Bawang Putih and Bawang Merah

The slap of wet cloth on a flat stone rang out steadily, like a small drum, under the murmur of the river flowing past the landing. A pair of hardworking hands kneaded each garment and dipped it into the clear water. They lifted it, beat it on the stone, and rinsed away the suds, which drifted slowly off on the current. Early sunlight fell across the river. Small rings of ripples sparkled around those hands.

The Malay people of the Riau region of Indonesia still tell the story that begins at that landing, passing it down from one generation to the next. The hands washing clothes by the river that day belonged to a girl named Bawang Putih.

Bawang Putih lost her mother when she was still small. Out of love for his daughter, her father married again, to a widow who already had a daughter of her own, named Bawang Merah. In the early days the house was still peaceful, because her father was there to shelter her. But then he too fell ill and died, leaving Bawang Putih alone with her stepmother and Bawang Merah.

From then on, all the work of the house fell on her shoulders. Her stepmother made her sweep, cook and wash from morning to night, while she and Bawang Merah simply sat and rested, giving orders. Bawang Putih never complained. She quietly did one task after another, her hands and feet always muddy or wet with river water.

That morning was no different. Her stepmother handed her a pile of clothes to take down to the river, and among them was the blouse the stepmother prized most. Bawang Putih went to the landing, sat down on her usual flat stone, and scrubbed each piece with great care. When she came to the stepmother's blouse, she washed it even more thoroughly, afraid of missing a single stain.

But that day the current suddenly ran stronger than usual. It snatched the blouse from her hands and carried it farther and farther downstream. She waded after it, arms flailing, but the blouse drifted faster than she could walk, and then it vanished around a bend.

Bawang Putih went home empty-handed and, trembling, told what had happened. Her stepmother flew into a rage. Unless the girl found the blouse, she shouted, she need not dream of setting foot in the house again. Bawang Putih did not dare argue. She went straight back to the landing and began to follow the riverbank, her eyes searching the water for any sign of the drifting blouse.

She walked on and on, around one bend after another, her bare feet treading on sand, on pebbles, on roots pushing up out of the ground. The sun climbed higher and her stomach ached with hunger, but she did not dare stop to rest.

Along the way she met a hunter resting by the river. When she asked about the drifting blouse, he said he had seen it, and he pointed downstream, the way it had gone. Bawang Putih thanked him and walked on in that direction.

Before long she saw a small roof tucked beside the river, with a thin thread of kitchen smoke rising above the thatch. The old woman came out of the house holding the very blouse Bawang Putih was looking for, already washed clean and dried. Overjoyed, the girl asked her to give it back.

The old woman looked at her with kind but searching eyes. She would return the blouse, she said, on one condition. Bawang Putih must stay and help with the housework for a week, and only then would she hand it back. Bawang Putih thought of her stepmother waiting at home, but she had no other choice, so she nodded and agreed.

For a whole week at the old woman's house, Bawang Putih worked hard without a word of complaint. She swept every corner, cooked hot meals, and washed the clothes clean before hanging them neatly in the yard to dry. The old woman watched her every day and nodded, pleased with how diligent and polite the girl was.

On the day Bawang Putih had to go home, the old woman gave back the clean blouse. Then she led her behind the house, where two gourds sat side by side on the ground, one large and one small. She told Bawang Putih she could choose one to take home. Bawang Putih looked at the large gourd, then at the small one. She thought to herself that the way home was long and a small gourd would be easier to carry. Besides, she was only a stranger the old woman had kindly let stay. She would not dare to be greedy and carry home the bigger share. She chose the small gourd and bowed her head, thanking the old woman for taking her in for the past week.

Holding the small gourd in her arms, Bawang Putih walked back along the river path. She passed the bend where she had met the hunter, and the familiar flat stone where she always sat to wash. She reached home as dusk was falling.

In the yard, she set the gourd down and split it open to see what was inside. The moment it broke in two, a dazzling golden light spilled across the yard. The gourd was full of gold bangles, jewelry and sparkling precious stones, so many that Bawang Putih clapped her hands over her mouth, unable to believe her eyes.

Hearing the noise, her stepmother ran out. When she saw the pile of treasure, her eyes lit up. She pressed Bawang Putih until the girl told her the whole story, from the blouse lost in the river, to the old woman on the bank, to the two gourds side by side. When she had heard it all, the stepmother at once came up with a plan for her own daughter.

The next morning, the stepmother sent Bawang Merah to the river to wash clothes. She told her daughter to follow exactly the path Bawang Putih had taken. Bawang Merah sat down at the landing grudgingly, grumbling under her breath. She gave the blouse a few careless rubs, then let go, and the current swept it away. All along the way, she paid no attention to the scenery on either bank. The path she walked was the one her sister had walked, the same bend, the same landing, the same old woman waiting at the end. But the two sisters walked it in very different ways.

At the old woman's house, Bawang Merah was also taken in to stay for a week in exchange for the blouse. But she was nothing like Bawang Putih. She was lazy. She swept carelessly, burned the rice, left stains in the clothes she washed, and complained about the work all the time. The old woman bore it patiently until the week was over.

On the day she was to leave, the old woman led Bawang Merah behind the house too. She pointed to the two gourds, one large and one small, and told her she could choose one to take home. Without a moment's hesitation, Bawang Merah rushed forward and grabbed the large gourd. She was thinking only of treasure many times greater than what her sister had received.

Hugging the heavy gourd, Bawang Merah carried it home in high spirits and set it down in the middle of the yard in front of her mother. Mother and daughter eagerly split it open at once, their eyes shining, waiting for golden light like the time before.

But the moment the gourd broke in two, there was no gold and no jewels inside. Snakes slid out, glinting, with a soft hiss. Scorpions rustled over the shell of the gourd, and centipedes curled among the dry leaves scattered across the yard.

The stepmother and Bawang Merah screamed and stumbled backward in panic. They ran into the house as fast as their legs could carry them, slammed the door, and trembled there, too frightened to look outside again.

From that day on, the stepmother and Bawang Merah never dared to bully Bawang Putih again. Only their shame stayed with them for the rest of their days. Bawang Putih stayed on in the old house, living as gently as she always had, bearing no grudge against anyone.

The next morning, and on the mornings after that, Bawang Putih still went down to the landing. She sat on the same familiar flat stone and washed each piece of clothing at an unhurried pace. The river still flowed past as it had for many years, carrying the murmur of the water and the steady slap of wet cloth on stone, a small drum that never stops.