Pasir Batang, 1909
Night inside the grand Van der Leijden residence smelled of beeswax candles, cloves, and wet leather shoes.
The chandelier glowed brightly in the front hall. Violin music drifted through the room—too soft to be festive, too expensive to ignore. Dutch guests stood with wine glasses in hand, discussing quinine prices, export routes, and Batavia's revisions to land taxation.
In the back kitchen, native servants moved quickly under the supervision of an elderly Eurasian chef who never smiled. Silver plates were polished again before they even had time to cool, while trays of pastry and roasted meat continuously disappeared in and out of the kitchen doors. Others stood stiffly carrying crystal trays, terrified of dropping even a single glass inside a house whose curtains cost more than their homes.
The mansion was large enough to hold both worlds—
as long as they never sat at the same table.
Purbasari stood upon the marble staircase wearing a clean violet satin dress with a matching ribbon in her hair. Mommy herself had chosen the color that morning.
"Cool colors make your skin appear cleaner," she had said while adjusting the shoulders of her daughter's dress.
"En buig nooit alsof je om plaats moet vragen, liefje. Een Van der Leijden vraagt geen ruimte. De kamer past zich aan haar aan."
(And never bow as if you must ask for space, darling. A Van der Leijden does not request room. The room adjusts itself to her.)
Now Mommy stood behind her, elegant in an ivory cream gown and thin white gloves. Her blonde hair was pinned flawlessly into place without a single strand escaping. Even the way she held her fan seemed part of the household rules.
And in Purbasari's hands—not a lace doll or decorative fan—but a garden notebook, its corners already worn. Mommy noticed it at once.
"Liefje," she said gently,
"you are attending a party, not visiting the greenhouse."
Purbasari hugged the notebook tighter.
"But Papa said I could show the hydrangea report."
"Report?" Mommy lifted a delicate brow.
"The guests here discuss stocks and export contracts. Not flowers."
Purbasari glanced toward the drawing room. A district official was laughing while explaining how Priangan soil was "easier to manage" than plantations in Sumatra. She looked back down at her notebook.
"Hydrangeas are expensive too when they grow well."
Mommy adjusted the ribbon on her daughter's shoulder without truly looking at her face.
"Mud in the garden can still be washed away," she said softly.
"Mud in a family's reputation cannot."
Purbasari immediately fell silent. Her eyes drifted briefly toward Mommy's polished shoes. Behind a pillar, Purbararang—currently stealing cake—nearly choked trying not to laugh.
"Look at that," she whispered with a grin.
"the flower princess is getting scolded again."
She wore a bright pink kebaya with embroidery far too loud for a European gathering. Her hair had been combed neatly by her mother, though the front was already messy again. She carried two cakes at once.
"You're eating again?" Purbasari whispered.
Purbararang lifted her chin.
"I'm only making sure the guests don't get poisoned."
"It's tart cake."
"Exactly."
Purbasari suppressed a small laugh. Mommy glanced over. Both girls instantly stood straighter. Outside, another carriage arrived.
Raden Arya Wicaksana stepped down first in a simple black beskap and dark batik cloth draped neatly to his ankles. He wore little jewelry, yet every servant bowed faster the moment they saw him.
Beside him descended Guruminda—with the face of someone deeply uncomfortable. The short ivory jacket his mother had chosen felt tight around the neck. His shoes were too slippery. He walked carefully across the marble floor as though afraid of falling and embarrassing an entire regency at once.
"Stop staring at your feet," Raden Arya murmured.
"My shoes keep making noises, Father."
"That is because they are new."
"I prefer sandals."
"That is precisely why tonight you wear shoes."
Guruminda tugged at the stiff collar around his neck. He missed the loose cotton clothes back home.
"My neck is hot," he whispered.
"It is called formal attire."
"If people wear clothes like this all the time, breathing must become difficult."
"That is called manners."
Guruminda glanced toward the mango tree in the yard.
"Trees don't wear collars. They still behave properly."
Raden Arya suppressed a smile.
"Do not say such things in front of them."
"Is it wrong?"
Raden Arya straightened the cuff of his sleeve calmly.
"No," he answered.
"But not everyone enjoys hearing something true."
At last Guruminda laughed quietly. The moment he entered the main hall, he saw Purbasari standing on the staircase. She looked different tonight.
Too tidy. Too bright.
Yet the notebook in her hands still made her look like the same Purbasari who squatted in the dirt beside him. Purbasari spotted him almost immediately.
"Minda!"
The word stopped halfway out. Mommy always said that Van der Leijden girls did not call to people from across the room. Guruminda approached.
"So you actually came," Purbasari said quickly.
"I thought you'd pretend to be sick again to avoid the party."
"I tried."
"And?"
"Romo said my fever looked too healthy."
Purbararang appeared between them, biting into her second cake.
"Your shoes are very shiny."
"I was forced to polish them."
Purbararang looked down at her own dusty shoes, then at the marble beneath them.
"Careful. The floor is slippery."
"I know," Guruminda replied quickly.
"I've been walking like a man carrying eggs."
Purbararang giggled.
"If you fall, don't do it near the guest table. Your mommy might faint."
"That's Sari's mommy."
"Exactly. Even more dangerous."
Inside the main hall, Mr. Van der Leijden began his speech. A spoon tapped lightly against a glass. Conversations softened.
"Geachte heren en dames," Van der Leijden began in calm, measured Dutch.
(Honored ladies and gentlemen.)
He set down his wine glass before continuing in formal Malay—the intermediary language commonly used in colonial offices across Priangan.
"Pasir Batang demonstrates that orderly administration, proper land management, and harmonious relations between the Gouvernement and the local population… shall produce results beneficial to mutual stability."
Several officials nodded while still holding their glasses. The phrase "local population" slipped effortlessly from Van der Leijden's mouth.
Across the room, Raden Arya stood with untouched tea in hand. Purbasari had already opened her notebook. An elderly Dutch guest with a moustache noticed and chuckled.
"Juffrouw—the little miss brings reports to parties?"
Purbasari nodded seriously.
"This is the hydrangea development report for the Western Garden."
"Not dolls?"
"Dolls do not change color."
The guest laughed softly.
"And flowers can change whenever they please?"
Purbasari opened a page filled with leaf sketches and tiny columns of numbers.
"If the soil is more acidic, they can turn blue."
"And if it isn't?"
"They become pink."
Behind the pillar, Purbararang—still eating cake—immediately pointed at herself.
"The pink one is mine."
Guruminda glanced sideways.
"That's because you watered it with sugar water once."
Purbararang chewed before answering:
"So it would become sweet."
"What came instead were ants."
Purbararang glared instantly.
"Ants like flowers too."
The Dutch guest laughed harder this time. Mommy closed her eyes briefly.
"Liefje," she said softly but sharply,
"do not make the guests feel as though they are attending gardening class."
Purbasari immediately shut the notebook.
"Sorry, Mommy."
But the moment Mommy turned to another guest, Purbasari grabbed Guruminda's sleeve.
"Come to the garden."
Purbararang stood at once.
"I'm coming too."
"You said you were looking for more food."
"I changed my mind."
The three slipped out into the side garden.
The air outside was colder. Grass still glistened wet from the afternoon rain. Music from inside sounded farther away here, blending with crickets and the whispering tea leaves moving under the wind.
Behind a stone bench near a small pond stood three hydrangea pots.
The left one had begun blooming pale blue.
The middle one was bright pink.
The right was tallest, leaves thick and healthy, though still flowerless.
Purbararang immediately pointed to the pink one.
"That one's mine."
"Because of the color?" Guruminda asked.
"Because it's the prettiest."
"That's because it got too much sugar."
"That's strategy."
Purbasari knelt before the blue hydrangea.
"I managed to keep it blue."
Guruminda crouched beside her.
"I know. I helped replace the soil last month."
"Oh right."
Purbararang turned sharply.
"You two met without me?"
"You were being punished by Nyai Sasmita for stealing mangoes."
"That was slander."
"You hid in the tree while eating three of them."
Purbararang paused.
"Fine. But more fell down on their own."
Purbasari laughed until her ribbon tilted sideways. She hurriedly fixed it before Mommy could see.
"Look," she said, pointing toward the tiny blue blossom.
"Two years ago it was still so small."
Guruminda touched the leaf gently.
"The leaves are healthy."
"Of course they are," Purbasari replied proudly.
"I talk to it every morning."
Purbararang sat atop the stone bench.
"That's why the flower's confused whether it should grow or listen."
Guruminda held back a smile. Purbasari turned toward the tallest pot.
"It still grows."
"Because it's afraid you'll keep nagging," Purbararang answered.
Purbasari laughed softly again.
"When it blooms someday… the first flower I'll still give to you."
Purbararang blinked.
"Why me?"
Purbasari looked genuinely confused by the question.
"Because you like the color most. Then we can see it together."
Purbararang asked immediately:
"What if I see it first?"
"That's alright."
"Then I win."
"This isn't a competition," Guruminda said.
Purbararang shrugged.
"If nobody loses, where's the fun?"
Purbasari looked between them before speaking quietly:
"Just don't let it die."
The three of them fell silent, staring at the pots. From inside the house came light applause for Van der Leijden's speech. Guruminda poked the soil with a twig.
Three lines.
"One for Sari," he said.
A second line.
"One for Rarang."
Then the third.
"One for me."
Purbararang stared at the middle line.
"Why am I in the middle?"
"Because you're the loudest."
"That's not a position. That's punishment."
Purbasari laughed softly again. Then she extended her pinky finger.
"Promise?"
Guruminda frowned.
"What promise?"
"Protect these flowers."
Purbararang immediately extended hers too.
"Me too."
"But no more sugar water," Guruminda warned.
"I never promised that far."
Three tiny fingers touched above the hydrangea pot. Briefly. Without drama. Just children believing things would always stay the same.
From the balcony, their fathers watched them. Raden Arya observed quietly before setting down his teacup.
"Children trust each other so quickly."
Van der Leijden sipped his wine slowly.
"That is because they have never dealt with contracts."
Night wind moved softly through the tea fields. Below, Purbasari noticed a small dirt stain on the knee of her dress and panicked immediately.
"Mommy will know."
Guruminda instinctively grabbed wet grass.
"I'll clean it—"
"No! That'll make it more obvious!"
Purbararang stood lazily.
"Just say you fell."
"I didn't fall."
"Then just say you did."
Guruminda turned.
"That's lying."
Purbararang shrugged lightly.
"When lies are short, people are usually too lazy to stay angry."
She bit into the last of her cake.
"And it works surprisingly often."
Purbasari stared at the dirt stain for a long moment. Then toward the house. Then toward their hydrangeas. At last she inhaled softly.
"I'll tell her I stood too close to the garden."
Purbararang nodded with satisfaction.
"There. European girl finally learns how to lie."
Guruminda tried responding for several seconds. Failed. Eventually he laughed quietly while shaking his head.
"You're going to create enormous trouble someday."
Purbararang lifted her chin proudly.
"If the trouble is small, nobody remembers it."
The three laughed together softly. From inside the mansion came Mommy's voice:
"Liefje."
Purbasari immediately straightened automatically.
"Time's up," she murmured.
She hid the hydrangea pot behind the stone bench again. Before returning inside, she looked toward Guruminda.
"If the flower changes color someday…"
Guruminda raised a brow.
"I'll see it first."
Purbararang interrupted instantly:
"No! I'll see it first!"
Purbasari laughed again.
From the second-floor balcony, Van der Leijden watched the children return one by one into the light of his house.
"Land belongs to no one if there is no paper proving it," he murmured to himself.
Behind him, two administrative officials were still discussing revisions to Pasir Batang's land measurements.
"If the quinine routes expand, several plantation borders must be shifted."
"The locals will protest."
Van der Leijden did not answer immediately. He only stared at the dark garden below—precisely toward the stone bench where the hydrangea pots were hidden.
"Change always sounds noisy in the beginning," he said quietly while adjusting his cufflinks.
"After that… people learn how to live inside it."
The night wind drifted through the tea fields. Behind the stone bench, the tiny hydrangea petals swayed gently. Their color had begun to change.
—To be Continued—