Introduction to 2025 series of short stories.

Kepak Sayap Tekukur Hunai 

Maria Teodora Ping, called Lola, is a Bahau Dayak dedicated to language and cultural education. Since 2003, she has taught at the Mulawarman University in Samarinda, in the English Language Education Program, Faculty of Teacher’s Training and Education. She also writes picture stories about local culture, especially of the Bahau Dayaks. She does it to preserve the culture and, at the same time, build East Kalimantans’ interest in reading.

She writes short stories to share her reflections, including those about her identity. The short story “The Cracked Jar” is her first step in this long journey.

Lola can be contacted via her emaili: mariateodoraping@fkip.unmul.ac.id

 

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Kepak Sayap Tekukur Hunai 

Kabut asap masih menebal di atas hulu Sungai Mahakam di pedalaman Mahakam Ulu ketika kapal kayu yang membawa Ping merapat di kampung yang lama dia tinggalkan. Di benaknya terbayang masa kecil saat dia duduk di beranda rumah nenek, mendengarkan kisah-kisah leluhur yang dulu dia anggap sekadar dongeng. Kini dia kembali bukan sebagai anak kecil yang kegirangan, melainkan sebagai peneliti yang ingin menelusuri kearifan pertanian Dayak Bahau. Namun yang memanggilnya pulang bukan hanya tugas ilmiah, melainkan sebuah kerinduan pada gema gong yang berwibawa, petikan senar sape’ yang merdu, dan cerita tentang hutan. Hutan hujan dataran rendah dengan rimbunan pohon meranti serta ulin yang menjulang dan berdiri kokoh, yang disebut neneknya sebagai rumah roh para leluhur.

Seorang gadis kampung menunggu Ping di ujung dermaga. Kulitnya terlihat sedikit legam oleh sengatan matahari, matanya sipit, tajam, dan rambutnya panjang, terikat. Dia mengenakan lavuung. Ikat kepala kain perempuan Dayak Bahau itu warnanya terlihat sudah pudar.

“Ika’ sa’ Piing ?” sapa gadis muda itu untuk memastikan nama tamunya.

” Ii’. Ika’ alang Tukau ?” Ping mengangguk sembari menjawab dengan menggunakan bahasa Dayak Bahau – meski terdengar agak canggung – untuk memastikan nama penyambutnya. Tukau pun mengangguk dan menyambung percakapan dengan menggunakan bahasa Indonesia. “Aku yang ditugaskan oleh kepala kampung untuk menemanimu. Katanya kau ingin menulis tentang Hunai, Dewi Padi, ya?”

Ping tersenyum. “Iya. Tentang Hunai, dan tentang tanah kita ini.”

Tukau menatap hutan di bukit yang tampak sudah separuh botak karena ulah perusahaan tambang di seberang sungai. “Kalau begitu, kau datang pada waktu yang tepat. Tanah kita ini sedang geram.” katanya.

***

“Perusahaan tambang dan perkebunan sawit datang bergantian sejak sepuluhan tahun yang lalu,” kata Tukau dengan nada suara meninggi. “Orang- orang kota itu bilang, ini untuk kemajuan kampung. Tapi setelah itu, malah banjir besar datang tiap tahun. Sungai ini menjadi berminyak dan bau. Ikan-ikan banyak yang mati. Dan, kami harus terus mencari-cari sumber air bersih. Kicau burung serta suara hewan lainnya tak lagi terdengar, tergantikan oleh suara kendaraan berat dan alat penebang pohon.”

Ping merekam tiap perkataan Tukau dengan gawainya, tetapi matanya tak bisa lepas dari daerah bukit yang kini terlihat gundul. Hatinya mulai gelisah. “Iya. Di kota orang-orang memang bicara soal pembangunan yang berkelanjutan dan itu semua katanya untuk memajukan kampung,” katanya lirih.

Tukau tersenyum miris. “Mereka bicara tentang sesuatu yang terdengar hebat, kehebatan yang dibangun di atas tanah yang mereka rusak. Mereka menanam sawitnya, tapi kita orang Dayak yang tinggal di kampung ini jadi kehilangan segalanya.” Perjalanan menuju lamin adat kampung dirasakan Ping seperti mimpi. Setiap langkah membuatnya seperti terombang-ambing di antara dua dunia: masa lalu dan masa kini.

***

Pada malam harinya Ping dan Tukau duduk di beranda rumah kepala kampung, Pak Jelivan, tempat Ping menginap selama penelitiannya. Di hadapan mereka terhidang sepiring pitoh. Wangi ketan yang didampingi kelapa parut dan gula merah itu membangkitkan kenangan masa kecil Ping.

Suara mesin kendaraan perusahaan masih terdengar berdengung jauh di kejauhan. Ping mengunyah pitoh dengan perasaan bercampur-aduk. Dulu, suara jangkrik bersahutan masih terdengar dan langit masih bertaburan bintang. Kini, dia tak melihat satu bintang pun di langit yang terlihat kelam.

Tukau yang duduk di sampingnya, menerawang ke arah sungai yang berkilau hitam di bawah sinar bulan yang redup. “Dulu kita bisa mandi dan mengambil air minum dengan bebas di sungai,” kata Tukau sambil menghela nafas panjang. “Sekarang, tangan anak-anak gatal kalau menyentuh airnya. Bahkan kami sudah tak berani mencuci baju di sungai.”

Ping menatap nanar air sungai yang terlihat berkilat-kilat karena tumpahan minyak, dan untuk pertama kali, dia sebagai seorang peneliti merasa risih. Selama ini dia hanya menulis tentang alam Kalimantan dari dalam ruang nyaman berpendingin udara tanpa pernah benar-benar melihat keadaan nyata terkini. Dia pun teringat kata-kata salah seorang pengajar di perguruan tingginya dulu: “Kita harus bebas berpandangan tanpa keterikatan dalam melakukan penelitian ⸺ ketidakterikatan yang tidak akan membawa-bawa perasaan pribadi.” Namun, di sini, di tepi sungai yang telah memikul beban atas nama pembangunan dan kemajuan zaman ini, Ping merasa bahwa ketidakberpihakannya menjadi seperti sebuah pengkhianatan.

***

Beberapa hari kemudian, Tukau mengajak Ping menyusuri tepian sungai yang berlumpur. Jejak-jejak kerusakan karena banjir besar masih terlihat jelas dari sisa-sisa batang-batang pohon yang tumbang, tumpukan sampah rumah tangga yang hanyut, serta tumpahan minyak yang masih tercium baunya.

“Kau lihat ini,” ujar Tukau tiba-tiba sembari berjongkok di dekat sebatang pohon yang telah tumbang. Di balik akarnya yang tercerabut, tertimbun sebuah guci tanah liat kuno yang retak. “Ini barang peninggalan leluhur. Biasanya disimpan di Amin Ayaq. Barang pusaka seperti itu memang disimpan di balai adat besar kampung.”

Ping membantu membersihkan guci tersebut. Di dalamnya, mereka menemukan helai kain dan butir manik-manik usang, serta sebilah baliiu. Pedang pendek yang sudah berkarat tersebut seakan bercerita tentang kehidupan masyarakat adat yang hampir tergerus keberadaannya, seperti pinggiran sungai yang diterjang banjir.

“Barang-barang ini dulu digunakan dalam upacara adat Nebiing untuk meminta kesuburan tanah,” jelas Tukau dengan suara bergetar. “Nenekku pernah bercerita, barang pusaka adat ini hilang ketika banjir besar di sini. Kami pun mengira barang pusaka ini sudah hilang selamanya sehingga para tetua adat harus membuat penggantinya. Ternyata barang itu hanyut ke pinggir sungai ini.” Tukau mulai terisak pelan. Ping menepuk-nepuk pelan pundaknya.

***

Penemuan tak terduga ini menyadarkan Ping bahwa yang terancam bukan hanya alam, tetapi juga ingatan bersama para masyarakat adat. Setiap batang pohon yang ditebang, setiap aliran sungai yang tercemar, membawa serta cerita dan warisan yang tak ternilai harganya.

Malam itu listrik padam. Di bawah cahaya lilin di rumah kepala kampung, Ping meminta Tukau untuk menceritakan mengenai legenda Dewi Hunai. Ping menyalakan alat perekamnya setelah Tukau mengangguk setuju.

“Cerita tentang Hunai, Dewi Padi, bermula di Apau Lagaan, yaitu Kayangan tempat para dewa dan roh leluhur bersemayam. Kala itu, jumlah manusia mulai pesat bertambah sementara sumber makanan di alam kian menipis hingga banyak yang akhirnya mati kelaparan. Melihat hal itu, sesepuh para dewa memutuskan Hunai Mebaang, salah seorang remaja perempuan Kayangan yang telah beranjak dewasa, untuk menjadi Dewi Padi dan dia harus menyerahkan darahnya. Dengan darahnya itu tumbuhlah padi sebagai sumber makanan bagi manusia di bumi.”

Ping mendengarkan dengan khidmat sembari memandangi lidah api lilin yang bayangannya terlihat menari seakan memiliki roh.

Tukau kembali melanjutkan kisahnya. “Para sesepuh dewa kemudian mengutus dua perempuan dari Kayangan, yang menjelma menjadi burung bubut dan burung puyuh, burung-burung perlambang kesuburan, untuk memercikkan darah Hunai Mebaang di ladang,” tuturnya pelan. “Dari setiap tetes darah yang jatuh ke tanah, disitulah tumbuh padi. Karena itulah, masyarakat Dayak Bahau menaruh hormat yang dalam kepada padi, tanaman lambang keberkahan dan kehidupan.”

Ping terdiam lama. Akal sehatnya bergejolak. Semula dia memang menganggap kisah Tukau sekadar dongeng yang tersisa dari masa lalu. Namun, nuraninya perlahan membuka ruang kecil yang mulai percaya bahwa setiap untaian cerita leluhur menyimpan kearifan.

“Aku tahu,” ujar Tukau pelan, “kau yang besar di kota tak mudah menerima cerita seperti ini. Tapi kisah Hunai bukan hanya dongeng. Dia merupakan pengingat bahwa hidup lahir dari pengorbanan, dan tanah kita ini menyimpan roh yang layak dihormati.”

Ping menunduk, suaranya nyaris berbisik. “Aku ingin percaya. Tapi aku tumbuh dengan akal dan bukti ilmiah. Aku memahami tanah sebagai ilmu, bukan sebagai sesuatu yang hidup, yang bisa diajak berbicara.”

Tukau menepuk pundak Ping. “Kalau begitu,” katanya lembut tetapi tegas, “Kau mulailah belajar langsung dari tanah itu sendiri. Biarkan tanah sendiri yang berbicara padamu.”

Malam itu, almarhumah nenek Ping hadir dalam mimpinya. Untuk pertama kalinya, sejak dia duduk di bangku SMA, dia bermimpi bercakap-cakap dengan neneknya dalam bahasa Bahau – bahasa yang dulu diajarkan almarhumah neneknya, bahasa yang tidak benar-benar dia kuasai. Dia lahir dan besar di kota, berbicara setiap harinya dengan bahasa Indonesia bahkan kadang dia berbahasa asing.

Dalam mimpinya, Ping menyapa neneknya Bo’ Yoh, sapaan untuk neneknya tersayang. Ping menyampaikan bahwa kini dia memahami alasan neneknya yang selalu bercerita tentang padi, Hunai sang Dewi Padi, serta kisah-kisah lain dari masyarakat mereka. Dia mengakui bahwa dia dulu mengira semua itu hanyalah sebatas dongeng. Namun, kini dia menyadari bahwa kisah-kisah itu adalah cara para leluhur menyampaikan pesan tentang jati diri serta tentang alam yang menghidupi mereka.

***

Keesokan harinya, Tukau mengajak Ping mengunjungi seorang tetua yang tinggal di ujung kampung. Bo’ Huriing, perempuan tua berusia sembilan puluh tahun, masih ingat betul bagaimana keadaan kampung dan kehidupan masyarakat mereka dahulu.

“Kau cucu Liruung? Nenekmu dulu pun tahu, sebelum perusahaan datang, kami punya hutan adat di bukit itu,” kenang Bo’ Huriing dengan suara sedikit parau. “Sekarang sudah hampir tidak ada.”

“Kenapa waktu itu orang kampung kita tidak melarang ketika perusahaan mau menebangnya, Bo’ Yoh ?” tanya Ping.
Bo’ Huriing menghela napas. “Waktu itu banyak anak-anak muda bilang kami orang tua ini sudah kuno. Mereka mau hidup seperti orang kota. Pendapat kami yang tua ini sudah tidak didengar lagi.”

Pandangan Bo’ Huriing yang meredup seakan menatap jauh ke masa lalu. “Zaman nenek moyang kita dulu, ada kisah Hunai mengorbankan diri supaya kita tidak menderita kelaparan. Supaya kita ingat bahwa hidup itu harus seimbang dengan alam. Sekarang, keseimbangan itu sudah rusak.”

Ping termangu mendengar perkataan Bo’ Huriing. Banyaknya kerutan di wajah perempuan lanjut usia tersebut seakan menandakan banyaknya kebijakan masa lalunya. Tedak, rajah khas Dayak Bahau yang memenuhi pergelangan lengan dan kakinya, mulai terlihat pudar seiring dengan berlalunya waktu. Kuping panjangnya yang tidak lagi digantungi sihang, menandakan kecantikan yang tinggal sisanya serta adat yang mengusang. Pemakaian anting-anting perak berlingkar besar itu pun seakan menghilang ditelan kemajuan zaman. Ping menghela nafas panjang.

***

Subuh hari berikutnya, Ping ikut menyaksikan warga kampung melaksanakan adat tawah. Adat ini dilaksanakan oleh masyarakat Dayak Bahau pada hari ketujuh adat tahunan penanaman padi ladang yang bernama Lalii’ Ugaal. Pelaksanaan Adat Tawah ditandai dengan penyalaan api, sebagai wujud harapan dan doa masyarakat agar padi yang mereka tanam di ladang tumbuh subur dan hasil panen mereka nanti berlimpah. Asap membubung tinggi ke langit, membawa wangi daun kering dan sekaligus menandakan harapan agar dapat hidup makmur dan sejahtera. Dayuung, yang memimpin upacara adat, berdiri di tengah seraya melantunkan mantra. Warga pun sesekali menyahuti dengan suara pekikan gembira.

Ping merekam semua itu, hatinya bergetar dan matanya terasa mulai basah. Meski dia tidak memahami makna dari mantra yang diucapkan oleh Dayuung, dia merasa seolah suara mantra itu berasal dari dalam dadanya sendiri. Dia melihat wajah masyarakat yang penuh keyakinan, dan untuk pertama kalinya dia merasa seperti bagian dari sesuatu yang lebih besar.

Malamnya, Ping menulis:

“Aku, anak dari darah Dayak Bahau yang dibesarkan oleh kota, hari ini mendengar tanah leluhur kami bernapas. Kisah Hunai bukan sekadar dongeng masyarakat; tetapi merupakan ingatan yang berdenyut di setiap tarikan nafas orang Bahau. Aku datang untuk meneliti dan mencari ilmu, tapi mungkin yang aku temukan justru jati diriku sendiri dalam kearifan leluhurku.”

Tukau mengintip catatan Ping. “Wah! tulisanmu seperti orang yang sedang jatuh cinta.”

Ping tersenyum tipis. “Ya mungkin aku jatuh cinta pada jati diriku dan kearifan leluhur kita, Tukau.”

***

Selama beberapa minggu setelah itu, Tukau membantu Ping untuk mengembangkan catatan lengkap mengenai tata cara menanam padi dan bagaimana masyarakat Dayak Bahau menjaga keseimbangan dengan alam.

“Kau tahu, kita harus memastikan semua keturunan orang Bahau, supaya mereka yang lahir dan tumbuh di kota sepertimu tetap bisa mempelajari adat istiadat ini,” kata Tukau saat mereka duduk di tengah amin ayaq sambil membaca ulang hasil catatan mereka.

Ping mengangguk. “Aku akan membuat cara penyimpanan perekaman yang sesuai untuk zaman ini. Aku juga akan mengajukan rencana kepada perguruan tinggiku di Samarinda agar para mahasiswa dapat belajar langsung di sini, sementara para pemuda di sini dapat memperoleh pengetahuan baru tanpa harus kehilangan budaya mereka,” katanya dengan penuh semangat.

***

Beberapa hari kemudian, halaman balai kampung terlihat penuh sesak. Para tetua adat duduk di depan, sementara para pemuda berseragam perusahaan tambang duduk di hadapan mereka. Seorang perwakilan perusahaan yang berpakaian necis berdiri di tengah dengan pengeras suara. “Kami datang membawa tawaran,” katanya. “Kami siap membangun jalan dan sekolah, asal kami diberi izin memperluas tambang di bukit.”

Mendengar itu, kepala kampung, Pak Jelivan, langsung bangkit dengan tongkatnya. “Bukit itu tanah adat kami! Jika kalian gali lagi, roh nenek moyang akan murka!”

Lalau, teman masa kecil Tukau yang berdiri di samping kiri rumah, menyela dengan suara lantang, “Itu kepercayaan kuno! Kita butuh kemajuan. Anak-anak kita harus sekolah di kota karena kampung ini tertinggal!”

Tukau yang berdiri di samping kanan rumah membalas dengan suara tidak kalah nyaringnya, “Apa gunanya kemajuan kalau ladang rusak dan sungai tercemar?”

“Tapi perusahaan memberi pekerjaan, bukan mimpi kosong! Ladang hanya memberi lumpur!” kata Lalau bersikeras.

Ping menyaksikan pertikaian itu. Dia tahu Lalau tidak sepenuhnya salah karena dia sendiri pun melihat pendidikan tinggi sebagai salah satu jalan keluar dari kemiskinan. Sekarang dia melihat wajah-wajah tua di sekitarnya; mereka berkumpul bersama wajah muda seperti Tukau dan Lalau. Wajah-wajah tua yang terancam kehilangan ladang atau sungai mereka dan kearifan leluhur mereka di masa depan berkumpul bersama wajah-wajah muda yang menginginkan adanya perubahan.

Perwakilan perusahaan kemudian berkata dingin, “Jika kalian menolak, kami tidak bertanggung jawab atas akibatnya.”

“Banjir tiap tahun itu terjadi karena perbuatan kalian!” teriak Tukau, teriakan yang membuat seluruh balai riuh. Sebelum ketegangan mencapai puncaknya, ketegangan yang dapat memicu kerusuhan, gong besar di amin ayaq dipukul tiga kali, suaranya menggema seperti peringatan, menandai rapat yang harus berakhir meski tanpa kesepakatan.

***

Hujan terus turun tanpa henti sejak berakhirnya pertemuan yang tanpa kesepakatan itu. Sungai pun meluap, membawa kayu, lumpur, serta limbah dari wilayah pertambangan dan perkebunan yang membentang di sekeliling kampung. Tabuhan gong sebagai tanda peringatan bencana pun terdengar. Para warga kampung saling meneriakkan pengingat untuk menyelamatkan anggota keluarga dan barang-barang saat mereka berlari menyelamatkan diri dari terjangan banjir bandang.

Ping dan Tukau bersama para anak muda membantu anak-anak dan warga lanjut usia untuk mengungsi ke amin ayaq yang dibangun di atas tanah yang letaknya lebih tinggi. Dalam suasana penuh kebingungan itu Tukau tiba-tiba berlari ke tengah ladang adat di belakang kampung yang tergenang air banjir dengan membawa sebuah tugaal, tongkat yang dia gunakan sebagai penggali lubang untuk menanam padi, serta segenggam beras. “Tukau! Jangan lari ke sana!” teriak Ping. Namun, agaknya Tukau tidak mempedulikannya.

Ping dengan tubuh gemetar kemudian mengikuti Tukau. “Tukau, kalau kau terus berlari, kau akan mati tenggelam!”

“Kalau aku tetap diam, kampung ini bisa mati selamanya!” balas Tukau.

Tukau pun terus berjalan dalam hujan. Kemudian dia berhenti di tengah ladang, menancapkan tongkat ke tanah serta menaburkan beras dan lalu berteriak:

“Hunai, Hunai, Ika’ Too’ Parai, Hunai, Hunai, Kau Dewi Padi

Dang ketoo’ kamih nga’ adau nikaang, jangan marah kami sudah lalai

Niding tanaa’ pawaa’ kayaan urai raa’ im, melindungi tanah kesayangan tempat Kau tumpahkan darahmu

Niduung anau urip amih, untuk kelangsungan hidup kami”

Ping yang terbiasa menyusuri jalan-jalan di kota tidak segesit dan selincah Tukau. Dia terpelanting dan kepalanya membentur batu cadas yang ada di pinggir jalan setapak yang mereka lalui. Namun, dalam kegelapan yang mulai menyelimuti pandangannya, dia merasa dapat melihat dan mendengar apa yang tengah terjadi di hadapannya.

Ping dapat mendengar Tukau yang kemudian mengulangi mantra dengan suara rendah dan memandang apa yang berlangsung di depannya. Dia tidak tahu apakah yang dilakukan Tukau adalah sebuah kebodohan atau keajaiban. Kemudian, dalam kilatan petir, dia melihat sesuatu. Seorang remaja perempuan berdiri di tengah ladang yang digenangi air banjir. Rambutnya basah, kulitnya pucat dan pandangan matanya lembut. Dia membawa seikat padi yang bersinar dengan cahaya keemasan.

Ping tertegun. Dia mendengar suara di kepalanya, “Akii’ ni Hunai…Too’ Parai.” Remaja perempuan itu memperkenalkan dirinya sebagai Hunai, sang Dewi Padi.

“Kalian membicarakanku dengan kata-kata, tetapi kalian belum mendengarkanku dengan hati. Tanah ini adalah tanah yang perlu dilindungi. Segala ilmu yang sudah kalian ketahui itu berguna, tetapi gunakanlah untuk menjaga tanah ini, bukan untuk mencari keuntungan darinya,” lanjut remaja perempuan itu.

Hujan pun perlahan berhenti. Air mulai surut sedikit demi sedikit diserap oleh tanah. Cahaya di sekitar seikar padi yang dibawa remaja perempuan itu meredup, menyatu dengan tanah dan benih padi yang dipijaknya. Ping mendengar Tukau menangis. Dan, saat itulah Ping mencoba merangkak bangun.

“Para sesepuh dewa di Apau Lagaan telah mendengar doa kita”, katanya.

Ping yang sudah berada di samping Tukau ikut berlutut di lumpur dan berkata dalam hati, “Aku pun akhirnya bisa mendengar suara mereka.”

***

Setelah air banjir surut, kehidupan di kampung mulai berangsur pulih. Masyarakat mulai menanam kembali benih-benih padi yang tersisa. Ping pun menulis laporan, tetapi tulisannya sekarang berubah. Bukan laporan ilmiah biasa yang dipenuhi dengan bahasa rumit, melainkan ungkapan hasil permenungan pribadinya.

“Saya datang dengan sebuah ketidaktahuan, pergi dengan sebuah keyakinan. Kisah Dewi Padi Hunai bukan hanya sebuah cerita dongeng. Dia adalah perlambang tubuh alam yang menyelamatkan manusia. Kita tidak hanya bisa menyelamatkan bumi dengan kemajuan atau otak saja. Kita harus menyelamatkannya dengan pelestarian atau hati.”

Dia mengirimkan tulisan itu ke surat kabar yang dibaca ribuan orang dalam hitungan minggu. Para pencinta lingkungan mulai datang mengunjungi kampung, dan mereka membantu masyarakat menghijaukan wilayah bukit. Sekelompok ahli lingkungan pun dikirim oleh pemerintah daerah. Akhirnya kampung kecil di hulu Sungai Mahakam itu mendapat perhatian.

***

Beberapa bulan kemudian, pohon dan tanaman hijau mulai tumbuh lagi di bukit kampung mereka. Sungai pun perlahan-lahan terlihat lebih bersih. Anak-anak belajar menanam padi sambil menyanyikan lagu-lagu daerah yang diajarkan Tukau kepada mereka. Ping membawa berita baik ketika dia kembali ke kampung. “Tulisan kita digunakan sebagai bahan ajar. Mereka ingin tahu lebih banyak tentang cerita Hunai dan kearifan leluhur lainnya, mengenai kebijaksanaan serta kebijakan nenek moyang kita,” katanya.

Tukau tersenyum bangga. “Kau sudah benar-benar menjadi seorang anak dari tanah Dayak Bahau, Ping.”

Ping dan Tukau berdiri berdampingan, memandang ke langit. Ping pun berkata dengan lirih, “Aku dulu sedikit enggan mengakui keturunan Bahau-ku karena aku tidak memahaminya. Dan, sekarang aku mengerti apa artinya menjadi seorang Bahau. Mengetahui dari mana akar kita tumbuh.”

Terlihat dua ekor burung tekukur terbang berputar-putar di langit, sayap mereka membuat lingkaran sempurna.

“Lihatlah,” kata Tukau, “Itu pertanda dari Kayangan.”

Ping memandang ke arah kedua ekor burung tekukur itu agak lama. “Atau mungkin itu adalah kita. Dua perempuan muda Dayak Bahau yang akhirnya bisa memahami bahasa alam,” katanya.

***

Setahun kemudian, Ping mengundang sekelompok mahasiswa kembali ke kampung. Kali ini mereka datang untuk membantu membangun wadah yang akan menyimpan rekaman kearifan leluhur masyarakat Dayak Bahau. Mereka disambut masyarakat dengan upacara adat. Yang paling mengejutkan, Lalau menjadi penggerak utama kelompok pemuda pelestari adat di kampung.

“Orang kota bilang kita tidak bisa melawan perkembangan zaman,” ungkap Lalau, dalam sambutannya. “Tapi kami di sini ingin menunjukkan bahwa kami bisa maju dengan melestarikan kearifan nenek moyang.”

***

Malam itu, saat bulan purnama bersinar lagi, Ping dan Tukau duduk berdampingan di tepi sungai. Suara jangkrik dan kodok menyatu dengan selaras menggantikan deru mesin kapal yang sebelumnya selalu terdengar. “Apakah kau ingat hari kita bertemu?” tanya Tukau. “Saat itu, kau masih banyak ragu.”

Ping mengangguk. “Dan, kau mengajari aku mendengarkan suara tanah leluhur kita bukan dengan telinga, tetapi dengan hati.” Bintang-bintang di langit berkelap-kelip seperti manik-manik yang berkilauan di atas pakaian adat mereka. Dia tahu, perjuangan belum berakhir, tetapi setidaknya mereka telah menemukan jalan mereka. Jalan tengah yang menghormati kearifan masa lalu sekaligus terus bergerak maju menapak masa depan.

Dari kejauhan, terdengar anak-anak bernyanyi lagu-lagu daerah diiringi petikan sape’, suara yang meyakinkan Ping dan Tukau bahwa nilai adat budaya mereka akan tetap lestari.

 

*****

The Cracked Jar

Purwanti Kusumaningtyas teaches at the English Literature Bachelor’s Program, Faculty of Language and Arts, Satya Wacana Christian University in Salatiga, Central Java. She earned her master’s and doctorate degrees from the American Studies Graduate Program, Faculty of Cultural Science, Gadjah Mada University, Yogyakarta. She has a wide range of interests, including mountain climbing and hiking, as well as poetry and short-story writing.

She has published her poems and short stories in anthologies, among others, “Furtive Notions” (DeePublish 2022) and “They Are Here” (DeePublish 2023). Some of her poems have been musicalized and performed in various non-profit, humanistic events, including LETSS Talk, a prominent feminist initiative in Indonesia, and Festival Musik Rumah (FMR). She has worked with Dalang Publishing since 2013, after discovering that she and the publisher share a passion to preserve and introduce Indonesia’s diversity to the world.

Purwanti can be reached at: purwanti.kusumaningtyas@uksw.edu

 

****

 

The Cracked Jar

Thick fog filled the upstream valley of the Mahakam River as the wooden boat, docked at the village harbor Ping had left long ago. She remembered sitting on her grandmother’s porch as a child, listening to tales about their ancestors. She now returned, no longer an excited child, but a researcher investigating the local farming wisdom of the Bahau Dayaks. Yet it was not just an academic task that prompted her return. It was also her longing to hear the grand gong, the melodious lute-like music plucked from the sape, and stories about the jungle. According to her grandmother, that lowland rainforest, crowded with shady light-red meranti trees and Kalimantan ironwoods, was the home of the ancestral spirits.

A tanned village girl waited for Ping at the end of the pier. She had slanted, sharp eyes and wore her hair in a long pigtail beneath a faded lavuung, the Bahau Dayak head scarf. “Ika’ sa’ Ping?” the girl greeted her, confirming Ping’s name.

“Ii’.” Ping nodded and, even though she felt awkward speaking in the Bahau Dayak language, she confirmed the girl’s name. “Ika’ alang Tukau?”

Tukau nodded and continued in Bahasa Indonesia. “I was assigned by the head of the kampong to accompany you. The village chief said that you wanted to write about Hunai, the rice goddess.”

Ping smiled. “Yes, about Hunai and our homeland.”

Tukau stared across the river at land deforested by the mining company. “You’ve come at the right time. Our homeland is under a big threat. The mining companies and oil palm plantations have come, one after the other, for the last decades.” Tukau’s voice rose.

“Those city folks told us this was all about sustainable development that would improve our village. But now, we’re only left with a smelly river polluted with oil and dead fish that floods the land every year. And we constantly have to find new fresh water sources. We no longer hear birds singing or other wild animals — we only hear the noisy, heavy-duty machines of logging equipment.”

Ping was recording Tukau with her smartphone. As Tukau kept staring at the denuded hill, Ping became restless. “Yes …,” she said softly, “city people talked about sustainable development … said it was for the village’s good.”

Tukau smiled sadly. “They talk about building something grand that destroys the land. They grow oil palm trees, but we, the Dayaks here, lost everything.”

Ping’s journey to the traditional house in her village felt like a dream. Every step she took tossed her between two worlds – the past and the present.

***

That evening, Ping and Tukau were sitting on the porch of the village chief’s house, where Ping was to stay during her research trip. A plate of pitoh sat in front of them. The fragrance of the steamed sticky rice with grated coconut and palm sugar kindled Ping’s childhood memories.

Ping ate the pitoh with mixed emotions. In the past, she would have heard crickets chirping and seen thousands of stars in the sky. Now, despite it being evening, the steady drone of heavy equipment reached them from far away. She couldn’t see even one star in the dark sky.

Tukau stared at the black river shimmering in the dim moonlight. “We used to bathe in that river and take our drinking water from it.” She sighed. “Now, we don’t dare wash our clothes in the river, and the children get rashes if they even touch the water.”

Ping looked at the oil-slicked water, and for the first time, as a researcher, she felt disturbed. Up until now, she had written about Kalimantan from a far-away, air-conditioned room, without witnessing its real condition. She remembered one of her college lecturers telling the class, “When doing our research, we must free ourselves from our personal interest and biases to the subject matter. This detachment keeps the work from being tainted by personal feelings.” But here, on the banks of a ruined river whose destruction turned it from a life-giving asset to a worthless liability for the sake of development and improvement, Ping felt a noncommital attitude would equal a betrayal.

***

Several days later, Tukau took Ping for a walk along the muddy riverbank. Uprooted trees, piles of washed up household garbage, and the still lingering stench of oil spills gave testament to recent flood damage.

Tukau suddenly squatted near a fallen tree and cried out, “Look at this!” Wedged between the tree’s exposed roots was a cracked clay jar. “This looks like an ancestral relic!” Tukau exclaimed, reaching for the jar. “Such items are usually kept in the amin ayaq because the village’s big traditional house can keep heirlooms like this safe.”

Ping helped Tukau clean the jar. Inside it, they found a piece of cloth and some worn beads, as well as a baliiu. The rusty, short dagger appeared to hold a story of the indigenous people’s lives which, like the flood-eroded riverbank, was mostly demolished.

Tukau gasped. “These are the ceremonial items are my grandmother mentioned!” she exclaimed. “They are the traditional heirlooms used to pray for the soil’s fertility at the Nebiing ritual.” She took a breath to calm herself. “My grandmother told me these had been lost during the big flood. We thought we had lost them forever, so our traditional elders made replacements. But here they are!” Tukau’s voice caught. “It turns out they had just drifted away to this riverbank.” Ping patted her shoulder.

***

The unexpected find made Ping realize that the problem was far greater than just the environmental damage — it was the destruction being done to the indigenous people’s collective memories and traditions. Every felled tree and polluted river represented the loss of priceless legacies.

That night, there was a black-out. By candlelight in the village chief’s house, Ping asked Tukau to tell her the legend of Dewi Hunai, the rice goddess. Tukau agreed, and Ping turned on her recorder.

“The story about Hunai begins in Apau Lagaan – the heavens, where gods, goddesses, and ancestors’ spirits live. At that time, the population on earth grew while food sources dwindled, causing famine and killing many people. So the elder gods chose Hunai Mebaang, one of the angels in heaven, to become the rice goddess, by sacrificing her blood to fertilize the rice crop that was the main food source for the people on earth.”

Ping listened attentively as the candle’s flickering flame danced like spirited shadows.

Tukau continued, “The elder gods transformed two women from heaven into birds — one a lesser coucal and the other a red-breasted partridge, the symbols of fertility. The birds were assigned to sprinkle Hunai Mebaang’s blood onto the fields.” Tukau’s voice softened. “From each drop of blood that hit the ground, a rice plant sprouted. That’s why the Bahau Dayaks regard rice with such high respect. It is the symbol of blessings and life.”

Ping was silent for a long time. Her sensibilities were in turmoil. Initially, she had regarded Tukau’s story as just an old folktale. But her conscience now started to believe that every ancestor’s story carried a particular wisdom.

“I know,” Tukau said quietly, “it’s hard for you who grew up in the city to accept such a story. But, the story about Hunai is not just a fairytale. It is a reminder that life is derived from sacrifice, and our land contains a spirit worthy of respect.”

Ping bowed her head. “I want to believe,” she whispered, “but, growing up, I was taught to think logically and always rely on scientific evidence. Land, to me, is a scientific entity, not a living thing we can converse with.”

Tukau patted Ping’s shoulder. “In that case,” she said softly, but firmly, “You need to start to learning from the land, herself. Let her speak to you directly.”

That night, Ping’s late grandmother visited her in a dream. For the first time since she was in high school, she conversed with her grandmother in the Bahau language – the language her grandmother had taught her, but she had never mastered. Born and raised in the city, she spoke Indonesian and sometimes a foreign language. In her dream, Ping greeted her beloved Bo’ Yoh and told her that she now understood her grandmother’s story about Hunai the rice goddess and other indigenous folklore. She admitted to her grandmother that she used to think the stories were nothing more than fairytales. Now, however, she understood that those stories were the ancestors’ way to relay messages about their identity and nature that supports their lives.

***

The following day, Tukau took Ping to visit an elder who lived at the outskirts of the village. Bo’ Huriing, a ninety-year-old woman, still vividly remembered the old ways villagers used to live.

“You’re Liruung’s granddaughter?” she asked Ping. “Your grandmother knew we had a sacred forest on that hill,” Bo’ Huriing said in her coarse voice. “That was before modern technology came. Now, the forest has almost disappeared.”

“Why didn’t our people stop the companies from cutting the trees?” Ping asked.

Bo’ Huriing took a deep breath. “At that time, young people said we villagers were outdated elders. They wanted to live like city dwellers and wouldn’t listen to us.” Bo’ Huriing’s clouded eyes stared into the distance as if trying to see into the past. “Our ancestors’ story about Hunai, who sacrificed herself so human beings would not die from starvation, reminds us that we need to maintain the balance between our lives and nature. Now, that balance has been destroyed.”

Stunned, Ping looked at Bo’ Huriing. Her deep wrinkles validated her wisdom regarding the past. Her tedak, the Bahau Dayaks’ unique tattoo, along her wrists and ankles had faded as time passed. Her long earlobes were no longer adorned with sihang. The tradition of wearing big, round, silver earrings had disappeared along with the progress of time. It showed that inner beauty was everlasting while appearance was transient. Ping took a long, deep breath.

***

At dawn the next day, Ping attended the tawah ritual. During tawah, people light a symbolic fire of their hopes and prayers for a good crop resulting in an abundant harvest. Bahau Dayaks held tawah on the seventh day of their annual rice planting, Lalii’ Ugaal. The billowing smoke from the dry, fragrant leaves represented their hopes for welfare. The dayuung, a religious leader who led the ritual, stood in the center of the gathering and chanted the mantras while the villagers cheered joyfully in response to the prayer.

As Ping was recording everything, she started to cry. Even though she didn’t understand what the mantra meant, she felt it in her heart. She saw the villagers’ belief in their faces, and, for the first time, she felt a belonging to something much bigger.

That evening, Ping wrote: “I am a Bahau Dayak who grew up in the city. Today, I heard my ancestral land breathe. The story of Hunai is not just a tale. It is a memory that pulsates in every breath of the Bahau people. I came here to do research and look for knowledge, but perhaps I found instead my identity in my ancestors’ wisdom.”

Tukau peeked at Ping’s note. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “That reads like a love letter!”

Ping smiled. “Yes, Tukau, I am falling in love with my identity and our ancestors’ wisdom.”

***

During the following weeks, Tukau helped Ping complete her research about the ways to plant rice and how Bahau Dayaks maintained a balance with nature. While they sat in the middle of the amin ayaq re-reading their notes, Tukau said, “You know what? We have to make sure that all Bahau people who were born and raised in the city like you are able to learn our traditions.”

Ping nodded enthusiastically. “I will use modern technology to store my records. I will also propose to my university that they send students directly here to learn. At the same time, young people here can gain new knowledge without losing their cultural identity.”

***

Several days later, the amin ayaq’s courtyard was packed with people. The traditional elders sat in the front row across from young men, dressed in the mining company’s uniform. Holding a loudspeaker, a smartly dressed company representative stood in the center and said, “We’ve come with an offer. We’ll build roads and schools if you allow us to expand our mining operations on the hill.”

Supported by his cane, the village chief immediately rose. “That hill is our ancestral land! If you dig there anymore, our ancestors’ spirits will be furious!”

Lalau, Tukau’s childhood friend, interrupted loudly, “That’s an old belief!” he called out. “We need to develop! Our children must go to school in the city because this village has been left behind!”

Tukau responded just as loudly, “What good is development if our fields are destroyed and the river is polluted?”

“The company gives us jobs, not just empty dreams!” Lalau insisted. “The fields only give you mud!”

Ping watched the exchange. She knew Lalau was not completely wrong: Higher education was one way to escape poverty. She looked at the elders around her — the elders who, in the future, would likely lose their fields, their river, and their ancestral wisdom gathered with the young people who wanted changes.

The company representative spoke in his loudspeaker. “If you refuse our offer, we won’t be responsible for the consequences!”

“What you’ve done has caused the annual flooding!” Tukau shouted. Her comment caused a big, angry commotion among the villagers. As the disputes intensified and threatened to turn into fistfights, someone struck the big gong of the amin ayaq three times. The deep, vibrating sound signaled that the meeting was over, even though they had not come to any agreement.

***

The rain hadn’t stopped since the courtyard meeting. The swollen river carried logs, mud, and waste from the mine and plantation around the village. People heard the gong’s alarm, signaling the imminent danger of a flash flood. The villagers shouted reminders to each other to rescue their families and belongings, as they ran to save themselves.

Ping and Tukau helped other young people evacuate children and the elderly up to the amin ayaq. In the midst of the chaos, Tukau suddenly grabbed a handful of rice and a tugaal, a stick used for making planting holes. She took off running to the field behind the flooded village.

“Tukau!” Ping shouted, “don’t go there!”

Tukau kept running through the rain.

“Tukau, stop!” Ping yelled, running after her. “You’ll drown!”

“If I don’t do anything, this village will vanish forever!” Tukau shouted. Reaching the middle of the field, she stopped. Stabbing the stick into the ground she threw the rice into the hole and shouted to the sky:

“Hunai, Hunai, Ika’ Too’ ParaiHunai, – Hunai, you are the rice goddess

Dang ketoo’ kamih nga’ adau nikaang  – Don’t be angry at our negligence

Niding tanaa’ pawaa’ kayaan urai raa’ im, – in protecting the beloved land where you spilled your blood

Niduung anau urip amih, – to save our lives.”

Ping, who was accustomed to city roads, was not as swift and agile as Tukau. She slipped and fell, hitting her head. Despite the darkness that enveloped her, she could still feel, see, and hear what was happening. Not sure if Tukau was being stupid or performing a miracle, Ping listened to Tukau softly repeating the mantra. Then, lightning flashed, and Ping saw a young woman, wet and pale, standing in the middle of the flooded field holding a bouquet of shiny golden rice panicles.

Dazed, Ping heard a voice. “Akii’ ni Hunai … Too’ Parai,” said the young woman, introducing herself as Hunai, the goddess of rice. “You talk about me with your mouth, but you don’t listen to me with your heart. This land must be protected. Knowledge is useful; use it to protect this land, not exploit it.”

The heavy rain eased, and the flood water receded as it soaked into the soil. Hunai and the glimmering rice grains she held faded as it blurred with the soil and the rice seeds she stood on. Ping heard Tukau cry out.

“The elders of the gods in Apau Lagaan have heard our prayers!”

Kneeling in the mud, Ping whispered, “I can finally hear their voices.”

***

Life in the village slowly resumed. The villagers started planting their remaining seeds. Ping wrote her report, although now, instead of an academic article with complicated terms, she wrote about her personal reflections.

“I came ignorant and am leaving with a firm belief that the story of Hunai, the rice goddess, is not just a fairytale,” she wrote at the report’s conclusion. “She is a symbol of nature that saves human beings. We cannot save the earth with development and scientific logic alone. We have to save it through conservation and with our hearts.”

She submitted the finished article to a mass-circulation newspaper. In just a few weeks, environmental activists began arriving at the village and helping the villagers reforest the land. The local government also sent in a group of environmental experts. Eventually, the small village upstream of the Mahakam River received the attention it needed.

***

Several months later, trees and healthy foliage covered the hill. The Mahakam River slowly cleared and flowed clean. The children learned to plant rice while singing traditional songs Tukau taught them.

When she returned to the village, Ping brought good news. “Our writing will be used as teaching material to instruct others about the story of Hunai and our ancestors’ wisdom.”

Tukau smiled proudly. “Ping, you have become a true Bahau Dayak!”

They stood side by side, looking up the sky. “I used to be reluctant to admit that I was a Bahau because I didn’t understand,” Ping said softly. “But now I understand what it means to be a Bahau. I know now where my roots are.”

Two spotted doves circled in the sky. “Look,” Tukai said. “That’s a sign from heaven.”

For a while, Ping looked at the birds. “Maybe they are us: two young Bahau Dayak women who have come to understand nature’s language.”

***

One year later, Ping invited a group of university students to visit the village and set up a repository to store the Bahau Dayaks’ traditions and wisdoms. Surprisingly, Lalau headed the village’s group of young tradition conservationists.

In his ceremonial welcoming speech to the university students, Lalau said, “The city folks said development was unavoidable. But, here, we want to show that we develop by preserving our ancestors’ customs.”

That night, under a full moon, Ping and Tukau sat side by side on the banks of the river. The harmonious sound of crickets and frogs filled their ears. “Do you remember the day we met?” Tukau asked. “You doubted many things, then.”

Ping nodded. “And you taught me to listen to our ancestral land — not with my ears, but with my heart.” The stars twinkled like the shiny beads of their traditional clothing. She knew the struggle was far from over, but at least they had found a middle ground to keep being respectful to ancestral wisdom while developing progress to meet the future.

In the distance, children’s voices sang traditional songs accompanied by a sape. Ping and Tukau looked at each other, certain that their traditional cuture would be preserved.

 

*****