Sasti Gotama, translated by Awi Chin
Published as a part of Mekong Review — Volume 11 Issue 43, May 01, 2026
First published in Akhir Sang Gajah di Bukit Kupu-Kupu as Saksi Glori.
Mekong Review
I am Glori’s medulla oblongata. Without me, Glori’s lungs and heart are an orchestra abandoned by its conductor. But now I’m half dead, so Glori depends on a ventilator to pump those needy lungs of hers. Glori ended up like this because of some brat in a white-and-blue school uniform, speeding northward, while she’d just stepped off an intercity bus and was about to cross the street. The kid couldn’t brake in time. Like a raging bull, he rammed into Glori and sent her flying. Her head cracked against the curb, and I was left black-and-blue.
Like the times before—how many days have passed, I have no clue—Glori is still snoring alongside seven others while machines blow air into their lungs. The noises of the ventilators and other equipment are louder than a radio caught fighting a signal. It makes me want to die.
In this chlorine-scented room, three staff members work each shift. This time it’s the Giraffe, the Elephant, and the hornless Rhino. Sometimes I wonder: Is this a ward or a zoo? But they aren’t what interests me. At regular intervals—whether morning, noon, or night—a small woman resembling a rain-soaked woodpecker enters the room and whispers prayers. Not for everyone. Only for Glori and the old man at the far end of the room, the two who wear Neptune’s ring on a chain around their necks. I often think: Do not all these snoring bodies need prayer? Are those who wear the ring and those who do not created by different gods?
Like the times before—how many days have passed, I have no clue—Glori is still snoring alongside seven others while machines blow air into their lungs. The noises of the ventilators and other equipment are louder than a radio caught fighting a signal. It makes me want to die.
In this chlorine-scented room, three staff members work each shift. This time it’s the Giraffe, the Elephant, and the hornless Rhino. Sometimes I wonder: Is this a ward or a zoo? But they aren’t what interests me. At regular intervals—whether morning, noon, or night—a small woman resembling a rain-soaked woodpecker enters the room and whispers prayers. Not for everyone. Only for Glori and the old man at the far end of the room, the two who wear Neptune’s ring on a chain around their necks. I often think: Do not all these snoring bodies need prayer? Are those who wear the ring and those who do not created by different gods?
Read the full story here.
