NIRNAMA(Nameless) English Version

MUQADDIMAH

His mouth was agape with horror.

Never in his mind did he ever think he would be abandoned this way. Slowly, he gazed upon the desolate scene before him. The raging fire that had engulfed almost all of Gapura began to subside, leaving but a smattering of flames hungrily consuming boards and woods alike.

Nothing recognisable of his beloved village remained, homes reduced to cinders, scores of livestock dead in their wake. The rest ran afoul elsewhere—even the villagers' horses were nowhere to be seen.

It dawned on him that he was all that's left of the village ... him, and the lifeless bodies strewn everywhere.

As if nothing else could torment him further, the sight of his own deceased parents met his gaze.

His soul was torn asunder. The anguish was already too much for him to bear. Amidst endless tears, he tried to suppress the pain welling up from within only to cause his body, tremble violently in his vain attempt.

He collapsed to the ground, his knees giving in to the unbearable weight of his grief. His forehead soon met the scorched earth, prostrating in utter defeat, crying his heart out.

He remained there until no fire was left ablaze. He cried and cried until no more tears could be shed. The night enveloped the skies, and utter darkness blanketed the horizon. Level to the ground, he froze motionless, stolid and unperturbed. Only the dying embers are keeping him company. Hunger and thirst failed to rouse him from despair. Even his ṣalāh was left neglected.

Until dawn, he persisted. The early morning dews drenched his body.

A blank expression on his face, he eventually rose back to his feet and ignored the constant rumblings of his stomach.

He gazed around him again—this time catching the sight of a nearby river.

Onwards he marched, one foot in front of the other intuitively.

There, he cleansed himself before proceeding with his wuḍūʾ. On the riverside, he performed his ṣalāt-l Fajr before making up Maghrib and 'Isya' that he neglected the night before.

Though only 10 years of age, the boy fathoms that any missed ṣalāh must be made up.

Only after making them up did he quench his thirst to his heart's content with the river water.

He then returned to the centre of the village. Grabbing a hoe, the boy began tilling the land before the sun rose. Digging holes into the ground. He would only stop to grab a body for each hole he made, dragging it closer and closer until he could shove it in.

He began burying his mother, followed by his father. Then, the next body he could find. Atonements were sought as bodies were buried.

Yet no tears were shed by him—not anymore, even as the earth covered his own parents. A sombre look was all he could gather as he apologised for his own powerlessness.

The boy only stopped digging when the time for ṣalāh dawned, and to eat and drink to replenish himself. Food was no longer a scarcity, at least, now that Gapura was laid bare—plenty could be salvaged from the ruins left standing.

Without end, he continued. Each swing amplified his resolve. Each strike nourished the rage consuming him. Each and every one of the deceased seeded his commitment for revenge, reinvigorating it anew.

The ritual lasted for a week—until all 523 bodies were finally buried.

523 graves now laid in their place, before him.

***

The wind whipped, lashed around the man and his opponent as they traded blows of equal force. The longer they fought, the clearer the enemy's appearance became to him.

The opponent, a fairly thick beard and moustache adorning his face, wore a fierce expression. His hair short yet neatly groomed. He donned the majestic tanjak and his warrior's attire, made from the finest cloth. His keris as well was significant: not of the ordinary kind, wielded only by admirals.

Both have been locked in fierce combat ever since the wisps of dawn gave way to the radiant light of day conquering the realm. Occasionally they seemed to levitate through the blows dealt and evaded, as if both possessed an innate supernatural power. Neither proved to be the other's demise just yet.

"You could last this long? No wonder you managed to defeat the big names of the South!"

Deftly evading a grab for his head, the man ducked, only to be met by the admiral's oncoming knee. The man swiftly raised both his arms in self-defence, yet could not fully stifle the blow. The brunt of the impact raised him an elbow's length from the ground.

"Yet you're still no match for me!"

The attempted head grab reversed its course, shifting to a cross swipe. The man promptly lifted one side of his arm and leg to protect his head and chest from perishing. However, the rapid attack, brimming with sheer force, pierced through, flinging him to the side before rolling to a halt.

Resilient, the man rose from the ground, hand and knee supporting him.

The admiral assumed an opening silat stance, as if taunting him to engage. His steps, disciplined and measured, betrayed no open weaknesses.

The man breathed deeply as a series of deliberate, rhythmic gestures followed suit. Focusing himself, he tightened his left hand to the fore of his chest while extending his right hand outward. His four fingers straightened, the thumb folded into the palm. He observed the enemy intently, his gaze stern.

Both he and the uninvited guest have traded a bout of movements for some time, until he broke the silence:

"Ready to end this clash?"