Anom crouched at the edge of the canal, his hands still cold from the early morning air, fixing his nylon net.
He was getting ready to start his daily routine: gathering fish, skinning their steel-hard skin, and turning them into piles of white fillets that Pak Haji Duloh wanted.
A long shadow fell over the water in front of Anom.
He didn’t turn around, but he recognized the smell of cheap clove cigarettes that the man always smoked.
Ali came alone.
This time, no group of friends accompanied him.
Ali walked slowly, then sat on a cracked concrete barrier, only about two meters from where Anom was.
He stared at the murky water flowing calmly, carrying leftover foam from yesterday’s flood.
“I’ve seen everything, Nom,” Ali said without any introduction.
His voice sounded flat, but there was a tiredness he couldn’t hide.
Anom stopped his hand movements.
He looked at the water, letting the silence hang between them for a moment.
He knew this time would come when the secret he kept tightly would start to peel away in the eyes of people who knew him.
“This past week I turned off my own mind, trying to believe you were just lucky,” Ali continued, blowing cigarette smoke toward the water.
“But the flood yesterday was just too crazy.
All our nets were destroyed, and all the fish ran downstream.
But you?
You got two full buckets of super-quality fillets.
At night, from a distance, I often saw a strange light coming from your shack.
A thin blue light that couldn’t possibly come from an oil lamp or candle.
I’m not stupid, Anom.”
Anom took a long breath.
He put his net down on the concrete.
He turned slowly, looking at Ali’s face that seemed very old under the dawn light.
“I don’t know what kind of black magic you’re using, Anom,” Ali said again, his voice lowering a little.
“But I see you don’t sleep peacefully either.
There’s a weight in your eyes that’s different from ours.
Our weight is just our stomachs, but your weight…
I don’t know.
Seems like something big is riding on your shoulders.”
Anom looked Ali right in the eyes.
“I’m not using black magic, Ali,” Anom answered with raw honesty.
“I never went to a shaman or left offerings under any bridge.
You know me; we grew up here together.
I don’t have the guts to make deals with demons.”
Anom paused for a moment, then looked toward his shack covered in tarpaulin.
Ali nodded slowly.
He didn’t look surprised.
Under this toll road, mystical things were often the only explanation left for sudden misfortune or luck.
“I figured,” Ali muttered.
He put out his cigarette butt on the concrete, then threw it into the flowing water.
“That girl, right?
Inem?
Since she came, the smell of this place has changed.
The fish you bring to Pak Haji Duloh also changed.
The meat is too white, Anom.
Too pure to be called a product from this black sewer.”
…
Ali stood up, fixing his dirty pants.
He looked north, toward the canal branch that led deeper into the residential area.
“The northern spot, from under the red bridge to the end of the big drainpipe, don’t ever take it again, Anom,” Ali said in a tone that was no longer commanding, but asking for an agreement.
“That’s my family’s share.
The fish there aren’t as many as here, and the meat smells like dirt, too.
But at least with those ugly fish, I can still buy milk for my kid.
Don’t go there.
The rest…
from here down to the end of the toll road, it’s up to you.
You have protection, you have miracles.
I don’t want to fight something I can’t see.”
Anom was stunned.
He realized how big Ali’s admission was today.
This was diplomacy among the marginalized.
An agreement born from fear and respect for a greater power.
“Okay, Ali.
I won’t go north,” Anom answered softly.
That silent agreement happened right there at the edge of the murky water.
No handshake, no stamp.
Just an understanding between two poor people trying not to destroy each other any further.
…
Ali started walking away, but he stopped for a moment and looked back at Anom.
His eyes looked toward Anom’s shack with a gaze that was hard to read, a mix of envy, fear, and pity.
“Take care of yourself, Nom,” Ali said.
“This world never gives anything for free.
The one watching over you, she must want something too.
Someone as great as her wouldn’t want to sit in the mud just to keep a homeless guy like us company unless she had a hidden reason.”
Anom looked toward his shack door.
He remembered his conversation with Inem last night.
He remembered how Inem called herself “thrown away” and how she just wanted to be a human who wasn’t demanded to be perfect.
“She just wants company, Ali,” Anom answered briefly.
“She just wants to be acknowledged.”
Ali just snorted, whether he believed it or not.
He walked again, his steps sounding heavy on the gravel by the tracks.
His figure slowly disappeared behind the smoke haze and concrete pillar shadows, leaving Anom alone with his net and the weight of a secret that now felt a little lighter because it had been shared.