In Mandala, I was known not only as the skinny, agile boy, but also as "the troublemaker." There were two brothers, Hamzah and his younger sibling, Hamsor. I don't even remember what usually started it—perhaps just a shove during a game—but more often than not, I was the one who threw the first punch.
I felt I had to be strong. Perhaps it was my way of defending myself after watching how our family had been mentally "defeated" in Pelita 4. I refused to be looked down on ever again.
But my bravado always ended the same way: Hamzah's grandmother arriving at our house, her face flushed with anger.
"That Raymond boy! He beat up my grandson again!" she would complain to my mother.
My mother, already burdened by too many family troubles, had no patience left for negotiation. That was when Mandala became the witness to a legendary punishment for a stubborn Batak boy.
"Come here! You never listen!" Mother shouted.
She grabbed my arm, took a rope, and under the watchful eyes of my friends—perhaps even Timbul observing from a distance—I was tied to the jackfruit tree in front of our house. The purpose was simple: to make me ashamed, to let humiliation overpower my mischief.
I stood there beneath the sticky sap of the jackfruit tree, black ants beginning to crawl along the trunk, contemplating my fate as the eldest son—full of explosive energy with nowhere to channel it.
The jackfruit tree became a silent witness. With dried tears still clinging to my cheeks, I stood trembling before my mother. She held my hand tightly, her eyes reflecting an exhaustion beyond words.
"Swear, Raymond! Don't you ever touch Hamzah again. Don't you embarrass me again!" Her voice was hoarse.
I swallowed hard, staring at the shadow of my thin body on the ground.
"Yes, Ma. I swear. I won't hit him again."
I made that promise not merely because of the rope, but because I knew my mother had already suffered enough.
I returned to my circle with Timbul. Our afternoons were spent playing picture cards, marbles, or simply running shirtless through the neighborhood, wearing my worn-out flip-flops—my most recognizable trademark.
But childhood was not always kind. There was Jefri, a playmate who often became my nightmare. He was big and heavy, the complete opposite of my skin-and-bones frame. Whenever we fought, I always ended up on the ground, crying from being overpowered. Then there were the older boys who would corner me in the alley.
Back then, Father was still my hero. He would step outside and scold anyone who bothered me. But that sense of safety did not last long.
Mandala had a darker side slowly swallowing our surroundings. Gambling, drugs, and reckless relationships became everyday scenes. And somehow—perhaps because of life's pressure, perhaps because of loneliness after being distanced from the extended family in Pelita 4—Father was carried away by the current.
The man who once wore his civil servant uniform neatly now held a small booklet we called the dream-number guide. Our home, which should have been a refuge, turned into a gathering place for lottery discussions and KIM gambling. New "friends"—men and women from the neighborhood—frequently came by, debating dream interpretations late into the night.
"What number came out last night?"
That question echoed through our house more than any prayer.
Mother grew increasingly restless. Strangers even dared to sleep over. But the breaking point came when Father became addicted to card gambling at a neighboring woman's house.
One day, the tension at home was unbearable. Father had not returned for days, and calls from his office kept ringing—they were looking for him because he had repeatedly skipped work. With anger and worry boiling over, Mother dragged me to that neighbor's house.
Laughter and the sound of shuffling cards spilled out into the street. Inside, through thick cigarette smoke, Father sat among men and women, lost in his own world.
"Come home! Your office is looking for you! What are your children supposed to eat?" Mother shouted, her voice cracking in front of the crowd.
I stood frozen at the doorway, watching a scene that shattered my ten-year-old mind. Father, once the man I admired, stood with a flushed face. Instead of shame, pride seemed to rise in him—wounded in front of his peers.
Smack.
His hand struck Mother's cheek.
In public.
In front of me.
The world seemed to stop spinning. Mother did not scream. She simply held her cheek, her empty gaze far more painful than tears. Her dignity shattered on the gambling house floor.
That night, at home, a violent argument erupted. Objects were thrown. Curses filled the air.
I curled up in a corner, hugging my thin knees. I realized then that the real monster was no longer the older boys who cornered me in the alley—it was the transformation of the man I called Father.
His government salary, once the pillar supporting the stomachs of four children, evaporated at card tables and dream-number slips. Grocery money no longer reached Mother intact. Our dining table, once warm with fresh village eggs, was now filled with the sound of plates slamming and insults echoing off the walls.
Father had lost his reason. Addiction ran deep in his veins. He began borrowing money from anyone—distant relatives, acquaintances—begging for banknotes he would gamble away again. Word reached our extended family in Pelita 4.
"Look at Togi now—he's a gambler," they must have sneered, their whispers adding salt to wounds already open.
But the most terrifying part was not the relatives' scorn. It was the strangers.
Father started borrowing from loan sharks and rough men with impossible repayment promises. One suffocating afternoon, motorcycles roared to a stop in front of our house. Several men with hardened faces pounded mercilessly on our wooden door.
"Togi! Come out! Pay your debt!" they shouted.
Father was not home. He had already disappeared before sunset, as if sensing the storm coming. Mother, unaware of the debt, turned pale.
"Quick! Under the bed! Don't make a sound!" she whispered, her voice trembling.
My siblings and I crawled beneath the dark, dusty bed frame. I smelled soil and the sweat of fear. I held my younger sibling tightly, barely breathing each time angry voices thundered from the living room.