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Mak Unyan’s Tapis

Yuni Utami Asih has loved poetry, short stories, and novels since elementary school. She stepped into the world of translation after hosting the launch of Footprints/Tapak Tilas (Dalang Publishing, 2023), a bilingual short story compilation in celebration of Dalang’s tenth anniversary. The first novel she translated was Pasola (Dalang Publishing 2024), by Maria Matildis Banda. Her most recent work was translating the 2025 series of six short stories to be published in installments on Dalang’s website.

Apart from teaching at the English Language Education Study Program, Faculty of Teacher Training and Education, Mulawaran University, Asih is involved in educational workshops for teachers in Samarinda, East Kalimantan, Indonesia, and surrounding areas.

Yuni Utami Asih: yuniutamiasih@fkip.unmul.ac.id. 

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Mak Unyan’s Tapis

News of the disappearance of Mak Unyan’s tapis in Way Sindi sent the village in the West Pesisir Regency of the Lampung Province into an uproar. It was not just any news. The hand-woven cloth, traditionally embroidered with gold and silver thread was to be used to cover the body of the village’s old traditional midwife, Mother Unyan, who had passed away in the early hours of the morning.

“Where is the tapis?” Old Masri’s booming voice cut through the thick, grieving atmosphere. The tall, thin man wanted to know the whereabouts of his wife’s tapis — the cloth she had woven and embroidered with gold thread when she was a teenager. “Khadu kusegok ko, tibungkus dilom lemari!” In his thick Lampung accent, Masri addressed all the mourners in his house. He was certain he had wrapped and stored the cloth in the dresser that he and his wife shared.

Masri’s hands shook as he again rummaged through the contents of the rickety wooden dresser. His wife’s simple wardrobe lay scattered on the floor. Masri’s own shirts and trousers were among them. Masri was baffled. Only two weeks ago, he and Mak Unyan had tidied up the dresser after performing the dawn prayer together at home. The tapis had been there.

Masri vividly remembered his wife taking out the tapis and showing it to him, as if she were going to wear it soon. He heard Mak Unyan’s question: “How old is this tapis, huh?” only to answer herself, “I forget.” Her frail hands had unfolded and held up the only cloth she was proud of. The tapis showed her pride to have been born a Lampung girl.

“Ai, nah! I don’t remember either!” Masri had replied with a chuckle, exposing his toothless gums. His remaining teeth gleamed as he continued, “You were sikop nihan at that time!” Masri remembered complimenting his wife on her beauty on their special day. “I waited for you to finish making the tapis so I could propose to you. And you wore it at our wedding.”

Masri had approached Mak Unyan, sitting on the iron bed she had inherited from her grandmother. The tapis lay in her lap. He had fingered the edge. The gold thread still sparkled. Unyan’s hand embroidery reflected her diligence and patience — the stitches were tight and neat. Her tenacious nature was also evident in the way she cared for babies in the village. No wonder she had become a famous midwife. In his heart, Masri was grateful for being the one to marry Unyan, who, at that time, was favored by the young unmarried men in his village.

Masri recalled Mak Unyan’s happy smile when he retold the story of the tapis and their wedding at her parents’ house. Only after the clergy declared the marriage contract valid, did Unyan come out of her room. Everyone admired her. His wife’s beauty was accentuated by her beautiful tapis. The tightly woven threads were smooth. She had embroidered the cloth with gold threads herself.

Mak Unyan had blushed when he called her beautiful. The two hands Unyan used to deliver children as the traditional midwife in Way Sindi had flown up to cover her embarrassed face. With age, lines had creased her once-smooth face, but Masri cherished each wrinkled memory.

“Congratulations! Your child is a girl!” After helping a villager deliver her baby, Unyan always reminded the new mother to teach her daughter to weave a tapis. “Dang lupa, sanak muleimu ditawaiko napis!”

For the native Lampung people, weaving a tapis is an obligation. During childhood, in addition to reciting the Quran, girls are taught to weave and embroider the sarong-shaped cloth with gold or silver threads. The patterns vary. The Raja Medal pattern depicts human-shaped ornaments; Laut Linau shows butterflies; Inuh carries a marine theme.

Masri knew that unlike the younger generation, Unyan would not forget the traditional weaving technic passed down from her ancestors throughout hundreds of years. The Inuh pattern she had chosen was influenced by her aquatic-rich environment. She had grown up with the oceanic life, for example, ships, seaweed, and sea animals. Although making the tapis took months to complete, Unyan and other girls in her village remained patient and even seemed to be racing each other to see who could complete theirs first. Later, when their wedding day came, they’d wear their tapis as a bride. Likewise, with death, the same tapis would cover their body as a final tribute and honor.

***

Masri kept looking for Mak Unyan’s tapis. Now he moved his search to the dresser in Bayan’s room. Bayan was their only son and still unmarried. Mekhanai tuha, the old bachelor. He had not been interested in any of the muleis in his village. He said he could not find a girl who was as good as his mother at making tapis. It was believed that the results of a woman’s tapis embroidery reflected the nature of the maker. It showed whether she was patient, loving, angry, diligent, lazy — or something else.

Among the girls in the village at that time, Suri was known for being the slowest at weaving. In fact, even the younger weavers left Suri far behind. She had long been secretly in love with Bayan, and even though she was slow at completing her tapis, she kept hoping that Bayan might propose to her as she tried to finish. Bayan, however, ignored her.

Now, watching his father rummage through his dresser for his mother’s tapis, Bayan recalled her asking, “When will you get married, Bayan?”

Bayan understood his old mother’s feelings. She would have loved to guide him to his wedding and pass on her tapis to her daughter-in-law and future grandchildren. “Later, Mak,” Bayan had answered quietly.

“Mak khadu tuha.” His mother’s soft words, reminding him she was growing older, now rang in Bayan’s ears. Not wanting to hurt his mother’s feelings, he had not replied. But his mother continued to encourage him. “Suri is a good girl, go ahead! She is also weaving the Inuh pattern, just like I did.”

“Don’t force me, Mak,” Bayan had retorted as he walked away.

“I’m not forcing you!” his mother called after him. “It’s only a suggestion, just in case you’re a match!” He could still hear his mother’s words.

***

The wind had quickly spread the news of Mak Unyan’s death and the disappearance of her tapis. Neighbors and relatives came not only to mourn, but also to be a firsthand eyewitness that the news was true. They scrambled to be the first to offer their condolences and show their love — while looking for a story to spread.

Most of the mourners would not have believed it if someone had told them what they were going to see: Mak Unyan’s body laid out without a tapis. It was unheard of for a married woman not to have her own tapis. Moreover, Mak Unyan was known as a chatty person who liked to visit the girls making tapis and remind them of the importance of doing so.

Although the wall clock in the living room continued ticking, life seemed to stand still for Bayan. He mourned the loss of his mother and recalled the good days with her. Then, his father’s booming voice snapped him out of his reverie.

“Bayan! Niku pandai di dipa tapis seno?” When Bayan didn’t reply to his father’s direct question if he knew where his mother’s tapis was, Masri rephrased his question, “Ngeliak tapis seno, mawat?”

“Nyak mak pandai.” Bayan’s voice quivered as he spoke his lie that he did not know. He couldn’t believe he was so blatantly deceitful to his father in front of his mother’s dead body. The uproar caused by the missing tapis now made his frantic mind realize how important the cloth was to his family and to the traditional community in his village.

Neighbors continued crowding into Masri’s stilt house. Pairs of sandals lined the first and second steps of the stairs. Even the wind blowing through the wood-shuttered windows could not cool a room filled with so many people.

Masri opened one of the two wide shutters. He took a moment to look out at the rambutan garden beside the house, hiding his red eyes from the mourners’ probing stares. He tried to tame the rumbling in his chest that had been plaguing him since he found out Mak Unyan’s tapis was not in the dresser. The clear sound of a rooster crowing hit Masri’s ears, sounding like a chorus of chuckles.

“Bayan,” whispered a pengtuha, “go try to borrow a relative’s tapis.” The village elder of Way Sindi did not want the mourners, who were supposed to be grieving, to start gossiping instead about Mak Unyan’s missing tapis. “It’s okay. Get your mother a tapis to cover her before the funeral, as a form of respect.”

As Bayan nodded to the pengtuha, Suri arrived with her family. Upon hearing the news of Mak Unyan’s missing tapis, Suri thought about the old woman’s kindness as a close neighbor. Suri asked her family’s permission to leave and hurried back home.

When Suri returned, she held the tapis she had just finished. “Nerima nihan, Suri.” Bayan thanked her and took the tapis from Suri’s hand. Their eyes met. Bayan sensed Suri’s sincerity and saw proof of his mother’s words spoken a long time ago. Suri was truly a good woman.

“Jejama, it’s my pleasure,” Suri replied, softly and warmly. This was the first time she had stood face-to-face with Bayan, and her heart pounded. She wondered why, all this time, the man in front of her had treated her so indifferently. Awkwardly, Suri helped untie the tapis so Bayan could spread it out.

Bayan replaced the long cloth covering Mak Unyan’s body with Suri’s tapis. Suri, the woman his mother had always praised, but he had ignored. Regret crept into his grieving heart. Suri looked sincerely happy that her tapis was being used first at Mak Unyan’s funeral, instead of at Suri’s own wedding day. Secretly, Suri felt touched.

At the end of Mak Unyan’s funeral service, a sad and solemn atmosphere filled the wood house. Verses from the Quran were recited. Occasional sobs mixed with whispers about Suri and Bayan traveled among the mourners.

Masri stopped his search when he saw that another tapis had been placed over his wife’s body. Still, his anger was hard to hide. Fluctuating between sadness and annoyance, he tried to remain patient while shaking hands with mourners offering their condolences.

Bayan sat weakly beside his mother’s body, unable to stand to receive the mourners still arriving. His memory drifted to the Caucasian woman he had met on Pisang Island a week ago.

“Sarrah.” The Caucasian woman’s voice, as she said her name and shook his hand, still rang in Bayan’s ears. Her beauty had transfixed Bayan, and he could not stop thinking about her. The woman, an Australian tourist, had come to Indonesia, especially to the Lampung Province, to conduct research on tapis and write about it. She had talked a lot about the beauty of Indonesian culture — and the tapis cloth, an intangible cultural heritage from Lampung.

“I came here to see the tapis,” Sarrah had stammered excitedly in Indonesian. “I heard that the tapis cloth made in this village is famous for its neat embroidery and beautiful patterns.”

“That’s right!” Bayan had said proudly. He had seen for himself how beautiful the tapis cloths made by the girls in his village were — especially his mother’s. He had felt compelled to prove it.

***

Now, sitting beside his mother’s body, Bayan regretted his rash and thoughtless behavior. Rubbing his face and head, he felt encircled by dancing, golden threads. His mother’s face, tightly covered beside him, appeared in his mind’s eye.

Even though Suri’s tapis now covered his mother’s body, Bayan cursed himself. He imagined his mother patiently making hers but, at the end of her life, the traditional cloth could not even be used for her funeral.

Bayan jumped up from his seat and hurried to the door.

“Bayan! Bayan! Haga dipa?” The mourners asked where he was going. He ignored them and paid no attention to the calls from his father and Suri. Instead, Bayan broke into a run, his heart giving way to his anxiety and fueling his legs as he raced through the bushes toward the beach. He took unused paths so no one could see him.

Three kilometers away, a small cabin stood with windows facing the sea. He had to retrieve Mak Unyan’s tapis before her body was taken for burial.

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