As you already know, friend. I consider myself to be a good man who has always followed his parents' guidance. At least that is how I see myself. Evidently, my poor father was also. He claimed that he always wrote down every word his parents ever said on a marble tray and wrapped it in a mat.

It turns out that God uses a fixed justification for men like my father and I, namely that men like us are rarely rewarded with a test that the Inner Malays frequently refer to as an unbearable ordeal.

So, for instance, a story about a man who was cycling leisurely on a bright, sunny Sunday morning and then, for no apparent reason, his bicycle wobbled and he fell into a haunted well was reported in the newspapers. The former Japanese army dragged the locals down into a twelve-meter-deep, pitch-black, abandoned well that looked like a genie's nest.

The happy man was desperately pleading for assistance. For four days and four nights, no one could hear his screams. without voice.

Finally, he made a request for assistance via his bicycle kliningan. Kring, kring, pitiful weak. Naudzubillah, tragedies like that typically affect people other than men, such as my father and I.

Or if it heavily rains, lightning strikes electricity poles, the electricity poles fall on a spray tree, the spray tree falls on a noni tree, the noni tree falls on the roof of a house, the roof collapses and a man is lying on the ground. Another black and white television was struck by electricity as I was watching TVRI's "Aneka Ria Safari" in peace.

He had scorched eyebrows, a mustache, and hair, giving him the appearance of a Shaolin warrior. Without a doubt, neither my father nor I were that unfortunate man.

Or, as another example, the news spread about a curly man who was rushed to the hospital, screaming in the ambulance as it sped there, because the man ate a duku fruit and, for reasons he didn't understand, a duku seed swerved into his nostril, causing him to gasp for air until he nearly passed out. Despite being absurd and kinky, that man is not me.

My father never received any other news besides his promotion. At the time, I was in third grade.

When Pak Nga Djuasin bin Djamalludin Ansori, the foreman of the Meskapai' Timah wire, informed my father via letter that the coolies who work for sand casting in Wasrai would receive a promotion, he was overjoyed. The Dutch word wasserijk, which means "tin washing workshop," is the source of the English word wasrai. My father will be one of the coolies promoted. You must have realized how touching my father's knowledge of Latin letters was if you heard my mother read the letter this morning.

The extremely silent Father, as usual, remained silent after hearing it. I read it brightly there: serene like a new Indian actor professing love, and proud, as I gazed at his beaming face through the window and up at the top of the ylang tree.

The expression on Dad's face, which is unmistakable among the rest, is one of shock. Can't believe that after 31 years of arduous work, his position is still being discussed.

Since he had been a porter since he was a teenager, my father had never received a promotion during those 31 years. I find it hard to believe that the word rank has anything to do with his job, which involves nothing but sweating.

couldn't believe he had received a letter from someone other than his children. with a brown envelope from an airline. Letterhead bearing the mighty meskapai symbol of a large serration and a hammer, a symbol of hard work from morning until evening, is shiny and stiff like a skullcap.

I couldn't believe that the Djuasin Wire Foreman, who had abused my mother for years, had actually signed the letter in my mother's hand. Father repeatedly examined the signature, noticing that it was made by the foreman himself and was extremely wet with blue pen ink.

Is it possible that Dad, who typically climbs the sap tree to traverse the legendary water, the Medang tree to obtain wind honey, and the coconut tree to assist the monkey with his task, has been promoted? My father, who lacks a diploma, has no vocabulary related to promotion.

He found the words to be strange and foreign. Promotions are the magic words in Jakarta for my father. Dad gave me a smile while turning away from the window frame. Wow! What I've been looking forward to is here! The letter stated that the envelope of salary receipts would be submitted on Saturday along with the letter of appointment because the promotion was supposed to have happened six months ago. I am certain that when my father smiled, I only thought of hok lo pan cake on a smoky baking sheet. Kinar, the haughty Khek's masterpiece.