Hidden

Written in response to, Write about a character who always wears a mask (physical or Metaphorical).

Rundi is such a sweet-natured little girl whose mask holds a secret. I met Rundi two years ago when we employed a new maid, her mother. Who would have imagined that our two worlds would come together? But come together they did and we became firm friends. She would usually bring her two children to work. Her children and mine played happily together while Ruth worked and we chatted contently. I believe that everything happens for a reason and without our unexpected, natural close relationship the secret would have stayed just that, a secret.

It’s three years since the aeroplane door was opened for my husband, baby girl and me to disembark. A heavy blanket of thick, hot yet moist air enfolded my face shocking me and causing slight panic. I actually stopped in my tracks worried I wouldn’t be able to breathe in this atmosphere. Once I’d established that the air however humid was going to keep me alive just as well as English air I started moving again. Carefully I walked down the metal-ridged steps, holding tight to the baby. A new season of life began in Borneo, the land of headhunters. I’m so grateful that missionaries came out here many years ago and convinced the people that there are better ways of solving conflicts and proving manhood than relieving someone of their head. One of my maids happily informed me that her husband has a skull at home that his grandfather had taken.

The humidity was only the first of many lessons l learned living so close to the jungle, in a country with a pallet of colourful cultures mixed together to create a fascinating and beautiful painting. I began a steep learning curve; don’t pat a baby on the head or the good luck will leave them, never praise a child or the spirits will become jealous and harm the child, Never call your parents-in-law by their names or they will be highly offended. They are Mum and Dad. Anyone older is to be called Aunty or Uncle, never offer to shake the hand of a man, wait for him to offer his, or not. These and many more were only foibles of another culture and to be expected, we have many of our own.

There is one thing I was never prepared for. Something I only discovered when we drove our new maid Ruth home to her Kampong, her village, only a ten-minute drive away. My husband had offered to help the family build another bedroom for their house. Ruth’s home was made of exposed breezeblocks and a dirt floor with colourful lino on top. The family of Mum, Dad, Granny and three children lived in this basic house of a sitting room, kitchen and one bedroom. I had met two of the children, Lila and Joseph and I didn’t have a clue that a third child even existed. The mother never mentioned her and the other children never mentioned her, she was like a ghost. When I think of the number of hours Ruth, Lila and Joseph spent at our house. Finding out that there was another daughter, four years old named Rundi, was the first shock.

“Thank you, Aunty,” I said gratefully as Granny handed me a cold drink. We didn’t speak the same language so we smiled at each other. A lot. Next came the homemade little cakes and sweet treats. Granny had obviously learned a couple of English words along the way, “Eat, eat” she insisted. She couldn’t do enough to make us feel welcome. 

Suddenly there was a call from the bedroom “Ibu, Mama” and again “Mama”. Even I understood the words for Mother and Mummy. Ruth sat bolt upright and went pale, I’d never seen her jump up so fast from the floor. What on earth could be wrong? I heard “shhh, shhh” and some muffled Dayak words, that sounded urgent and worried me. I’d never seen that expression on Ruth’s face before. I was worried so instinctively jumped up soon after Ruth and followed her to the bedroom. 

“Ruth? Are you okay?” I was standing in the doorway and it was then I caught the first glimpse of the masked child, a girl. She was partly shielded by Ruth. Both were sitting on the mattress on the floor, the girl with her knees to her chest. I am sure I looked visibly shocked and confused simultaneously. There was obviously something going on that I didn’t understand yet. The little one pulled at the mask to cover more of her face, she must be shy was my conclusion. I assumed it was a visiting child, but then realised it couldn’t be. She had called Ruth Ibu. I couldn’t stop staring at the mask as I walked closer to say hello to the small girl.

As I moved, Ruth burst into tears, she sobbed and sobbed. “Sorry Aunty, sorry Aunty” was all I could understand. Why was she apologising to me and what was she upset about? It took some time for Ruth to become calmer. As she was settling, I spoke to the little girl “Hello, what’s your name?” I did what came naturally and gently moved the mask, which was made from local batik material. The next second I jumped and my heart was racing, the girl let out the most fearful scream and shouted. “No, ugly, I’m ugly” as she replaced the mask, her mother helped her and comforted her. Those chilling words pierced straight through my heart and devastated it. Where had a four-year-old child gotten that idea from? I shouldn’t think it originated from her own head. What on earth could be so terrible that it needed to be covered? I was feeling so uneasy, but I didn’t know how to make us all feel comfortable with each other again.

The irony was not lost on me that this was a culture of mask users, the concept being interwoven into the very fabric of society, in the many rituals, celebrations and superstitious traditions that held the year together. Grown men wear masks at particular festivals during the year to disguise themselves, to hide from the bad spirits and simultaneously scare them away. The uglier and more frightening the mask the better. Painting them with traditional patterns and symbols hidden amongst the garish blood-red paint ensured the devils would flee and the tribe would be safe for another year. Where would both the people and the tourist trade be without masks? The mask I was seeing today was the ugliest of them all a mask that ruled the life of an innocent child.

“Ruth, what’s the matter? Who’s the little girl?” 

Ruth was looking at me with a face full of sadness and a voice struggling to release the words.

 “ My daughter Rundi”. 

My confused thoughts raced around the tracks in my brain, trying to make some kind of sense of the situation. 

“Rundi has a problem with her eye and since the Kampong elders announced that she has the devil in her and is a danger to the other children, we have had to hide her away. She wears a mask all the time because no one must see her face” The pain in Ruth’s face tore at my heart. I became aware that as I looked at her and her daughter, tears were now freely running down my face too. As Ruth continued her story I found out that the village kept their distance from the family believing that she or her husband must have done something bad in a past life to be given such a deformed child. Rumours, stories and lies had grown. I wonder at the strength of my friend that she could come to work every day, as a mother of two and wear her own mask so well. Well enough that I had no suspicions. Well enough that she can produce humour that made my life so much happier. 

Now I desperately wanted her to be honest, to stop hiding and to trust me. She made me happy at a difficult time in my life. Now I shot a quick arrow prayer to God that I would be able to return Ruth’s kindness and give her family joy again.

My mood changed from feeling sad to feeling incensed. 

“Ruth, how dare those people to treat you and Rundi like this. Rundi needs a life like her brother and sister. She can’t be hidden for the rest of her life.” 

Terrified eyes locked with defiant eyes. 

“Ruth, please, may I ask Rundi to remove her mask, so I can see her whole face for a moment or two?” She nodded and turned to her daughter speaking gently to her, reassuring her. At first, Rundi was hesitant but then allowed me to remove the veil to reveal her face, a beautiful but terrified and sad face. I was shocked for the second time today. The child had a squint! My eyes filled with tears again. A sweet little girl had her young childhood stolen from her because of a squint. 

Fast-forward ten years and I’m about to board a plane to do the journey in reverse. I’m returning to England with my children for their education. My best friend and support in my first months in Borneo is standing with me in the airport. Next to her are three vibrant teenagers who call me Aunty and I consider family. But secretly I have a favourite. Precious, confident Rundi is laughing and chatting with her friends without a care in the world. All of those years ago her parents hadn’t had access to good medical care and so as a little frightened girl Rundi’s only solution was to hide behind her mask, afraid of the world. 

Rundi’s dad was looking for another job so he could pay for a specialist doctor. We needed some jobs done on the house and so an agreement was made that worked for everyone and Rundi received the care she needed. 

I will miss this beautiful family intensely, I will miss the country and its complex people, I will even miss the humidity when I’m back in the cold. Most of all I will miss that clever confident teenager who has dreams and ambitions and is a leader amongst her peers.           

I watch Rundi and wonder, what mask do I wear to cover something that is a much smaller issue than I think it is?