip again," he said without looking at anyone.
The chief administrator swallowed.
"The rainfall—"
"Rainfall does not void an export contract to Rotterdam."
A red stamp was pressed onto the document.
Thap! Louder than necessary.
At the corner of the table lay a half-folded copy of De Preangerbode. On the second page, a small boxed announcement was neatly printed:
"Kennisgeving: Herziening Landsbelasting, Afdeling Priangan, 1907."
(Notice: Revision of Land Tax, Priangan District.)
The letters were small but firm. Beneath them was a table listing minimum tonnage requirements for tea and quinine plantations—along with a note that delayed payments would be "dealt with according to administrative regulation."
Van did not need to read it again. He had sent the revision to the Batavia printing house himself two weeks earlier.
Outside the window, two tea laborers stood bent at the waist. A foreman was counting sacks of harvested leaves.
"Three hundred and twenty kilos? Less than last week."
"The soil is tired, Sir."
The foreman snorted.
"Soil is never tired. People are lazy."
Inside, Purbasari sat with her back straight. Her lace dress was white—too white for a yard full of mud. The blue ribbon in her hair had been tied slightly too tight.
"Liefje," Mommy said softly without turning her head,
"your posture."
Purbasari straightened further.
She shifted slightly, trying to see outside. The mist hung low over the tea fields. A village rooster ran freely across the yard, chasing something unimportant.
She wished she were that rooster.
Her hand slipped beneath the table. Behind a Latin book titled Flora van Java, she had hidden a small needle and a leaf she had picked yesterday. She pierced the leaf carefully, splitting it to examine the veins.
"A young lady does not play in the mud," Mommy continued, spreading butter with surgical precision.
"I'm not playing," Purbasari replied softly.
"I'm studying."
Mommy paused.
"Studying what?"
Purbasari considered for a moment.
"Why does a torn leaf stays green."
Mommy exhaled thinly.
"Things like that will not take you to Den Haag."
From the back kitchen came the sound of running feet. Unrhythmic. Improper.
Purbararang appeared at the doorway—barefoot, hair wild, gripping a wooden spoon like a sword.
"The black horse is back!" she shouted.
The head servant immediately grabbed her arm.
"You may not enter without permission!"
Purbararang glanced at the polished floor.
"It's cold. I just leave a little footprint so it knows I'm alive here."
The head servant suppressed a smile before resuming her stern expression.
From the window, Purbasari watched her. Tangled hair. Dirty feet. Laughing loudly without fear. Purbasari lifted her dress slightly and touched the tip of her shoe to the dew on the terrace floor.
A small smear of mud clung to it. She did not wipe it away.
Several kilometers from there, no breakfast bell rang.
In the yard of Raden Arya Wicaksana's house, chickens roamed freely among the quinine trees. The ground was uneven. Uncombed.
Guruminda crouched with a small magnifying glass in his hand, examining caterpillar bites on a leaf.
"If the central vein remains intact, it still lives," he muttered.
He tried pulling the leaf too hard. It snapped.
He frowned.
"Oh."
Raden Arya chuckled softly from the veranda.
"Do not force it, Minda. Plants are not soldiers."
Guruminda pressed the broken leaf back into the soil, as if it could be restored.
"Why do people like forcing the land, Romo?"
Raden Arya did not answer at once.
In the distance, the sound of carriage wheels approached.
"Because they think the land cannot speak."
A black carriage stopped before the unfenced house.
Van der Leijden stepped down in a tailored coat, polished shoes, his cane tapping against the uneven stones.
"Raden," he said, smiling without reaching his eyes.
"We must discuss expanding the quinine fields. Malaria demand is rising in Europe."
"And the people?" Raden Arya asked calmly.
"They will work. We will provide incentives."
"Incentives or obligations?"
Van smiled again.
"The difference is merely language."
Behind the house, indifferent to linguistic distinctions, two children stood facing each other.
Purbasari slipped in quietly, one side of her dress now stained. She held something in her palm.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Quinine seed," Guruminda replied.
"Small, but Father says it's expensive."
"If it's expensive, why plant it here?"
Guruminda shrugged.
"Because the soil wants it."
Purbasari stared at the mud beneath their feet. She deliberately pressed her shoe deeper.
"Mommy will be angry," she said, but she did not stop.
Guruminda crouched beside her.
"Dirty soil is what keeps plants alive."
Purbasari smiled faintly.
"My house is very clean."
"Quiet?"
She thought for a long moment.
"Orderly."
They planted the seed together. Not deep. Not neat.
On the veranda, two grown men discussed tonnage, taxation, and Batavia's approvals.
On the ground, two children tried to see whether something could grow without anyone's permission.
When the carriage rattled away again, Purbasari slipped one seed into the pocket of her dress.
On the kitchen steps, Purbararang bit into a piece of cold cake while staring at her dusty hands.
She rubbed them against her skirt until they turned red.
The dust did not disappear.
She stopped rubbing.
And for the first time, she realized:
there are colors that cannot be washed away.
—To be Continued—