Rest in Love, Auntie Dhani

The first time I met Bama’s mother, she stood smiling in a loose red dress inside the garage of her previous home in Semarang, under the flight path of passenger jets arriving at the city’s airport. It was July 2015, and the second week of a six-month backpacking trip that Bama and I dubbed the “Spice Odyssey.” I called her Auntie Dhani; soon enough she had shortened my name to the more Javanese-sounding “Jem” for convenience. The ensuing crash course in the do’s and don’ts of Idul Fitri (a.k.a. Eid al-Fitr) was softened because she embraced me not only as a guest, but also as an adopted member of her small family. In little more than a week, she had nicknamed me “the funny son.”

From then on, my visits to Semarang with Bama became an annual tradition, and each time I learned a little more about his much larger extended family while deepening my own connection with his doting mom. Together with Auntie Dhani, we shared heart-to-heart conversations about our dreams and ambitions; she wondered aloud what it might have been like had she continued her career as an instructor in Javanese dance, or if she’d been given the opportunity to further develop her culinary talent. And yet the conclusion was always a sincere gratitude with what life had apportioned to her: a loyal husband and a polite, upstanding son who loved her deeply. Auntie Dhani was very proud of the fact that she had graduated from the same high school as two of Indonesia’s top female civil servants — finance minister Sri Mulyani and foreign affairs minister Retno Marsudi. She laughed with delight when I told her she could be Menteri Masak, the “minister of cooking.”

Our shared interest in food was the foundation of a special bond. Auntie Dhani taught me how to make my favorite Indonesian dish, opor ayam, and in doing so opened my eyes to a whole new way of cooking. She patiently explained the nuances of Javanese cuisine, balancing salty with sweet, combining the traits of each herb and spice, and moderating the heat of bird’s eye chilies with the creaminess of coconut milk. I learned that going by feeling was sometimes better than relying on weights and measures, though she did say the ideal ratio between shallot and garlic in any given spice paste was somewhere around 5:3. Bama’s caring mother poured her heart into every dish; she told me herself that the secret ingredient was love. And that made all the difference.

Auntie Dhani was an elegant woman who always made the effort to look good whenever she ventured out of the house to see friends and relatives. But she could also be wonderfully silly. That first Idul Fitri, she rubbed my belly after noticing I’d put on a few kilos from stuffing myself with her home-cooked specialties. “How many months?” She asked with a cheeky grin. During the same holiday a few years later, she remarked that she could no longer find the usual frozen meatballs at the supermarket. Then it dawned on Bama that she had mistaken a prize sticker on the packet (advertising three diamond rings) for being the name of the brand. We still jokingly refer to them as “three diamond ring meatballs.”

Market-bought sweets and Auntie Dhani’s homemade corn fritters for breaking the Ramadan fast.

Auntie Dhani cooking two Idul Fitri specialties the night before the festival in 2015.

A fishpond beside the dining room in the old house; tahu campur (a tofu dish) by Auntie Dhani.

Auntie Dhani was thrilled that I could take their family photos every Idul Fitri (this was in 2015).

I will always cherish the time I got to spend with Auntie Dhani, especially those lazy afternoons when we looked at each other’s family photos as she sat on Bama’s bed in her long-flowing pajamas, a pair of reading glasses framing her sad-looking eyes. I’ll never forget how much she appreciated rare treats like salmon belly sashimi, flaky croissants, and barbecued wagyu beef wrapped in fresh lettuce. Or the look of blissful satisfaction that crossed her face when she tried eggs Florentine and spinach-and-ricotta ravioli (served in truffle cream sauce) for the very first time.

Never could I have imagined that a long-undiagnosed cancer would rob Bama’s mom of so many future possibilities. I hoped that one day I’d be able to converse with her in fluent, flawless Indonesian, and pick up enough formal Javanese to string together complete sentences without inadvertently offending anyone. Because Auntie Dhani loved to sing — Whitney Houston was one of her favorite stars — Bama and I had plans to take her to a karaoke parlor. I’d heard her beautiful, melodious voice on multiple occasions as she sang quietly to herself at home, and knew she would love the experience. But more than anything else, she was excited to sample new foods, and I was eager to introduce her to bouillabaisse, tortellini, and real-deal Cantonese roast duck the next time she visited Jakarta.

We also spoke of taking her on trips to retrace Bama’s childhood in Borneo and then West Java, revisiting their old haunts as she recounted experiences he’d long forgotten. There was even talk of an overseas vacation so we could show her around my hometown. “I want to go to Hong Kong and meet James’s mother,” she once told Bama. Knowing how graceful and polished she was, my own mom joked that before Auntie Dhani arrived, she would have to enroll in etiquette classes to tone down her clumsiness and become a little more refined.

Up until a few weeks before her sudden passing, I would listen to Auntie Dhani talking to Bama in her softly spoken Javanese on speakerphone every Saturday night. Sometimes there was a recurring question, “What is Jem doing now?” when the conversation slowed. I was due to see her again in April, but suddenly we were faced with the prospect of returning to an empty house, devoid of her voice and the telltale aromas of her fabulous cooking. There would be no one there to welcome us and give Bama the usual flood of kisses on his cheeks, forehead, and chin. And yet I am fully aware that the grief I feel does not even come close to Bama’s deep pain and sorrow at losing her so soon.

The first summer I met Auntie Dhani, she cried unconsolably at the airport as we bid farewell to continue our six-month Spice Odyssey. I hugged her tightly and said in my halting Indonesian, “Auntie, I will take care of Bama.” It’s a promise I intend to keep. ◊

Spicy sambal goreng kentang is a staple during Idul Fitri; Bama’s family in October 2020.