5
IN THE RECORDING, Melati sat in a dark room where strobing lights flashed between dancing and talking people. She was counting out little foil-wrapped packets on a sticky table in front of her. She was in the New Hyderabad merchant’s mind and she recognised the place: it was one of the malampaks in New Jakarta’s B sector. The air smelled of kreteks and sweat, and the jaipongan music was so loud that her chest vibrated with it. The merchant didn’t care much for gamelan music, and to be honest Melati had often joked about its lack of musicality, but her heart ached with the jangling, earsplitting sound accompanied by the thrumming bass and sharp drum beats. That sound represented the barang-barang in all their diverse, confusing and jumbled-up glory. That sound was home.
Someone clapped
