The Cireng

The mornings on the outskirts of Bandung always began with a lazy fog. Thin—like a worn-out blanket draped over corrugated rooftops and cracked asphalt roads. At exactly four o’clock, Sari was already awake. Not because of an alarm—she had never needed one. Her body had been programmed by years of the same routine: wake up, splash her face with cold well water, then head to the small kitchen behind the rented house.

The kitchen was little more than a rickety wooden table, a single-burner gas stove, and a mini fridge that creaked and groaned like an old person grumbling. On the table, the tapioca flour had been measured the night before, the spices already ground, and the special filling waited in an airtight container tucked at the very back of the fridge. “Special shredded chicken,” the small sticker label read. Only Sari knew just how special that filling really was.

She began stirring the dough with careful movements, almost like meditation. Her right hand stirred the wooden spoon, her left hand steadied the bowl so it wouldn’t slide. The rhythm was calming. The world outside was still quiet—only the distant crowing of roosters and the first passing motorcycle bringing the morning news. Sari loved mornings like this. Nothing to disturb her. No one to ask questions. Just her, the dough, and the quiet confidence growing in her heart.

Once the dough was ready, she shaped the cireng one by one. Round, flat, not too thick. A small hollow in the middle for the filling. She filled them carefully, making sure there were no leaks. Every movement was measured. Every filling was counted. Because for her, this was not just food. It was a transfer of intelligence that must not be wasted, that had to be passed on to another person so that it would not be lost.

Sari had never told anyone about that belief. People would call her crazy. But to her, it was logical. Intelligent people—those with sharp minds, those who could solve problems, who read thick books, who carried big ideas—were far too valuable to simply disappear when their lives ended. Food was the fastest way for something to move from one body to another. Blood, nutrients, even… the soul? Maybe. Sari wasn’t sure about the soul. But she was certain about value. And that value must not disappear.

By a little past five, the cart was already set up in front of the house. A small hand-written sign read: Cireng Isi Ayam Sari – A Taste That Keeps You Coming Back. Beneath it was a simple smiley face she had drawn herself. People liked that smile. They said Sari’s face was much the same—plain, safe, and sweet. Her hair was tied in a simple ponytail, a pastel T-shirt, and an apron with tiny floral patterns. Her smile came easily, her voice soft like the breath of the morning breeze.

At six o’clock, the first customer arrived. Pak Dedi, a construction worker who bought five pieces every day. “Mbak Sari, your cireng just keeps getting better. The filling’s different from the others, isn’t it?” he said as he chewed.

Sari smiled, her eyes lowered politely. “Thank you, Pak. Sorry if it wasn’t tasty enough yesterday. I added a little more seasoning today, so it packs more flavor.”

“No, no—this is perfect. You’re too kind, Mbak, always apologizing even when you’ve done nothing wrong.” Pak Dedi chuckled softly, his voice hoarse from shouting too much at the construction site. “If you weren’t here, Mbak Sari, what would I even eat this early in the morning? Just coffee wouldn’t be enough.”

Sari gave a small nod, her hands busy wrapping four more pieces into a clear plastic bag. She liked it when people said things like that. Words like those were encouraging—they made her seem a little brighter. In her eyes, Pak Dedi belonged to the “simple” kind of foolish: his life was hard, but his thoughts never stretched beyond today and tomorrow. Safe. Not worth taking note of.

Not long after, Bu Rina appeared from the direction of the narrow alley. The woman in her forties walked with steady steps, a sling bag heavy with books and her students’ exam papers. Her eyes were sharp, always observant of her surroundings, though this morning there were faint shadows of fatigue beneath them. Sari liked watching Bu Rina. In her mind, Bu Rina belonged to the “intelligent” kind—not the arrogant sort, but the useful kind: teaching children how to read, to count, to think. It would be such a shame if one day Bu Rina retired and her life became flat, her intelligence losing its value. But for now, Bu Rina was safe. She was still teaching and helping many people.

“Good morning, Mbak Sari. Could I have ten? I want to bring them to school. The kids love them, especially the ones with the chicken filling,” Bu Rina said as she took out a small wallet.

“Alright, Bu. Sorry if the line’s a bit long today,” Sari replied gently, already frying a new batch so they would stay hot.

Bu Rina laughed softly, her voice warm. “It’s alright. You’re always so patient with your customers, Mbak Sari. That’s why you have so many regulars. Oh, Mbak, yesterday I read another article about teachers being replaced because of their age. It made me wonder… will that happen to me too? Retirement, and then what?”

Sari fell silent for a moment, her hand pausing over the oil. Her eyes rested on Bu Rina gently.“You’re still young, Bu Rina. There are still many people who need you.”

Bu Rina let out a soft sigh. “I hope so. But sometimes it’s tiring, Mbak. Kids these days are different, and parents are different too. Sometimes it feels like all our effort isn’t appreciated.”

Sari nodded, her expression calm. Inside, she made a note: the exhaustion was real. But Bu Rina was still useful as a teacher. It wasn’t time for her to retire yet. She handed over the plastic bag full of cireng, her fingers brushing Bu Rina’s hand for a moment—warm, like a silent promise.

People always confided in Sari. Maybe it was because of her innocent face that never seemed to judge, or her voice, soft like the morning breeze, or perhaps because she never interrupted their stories. They said she was a good listener. Sari knew that was true—but her listening was selective. She listened in order to sort things out: who deserved to be protected, and who deserved to be removed.

That day, there was someone new. A young woman, perhaps in her late twenties, walked slowly toward the cart. Her work clothes were wrinkled, her hair tied carelessly, and her eyes were red as if she had cried all night. She bought only three pieces, her hand trembling as she pulled out a few coins.

“Thank you, Mbak,” she said softly, her voice almost lost beneath the hiss of the oil.

Sari nodded. “Be careful, Mbak. It’s hot.”

The woman fell silent for a moment, staring at the cireng in her hand as if searching for strength. Then she suddenly spoke, her voice breaking. “Mbak… when bad people keep living comfortably like nothing’s wrong, what are people like us supposed to do? My boss… he… he likes to… but no one believes me. They say I’m overreacting. I’m tired, Mbak.”

Sari fell silent. Her eyes remained gentle, but inside her chest something moved slowly, like a wheel beginning to turn. She remembered similar words she had heard many times before: from neighbors, from regular customers, from voices on the morning radio. Always the same. Always dismissed.

“Maybe… the world moves slowly, Mbak,” Sari replied softly, her voice almost a whisper. “But in the end, it finds its way to justice.”

The woman gave a faint, bitter smile, tears almost spilling again. “I’m tired of waiting for justice. Every day I have to see him, pretend to smile. Sometimes I feel like I’d rather die.”

Sari didn’t answer right away. She simply gave a small nod, as usual. But in her mind, there was already a new note. Not about the cireng—about a name she might look into later. The boss’s name. Not to be eaten. That would be too honorable. Only to be cleaned up. Neatly. Without a trace.

The woman turned and walked away, her steps heavy. Sari watched her back until she disappeared around the corner of the alley. The morning breeze carried the smell of fried food and exhaust fumes. She returned to stirring the dough, her movements as careful as ever.

As evening approached, the cart began to quiet down. Sari counted the money, wiped away the leftover oil, and cleaned the pan. Everything was done with the same discipline. Routine was her companion. Routine never betrayed.

Tonight, she would go home. Open that little mini fridge again. Check the filling stock. Maybe tomorrow there would be more. Maybe tomorrow a kind person would willingly provide the meat.

Sari closed the cart and locked the chain. She looked up at the darkening sky. The fog had disappeared. Stars began to appear—small and distant.

She stood for a moment in front of the now-quiet cart, her hand gently touching the signboard. A small smile appeared on her lips—not the kind she gave to other people, but one meant only for herself.

Tomorrow morning, everything would begin again. Just like today. Just like yesterday.

And that was enough.

NOTE :

Mbak – polite way to address a young woman (similar to “Miss” but more casual and warm)

Pak – polite address for an adult man (like “Mr.” but used for both older and younger men)

Bu – polite address for an adult woman (like “Mrs.” or “Ma’am” but casual and respectful)