Salima
The face, covered in fine down, was now devoid of makeup—save for a bluish tint. Rinaya gently brushed aside three strands of hair resting on Salima’s forehead. Her chest heaved; tears pressed to escape, but she was at work. Her faith taught that no tears should touch the skin of the deceased. Rinaya quickly poured liquid soap into her palm—deliberately choosing a coffee-scented one, Salima’s favorite. She placed her hand against Salima’s face, sweeping lather over her eyebrows, eyes, nose, and mouth until every trace was covered. A gentle stream of water began to cascade over that face. Rinaya had done this once before—just to tease Salima—and Salima had gasped, struggling for breath. She longed for that moment to repeat itself, for Salima to turn and retaliate. But Salima no longer moved; there was no resistance.
Rinaya moved on to carefully scrub the creases of Salima’s neck, then her underarms, and finally the spaces between her fingers. She scrubbed repeatedly; not a single speck of dirt could remain. Salima had to meet God with a body that was utterly clean, and that was now Rinaya’s duty. The voices of mourners drifted in again, louder than usual. Why is the person washing the body so young? Why did Salima commit suicide? Those voices rose above the sounds of prayer.
“Rinaya, that’s enough.” The First Assistant whispered softly, stopping Rinaya, who had been scrubbing the same spot over and over. The First Assistant was the same age as Rinaya’s mother; she had once come weeping to ask for a loan. Rinaya hadn't lent her the money, yet she hadn't been able to refuse Rinaya’s subsequent offer of work. Pouring water while Rinaya cleansed the body—that was the job Rinaya had offered her. She still performs that task to this day. Perhaps she is the one praying hardest for more women to die—so she can put food on the table and pay off her debts.
“Not yet, it’s not clean yet—just a little more.” Rinaya then moved to Salima’s legs. A scar from a tear remained there, on the right leg, caused by a bicycle chain. It was a memory that would never fade from Rinaya’s mind—the moment her world seemed to come to a sudden halt. Salima, sitting on the back of the bike, had screamed out loud as her right leg got caught and mangled in the spinning chain. Fresh blood had gushed out. Salima had been too restless while riding pillion—that was how she had defended Rinaya to her parents. Ah... Salima! She was the one who always understood Rinaya’s feelings; she was the one who was always kind to everyone.
“You already did that spot,” the Second Assistant whispered when Rinaya began scrubbing the folds of the armpit again. The Second Assistant was a neighbor from Rinaya’s rental complex who had once attempted suicide after her husband left her to marry someone else. Rinaya had then taken her to see the body of a woman who had committed suicide.
“You may have heard stories of the dead begging for a second chance at life, vowing never to repeat the sins they once committed,” Rinaya whispered. The woman had wept uncontrollably before losing consciousness. Months later, she would be the one helping Rinaya wash the body—having chosen, in the end, to go on living.
What about Salima? Did she choose death?
News of Salima’s death spread at the speed of light, becoming a hot topic in coffee shops, morning markets, bus terminals—everywhere. Suicide, said the public. Murder, insisted her extended family.
Media outlets turned Salima’s case into clickbait: Judge Commits Suicide? Indeed, Salima had been found dead in her official residence, a curtain wrapped tightly around her head. Netizens’ comments swarmed in like a sudden wasp attack in broad daylight; the "murder" camp fired back at the "suicide" camp. To Rinaya, however, whether it was suicide or murder mattered little; her duty was simply to bring Salima’s body home in the best possible state—clean and fragrant.
Rinaya caught a glimpse of her mother’s face among the mourners at Salima’s funeral. Her mother’s lips were sealed—a stark contrast to the way she used to rave about Salima passing the judgeship exam or successfully ruling on complex cases. Rinaya had always vehemently rejected such comparisons, yet now, if she could make a wish, she longed to hear her mother gushing again—about Salima’s achievements, or anything at all regarding the woman who had always seemed perfect in her mother’s eyes.
Salima’s family demanded justice; her father spoke haltingly to the media, imploring the authorities to investigate the death to the very bottom. A land dispute case between local residents and a mining company—which Salima had been presiding over—convinced the family that she had almost certainly been murdered. As for Ibu Salima—it goes without saying—her eyebrows and eyes could no longer be distinguished from one another; everything had blurred into a solid blackness, the result of weeping in anguish over the loss of her only daughter.
Ah, if only the dead could come back to life.