Nurhayat Indriyatno Mohamed is the managing editor of the Jakarta Globe, an English-language newspaper in Jakarta. He was born and raised in Tanzania, and has a degree in mechanical engineering from the University of Natal, Durban, in South Africa. At age 24 Hayat decided to move to Indonesia, the land of his father’s birth, and was immediately smitten by the novelty of it all.
A chance encounter led to a newspaper job, and another presented him with the opportunity to translate into English a book by the award-winning author Okky Madasari. Hayat is the translator of Erni Aladjai’s award winning novel Kei.

***

Mariantje and the old Couple

It was a bright Wednesday morning and they woke up under the same blanket. Laura and Don were still together. Neither had gone first. God wanted to give them a new day. Every night, just before she closed her eyes, Laura laced her fingers with Don’s. It was her secret habit, only Mariantje knew about.

Laura got up slowly from the bed and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She studied her hair, every last strand was gray, her cheeks and chin sagged. Just three years earlier, she often sat before the mirror dyeing her hair while humming along to an old jazz number. She and Don loved jazz. They enjoyed it since the first time they came to Batavia.

She still remembered it well, that crowded night when groups of Filipino musicians came to town looking for work. From the entrances of hotels and in the streets, they introduced their instruments and their music: trumpet, saxophone, bolero, rumba. Ah, the memory was like a soothing afternoon breeze. Her memory of the first time she heard jazz in the city was one that would remain with her forever, because on that day something happened that made her happy.

Don, who was right now lying there behind her, had bought two tickets to a jazz show at the Hotel des Indes. He was seventeen at the time and he loved wearing bowler hats, the kind Charlie Chaplin often wore, with pantaloons and a jacket.
Laura was sixteen. She wore a chiffon dress with a lotus motif and took the tram with Don. It was the first electric tram, she overheard two Dutchmen saying inside the car. When the sounds of the saxophone played by Soleano, the Filipino musician, rose to the ceiling of the Hotel des Indes, Don slipped an engagement ring onto her finger.

***

Laura loved the morning. She never wanted to miss a single sunrise. And this morning, she didn’t dye her hair. It was as though Old Laura had made a deal with her hair, from today onward, she would no longer choke her hair in a thick coating of dye. There would be no more gloves, no more of the Tancho powdered dye on her dressing table.

She moved to the windowsill. She always saw the window as a movie screen. There, behind the glass, stood two kersen trees, their trunks intertwined. The birdcage where Don kept his parrot hung from one of the branches. The bird greeted Laura every morning when she opened the curtains.

“Good morning, my love!” the parrot would say. Don had taught the bird to greet Laura in the morning. It was almost as though he knew that one day he would be confined to the bed with a tube in his nose. The illness had paralyzed half of his body. Laura nodded and laughed as the parrot shook its tail.

Mariantje also greeted her every day. “Good morning! You look healthy and radiant today.”

Laura laughed.

Mariantje was a tall, large woman, with dark skin. She wore her hair tied up with a bandana. She came into Laura’s room holding a mop. She just finished boiling potatoes for Laura’s breakfast. She did all the chores around the house: she cooked, did the laundry, ironed, swept the yard and shopped. She came from Sanger in Manado and had worked for Laura for five years. Laura liked the way Mariantje worked.

Every Saturday Laura added a little something to Mariantje’s shopping list. She would ask her to go to Senen and buy the latest novel. Later, Laura would read the book to Don with a magnifying glass.

Mariantje liked Laura’s house. It was simple, it smelled of oranges, and always filled with jazz music. Every morning Mariantje wound up Laura’s old gramophone and put on the jazz record Laura wanted to listen to.

“Natalie Cole this morning, Mariantje!”

Mariantje experienced many touching moments in Laura’s house. Two nights ago, she came in to check on Laura and found the old woman sitting next to Don and reading to him from a book with a red cover. Laura believed that even though Don could no longer move, he could still hear. Her voice quivered like it usually did.

“Don, my love, this is a passage from Max Havelaar in which he quotes the poet Heine. I thought you’d enjoy it.” She cleared her throat and began to read. “‘And in the distance roars ever/ The holy river’s loud flood./ And there, while joyously sinking/ Beneath the palm by the stream,/ And love and repose while drinking,/ Of blissful visions we’ll dream.’ So be happy, my love!”

Mariantje quietly watched the scene from the doorway. She was touched. Laura read well. The book was Max Havelaar by Eduard Douwes Dekker, published in the 1977 edition. She had bought it on Jalan Kwitang. The seller had persuaded her to buy it. “It’s a good book. Pram and Kartini read it, you have to have it!” he said.

***

After reading to Don, Laura, as usual, looked for Mariantje. They talked in the kitchen. This time Laura talked about something serious. “Mariantje, I’m really sorry I haven’t been able to pay you these past few months. It saddens me, and you never complain about it.”

“There’s no need to be sorry. Letting me stay here is more than enough.” Mariantje clasped Laura’s hand.

“If one day I’m suddenly gone, the keys to my house are yours for good. That’s all I can pass on to you. Please take care of Don’s parrot. And when one day there’s a jazz museum in this city, give them the old records,” Laura said. “Thank you for taking care of Don and me,” she added in a half-whisper.

“There’s no need to keep thanking me, ma’am. I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

It had in fact been four months since Laura had last paid Mariantje. Don and Laura’s pension was only enough for Don’s medical care, simple meals, and a new book once a week.

Mariantje didn’t complain. To know Laura was a source of joy. She remembered her face was bruised and her lip split the first time she met Laura.

It was at a store. Laura had come in to buy mayonnaise and condensed milk. Mariantje was there to buy a pack of cookies to tide herself over. No one cared about her bruised face and her bleeding lip. People just looked at the shelves. Laura was the only person who asked whether she was alright.

“What happened to your face? Did you fall?” Laura asked as she came closer. Without bothering to wait for an answer, she took Mariantje by the hand and led her home. Laura made a compress of ice cubes and placed it on Mariantje’s chin, cheeks and lips.

“How come you brought me into your house?”

“You’re hurt.” That had been Laura’s answer. She gave Mariantje a house dress with a hibiscus motif. She also gave her a blanket and showed her to the guest room.

Meeting Laura had make Mariantje determined to leave Tigor. She couldn’t stand anything about him. He reeked of beer. He threw the phone at her and hid money. He slammed the table and broke the glass in the windows. Mariantje ran away in the middle of the night to Laura’s house. That was some five years ago.

***

On Sunday morning, Mariantje went to church. She prayed for Don and Laura to stay healthy. She was terrified that God might call both of them. If she could choose, Mariantje hoped that she would be the first to die. She had no one in Java except for Laura. Mariantje made a mental count: tomorrow would be 170 days since Don was bedridden. It was truly a trying time for Laura.

On her way home from church, Mariantje took a detour to buy some flowers. She bought a single red rose and a single white one.

She walked softly to Laura’s room with the roses pressed to her chest. The room was exceptionally quiet. Laura lay on her side on top of the white sheets, her right arm embraced Don, who lay on his back with his mouth open.

Mariantje went up to Laura. She gently placed her finger against Laura’s nostril. There was no movement of air. She grabbed Laura’s arm. It was cold. Mariantje began to cry. Her stomach hurt.

She placed her fingers on Don’s wrist. There was no a pulse. Don was free.

Perhaps it was their time to go. Mariantje cried. She remembered her talk with Laura the day before. “Mariantje, I’ve wanted for so long to go away with Don. To go away forever. It’s said that in that other world, we’ll be young again. Isn’t that beautiful, Mariantje?”

***

Azahri was born in the village of Lamjamee, Banda Aceh, in October 1981. Before the tsunami in December 2004, he studied in the Literature and Language Program at Syiah Kuala University, Banda Aceh. His first book of short stories, Perempuan Pala, was published in 2004 and long-listed for the Khatulistiwa Literary Award. In 2005, Azhari received the Free Word Award from Poets of All Nations, The Netherlands. In 2002, Azhari established Komunitas Tikar Pandan; through its cultural programs, the organization strives to achieve peace, fairness, and equal opportunities for all Acehnese people. Azhari is also the founding editor of the cultural journal Gelombang Baru (New Wave), published in Banda Aceh. He is currently working on a novel and essays about Aceh.

“The Tale of the Bearded Turtle” first appeared in the Tempo Newspaper, Sunday, March 4, 2007 edition; copyright © Azhari. Revised version copyright © 2014 by Azhari. Published with permission from the author. Translation copyright © 2014 by Wikan Satriati.
 
 
 
 
 
 

***

Hikayat Kura-kura Berjanggut

Dahulu kala, ketika waktu masih ditentukan oleh beberapa orang, dan kapal-kapal masih bergantung pada kecerlangan bintang-bintang dan nujuman, dan para perompak masih musuh utama Sultan, hiduplah seorang Tukang Cerita yang mengandalkan kebohongan. Pada musim di mana angin gila dan angin ekor duyung menguasai lautan, ramailah bandar oleh para awak kapal yang menunggu amuk lautan reda. Saat gempita itulah si Tukang Cerita turun dari gunung. Sehabis asar dia selalu datang ke bandar itu, karena dia bergantung hidup pada kemurahan hati para pelaut yang terbius oleh kisah-kisahnya.

Pelaut-pelaut itu memberinya kain Koromandel, keramik Campa, permadani Persia, batik Jawa, kemenyan Barus, candu Magrib, dan kisah-kisah pelayaran. Segala pemberian itu, oleh Tukang Cerita, dijual kembali setelah bandar tak lagi ramai. Sementara kisah-kisah pelayaran adalah bahan-bahan cerita baru baginya, yang dikocoknya dengan begitu lihai, sehingga nyaris tidak kelihatan rupa aslinya. Dalam melumatkan cerita, mulutnya itu sempurna tiada terkira, melebihi batu giling yang paling tajam sekalipun. Para pelaut malang itu tak pernah sadar bahwa kisahan Tukang Cerita itu ialah apa yang pernah mereka ceritakan.

Setiap dia menyelesaikan cerita, yang terkesan dipanjang-panjangkan, dia bertanya pada dua-tiga orang pelaut, “Bagaimana ceritaku barusan? Kalian percaya? Pengalaman apa yang kaudapat dalam pelayaran kali ini, Ranir? Wahai, Pasha, ceritakan padaku tentang gadis-gadis negeri Atas Angin?”

Maka berceritalah para pelaut itu, sementara dia mendengar dengan saksama sambil mengangguk-anggukkan kepalanya. Saat para pelaut itu satu demi satu selesai bercerita, dia bertepuk tangan, tentu bukan untuk menghormati kepiawaian mereka, namun karena dia sudah menemukan bahan kisah baru untuk saat mendatang.

Mulut Tukang Cerita sama tajamnya dengan Zulfikar, pedang kesayangan Sultan. Dan kelak dia binasa di ujung Zulfikar. Konon kabarnya, dia binasa karena Kura-kura Berjanggut.

Kisahnya tentang Kura-kura Berjanggut telah membuat Sultan begitu terhina. Mungkin maksudnya mulia: dia ingin menghibur para anak kapal yang telah menunggu lama di bandar oleh huru-hara di lautan. Tapi mungkin saja Sultan menangkap maksud lain dari kisah itu.

Pada hari-hari menjelang putusnya leher Tukang Cerita oleh Zulfikar, kapal-kapal yang merapat di Bandar Lamuri tak terbilang jumlahnya, bahkan berderet hampir menyentuh tepi cakrawala! Kapal-kapal itu singgah bukan oleh musim angin gila atau angin ekor duyung. Laut tenang. Langit bercahaya. Tak ada waktu yang lebih bagus untuk berlayar selain pada musim ini. Tapi ini waktu perompak Lamuri mengganas. Sudah bertahun-tahun tak terdengar kabar berita tentang para perompak itu. Tak ada yang bisa menerka kapan muncul dan hilangnya rompak Lamuri. Tak juga ahli nujum kepercayaan Sultan. Bahkan, bertambah cemaslah raut wajah para saudagar kapal tatkala melihat kapal-kapal perang Sultan yang memburu perompak pulang dengan layar hangus dan tiang roboh, padahal kapal-kapal perkasa itu telah dilengkapi dengan meriam dan bubuk mesiu buatan Turki Usmani.

Bandar Lamuri sebenarnya tempat menunggu yang paling pas bagi kapal-kapal itu disebabkan oleh kedudukannya tepat di mulut pintu antara bandar-bandar Atas Angin dan bandar-bandar Bawah Angin. Namun sejak lima tahun terakhir bandar itu sepi, sejak orang kulit putih merebut Bandar Malaka. Begitu Malaka direbut, penguasa putih langsung menurunkan ongkos merapat kapal setengah kali lipat dari bea Bandar Lamuri. Hal ini tak lepas dari peran Si Ujud.

Memang khianat Si Ujud itu! Geram suara Sultan yang melaknat Si Ujud masih terdengar sampai hari ini. Menurut Hikayat Taman-taman Kenikmatan yang dikarang oleh pengarang istana paling cemerlang pada masa itu, Sultan menyesal kenapa ia tak memancung leher Si Ujud dengan Zulfikar, ketika orang celaka itu menghasut sekelompok orangkaya lingkaran Kleng untuk memberontak. Sultan hanya menghukum-buang Si Ujud ke Malaka.

***

Tentu saja si pengarang istana yang cerdas punya alasan kenapa Sultan tak memancung Si Ujud. Tersurat dalam hikayat itu, Sultan masih menyimpan sesal yang dalam karena pada tahun yang lewat dia dengan ringan melayangkan Zulfikar ke leher anak kandungnya, yang dituduhnya telah membagi kenikmatan dengan seorang selir kesayangan Sultan. Menurut hikayat itu pula, setelah si anak kandung binasa, Sultan berjanji untuk menyimpan Zulfikar dan hanya menggunakan pada saat-saat yang penting.

Namun tidak begitu menurut para ahli hikayat, terutama orang kulit putih, yang hidup ratusan tahun kemudian. Menurut penafsir berkulit putih itu, Sultan menyimpan Zulfikar karena pada malam hari setelah pemancungan itu Sultan beroleh mimpi yang aneh. Dalam mimpi itu Sultan didatangi seorang sahabat Nabi, yang mengatakan bahwa Zulfikar merupakan pedang kesayangannya, biasa dipakai untuk membela agama anjuran Nabi. Dan Sultan sempat bertanya: wahai Saidina, bagaimana bisa pedang ini berada di tangan Kadi Malikul Adil dan kemudian Kadi menyerahkan padaku? Sang Sahabat hanya menjawab: laut begitu luas, maka laut dapat menghanyutkan segala sesuatu kepada siapa saja, kepada orang yang saleh maupun yang tidak.

Sejak mimpi itulah Sultan menyimpan Zulfikar.

Nasib Si Ujud berubah setelah orang kulit putih merebut Malaka dan menumpas penguasa taklukan Lamuri. Sultan Lamuri tak kuasa menghentikan langkah orang kulit putih di tanah taklukannya, dan hanya mampu menatap saja dari seberang lautan. Sebab di tanahnya sendiri pada saat yang bersamaan meletus pemberontakan orangkaya Lingkaran Kleng sekutu Si Ujud, yang melarikan diri ke hutan Halimun. Ketika Sultan berhasil memadamkan pemberontakan itu, orang kulit putih sudah terlalu kuat di Malaka. Beberapa serangan kilat oleh balatentara laut Sultan dipatahkan oleh orang kulit putih. Maka Sultan berencana menyiapkan perang yang lebih besar dan matang terhadap para penakluk itu. Untuk itu, kapal-kapal perang yang dilengkapi meriam paling ampuh dan terbaru telah dipesan kepada Kekhalifahan Usmani. Maka kas kesultanan harus ditambah. Maka ongkos masuk kapal di Bandar Lamuri dinaikkan.

Si Ujud kemudian diangkat sebagai penasihat orang kulit putih khusus untuk masalah Lamuri dan tanah-tanah taklukannya. Maka ia menyampaikan beberapa siasat untuk melemahkan Lamuri. Begitu Sultan menaikkan ongkos masuk kapal, ia sarankan penguasa kulit putih di Malaka untuk menurunkan tarif masuk kapal di Malaka setengah dari harga Bandar Lamuri. Hasilnya akan kelihatan pada musim angin buruk mendatang. Benarlah, hampir setengah dari kapal-kapal yang dulu singgah di Lamuri pindah ke Malaka. Itulah mengapa Bandar Lamuri sepi selama lima tahun terakhir.

Maka Sultan menyesal tak memancung kepala Si Ujud dengan Zulfikar.

Bandar Lamuri bertambah sepi tatkala orang kulit putih mendirikan sebuah rumah bordil yang besar sekali di Malaka. Muka Berseri nama rumah kenikmatan itu, yang langsung diusahakan di bawah kesyahbandaran. Ini juga saran Si Ujud. Berkata dia, “Betapa aku sering mendengar sepinya hati para pelaut setiap kapal mereka singgah di Lamuri. Di sana tak ada rumah bordil sebab tak diizinkan Sultan yang alim. Padahal sudah kubilang berkali-kali bahwa para pelaut itu tak semuanya seagama dengan kita. Belum selesai aku bicara, kulihat Sultan sudah memegang Zulfikar-nya. Siapa tak gentar melihat pedang itu. Selama ini hati pelaut yang sepi hanya dihibur oleh bual dan cerita bohong Tukang Cerita sialan. Sungguh kasihan nasib pelaut yang singgah di sana.”

***

Sementara Si Tukang Cerita sendiri, sejak sepinya Bandar Lamuri, sudah jarang turun ke bandar. Dia telah begitu banyak kehilangan pendengar setianya. Dia hanya turun gunung apabila mendengar hal-hal besar terjadi di bandar.

Begitulah, kali ini Tukang Cerita pun turun ke bandar begitu ia mendengar banyaknya kapal yang merapat di bandar akibat mengganasnya perompak Lamuri.

“Berceritalah, Tukang Cerita. Berceritalah. Kau pasti punya simpanan cerita yang tak terkira. Aku khusus membawakanmu anggur kekekalan yang disimpan di dalam gudang rumah orang Peranggi. Anggur ini tak hanya menghangatkan tubuhmu tapi juga pikiranmu. Kau harus mencobanya,” sambut seorang anak kapal.

“Ya berceritalah, Tukang Cerita. Ceritakan tentang perompak Lamuri, kalau kau tahu tentang mereka,” berkata anak kapal yang lain.

“Hoho, jangan salah sangka, kawan-kawan semua. Hari ini aku tak akan menceritakan tentang rompak Lamuri, belum saatnya. Dan janganlah kalian dirisaukan oleh perompak itu. Biarlah para nakhoda dan saudagar, juga laksamana dan Sultan Kita Yang Mulia saja yang memikirkan itu. Mari kita bersenang-senang terlebih dahulu. Bukankah sudah lama kita tak berjumpa?” jawab Tukang Cerita.

Maka berceritalah Tukang Cerita sore itu tentang segala ihwal. Bercerita sepanjang malam sampai matahari terbit lagi keesokan harinya. Bercerita pula beberapa anak kapal tentang bandar-bandar yang mereka singgahi, dan pengalaman cinta mereka di setiap bandar. Melupakan kapan kapal-kapal mereka bisa angkat sauh dari Bandar Lamuri, dan kapan janji Sultan menumpas perompak yang mengganas itu terlunasi.

Berhari-hari Tukang Cerita bercerita menghibur para anak kapal yang menunggu Sultan menumpas perompak Lamuri. Sampai Tukang Cerita kehabisan ceritanya, sampai anak-anak kapal sadar bahwa telah begitu lama mereka menunggu di Bandar. Mereka masih menunggu datangnya kabar baik dari kesyahbandaran.

Hingga suatu hari, di tengah tuturan Tukang Cerita, datanglah beberapa puluh orang mendekat ke kerumunan itu. Melihat siapa-siapa yang datang, berdirilah ia seketika menghentikan kisahnya.

“Singkat saja, Tukang Cerita. Hari ini aku ingin mendengar perkara bajak laut Lamuri. Aku tahu kau tahu segalanya tentang mereka,” berkata seorang nakhoda tua.

“Tun, kau rupanya, nakhoda kapal Ikan Pari. Apa kabar perempuan berleher gading dari Magribi?” tanya Tukang Cerita.

Bersemu merah paras nakhoda tua itu.

“Katakan sejujurnya apa yang sebenarnya terjadi di laut kita?”

“Dan kau, Abdul Kadir, jurumudi ternama kesayangan saudagar Barus, kawan lama sekapal yang bersumpah tak akan menjejak tanah sebelum orang putih meninggalkan Malaka. Apakah aku harus terharu? Kau melanggar sumpah untuk tidak mendengar ceritaku?”

Yang paling takjub mendengar percakapan itu ialah para awak kapal yang belia usianya. Baru tahu mereka ternyata Tukang Cerita punya hubungan dengan para petinggi mereka.

“Tidak. Aku tidak tahu apa-apa tentang rompak Lamuri. Karena mereka tak ada lagi. Dan bukankah Sultan sudah berjanji untuk menumpas perompak di laut secepat laju kapal kalian?” kata Tukang Cerita.

“Kau bohong, kau tahu segalanya, bukankah kau bagian dari perompak itu? Dan tidakkah kaudengar satu armada belum kembali setelah dua Jumat mengejar kapal perompak? ”

Heninglah semua jamaah mendengar pernyataan terakhir Abdul Kadir.

“Kau benar belaka, Abdul Kadir. Kita berdua pernah menjadi bagian dari rompak Lamuri. Semua orang di bandar ini tahu. Tapi itu dulu, berpuluh tahun silam, ketika kalian, wahai anak-anak kapal yang belia, belum melihat dunia. Aku nakhoda kapal perompak Lamuri yang paling ditakuti di selingkar laut Atas dan Bawah Angin, dan kau, Kadir, adalah salah seorang jurumudi kapal yang paling kukagumi. Di tanganmu kemudi kapal kita secepat Zulfikar memenggal kepala. Itu dulu, waktu Sultan masih membutuhkan kekuatan kita di lautan. Sampai suatu hari Sultan Kita Yang Mulia mengatakan dia tak membutuhkan kita lagi sebagai sekutu lautnya. Hari itu Zulfikar baru saja tiba di tanah ini. Seorang mufti dari seberang lautan mempersembahkan pedang itu kepadanya,” kata Tukang Cerita.

“Hari itu kukatakan kepada Sultan, jika saja tiang-tiang kapal kita bisa bicara, akan mereka katakan bahwa orang kulit putih dalam perjalanan menyeberang ke mari dan kitalah kekuatan pertama yang akan mencegah kedatangan mereka. Dan bukankah kalian tahu apa jawaban Sultan waktu itu? Pamanku itu hanya memelukku dan berucap, terima kasih, wahai kemenakan, atas peringatanmu. Kita semua kecewa mendengar ketetapan hatinya, tapi kita menghormati Sultan kita, mematuhi kata-katanya. Maka aku menolak saranmu untuk melakukan pemberontakan, wahai Qaran,” kata Tukang Cerita sambil mendekat ke arah seorang abesy, lalu memeluk orang itu, “Sudah besarkah anak dara Bukharamu? Kuharap kau selalu memenuhi janjimu untuk mengunjunginya setidaknya dua tahun sekali.”

“Ya. Aku dalam perjalanan untuk berjumpa Zulaikha. Tapi kabar tentang perompak itu menghentikan langkahku di bandar ini. Bandar yang sejujurnya tidak ingin kuinjak lagi. Hanya karena kudengar kabar tentang perompakan di laut Lamuri, maka kuarahkan kemudi ke bandar celaka ini. Dan kukira kau kembali dipanggil Sultan.”

“Wahai Qaran dan kawan-kawan lama lainnya. Huru-hara di lautan menyebabkan kita berjumpa lagi. Tak pernah terbayang olehku kita bakal berjumpa lagi seperti ini. Sultan punya keputusan, kalian juga punya, begitu pula denganku. Kalian meninggalkan Lamuri untuk selamanya, pergi entah ke mana, juga merasa kecewa denganku yang tak mampu membela kepentingan kalian. Sementara aku yang tak ingin ke mana-mana, karena cintaku pada tanah ini, memilih berumah di dalam hutan. Kutampik rumah pemberian Sultan. Lama di dalam hutan, hilanglah pengetahuanku tentang lautan. Sekali-sekali aku turun ke bandar dan menjadi Tukang Cerita, bertanya-tanya tentang kabar kalian dari para anak kapal yang mau mendengar ceritaku. Dengan begitu lunaslah sedikit rinduku pada kalian,” kata Tukang Cerita.

“Kalian akan pergi dari hadapanku. Dan memang itu yang harus kalian lakukan sebab aku tak lebih tahu dari kalian siapa sesungguhnya para perompak Lamuri itu. Kini kuharap kalian masih mau mendengarkan ceritaku tentang Kura-kura Berjanggut. Kisah ini dulu sering kuceritakan kepada kalian, di tengah lautan, di atas geladak kapal saat angin mati, saat kita berhari-hari dalam jemu yang panjang menunggu datangnya angin. Seperti kalian ketahui, begitu aku selesai menceritakan Hikayat Kura-kura Berjanggut, esok harinya layar kapal menarik angin dari segala penjuru,” kata Tukang Cerita.

“Di antara kalian masih ada yang percaya, mungkin sampai hari ini, hikayat itu adalah mantra penarik angin. Tapi ini adalah leluconku dengan mualim kita yang cerdas itu. Dia melihat bintang-bintang di langit, dan mengatakan padaku bahwa tujuh hari lagi angin akan berembus. Maka aku mengumpulkan kalian semua di atas geladak. Dan menceritakan hikayat itu. Betapa gembira kalian tatkala aku menceritakan hikayat itu, sebab kalian bakal terbebaskan dari hari-hari menunggu angin yang membosankan. Semoga dengan hikayat ini kapal kalian bisa berlayar esok hari,” kata Tukang Cerita. “Simaklah.”

***

Wikan Satriati is a graduate from the Faculty of Letters of Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Wikan is an experienced editor specializing in manuscripts of literary and cultural content, and works as a freelance translator. She translated Harry Aveling’s essays from English into Indonesian for inclusion in an anthology of Indonesian poetry, Secrets Need Words: Indonesian Poetry 1966–1998 (Center for International Studies, Ohio University, 2001). IndonesiaTera published the Indonesian translation in 2004 by under the title Rahasia Membutuhkan Kata: Puisi Indonesia 1966–1998. Yayasan Adikarya IKAPI (Indonesian Book Publishers Association) Book Program chose the publication as a quality book.

Wikan is the author of two children books: Gadis Kecil Penjaga Bintang (The Star’s Caretaker), published by KataKita in 2008, and Melangkah dengan Bismillah (Walking with the Name of God) by KataKita, 2006. Currently she works as a publication assistant at the Lontar Foundation, a non-profit institution whose primarily goal is the introduction of Indonesian literature to a world readership through translations of Indonesian literary works into English.

Wikan can be reached at wikan_satriati@yahoo.com.

***

The Tale of the Bearded Turtle

A long time ago, when time was still determined by many people and ships relied on shining stars and ancient astronomy, and pirates were the Sultan’s main enemy, there lived a storyteller who relied on lies. When crosswinds controlled the sea, the harbor was crowded with sailors who waited for the sea to calm. At such boisterous time, the storyteller came down from the mountain. He always came to the harbor after asr, the afternoon pray time, for he relied on the generosity of the sailors he mesmerized with his stories.

The sailors gave him Coromandel cloths, ceramics from Campa, Persian carpets, Javanese batik, Barus incense, opium from Magrib, and their voyage stories. After they left, the storyteller sold the gifts and the sailor’s tales became fodder for his new stories. He mixed them with such skill that the original stories were barely recognizeable. His mouth reshaped the stories the same as a sharp knife whittled a piece of wood. The poor sailors never realized that his stories were the same as the ones they had told him.

He embellished the stories in every retelling. After he finished, he asked two or three sailors, “What do you think? Do you believe the story? What happened on that journey, Ranir? Oh, Pasha, tell me about the girls in the Upper Country.”

When the sailors told their stories, he listened carefully. He clapped when they finished, not so much to applaud their skill, but because he had found material for the future.

The storyteller’s tongue was as sharp as Zulfikar, the Sultan’s favorite sword. And he died at the tip of Zulfikar because of “The Bearded Turtle.”

His story about the turtle humiliated the Sultan deeply. He had noble intentions: to entertain the sailors who waited a long time at the harbor because of the unrest at sea. The Sultan interpreted the story differently.

In the days leading to the storyteller being beheaded by Zulfikar, countless ships were docked at the Lamuri harbor. The line almost touched the edge of the horizon. Neither cross winds nor stormy weather prevented the ships from sailing. The sea was calm, and the sky luminous. It was the best time to set sail. But also for pirates to attack.

No one could predict when the pirates appeared or sailed away, not even the Sultan and his trusted clairvoyants. The crew of the merchant ships worried when they saw the Sultan’s warships return with scorched sails and broken masts, although the mighty ships had been armed with cannons and gunpowder made in Turkey.

Due to its strategic position between the harbors of the Upper Country and Lower Country, the Lamuri harbor was the best place for the ships to dock. However, white men had seized the Malacca harbor five years previously and since that time, Lamuri was deserted. The new rulers of the Malacca harbor had reduced their docking fees to half of those at Lamuri.

Ujud had a hand in this. He was a traitor, indeed. The Sultan’s furious cursing of Ujud could still be heard. According to The Saga of the Pleasure Gardens, written by the most brilliant palace author, the Sultan regretted not cutting off Ujud’s head with Zulfikar when the wretched man incited a group of rich Kleng men to revolt. Instead, the Sultan exiled him to Malacca.

***

The briliant palace author had a reason why the Sultan did not behead Ujud. As written in the saga, the Sultan was remorseful for having swung Zulfikar at the neck of his own son, who was suspected of sharing pleasures with the Sultan’s favorite concubine. Also, according to the saga, after his son died, the Sultan promised to put Zulfikar away and only use the sword at important moments.

But it wasn’t like that, said the saga experts, especially the white men who lived hundreds of years later. According to one white interpreter, the Sultan stored Zulfikar because of the strange dream he had the night after beheaded his son.

In the dream, the Sultan was visited by a companion of the Prophet who said Zulfikar was his favorite sword and used to defend the Prophet’s religion.

The Sultan asked: “Oh, Sayyidina, how come this sword was in the hands of Kadi Malikul Adil and why did he give it to me?

The companion replied, “The sea is so vast, it can bring everything to anyone, pious or not.

Since that dream, the Sultan kept Zulfikar locked away.

The fate of Ujud changed after the white men seized Malacca and crushed the rulers who had once been conquered by Lamuri. The Sultan of Lamuri was unable to stop the white men from entering his land. All he could do was stare across the ocean because of a rebellion happening at the same time. Rich Kleng men were allies of Ujud, who had fled to the Halimun Forest.

While the Sultan succeeded in quelling the rebellion, the white man became too strong in Malacca. Quick attacks by the Sultan’s sea armies were defeated by the white man. The Sultan planned to use larger armies and more mature strategies against the conquerors. He equipped his warships with the latest and most powerful cannons ordered from Turkey. Consequently, the imperial treasury needed more money and the Sultan raised the docking fees for the Lamuri harbor.

Ujud was appointed a special adviser to the white man to help resolve Lamuri and its conquered land problems. He suggested a plot to weaken Lamuri. As soon as the Sultan raised the fees at the Lamuri harbor, Ujud told the white man in Malacca to lower the fees in Malacca harbor to half the price. The result appeared in the upcoming bad wind season. Almost half of the ships that used to stop at Lamuri then docked in Malacca. That’s why the Lamuri harbor was deserted during the last five years.

The Sultan regretted he did not behead Ujud with Zulfikar.

Lamuri lost again when the white man set up a huge brothel in Malacca. The management of the Shining Face was placed directly under the harbor rulers. This was also Ujud’s suggestion. He said, “I often heard the sailors pour out their lonely hearts when their ships stopped at Lamuri. There were no brothels because the pious Sultan did not permit it, even after I told him that not all sailors had the same religion as us. Before I could finish, the Sultan gripped his Zulfikar. Who would not be afraid when looking at that sword? The lonely sailors were only entertained by the rambling fantasies of a poor storyteller. I pity the sailors whose ships docked there.”

***

Since the Lamuri harbor was empty, the storyteller rarely came to the city. He had lost many of his faithful audience. He only left the mountain if he heard something important was happening in Lamuri.

He went to the harbor because he had heard that many ships had thrown anchor due to the recent pirate activity.

“Tell us, oh storyteller. Please,” a mate welcomed him. “You must have countless stories. I brought a special aged wine from the Peranggi cellars. This wine will warm your body and your mind. You should try it.”

“Yes, tell us about the Lamuri pirates if you know about them,” said another sailor.

“Ho, ho. Do not get me wrong, my friends. Today I’m not going to tell you about the Lamuri pirates, not this time. Leave worry about the pirates to our captains and merchants. Let the admirals and His Majesty the Sultan think about it. Let’s have fun. We haven’t seen each other for such a long time,” the storyteller replied.

That afternoon, the storyteller told many stories. He talked through the night until the sun rose the next day. In turn, the sailors told him about the harbors they had visited, and their love experiences in every town. They forgot their ships couldn’t depart from Lamuri, and the Sultan’s promises to quell the pirates had yet to be fullfiled.

Day after day, the storyteller entertained the sailors who waited for the Sultan to defeat the pirates. The storyteller ran out of tales, and the saillors realized how long they had been on shore. They still waited for good news from the harbor authorities.

One day, in the middle of a story, a dozen men approached the gathering. The storyteller rose and halted.

“Storyteller, let me be brief. Today I want to hear about the Lamuri pirates. I know you know everything about them,” said an old captain.

“Oh, Tun, is that you? The captain of the Pari Fish? How is the Magribi woman with an ivory neck?” asked the storyteller.

The old captain’s face flushed.

“Tell us truthfully, what is actually happening on our seas?”

“And you, Abdul Kadir, the famous navigator and favorite of the merchant Barus, old friend and shipmate who vowed to never set foot on this land until the white man had left Malacca. Should I be touched? Are you breaking your oath to never again listen to my stories?”

The young sailors were surprised to hear the storyteller had a relationship with their superiors.

“No, I don’t know anything about pirates because they no longer exist. Didn’t the Sultan promise to eliminate pirates at the sea as fast as your ships can move?” said the storyteller.

“You’re lying, you know everything. Aren’t you one of the Lamuri pirates? Not a single ship has returned since they went to chase the pirates two weeks ago.”

Everyone was silent after Abdul Kadir’s statement.

“You’re absolutely right, Abdul Kadir. Both of us were Lamuri pirates. Everyone in this harbor knew. But that was decades ago, before these young mates were born. I was captain of the most feared Lamuri pirates in Upper Country and Lower Country, and you, Kadir, were the navigator I most admired. In your hand, our ship moved as fast as Zulfikar would behead us. At that time, Sultan still needed our power at sea. Then, one day, His Majesty the Sultan said he no longer needed us. It was the day a mufti brought Zulfikar to this land. The Muslim holy man from across the ocean presented the sword to him,” the storyteller said.

“That day I said to the Sultan, ‘If the masts of our ship could talk, they would say that the white man was on its way, and we are the frontline force to prevent their arrival.’ And don’t you remember what the Sultan said? The Sultan, my uncle, hugged me and said, ‘Thank you, oh my nephew, for your warning.’ We were disappointed about his stubborness, but since we respected our Sultan, we obeyed him. So I refused your advice to rebell, oh Qaran.”

The storyteller walked to an Abysinian and hugged him.”How is your daughter in Bukhara? Is she a big girl now? I hope you’re keeping your promise to visit her at least once every two years.”

“Yes. I’m on my way to visit Zulaikha. But news about the Lamuri pirates made me stop at this wretched harbor where I never wanted to set foot again. I thought the Sultan had called you back.”

“Oh, Qaran and other old friends. The unrest at sea has brought us together. I never imagined we’d meet again like this. The Sultan made his decision, so did you and I.

“You, too, left Lamuri forever, to go anywhere. You were also disappointed that I was unable to fill your needs.

“Because of my love for this land, I didn’t want to go anywhere and chose to settle down in the woods. I refused the house the Sultan gave me. Living in the woods for such a long time has made me lose my knowledge of the oceans. I come to this city occasionally as a storyteller. I always listen for news about you from the sailors who want to hear my stories. This is how I have somewhat satisfied my longing for you,” said the storyteller.

“You will have to leave me. You have to because I do not know any better than you who the real pirates are in Lamuri. Now I hope you’re still willing to listen to my story about the Bearded Turtle. I used to tell you this story in the middle of the sea, on the deck during the long boring days while waiting for the wind. You knew that the day after I finished telling the tale, our sails would be pulled by the wind from all directions.

“Even to this day, among you are those who believe that the tale was a spell to attract the winds. It was only a joke between me and our briliant navigator. He looked at the stars in the sky, and told me that in seven days the wind would blow. Then I gathered all the men on deck and told the tale. How excited you were. You knew you would soon be free from the boring day-to-day waiting for the winds. Hopefully with this tale, your ships can sail tomorrow,” said the storyteller. “Now listen carefully.”

***

Indra Tranggono, born in Yogyakarta on March 23, 1960, is a cultural observer and widely published short story, script writer. Between 2002-2012 his short stories appeared seven times in the Kompas Short Stories Selection. Iblis Ngambek (The Sulking Devil Penerbit Kompas, 2003 and Sang Terdakwa (The Defendant Yayasan untuk Indonesia, 1998) are two of his best known short story collections.

Indra is an editor of the anthology of Yogyakarta poets, Sembilu: Antologi Puisi 21 Penyair Yogya (Pustaka Pelajar, 2005).

Indra’s recent publications include the following monoplays: “Saputangan Fang Yin” (Fang Yin’s Handkerchief), 2013, has been performed at the Gedung Societet in Yogyakarta and “Negaraku sedang Demam” (My Country has a Fever), 2011, has been performed in the Teater Arena in Surakarta. The drama “Monumen” (“The Monument”) – Yayasan untuk Indonesia, 2002, was performed in Yogyakarta. Together with Agus Noor he wrote monologue scripts for, “Lidah Pingsan” (“Fainting Tongue”) 1997, performed in Jakarta, Lidah (Masih) Pingsan” (“Tongue (Still) Fainting”) 1998, performed in Jakarta, Yogyakarta, Surakarta and Malang and “Mayat Terhormat” (“The honorable Corpse”), 2000, performed at the Purna Budaya theater in Yogyakarta and at Taman Ismail Marzuki in Jakarta. In 1999 Indra co-authored “Brigade Maling” (“The Burglars Brigade”) with Heru Kesawamurti and Agus Noor, performed at the Teater Gandrik in Melbourne, Australia.

In 2012 Indra received an award from the Yogya Literature Foundation founded by Prof. Dr. Rachmat Djoko Pradopo. Indra is still actively writing.

“Percakapan Patung-Patung” (The Statues’ Conversation) first appeared in Kompas 2002, and in the short story collection, Iblis Ngambek (The Sulking Devil Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2003), copyright © 2002, 2003 by Indra Tranggono. Revised version copyright © 2014 by IndraTranggono. Published with permission of the author. Translation copyright © 2014 by Wikan Satriati.

***

Percakapan Patung-Patung

Bulan sebesar semangka tersepuh perak tergantung di langit kota, dini hari. Cahayanya yang lembut, tipis berselaput kabut, menerpa lima sosok patung pahlawan yang berdiri di atas bangunan Monumen Joang yang tidak terawat dan menjadi sarang gelandangan. Cahaya bulan itu seperti memberi tenaga kepada mereka untuk bergerak-gerak dari posisi mereka yang berdiri tegak. Mereka seperti mencuri kesempatan dari genggaman warga kota yang terlelap dirajam kantuk dan ringkus selimut.

Lima patung itu, tiga lelaki dan dua perempuan, menggoyang-goyangkan kaki, menggerak-gerakkan tangan, kemudian duduk, dan ada juga yang tiduran. Mungkin mereka sangat letih karena selama lebih dari empat puluh tahun berdiri di situ. Wajah mereka yang kaku pun, dengan lipatan-lipatan cor semen beku, kerap bergerak-gerak seperti orang mengaduh, mengeluh, menjerit dan berteriak.

“Dulu, ketika jasad kita terbujur di sini, kota ini sangat sunyi. Hanya beberapa lampu berpendar bagai belasan kunang-kunang yang membangunkan malam. Kini, puluhan bahkan ratusan lampu berpendar-pendar seterang siang. Negeri ini benar-benar megah,” ujar patung lelaki yang dikenal dengan nama Wibagso sambil mengayun-ayunkan senapannya.

“Tetapi, lihatlah di sana, Bung Wibagso. Kumpulan gelandangan tumpang tindih bagai jutaan cendol sedang makan bangkai anjing dengan lahap. Dan di sana, lihatlah deretan gubug-gubug reyot dengan gelandangan yang dijejalkan, bagai benalu menempel tembok gedung-gedung.

Mulut mereka menganga, menyemburkan abab bacin seperti bau mayat, mengundang jutaan lalat terjebak di dalamnya. Ya, Tuhan mereka mengunyah lalat-lalat itu,” desis patung lelaki bernama Durmo.

Ratri—patung perempuan yang dulu dikenal sebagai mata-mata kaum gerilyawan, menukas, “Itu biasa, rekan Durmo. Dalam negeri yang gemerlap, kemiskinan selalu dirawat sebagai ilham kemajuan. Kita mesti bangga, negeri ini sangat kaya. Lihatlah di sana, deretan rumah-rumah mewah menyimpan jutaan keluarga bahagia. Ada mobil-mobil mewah, ada lapangan golf pribadi, ada pesawat terbang pribadi. Dan lihatlah di sana, ada orang berdansa sampai pagi. Ya, ampun… malah ada yang orgi.”

Patung Sidik, yang sejak tadi menyidiki dunia sekitar dengan pandangan nanar, melenguh bagai sapi menghadapi maut di ruang jagal. “Ternyata, mereka hanya mengurus perut dan kelamin sendiri. Aku jadi menyesal, kenapa dulu ikut memerdekakan negeri ini.”

“Aku pun jadi tidak lagi percaya diri sebagai pahlawan!” timpal Durno. “Kita berdiri di sini tak lebih dari hantu sawah. Ternyata mereka tak sungkan, apalagi hormat kepada kita. Buktinya mereka menggaruk apa saja.”

“Bung Durmo, kita jangan terlalu sentimental. Aku rasa mereka tetap hormat kepada kita. Buktinya, mereka membangunkan monumen yang megah buat kita,” ujar Wibagso.

“Tapi kenapa kita hanya diletakkan di sini, terjepit di antara gedung-gedung besar? Masa monumen pahlawan kok cuma dislempitkan,” gugat patung perempuan bernama Cempluk, yang dulu dikenal sebagai pejuang dari pos dapur umum.

***

Angin bertiup mengabarkan hari sudah pagi. Gelandangan-gelandangan yang tidur melingkar di kaki monument menggeliat bangun. Mulut mereka menguap, kompak. Bau abab bacin yang membadai dari sela gigi-gigi kuning menguasai udara hingga tercium oleh para patung pahlawan.

Sontak, para patung pahlawan itu berdiri dan kembali ke tempat semula, sebelum keheningan pagi kembali dirajam hiruk-pikuk kota, sebelum udara bersih pagi dicemari deru napas kota yang keruh.

Di tempat masing-masing, patung-patung pahlawan itu terus bergumam.

Yu Seblak, pelacur kawakan yang dikenal sebagai danyang alias “penunggu” monumen itu, duduk takzim di kaki monumen. Tangannya diangkat hingga atas kepala sambil menggenggam dupa yang mengepulkan asap. Kepulan asap itu menari-nari mengikuti gerak tangannya. Ke kanan, ke kiri, ke atas, dan ke bawah. Gerakan Yu Seblak diikuti lima-enam orang yang duduk di belakang perempuan berdandan menor itu. Yu Seblak bergumam, meluncurkan kata-kata mantera.

“Aku mendengar ada banyak orang berdoa pada kita. Mereka memberi kita sesaji. Ada bunga-bunga. Ada jajan pasar. Ada rokok klembak menyan.” Mata Wibagso terus mengikuti upacara yang dipimpin Yu Seblak.

“Kurang ajar! Kita dianggap dedemit! Malah ada yang minta nomer lotre segala! Ini apa-apaan, Wibagso?” teriak Durmo.

“Ssstttt. Tenanglah. Apa susahnya kita membikin mereka sedikit gembira? Anggap saja ini selingan dalam perjalanan kita menuju jagat keabadian,” ujar Wibagso.

“Tapi kalau pahlawan sudah disuruh mengurusi togel, itu kebangetan!” protes Cempluk.

“Hidup mereka gelap, rekan Cempluk. Mereka hanya bisa mengadu kepada kita, karena yang hidup tak pernah mengurusi nasib mereka, malah menghardik mereka. Misalnya para wakil rakyat, mandor-mandor negara,” tutur Ratri.

Dalam irama cepat, Yu Seblak terus mengucapkan doa. Setelah itu, Yu Seblak menerima keluhan para “pasiennya”.

“Wah, kalau para pahlawan disuruh ngurusi garukan pelacur ya nggak bisa. Punya permintaan itu mbok yang sopan gitu lho.”

“Habis, saya selalu kena garuk, Yu. Jadinya “dagangan” saya sepi. Eh, siapa tahu, para petugas yang galak-galak kayak buto itu, takut sama Kanjeng Wibagso dan semua pahlawan yang ada di sini,” ujar Ajeng, perempuan berparas malam itu sambil menyerahkan amplop kepada Yu Seblak.

Yu Seblak, dengan tangkas langsung memasukkan amplop kecil berisi uang itu ke dalam kutangnya. “Yaaah, permintaanmu akan aku usahakan. Semoga Kanjeng Wibagso dan kawan-kawannya bisa mempertimbangkan.”

Wibagso tersenyum. Sidik manggut-manggut. Durmo tampak tersinggung.

“Mereka ini payah. Garuk-menggaruk pelacur, kere, atau gelandangan itu kan bukan urusan kita. Ngadu ke Dewan dong. Mereka kan punya wakil rakyat,” ujar Durmo.

“Ah, anggota Dewan kan lebih suka kasak-kusuk untuk berebut kekuasaan dan bagi-bagi uang dari hasil menjual undang-undang dan peraturan. Atau mereka lebih sibuk mengatur siasat untuk menjebol APBN dan APBD,” ucap Sidik.

“Otakmu politik melulu,” sergah Wibagso. “Kita tampung saja permintaan mereka.”

“Tapi urusan kita banyak, Bung. Kita masih harus mempertanggung-jawabkan seluruh perbuatan selama kita hidup. Jujur saja, waktu berjuang dulu, aku menembaki musuh tanpa ampun seperti membasmi tikus.” Mata Durmo menerawang jauh.

“Kenapa gelisah? Perang memungkinkan segalanya terjadi. Kita tidak mungkin bersikap lemah-lembut kepada musuh yang mengincar nyawa kita. Kita terpaksa membunuh bukan demi kepuasan melihat mayat-mayat mengerjat-ngerjat karena nyawanya oncat. Kita hanya mempertahankan hak yang harus kita genggam,” Wibagso mencoba menghibur Durmo yang dikenal sebagai gerilyawan paling berani menghadapi penjajah.

“Semua harus kita pahami sebagai risiko dari pilihan kita. Dan kita yakin saja, malaikat-malaikat tahu dan mencatat kebaikan kita. Terutama malaikat penghitung pahala manusia,” timpal Ratri.

***

Malam berikutnya, gelandangan-gelandangan kembali tidur di kaki monumen. Ada yang gelisah, ada yang tampak tenang, ada yang mendengkur. Hawa dingin tajam menusuk tulang. Patung-patung itu merasa sedih dan terharu menatap para gelandangan yang setia menemani mereka.

Dari radio penjual rokok di samping monumen terdengar warta berita malam, “Monumen Joang untuk mengenang jasa lima pahlawan yang gugur dalam pertempuran Kota Baru melawan pasukan Belanda, akan dipugar. Kedudukan para pahlawan pun sedang diusulkan untuk ditingkatkan dari pahlawan lokal menjadi pahlawan nasional. Pemerintah Daerah telah menyiapkan dana pemugaran sebesar tiga milyar.”

Lima patung itu mendengarkan berita dengan khusuk. Mendadak Wibagso meloncat girang. Ratri menari-nari. Namun, Cempluk tampak tidak bahagia. Ia hanya diam tepekur. Durmo tak kunjung berhasil melucuti kegelisahannya. Sidik tetap diam, mematung meskipun sudah puluhan tahun menjadi patung.

“Kenapa kalian diam? Kenapa? Berita itu mesti kita rayakan,”ujar Wibagso.

“Apa yang penting dari berita itu? Apa? Mau dipugar, terserah. Mau diapakan ya terserah…. Aku sendiri tidak terlalu bangga jadi pahlawan. Ternyata negeri yang kumerdekakan ini akhirnya hanya jadi meja prasmanan besar bagi beberapa gelintir orang. Sementara jutaan mulut lain menjadi tong sampah, hanya dapat mengunyah sisa-sisa pesta,” ucap Sidik dengan wajah muram.

“Soal negeri ini tidak lagi jadi urusan kita. Tugas kita sudah selesai. Kita tinggal bersyukur melihat anak cucu kita hidup bahagia,” sergah Wibagso.

“Tapi jutaan orang bernasib gelap itu terus menjerit. Jeritan mereka memukul-mukul rongga batinku,” mata Sidik menatap tajam wajah Wibagso.

“Ah, sudah jadi arwah kok masih sentimental. Sudahlah.”

“Tapi perasaanku masih hidup!”

Wibagso mendekati dan merangkul Sidik. “Bung, untuk apa memikirkan semua itu. Capek. Pusing. Saatnya kita istirah.”

“Terus kita hanya diam? Diam melihat berbagai kebusukan itu terjadi di depan kita? Begitu?” Sidik meradang.

“Lantas mau apa? Ingat, kita hanya arwah.”

“Hanya arwah?”

“Ya, apa pun sebutannya, kita tak bisa apa-apa lagi. Dunia kita sudah beda dengan mereka yang masih hidup. Soal keadaan negeri kita ini, memang tidak semuanya membahagiakan kita. Ada yang hidup enak, ada yang susah. Wajar, kan? Dan ingat, hidup ini perlombaan. Ada pemenang dan ada pecundang.”

Sidik tampak kesal dan malas mendengarkan ucapan Wibagso. “Aku ini sudah capek dengar khotbah macam itu. Dulu, waktu hidup selalu diceramahi, diguyur petuah-petuah. Eeeh sudah mati pun masih disuruh menelan nasihat. Capek, Bung, capek.”

Ratri yang sejak tadi menunjukkan wajah kesal pada Sidik, kontan bilang, “Jangan-jangan kamu ini kurang ikhlas berjuang, Bung Sidik?”

Sidik meradang. “Kurang ikhlas bagaimana? Kakiku yang pengkor ini telah kuberikan kepada perjuangan. Bahkan, jantungku kurelakan menjadi sarang peluru-peluru musuh.”

“Oooh… kalau soal kayak gitu, penderitaanku lebih dahsyat! Kalian tahu, ketika aku merebut kota yang dikuasai musuh, puluhan peluru merajamku. Tubuhku luluh-lantak. Tapi aku puas. Berkat keberanianku, nyali kawan-kawan kita terpompa. Dan, akhirnya kita berhasil memenangkan pertempuran. Ini semua berkat aku!” ujar Wibagso.

“Enak saja kamu bilang ‘aku’!” sergah Durmo. “Dalam pertempuran itu, aku dan Sidiklah yang berdiri paling depan. Kami menghadapi musuh satu lawan satu. Dan di mana kamu, Wibagso? Di mana? Kamu lari terbirit-birit ke hutan dan ke gunung. Dan kamu tanpa malu menyebut dirimu sedang bergerilya!”

“Tetapi akulah yang punya gagasan untuk menyerang. Aku juga yang memimpin serangan fajar itu!” Wibagso tak kalah meradang.

“Siapa yang mengangkatmu jadi pemimpin, Wibagso? Siapa? Waktu itu, kita tak lebih dari pemuda yang hanya bermodal nyali besar. Tak ada jabatan. Tak ada perbedaan kedudukan. Apalagi pimpinan resmi di medan perang!” hardik Durmo.

“Tapi perang tak hanya pakai otot, Bung. Perang juga pakai otak. Pakai siasat. Dan akulah yang menyusun siasat itu!” napas Wibagso naik turun.

“Tapi siasat tanpa nyali bagai kepala tanpa kaki!” bantah Durmo.

“Bung Wibagso,” tukas Sidik, “kenapa kamu sibuk menghitung-hitung jasa yang sesungguhnya hampa?”

Wajah Wibagso memerah. “Sidik, belajarlah kamu menghargai jasa orang lain. Jangan merasa paling pahlawan!”

“Kapan aku membangga-banggakan diri? Kapan? Kamu ingat, waktu berjuang dulu, aku justru menghilang saat Panglima Besar mengunjungi kawan-kawan yang berhasil menggempur musuh. Kalau aku mau, bisa saja aku mencatatkan diri menjadi prajurit resmi, tercatat dalam buku negara. Dan aku yakin, saat negeri ini merdeka, aku mampu jadi petinggi yang bisa memborong proyek. Tapi, puji Tuhan, maut keburu menjemputku,” ujar Sidik.

“Begitu juga aku,” sergah Durmo, “Aku berpesan kepada anak-anakku, kepada seluruh keturunanku agar mereka tidak mempersoalkan kepahlawananku demi minta uang tunjangan yang tidak seberapa. Itu pun masih banyak potongannya!”

“Munafik! Kalian munafik!” bentak Wibagso.

Bulan kembali mengerjap.

Angin terasa mati.

***

Napas kota kembali berhembus. Jantung kota kembali berdenyut. Gelandangan, pelacur, dan pencopet sudah bangun dan kembali memulai kesibukan masing-masing. Ada yang berangkat mengamen, mengemis, menyemir sepatu. Ada yang masih malas tiduran di tikar.

“Ajeng, kamu mau kemana?” tanya Yu Seblak.

“Ke penginapan. Ada janjian,” jawab Ajeng sambil mengoleskan gincu ke bibirnya.

“Wah, bakal dapat duit banyak, nih. Mau kencan dengan siapa, Jeng?” Yu Seblak menggoda.

“Kok mau tau aja? Rahasia dong.”

“Aku tahu, pasti kamu kencan dengan si Jumingan, Satpol PP itu. Benar, kan? Dia itu memang tergila-gila sama kamu. Eh, kalau pulang tolong bawakan aku oleh-oleh, ya. Nasi gudeg telur. Ini kan berkat doa yang kusampaikan kepada para pahlawan itu. Dulu kamu kan minta ‘dagangan’mu laris, iya kan?”

“Beres, Yu. Gudeg sayap juga boleh. Tambah paha juga bisa,” tawa Ajeng berderai.

“Kamu cantik. Sudah berangkat sana.”

Kalur, pencopet yang sudah punya “jam terbang tinggi”, bangun. Menenggak sisa air mineral. Ia duduk di samping Karep yang diberi gelar “gelandangan intelektual” karena gemar bicara dengan kalimat-kalimat yang sulit dipahami. Karep asyik membaca koran.

“Berdasarkan analisis saya, rencana pemugaran monumen ini hanya trik pemerintah. Pasti ada agenda-agenda tertentu,” ucap Karep.

“Jadi, kalau monumen ini dipugar, kita malah kehilangan tempat, ya?” tanya Kalur.

“Jelas, dong!”

“Kalau benar-benar terjadi?”

“Ya, kita harus turun ke jalan. Kita kerahkan semua gelandangan di kota ini.”

Mendadak terdengar siaran warta berita dari radio transistor milik Yu Seblak. “Drs. Gingsir, Walikota yang menggantikan Raden Mas Picis, membatalkan rencana pemugaran Monumen Joang. Menurut dia, proyek itu mubazir. Apalagi pengajuan kedudukan menjadi pahlawan nasional bagi Wibagso dan kawan-kawan telah ditolak Tim Pakar Sejarah Nasional. Rencananya, dana sebesar tiga milyar dialihkan untuk memberikan bantuan pangan kepada masyarakat prasejahtera.”

Beberapa gelandangan sontak bersorak. Mereka menari. Ada yang memukul-mukul galon air mineral, kaleng biskuit, botol-botol, dan ember. Ada yang berjoget sambil menenggak minuman keras.

***

Bulan pucat, diringkus kabut. Kota kembali tidur berselimut kegelapan. Namun di sebuah gedung pemerintah daerah, tampak lampu menyala.

“Saya setuju saja jika Den Bei Taipan mau bikin mall di sini,” ujar Drs. Gingsir, usai menenggak anggur.

“Terima kasih. Terima kasih. Bapak ternyata sangat welcome. Saya sudah menyiapkan segalanya. Termasuk dana untuk ini dan itu. Dan saya setuju, prinsip kerjasama ini adalah bagi hasil keuntungan. Bagaimana kalau saya mengajukan angka 30:70.” Den Bei menenggak anggur.

“Den Bei, saya mesti mengusulkan hal ini pada Dewan. Dan biasanya, jawabannya agak lama. Anda tahu sendiri, mereka juga butuh angpao. Yaahhh… seperti biasanya. Dan, lancar tidaknya segala urusan ya tergantung besar kecilnya angpao,” ujar Gingsir sambil tertawa.

“Apa dalam hal bagi hasil keuntungan masih ada masalah?”

“Ya, terjemahkan sendiri. Anda kan konglomerat yang cerdas.”

“Bagaimana kalau… kalau… 35: 65. Ini sangat besar. Tidak ada tawaran segila ini.”

“Tampaknya angka itu masih telalu kecil. Dan saya masih bisa menawarkan proyek ini kepada konglomerat lain. Saya kenal beberapa penguasaha besar dari Ibu Kota.” Gingsir mencoba menggertak.

Wajah Den Bei tampak terlipat. Keningnya berkerutan. “Bagaimana kalau 40:60? Ini peningkatan yang sangat progresif dan signifikan.”

“Well… well… well…. Itu angka yang bagus.”

Keduanya tertawa.

“Dan Den Bei masih bisa bikin mall di kota ini. Berapa pun. Anda bisa pilih, alun-alun, bekas benteng Rotenberg, atau di Monumen Joang.”

“Semua tempat akan saya ambil. Tapi, berdasarkan pertimbangan strategi ruang, saya akan bangun dulu mall di Monumen Joang. Tempat itu sangat seksi. Tepat di tengah kota.”

“Oooh, itu pilihan yang cerdas, visioner. Saya nggak keberatan monumen yang kumuh itu digusur.”

Keduanya tertawa. Keduanya jabat tangan.

***

Beberapa hari kemudian, terjadi keributan di Monumen Joang. Cahaya matahari yang sangat terik seolah semakin membakar suasana yang memanas.

“Pengkhianat! Culas! Licik. Sombong! Penguasa demi penguasa datang ternyata hanya bertukar rupa. Mereka tetap saja menikamkan pengkhianatan demi pengkhianatan di tubuh kita!” Wibagso menghentakkan kakinya hingga bangunan monumen itu bergetar.

“Mereka menganggap kita tak lebih dari bongkahan batu beku. Mereka hendak menggerus kita menjadi butiran-butiran masa silam yang kelam!” teriak Ratri.

Sidik, Durmo, dan Cempluk tersenyum.

“Kenapa kalian diam? Kita ini akan diluluhlantakkan! Lihatlah buldoser-buldoser itu datang. Berderap-derap. Kita harus bertahan. Bertahan!” pekik Wibagso.

Terdengar suara petugas penggusuran dari sebuah megafon. “Kalian harus menyingkir! Menyingkir!!” Suara itu tumpang-tinding dengan deru mesin buldoser.

Di depan monumen, Yu Seblak memimpin penghadangan penggusuran. “Kita harus bertahan. Kita lawan buldoser-buldoser itu! Ajeng, Karep, Kalur di mana kalian? Di mana?” teriak Yu Seblak. Wajahnya menyala.

“Kami di sini! Di belakangmu!” jawab mereka kompak.

Deru mesin buldoser semakin keras, mengepung monumen. Para petugas penggusuran tampak berjaga-jaga bersama ratusan polisi bersenjata lengkap. Buldoser-buldoser semakin merangsek. Moncongnya tampak ganas, siap menyeruduk monumen.

“Lihatlah, mereka yang hanya gelandangan saja membela kita. Mestinya kalian malu!” teriak Wibagso.

“Wibagso! Kalau kami akhirnya melawan itu bukan membela kepongahan kita sebagai pahlawan. Tapi membela mereka yang punya hak hidup!” teriak Sidik.

“Aku tak butuh penjelasan. Aku hanya butuh kejelasan sikap! Ratri, meloncatlah kamu, masuk ke ruang kemudi, lalu cekik leher sopir buldoser. Cempluk, tahan moncong buldoser itu. Ganjal dengan tubuhmu. Sidik dan kamu Durmo, hancurkan mesin-mesin buldoser itu. Cepat!” Wibagso mengatur perlawanan seperti mengatur para pejuang ketika menghadapi tentara-tentara penjajah.

Buldoser-buldoser terus merangsek. Menerjang orang-orang yang tetap bertahan. Karep, Ajeng, dan banyak gelandangan lainnya, berlarian lintang-pukang.

“Kalian benar-benar pengecut!” teriak Yu Seblak.

“Sia-sia melawan mereka. Jumlah mereka ternyata buaanyak sekali!” teriak Kalur.

“Kita menyingkir saja! Pahlawan saja mereka gilas, apalagi kecoa macam kita. Menyingkir! Menyingkir!” Karep mencoba menarik Yu Seblak yang tetap berdiri beberapa meter dari buldoser-buldoser.

Yu Seblak tetap bertahan. Tetap melawan. Ia lucuti pakaiannya. Tinggal celana dalam dan kutang. Dasternya ia kibar-kibarkan ke udara.

“Dasar kalian penindas! Ayo lawan aku! Ayoooo!”

Buldoser-buldoser itu tanpa ampun menggilas tubuh Yu Seblak. Terdengar jeritan.

Wibagso tersentak. Ratri menjerit seperti kemasukan setan. Durmo, Sidik, dan Cempluk, tampak kalap. Mereka mengamuk. Menghantam buldoser-buldoser itu dengan benda apa saja. Namun, sia-sia. Justru patung-patung pahlawan itu kini bertumbangan dan hancur dilumat buldoser-buldoser.

***

Bulan di angkasa mengerjap. Angin mati.

“Kalian telah membunuh kami untuk kedua kalinya,” ujar Wibagso lirih.

Ucapan itu menerobos pembukaan resmi mall oleh wali kota Drs. Gingsir dan hingga kini, suara-suara patung-patung itu masih terus mengalun, bergema menembus lapisan-lapisan waktu. Namun hanya telinga setajam kesunyian yang mampu menangkap suara itu, gugatan itu.

***

Wikan Satriati is a graduate from the Faculty of Letters of Gadjah Mada University in Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Wikan is an experienced editor specializing in manuscripts of literary and cultural content, and works as a freelance translator. She translated Harry Aveling’s essays from English into Indonesian for inclusion in an anthology of Indonesian poetry, Secrets Need Words: Indonesian Poetry 1966–1998 (Center for International Studies, Ohio University, 2001). IndonesiaTera published the Indonesian translation in 2004 by under the title Rahasia Membutuhkan Kata: Puisi Indonesia 1966–1998. Yayasan Adikarya IKAPI (Indonesian Book Publishers Association) Book Program chose the publication as a quality book.

Wikan is the author of two children books: Gadis Kecil Penjaga Bintang (The Star’s Caretaker), published by KataKita in 2008, and Melangkah dengan Bismillah (Walking with the Name of God) by KataKita, 2006. Currently she works as a publication assistant at the Lontar Foundation, a non-profit institution whose primarily goal is the introduction of Indonesian literature to a world readership through translations of Indonesian literary works into English.

Wikan can be reached at wikan_satriati@yahoo.com.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

***

The Statues’ Conversation

At dawn, a silvery moon the size of a watermelon hung in the city sky. Its soft light layered with mist illuminated the five statues of the heroes on top of the Joang Monument, a neglected war memorial that now served as a shelter for the homeless. The moonlight seemed to energize the statues, enabling them to move out of their rigid pose. It was as if they took the opportunity to free themselves from the grip of the townsmen who were still sound asleep in the folds of their blankets.

Each of the five statues, three men and two women, shook their legs and moved their hands. Some of them sat, while others lay down. Standing for more than forty years had tired them out. The rigid faces cast in concrete often grimaced like living people that moan, complain, scream, and shout.

The statue known as Wibagso unslung his rifle. “In the past when our bodies lay here, the town was very quiet. At night only a few dozen lights glowed like fireflies. Now, tens, even hundreds of lights, shine as bright as daylight. This country is really great.”

“But look there, Brother Wibagso. A group of hobos jostle each other like maggots feasting on a dog’s corpse. And there, rows of rickety huts where the homeless are crammed together like parasites clinging to the walls of buildings.

“The odor coming from their gaping mouths is like the stench of decaying corpses and attracts millions of flies. Oh, my Lord, they’re chewing those trapped flies,” hissed the statue of a man named Durmo.

Ratri, the statue of a woman known as a spy for the guerrillas, snapped, “That’s normal, Brother Durmo. In an affluent country, poverty is always nurtured as an inspiration for progress. We should be proud. This country is very rich. Look there, rows of luxury homes are occupied by happy families. There are luxury cars, private golf courses, and even private airplanes. And over there, people dance until the morning. Gosh, they’re even having an orgy.”

Sidik, whose statue examined the world around him with dazed eyes, moaned like a cow facing death in the slaughterhouse. “They are only concerned with their own stomachs and genitals. I’m really sorry to have participated in the liberation of this country.”

“I too am no longer sure about being a hero,” Durmo said. “We stand here being nothing more than scarecrows in the fields. They show us no consideration, let alone respect. They uproot anything shamelessly.”

“Do not get too sentimental. I think we still have their respect. As you can see, they built a magnificent monument for us,” said Wibagso.

“But why did they put us in this narrow spot? How come a memorial for war heroes is tucked away here?” the statue of Cempluk, a woman known as a soup kitchen worker, bellowed.

***

The morning breeze brought a new day. The homeless sleeping at the foot of the monument woke and stretched. They yawned in unison. A foul odor from their yellowed teeth filled the surrounding air and wafted by the statues of the heroes.

The statues returned hurriedly to their own place before the quiet morning was claimed by the hustle and bustle of the city, before the hot cloudy breath of the city polluted the clean morning air.

Standing in their original positions, the statues kept mumbling.

Yu Seblak, the senior prostitute known as caretaker of the monument, sat in prayer at the foot of the monument. She held a pot of smoldering incense as she raised her hands above her head. A whirl of dancing smoke followed the movements of Yu Seblak’s hands—to the right, left, up, and down. Yu Seblak’s gestures were followed by the handful of people that sat behind the woman with striking makeup. She chanted a mantra.

Wibagso followed the ceremony led by Yu Seblak. “I hear people pray to us. They even bring us offerings, flowers, snacks, and incense cigarettes.”

“Damn! They consider us ghosts. Some of them even asked for a prediction of a winning lottery number. What the hell is this, Wibagso?” Durmo shouted.

“Shhh. Calm down. What’s wrong with giving them a little happiness? Think of this as an intermezzo in our journey toward eternity,” Wibagso said.

“When they ask heroes to predict winning lottery numbers, it is too much,” Cempluk protested.

“Their lives are troubled, Comrade Cempluk. They can only complain to us. No one among the living cares. They only berate them,” said Ratri.

Yu Seblak continued her chanting in a fast rhythm. After she was done with her prayers, Yu Seblak received various complaints from her “patients.”

“It is impossible to ask the heroes to prevent hookers from being arrested. It’s not proper.”

“I always get arrested, Yu. That’s how I lost my customers. Who knows? The city officials might fear Kanjeng Wibagso and the other heroes and not arrest me again. Please help me, Yu.” Ajeng smoothly handed Yu Seblak an envelope.

Yu Seblak quickly slipped the envelope into her bra. “Let’s see. Hopefully, His Excellency Wibagso and his colleagues will consider your request.”

Wibagso smiled.

Sidik nodded.

Durmo looked offended. “They are hopeless. The arrests of prostitutes, beggars, and bums are none of our business. They should complain to Parliament, with representatives of the community among its members.”

“The parliamentarians are more interested in vying for power and dividing the bribes they receive for breaking regulations and laws. Or they are too busy trying to put their hands on the country’s money. The parliamentarians won’t do anything,” said Sidik.

“You only think of politics. Let’s just collect their complaints,” said Wibagso.

Durmo looked into the distance. “But we have many things to do, man. We still have the responsibility to account for what we did when we were alive. During combat, I shot our enemies mercilessly, just like I’d shoot a rat.”

Wibagso tried to cheer up Durmo. “Why are you bothered? War allows everything. We could not be gentle to an enemy that preyed on our lives. We did not kill them for the satisfaction of seeing their bodies convulse as they died. We only claimed our rights.”

“We have to regard everything we experienced as a consequence of the choice we made, and believe that the angels recorded our good deeds and will see to it that we are rewarded,” Ratri chimed in.

***

The next night the homeless went back to sleep at the foot of monument. Some of them looked restless, others seemed calm and snored. The statues looked with pity and affection at the homeless who faithfully kept them company.

From a cigarette stall beside the monument, a radio broadcasted the evening news: “The Joang Monument, which is a tribute to five warriors killed in the Kota Baru battle against the Dutch army, will be restored. A proposal to raise the heroes’ status from local to national heroes has been issued. The district government has earmarked three billion rupiah for the refurbishment fund.”

The five statues heard the news. Wibagso jumped up in delight. Ratri began to dance, but Cempluk seemed unhappy. She appeared to be quietly thinking. Durmo remained anxious while Sidik stood motionless, statue-like, even though he had been a statue for decades.

“Why are you silent? We should celebrate,” Wibagso said.

“What’s so important? I don’t care what they will do to this monument. Let them restore it or whatever, I just don’t care. I’m not proud to be a hero. The country I fought for became a cornucopia for only a few people, while millions of others are sentenced to be garbage cans for the remnants of the party,” Sidik said, somberly.

“The affairs of this country are no longer our business. We did our jobs. We only have to be grateful to see our children and grandchildren live happily,” Wibagso snapped.

“But millions of ill fated people continue to scream. Their screams pound at my heart.” Sidik glared at Wibagso.

“Please, you’re a spirit now. How can you be so sentimental? Don’t worry about it.”

“But my heart is still alive.”

Wibagso embraced Sidik. “Brother, don’t keep thinking about this. It will make you tired and frustrated. It’s time for us to rest.”

“So, we just keep quiet? Do nothing while so much wrong happens in front of us? Is that what you want?” Sidik was furious.

“But what can we do now? We’re no longer alive, we’re only spirits.”

“Only spirits?”

“Whatever you call it, we can’t do anything any more. We live in a different world than those who survived. Regarding our country, it’s true, not everything makes us happy. Some people have a good life and others don’t. That’s normal, right? You also have to remember that life is a race. There will be winners as well as losers.”

Sidik looked annoyed and reluctantly listened to Wibagso. “I’m tired of listening to sermons. When I was alive, I was preached to all the time. My elders filled me with advice. And wouldn’t you know, I’m expected to listen to advice even after my death. I am tired, Brother, I am tired.”

Ratri glared at Sidik and said, “Don’t tell me you fought the revolution half-heartedly, Brother Sidik.”

“How can you say that?” Sidik responded angrily. “My crooked foot is a result of the battle, and I even exposed my chest to their bullets.”

“In that case, I suffered worse. When I seized an enemy-controlled city, dozens of bullets were fired at me mercilessly and perforated my body. But I was satisfied. My bravery encouraged our friends and we managed to win the battle in the end. All of it happened thanks to me,” said Wibagso.

“It’s easy to stake your claim to fame,” Durmo snapped. “During that battle, Sidik and I stood in the very front of the battlefield. We faced the enemies at the front line. Where were you, Wibagso? You scampered into the forest and mountains and shamelessly claimed to be a guerilla fighter.”

“But I had the idea to attack. I also led the attack that dawn,” Wibagso retorted.

“Who made you our leader, Wibagso? We were nothing more than a group of young men with lots of guts. There were no official positions, no hierarchy. Especially no commanders of the war,” said Durmo.

“To win the battle, we not only needed physical power, we needed brains too. We needed to use strategy,” said Wibagso.

“But strategy without guts is like having a head without legs,” Durmo argued.

“Brother Wibagso,” Sidik said, “Why are you busy tallying merits that actually amount to nothing?”

Wibagso blushed. “Learn to appreciate accomplishments of others. Don’t act as if you were the only hero.”

“I don’t remember boasting. When did I do so? I left when the commander in chief came to visit after we successfully destroyed the enemy. I could have enlisted as an official soldier and be recorded in the state’s annuals. If I had done that, today I would be a high state official and acquire many projects. Thank God I died before that happened,” said Sidik.

Durmo retorted. “I told my children and other descendants not to mention my services just to get a meager allowance, which would also have many deductions.”

“All of you are hypocrites,” Wibagso railed.

The moon blinked.

The air was heavy.

***

The city breathed again. Hobos, prostitutes, and pickpockets woke and started their daily activities. Some went hawking, and others went begging or to polish shoes. Then there were those who lazily stretched on their sleeping mats.

“Where are you going, Ajeng?” asked Yu Seblak.

“To the motel. I have an appointment.” She applied her lipstick.

“You’ll be making a lot of money. Who is your date today, Jeng?” Yu Seblak teased.

“Why do you want to know? It’s a secret.”

“It’s Jumingan, the police officer. He’s crazy about you. By the way, don’t forget to bring me back gudeg rice with egg. This happened because I sent your prayer to the heroes.”

Ajeng laughed happily. “Sure, Yu. You can even ask for gudeg with chicken wings or thighs.”

“You look gorgeous. Just go now.”

Kalur, a skilled pickpocket, woke and drank his remaining mineral water. He sat down beside Karep who was called the intellectual bum because he liked to read and spoke in long sentences that were difficult to understand. Karep was absorbed in the newspaper.

“According to my analysis, the monument restoration plan is a trick of the government. There must be a hidden agenda,” Karep commented.

“If the monument is restored, we won’t be able to live here, right?” asked Kalur.

“Yep, that’s right.”

“What will we do if it really happens?”

“We will take to the street. We’ll mobilize all the homeless in this city.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the newscast from Yu Seblak’s transistor radio. “Dr. Gingsir, the new mayor who replaced Raden Mas Picis, has canceled the Joang Monument restoration plan. According to him, the project is superfluous. Moreover, the petition to raise the status of Wibagso and his colleagues to that of national heroes has been rejected by the national history expert team. The fund of three billion rupiah will be used to provide food stamps to the poor.”

Some of the bums cheered and started to dance. Others banged on mineral water containers, biscuit cans, bottles, and buckets. They danced while drinking cheap liquor.

***

Fog cloaked the pale moon. The city had gone back to sleep. However, in the local government building, the lights were still on.

Dr. Gingsir sipped his wine and said, “I agree with your idea to build a mall here, Den Bei Taipan.”

“Thank you. You are very supportive, sir. I’ve set everything up, including the necessary funds. I agree the main purpose of this collaboration is to share the profits. What do you think if I offered a thirty–seventy split?” Den Bei gulped his wine.

“Den Bei, I have to propose this plan to the zoning board. Usually they need quite a bit of time to respond. As you know, they will also need angpao, a bribe. That’s just the way it is, and the way things are handled depends on the size of bribe we provide,” Gingsir said with laugh. “Is there a problem with the profit share?”

“You figure that one out. You’re a smart businessman.”

“How about thirty-five–sixty-five? This is huge. No one will give you such a crazy offer.”

“It’s too small. I can offer the project to others. I know some great businessmen in the capital,” Gingsir bluffed.

Den Bei’s face darkened. His forehead wrinkled. “How about forty–sixty? This is a very progressive and significant enhancement.”

“Well, well, well. That’s a good number.”

Both of them laughed.

“You will have the opportunity to build as many malls in this city as you want. Just choose the place: the city square, the old Rotenberg fortress, or the Joang Monument.”

“I’ll take all of them. But because of space, I will build my first mall in Joang Monument location. It’s a very viable site, right in the middle of the city.”

“That’s a smart choice, even visionary. I don’t mind having that crumbling monument removed.”

They laughed and shook hands.

***

A few days later, the heat of the sun was met by upheaval around the monument.

“Traitor. Liar. Cheater. Windbag. The authorities come and go, and are all the same. They continue to stab us in the back with their betrayals.” Wibagso stamped his foot and made the monument shake.

“They think we’re nothing but blocks of cold stone. They want to grind us into the grains of a dark past,” Ratri said.

Sidik, Durmo, and Cempluk smiled.

“Why are you silent? We will be destroyed. Look at those bulldozers coming. March on. We have to survive,” cried Wibagso.

An eviction officer shouted through a loudspeaker, “You have to leave. Get out.” His voice overlapped the roar of bulldozers.

In front of the monument, Yu Seblak led her friends to stop the eviction. “We have to survive. We will head off the bulldozers. Ajeng, Karep, Kalur, where are you?” cried Yu Seblak. Her face lit up.

“We are here. Right behind you,” they replied in unison.

The roar of bulldozer engines grew louder and surrounded the monument. Eviction officers and heavily armed police stood guard. The bulldozers pushed ahead, their compact boomers ready to plow into the monument.

“Though they’re just bums, they still try to defend us. You should be ashamed,” said Wibagso.

“We don’t fight to defend our pride as heroes. We fight for those who have the right to defend their lives,” cried Sidik.

Wibagso organized their defense as if he were ordering the revolutionist when fighting the colonial army. “I don’t need any explanation, just your firm support. Ratri, jump into the cab and strangle the driver. Cempluk, hold the boom and block it with your body. Sidik and Durmo, destroy the engines. Go, hurry.”

The bulldozers moved ahead and ran into the remaining homeless. Karep, Ajeng, and the others scampered.

“You are cowards,” said Yu Seblak.

“It is useless to fight. They’re so many of them,” said Kalur.

“Let’s just get out. If they are willing to crush the heroes, they definitely won’t care about cockroaches like us. Get out. Get out.” Karep tried to drag Yu Seblak, who stood a few meters from the bulldozers.

Yu Seblak remained. Still fighting, she took off her clothes until she wore only her panties and bra. She fluttered her dress in the air.

“Hey, you bullies. Come and fight me. Come on!”

The bulldozers pushed ahead and crushed Yu Seblak. There was a scream.

Wibagso startled. Ratri screamed hysterically. Durmo, Sidik, and Cempluk, went crazy. In a rampage they hit the bulldozers with anything they could get their hands on. But all their efforts were in vain. The bulldozers toppled the statues, collapsed and crushed the heroes.

***

The moon blinked in the sky. The wind died.

“You have killed us twice,” Wibagso said in a whisper.

His voice penetrated Dr. Gingsir’s speech at the official opening of the mall. The voices of the heroes will echo through the passing of time, but only an ear sharp enough to hear silence can hear those voices, those grievances.

***

Zen Hae is the author of poetry, short stories, and literary criticism. He has published a short story collection, Rumah Kawin (KataKita, 2004), and a book of poetry, Paus Merah Jambu (Akar Indonesia, 2007), the latter ranked in the top five for the Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2008 and named the “Best Literary Work of 2007” by Tempo magazine. Zen Hae completed his study of Indonesian Language and Literature at IKIP Jakarta (now Jakarta State University) in 2004. He has worked as a journalist, an infotainment scriptwriter, part-time lecturer, and for an NGO. He was a member of Literature Committee of Jakarta Arts Council (2006–2007), chairperson of the same committee (2006–2009), and chairperson of the Analysis and Criticism Department of Jakarta Arts Council (2011–2012). Since 2012, Zen Hae has been the publishing manager at Komunitas Salihara.

“Rumah Kawin” (The Wedding House) first appeared in the June 4, 2003 issue of Kompas, copyright © 2003 by Zen Hae. Revised version copyright © 2014 by Zen Hae. Published with permission of the author. Translation copyright © 2014 by Indah Lestari.

***

Rumah Kawin

Lagu “Malam Terakhir” baru saja berakhir dari mulut Gwat Nio dan Karna Suling. Para wayang cokek sudah mengosongkan kalangan, bersiap-siap untuk pulang. Para panjak membereskan alat musik mereka. Tetapi Mamat Jago masih saja berdiri sambil memeluk Sarti di tengah kalangan.Tangannya terus meremasi pantat Sarti dan menyorongkan mulutnya ke mulut wayang bermata burung hantu itu.

Bau anggur kolesom kembali menerpa hidung Sarti. Ia melengos dan berusaha mendorong tubuh Mamat Jago sekuat tenaga, tetapi dengan cepat Mamat Jago meraih tangan Sarti dan melipatkannya ke pinggangnya.

Kali ini Mamat Jago menggoyang-goyangkan pinggangnya sambil terus menekan pantat Sarti. Batang zakar Mamat Jago terasa seperti ikan gabus, menekan selangkangan Sarti.

Wayang cokek itu meringis, mencoba menggeser pantatnya.

“Aih jangan tinggalkan Abang, Manis. Jangan biarkan pancuran ini ngucur sendirian. Aaaghh.”

“Heh, Minan, gesekin gua lagu ‘Ayam Jago’. Gua mau ngibing lagi,” teriak Mamat Jago, tiba-tiba.

Minan Balok, si tukang teh yan, celingukan. Balo si tukang gambang menggelengkan kepalanya. Pemain musik lainnya menangguk. Tak mungkin lagi mereka main. Ini sudah pukul dua pagi. Sudah waktunya rombongan Gambang Kromong Mustika Tanjung pimpinan Tan Eng Djin dari Teluk Naga berhenti main.

Sahibul hajat, keluarga Lie Ban Hoa dari Salembaran dan keluarga Fai Koen Atmadja dari Kapuk, sudah meminta mereka berhenti sejak setengah jam lalu. Sebab izin keramaian yang mereka dapatkan dari aparat keamanan setempat hanya sampai pukul satu.

“Heh, budek lu. Gua masih banyak duit. Kalo perlu pala lu semua gua beli. Gua mau nyawer lagi. Ayo,” teriak Mamat Jago sambil menuding-nuding para panjak yang masih bersambut pandang.

Sarti kembali mengibaskan tangannya. Menarik tubuhnya dari pelukan Mamat Jago yang kian sempoyongan. Terlepas.

Sebagai gantinya satu tamparan tangan kanan Mamat Jago mendarat di pipinya. “Sundel lu!” maki Mamat Jago sambil melempar cukin merah hati ke wajah Sarti.

Sarti meringis dan memegangi pipinya, berlari ke arah wayang lain yang sejak tadi hanya bisa memandanginya dengan cemas.

Ini sudah kelewatan, pikir Eng Djin. Anak buahnya memang boleh dipeluk, dicium, atau dibawa ke mana saja, tetapi pantang disakiti. Ia pun keluar dari sela-sela gong dan menghampiri pengibing mabuk itu. Merendengnya. “Maaf, kita harus berhenti, Bang. Kalau tidak cokek kita bakal ditubruk polisi.”

“Jangan takut, Koh. Mereka semua teman saya. Ayo, main lagi.

Bang Minan mulai menggesek teh yan-nya, tetapi segera Eng Djin menggoyang-goyangkan tangan kirinya. “Mendingan Abang pulang saja. Nanti kita-kita juga yang repot.”

“Sial dangkalan lu,” maki Mamat Jago. Dengan sisa tenaganya disodoknya perut Eng Djin, tetapi ia menepiskan tangan itu. Mamat Jago balas menyerang dengan pukulan siku yang diruncingkan—gentus tubruk.

Eng Djin jatuh terduduk.

“Engkoh jangan bikin saya malu ya. Saya jawara kampung. Jago berantem. Semua orang bisa saya bikin jatoh deprok.”

Eng Djin bangkit dan mundur selangkah. Bersandar pada tiang. Dipandanginya kepalan tangan Mamat Jago yang padat berisi. Empat belas jurus ilmu pukul memang masih dikuasainya, tetapi ia sadar, tidak mungkin menandingi kemahiran pukulan jawara kampung Bulak Petir ini. Namun, ia akan melawan sebisanya kalau Mamat Jago menyerang lagi. Itulah cara ia mempertahankan harga dirinya di depan anak buahnya.

Ternyata, tidak. Mamat Jago hanya memasang jurus. Kuda-kudanya kelihatan goyah. Tubuhnya goyang seperti orang-orangan sawah.

Tiba-tiba, dua orang berjaket kulit hitam, si Gondrong dan si Cepak, masuk ke kalangan. Eiiitt, Mamat Jago mengalihkan kuda-kudanya ke arah dua orang asing itu. Mencoba lebih awas, ia kibas-kibaskan kepalanya.

Si Gondrong lantas mencabut revolver dari balik jaketnya dan mengacungkannya ke udara.

Orang-orang terkesiap. Ada juga yang menjerit.

“Bapak-ibu saya minta berhenti. Bubar!” Si Gondrong memerintah.

Dengan sigap Si Cepak mencekal tangan Mamat Jago, memitingnya, memborgolnya, dan menyeretnya seperti sekarung tahi ayam.

***

Entah sudah berapa lebaran lewat setelah penangkapan itu. Mamat Jago tersenyum. “Sudah lama sekali,” gumamnya. Saat itu dengan mudah ia masuk-keluar sel. Ditangkap malam, keluar pagi; dibekuk pagi, dilepas sore; masuk sore, keluar malam. Anak-anak buahnya akan mengantarkan uang tebusan, tak lama setelah ia digelandang polisi. “Polisi teman Abang,” katanya berkali-kali kepada anak buahnya. Setelah itu ia akan dengan leluasa datang lagi ke rumah kawin, ngibing dan minum, membuat keributan bila perlu.

Tetapi, itu dulu. Ketika kekayaan dan kehormatan didekapnya dengan dua tangan. Ketika jual-beli tanah kebun dan sawah di kampungnya sedang ramai-ramainya. Setiap saat orang datang dan pergi dari rumahnya. Membawa dan mengambil uang. Pekerjaannya sebagai calo tanah sangat sibuk kala itu. Pernah suatu ketika anak buahnya harus memanggul berkarung-karung uang ke rumahnya untuk membebaskan berhektar-hektar sawah yang kini menjadi bandar udara itu. Orang-orang kampungnya pernah berkata, ia tidur bukan di atas kasur kapuk, tetapi di atas kasur uang.

Sekarang ini semuanya sudah lain. Kekayaan dan kehormatannya rontok sudah, seperti pohon kelapa disambar petir. Meranggas dan mati. Tanahnya yang dulu hektaran kini hanya tinggal sepekarangan saja, menciut bagai kelaras terbakar. Di atasnya berdiri rumah yang dulu pernah menjadi rumah termegah dan termahal di kampungnya—kini sudah menjadi sarang kumbang, ngengat, dan laba-laba. Kosong, kusam, sepi. Mobil dan motornya entah di tangan siapa.

Puluhan kerbaunya tak berjejak lagi. Kambing dan ayam hanya tinggal sekandang. Anak buahnya yang berjumlah puluhan sudah pergi meninggalkannya, mencari majikan baru begitu ia bangkrut.

Masroh, istri yang tak pernah lagi disentuhnya sejak diserang TBC, wafat dua tahun lalu. Tiga anak perempuannya sudah dibawa suami mereka ke kota lain. Menjadi orang rantau. Satu anak lelakinya menjadi pengojek untuk menghidupi istri dan empat anaknya. Hanya ia dan si bungsu yang tinggal di situ.

Ah, betapa perihnya kehilangan ini. Mamat Jago batuk satu-dua. “Apa ada obatnya?” ia bergumam.

Pekerjaan sebagai calo tanah sudah tidak dilakoninya lagi. Tidak ada lagi orang yang mau menjual kebun dan sawahnya. Tanah warisan mereka sudah habis terjual, tinggal yang kini mereka tempati. Dan itu tak mungkin mereka jual, kecuali kalau mereka mau menjadi gelandangan di kampung sendiri. Lahan-lahan yang tadinya menjadi sumber penghidupan mereka kini sudah berubah kegunaannya.

Ratusan hektar sawah itu sudah dibikin rata tanpa pematang dan diberi pagar besi setinggi dua meter di tepinya. Di tengahnya membujur dua jalur landasan beton, dari barat ke timur. Ia dan orang kampungnya hanya bisa memandangi pesawat terbang yang lepas landas dan mendarat. Hanya mereka yang pernah naik haji mampu menaikinya. Di malam hari pesawat-pesawat itu berubah menjadi kunang-kunang raksasa yang tubuhnya tetap berkelap-kelip meski melayang di batas langit terjauh.

Pabrik-pabrik juga sudah berjalan siang dan malam. Siapa pun orang terkaya di kampungnya tidak mungkin membangun dan memiliki pabrik-pabrik itu. Mereka hanya petani penggarap dan pedagang kecil, tidak mungkin menguasai modal dan teknologi perpabrikan secanggih itu. Tapi, anak-anak mereka, lelaki dan perempuan, si bungsu juga, senantiasa berbondong-bondong, keluar masuk pabrik, dengan seragam. Mereka sudah menjadi manusia pabrik yang mau tidak mau dibayar murah oleh tauke-tauke dari Korea, Jepang, dan Taiwan.

Rumah-rumah mewah juga sudah dibangun dan ditempati orang-orang yang tidak pernah mereka kenal sebelumnya. Orang-orang kampung memang tidak mampu membeli dan menempati rumah mahal itu, tetapi mereka masih bisa menjadi pengojek di perumahan itu dengan motor yang dibeli dari hasil menjual tanah warisan mereka. Mereka masih bisa menikmati jalan-jalan aspal yang lurus-menyiku, sungai kecil yang jernih dan dibeton tepinya, taman yang indah, sambil memandangi rumah-rumah besar dengan pintu dan jendela yang melengkung. Rumah-rumah yang dahulu mereka saksikan di layar-layar lenong. Di tambah gonggongan anjing, tentu saja.

Mamat Jago menarik napas dalam-dalam sebagaimana ia menarik kenangan-kenangan yang terkubur dalam liang gelap masa lalunya. “Aku butuh obat,” ia bergumam sembari menelan ludah.

Aroma tanah basah dibawa angin selatan melintasi padang ilalang setinggi pinggang. Hujan akan segera turun. Musim penghujan sudah tiba dan akan makin tinggi curahnya menjelang Lebaran Cina atau Tahun Baru Imlek. Musim kawin akan tiba juga. Rumah-rumah kawin di Kampung Melayu, Kosambi, Salembaran, dan Sewan akan ramai lagi. Ia rindukan semua itu.

***

Dalam mimpinya sore itu, Mamat Jago mendatangi lagi rumah kawin Teratai Putih. Orang-orang menyingkir begitu ia memasuki pintu utamanya. Ia memasang langkah tegap seorang jawara kampung. Hanya di sinilah aku bisa menikmati lagi seluruh kesenangan dan kehormatan hidupku, pikirnya sembari tersenyum. Bukankah sudah bertahun-tahun belakangan ini ia tidak menikmati dua hal itu lagi. Ya, di sinilah orang akan memuji kelihaiannya ngibing yang dipadu dengan keindahan jurus-jurus pukulnya, kekuatannya menenggak berbotol-botol bir bercampur anggur kolesom, keroyalannya nyawer. Dan tubuh wayang yang panas dan memabukkan! Liukan dan goyangan yang membangkitkan syahwat! Aih, lelaki mana yang bisa tahan.

Nyai Sirah, si tukang cuking, menyambut Mamat Jago dengan selendang merah hati, seperti dulu. Perempuan bersusur sebesar telur puyuh itu kemudian mengalungkan selendang itu di leher Mamat Jago, tanda ia harus turun ke kalangan, memilih wayang mana yang ia suka.

Tapi hanya Sarti yang ia tuju. Ditatapnya Sarti yang duduk di pojok, bersebelahan dengan Minan Balok. Kali ini Sarti memakai kaus hijau daun pisang bergambar naga merah jambu yang melintas dari bawah ke atas dan celana capri krem. Dengan pakaian itu ia tampak lebih muda dari usianya yang sebenarnya. Sedikit gemuk membuat lekukan-lekukan tubuhnya tampak nyata dibalut pakaian yang serba ketat itu.

Darahnya berdesir. Ditariknya tangan wayang cokek kecintaannya itu. Sarti tersenyum dan mengikuti Mamat Jago dengan langkah merpati. Pengibing dan wayang lain sengaja mengosongkan kalangan, memberi penghormatan atas kembalinya si raja ngibing dari Bulak Petir itu.

Dengan dagu yang sedikit mendongak Mamat Jago menebar pandangan ke seluruh ruang. Tak lupa ia mengangkat kedua tangan yang dikepalkan, tanda hormat kepada sahibul hajat, kedua mempelai, dan Tan Eng Djin.

Bang Minan menjawab salam Mamat Jago dengan menggesek teh yan-nya.

“Ayo, Minan, gesekin gua lagu ‘Ayam Jago’. Gua mau ngibing lagi.”

Teh yan digesek, disusul gambang, kecrek, gong, suling, dan kempul. Susul-menyusul. Jalin-menjalin. Gwat Nio sudah melantunkan suaranya yang garing-melengking seperti suara burung titutit.

“Ayam jago jangan diadu, kalau diadu jenggernya merah.
Ayam jago jangan diadu, kalau diadu jenggernya merah.
Baju ijo jangan diganggu, kalau diganggu yang punya marah.
Baju ijo jangan diganggu, kalau diganggung yang punya marah.”

Tapi Sarti tidak juga menggoyangkan tubuhnya. Tangannya dibiarkan terkulai.

Mamat Jago meraihnya, melipatkannya ke pinggangnya, merapatkan pelukannya. Tubuh perempuan itu terasa dingin, seperti daun dadap pengusir demam anak-anak. Ia menatap paras Sarti; bibirnya terkatup, matanya terpejam. “Ayo, Sarti, jangan kau goda Abang seperti malam-malam dulu!” kata Mamat Jago sambil menggoyang-goyangkannya tubuh Sarti. Ditepuk-tepuknya pipinya, tak ada gerakan sedikit pun. Dipandanginya para panjak. Semuanya berhenti main. Tak ada yang bergerak. Semua dingin dan biru. Seperti keramik Cina.

Mamat Jago membopong Sarti keluar. Penonton yang semulai menyesaki kalangan dan halaman rumah kawin sudah tak ada lagi. Dengan was-was ia menjejaki halaman, menerobos hujan senja yang turun bagaikan lapis-lapis kelambu. Sepanjang jalan pohon-pohon meliuk-mabuk, rumah-rumah bisu-merunduk. Nyala lampu listrik dan patromaks tampak setengah hidup setengah mati. Ia susuri jalan aspal, memotong sungai, membelah padang ilalang.

“Kau tidak boleh mati, Sayang. Hiduplah bersama Abang. Di rumahku kau akan hangat.” Dikecupnya bibir Sarti. Air liur nya yang bercampur air hujan masuk ke mulut Sarti.

Si mata burung hantu itu tersedak. Tubuhnya menggeliat. Tangannya meraih leher Mamat Jago.

Ia tersenyum dan mempercepat langkahnya.

Malam dan hujan pertama benar-benar telah mengepung kampung Bulak Petir. Dari kejauhan rumah Mamat Jago yang terletak di tepi sawah bera dengan jalan yang lurus memotong pematang tampak bagaikan lukisan luntur. Satu-dua lampunya menyala.

Ah, anak yang baik, pikir Mamat Jago. Pasti Si Bungsu menyalakan lampu-lampu itu sebelum berangkat ke pabrik untuk kerja malam.

Cahaya lampu-lampu itu senantiasa membangkitkan keriangan masa mudanya. Bukankah dulu ketika masih berpacaran, bahkan setelah menikah dan anak-anaknya belum lahir dan menyesaki rumah, ia dan Masroh selalu berlarian di atas pematang sawah begitu hujan pertama turun. Setelah basah kuyup oleh air hujan barulah mereka mandi di sumur senggot yang airnya terasa lebih hangat daripada air hujan. Buatnya, laku itu semacam perayaan untuk datangnya musim hujan.

Pintu rumahnya tidak terkunci. Dasar anak ceroboh, maki Mamat dalam hati, pasti Si Bungsu lupa menguncinya. Ia mendorong pintu dengan punggungnya dan langsung menuju kamar tidur. Ia membaringkan Sarti di ranjang. Di situlah dulu Masroh mengembuskan napas terakhirnya dengan tubuh kurus kering dan sepasang payudara yang serupa jeruk busuk.

Mamat melucuti seluruh pakaian basah dari tubuh Sarti dan menyelimuti tubuh itu dengan kain batik yang dulu pernah dipakai untuk menyelimuti mayat istrinya. Ia pandangi wajah Sarti yang tertidur pulas. Dalam keremangan wajah itu berganti-ganti dengan wajah istrinya.

“Pacarku, biniku.”

Mamat Jago mengecup bibir Sarti. Bibir itu terasa bergerak. Balas melumat.

Tangan Sarti perlahan mendekap Mamat Jago. Ia mulai bernapas satu-dua. Hangat, panas, gemuruh.

Mamat Jago balas mendekapnya lebih erat lagi. Kini kehangatan menjalari tubuh mereka berdua.

Sarti mengerang sambil mencengkeram punggung Mamat Jago. Dalam sekejap mereka telah bergumul di atas kasur ringsek. Mereka saling memagut-mematuk-mengecup-merenggut- mencakar-mengular, terbakar.

Tiba-tiba, brak! Mamat Jago kaget dan melepaskan pelukannya.

Eng Djin, si Gondrong, dan si Cepak sudah berdiri di pelangkahan pintu. Buru-buru Mamat Jago meraih dan mengenakan celana kolornya.

“Sadarlah, Bang. Sarti sudah mati,” kata Eng Djin.

Mamat Jago menoleh.

Sarti terbaring telanjang kaku dengan sisa-sisa keringat yang meleleh di sela-sela payudaranya.

Tak percaya Mamat Jago menepuk-nepuk pipi Sarti. “Ayo, manis, bangun. Ada Koh Eng Djin dan teman Abang datang,” bisiknya ke telinga Sarti.

“Relakan kepergiannya, Bang. Nyebut, Bang.”

Mamat Jago masih tak percaya. Ia mengguncang-guncangkan tubuh Sarti. Kaku, dingin, biru. Tangisan pilu kemudian meledak dari mulutnya. Tangis yang sudah lama sekali baru terdengar lagi. Ketika Masroh mati pun ia tidak terbujuk untuk menangis.

Eng Djin hanya menarik napas menyaksikan lelaki malang itu. Tanpa aba-aba Si Gondrong dan Si Cepak langsung membekuk Mamat Jago. Mereka menggelandang Mamat Jago dan memasukkannya ke mobil jip.

Sepanjang jalan kedua polisi yang diakui sebagai temannya itu tidak mengajak Mamat Jago bicara. Si Cepak sibuk menyetir, Si Gondrong asyik merokok.

Mamat Jago mengamati borgol di tangannya yang kadang berkilatan oleh cahaya yang menembus kaca mobil. Baja antikarat ini benar-benar membuatnya tidak berkutik.

Terutama ketika mobil terguncang-guncang di jalan berlubang, tubuhnya terpental dan membentur pintu belakang mobil. Ia mengaduh dan Si Gondrong hanya menoleh dengan rokok yang tetap terjepit di bibirnya.

Akhirnya Mamat Jago menyandarkan tubuhnya ke jok dan membuang pandangannya ke kaca pintu belakang. Ia menyaksikan cahaya lampu-lampu rumah yang meleleh dan membentuk garis panjang bergelombang. Tapi ia juga melihat tubuh Sarti yang telanjang berkeringat mengikuti mobil yang entah menuju ke mana. Tubuh Sarti melayang seperti ikan terbang. Benarkah Sarti sudah mati? Mungkinkah aku menyenggamai mayat, Mamat Jago membatin. Bukankah di atas ranjang Sarti balas membalas kecupan dan pelukannya dan mereka bergumul hebat seperti di malam-malam dulu.

Tiba-tiba mobil berhenti. Pintu belakangnya dibuka paksa. “Keluar lu!” Bentakan Si Gondrong membuatnya ternganga. Mamat Jago tak punya lagi kuasa untuk menolak. Ia melompat. Telapak kakinya amblas di hamparan pasir.

Si Gondrong dan Si Cepak menggiringnya ke sebuah tempat gelap. Ada debur ombak. Kersik daun. Serbuk garam yang menempeli bibirnya. Ia menduga-duga pantai apa ini. Mungkin Tanjung Kait, Rawa Saban, Kamal, atau pantai yang belum pernah ia kunjungi. Dorongan keras membuatnya tersandung karang dan tersungkur. Butiran pasir asin memenuhi mulutnya.

“Kami tidak pernah benar-benar berteman denganmu. Kami berteman untuk bisa membekuk bajingan macam kau. Malam ini hidupmu tamat,” suara Si Cepak mengalahkan deru ombak.

Dor! Dor! Dor!

Darah meleleh dari tiga lubang di pelipis dan dahi Mamat Jago. Diserap pasir, dijilat ombak, larut di air.

***

Dor! Dor! Dor!

Mamat Jago terjaga. Ia bangkit, seperti ada yang mengusap wajahnya. “Sarti!” ia memanggil. Tak ada jawaban. Ia kemudian mengusap dahi dan pelipisnya. Tak ada darah. Hanya air hujan dari genting bocor! “Mimpi apa lagi ini?” katanya, heran. Ia duduk di tepi ranjang. Ditajamkan pendengarannya, rentetan tembakan itu masih terdengar. Aih, ia tersenyum, rupanya hanya suara petasan dari rumah kawin! Ia berjalan menuju jendela dan menguakkannya. Hujan sudah berhenti, tetapi air masih menggenang di pelataran rumahnya. Begitu juga kenangannya pada Sarti, Eng Djin, Si Cepak, dan Si Gondrong. Dan Sarti! Mengapa kau muncul dalam mimpiku dengan cara seaneh itu, ia membatin lagi.

Tanpa membuang waktu ia membuka lemari dan mengambil pakaian terbaiknya. Baju safari dan celana panjang krem, topi laken coklat tua, sandal kulit hitam, tongkat kayu dengan gagang berukir kepala naga membuat ia merasa gagah kembali. Tapi cermin buram di depannya tak bisa menyembunyikan pipinya yang mulai keriput dan kantung matanya yang bergantung. Lama ia tatap wajah tuanya sehingga ia terbatuk. Tubuhnya terguncang-guncang, bayangnya terkekeh-kekeh. “Dasar bini sialan!”

“Aku harus kembali ke rumah kawin itu.” Mamat Jago mengetuk-ngetukkan ujung tongkatnya ke lantai teraso. Tiga kali. Hatinya mantap.

Rumah kawin Teratai Putih masih seperti dulu. Orang-orang masih menyingkir begitu Mamat Jago masuk kalangan. Ia kembali memberi hormat kepada sahibul hajat, kedua mempelai, Tan Eng Djin, panjak, dan wayang cokek yang secara bergantian membalas salamnya.

Tapi Sarti hanya memonyongkan mulutnya dan mengembuskan asap rokoknya ke arah Mamat Jago.

Si Tua itu hanya tersenyum dan membalas Sarti dengan lagak serupa.

Sarti langsung menggilas puntung rokok dengan kelom geulisnya. “Sudah lama Abang gak ke sini. Sarti kangen,” kata Sarti sambil mengalungkan cukin merah hati ke leher Mamat Jago.

“Abang banyak urusan, Neng,” kata Mamat Jago sambil mendekap pinggang Sarti.

Tanpa diminta, Minan menggesek teh yan-nya.

Bunyinya yang lirih membuat Mamat Jago mendekap Sarti lebih mesra lagi. Seperti ada lubang hitam di dada Mamat Jago yang hanya bisa tertutup jika ia mendekap wayang cokek kecintaannya itu. Bait pertama lagu “Stambul Siliwangi” kemudian mengalun dari mulut Gwat Nio.

“Ya jika begini, kalo begini, Karna, nagalah ya naganya.
Aih, kayulah ya biduk, kayulah biduk ya dimakan api.
Ya kalo begini, kalo begini, Sayang, apa rasanya.
Aih, badanlah hidup, ya badan hidup, ya rasanya mati.”

Karna menyusul dengan suara bergelombang. Sesekali Mamat Jago mengikuti,

“Ya bunga mawar, Manis, bunga mawar, Jiwa Manis, dari Kahyangan.
Ya indung-indung, ya jeruk purut, Nona.
Ya jeruk purut, Jiwa Manis, harum baunya.
Ya belajar kenal, Nio, belajar kenal, Jiwa Manis, tidak halangan.
Aih. . .indung-indung, ya cuma awan.
Ya cuma awan, Jiwa Manis, ada yang punya.”

Para pengibing dan pasangannya turut melingkari Mamat Jago dan Sarti. Tapi tak ada yang sanggup menari. Semuanya hanya berdekapan. Tiba-tiba Mamat Jago terbatuk. Suaranya kisut, napasnya turun naik.

Sarti mengusap-usap punggung Mamat Jago. “Abang sakit.”

“Abang sakit cinta.”

“Berobat dong.”

“Enggak ah. Abang kepingin ke rumah kawin aja. Ke dokter Sarti.” “Ah, Sarti banyak pasen.”

“Rawatlah Abang, Bu Dokter. Jadiin saya satu-satunya pasen.”

“Tong ah.”

“Tadi Abang mimpiin Sarti dan semua orang di rumah kawin ini.”

“Masak? Apa ceritanya.”

“Ah, malu nyeritainnya.”

“Apaan?” Sarti mencubit paha Mamat Jago.

“Kita main dokter-dokteran.”

“Ih, jorok.” Sarti meremas selangkangan Mamat Jago.

Mamat Jago mengerang dan menekan pantat Sarti.

Kali ini Sarti membiarkan Mamat Jago meremas dan menekan pantatnya. Ada api yang meletup dari bekas lubang hitam itu. Suhu badan Mamat Jago merambat hangat dan menjalar ke tubuh Sarti.

Api menjalar ke tubuh pengibing dan wayang cokek lainnya. Semuanya terbakar.

Para penonton menelan ludah. Seorang anak kecil, sembari berjongkok, meremas selangkangannya.

“Pulang yuk sama Abang.”

“Pulang ke mana.”

“Pulang.”

Batuk Mamat Jago meletus lagi, bertanding dengan suara gambang. Napasnya seperti bunyi perahu ngadat. Hingga pada satu pukulan gong, napasnya mereda.

Sarti menjerit.

Orang-orang menoleh.

Tubuh Mamat Jago bertumpu di tubuh Sarti.

“Terus main. Gua bakal mati kalo gambang berhenti,” kata Mamat Jago dalam dua kali jeda. Setengah berbisik, setengah menjerit.

Para panjak tetap diam. Pelan-pelan tubuh Mamat Jago merosot ke lantai.

Sarti meletakkan kepala Mamat Jago di pangkuannya. Ia tersenyum, hanya bisa tersenyum, sambil mengusap-usap wajah Mamat Jago.

Dalam hitungan detik Mamat Jago masih bisa menyaksikan wajah Sarti berubah menjadi wajah seorang perempuan muda. Itulah perempuan yang pernah mengajak Mamat Jago tamasya ke sebuah pulau kecil di pantai utara. Saat itu Mamat Jago baru khatam membaca Quran. Sebagai hadiah perempuan itu mengajaknya tamasya. Mereka berdua saja ke pulau penuh pohon kelingkit, elang bondol, burung camar, ganggang, rajungan itu. Masa tamasya paling indah itu mungkin hanya beberapa menit, satu dua jam, seharian, berkali bulan. Mamat Jago tak bisa mengingatnya lagi. Tapi ia hafal betul senyum perempuan itu. Dan ia merasa bahagia.

***

Indah Lestari was born in Singapore and lives in Jakarta, Indonesia. She completed her B.A. in English Literature from Padjadjaran University, Indonesia, and an M.A. in English Studies from Jawaharlal Nehru University, India. She translated JM Coetzee’s Disgrace and another novel (in editing process) into Indonesian. Her poems have appeared in Bacopa, Revival, and The White Elephant Quarterly in 2013.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

***

The Wedding House

Gwat Nio and Karna Suling had just finished the song, “The Last Night,” and the dancers emptied the arena. The musicians were putting their instruments back into their cases as Mamat Jago still stood embracing Sarti amid the crowd. He pinched Sarti’s behind and tried to kiss the big-eyed dancer on the mouth.

The odor of cheap Chinese wine stung Sarti’s nose. She turned her head away and tried to shove Mamat Jago with all her might, but he seized her hand and pulled it around his waist. Gyrating his hips, he continued to squeeze Sarti’s buttocks and press his penis, swollen like a snakehead fish, against Sarti’s groin.

The dancer grinned and tried to pull away.

“Please don’t leave me, sweetheart. Don’t let this downspout spill on the ground.”

People started to watch them. Some smiled while others started to worry.

“Hey, Minan, play ‘Ayam Jago (The Cock).’ I want to dance again,” Mamat Jago yelled.

The teh yan player, Minan Balok, looked around him. Balo, the xylophone player, caught his look and shook his head. The other musicians nodded in agreement with him. Playing another song was impossible. It was already two in the morning, and time for the Gambang Kromong Mustika Tanjung Band, led by Tan Eng Djin from Teluk Naga, to stop playing.

The hosts, the Lie Ban Hoa family from Salembaran and Fai Koen Atmadja from Kapuk, Jakarta, had asked them to stop half an hour ago. The permit they had obtained from the local authorities was only valid until one o’clock.

“Hey, are you deaf? I’m still loaded. If needed, I can pay for the lot of you. I want to dance again and tip the dancers big. Come on!” Mamat Jago shouted, signaling the band players who were still unsure of what to do.

Mamat Jago wobbled more and more.

Satri broke loose from him. As a result, a slap landed on her cheek. “You bitch!” he scolded, and tossed a maroon scarf at her face.

She grimaced and touched her cheek, then ran to the other dancers who had been watching worriedly from a distance.

This is too much, Eng Djin thought. One could hug, kiss, or take his dancers anywhere, but hurting them was not allowed. He walked between the gongs to the drunken dancer and pulled him aside. “I’m sorry, we have to stop. Otherwise the police will arrest us.”

“Don’t worry. All of the police officers are my friends. Let’s start again. Let the orchestra play.”

Minan started to play the teh yan, but Eng Djin waved his hand, suggesting that he stop. “You better go home. If we continue, we’ll get in trouble.”

“Damn you!” Mamat Jago tried to punch Eng Djin in his stomach, and the man warded him off. Mamat Jago attacked again by shoving his elbow straight into his opponent. The elbow strike landed Eng Djin on his behind. “Don’t embarrass me. I’m the champion of this village, a fighter champion. I can beat up anyone.”

Eng Djin rose and took a step back. He leaned on a pole and looked at Mamat Jago’s bulky fist. While he had mastered fourteen martial art movements, he knew he would not be able to beat the Bulak Petir village champion. However, he would fight his best if Mamat Jago attacked again. That was how he would save face in front of his men. Swaying like a scarecrow, Mamat Jago only glared at him.

Two men wearing black leather jackets, one with long hair and the other a crew cut, entered the arena.

Whoosh. Mamat Jago turned to the two intruders. Trying to be more alert, he shook his head.

Longhair pulled a revolver from inside his jacket and pointed it up.

The crowd gasped.

Crewcut grabbed and locked Mamat Jago’s arms, and dragged him along like a sack of chicken manure.

***

Many years had passed since that arrest.

Mamat Jago smiled and mumbled, “That was a long time ago.” In those days he could be jailed as easily as he was released. Arrested at night, he was free in the morning; or admitted in the morning, free in the evening, and so on. His men always bailed him out not long after the police took him in. “The police are my friends,” he repeatedly told his men. As soon as he was free, he would return to the wedding house whenever he liked, to dance and drink and make a scene if necessary.

But that was when he held wealth and respect in both hands, and the real estate business of selling rice field plots in his village was booming. Everyone who came to his house brought and took money. His job as a land broker kept him very busy. Once, one of his men had to carry sacks of money to his house for acquisition of the land where the airport is now. The villagers used to say that he slept on a bed of money instead of kapok.

Now everything was different. His wealth and respect had dried up like a coconut tree struck by lightning. The hectares of land he use to own had shrunk like scorched banana leaves to the size of a lawn. Mamat Jago’s house was once the most luxurious and expensive house in the village. Today it was empty, dingy, and silent, and home to moths, beetles, and spiders. Who knows who owned his cars or bikes. There was no trace of his water buffaloes. Only a herd of goats and a coop of chickens were left. His men, there had been about ten or twenty, had left him, looking for new employers after he went bankrupt.

Masroh, his wife whom he did not touch after she contracted tuberculosis, had died two years ago. Their respective husbands moved his three daughters out of town. One of his sons worked as a motorcycle transport driver to support his wife and four children. Only his youngest son and he lived in the house.

“Oh, this deprivation is agonizing.” Mamat Jago coughed a bit. “Is there a cure for this?” he mumbled.

He no longer worked as a land broker. No one wanted to sell his plantation or paddy field. The locals had sold all of their inherited land until only the land their houses stood on was left. They could not sell unless they wanted to be homeless in their own village. The use of the land that provided their livelihoods had changed. Hundreds of hectares were leveled, the dikes were gone, and a two-meter high iron bar fence enclosed everything. Two concrete platforms stretching from west to east lay through the middle of the area.

The locals, including Mamat Jago, just watched the airplanes landing and taking off. Only those on a pilgrimage could afford to board them. At night the planes changed into giant fireflies, blinking as they flew to the farthest horizon.

There were also factories operating day and night. It was impossible for the village’s richest people to build and own a factory. They were only sharecroppers and petty traders, and could not run a business or master the sophisticated technology used in the factories. Yet, their children, boys and girls, even the youngest child, always flocked to and from the factories in uniform. They became involuntary underpaid factory workers, employed by Korean, Japanese, and Taiwanese tycoons.

Luxurious houses were built and occupied by people they did not know. The locals could not afford the houses and had to work as motorcycle taxi drivers in the neighborhood. The bikes were bought with the money from the sale of their inherited land. They still could enjoy the straight and zigzag asphalt road, the clear creek with a concrete sidewalk, and beautiful parks, while looking at the arched doors and windows of the mansions. They used to see them on the open-air movie screens, for which there was no longer space. To complete the scene there were also barking dogs, of course.

Mamat Jago inhaled deeply as if pulling the memories buried deep in the dark hole of his past. “I need my medication,” he mumbled and swallowed.

The smell of wet soil brought by the southern wind crossed the meadow with hip-high pampas grass. It would rain soon. The monsoon had come and the rainfall would be heavier approaching the Chinese New Year. Then the wedding season began. Wedding houses in Kampung Melayu, Kosambi, Salembaran, and Sewan in Jakarta would be crowded again. He missed all of that.

***

That afternoon during his siesta, Mamat Jago dreamed he visited the White Lotus Wedding House.

People gave way as soon as he entered through the main door. He walked with the confidence of a village champion. Only here can I enjoy the pleasure and honor again, he thought, smiling.

It had been two years since he experienced any of it. Yes, here people praised his dancing and fighting skills, his ability to drink bottles of beer and Chinese wine, and his generous tipping.

Mamat Jago imagined the dancers’ sexy and arousing bodies, their lustful movement, and writhing. Oh, what man was able to hold up to such temptation?

Nyai Sirah, the hostess, welcomed Mamat Jago, carrying a maroon shawl like she used to. The woman with breasts as small as quail’s eggs wrapped the shawl around his neck, an invitation to enter the arena and choose a partner.

Mamat Jago only looked at Sarti, sitting in the corner next to Minan Balok. She wore a yellow green T-shirt with a picture of a pink dragon going up, and cream capri pants. Dressed in that outfit, she looked younger than she was. Being a bit plump, her curves were visible under the tight clothes.

Mamat Jago’s blood flowed like a torrent. He pulled his favorite dancer’s hand.

Sarti smiled and followed him with small, skipping steps. The other dancers emptied the arena, honoring the return of the dancing king from Bulak Petir.

His chin tilted, Mamat Jago glanced across the room. He raised his two fists, honoring the hosts and orchestra director, and Tan Eng Djin.

Minan Balok responded by raking his teh yan.

“Come on Minan, play ‘Ayam Jago.’ I want to dance again.”

The xylophone, percussion, gong, and flute followed one after another. The tones mingled. Gwat Nio’s soprano began,

“Don’t spur a cock to fight, because the cock’s comb will turn red
Don’t spur a cock to fight, because the cock’s comb will turn red
Don’t tease the woman in green, or else her boyfriend will get mad
Don’t tease the woman in green, or else her boyfriend will get mad.”

Sarti did not budge. Her hands hung loose by her side.

Mamat Jago took her hands, placed them around his waist, and tightened his embrace. She felt cold, like the dadap leaves used to bring down a child’s fever. Her lips were sealed, her eyes shut. “Come on, Sarti, don’t tease me like you used to during those nights long ago.” Mamat Jago shook Sarti. He tapped her cheeks, but there was not the slightest reaction. He looked at the musicians. Everyone had stopped playing. No one moved. Everything seemed as cold and blue as Chinese porcelain.

Mamat Jago carried Sarti out of the room. The spectators who had packed the arena and the wedding house lawn earlier were gone. Worried, he walked through the garden where the evening rain came down like layers of mosquito netting. Along the street the trees swayed drunkenly and the houses seemed struck dumb. The electric and kerosin lamplights had dimmed. He walked along the asphalt road, crossed the river parting the tall grasses in the fields.

“You can’t die, dear. Live with me. In my house you will be warm.” He kissed Sarti’s lips. His saliva, mixed with the rainwater, entered Sarti’s mouth. The owl-eyed girl choked. She wriggled and put her arms around Mamat Jago’s neck. He smiled and walked faster.

The night and the first rain of the season enveloped the Bulak Petir village. From a distance, Mamat Jago’s house on the edge of a fallow rice field by the road looked like a faded painting.

A few lights were on. Ah, good boy, Mamat Jago thought. His youngest son must have switched on the lights before going to work on the factory night shift. The light from the lamps always brought memories of the bright days of his youth.

During their courting days and even after they were married, before the children were born and filled the house, Masroh and he would run across the dikes of the rice fields as soon as the first rain fell. Soaking wet, they showered at the well where the water always seemed warmer than the rainwater. This was how they celebrated the arrival of the monsoon.

The front door was unlocked.

“How careless!” Mamat Jago cursed under his breath. He was certain his youngest son had forgotten to turn the lock.

He pushed the door open with his back and went straight to the bedroom. He lay Sarti on the bed. It was the same spot where Masroh exhaled her last breath. Emaciated, her breasts were like rotten oranges. Mamat Jago took off Satri’s wet clothes and blanketed her with the batik cloth used to cover his late wife’s remains. He looked at Sarti, who appeared to be sound asleep.

“My lover, my wife.” Mamat Jago kissed Sarti’s lips. He felt her lips moving, kissing him back. Her hands gently pulled him against her. She started breathing slowly, then heavily, warm, hot, and boisterous. He hugged her tighter. Heat crept through their bodies. Sarti moaned, scratching Mamat Jago’s back. In no time they were wrestling on the worn-out mattress. On fire, they kissed, nipped, and writhed while clinging to each other.

Suddenly, bam! Startled, Mamat Jago released his embrace.

Eng Djin, Longhair, and Crewcut stood by the door.

Mamat Jago grabbed his underwear and put it on.

“Come to your senses, Sarti is dead,” Eng Djin said.

Mamat Jago turned his head. Sarti lay naked and stiff, driblets of sweat between her breasts. Not believing what they said, he tapped on Sarti’s cheek repeatedly. “Come on, sweetie, wake up. Koh Eng Djin and my friends are here,” he whispered into her ear.

“Let her go.”

Mamat Jago shook Sarti’s bluish body in disbelief. She was cold and stiff. He released a bitter cry. It had been a very long time since he cried. Even when Masroh passed away he had not felt the urge to cry.

Watching, Eng Djin sighed. Longhair and Crewcut locked Mamat Jago’s arms and walked him to a jeep.

On the way, the two policemen whom Mamat Jago claimed to be his friends did not bother talking to him. Crewcut drove and Longhair smoked.

Mamat Jago looked at the handcuffs around his wrists that glistened in the sunlight falling through the car windows. The stainless steel device immobilized him completely. The car bounced across the potholes in the road and he was flung against the door. When he cried out, Longhair only turned his head with his cigarette between his lips.

Mamat Jago laid back and looked through the rear door’s window. He watched the house lights dissolve into long wavy lines. He also saw Sarti’s naked, perspiring body following the car that was driving him to only God knew where. Had Sarti truly died? Was it possible he had sex with a dead body? Mamat Jago wondered. Didn’t Sarti kiss and hug him back when they were having heavy sex like in the old days?

The car stopped and the rear door opened. “Get out!” Longhair yelled.

Mamat Jago’s jaw dropped. He was unable to resist. When he jumped out, his feet sunk into the sand.

Longhair and Crewcut herded him into a dark place. He heard the roaring waves and rustling leaves. Salt dust stuck to his lips.

He tried guessing which beach. Maybe Tanjung Kait, Rawa Saban, Kamal, or one he never visited before. A strong push made him stumble on a coral and fall. His mouth filled with salty sand.

“We’re not really your friends. We made friends only to be able to catch bad guys like you. Tonight you’re finished.” Crewcut’s voice was louder than the waves.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Blood oozed from the holes in his temples and forehead. The sand absorbed it, and the waves wiped it and made it disappear in the water.

***

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Mamat Jago awakened. Feeling someone wiping his face, he rose. “Sarti!” he called.

No one answered.

He wiped his forehead and temples. No blood, only rainwater from the leaking roof. “What kind of a dream was that?” he asked, confused. He sat on the edge of the bed. He listened carefully, the incessant shooting was still audible. “Oh my,” he smiled, it was only firecrackers from the wedding house.

He walked to the window and opened it. The rain had stopped, but the lawn was muddied. So was his memory of Eng Djin, Longhair, and Crewcut. And Sarti. “Why did something so strange happen to you in my dream?” he wondered.

Without wasting time, he opened the closet and took out his best clothes: a safari shirt and khaki trousers, dark brown felt hat, black leather sandals, and a wooden cane with a dragon head-shaped handle, all of it making him feel debonair again. But the murky mirror in front of him could not hide the wrinkles on his cheeks and the dark swelling under his eyes. He stared at his reflection until he coughed. His body jerked and he chuckled, “Damn wife!”

Mamat Jago tapped the terrazzo floor with his cane, three times. “I have to go back to the wedding house.” He had made up his mind.

The White Lotus Wedding House had remained like it used to be. People gave way as Mamat Jago entered the arena. As always, he bowed before the hosts, the bride and the groom, Tan Eng Djin, the musicians and the dancers as a sign of respect. They returned his greeting, except for Sarti, who only pursed her lips and blew cigarette smoke at Mamat Jago. The old man smiled and did the same to her.

Sarti crushed the cigarette butt with her beautiful wooden clog. “You haven’t come here for so long. I missed you.” Sarti draped a maroon shawl around his neck.

“I had to take care of a lot of business, toots.” Mamat Jago put his arm around Sarti’s waist.

Without any prompting, Minan Balok played his teh yan. The soft melody made Mamat Jago pull Sarti in a tighter embrace. He felt as if there was a black hole in his chest that could only be filled by hugging his favorite dancer.

The first stanza of “Stambul Siliwangi” flowed from Gwat Nio’s lips.

“So this is the way it is, Karna, the dragon is the dragon.
Oh, the wooden paddle, the wooden paddle would be burnt away by fire.
So if this is the way it is, darling, what do I feel?
Oh, the body is alive, but I feel dead.”

Karna joined her with an undulating voice. Once in a while Mamat Jago sang along,

“My rose, sweetheart, my rose, Sweet Soul from Heaven.
Oh the mothers, oh the kaffir lime,
Oh the kaffir lime, sweetheart, has a nice fragrance.
Oh let’s get acquainted, Nio, let’s get acquainted, sweetheart, there are no hindrances
Ahh, the mothers are only clouds.
The mothers are only clouds, but my sweetheart belongs to someone else.”

The dancers and their partners encircled Mamat Jago and Sarti. But no one was able to dance. Everyone linked arms.

Suddenly, Mamat Jago coughed. His voice broke, his breath labored.

Sarti stroked his back. “You are ill.”

“I’m love sick.”

“Please see the doctor.”

“Oh no. I just want to go to the wedding house. To see doctor Sarti.”

“Ah, Sarti has lots of patients.”

“Please, treat me, doctor. Make me your only patient.”

“Stop it.”

“I dreamed of Sarti and everyone in this wedding house.”

“Oh really? How did the story go?”

“Ah, I’m embarrassed to tell.”

“How was it?” Sarti pinched Mamat Jago’s thigh.

“We were playing doctor and patient.”

“Ugh, that’s dirty.” Sarti squeezed his groin.

He moaned and pinched her buttocks. This time she let him do it. A fire sparked in what once was a black hole. His body temperature slowly increased and the heat crept to Sarti’s body.

The spectators became anxious. A boy fondled himself while squatting.

“Come home with me.”

“Where is home?”

“Home.”

A coughing spell overtook Mamat Jago. It was as if the coughs were competing against the xylophone. His breathing sounded like a broken boat engine. At one in the morning, when the gong struck as a closing sign, his breathing dwindled.

Sarti screamed.

People turned their heads.

Mamat Jago leaned heavily on Sarti. “Keep playing. I’ll die if the band stops,” he gasped during the next two pauses.

The musicians remained still.

Mamat Jago slumped to the floor.

Sarti put his head on her lap. She only smiled and stroked Mamat Jago’s face.

Within seconds, Mamat Jago saw Sarti’s face change into that of a young woman who had once taken him for an outing to a small island near the northern coast. He had just finished reciting the Koran, and the excursion had been his reward.

Just the two of them visited the island that was full of kelingkit trees, eagles, seagulls, and blue crabs. That most wonderful excursion might have only lasted for a few minutes, perhaps a couple of hours, the whole day, or several months. Mamat Jago no longer remembered. But he knew the woman’s smile very well. And he was happy.

***

Budi Darma is an Indonesian novelist, essayist, and short-story writer. He is often cited as an absurdist writer. His novel Olenka (Balai Pustaka, 1980) won the 1980 Jakarta Art Council Prize. Other novels are Rafilus (Balai Pustaka, 1988) and Ny. Talis: Kisah mengenai Madras (PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 1996). Harmonium (Pustaka Pelajar, 1995) is his book of literary criticism. “Mata yang Indah (Beautiful Eyes)” was included in his short story collection, Kritikus Adinan (Bentang Budaya, 2002). Currently, Budi Darma is a professor of English literature at the Surabaya National University in Indonesia.

“Mata yang Indah (Beautiful Eyes)” first appeared in the short story collection, Kritikus Adinan (Bentang Budaya, 2002), copyright © 2002 by Budi Darma. Published with permission of the author. Translation copyright © 2013 by Nurul Hanafi, edited by Sal Glynn.

***

Mata Yang Indah

Beberapa saat sebelum meninggal, Ibu mengelus-elus kepala saya, kemudian berkata: “Haruman, lihatlah mata saya baik-baik.” Tampak ada nyala lembut dalam mata Ibu, nyala lilin yang hampir padam. Lilin sudah hampir habis, demikian pula sumbunya. Namun tampak, nyala lilin itu tenang, tidak sama dengan nyala lilin yang berjuang untuk tetap hidup pada saat berhadapan dengan angin yang akan membunuhnya.

Saya tahu Ibu akan meninggal, meninggal dengan benar-benar pasrah.

Dengan mendadak ada bau, entah datang dari mana, amat lembut, namun amat segar. Saya diam, namun saya ingat cerita Ibu ketika saya masih kecil dahulu, “Haruman, pada saat saya akan meninggal kelak, akan ada bau dari sorga dikirim ke dunia.”

“Siapa yang mengirim?” tanya saya, dulu, ketika saya masih kecil.

“Malaikat. Ketahuilah, Haruman, ada masa awal dan ada masa akhir, demikian juga kehidupan manusia. Menjelang saat kehidupan seseorang berakhir, pasti ada malaikat melayang-layang tidak jauh dari dia yang akan meninggal. Kadang-kadang malaikat tidak membawa apa-apa, kadang-kadang membawa petaka, kadang-kadang pula membawa bunyi-bunyian atau bau yang tidak pernah terbayangkan oleh manusia sebelumnya. Lakukanlah tindakan-tindakan mulia dengan hati yang bersih dalam kehidupanmu, Haruman, agar kelak, sebelum kamu meninggal, malaikat akan membawakan kamu pertanda-pertanda yang agung.”

Entah mengapa, begitu Ibu selesai berkata mengenai malaikat yang pada suatu saat akan datang, saya lupa kata-kata Ibu. Saya hanya ingat, Ibu selalu berbuat baik kepada siapa pun, dan sering sekali ibu saya memberi nasihat kepada saya untuk meniru perbuatan-perbuatannya. Sebagai anak yang baik, saya selalu menurut.

Pada suatu hari, entah umur berapa saya pada waktu itu, Ibu menyuruh saya untuk pergi, entah ke mana. “Lupakanlah saya, Haruman, namun jangan lupa nasihat-nasihat saya. Pergilah ke tempat-tempat jauh untuk mencari pengalaman. Pada saatnya nanti, kamu pasti akan merasa, bahwa waktumu untuk kembali kepada saya telah tiba.”

Demikianlah, sejak saat itu saya mengembara. Selama mengembara saya pernah menjadi pengayuh perahu tambang, penebang pohon di hutan-hutan lebat, tukang memasang atap rumbia, dan entah apa lagi. Nasihat Ibu untuk selalu bertindak baik dengan hati bersih selalu saya turuti. Tapi entah mengapa, saya merasa bahwa saya selalu dicurigai oleh siapa pun yang bertemu dengan saya. Begitu melihat mata saya, siapa pun, pasti membersitkan sikap curiga.

Kecurigaan apa yang mereka pendam, saya tidak tahu. Apakah mereka mencurigai saya sebagai pencuri, pembunuh, penipu, atau apa pun, saya tidak pernah tahu. Karena itu, saya selalu merasa bersalah, atau, mungkin lebih dari sekadar bersalah. Saya merasa saya berdosa, kendati saya yakin saya tidak pernah melakukan tindakan laknat sama-sekali. Berpikir buruk pun, kepada siapa pun dan kepada apa pun, saya tidak pernah.

Mungkin karena saya merasa selalu dicurigai, dan karena itu saya selalu merasa bersalah dan berdosa, saya selalu berpindah-pindah tempat. Tidak pernah saya tinggal di suatu tempat lebih dari tiga hari. Memang, tidak ada satu orang pun yang pernah mengusir saya, namun saya sendiri merasa bahwa saya akan menjadi beban bagi mereka.

Pada suatu hari, ketika saya sedang berjalan dari satu desa ke desa lain, seekor burung besar, tanpa saya ketahui dari mana asalnya, dengan sangat mendadak menukik ke arah saya, lalu berusaha dengan amat susah-payah untuk menyerang mata saya. Entah mengapa, tepat pada saat cakar burung akan menghunjam ke mata saya, saya berhasil menutup wajah erat-erat dengan tangan. Dengan sangat cepat burung itu kembali ke udara, lalu dengan sangat mendadak berusaha menyerang lagi.

Demikianlah, bertubi-tubi burung itu menyerang saya, dan bertubi-tubi pula saya menutup wajah saya dengan tangan. Akhirnya, burung itu hanya sanggup melukai tangan saya, tanpa sanggup mencongkel mata saya.

Untuk menahan rasa sakit, saya terguling-guling di atas tanah dan mengerang-erang dahsyat, entah berapa lama. Namun, sampai berhari-hari, darah masih terus merembes keluar dari luka tangan saya, dan rasa sakit masih benar-benar menyiksa.

Sesuai dengan pesan Ibu, selama mengembara memang saya sudah berhasil melupakan Ibu. Selama mengembara itu saya tidak pernah berpikir, bahwa seharusnya saya mempunyai ibu, ayah, saudara, dan kerabat lain. Saya benar-benar merasa sebatang kara, tanpa pernah menyadari perasaan saya sendiri bahwa saya adalah sebatang kara.

Entah mengapa, pada saat saya hampir selesai berguling-guling di atas tanah untuk menahan rasa sakit, sekonyong-konyong saya teringat cerita Ibu, dahulu, ketika saya masih kecil.

“Haruman,” demikianlah kata Ibu dahulu, ketika saya masih kecil. “Orang-orang suci pernah berkata, sebagaimana yang sering saya katakan dahulu, bahwa para pengembara besar ditakdirkan untuk tinggal di suatu tempat tidak lebih dari tiga hari. Kalau tidak, akan timbul kekacauan. Ingat-ingatlah kembali kisah para pengembara besar, sebagaimana yang sudah sering saya ceritakan.”

Entah mengapa, begitu saya selesai teringat kata-kata Ibu mengenai para pengembara besar, dengan sangat mendadak saya lupa Ibu, demikian pula semua tindakan dan kata-kata Ibu. Hanya memang, kadang-kadang, saya merasa mendapat peringatan, entah dari siapa, untuk tidak tinggal bersama orang lain lebih dari tiga hari. Dan, memang, saya tidak pernah mempunyai keinginan sedikit pun untuk mengganggu dan membebani orang lain.

Demikianlah, setelah saya kena serang burung besar itu, saya cacat. Tangan saya masih tetap dapat saya pergunakan untuk bekerja, namun lambat dan cepat capai. Seluruh tubuh saya juga menjadi tidak beres.

Kadang-kadang tubuh saya mendadak panas, seolah darah saya mendidih. Beberapa kali pula dengan mendadak saya kehilangan keseimbangan. Kalau keseimbangan kacau, saya terpaksa berjalan terhuyung, kemudian terjatuh, dan kemudian berguling-guling menahan rasa sakit.

Namun, saya harus terus bekerja. Saya tidak mau mengganggu dan membebani orang lain. Dan saya menolak untuk menjadi pengemis.

Setelah sekian kali pernah menjadi pendayung perahu tambang di berbagai desa, akhirnya saya kembali lagi menjadi pendayung perahu tambang di sebuah desa sepi dan terpencil. Mengapa saya menjadi pendayung perahu tambang lagi, tidak lain karena pada suatu hari, ketika saya sedang tertidur di bawah sebuah pohon rindang, dengan sangat mendadak tubuh saya tertumbuk dengan tidak sengaja oleh seorang laki-laki. Begitu keras dia menumbuk saya, sampai-sampai dia terpaksa terguling.

Saya benar-benar terperanjat ketika saya menyadari, bahwa laki-laki yang tidak sengaja menumbuk tubuh saya ini memiliki mata yang luar biasa indah, dan luar biasa cemerlang. Namun terasa benar, bahwa mata yang luar biasa indah itu sebetulnya mengandung penyakit.

“Apakah kamu seorang laki-laki muda?” tanya dia.

“Ya,” kata saya.

Saya sadar bahwa dia memandang saya dengan tajam, namun saya juga sadar bahwa sebetulnya dia tidak melihat saya.

“Maaf, sudah bertahun-tahun saya mengalami rabun mata. Makin hari, makin rabun mata saya. Padahal, di desa ini hanya sayalah yang mau menjadi pendayung perahu tambang. Kebetulan pula, saya tidak mempunyai kemampuan untuk bekerja apa pun selain mendayung perahu tambang saya. Penumpang perahu tambang memang sangat jarang, namun tidak berarti bahwa saya dan perahu saya tidak pernah diperlukan.”

Pemilik perahu tambang itu bernama Gues. Potongan tubuhnya rasa-rasanya mirip potongan tubuh saya, begitu juga cara dia berjalan. Segera setelah dia membawa saya ke perahu tambangnya, dia menghilang entah kemana. Mula-mula saya tidak tahu bagaimana dia bisa berjalan dan mengayuh perahunya, sebab, saya benar-benar yakin, bahwa sebetulnya matanya sudah benar-benar buta.

Sampai hampir menjelang malam, tidak ada satu penumpang pun memerlukan perahu tambang. Saya gelisah, karena sampai hampir menjelang malam itu pula, tidak nampak tanda-tanda bahwa pemilik perahu tambang itu akan datang. Maka, setelah mengikat perahu tambang erat-erat, saya berjalan ke arah pohon rindang, dan tertidur lagi di tempat tubuh saya tertumbuk Gues tadi.

Entah berapa lama saya tertidur, saya tidak tahu. Seandainya tidak ada tangan halus mengusap-usap kepala saya, pasti saya akan tertidur terus sampai lama. Tangan halus siapa? Saya tidak tahu, namun saya yakin, pasti tangan halus perempuan. Malam sudah benar-benar gelap, dan saya tidak bisa melihat.

Dengan sangat mendadak, mulut saya terkunci oleh sepasang bibir yang memagut-magut bibir saya. Saya mendengar nafas mendesah-desah ganas. Di antara pagutan-pagutan bibir, kadang-kadang saya mendengar suara lembut, namun dengan nada marah: “Gues, mengapa kamu tidak pernah memperlakukan saya sebagai istri kamu? Berilah saya keturunan. Kalau kamu mati, siapa yang akan menemani saya?”

Sebelum saya kena perkosa istri Gues, saya sempat membebaskan diri. Istri Gues berusaha menangkap saya, namun saya tidak pernah tertangkap. Saya sempat mendengar lolong-lolong pilu dia: “Gues! Gues! Bukankah saya istrimu?”

Pada saat dia melolong-lolong sambil berusaha mengejar saya, saya bisa menarik kesimpulan mengapa Gues bisa berjalan dan mengayuh perahunya. Nampaknya, karena kebiasaannya yang sudah amat lama, dia hapal semua jalan yang harus dilaluinya. Dia menumbuk tubuh saya, karena, agaknya, selama ini tidak pernah ada penghalang apa pun di bawah pohon rindang itu.

Tampaknya, setelah menyadari bahwa saya lari ke arah yang tidak biasa ditempuh Gues, dia sadar bahwa saya bukan Gues. Maka melolong-lolonglah dia, memohon ampun kepada Seru Sekalian Alam. Dia merasa benar-benar menyesal, karena telah berusaha melumat-lumat tubuh laki-laki yang ternyata bukan suaminya.

Mendengar lolong-lolong penyesalan, saya berhenti sekejap. Rasa berdosa menyergap seluruh jiwa dan raga saya. Kendati saya tidak pernah berusaha memperkosa siapa pun, saya merasa telah menodai istri orang lain. Hati saya benar-benar luka. Sambil menangis, saya berlari menjauhi desa.

Luka hati saya tidak pernah sembuh. Kehidupan saya bagaikan kehidupan dalam neraka, neraka tempat saya tinggal selama-lamanya. Dosa saya, rasanya, tidak akan pernah terhapus.

Demikianlah, saya terus mengembara, tanpa ingat dan tanpa keinginan untuk mengingat berapa lama saya sudah mengembara. Dan demikianlah, pada suatu hari, dengan sangat mendadak saya teringat Ibu. Maka berjalanlah saya pulang, melalui jalan-jalan yang sudah begitu lama saya tinggalkan.

Ketika saya tiba kembali di desa Ibu, saya melihat pemandangan yang benar-benar mengerikan. Debu beterbangan, rumah tinggal sedikit karena rumah-rumah lain sudah roboh, tanah retak-retak kekeringan, pohon-pohon mati, dan tidak ada satu hewan pun yang nampak. Sungai juga sudah benar-benar kering. Desa Ibu telah ditinggalkan oleh semua penduduk, kecuali Ibu. Dan Ibu nampaknya tetap bertahan, untuk menunggu kedatangan saya kembali.

Begitu bertemu dengan Ibu saya sadar, bahwa Ibu sudah lama bersiap-siap untuk meninggal. Dan dia akan terus bertahan hidup, seandainya saya tidak pernah kembali. Begitu melihat saya datang, begitu pula dia tampak akan meregang nyawa. Namun, masih sempat dia mengelus-elus kepala saya.

Tepat pada saat tangan Ibu mulai mengelus-elus kepala saya, langsung saya teringat kembali cerita Ibu dahulu, ketika saya masih kecil, mengenai malaikat yang pada suatu saat pasti akan datang menghampiri siapa pun.

“Haruman, maafkanlah saya. Doa-doa saya untuk mendatangkan bidadari ternyata gagal. Sampai saatnya kamu akan meninggal, kamu tidak akan pernah didatangi bidadari. Mudah-mudahan setelah kamu meninggal nanti, bidadari akan menjemput kamu. Bidadari yang akan menjemput kamu, tidak lain adalah calon isteri kamu di sorga sana.”

Begitu ibu saya selesai mengucapkan kata-katanya, dengan mendadak mata saya menjadi pedih. Dan dengan mendadak pula, saya merasa benar-benar buta. Saya tidak bisa melihat apa pun.

“Haruman, dengarlah pengakuan dosa saya. Dahulu saya pernah memperkosa seorang laki-laki, entah siapa. Saya tertarik oleh matanya, mata yang terus berkilat, mengirimkan cahaya-cahaya indah. Mata dia jauh lebih indah daripada kelereng mainan para dewa. Malam harinya saya tertidur pulas, dan bermimpi.”

Dalam mimpi, menurut Ibu, Ibu merasakan beban dosa yang amat berat, karena dia sedang mengandung bayi tanpa ayah yang akan hidup tanpa mata. Tampaknya, ada bidadari yang merasa iba kepada Ibu. Bidadari ini segera terbang entah ke mana, dan dalam waktu singkat sudah kembali dengan membawa sepasang mata indah.

“Ketahuilah, wahai perempuan malang,” kata bidadari, “karena saya merasa amat sangat kasihan kepada kamu, dengan sangat tergesa-gesa tadi saya mencomot mata seseorang. Saya tidak tahu siapa dia. Apakah semasa masih hidup dia orang berhati mulia atau sebaliknya, saya tidak tahu. Arwah dia masih melayang-layang, belum ditentukan apakah dia akan tercebur ke neraka ataukah terangkat ke sorga. Saya hanya tahu, wahai perempuan malang, bahwa mata dia luar biasa indah. Dan karena saya sudah telanjur mencomot sepasang mata indah ini, tidak mungkin saya mengembalikan kepada pemiliknya. Ketahuilah, dia tidak akan memerlukan mata lagi. Kalau ternyata dia tercebur ke neraka, dia akan memperoleh mata baru, mata jahanam sesuai dengan kebejatan hati dan tindakan dia selama dia masih hidup. Dan kalau ternyata dia terangkat ke sorga, dia akan memperoleh sepasang mata baru yang jauh lebih indah.”

Tepat pada saat Ibu akan mendesahkan nafas terakhir dalam hidupnya, saya berkata, “Ibu, pergilah dengan damai. Sudah sejak dahulu saya memaafkan Ibu. Bidadari yang selama ini Ibu harapkan, telah datang menjemput saya.”

Saya yakin, Ibu tidak sempat mendengar kalimat saya terakhir.

Surabaya, 8 Oktober 2000

Dipetik dari kumpulan cerita ‘Fofo dan Senggring’, Grasindo, 2005, hal.115-122.

***

Nurul Hanafi is a writer of fiction and literary translator based in Yogyakarta, Central Java. His work includes a novel, short stories, three plays, and two books of folktales. He studies early modern English literature, ancient Greek plays, and contemporary writers. His translation of “Mata yang Indah” was edited by Sal Glynn.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

***

Beautiful Eyes

A few moments before she died, Mother stroked my head and said, “Haruman, look into my eyes!”

A soft glow lit my mother’s eyes. It reminded me of serene candlelight, not the kind that wildly flickers as it tries to withstand the wind.

I knew my mother would die peacefully.

All of a sudden, the air filled with fragrance. The scent was subtle but very fresh. I remembered the story Mother told me when I was a child.

“Haruman, some day in the future when I die, heaven will send fragrances to the earth.”

“Who will send it?” I asked.

“Angels. Haruman, know there is a time to begin and a time to end, and such is mortal life. When a life comes to its end, an angel hovers around the mortal about to die. Sometimes the angel doesn’t bring anything and it’s a bad omen. Other times he comes with voices or scents never imagined by any mortal. Always perform good deeds as long as you live so the angel will bring you a great omen.”

I don’t know why, but as soon as Mother told me about the angel, I forgot her words. I only remembered that my mother always performed good deeds and frequently advised me to do the same. The good child that I was, I always obeyed her.

Then one day, I don’t know how old I was, Mother told me to leave. “Forget me, Haruman, but don’t forget my counsel. Go, travel to far-away places and look for new experiences. You will know when it is time to return to me.”

I have been on the road since then. During my wanderings, I was a sampan rower, worked as a lumberjack in dense forests, built thatched roofs, and worked many other odd jobs.

Following Mother’s counsel, I always performed good deeds, but everywhere I went, people were suspicious of me. Their suspicion was apparent each time our eyes met.

I have no idea why they distrusted me. Did they suspect me to be a thief, a killer, a cheater, or anything else? I never knew. That’s why I always felt guilty, or even worse, a sinner, even though I’d never committed any crime. I never thought ill of anyone, regardless of who they were.

Perhaps my feeling of always being suspected caused me to feel guilty and sinful, and made me drift from place to place. I never stayed in a place for more than three days. No one chased me away, but I knew I would be a bother if stayed longer.

One day as I walked from village to village, a big bird swooped out of nowhere and attacked me. Just before its claws scratched my eyes, I covered my face tightly with both hands. The bird flew quickly into the air, and dived toward me again.

As the bird kept on its attack, I covered my face with my hands. In the end, the bird hurt my hands but was unable to scratch my eyes out. I dropped to the ground and rolled around moaning for I don’t know how long. Blood dripped from my wounded hands and the pain was unbearable.

During my wanderings, it was easy to follow my mother’s order that I should forget her. For as long as I had been on the road, I had never given a thought to having a mother, father, siblings, and relatives. I felt very lonely without realizing I was, in fact, alone.

While rolling on the ground to overcome the pain, I remembered the story Mother told me when I was a small boy.

“Haruman,” she said, “The sages foretold of great wanderers who were fated to stay no more than three days in a place, for otherwise there would be a riot. Keep in your mind the stories I have told you.”

When I remembered my mother’s stories, I forgot about her kindness and advice.

It’s true I had occasional hints to stay no more than three days anywhere, but those couldn’t be attributed to a single person. I had no intention to disturb anyone.

That being the situation, I found myself handicapped after being assaulted by the bird. I still could use my hands to work, but I was slow and tired easily.

My whole body had become unbalanced. Sometimes I suddenly got very hot as if my blood was boiling. There were times I lost my balance and staggered, and even fell down. To endure the pain, I rolled on the ground.

In order to keep from being a burden to others, I had to keep working. I refused to be a beggar.

I traveled from village to village until I arrived at a quiet secluded place, and returned to the job of sampan rower because of the following incident.

One day as I was sleeping under a weeping willow tree, a man stumbled over me. The impact made him fall.

I noticed he had a pair of remarkably beautiful eyes. Yet at the same time I sensed there was something wrong with them.

“Are you a young man?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

I realized that while he stared at me, he could not see me.

“I’ve been near-sighted for many years. It gets worse as time goes by. But in this village, I’m the only one who’s willing to be a sampan rower. I can’t do any other job. People rarely travel by water, but it doesn’t mean that my sampan and I are totally useless.”

The rower was called Gues. I noticed how much we looked alike, even in the way we walked. Right after he took me to his sampan, Gues disappeared. I didn’t know how he could find his way and row his sampan, for I was quite sure he was totally blind.

The night was approaching and still no one needed the sampan. I became anxious when it became darker and there was still no sign of Gues. After mooring the sampan securely, I walked back to the weeping willow tree and fell asleep at the place where Gues had stumbled over me.

I don’t know how long I had been asleep when I felt a soft hand stroking my head. Whose hand was it? I was sure it belonged to a woman. The night was pitch dark and I couldn’t see anything.

Suddenly, a mouth firmly closed over mine. Lips nibbled and sucked. Between passionate moans and fierce kisses, a soft voice demanded, “Gues, how can I be your wife and yet you don’t treat me as one? To be a husband is to produce descendants. Who will keep me company after you die?”

I managed to run before Gues’s wife raped me. She tried to catch me, but never did.

“Gues! Gues! Am I not your wife, am I not?” her wailing continued.

Years of walking the same road and rowing the same sampan enabled Gues to do so by memory. He had tripped over me because there had never been any obstacles under the tree.

The wife realized her mistake when I ran in a direction different than the one usually taken by Gues. She directed her laments to the gods. She cried out with deep remorse for trying to relish the body of a man other than her husband.

Hearing her regret, I halted for a moment. I was overcome by a sense of guilt. Even though I never tried to rape anyone, I thought I had dishonored another man’s wife. I was deeply hurt and ran crying from the village.

The wound never healed. My life turned into a hell. It felt as if my sins would never be forgiven. I wandered without trying to remember how long I had been walking aimlessly, until one day I remembered my mother.

I started to travel home, retracing the long abandoned road.

My old village was in a frightful state of despair. Only a few houses stood among the ruins. Drought had cracked the soil and killed the greenery. Even the river was dry. Everyone and their beasts had left the village, except for my mother. She had remained for my homecoming.

As soon as I saw my mother, I knew she had been preparing to die for a long time. But she would have kept on living had I not come home.

When I arrived, she seemed to ready herself, yet she still took time to stroke my head. I remembered her story about the angel that was sure to visit any mortal at a certain time. “Haruman, please forgive me. My prayers to summon an angel have failed. Until you die, no angel comes to visit. But one will escort you at the time of your death. That angel is your spouse-to-be in heaven.”

As soon as Mother finished speaking, I felt a stinging pain in my eyes and I was suddenly blind. I could not see anything.

“Haruman, please listen to my confession. A long time ago, I raped a man I didn’t know. I loved his eyes that were like radiating brilliant lights and committed the sin. The sparkle of his eyes was greater than those of the marbles the gods play with. That night I fell fast asleep and dreamed.”

While she slept, my mother said, she found herself punished by the unbearable sin, for in her womb she carried a fatherless baby to be born without eyes.

An angel took pity on her. It flew away and came back with a pair of beautiful eyes.

“Heed me, poor woman,” said the angel. “Driven by pity for you, I took a pair of mortal eyes from their sockets. I don’t know who he is. I don’t know if he is a pious man or otherwise. His soul is still hovering. His fate of falling into hell or flying to heaven has yet to be determined. The only thing I know, oh, poor woman, is that he has a pair of remarkably beautiful eyes. Once I plucked these eyes, I was unable to return them to the owner. But I can assure you that he doesn’t need them anymore. If he’s thrown in hell, he will be given a new pair of eyes, satanic ones that match the immoral behavior during his lifetime. If he is lifted to heaven, he will be given a pair of even more beautiful eyes.”

Before she breathed her last breath, I said, “Mother, leave in peace. I forgave you a long time ago. The angel you’ve been waiting for is here to pick me up.”

I’m certain my mother did not hear my last sentence.

***

Triyanto Triwikromo holds a Master’s Degree in Literature from Diponegoro University, Semarang. He teaches Creative Writing at his alma mater and is the managing editor of the Suara Merdeka Daily. His poems have appeared in the bilingual Australian publication Mud Purgatory, (2008) and the collection, Pertempuran Rahasia (Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2010).

Triyanto has written several collections of short stories, Rezim Seks, (2002), Ragaula (2002), Sayap Anjing (2003), Anak-anak Mengasah Pisau/Children Sharpening the Knives (2003, bilingual), and Malam Sepasang Lampion (2004). His short story collection, Ular di Mangkuk Nabi (Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2009), received the 2009 Literary Award of Pusat Bahasa (Language Center). Celeng Satu Celeng Semua (Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2013) is his most recent collection of short stories.

In 2005 and 2007 he participated in the Utan Kayu International Literary Bienale. In 2005 he also participated in Wordstorm: Northern Territory Writer Festival in Darwin, Australia and from January to February 2008, in Gang Festival and literature residency in Sydney, Australia. Some of Triwikromo’s poems and stories have also been translated into Dutch, English, French, and Swedish.

“Wali Kesebelas” first appeared in Koran Tempo (January 15, 2012). Revised version copyright © 2013 by Triyanto Triwikromo. Published with permission of the author. Translation copyright © 2013 by Indah Lestari.

***

Wali Kesebelas

Para utusan Lurah Lading Kuning ingin membunuh dan membuang mayat Syeh Muso ke laut. Tetapi Syeh Bintoro ingin menunjukkan kepada warga kampung betapa sang penebar ajaran sesat hanyalah seekor anjing busuk…

Dia bukan pewarta agama. Dia juga tak pernah mengajak penduduk di kampung yang setiap senja tiba menjadi surga bangau itu mengaji di masjid. Tiba-tiba saja warga memanggilnya sebagai Syeh Muso. Dia tidak bisa berjalan di atas air, tetapi dalam bisik-bisik di kampung nelayan itu, dia dapat menyibak air laut dengan tongkat. Dia bisa berjalan di dasar laut dan dinding-dinding laut yang terbelah itu membuat dia seperti berada di dalam kolam ikan raksasa.

Tak hanya dianggap memiliki semua mukjizat yang bisa dilakukan oleh Nabi Musa, seorang warga pernah menceritakan dengan rinci, Syeh Muso juga pernah ditelan semacam naga, semacam kerbau laut, atau hiu raksasa, dan tak mati meskipun telah berada di setiap perut hewan itu sehari semalam. Karena itu warga yakin Syeh Muso itu sesungguhnya Nabi Yunus yang diutus menyelamatkan kampung dari kehancuran dan kemungkaran.

Bukan hanya itu. Pada saat berada di perut hiu atau di dasar laut yang diapit oleh dinding-dinding laut yang terbelah, Syeh Muso, dalam perbincangan kanak-kanak, bisa bercakap-cakap dengan segala ikan dan satwa air lain. Tentu sebagaimana Nabi Sulaiman, dia bisa berbicara dengan berbagai burung, aneka unggas, hewan-hewan melata, kerbau, sapi, kambing, dan segala satwa yang berkeliaran.

“Apakah Syeh Muso menceritakan kehidupan kita kepada para ikan?”

“Tidak. Ikan-ikan terbanglah yang menceritakan penderitaan mereka kepada eyangku. Mereka bilang manusia makin rakus. Dulu mereka tak pernah mau memakan ikan terbang tetapi sekarang ikan terbang pun dibakar sepanjang malam,” kata Azwar, lelaki kencur, cucu Syeh Muso kepada teman-teman sepermainan.

“Waktu berada di dalam perut hiu, apa yang dilakukan Eyang Muso?”

“Eyangku mengajak insang dan seluruh benda yang bisa bergetar berzikir memuja Allah,” jawab Azwar lagi kepada bocah-bocah kecil lain yang sangat ingin memiliki eyang sakti sedigdaya Eyang Muso, “Kata ayahku, eyangku juga bisa terbang dan menghilang.”

“Apakah Syeh Muso terbang dengan buraq?”

“Tidak. Eyang terbang dengan sarung.”

“Apakah ia menghilang seperti hantu?”

“Tidak. Eyang menghilang seperti Pangeran Diponegoro.”

Karena bisa terbang dan menghilang, beredar kabar setiap saat Syeh Muso bisa shalat di Masjidil Haram atau sekadar i’ktikaf Masjid Nabawi. Malah karena ditengarai oleh penduduk Syeh Muso menciptakan kampung dan membangun masjid hanya dalam tujuh hari, dia dihormati sebagai Wali Kesebelas. Tentu ada penjelasan mengapa lelaki santun yang sepanjang hidup menanam bakau di tanjung yang setiap saat digerus abrasi itu disebut sebagai Wali Kesebelas. Di Tanah Jawi, kau tahu, riwayat kewalian hanya berhenti di kemuliaan Walisongo. Hanya di tanjung penuh kadal buntung ini, bertahun-tahun kemudian, didongengkan pada malam menjelang tidur para bocah, hiduplah Wali Kesepuluh yang kebal seluruh senjata dan jago silat. Sang wali sakti itu bernama Basir Burhan. Dia memiliki saudara kembar bernama Said Barikun yang lebih dikenal sebagai Syeh Muso atau Wali Kesebelas.

Basir Burhan atau Syeh Bintoro tinggal di kawasan yang dulu dikenal sebagai Istana Raden Fatah. Dia hanya datang pada setiap Jumat untuk menjadi khatib. Dia tidak pernah memperbolehkan Syeh Muso menyampaikan satu ayat pun kepada warga. “Begitu satu ayat ia sampaikan di masjid, tanjung ini akan tenggelam,” kata Syeh Bintoro yang menganggap seluruh perkataan yang muncul dari mulut santun Syeh Muso sebagai ajaran sesat.

Syeh Muso memang tak pernah menjadi guru. Akan tetapi segala tindakan Wali Kesebelas ini dianggap sebagai semacam teladan yang patut ditiru. Karena dia tidak pernah membunuh bangau, maka penduduk menganggap bangau sebagai satwa suci yang tak layak disakiti. Karena dia selalu menanam bakau sepanjang waktu, maka penduduk menganggap haram merusak atau mematikan pohon penghalang ombak itu.

Akan tetapi tak semua tindakan Syeh Muso bisa ditiru dengan mudah. Meskipun berkali-kali berusaha mencoba, warga tak bisa menjadi semacam dukun penyembuh. Bunga apa pun ketika dicampur dengan secangkir air oleh Syeh Muso bisa digunakan untuk menyembuhkan berbagai penyakit. Hanya seorang dua orang yang tahu rahasia penyembuhan Syeh Muso. Itu pun daya sembuhnya tak sekuat yang dimiliki oleh khasiat penyembuhan Syeh Muso.

Syeh Muso juga tidak punya umat. Meskipun demikian setiap malam banyak warga berkumpul di rumahnya yang teduh. Meskipun Syeh Muso tidak mengajarkan apa pun, mereka berguru pada laki-laki kencana itu.

Jika ada bocah yang bertanya ke mana orang tua mereka pergi, “Ayahmu sedang menimba ilmu, ibumu sedang belajar memahami hidup di rumah Syeh Muso.”

***

Syeh Bintoro menganggap ada yang tidak beres dalam ajaran Syeh Muso. Ada syariat yang dilanggar. Karena itu pada Jumat berbadai, dia mengunjungi saudara kembarnya itu. Tentu sebagaimana malam-malam sebelumnya, Syeh Muso dikerumuni oleh penduduk kampung yang malam itu tengah mempercakapkan hakikat bangau dan bakau.

“Berikanlah kami pemahaman tentang bangau, ya, Syeh Muso,” kata seorang perempuan berwajah sesuci kelinci.

“Aku tak tahu apa-apa tentang bangau.”

“Ayolah, Sampean telah mengajari kami untuk tak membunuh bangau. Pasti Sampean telah mendapat bisikan dari malaikat agar burung-burung itu dibiarkan nangkring di pepohonan bukan?”

Syeh Muso tidak menggeleng, tetapi juga tidak mengangguk.

“Apakah bangau-bangau itu tak pernah mati sehingga sejak dulu hingga kini mereka tak bisa dihitung dengan jari seluruh penduduk kampung ini? Atau apakah sebagian dari mereka mati pada hari Selasa dan dibangkitkan Allah pada hari Sabtu?”

Syeh Muso masih tidak menggeleng, tetapi juga masih tidak mengangguk.

“Mengapa diam, Syeh Muso? Apakah sesekali Allah dan para malaikat menjelma bangau-bangau itu sehingga Sampean melarang kami membunuh mereka?”

Syeh Muso hanya tersenyum.

“Apakah Sampean akan mengatakan kepada kami tiada malaikat selain para bangau itu? Apakah Sampean akan mengatakan tiada Allah selain Syeh Muso, selain Sampean sendiri?”

Syeh Muso masih hanya tersenyum. Dia tidak menggeleng. Dia tidak mengangguk.

“Baiklah, apakah makna pohon-pohon bakau itu untuk kami?” tanya seorang lelaki muda berwajah selicik tikus.

“Aku tak tahu apa-apa tentang pohon bakau.”

“Kalau tak tahu tentang pohon bakau, mengapa sepanjang waktu hanya Sampean tanam pohon bakau di tanjung ini? Apakah semua itu merupakan pohon yang Sampean bawa dari surga?”

Syeh Muso membisu. Dia menggigil karena badai kian mengamuk dan menghajar tubuh ringkihnya.

“Jangan-jangan di setiap daun tergurat ayat-ayat indah Allah? Jangan-jangan pohon-pohon itu berzikir pada Allah sepanjang waktu?”

Syeh Muso tetap membisu. Dia kian menggigil dan merasa betapa makin tidak mungkin menjawab pertanyaan-pertanyaan warga kampung yang haus akan rahasia kehidupan itu.

“Apakah pohon-pohon bakau itu lebih penting dari segala pohon sehingga saat subuh, zuhur, asar, magrib, maupun isya, Sampean masih menanamnya dengan khusyuk?”

Tak menjawab pertanyaan itu, Syeh Muso justru bersiap meninggalkan rumah. Dia hendak menyepi ke ujung tanjung.

“Jangan pergi dulu!” Syeh Bintoro yang sejak tadi bersembunyi di balik pohon berteriak.

Syeh Muso tak menggubris suara menggelegar itu. Dia tetap bergegas menuju ke ujung tanjung.

“Hentikan ajaran sesatmu,” Syeh Bintoro berteriak lebih keras.

Syeh Bintoro menganggap Syeh Muso telah mewartakan ajaran sesat karena tidak menjawab pertanyaan-pertanyaan warga kampung sesuai syariat. Tidak menjawab pertanyaan warga kampung berarti menyetujui segala perkataan mereka. Dan itu bahaya bagi penegakan agama. Dan itu berbahaya bagi dirinya karena ia seperti tengah bertempur dengan bayangannya sendiri. Melihat segala yang dilakukan Syeh Muso, ia seperti melihat bayangan dirinya mengeruhkan air telaga yang semula bening dan berkilau bagai kaca.

“Jika tak kauhentikan ajaran sesatmu, Allah akan membunuhmu. Percayalah padaku!”

Syeh Muso tetap tak menggubris. Dia melesat meninggalkan Syeh Bintoro, meninggalkan syak wasangka yang menyesakkan dada itu.

“Aku tak tahu apa-apa tentang ajaran sesat. Mengapa pula Allah akan membunuhku?” desis Syeh Muso sambil menatap laut lepas, menatap cahaya halilintar menggores langit yang murung dan kian mendung.

Syeh Muso sedih karena merasa tak seorang pun memahami dirinya. Tak penduduk kampung. Tak juga Syeh Bintoro, bayang-bayang yang sangat ia cintai itu.

***

Apakah Allah jadi membunuh Syeh Muso? Allah tidak pernah berurusan dengan masalah-masalah kecil. Allah berurusan dengan mukjizat Nabi Nuh yang menyelamatkan umat dari banjir besar dengan kapal rapuh, tetapi sama sekali tak ingin turut campur dalam urusan bangau atau bakau antara Syeh Muso dengan Syeh Bintoro. Allah berurusan dengan mukjizat laba-laba yang melindungi Nabi Muhammad di gua, tetapi tidak ingin menghakimi siapa yang sesat siapa yang benar dalam memuja diri-Nya. Apakah Syeh Bintoro yang merasa taat syariat lebih benar? Apakah Syeh Muso yang tak pernah menyampaikan satu ayat lebih sesat? Allah tidak mau menjawab pertanyaan-pertanyaan kecil itu.

Apakah Allah jadi membunuh Syeh Muso? Allah sama sekali tidak berurusan dengan pembunuhan Syeh Muso. Ketimbang Allah, Lurah Lading Kuning ingin lebih segera menghilangkan nyawa Syeh Muso. Syeh Muso dianggap musuh paling berbahaya karena selain kini memiliki banyak pengikut, lelaki kencana ini bersama murid taklid juga dituduh menjadi maling yang setiap Jumat Kliwon mencuri di rumah para bekel, demang, dan lurah.

Karena tidak ingin dianggap tak mampu menjaga keamanan desa dan menumpas para begundal, Lurah Lading Kuning kemudian menyewa sebelas pembunuh upahan untuk menaklukkan Syeh Muso. Lurah Lading Kuning sebenarnya ingin menghajar sendiri Syeh Muso. Tetapi karena tak ingin tampak sebagai petinggi yang kejam, dia meminjam tangan orang lain untuk menyingkirkan Syeh Muso dari tanjung yang kian lama kian tampak sebagai kawasan paling makmur di desa pantai itu. Ia meminta sebelas pembunuh upahan untuk membunuh Syeh Muso.

Mengapa harus sebelas? Karena Lurah Lading Kuning yakin Syeh Muso akan bisa mengubah diri menjadi sebelas pendekar yang tidak mungkin bisa dikalahkan oleh sebelas manusia biasa. Diperlukan manusia yang memiliki kekejaman dan naluri membunuh yang luar biasa untuk membantai Syeh Muso.

“Dia memang tidak pernah mencuri untuk dirinya sendiri. Dia memang selalu membagi-bagikan hasil curian kepada warga miskin, tetapi tetap saja dia bajingan tengik meskipun kalian akan menyebut dia sebagai maling aguna,” kata Lurang Lading Kuning sesaat sebelum memberikan perintah pembunuhan Syeh Muso kepada sebelas pembunuh upahan.

Sebelas pembunuh upahan tak terlalu peduli pada alasan Lurah Lading Kuning.

“Sebenarnya Syeh Muso takluk pada Syeh Bintoro. Tapi Syeh Bintoro minta tolong padaku untuk menyingkirkan Syeh Muso,” kata Lurah Lading Kuning lagi.

Sebelas pembunuh upahan tak mendengarkan penjelasan Lurah Lading Kuning. Setelah mendapatkan bayaran, mereka bergegas meninggalkan kelurahan. Mereka bergegas ke ujung tanjung.

***

Akan tetapi di ujung tanjung kau tidak akan mendapatkan pertempuran sengit antara Syeh Muso melawan sebelas pembunuh upahan. Jauh sebelum sampai ke ujung tanjung, ketika melewati hutan bakau, para pembunuh diadang oleh akar-akar yang menjalar-jalar dan melilit tubuh sebelas pembunuh upahan itu.

Akar-akar itu, seperti diperintah oleh keajaiban, meliuk-liuk seperti ular dan akhirnya membelit dan membanting para begundal sehingga tubuh-tubuh para pembunuh gagal itu terbenam ke lumpur. Dan karena sebelas pembunuh upahan itu tak bisa bergerak, dari kejauhan mereka tampak patung-patung purba yang berdiri kaku di kegelapan malam.

Akan tetapi akar-akar pohon bakau itu tak diutus untuk membunuh. Akar-akar bakau pengasih itu hanya menakut-nakuti. Ketika pada akhirnya belitan mengendur dan lumpur tak mengubur hidup-hidup, para pembunuh kemudian bergegas meninggalkan ujung tanjung.

***

“Kami tak mungkin membunuhnya…,” salah seorang pembunuh upahan melapor kepada Lurah Lading Kuning.

“Melihat wajahnya kami tak mampu!”

“Ada cahaya yang menyelimuti tubuhnya!”

Lurah Lading Kuning tak mendebat para pembunuh upahan itu. “Jangan takut. Kalian akan menang. Aku akan meminta Syeh Bintoro membantu kalian.”

Para pembunuh upahan menggigil. Mereka merasa bakal menghadapi kematian yang menakutkan. Mereka membayangkan akar-akar pohon bakau akan mencekik leher atau ujung lancip rantingnya menancap di mata.

“Syeh Muso akan kalah dengan dirinya sendiri,” kata Lurah Lading Kuning, “Dan karena Syeh Muso dan Syeh Bintoro adalah saudara kembar, hanya Syeh Bintorolah yang bakal mengalahkan lelaki digdaya itu.”

Para pembunuh tak paham pada perkataan Lurah Lading Kuning. Mereka terus menggigil. Mereka merasa malaikat kematian dengan perahu-perahu dari surga makin merapat, makin mendekat.

***

Syeh Muso masih tafakur di ujung tanjung saat Syeh Bintoro dan sebelas pembunuh upahan mendatangi tempat yang oleh warga dianggap wingit itu. Akar-akar masih menjalar seperti ular sehingga siapa pun yang berada ujung tanjung berhadapan dengan kengerian yang tak kunjung hilang.

Dan Allah agaknya tak ingin berurusan dengan segala tindakan yang akan dilakukan oleh Syeh Muso atau Syeh Bintoro. Allah juga tak mengutus akar-akar bakau untuk menjadi pembunuh sehingga tanjung jadi teduh, tanjung jadi tenang. Saat itu Jibril mungkin berbisik kepada Syeh Muso. “Lakukanlah apa yang diminta oleh Syeh Bintoro, bahkan sekalipun ia ingin menusukkan keris ke lambungmu.”

Saat itu Jibril juga mungkin berbisik kepada Syeh Bintoro. “Tak perlu kaubunuh saudara kembarmu. Tugasmu hanya meminta Syeh Muso moksha.”

Lalu kedua saudara kembar itu berhadap-hadapan.

Dalam pandangan sebelas pembunuh upahan, mereka tak saling berkata-kata. Mereka hanya saling mengadu mata. Ya, mereka memang tidak berkata-kata, tetapi ada percakapan rahasia di hati mereka.

“Sekali lagi kukatakan kepadamu aku tak mengajarkan apa pun kepada umatmu.”

“Tapi kau telah jadi berhala.”

“Aku hanya melakukan apa pun yang dikehendaki Allah.”

“Ya tetapi tindakanmu telah jadi firman. Segala yang kaulakukan, bahkan yang salah, telah dianggap sebagai ayat.”

“Aku sudah mengatakan kepada mereka aku bukan siapa-siapa.”

“Tapi mereka buta. Mereka telah menganggapmu sebagai wali dan melupakan ajaran Nabi.”

“Kalau begitu aku akan meninggalkan tanjung ini….”

“Pergilah ke pedalaman….”

“Ya, aku akan pergi. Sekarang tinggalkanlah aku sendiri.”

Syeh Bintoro lalu mundur beberapa langkah. Ia bergabung dengan sebelas pembunuh upahan.

“Kalian tidak perlu membunuh Syeh Muso. Ia telah mati. Ia memang tegak berdiri tafakur di ujung tanjung, tetapi sesungguhnya ia telah mati. Itu hanya tubuh Syeh Muso. Jiwanya telah pergi….”

Sebelas pembunuh upahan menggigil mendengarkan ucapan Syeh Bintoro. Mereka merasa telah menyaksikan pertempuran dahyat tanpa harus menatap percikan darah mengucur dari lambung Syeh Muso.

***

Telah matikah Syeh Muso?

“Kami telah berhasil membunuhnya. Mayatnya kami buang ke laut,” seorang pembunuh upahan melapor kepada Lurah Lading Kuning.

“Syeh Bintoro ternyata tak punya kesaktian apa-apa. Ia lari terbirit-birit ketika berhadapan dengan Syeh Muso.”

“Kami tahu kelemahan Syeh Muso. Kutusuk lambungnya dan darah segar mengucur deras. Saking deras, saat mayatnya kami buang, laut jadi memerah.”

“Tak ada lagi yang harus kita takuti sekarang ini. Tak ada maling aguna. Tak ada akar menjalar yang ujung-ujung lancipnya menusuk mata. Semua telah berakhir.”

Lurah Lading Kuning tersenyum mendengarkan laporan-laporan itu. Ia membayangkan para adipati, tumenggung, dan segala makhluk akan memuji keberhasilan indah menyingkirkan Syeh Muso dari tanjung yang kian lama kian tampak sebagai tanah yang harus dimuliakan oleh siapa pun itu.

***

Telah matikah Syeh Muso?

Tak seorang pun menceritakan kabar kematian Syeh Muso kepada warga kampung di ujung tanjung itu. Malam itu Syeh Bintoro –setelah terkenang pada kematian Syeh Siti Jenar– membopong sesosok tubuh harum terbungkus kafan. Ia lalu mengajak beberapa warga memberikan shalat gaib.

“Siapa dia?” tanya seorang warga.

“Syeh Musokah?” tanya yang lain.

Syeh Bintoro tak menjawab. Ia memberi isyarat agar salah seorang membuka tali pengikat leher sang mayat. Dan ketika tali pengikat terlepas, seluruh warga yang berada di menggigil ketakutan. Mereka melihat wajah seekor anjing yang telah membusuk menyeringai di balik kain kafan yang belepotan darah itu.

“Syeh Musokah Sampean?” seseorang menjerit histeris pada anjing busuk itu.

Tak ada jawaban. Syeh Bintoro bahkan telah bergegas meninggalkan warga yang takjub bukan alang kepalang itu. Masjid jadi sunyi. Masjid jadi mati.

***

“Apakah eyangmu telah menjelma anjing busuk?”

Azwar, cucu terkasih Syeh Muso, tak menjawab. Namun, ia tahu persis Syeh Muso sesungguhnya telah moksha ke laut. Eyangnya telah berjalan di dasar laut dan melihat ikan-ikan berzikir pada Allah di dinding-dinding laut yang terbelah oleh tongkatnya.

Ia juga yakin sesaat kemudian Syeh Muso akan berada di perut hiu raksasa dan bercakap-cakap tentang keagungan Allah dengan makhluk-makhluk kecil yang pada suatu malam juga menjadi mangsa raksasa air itu.

“Ayolah jawab, Azwar, ternyata Syeh Muso cuma anjing busuk bukan?”

***

Indah Lestari was born in Singapore and lives in Jakarta, Indonesia. She completed her B.A. in English Literature from Padjadjaran University, Indonesia, and an M.A. in English Studies from Jawaharlal Nehru University, India. She translated JM Coetzee’s Disgrace and another novel (in editing process) into Indonesian. Her poems have appeared in Bacopa, Revival, and The White Elephant Quarterly in 2013.

***

The Eleventh Saint

The assassins hired by the village chief of Lading Kuning sought to murder Sheikh Muso and throw his body into the sea. But Sheikh Bintoro wanted to show the villagers that the blasphemous preacher was nothing more than a rotten dog…

He was not a preacher. Nor had he ever invited the people in the kampong, the native village, which turned into an egret’s haven at twilight, to recite the Koran in the mosque. But out of the blue the villagers regarded Said Barikun as a religious leader and called him Sheikh Muso. He did not have the ability to walk on water, but according to rumors of the fishermen’s village, he was able to part the sea with a staff and walk on the seabed. Surrounded by walls of water, it was as if he walked in a giant aquarium.

He was not only believed to be able to imitate the miracles known to be performed by the Prophet Moses, one villager told in detail that Sheikh Muso survived being swallowed by a sort of dragon, a buffalo, and a giant shark, and he was inside each beast’s belly overnight. Because of these stories, the villagers believed that Sheikh Muso was actually the Prophet Jonah sent to save the kampong from ruin and injustice.
Besides staying in the shark’s belly and standing on the seabed between walls of seawater, according to the children Sheikh Muso could talk with all kinds of fish and marine life. Like the Prophet Solomon, he talked with birds, fowl, creeping animals, buffaloes, cows, goats, and all other animals roaming nearby.

“Did Sheikh Muso tell the fish about us?”

“No. The flying fish told my grandpa about their plight. They said that human beings have become greedier. In the past, people never wanted to eat flying fish, but now they grill them every night,” said Azwar, Sheikh Muso’s teenaged grandson, to his friends.

“What did Grandpa Muso do inside the shark’s belly?”

“My grandpa asked the fish and all living creatures to chant praises to Allah,” Azwar told the small kids who wished their grandfather had the same magical powers as Grandpa Muso. “My father said my grandpa was also able to fly and make himself disappear.”

“Did Sheikh Muso fly on a buraq?”

“No. He used a sarong.”

“Did he disappear like a ghost?”

“No. He vanished like Prince Diponegoro.”

Sheikh Muso’s ability to fly and vanish caused rumors that he was able to say his prayers at the Masjid al-Haram mosque in Mecca, and pray in seclusion at the Al-Masjid an-Nabawi mosque in Medina whenever he wanted. The villagers believed Sheikh Muso founded a kampong and erected a mosque in seven days, and they ordained him the Eleventh Saint.

There must have been reasons why the mild-mannered man who spent his life planting mangroves in the abrasion-ridden cape earned that title. On the island of Java the line of saints ends at the noble Ninth Saint. However, years later a bedtime story about a Tenth Saint who was immune to all weapons and mastered silat, martial arts, was often told. The name of the saint who possessed these supernatural powers was Basir Burhan. His twin brother, Said Barikun, was Sheikh Muso, or the Eleventh Saint.

Basir Burhan, or Sheikh Bintoro, lived in the district known as Raden Fatah Palace. He only arrived on Fridays to lead the prayers. He never allowed Sheikh Muso to recite a single verse. “As soon as he delivers a verse at the mosque, this cape will drown,” said Sheikh Bintoro, who considered every word that came out of Sheikh Muso’s mouth blasphemy.

Sheikh Muso had never been a guru, yet everything that he did was considered as setting an example. He had never killed an egret and the villagers regarded egrets as sacred animals not to be harmed. Since he spent all of his time planting mangroves, the villagers considered destroying the wave-blocking trees a sacrilegious act.

But not all of Sheikh Muso’s actions were easy to follow. In spite of many attempts, none of the villagers learned to be medicine people. Any flower that Sheikh Muso mixed with water cured diseases. Only one or two villagers knew the secret of Sheikh Muso’s healing power, but their cures were not as effective as his.

Sheikh Muso did not have a congregation. Yet every evening a lot of people gathered at his peaceful house. Although Sheikh Muso did not teach anything, the villagers learned from this great man.
If a child asked about the whereabouts of its parents, the answer would be, “Your father is absorbing knowledge and your mother is learning about life at Sheikh Muso’s house.”

***

Sheikh Bintoro knew something was wrong with the teaching of Sheikh Muso. A law was broken, and on a stormy Friday he paid his twin brother a visit. Just as on previous nights, Sheikh Muso sat surrounded by the villagers. They discussed the essence of the egrets and mangrove trees.

“Sheikh Muso, please help us understand the importance of the egrets,” asked a woman with the innocent face of a rabbit.

“I know nothing of egrets.”

“Come on, you taught us not to kill egrets. The angels must have whispered to you to leave the birds alone to perch on the tree branches.”

Sheikh Muso neither shook his head nor nodded.

“Are the egrets immortal and is that why their number is so great we can’t count them on all the fingers of the entire village? Or do most of them die on Tuesday and resurrected by Allah on Saturday?”
Again, Sheikh Muso neither shook his head nor nodded.

“Why are you silent, Sheikh Muso? Do Allah and the angels once in a while transform into egrets and that is why you forbid us to kill them?”

Sheikh Muso only smiled.

“Are you going to tell us that there are no angels other than those egrets? Are you going to say that there is no God other than Sheikh Muso, you yourself?”

Sheikh Muso only smiled. He neither shook his head nor nodded.

“Why are those mangroves so important to us?” asked a young man with a face as cunning as a fox.

“I know nothing of mangroves.”

“If so, why do you only plant mangroves on this cape? Did you bring all those trees from heaven?”

Sheikh Muso kept quiet. He shivered as the storm grew wilder and the wind whipped his fragile frame.

“Could it be that in every leaf God’s beautiful verses are inscribed? Are those trees are a reminder of God at all times?”

Sheikh Muso remained silent. He was chilled to the bone and shivering. It seemed impossible to answer the questions of the villagers thirsty to learn the secrets of life.

“Are mangrove trees more important than other trees? Is that why you are so preoccupied with planting them that you continue to work even through prayer time?”

Instead of responding to the question, Sheikh Muso started to leave the house. He wanted to spend time in seclusion at land’s end.

“Don’t go yet!” shouted Sheikh Bintoro, who had hid behind a tree.

Sheikh Muso did not heed the thundering call. He continued hurriedly toward land’s end.

“Stop your blasphemous teaching!” Sheikh Bintoro shouted louder.

In his opinion Sheikh Muso preached blasphemy, as Sheikh Muso did not answer the questions of the villagers as stipulated by the sharia, Islam law. Not answering the questions meant agreeing with all they said, and this was dangerous for the workings of religion. It was also dangerous for him because he seemed to be fighting his own shadow. Everything Sheikh Muso did was like seeing his own reflection disrupt the previously still glass-clear lake water.

“If you don’t stop your blasphemous teaching, Allah will take your life. Believe me!”

Still Sheikh Muso did not listen. He hurriedly left Sheikh Bintoro with his heart-breaking suspicions.

“I know nothing of blasphemy. So why would God take my life?” Sheikh Muso said softly. He stared at the open sea and the lightning that scratched the gloomy and darkening sky.

He was upset that no one understood him, not the villagers and or even Sheikh Bintoro, the twin he loved so much.

***

Did Allah take away Sheikh Muso’s life? Allah never interferes in trivial matters. Allah had a hand in the miracle of the Prophet Noah, who saved people from the flood with a brittle ark, but stayed out of the matters of egrets and mangroves; these issues were between Sheikh Muso and Sheikh Bintoro. Allah also had a hand in the miracle of the spider that protected the Prophet Mohammad in the cave, but did not want to judge who is right and who is wrong in their ways of praising Him. Did Sheikh Bintoro think the sharia is more truthful? Had Sheikh Muso ever taught a misleading verse? Allah is not willing to answer such trivial questions.

Was it Allah who finally took away Sheikh Muso’s life? Allah did not have a hand in the killing of Sheikh Muso. It was the village chief who wanted Sheikh Muso to be killed sooner than later. Sheikh Muso was considered his most dangerous foe because, besides having many followers, the great man and his gullible students were accused of stealing from the houses of village officials and village chiefs.

Not wanting to be known as unable to secure the village and abolish the hoodlums, the village chief hired assassins to murder Sheikh Muso. The chief actually wanted to kill Sheikh Muso with his own hands, but he did not want to look cold-blooded. So he used someone else’s hands to remove Sheikh Muso from the cape that was becoming the most prosperous area among the coastal villages. He hired eleven assassins.

Why eleven? The chief believed Sheikh Muso would transform himself into eleven warriors unbeatable by eleven ordinary men. It would take humans with extraordinary meanness and killing instinct to slay Sheikh Muso.

Before he issued the order for Sheikh Muso’s murder to the eleven assassins, the chief said, “It’s true he never stole anything for himself. He always gave his bounty to poor people. Nevertheless, he is evil although he is called ‘the good thief.’” The eleven men did not care about the chief’s reason.

“Actually, Sheikh Muso can be defeated by Sheikh Bintoro. But Sheikh Bintoro asked for my help to get rid of Sheikh Muso,” the chief went on.

The eleven men did not listen to the chief’s explanation. After receiving payment, they left the area and headed to the edge of the cape.

***

However, the tough battle between Sheikh Muso and the eleven assassins at land’s end never occurred. Passing through the mangrove forest far before the spot, the assassins were trapped by creeping roots that wrapped around their bodies.

As if following a command, the roots miraculously writhed like snakes and snared the assassins, and brought their bodies down so they sunk into the mud. They were unable to move and looked from a distance like ancient statues standing stiff in the darkness of the night.

The mangrove roots were not ordered to kill. The caring roots only meant to scare these men. As the roots finally loosened and the mud did not bury them alive, the assassins scampered away.

***

“We couldn’t have killed him,” one of the assassins reported to the village chief.

“We didn’t even look at his face!”

“Lights covered his body!”

The chief did not question the eleven men.

“Don’t be afraid. You’ll win. I’ll ask Sheikh Bintoro to help you.”

The assassins shivered. They had thought they faced a terrifying death. They imagined the mangrove roots choking them or the pointed root tips piercing their eyes.

“Sheikh Muso will be defeated by himself,” said the chief. “Since Sheikh Muso and Sheikh Bintoro are twin brothers, only Sheikh Bintoro can defeat the invulnerable man.”

The assassins did not understand what the chief said. They kept shivering. The death angel with boats from heaven came closer and closer.

***

Sheikh Muso was meditating at land’s end when Sheikh Bintoro and the eleven assassins arrived at a place the villagers considered to be haunted. Here tree roots crept like snakes, causing anyone at land’s end to live in everlasting fear.

Allah did not seem to want to address all the things Sheikh Muso or Sheikh Bintoro would do. Neither did He delegate the mangrove roots to kill, so the cape turned tranquil. At that moment the angel Gabriel whispered to Sheikh Muso. “Do what Sheikh Bintoro asks you, even if he wants to stab a kris, a dagger, into your belly.”

The angel Gabriel also whispered to Sheikh Bintoro: “You don’t need to kill your twin brother. Your job is only to ask him to go moksha, seek redemption.”

The twins faced each other. The eleven assassins noticed that they did not exchange a word. They only held each other’s eyes. Yes, it is true they did not exchange a word, but engaged in an unspoken, secret conversation.

“I tell you once more, I don’t teach your congregation anything.”

“But you have turned into an idol.”

“I only do Allah’s will.”

“Yes, but your actions have become a decree from Allah. Whatever you do, even if it’s wrong, is regarded as law.”

“I’ve already told them I’m nobody.”

“But they are blinded. They regard you as a saint and have forgotten the Prophet’s teachings.”

“If so, I will leave this cape.”

“Go to a remote place.”

“Yes, I will go. Now leave me alone.”

Then Sheikh Bintoro took a few steps back. He joined the assassins.

“You don’t need to kill Sheikh Muso. He died. While he seems to be standing up and meditating at land’s end, he has actually died. What you see is only his body; his soul has departed.”

The assassins shivered when they heard Sheikh Bintoro’s words. They felt like having witnessed a grand battle without having to watch blood gushing from Sheikh Muso’s belly.

***

Did Sheikh Muso die?

“We managed to kill him. We tossed his body into the sea,” one assassin reported to the village chief.

“Sheikh Bintoro has no supernatural power. He became frightened and ran away when he stood face to face with Sheikh Muso.”

“We knew Sheikh Muso’s Achilles’ heel. When I stabbed his belly fresh blood flowed heavily. He bled so much that when we threw the body into the water, the sea turned red instantly.”

“We have nothing to fear anymore. There is no more ‘good thief’ and no more creeping roots with pointed tips that pierce the eyes. Everything is over.”

The chief smiled as he listened to the reports. He envisioned the adipati, and tumenggung, the royalty and government officials, as well as every villager praising him for abolishing Sheikh Muso from the cape, which would become a more desirable place for everyone.

***

Did Sheikh Muso die?

No one told the villagers about Sheikh Muso’s death. That night Sheikh Bintoro carried a sweet-smelling body wrapped in kafan, a sheet of unbleached muslin traditionally used to swaddle the dead, and invited several people to say prayers.

“Who is he?” someone asked.

“Is it Sheikh Muso?” another villager asked.

Sheikh Bintoro did not reply. He signaled to undo the tie around the neck of the corpse. When the tie came off, the people in the room trembled in fear. A decomposing dog lay under the bloodstained kafan.

“Are you Sheikh Muso?” someone shouted hysterically at the rotting dog.

There was no answer. Sheikh Bintoro rushed off, leaving the stunned kampong dwellers. A deep, deathly silence shrouded the mosque.

***

“Did your grandpa transform into a rotting dog?”

Azwar, Sheikh Muso’s dearest grandchild, did not reply. Yet he knew with certainty that Sheikh Muso had actually gone moksha to the sea. He walked on the seabed and saw fish performing dzikir to Allah by the seawalls erected by Sheikh Muso’s staff.

He was also certain that soon Sheikh Muso would be inside the belly of the giant shark having a conversation about the glory of Allah with small creatures that at night became the sea monster’s prey.

“Come on, Azwar, Sheikh Muso was in fact merely a rotten dog, was he not?”

***

Mona Sylviana was born in Bandung, West Java. She graduated from the Faculty of Communication Science of Padjadjaran University, spending most of her time at the university’s student union for arts, literature, theater, and film (GSSTF). A former member of Bandung’s STB theater troupe, Mona is now active in Teater Nalar (formerly Teater Prung Bandung). She is co-founder of the nonprofit organization focused on equality and plurality, Institut Nalar Jatinangor. Her short stories have been published in many newspapers and magazines, and in the anthologies Improvisasi X (along with Hikmat Gumelar and M. Syafari Firdaus), Sastra Indonesia Angkatan 2000, Dunia Perempuan, and Living Together (International Literary Biennale, 2005) anthologies. She also participated in the residency program of the 2009 Ubud Writers & Readers Festival.

“Mata yang Menyala” first appeared in the short story collection, Wajah Terakhir (PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2011), copyright © 2011 by Mona Sylviana. Revised version copyright © 2013 by Mona Sylviana. Published with permission of the publisher and author. Translation copyright © 2013 by Indah Lestari.

***

Mata Yang Menyala

Hujan bersisa. Bau lembab tanah menempeli pucuk daun pisang, buluh-buluh bambu, daun-daun mangga. Angin liar mengayun-ayunkannya. Mereka saling menyentuh, bersuara. Siutan panjang tanpa jeda.

Titi menarik ikatan karet gelang di rambut. Helai-helai hitam itu tergerai, menutup kedua cuping telinganya.

Langit bersih. Bulan bulat serupa kancing baju.

Sisa hujan di pinggiran jalan. Bungkus sampo, kotak rokok, tas plastik, berserak tertahan reranting. Tanah longsoran mengendapi selokan. Nyamuk berkerumun.

Titi menaikkan resleting jaket rajut. Tangannya mendekap dada. Ia tengadah. Jalanan mulai mendaki.

Jalanan menanjak yang seolah menyentuh langit itu melengkungkan punggung Titi. Kulit paha berlapis lemak tebal yang saling bergesekan memperlambat langkah kaki. Titi melangkah pelahan. Sesekali ia berhenti. Dada yang nyaris menyentuh gelambir di perut menyendatkan aliran udara keluar-masuk lubang hidung.

Titi menghela nafas.

Hampir dua tahun ia melewati jalanan yang sama. Tanjakan yang dilaluinya itu tidak pernah berubah, tidak pernah bertambah tinggi, tapi masih juga ia megap-megap. Titi tidak mengerti. Kambing aja kalau tiap hari dikasih roti bakal bisa ngomong Inggris…

Titi berhenti. Mengangkat dagu. Tiga temannya nyaris hilang ditelan ujung tajam jalanan. Bayang-bayang mereka memanjang. Celana jins yang membungkus ketat paha padat mereka seperti kepunyaan patung lilin yang dilihat Titi di toko semua lima ribu. Titi melirik celana katunnya. Ukuran 35.

Betis Titi terasa bergetar.

Di pelipis mulai muncul bintik-bintik air. Titi masih di tengah-tengah tanjakan. Masih terengah-engah. Titi memejamkan mata. Dadanya terasa ditindih.

Titi ingat emak.

Seperti ini malam, malam itu pun sehabis hujan.

***

Aku belum delapan tahun.

Titi berbaring menghadap dinding bilik kamar. Tangan emak mengusap-usap rambutnya. Seperti biasa. Di luar, tetesan sisa hujan jatuh ke ember. Jatuh juga ke sumur samping rumah. Sesekali terdengar suara kodok.
Sesekali keciprak langkah. Sesekali sendawa Wak Ohim.

Titi hapal langkah Wak Ohim. Pamannya selalu menyeret sendal jepit seperti itu. Untung hanya dia, tidak bersama mereka yang biasa datang ke rumah untuk menonton televisi. Jadi Titi bisa nyenyak tidur tanpa terganggu tawa dan obrolan mereka. Tidak ada batas yang menghalangi masuk-keluar rumah sesuka mereka. Bahkan tidak jarang mereka masuk ke kamar. Beberapa kali ketika Titi sedang mengganti baju, mereka tiba-tiba membuka tirai dan masuk kamar.

Wak Ohim yang paling sering begitu. Titi malu tapi tidak bisa marah. Emak hanya mendelik. Juga tidak bisa marah.

Untung hanya Wak Ohim…

Malam itu Titi sangat lelah. Sore sebelum mengaji, Titi beradu renang dengan Suki. Mereka empat kali pergi-pulang menyeberangi sungai yang meluap karena musim. Titi sebenarnya ingin membalas kekalahan minggu lalu tapi sore tadi pun ia kalah lagi. Tangan emak lembut. Mengusir pegal tungkai kaki dan bahunya.

Bulu di kelopak mata Titi digayuti berat. Bayang-bayang di dinding buatan lampu kamar yang berayun mulai mengabur. Hampir saja ia terlelap ketika telinga Titi menangkap suara yang bukan irama percik yang jatuh ke ember. Bukan gema percik di sumur. Itu sendawa. Dengus. Seperti babi hutan.

Elusan emak berhenti. Titi mau membalikkan badan. Mau merengek. Tapi tangan emak menahan punggungnya.

“Ssh, tidur lagi.” Suara emak keluar dari gigi yang menggigit bibir, tercekat.

Titi kembali mencoba lelap.

Dengus babi hutan itu makin kerap dan keras. Dan sendawa.

Apa babi hutan bisa sendawa?

Titi berusaha membuka kelopak matanya yang memberat. Sesuatu tampak di atas emak.

Suara semakin dekat. Titi ingin berbalik tetapi dia terlalu lelah dan mengantuk.

“Mak.”

“Ssh, tidur. Ssh…”

Dipan kayu bergoyang. Berkeriut.

Jari-jari emak di bahu Titi. Kuku-kuku emak menancap. Perih. Dada Titi sesak. Bukan karena siku emak yang menekan punggungnya tapi Titi melihat sesuatu. Dalam remang lampu kamar, Titi melihat mata menyala.
Tangan emak cepat menutup mata Titi. Membalikkan mukanya kembali ke dinding kamar.

“Tolong, Wak. Di luar…”

Kemudian telapak tangan babi hutan yang sebesar daun jati itu menarik emak keluar kamar. Titi ingin berteriak. Ada yang menculik emak. Tapi mulutnya seperti dipenuhi biji salak, tidak bisa bersuara. Hanya tangannya meraba kasur yang masih ada panas tubuh emak.

Kain emak tertinggal. Emak pasti kedinginan. Titi menutup muka dengan kain berbau emak. Di luar, angin bertiup, dan dahanan saling bersentuhan. Emak ke mana?

Titi merayap turun dari dipan. Tapi pekik kelelawar menariknya berbaring lagi. Kain emak dililitkannya menutup tubuh. Dalam ketakutan Titi menatap remang dan mendengar suara hujan jatuh ke ember. Sampai ia tertidur.

Sebelum ayam turun dari pohon nangka, Titi merasa emak menarik kain yang menutup mukanya. Emak pulang? Hangat tangan emak melingkari leher Titi. Rambut emak basah.

“Mak…”

“Ssh…”

“Mak dari mana?”

“Ssh…”

Paginya, emak membakar baju yang dipakainya malam itu. Emak beberapa kali mandi. Beberapa kali keramas. Dan tidak pernah membicarakan babi hutan yang masuk kamar. Apa memang ada babi hutan? Emak diculik?
Emak diam.

Titi jadi ragu. Ia tidak sepenuhnya percaya pada mata dan telinganya sendiri. Mungkin hanya mimpi. Lagi pula babi hutan jadi-jadian hanya mencuri uang, tidak pernah menculik orang. Genderuwo yang paling mungkin menculik. Tapi itu pun ia tidak terlalu yakin. Gunderuwo hanya menculik anak-anak yang masih main setelah magrib atau yang rambutnya berkutu untuk ditinggal di pohon kapuk. Malam itu emak di dalam kamar dan rambut emak bagus, tidak berkutu.

Seterusnya mereka tidak pernah menyinggung soal itu.

Tapi emak berubah.

Perempuan itu banyak berdiam di muka cermin lemari pakaian. Bergumam sendiri.

Emak benar-benar berubah.

Emak jadi suka makan. Banyak sekali. Mulutnya berubah gorong-gorong yang menelan semua sampah musim hujan. Tidak sampai satu tahun, badan emak yang selurus batang singkong melebar.

Tidak hanya itu.

Emak juga memaksa Titi menghabiskan dua piring setiap kali makan. Sepulang sekolah, sebelum nasi masak, emak menyuruhnya makan rebusan singkong atau ubi. Setelah mengaji, sebelum makan nasi, emak memaksanya menghabiskan sisa roti jualan. Titi mau muntah. Tapi mata emak membesar melebihi kelereng. Atau kalau tidak, emak berteriak-teriak dengan mengayunkan gagang sapu.

“Jangan rewel. Nanti kamu terima kasih sama emak. Makan. Kalau kamu makan banyak, kamu jadi gemuk. Jadi jelek. Enggak akan ada yang bawa kamu. Enggak enak, Ti. Sakit. Sakit. Kamu enggak tau… Sekarang makan.”
Titi takut.

Titi ragu.

Titi merasa babi hutan memang pernah menculik emak. Dan binatang bernafas panas itu telah salah mengembalikan. Itu bukan emaknya. Perempuan yang kembali malam itu tidak pernah membeli bungkusan sampo sebelum mandi. Emak selalu membersihkan rambut lurus hitamnya. Rambut emak wangi. Rambut perempuan itu lengket. Berkutu. Setiap kali Titi tercium rambut perempuan itu isi perutnya mendesak-desak keluar. Ia mual.

Titi tidak lagi mau berdekatan ketika tidur.

Titi ingin babi hutan datang lagi, mengembalikan emaknya. Tapi Titi tidak yakin binatang itu mau kembali. Apa dia mau kalau lihat tetek sebesar pepaya bonyok sama rambut yang baunya kelapa basi?

***

Titi menggigil. Sendiri saja di jalan itu. Ia membungkuk., menggosok-gosokkan tangan ke paha. Jalan masih menanjak.

Suara knalpot merasuki telinga.

“Ojek?”

Motor berhenti di sampingnya. Dari mulut laki-laki berjaket kulit itu tercium bau bangkai tikus. Di bibir hitamnya terselip rokok kretek menyala.

Titi sejenak ragu. Tapi dengkulnya lemas. Perjalanan ke kamar kontrakan terbayangkan masih panjang, semakin panjang.

Titi mengangguk. Kakinya menekan sadel. Tangan Titi memegang bagian belakang.

“Kerja siang?”

“Kenapa?”

Motor mengurangi laju. Angin malam masih terasa menyapu telinga dan helai rambut. Bulan tidak lagi bulat. Sebagian tertutup awan yang melayang seperti kapas.

“Kerja siang siang?”

“Ya.”

“Pamalik?”

“Ya. Samping mesjid.”

“Di atas ada hajatan.”

“Oh.”

“Deket pesantren.”

“Hem…”

“Besok kerja jam berapa?”

“Libur.”

“Nonton dangdut koplo yuk.”

Titi terdiam.

Sebenarnya, ia tidak terlalu suka melihat dangdut di hajatan. Tubuh para penyanyi berbadan patung lilin itu yang meliuk-liuk seperti batang bambu. Menantang. Lebih lagi melihat para laki-laki berjoget di atas panggung. Mereka saling bersentuhan, merangsek. Merapatkan dada mereka ke payudara yang setengah terbuka. Tangan mereka menyentuh pantat penyanyi.

Musik itu terdengar seperti sendawa panjang. Sendawa babi hutan. Mata-mata itu tampak merah, bernafsu, birahi yang membakar.

Laki-laki itu menoleh sejenak. Dari gigi kuningnya sepercik ludah menempel di pipi Titi. Tangan kiri laki-laki itu menyentuh paha Titi. Titi tidak bergerak. Laki-laki itu menggeser pantat, mundur. Punggung menekan dada. Motor melonjak. Berbelok menjauhi arah kamar kontrakannya. Laki-laki itu lagi menoleh. Matanya terbakar. Titi hapal mata yang nyala itu. Ia melihatnya di para penyanyi dangdut. Di mata Wak Ohim.

***

Indah Lestari was born in Singapore and lives in Jakarta, Indonesia. She completed her B.A. in English Literature from Padjadjaran University, Indonesia, and an M.A. in English Studies from Jawaharlal Nehru University, India. She translated JM Coetzee’s Disgrace and another novel (in editing process) into Indonesian. Her poems have appeared in Bacopa, Revival, and The White Elephant Quarterly in 2013.

***

Flaming Eyes

The rain left the scent of humid earth on the tip of banana, bamboo, and mango leaves. The wind shook them wildly. They rubbed against each other, their rustling carried by a long, unbroken whistle.

Titi pulled the elastic band from her hair. The black hair sprung loose, covering both of her ear lobes.

The moon, round like a button, hung in a clear sky.

Empty shampoo sachets, cigarette packs, and plastic bags stuck on twigs littered the road. Silt lined the bottom of the gutter. Swarming mosquitoes.

Titi zipped up her woolen jacket. She clasped her chest, looked up. The road began ascending as if reaching for the sky and made Titi’s back arch. Her fat thighs rubbed against each other, slowing down her pace. The chest that almost touched the bulging belly hampered the flow of the air passing through her nostrils.

Titi sighed.

She passed this road for nearly two years and the incline had not become any steeper, yet she was gasping. She didn’t understand why. Even goats that are fed bread daily will be able to speak English…

Titi stopped and raised her chin. Her three friends had almost disappeared, swallowed by the sharp peak of the road. Their shadows grew longer. The jeans wrapped tight around their thighs made them look like the wax dolls Titi saw in the shop where everything was priced five thousand rupiah. Titi glanced at her cotton trousers. Size 35.

Her calves trembled.

Perspiration beaded on her temples. She was still in the middle of the hill, still catching her breath. Titi closed her eyes. Her chest felt like it was being stepped on.

Titi thought of Mother.

Just like tonight, it also happened after the rain.

***

I was not even eight years old.

Titi lay down facing the wall in the room. As usual, Mother stroked her hair. Outside, raindrops dripped into the bucket and the well besides the house. Once in a while she heard frogs croak, footsteps splash through the mud, and Wak Ohim burp.

Titi recognized his footsteps. Only her uncle dragged his flipflops like that. Thank God it was only him and not the usual neighborhood crowd that gathered to watch television at their house. Hopefully she’d be able to sleep undisturbed by their chatter and laughter. In their village it was normal for neighbors to walk in and out of each other’s house and share amenities such as television. Unhampered by any sense of privacy, people walked freely through rooms, including bedrooms. Sometimes, when Titi was changing her clothes, the room curtain would suddenly be pushed aside and someone walk right in.

Wak Ohim was the one who did this most often. Although it embarrased Titi, she had to keep still as this was the polite thing to do. Even Mother was unable to voice her anger and could only glare at him.

Thank God it’s only Wak Ohim.

That night Titi was exhausted. Before the Koran recitation session, she swam a race against Suki. They did four laps crossing the river back and forth. The river was at high tide. Titi wanted to win to square her loss of the previous week, but she lost again. Mother’s soft hands soothed her aching ankles and shoulders.

Titi’s eyelids became heavy. The shadows on the wall blurred. She almost fell asleep when she heard a sound that was not in sync with the rhythm of rain dripping into the bucket and the well. It was a burp, a snort. Like that of a boar.

Mother’s stroking stopped. Titi was about to turn around, whining, but Mother held her back.

“Shh…go back to sleep,” Mother hissed, gritting her teeth.

Titi tried to sleep.

The boar’s breath grew louder and more intense. Then it burped.

Can a boar burp?

Titi lifted her heavy eyelids. A figure loomed over Mother.

The sound came closer.

Titi wanted to turn but she was too tired and too sleepy.

“Mom…”

“Shh…sleep. Shh…”

The wooden bench moved and creaked.

Mother’s fingers curled around Titi’s shoulder; nails sank into her flesh. Sore. Titi stiffened. Not because Mother’s elbow pressed into her back, but because a pair of flaming red eyes had penetrated the dimly lit room.

Mother’s hand covered Titi’s eyes quickly, and turned her to face the wall.

“Please, Wak… Outside, please…”

A hand as wide as a teak leaf pulled Mother out of the room. Titi wanted to scream. Something kidnapped Mother. But she could not make any sound. It was as if her mouth was stuffed with snake fruit seeds. Her hand could only rub the empty spot next to her. It was still warm but Mother was gone.

Mother’s shawl was left behind. Mother must be cold. Titi covered her face with the shawl that held her mother’s scent. Outside the wind howled and branches creaked. Where did Mother go?

Titi sat up and started to crawl out of bed when the shriek of fighting bats made her lie down again. She wrapped Mother’s shawl tightly around her. Frightened, she stared into the darkness and listened to the raindrops dripping into the bucket. Finally, Titi dozed off.

In the morning, before the cock jumped out of the jackfruit tree, Titi felt Mother pulling on the shawl. Mother’s back? Her mother’s warm arm circled Titi’s neck. Mother’s hair was wet.

“Mom…”

“Shh…”

“Where have you been?”

“Shhh…”

After sunrise, Mother burned the clothes she wore that night. She took several baths and washed her hair. She never talked about the boar that came into the room. Had there actually been a boar? Had Mother been abducted?

Mother remained quiet.

Titi became doubtful. She no longer believed her own eyes and ears. Maybe it was just a dream, but supernatural boars were known to only steal money, not abduct humans. Genderuwos were the ghosts that abducted humans. Yet she was not sure. Genderuwos only captured children who played outside after the dusk prayer call or those with fleas in their hair. These ghosts kept the children inside a kapok tree. But Mother stayed in the room that night and she had no fleas.

They never mentioned the incident.

Mother changed. She spent a lot of time sitting in front of the dressing table mirror, mumbling to herself.

She definitely changed.

She ate often and a lot. Her mouth was like a drain that swallowed all trash the rain flushed out. Within less than a year, Mother’s skin and bones figure had ballooned.

That was not all.

Mother forced Titi to eat two helpings of rice with each meal. After school, before the rice was ready, Mother told her to eat steamed cassava or yam. After the Koran recitation session and before eating rice, Mother ordered her to finish the bread that was left unsold. Titi felt like vomiting. Mother glared at her, or yelled and swung the broomstick, when she refused the food.

“Don’t fuss. You will be grateful and thank me later on. Eat. If you eat a lot, you’ll get fat. When you’re ugly, nothing will abduct you. It’s painful. It hurts. You have no idea… Now eat.”

Titi was scared.

She wondered.

Had a boar really kidnapped Mother? If so, that hot-breathing beast had brought back a different person. She is not Mother. The woman who returned that night never bought a single shampoo sachet. Mother always washed her long, straight, black hair. Mother’s hair smelled nice. But this woman’s hair was sticky. She had lice. Every time Titi smelled the woman’s hair, her stomach churned. She became nauseated.

Titi did not want to sleep close to this mother.

Titi wanted the boar to come again and bring back her own mother, but she was not sure the beast would return. Would it return if it saw breasts as big as bruised papayas and hair reeking like rancid coconut?

***

Titi shivered. She was alone on the deserted road. Bending, she leaned into her thighs and rubbed them. The hill was still there.

The sputtering of a motorcycle broke into her thoughts.

“Motor-taxi?”

The motorcycle stopped beside her. The driver wore a leather jacket. His breath smelled like decaying mice. He held a lit clove cigarette between his dark lips.

Titi hesitated for a second. Her knees were shaky. The walk to her boarding house seemed still far, and thinking about it moved it still farther.

Titi nodded. She stepped on the bike’s foot peg and grabbed the handle at the back of the bike.

“Did you work the afternoon shift?”

“What?”

The bike slowed down. The evening wind stroked her ears and hair. The moon was no longer round; drifting cottony clouds concealed part of it.

“Coming off the afternoon shift?”

“Yeah.”

“In the Pamalik area?”

“Yeah. Next to the mosque.”

“There’s a festival up there.”

“Oh.”

“Near the Islam boarding school.”

“Hmm…”

“Which shift do you work tomorrow?”

“I’m off.”

“Let’s watch dangdut koplo.”

Titi remained quiet.

She did not like the dangdut shows. The wax doll-like singers wriggled like bamboo stems swaying in the wind. Provocative. Titi disliked the men dancing on the stage even more. They pressed their bodies against the girls. Brushing their chests against the half-exposed breasts, they groped the girls’ bottoms.

To Titi’s ear, the music sounded like a long burp, a boar’s burp. Red, hot, lust burned in the men’s eyes.

“Come on, let’s go.”

The motorcycle driver briefly turned. A splatter of saliva bounced off his yellow teeth and landed on Titi’s cheek. His left hand groped her thigh. Titi froze. Shifting his buttocks, he moved back. His back pressed against her bosom. The bike jolted. It turned away from her boarding house. The man turned again. His eyes were on fire. Titi recognized the glow. She had seen it in the eyes of the dangdut dancers, and Wak Ohim.

***

Award winning and acclaimed Indonesian author Ahmad Tohari was born on June 13, 1948 in Tinggarjaya, a village near the city of Banyumas in Central Java. Born into a large farming family, Ahmad carried the countryside he loved in his heart wherever work took him during his younger years. He voiced this love in his writing, which mostly centers on village life and morality. His father, a devout Muslim, passed his own strong beliefs to Ahmad, who sees himself as a progressive religious intellectual. He supports Islamic beliefs and laws while living in harmony among Indonesia’s diverse ethnic cultures and traditions.

Ahmad Tohari is a prolific writer and the author of eleven novels, two short story collections, and many other literary accomplishments. He is the recipient of the South East Asian Writers Award and was awarded a fellowship to the International Writing Program of Iowa City, Iowa. He is also a respected journalist who makes regular contributions to Suara Merdeka, the well-known Central Java newspaper, and Tempo, the established Indonesian weekly.

Ahmad Tohari is best known as the author of the trilogy, Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk (The Dancing Girl of Paruk Village), published by Gramedia in 2011. The novels have been translated into Dutch, English, German, and Japanese, and producer Shanty Harmain adapted the novels into the film, The Dancer. Tohari is also held in high regard for his knowledge of Javanese art. He currently lives near Purwokerto, where he runs an Islamic school with his family and is consultant for the regional office of the Indonesian Ministry of Culture and Education. For a complete list of Ahmad Tohari’s published work, visit
www.ahmadtohari.com

Blokeng first appeared in the short story collection, Senyum Karyamin (PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2000), copyright © 2000 by Ahmad Tohari. Revised version copyright © 2013 by Ahmad Tohari. Published with permission of the publisher and author.
Translation copyright © 2013 by Elisabet Titik Murtisari.

***

BLOKENG

Maka Blokeng pun melahirkan bayinya: perempuan. Lalu kampungku tiba-tiba jadi lain, terasa ada kemandekan yang mencekam. Kampung penuh kasak-kusuk, bisik-bisik, dan cas-cis-cus. Jelas ada keblingsatan, tetapi masih dalam bentuknya yang laten. Keblingsatan itu kini baru tampak menggejala sebagai merosotnya jumlah senyum sesama warga, berganti menjadi wajah-wajah kaku karena curiga. Saling curiga tentang siapa ayah bayi Blokeng.

Perihal perempuan hamil di luar nikah, sebenarnya tidak lagi menjadi persoalan yang mengesankan di kampungku. Sudah acap terjadi babu dari kampungku pulang mudik membawa buntingan anak majikan. Atau entah anak siapa. Ada anak perawan mendadak lenyap dari kampung dan pergi entah kemana untuk mencari tempat yang jauh agar kelahiran haram-jadahnya luput dari pengetahuan orang sekampung. Banyak lagi cerita seperti itu.

Tetapi tentang si Blokeng memang tak ada duanya. Kecuali dia adalah perempuan yang secara hayati sempurna__seperti baru saja terbukti__sama halnya dengan perempuan-perempuan lain. Selebihnya, siapa pun tak sudi diperbandingkan apalagi dimiripkan dengan Blokeng. Ini kepongahan kampungku yang dengan gemilang telah berhasil memelihara rasa congkak dengan cara mempermainkan nilai martabat kemanusiaan.

Jadi, ketika Blokeng bunting, lalu melahirkan bayi perempuan, kampung blingsatan. Perempuan-perempuan berdecap-decap sambil mengusap dada.

“Gusti Pangeran, bajul buntung mana yang telah menyerbu Blokeng?” Ya, perempuan. Mereka masing-masing punya suami yang tak bisa membebaskan diri dari kecurigaan yang telah menutup seisi kampung. Atau karena perempuan-perempuan itu sudah sama-sama merasakan perihnya melahirkan bayi. Perih, tak peduli bayi itu sudah lama diidamkan, lagi pula anak seorang suami yang sah. Bagaimana tentang si Blokeng yang melahirkan anak antah berantah?

Kaum lelaki kampungku cengar-cengir. Tanpa seorang pun terkecuali, mereka bergabung dalam paduan sas-sus. Tanpa kecuali, sebab mengasing diri sama artinya dengan mengundang perhatian khalayak dan pada gilirannya tanpa ampun lagi bakal tertimpa tuduhan menghamili Blokeng. Dan kampungku memang pongah. Tuduhan membuntingi Blokeng, di luar segala urusan hukum atau aturan lainnya, dianggap sebagai perilaku purba yang paling tidak bermartabat. Sebab Blokeng memang tak ada duanya dan setiap perempuan akan merasa demikian malu bila diperbandingkan dengan dia.

Dulu ketika Blokeng baru diketahui hamil empat bulan ada seorang hansip yang bertanya kepadanya, siapa ayah si jabang bayi.

“Mbuh,” jawab Blokeng acuh.

“Eh, katakana saja, demi kebaikanmu sendiri dan demi bayimu yang pasti memerlukan wali bila kawin kelak.”

“Mbuh, mbuh-mbuh-mbuh!”

“Eh, jangan alot seperti itu. Aku ini hansip, kamu tak boleh mungkir. Atau kudatangkan polisi kemari?”

Blokeng tak mengerti apa itu polisi. Tetapi dia mengerti orang-orang berseragam yang pernah menarik tangannya agar dia menyingkir dari onggokan sampah pasar karena bupati mau datang meninjau pasar. Seperti monyet melihat belacan. Takut dalam citra satwa. Itulah kesan perasaan yang tergambar dalam wajah Blokeng. Wajahnya menciut.

“Ular.”

“Ular? Yang membuntingimu ular? Baik, tapi katakan ular siapa?”

“Ular koros.”

“Aku tidak main-main!”

“Mbuh-mbuh-mbuh!”

Pak hansip mulai berang. Ternyata baju seragamnya tidak cukup ampuh sebagai alat penarik pengakuan Blokeng. Maka dicarinya tali. Pak hansip berpura-pura hendak membelenggu Blokeng.

“Aku tak boleh berkata apa-apa. Kalau mulutku bocor dia akan memukulku dengan ini.” Kata Blokeng sambil menggamit lampu senter pak hansip.

“Jadi ayah bayimu datang ke sarang ini membawa senter? Dia lelaki yang mempunyai senter?”

“Mbuh.”

Maka keesokan hari tersiar berita: ayah bayi Blokeng adalah seorang lelaki yang memiliki lampu senter. Kampungku yang pongah kemudian memperlihatkan gejala aneh. Lampu-lampu senter lenyap. Yang berjalan malam hari lebih suka memilih suluh untuk penerangan. Ronda malam dan hansip kena marah karena mereka menjaga kampung hanya dengan menggunakan korek api, bukan lampu baterai. Tetapi lampu senter terus menghilang dari kampungku yang pongah.

Sekali waktu ada sas-sus baru. Katanya, Blokeng memberikan keterangan lain tentang laki-laki yang membuntinginya. Dia adalah seorang laki-laki yang malam-malam merangkak ke dalam sarangnya dan memakai sandal jepit. Blokeng tidak tahu persis siapa dia karena sarang Blokeng yang terletak di atas tanah becek tak pernah berlampu. Tidak pernah. Dunia Blokeng adalah dunia sampah pasar, dunia tanah lembab, dan dunia yang tak mengenal lampu. Kampungku yang pongah berkelit dengan jurus yang lain lagi. Kini orang mencari bakiak dan bandol sebagai alas kaki. Sementara itu sandal jepit lenyap dengan serta merta.

Sampai Blokeng dengan selamat melahirkan bayinya dibidani nyamuk dan kecoa. Tapi bayinya tangguh seperti anak kerbau yang lahir di kubang lumpur. Bayi Blokeng adalah anak alam sendiri, meski alam becek penuh cacing. Kelahirannya ditandai oleh tingkah kampungku yang jadi blingsatan dengan kehebatan yang kian hari kian meningkat.

Adalah Lurah Hadining, lurah kampungku, kampung yang pongah. Sejak semula Lurah Hadining mengerti adanya kemandekan yang mencekam dan lalu meningkat menjadi keblingsatan kampung. Dalam perkembangan tertentu keblingsatan adalah keresahan warga. Lurah Hadining tidak punya tafsir lain atas keresahan ini kecuali sebagai seteru rancangan pembangunan. Tentu. Maka keblingsatan beserta anak cucunya harus dibedah, bila perlu dengan menggunakan sinar laser atau pancaran zarah.

Lurah Hadining tersenyum. Setelah sekian hari memikirkan cara buat melenyapkan keblingsatan warganya akibat kelahiran bayi Blokeng. Kini dia telah menemukannya. Semua laki-laki di kampungku disuruhnya kumpul. Tak ada yang mau mangkir karena ketidakhadiran berarti seorang diri menentang arus yang justru mengundang kecurigaan. Kampungku mengira Lurah Hadining hendak melotre siapa yang harus bertanggung jawab atas kelahiran bayi Blokeng.

Ternyata kampungku yang pongah salah duga. Lurah Hadining tidak memutar lotre. Dia berpidato lebar dan panjang. Katanya antara lain, “Blokeng bukan perawan Mariam. Dan bayinya bukan Yesus yang ketika lahir sudah mampu mengatasi keblingsatan semacam ini. Pokoknya Blokeng tidak seperti keluarga Mariam yang diberkati banyak hal surgawi. Blokeng hanya diberkati sampah pasar.”

Kemudian Lurah Hadining meminta kampungku menjadi saksi. Demi melenyapkan keblingsatan para warga maka dia menyatakan dengan sesungguhnya bahwa dialah yang bertanggung jawab atas kelahiran bayi Blokeng. Dia sudah membayar dukun bayi. Dia sudah menyiapkan lincak bamboo dan tikar pandan untuk mengangkat Blokeng bersama bayinya dari tanah yang lembab. Ibu lurah sudah siap dengan catu makanan sebelum Blokeng mampu berjalan kembali ke sampah pasar.

Sejenak kampungku terpana mendengar ucapan Lurah Hadining. Namun sesaat senyum legalah yang tampak di mana-mana. Lega. Kesaling-curiga sirna. Mereka berbondong-bondong berjalan mengikuti Lurah Hadining yang menuju sarang Blokeng. Ada yang memikul lincak, ada yang mengangkat gulungan tikar dan ada yang pulang dulu hendak mengambil pelita penuh minyak. Semua buat Blokeng. Semua ingin memperhatikan nasib orang yang paling tidak bermartabat di kampungku.

Gubuk Blokeng penuh dirubung orang. Suara langkah kaki di tanah becek. Suara anak terjatuh atau tergelincir lumpur atau tinja penghuni sarang itu. Lincak dipasang dalam satu-satunya ruangan dalam sarang Blokeng. Hampir penuh. Dan tikar digelar. Blokeng diminta bangkit dari tanah bersama bayinya. Dia naik ke tempat tidur tanpa sepatah kata, tanpa sedikitpun memperlihatkan rasa pada wajahnya. Blokeng hampir tak pernah berhubungan dengan siapa pun dalam bahasa yang memperlihatkan perasaan, apalagi bahasa lisan. Sekali lagi, Hadining meminta kampungku menjadi saksi bahwa bayi Blokeng adalah anaknya.

“Setidaknya ayah bayi ini pasti seorang lelaki. Nah, saya pun laki-laki, bagian yang sah dari kelelakian. Jadi, saya tidak bisa begitu saja dianggap mengada-ada dengan mengakui bayi Blokeng sebagai anakku.”

Lagi, kampungku memperlihatkan kelegaan yang demikian nyata. Namun kemudian kampungku terheran-heran. Mereka melihat di sana Blokeng termangu setelah mendengar kata-kata Lurah Hadining. Termangu dalam citra hewani. Lalu dalam gerakan sama sekali tidak bermartabat, tidak bertata krama, Blokeng melepaskan bayinya. Didekatinya Lurah Hadining. Dibukanya kopiah kepala kampung itu. Lurah Hadining yang terkesima membiarkan saja perilaku Blokeng.

“Tidak,” kata Blokeng sungguh tanpa tanda memperlihatkan perasaan, “yang datang kemari malam-malam tidak berkepala botak. Bukan orang ini.”

Kampungku tergagap, tak terkecuali lurahnya, sedetik setelah mendengar ucapan Blokeng. Lihatlah wajah-wajah mereka yang baur dan buram. Mereka menggaruk kepala masing-masing yang sama sekali tidak botak kecuali Lurah Hadining. Di bawah rambut lebat otak mereka mulai berpikir untuk berkelit menghindar dari kemungkinan tuduhan membuntingi Blokeng. Sungguh, keesokan hari kampungku sudah berubah gundul. Gundul di sini, gundul di sana, di mana-mana terlihat lelaki gundul. Dan keblingsatan tetap mencekam kampungku yang pongah.

Hanya Blokeng sendiri yang tidak ikut blingsatan. Dunianya yang tidak cukup akal membebaskannya dari dosa, dari keharusan mempunyai suami sah, dan dari kepongahan yang akan menelorkan keblingsatan dan kepura-puraan. Tetapi bukan berarti Blokeng sekali pun tidak bisa bertindak seperti perempuan kebanyakan. Suatu pagi Blokeng membawa bayinya ke depan pintu gubuk, dilelo-elo, ditimang-timang. “Cowet, anakku. Ayahmu itu mbuh. Tetapi jangan bersedih, yah. Lihatlah itu, orang-orang gundul. Lucu, ya?”

Seperti tahu kata-kata emaknya, Cowet yang masih bayi tertawa ngakak. “Hek-hek-hek. Hik-hik-hik.”

***

Elisabet Titik Murtisari was born and raised in Salatiga, Central Java —a city she loves because of its multicultural community and Dutch history. She obtained her Masters in Translation Studies from the Australian National University (ANU) and PhD in the same field from Monash University, Australia. To pursue her passion for teaching and research, she returned to her hometown as a lecturer at Satya Wacana Christian University. Her academic interests include translation—especially literary works—culture, sociolinguistics, and pragmatics.

***

BLOKENG

Blokeng gave birth to her baby—a girl—and suddenly our kampung, our village, was full of secrets, whispers, and gossip. It was clear something had disturbed the villagers even though they pretended nothing had happened. The hostility showed in taut faces, lack of smiles, and eyes filled with suspicion aimed at any man capable of fathering Blokeng’s child. We no longer considered pregnancy out of wedlock an exception. Many of the girls who work as maids away from home have returned carrying the child of their master or whoever impregnated them.

Once a young girl vanished from the kampung. Rumors said she had moved far away to give birth to an illegitimate baby and hide it from us. There were many other such stories.

But Blokeng’s story is different. She was biologically perfect—as had been proven by the baby’s birth—like the rest of the women in the kampung.

Apart from this, the women would have been insulted if they were compared with her. This was the arrogance of my people. In their arrogance, they proudly manipulated human dignity.

So when Blokeng became pregnant and gave birth, the whole kampung was in uproar. The women said, “Ck, ck, ck,” while rubbing their chests in exasperation and disbelief.

“My lord, what scoundrel attacked Blokeng?” They were all concerned since each had a husband, who, as a man, could not escape the suspicion clouding everyone’s mind. Or because they, too, had experienced the pain of childbirth—which was very painful no matter how much they desired it and conceived from a legal husband. But what about Blokeng, who gave birth to a child from nowhere?

The men in my kampung grimaced. Every one without exception joined the gossip sessions. None of them missed these, since isolating oneself attracted people’s attention and the man would be pitilessly accused of impregnating Blokeng. My kampung was indeed arrogant. Making Blokeng pregnant, apart from its legal and other consequences, was considered the most degrading primitive thing to do. Because no one was like her, any woman found it humiliating to be compared to her.

When people found out Blokeng was four months pregnant, a civil guard asked her whose child she carried.

“Mbuh, I don’t know,” she answered indifferently.

“Just tell us for your own good and for the sake of the baby, who needs a guardian to marry him or her when grown up.”

“Mbuh, mbuh-mbuh-mbuh! I don’t know and I don’t care!”

“Don’t be stubborn. I am a civil guard. You can’t evade my questions. Or should I ask the police to come here?”

Blokeng did not know what the police represented, but she understood they were people in uniform, some of whom had pulled her away from the market’s rubbish pile because the mayor was going to make an inspection. Hearing the word, she became frightened. Cringing, she looked like the monkey that saw a mongoose.

“Snakes.”

“A snake made you pregnant? All right, but tell me whose snake?”

“A rat snake.”

“I’m not kidding around.”

“Mbuh-mbuh-mbuh!”

The guard became annoyed. His uniform was not impressive enough to make Blokeng tell him who had fathered her child. He fetched a rope and pretended he was going to tie her up.

“I can’t tell you nothing. If I open me mouth, he’ll hit me with this,” Blokeng said, while touching the guard’s flashlight with the tip of her index finger.

“Did your baby’s father carry a flashlight? Is he a man who uses a flashlight?”

“Mbuh.”

The next morning the news spread. The father of Blokeng’s baby was a man with a flashlight. This rumor caused the upright villagers to stop using flashlights and those needing a light when they went out at night used a bamboo torch instead. Men who were scheduled for the kampung night patrols as well as civil guards got in trouble when they chose to use matches instead of flashlights. Yet battery-powered lights continued to disappear.

Sometime later another hearsay circulated. Blokeng supposedly had provided additional information about the man who impregnated her. The man who had crawled into her “nest” wore flip-flops. She could not identify him since her muddy dirt-floored hovel never had any lighting. Yes, never, because Blokeng’s world consisted of the market’s rubbish pile and a dank shack void of light.

My arrogant kampung again found a way to avoid being a suspect because of the rumor. Clogs and tire sandals became popular while factory-made flip-flops disappeared.

This continued until Blokeng delivered her child safely, with mosquitos and cockroaches standing by as midwives. The baby was as tough as a buffalo’s calf born in a mud pool. It was nature’s child, although nature in this case consisted of mud packed with soil worms. The birth made people increasingly uneasy.

The lurah, the head of our kampung, recognized the problem from the start. In its development, the crisis had made people restless. Lurah Hadining considered the upheaval a hindrance to the kampung’s development programs. He had to get rid of the unrest at all costs.

Lurah Hadining smiled. After pondering for several days on how to eliminate his people’s unrest, he found the solution. He ordered all the men to assemble. Everyone attended the gathering since being absent would make one a suspect. People thought the lurah was going to conduct a lottery to choose the one responsible for the birth of Blokeng’s baby.

They were wrong. The lurah did not conduct any lottery. Instead, he made a very long speech. He said among other things, “Blokeng isn’t the Virgin Mary, and her baby is not Jesus. Blokeng has not been divinely blessed like Mary and her family. Her life is only the market’s rubbish.”

Then Lurah Hadining asked the villagers to be his witness. He said that for the sake of ending the kampung’s turmoil he was taking responsibility for Blokeng’s baby. He would pay a nursemaid to take care of the baby, and also prepared a small bamboo cot with a mat of pandan leaves so Blokeng and her baby would not have to sleep on the ground. In addition, his wife promised to give Blokeng food until she could walk to the market again to scavenge.

For a moment, everyone was stunned at Lurah Hadining’s speech, but then smiles of relief appeared on the villagers’ faces. How comforting it was that their suspicion of each other was gone. Following their lurah, the villagers flocked to Blokeng’s place bearing gifts. Some carried the cot, others the mat, and some went home to get a lantern with its bowl full of oil. Everyone wanted to show their concern for the least fortunate person of our kampung.

The villagers crowded Blokeng’s hut. One could hear the suction of the soles from rubber sandals as people moved across the wet dirt floor. A child screamed when it slipped and fell in the mud, or was it feces? They placed the cot in the one-room shanty—it filled almost the entire space—and spread the mat. They asked Blokeng to get up from the dirt floor. She numbly obeyed and climbed with her baby on the cot, a blank expression on her face. Blokeng barely communicated with people, not even by facial expressions, let alone words. Once again, Lurah Hadining asked the villagers to witness his declaration as the father of Blokeng’s baby.

“This baby’s father is, without doubt, a man. I am a man and have proven myself to be a normal one. So I can’t be considered to have made things up to claim Blokeng’s baby as mine.”

Once again everyone was visibly relieved. Blokeng, who had quietly listened to the lurah’s speech, now looked at him like a cunning animal. Without saying a word, she left her baby, moved toward Lurah Hadining, and took off the kampung elder’s peci. Though shocked, he allowed her to take off his cap.

“Nope,” Blokeng said, without showing any emotion. “The man who came here that night wasn’t bald. It wasn’t him.”

All the men, including Lurah Hadining, were shocked at what she said. Soon their faces turned murky. They scratched their heads, which, except for the lurah’s, were not bald. Under their thick hair, their brains worked hard to get rid of any suspicion they might have fathered Blokeng’s baby.

The next morning, the men of my kampung had turned bald. Clean-shaven heads were seen everywhere, and restlessness spread through my kampung once again.

Blokeng was the only person who did not seem anxious. Her simple world had no room for sin; she had been set free from the obligation to have a legal husband, the arrogance that produced restlessness, and hypocrisy. But this did not mean she could not act like a normal woman.

One morning, Blokeng took her baby to the front of her hut. “Cowet, me baby,” she crooned, rocking the baby. “Me don’t know your father, but please don’t be sad. Look at all the balloon-like heads. Don’t they look funny?”

The baby, as if having understood what her mother said, roared with laughter, “Ha ha ha. He he he.”
 

***

Author and journalist Linda Christanty’s essay, “Militerisme dan Kekerasan di Timor Leste” (Militarism and Violence in East Timor), won the 1998 Human Rights Award for Best Essay. Her collection of short stories, Kuda Terbang Maria Pinto (Maria Pinto’s Flying Horse), won the Khatulistiwa Literary Award in 2004. She is also the author of Tongkat Sultan (Sultan’s Stick), a novel about the thirty-year conflict in Aceh, and From Java to Atjeh, a collection of articles about sharia law, political conflict, ethnic nationalism, and homosexuality. In 2010 she won another Khatulistiwa Award for another collection of short stories, Rahasia Selma. Formerly chief editor of Aceh Feature based in Banda Aceh, Sumatra, Linda is now living in Jakarta, and working as senior editor of Dewi, a prestigious women’s magazine.

In Zakaria, one of her many short stories set in Aceh during and after the political conflict, Linda reveals the very human face of Aceh to the world.

Copyright (c) 2011 by Linda Christanty. Published with the author’s permission.
Translation (c) 2013 by Dewi Anggraeni.
 
 

***

ZAKARIA

Zakaria termenung di kamarnya, yang tak pantas disebut kamar. Ruang ini markas kawanan perabot, tempat kakaknya menyimpan perkakas dapur dan peralatan makan untuk kenduri, hari raya atau menjamu tamu keluarga dari lain kota.

Sarang laba-laba sambung-menyambung di antara tumpukan perabot itu, memerangkap laron atau menjaring nyamuk sekaligus menandai kamar ini luput dari perhatian penghuni tetapnya. Di tengah riuh kepungan dandang, talam, panci, piring, mangkok dan gelas itu, terbentang sehelai kasur tipis kumal Zakaria, lelaki kurus kering yang terlentang di atasnya dengan setengah badan beralas rambut panjang sepinggang, yang sungguh hitam dan tebal, tapi berminyak dan bau apak.

Sepasang mata Zakaria terbuka lebar. Senyumnya merekah sesekali. Ia membayangkan orang-orang pilihannya yang akan ikut aksi sore nanti. Geuchik Syawal ada di urutan pertama orang pilihannya. Geuchik Syawal punya ilmu menghilang, jadi zat tak tercium dan tak teraba di saat-saat yang dianggap perlu. Lelaki ini menyimpan azimat tulang kucing. Berkat azimat itu pula Geuchik Syawal pernah mabuk Stephenson tanpa dilihat orang. Istrinya yang mondar-mandir menjemur pakaian di pekarangan rumah bahkan tak melihat suaminya tersandar di bawah sebatang kelapa di samping kandang ayam mereka.

Zakaria mendengar kisah tadi dari teman-temannya, yang mengetahui kehebatan Geuchik Syawal dari gunjingan orang-orang kampung. Tapi anehnya Zakaria enggan mencari kebenaran dari mulut sang tokoh sendiri. Ia khawatir kebenaran membuatnya kecewa dan melumpuhkan semangatnya untuk menghadapi hari-hari sulit. Kelak azimat tulang kucing Geuchik Syawal jadi kisah yang mengilhami begitu banyak orang, terutama kaum yang tak berdaya dan tertindas untuk menemukan kembali semangat hidup mereka melalui benda-benda mati.

Namun, tidak semua tulang kucing bisa dijadikan azimat. Tulang kucing hitam mata merah adalah satu-satunya jenis tulang bertuah itu. Untuk mendapatkan azimat tulang kucing hitam mata merah juga tidak mudah.

Si pemburu azimat harus mengejar-ngejar dan menangkap kucing-kucing hitam, lalu memeriksa mata mereka satu per satu, seperti cara dokter memeriksa pasien di ruang praktik. Sementara itu kucing hitam mata merah juga sudah langka akibat ulah para pemburu azimat tulang kucing. Andai kamu beruntung memperoleh seekor kucing hitam mata merah, jangan bersorak girang dulu. Ujianmu belum selesai.

Kamu harus menempuh cara berkorban Nabi Ibrahim saat mempersembahkan putranya Ismail pada Allah. Pertama-tama, perlakukan kucingmu sebagai buah hati. Peliharalah ia sampai jinak, sampai rasa sayangmu membuat kaulupa bahwa kucing ini sama sekali tak berguna ketika hidup. Di puncak rasa sayangmu itulah kau wajib menyembelihnya. Kau harus tega mengakhiri riwayat si manis yang biasa menyuruk manja ke pangkuanmu dan meringkuk lelap di situ.

Setelah melewati tahap ini, nasibmu agak berbeda dengan Nabi Ibrahim. Tuhan yang Maha Pengasih dan Penyayang kelak menyelamatkan persembahan Ibrahim. Ia menukar Ismail, putra Ibrahim, dengan seekor domba. Semua cerita ini tertera dalam kitab suci. Tapi kucing yang kau sembelih itu benar-benar terkulai mati dan tidak bangun lagi. Kau harus menguburnya di titik temu empat jalan tanpa seorang pun tahu. Di hari yang kauanggap daging kucing itu telah hancur menyatu dengan tanah dan tinggal tulang-tulangnya yang tersisa, datanglah ke tempat tersebut bersama seorang teman terpercaya. Bongkar kuburan kucing. Minta temanmu menyaksikan kamu memegang setiap tulang. Sebab tak semua tulang kucing hitam mata merah menyimpan tuah. Tulang yang membuatmu hilang saat memegangnya, itulah tulang bertuah dan pantas kausimpan sebagai azimat.

Zakaria memperoleh resep azimat tulang kucing dari tabib tua, tetangga kakaknya. Ia sudah hapal proses pembuatannya di luar kepala.
Sebelum bertemu langsung dengan Geuchik Syawal, Zakaria pernah mengerahkan teman-temannya mencari kucing hitam mata merah. Tapi tidak seorang pun berhasil menangkap kucing itu hidup-hidup meski dua minggu berputar-putar di pasar ikan dan mengintai-intai tempat-tempat sampah. Zakaria pantang menyerah. Ia kemudian memasang perangkap kucing di samping rumah kakaknya. Dua hari kemudian dilihatnya ayam betina kakaknya yang mondar-mandir dalam perangkap itu.

Berdekatan dengan pemilik azimat tulang kucing juga membuat kamu bisa menghilang, asal ia menggandeng tanganmu tepat sebelum menghilang. Zakaria juga tahu soal ini. Mengajak Geuchik Syawal ikut serta dalam aksinya tentu saja bukan tanpa maksud tersembunyi. Selain Geuchik Syawal, ia meminta Taufik, temannya sejak kecil, turut bergabung. Taufik tidak memiliki azimat. Tapi ia senang berurusan dengan azimat. Ia pernah membantu Zakaria mengejar-ngejar kucing hitam. Ketika teman-teman lain mulai putus asa dan menghindari pasar ikan dan tempat sampah, Taufik masih saja berputar-putar di dua lokasi khusus ini. Zakaria menghargai kesetiaan Taufik, lalu mengganjarnya dengan ajakan istimewa.

Di sore hari itu tiga lelaki tampak riang dalam truk yang melaju. Geusyik Syawal menyetir, Taufik di tengah, Zakaria di ujung sana. Geuchik Syawal asyik merokok sejak roda truk berputar dari titik keberangkatan.

Di bak belakang, tertutup kain terpal, bersemayam muatan rahasia untuk dikirim ke Pulau Jawa. Pos jaga ada di mana-mana. Mereka perlu waspada. Namun, kesaktian Geuchik Syawal membuat hati Zakaria tenang.

Truk menembus malam, berjam-jam. Jalanan sunyi. “Kalau bisa mobil ini juga tak terlihat, Chik Wal,” cetus Zakaria.

“Oh, ya, ya, tentu….” Geuchik Syawal tertawa-tawa.

Ia masih saja dipanggil geuchik, meski sudah lama pensiun sebagai kepala desa atas permintaan sendiri. Ia lebih suka berniaga ketimbang mendengar macam-macam masalah warga yang membuatnya pening kepala dan darah tinggi.

Di tengah jalan tiba-tiba melintas seekor kucing. Putih belang-belang. Sorot lampu tak membuatnya bergegas. Geuchik Syawal menghindari kucing itu dengan sigap. Selain sakti, ia pengemudi andal.

“Pertanda apa ini?” tanya Taufik.

“Pertanda buruk,” tukas Zakaria, bergurau.

Geuchik Syawal diam saja.

Setelah kucing melintas, di kejauhan tampak riuh sorot lampu mobil-mobil. Jantung Zakaria berdetak. Mereka akan mengalami masalah berat.

“Kita akan kena, kita akan kena,” gumam Geuchik Syawal, langsung menghentikan truk di pinggir jalan.

Zakaria menyaksikan lelaki itu buru-buru membuka pintu truk lalu berlari ke arah kebun. Semula ia mengira Geuchik Syawal sedang menyiapkan azimatnya agar mereka menghilang bersama. Tiba-tiba Taufik melompat keluar truk, mengusul lelaki itu, menghilang dalam gelap. Zakaria terkesima. Namun, dengan cepat ia mulai menangkap ada yang tak berjalan semestinya.

Ia pun bergegas membuka pintu mobil, tidak menyusul kedua temannya ke dalam gelap, melainkan merayap di tanah, lalu menyuruk ke bawah truk dan bersembunyi di balik roda belakang.

Tak berapa lama mobil-mobil mendekat dan berhenti. Suara riuh-rendah. Orang-orang berseragam. Mereka bergegas mengerumuni truk, membuka dan membanting pintu. Ada yang menggerutu tak menemukan kunci kemudi. Ada yang meminta temannya menusukkan sangkur ke muatan truk itu, menikam orang-orang yang barangkali bersembunyi di bawah terpal dan membuat mereka menjerit untuk ditemukan.

Zakaria merasa sekujur tubuhnya bagai kehilangan darah dan ia menggigil hebat. “Sangkur saja. Sangkur saja!” seru salah satu dari mereka pada temannya, dengan menyebut huruf “u” yang seolah berimpitan dengan huruf “o” dan huruf “j” yang terdengar lebih tebal dari semestinya.

Ia melihat sepatu-sepatu lars mereka hilir-mudik. Kadangkala sepatu-sepatu itu berhenti tepat di sisi roda tempat ia berlindung. Dada Zakaria mulai sesak. Tenggorokannya seperti tercekik.

Salah seorang dari pasukan berseragam itu kemudian memerintahkan semua bersiap melanjutkan perjalanan demi keselamatan. Ia, barangkali komandan mereka, khawatir truk ini cuma pancingan pihak lawan untuk menyerang mereka di tengah malam.

Mereka bahkan tidak sempat membuka terpal dan menemukan muatan rahasia itu. Derap sepatu bergegas menjauh. Mesin-mesin mobil menderu.
Zakaria sengaja tak bergerak selama setengah jam. Ia menenangkan dulu detak jantungnya. Setelah merasa aman, ia keluar dari bawah truk, masuk kebun gelap. Berkali-kali ia jatuh tersandung tonjolan akar dan semak, tapi akhirnya dilihatnya kerlip lampu.

Ia lega, karena disangkanya lampu itu berasal dari gubuk penjaga kebun. Namun, ia tidak ingin mengejutkan para penghuninya. Ia hanya akan tidur dekat gubuk itu dan bersyukur telah selamat dari bahaya. Tinggal beberapa meter lagi dari gubuk tersebut, langkah Zakaria terhenti. Seekor anjing menyalak, keras.

Perlahan-lahan Zakaria mengerti bahwa gubuk itu tidak dihuni manusia, melainkan beberapa ekor sapi. Bau kotoran binatang mulai tercium. Anjing galak ini bertugas menjaga sapi-sapi.

Zakaria memutuskan mundur pelan-pelan, menjauhi gubuk. Anjing terus menyalak. Zakaria terjerembab di tanah bercampur kotoran sapi. Namun, ia sama sekali tak sempat mengumpat. Ia ingin cepat-cepat pergi, menghindari gigitan anjing.

Ia terus berjalan menyusuri kebun-kebun, sampai kelelahan dan tiba-tiba menemukan lagi jalan raya. Pikirannya masih diliputi cemas. Jangan-jangan ia masih terlalu dekat dengan truk tadi. Geuchik Syawal dan Taufik benar-benar menghilang. Apakah mereka berhasil mencapai perkampungan? Apakah mereka bersembunyi di kebun orang? Azimat tulang kucing atau gelapkah yang lebih mahir menyembunyikan dua kawan tak setia tadi?

ZAKARIA berdiri di tepi jalan raya, melambai pada mobil-mobil lewat. Sorot lampu mobil-mobil itu menguak gelap dan menyinari tubuh Zakaria. Tapi mobil-mobil tak satu pun menepi untuk memberinya tumpangan. Mobil-mobil justru menambah kecepatan mereka begitu mendekatinya, sehingga tubuh Zakaria tersentak ke belakang dilanda angin kencang.

Sudah lima mobil lewat dengan tabiat serupa. Jalanan kembali sunyi. Zakaria nyaris putus asa. Badan bau kotoran sapi. Tubuh penat luar biasa. Perut berkeriyuk berkali-kali. Dingin menggigit tulang.

Lama-kelamaan baru disadarinya para pengemudi itu barangkali mengira ia hantu. Rambutnya panjang sepinggang, tergerai dan kusut masai. Dari kejauhan, ia tampak sebagai makhluk dari dunia lain.

Kelak cerita tentang hantu gadis berambut panjang di Padang Tiji menyebar dari kampung ke kampung dan akhirnya sampai juga ke telinga Zakaria. Teman-temannya bergunjing tentang hantu itu, siang malam. Arwah orang yang mati terpaksa. Sebelum dibunuh, dia sempat disekap di rumah besar itu dan diperkosa. Dia bukan orang Padang Tiji, tapi dari kampung lain. Zakaria ingin memberitahu teman-temannya kisah yang sebenarnya, dari sudut pandang manusia yang dituduh hantu yang tak lain dari dirinya sendiri, tapi ia kemudian mengurungkan niat itu. Biarlah tahayul menghibur mereka di masa yang muram dan berat ini.

Setelah Zakaria mengepang rambut, mobil keenam berhenti di hadapannya. Ada dua lelaki dalam truk itu. Mereka tak keberatan ia menumpang, malah memintanya naik buru-buru dan duduk di jok depan.

Zakaria duduk dekat pintu, setelah lelaki yang tadi duduk di situ menggeser badannya ke tengah. Pengemudi truk dan temannya menyangka ia baru turun dari bukit. Truk ini membawa alpokat, kol, dan kentang dari Takengon, daerah pegunungan yang jauh dari sini.

Ketika sampai di kota, si pengemudi menghentikan laju truknya di muka pasar. Zakaria pun turun di situ, lalu berjalan kaki ke rumah kakaknya. Satu hari yang melelahkan telah usai.

Ia bersyukur masih selamat dan pulang ke rumah dalam keadaan segar-bugar. Seperti pagi kemarin, Zakaria kembali berbaring di kasurnya, di markas perabotan. Ia kini sudah mandi dan keramas.

Matanya benar-benar mengantuk, sehingga kasur tipis itu terasa empuk. Sebelum matanya terpejam dan alam nyata berganti mimpi, ia mendengar pintu kamarnya dibuka orang.

Perempuan berkerudung melangkah masuk, lalu pelan-pelan mendekati tempatnya berbaring.

“Dik, cepat sekali kau pulang. Bagaimana barang kita?” bisik perempuan itu.

Zakaria segera bangkit dan duduk di kasur. Kepalanya pening sebelah. “Tidak sampai ke tujuan, Kak. Panjang ceritanya,” katanya, lirih.

Wajah kakaknya langsung muram. “Dua ratus kilogram ganja hilang begitu saja dan tak ada uang sepeser pun kau bawa. Apa ceritaku nanti pada Panglima? Bagaimana mereka beli senjata?,” rutuk kakaknya, panjang-pendek, tapi tetap berbisik.

“Bukan hilang, Kak, tapi kami tinggalkan dengan truknya sekalian. Geuchik Syawal ternyata bukan orang sakti, Kak. Dia itu pembohong.”
“Kalau dia sakti sudah lama dia kaya-raya, tak payah cari makan. Orang macam dia masih kau percaya juga,” desis kakaknya.

Zakaria terdiam.

Kakaknya kemudian bergegas ke pintu, seraya beramanat, “Ingat ya, jangan sampai Abang kau tahu kerja kita.”

Suami-istri tiap malam tidur seranjang, tapi isi kepala sendiri-sendiri, batin Zakaria.

Abang iparnya kepala polisi. Tiap kali mereka makan malam bersama, abangnya selalu memaki orang-orang yang nekad mendirikan negara sendiri. Kakaknya tak pernah menanggapi. Ia selalu sibuk mengunyah-ngunyah atau mengedarkan piring lauk-pauk dan sayur.

Seharian itu Zakaria tak ditegur kakaknya

***

Dewi Anggraeni was born in Jakarta, Indonesia and now lives in Melbourne, Australia where she is an Adjunct Research Associate at the School of Political and Social Inquiry, Faculty of Arts, at the Monash University in Melbourne.
Apart from being the Australian representative of Tempo News Magazine, she is a regular contributor to The Jakarta Post, Pesona, Femina, and a number of other publications.

A prolific bilingual fiction and non-fiction writer, as well as a recognized social researcher, Anggraeni has been published in Indonesian and English. She has a presence in Australia, Indonesia, Hong Kong, South Korea, United Kingdom, the Netherlands, and United States.

You can find a complete list of Dewi’s publications by looking up
www.indrabooks.com, www.equinoxpublishing.com, and www.mizanpublishing.com

Anggraeni’s latest non-fiction bilingual work appeared under the following titles, Mereka Bilang Aku China; jalan mendaki menjadi bagian bangsa. – Bentang Pustaka, Indonesia – October 2010 ISBN 978-602-8811-13-2 and Breaking The Stereotype; Chinese Indonesian women tell their stories. – Indra Publishing – Australia – November 2010 – ISBN 9781920787196.

***

ZAKARIA

Zakaria lies in his room, deep in thought. His room is not just his room. It is a storage area for miscellaneous pieces of furniture and bric-a-brac, where his sister keeps kitchen utensils and eating implements taken out only for ceremonial and religious gatherings, or when hosting family guests from out of town.

The cobwebs with trapped bugs that drape the piles are testimony to the fact the room has long slipped from the attention of the house’s permanent residents. In the middle of rice pans, platters, saucepans, plates, bowls, and drinking glasses, a crumpled, old, thin mattress was placed to accommodate Zakaria. The skinny man with waist-long, thick, black, greasy, musty smelling hair lay quietly, staring into the space. His face occasionally creases into a smile. In his mind’s eye he sees the people he has selected to take part in the operation planned for later in the afternoon. First and foremost there is Geuchik Syawal who possesses magical powers. He can disappear at will, not only from sight, but also from touch and smell. This is a very useful gift. He carries an amulet made of a cat’s bone. Thanks to this amulet Geuchik Syawal eluded everyone’s attention after drinking too much Stephenson, the only affordable spirits for locals like him.

His own wife, as she went backward and forward hanging her laundry in the yard, didn’t see him slouched against the base of a coconut tree beside the chicken coop.

Zakaria heard the story from friends who in turn learned of Geuchik Syawal’s incredible powers from gossip in the village. Curiously, Zakaria is reluctant to ask Geuchik Syawal to confirm the story. He worries that the truth will only disappoint him, and worse still, undermine the mental strength he needs to confront difficult situations. The story about Geuchik Syawal’s cat’s bone amulet has become a true story, the source of inspiration for so many people, especially the powerless and oppressed, to regain their will to live by resorting to seeking help from inanimate objects.

However, not all types of cat’s bone are suitable for amulets. The bone must come from a black-furred, red-eyed cat. To obtain the bone of such a cat for this purpose is not easy, either.

The amulet hunter must chase and catch a black cat, and then examine each eye carefully the way a doctor examines a patient. Black-furred, red-eyed cats have become rare thanks to the number of cat’s bone amulet hunters hunting them to near-extinction. If you are lucky enough to find one, don’t jump up and down with glee yet. You still have a long way to go.

You must follow the steps of the prophet Abraham when he sacrificed his son Ishmael to God. First, treat the cat as if it were your beloved pet. Become so attached to it that you forget the cat has no use in your life. At the peak of this attachment, slaughter the animal. Harden yourself and shut out the memory of the cat snuggling up to you on the couch and in all trustfulness, fall asleep in your lap.

At this stage, your experience will differ from Abraham. As written in the holy book, God saved Abraham from extreme tragedy by trading his son with a lamb. However the cat you slaughter will really die. It won’t get up and walk away after you kill it. Next, bury it at the meeting point of two roads without anyone seeing or knowing what you do. When you know the flesh of the cat has decomposed and integrated with the earth, dig up the grave accompanied by a most trusted friend. Ask your friend to watch as you touch each and every bone of the dead cat. Not every bone contains magic. Only the bone that makes you disappear when touching it can be used as an amulet.

Zakaria obtained this secret recipe to make cat’s bone amulets from an old healer, who was his sister’s neighbor. He learned it by heart.
Before he met Geuchik Syawal face to face, Zakaria had tried to round up his friends to look for a black-furred, red-eyed cat. However, none of them managed to catch a cat despite spending two weeks wandering around fish markets and staking out rubbish bins. But Zakaria didn’t give up easily. He set out a cat trap in the side yard of his sister’s house. Two days later he found his sister’s hen pacing nervously inside the trap.

If you stand close enough, being in the presence of the owner of a cat’s bone amulet can make you also disappear. Zakaria is aware of this. Inviting Geuchik Syawal to be part of his operation isn’t without a hidden motive. Apart from Geuchik Syawal, he’s also asked Taufik, his childhood buddy, to join them. Taufik has no amulet. However he is always happy to involve himself in anything related to amulets. He once helped Zakaria chase a black cat. When other friends had given up and began to avoid fish markets and rubbish bins, Taufik persevered. His steadfastness was not lost on Zakaria, who repaid him with this special invitation.

In the afternoon, a truck carrying three cheery men drives along the road. Geuchik Syawal is behind the steering wheel, Zakaria in the passenger seat, and Taufik between them. Geuchik Syawal has been smoking since they started their journey.

Under a tarp in the truck bed is a secret cargo bound for Java. There are guards everywhere. They have to be careful, but knowing Geuchik Syawal’s magical powers reassures Zakaria.

The truck drives for hours through the night. The roads are deserted. “If you can manage it, make this vehicle invisible too, Chik Wal,” Zakaria says suddenly.

“Why, of course,” Geuchik Syawal laughs.

People still address him as geuchik, though at his own request he has long retired as the village head. He prefers operating his own business to fielding grievances from the villagers, which gave him a constant headache and high blood pressure.

A cat crosses the road in front of them, a white cat with dark stripes. The headlights on the vehicle don’t cause it to hurry. Geuchik Syawal quickly avoids the animal. Aside from being endowed with magical powers, he’s also a skillful and reliable driver.

“What kind of warning was that?” Taufik asks.

“Nothing short of an omen,” Zakaria jokes.

Geuchik Syawal doesn’t say a word.

After the incident with the cat, car headlights appear in the distance. Zakaria’s heart misses a beat. They are heading for a serious problem.

“We’re going to be caught, we’re going to be caught,” Geuchik Syawal mumbles, and pulls over.

Zakaria watches the man open the door of the truck and rush toward the woods. At first he thinks Geuchik Syawal is calling on his amulet to prepare for their disappearance together. Taufik jumps out of the truck, hot on the man’s heels, and they both disappear altogether in the dark. Zakaria is stunned. He quickly catches on that things are not going as planned.

He moves fast, opening the door and getting out. However he doesn’t run after his friends into the dark, but drops on all fours and crawls under the truck to hide behind a back wheel.

Soon after that, several cars approach and stop near the truck. Uniformed men speak in loud voices. They rush up and surround the truck, opening and slamming doors. Someone is grunting and mumbling angrily that he can’t find the ignition key. Someone else asks a colleague to stab his bayonet into the tarp on the truck bed, to make the people possibly hiding inside scream, and they can catch them red-handed.
Zakaria feels blood drain from his whole body. He shakes like a leaf. “Stab it, stab it!” someone yells with an out-of-town accent.

He watches the booted feet pace. Sometimes they stop with only the wheel between them. Zakaria has trouble breathing. His throat seizes up.

One of the uniformed men orders everyone to move on and continue their journey. He is probably the commander of the company and beginning to worry that the truck is only a decoy set up by enemies to attack them.

They don’t stay long enough to pull the tarp aside to discover the secret cargo. Heavy steps finally move away. Car engines rev up.
Zakaria waits for half an hour before making a move. He calms himself until his heartbeat is almost normal. After making sure it is safe, he crawls out from under the truck and steps into the woods. He trips several times over bumps on the ground before he sees a light in the distance.

He is overcome with relief, thinking the light comes from a gardener’s hut. Nonetheless, he doesn’t want to startle anyone. He only wants to sleep nearby, grateful he has been saved from danger. A few meters from the hut, Zakaria stops in his tracks. A dog barks loudly.

Zakaria realizes that the hut is not inhabited by humans, but by several heads of cattle. The strong odor of animal dung reaches his nose. The dog is obviously tasked to look after the cattle.

He decides to retrace his steps away from the hut. The dog doesn’t stop barking. He trips and falls, on a pile of cow dung. Zakaria doesn’t take time to curse. He has to hurry if he doesn’t want to be mauled by the dog.

He keeps walking among the trees, exhausted and disoriented. He comes across a road, but is still wary. What if he is too close to the truck? Geuchik Syawal and Taufik have actually disappeared. Did they manage to reach a village? Are they hiding in someone’s yard? Did the amulet or simply darkness protect his two disloyal friends?

Zakaria stands on the roadside, flagging down passing vehicles. Headlights shine on him but not one vehicle stops to give him a lift. In fact, they speed up as soon as their headlights catch his shape, the force of the moving vehicles send Zakaria staggering backward.

Five vehicles pass displaying the same behavior. The road becomes quiet again and Zakaria despairs. His body smells of cow dung. He is exhausted. His belly growls from hunger. He is cold to the bone.

Eventually it dawns on him the drivers must have thought him a ghost with his long, unruly, waist-length hair blowing in the wind. From a distance, he probably looks like a creature from another world.

Stories about the ghost of a woman with long hair in Padang Tiji later spread from village to village, and finally reached Zakaria. He has to listen to his friends’ gossip about the ghost day and night. No doubt someone who died unnaturally. Before being killed, she was locked up in that big house and raped. She wasn’t a Padang Tiji local. She was from another village. Zakaria wants to tell his friends the true story, but decides against it. Let them be entertained by their superstition in these hard times.

Zakaria braids his hair and the sixth vehicle stops in front of him. The two men in the truck don’t mind giving him a lift, and invite him to sit in the front seat.

He sits close to the door after the passenger shifts to the middle. The truck driver and the passenger think he’s come down from the hills. They are transporting avocados, cabbages, and potatoes from Takengon, a mountain region far away.

On arriving in town, they drop him outside the market. Zakaria walks from there to his sister’s house. He has had an exhausting day.
He is grateful to be home in one piece. Zakaria goes to lie on his mattress in the middle of furniture and kitchen implements. He’s had a shower and washed his hair.

He is so sleepy and tired the thin crumpled mattress feels soft. Just before his eyes close and he enters the world of dreams, he hears his door open.

A woman with a scarf over her hair approaches the spot where he is lying.

“You’re home sooner than I expected, little brother. Did you take care of our goods?” she whispers.

Zakaria promptly sits up. His head hurts on one side. “No, Sis. They didn’t get to the planned destination. Long story,” he answers feebly.

His sister’s face darkens. “Two hundred kilograms of hashish down the drain and you didn’t bring home one cent? What will I say to the commandant? How are they going to buy arms?” his sister hisses angrily.

“It didn’t go down the drain, Sis. We had to leave it behind, truck and all. Geuchik Syawal turned out to be a fake. He has no magical powers. He’s a liar.”

“If he had magical powers he’d be rich. He wouldn’t have to eke out a living. How could you trust people like that?” his sister hisses again.

Zakaria doesn’t answer.

His sister rushes to the door. “Remember, don’t let your brother-in-law know about our secrets,” she warns him.

Zakaria muses: a husband and wife may sleep in the same bed every night, but what each keeps inside their heads is another story.

His brother-in-law is the head of the local police. Every evening, when they have dinner together, he curses the people with the courage to fight for independence. His sister always keeps quiet, and busies herself with eating or rotating side dishes among them.

The next day his sister doesn’t speak to him.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

***

Catastrova Prima was born in Pati, Central Java, Indonesia, on March 6, 1984. She currently lives in Semarang, Indonesia, where she works as a therapist for handicapped children. She enjoys writing essays and short stories and is a regular contributor of the blog Mata Tanda. Prima can be reached on twitter. Twitter: @pima96

***

RADIO PEMBERONTAKAN

Nenek mulai memijat punggungku, mengusir pegal akibat terlalu sering menggendong ransel selama perjalanan. Mula-mula seluruh punggungku diolesi dengan minyak telon. Jemarinya yang kapalan itu membuatku sedikit mengantuk. Tapi, aku berusaha tetap terjaga, menunggunya bercerita seperti yang sudah-sudah. Tentang masa mudanya yang seolah tak pernah kedaluwarsa, tentang Bung Tomo, juga tentang Yoesoef—pujaan hatinya. Bukan kakekku tepatnya. Kakekku bernama Tjipto. Ya, aku ingat betul nama kakekku Tjipto Soesanto. Bukan Yoesoef.

Tapi, nenek lebih suka bercerita tentang Yoesoef ketimbang kakekku. Rupanya nenekku masih saja terkenang pada lelaki yang tak diketahui keberadaannya setelah pertempuran berakhir itu. Perihal kakekku, aku sama sekali tak mengenalnya. Lima tahun setelah kakekku meninggal, aku lahir kemudian.

“Kenapa kau tak segera kawin, Tin!” tanya Nenek. Ibu jarinya menekan salah satu titik di tengkukku kemudian diurut agar otot yang mengkal kembali rata.

“Kamu terlalu sering bawa tas berat.” Aku meringis, mencengkeram bantal sambil mengaduh lirih.

Kuhujamkan wajah ke bantal yang berbau minyak kapak itu. Sial. Pijatan nenek membuat sebagian punggungku nyeri. Untung, nenek buru-buru mengolesi punggungku dengan balsem. Sekarang aku bisa merasakan hangatnya yang membuat kantukku makin menjadi. Tapi, belum ada sepatah kata pun keluar dari bibir nenek tentang Yoesoef, tentang peluru yang berdesing berapi-api dari segala penjuru, atau tentang Bung Tomo.

“Kenapa, Tin? Ha? Kawinlah mumpung masih muda,” lanjut Nenek.

“Aku masih ingin bepergian, Nek.”

“Kau kira kalau kau sudah kawin tak bisa bepergian?”

“Mungkin. Seperti nenek, tinggal di rumah. Mengurus anak-anak dan mengurus suami yang sakit.” Nenek tertawa mendengar ucapanku.

“Itu sudah jadi (akibat yang harus kutanggung) sebagai anak orang miskin yang tidak mengenyam pendidikan tinggi, Tin. Jangan kau bandingkan dengan aku.”

Bisa kulihat dari cermin, nenek mulai tersenyum. Sebentar lagi cerita tentang hari di mana banyak korban berjatuhan pasti akan mengalir lancar dari bibirnya. Tentang Bung Tomo yang selalu berapi-api bila menyerukan pidato di Radio Pemberontakan. Tentang Yoesoef yang membunuh Brigadir Jendral Aubertin Mallaby. Dan sedikit tentang kakekku.

Aku hafal cerita itu. Nenek tak pernah ketinggalan menceritakannya bila sedang memijat cucu-cucunya. Sejarah baginya selalu kenyataan

***

Oktober 1945

Radio Pemberontakan mengudara. Lagu pembukanya Tiger Shark karya Peter Hodykinson yang dibawakan oleh Hawaiian Islanders. Ini bukan radio pemerintah dan aku tak tahu kenapa dinamai Radio Pemberontakan. Bung Tomo mendirikan radio ini tiga hari setelah kepulangannya ke Surabaya. Mula-mula gelombangnya pendek, hanya 34 meter. Hampir tiap hari aku pergi ke rumah Yoesoef untuk mendengarkan suara Bung Tomo. Kami biasanya berkumpul di ruang tamu rumah Yoesoef. Aku dan Siti—adik Yoesoef biasanya duduk paling depan karena kami masih kecil.

Radio tergolong benda langka. Hanya orang-orang pergerakan, priyayi dan orang berkedudukan yang memilikinya. Di rumahku tak ada radio. Kami orang miskin, bapakku hanya buruh dan ibuku tidak bekerja. Ibuku selalu menasihati agar kelak aku jadi istri pegawai supaya aku bisa punya radio dan barang lain yang tidak kami punyai. Tapi, aku tak ingin mempersuamikan pegawai. Aku ingin menjadi istri orang pergerakan, seperti Kang Yoesoef.

Jepang sudah kalah. Indonesia merdeka. Kami rakyat kecil hanya berharap bisa hidup tenang setelah melewati masa-masa sulit. Tapi, rupanya merdeka tidak sesederhana itu untuk diakui. Tak lama berselang setelah Radio Pemberontakan mengudara, orang-orang kulit putih datang lagi dengan dalih melucuti senjata tentara Jepang. Tapi, dalih itu berbuntut pada peristiwa dirobeknya bendera merah putih di atas Hotel Yamato dan diganti dengan bendera tiga warna.

Merah, putih, dan biru. Orang-orang pribumi marah, termasuk Yoesoef yang hari itu pergi membawa senapan. Harapan semua orang mendadak pupus. Tapi, pemuda-pemuda termasuk Yoesoef tak pernah gentar pada apa pun. Mati pun mereka rela untuk mempertahankan kemerdekaan.

Aku datang ke rumahnya untuk bertemu Siti.

“Siti mana, Kang?” tanyaku.

“Tak tahu, Pik. Coba kau cari di belakang!”

Aku hanya terpaku memandangi Yoesoef yang tengah bersiap pergi. Suara Bung Tomo menggema di radio. Suara yang memantik semangat pemuda-pemuda yang darahnya masih berdesir mendengar seruan merdeka.

Radio dimatikan. Yoesoef pergi setelah berpamitan padaku. Aku mencari Siti ke belakang. Dia sedang mencari kutu di kepala ibunya.

“Pik?” Siti menoleh. Pik nama panggilanku, kependekan dari Warpiah.

“Kalian tak usah pergi-pergi! Bisa celaka nanti!” Wak Maryam memperingatkan kami.

Aku duduk bersimpuh di dekatnya, memijat pundaknya yang telanjang. Mata Wak Maryam terpejam pelan-pelan lantaran pijatanku dan semilir angin. Namun, tiba-tiba terdengar bunyi tembakan. Tanpa pikir lagi kami berdiri, mencari tempat bersembunyi di dekat sumur. Wak Maryam mendekap tubuhku dan Siti erat.
Tak lama kemudian hening. Wak Maryam meminta kami berdua agar tak beranjak ke mana pun, sementara ia memeriksa ke dalam rumah. Radio dihancurkan. Aku dan Siti membuntutinya kemudian. Ruang depan diobrak-abrik. Wak Maryam memunguti kepingan-kepingan radio yang berserakan di tanah.

“Yoesoef pasti murka,” gumamnya. “Londo edan!”

Aku mengintip dari celah jendela, mengawasi rumahku.

“Jangan pergi dulu, Pik! Nanti kamu ketembak!” Wak Maryam menarik pergelangan tanganku. Aku dan Siti digelandang ke belakang melewati semak-semak kebun tebu.

Terdengar suara tembakan lagi dan karena kaget kakiku terantuk batu di pematang. Aku hampir terjerembab. Untung Siti menahan tubuhku. Wak Maryam menoleh.

“Cepatlah!”

***

Aku, Wak Maryam dan Siti akhirnya tinggal di dapur umum di Pregolan selama baku tembak antara pemuda-pemuda dan tentara Inggris berlangsung. Di sana, Wak Maryam membantu memasak. Sedangkan aku, Siti dan gadis-gadis kecil lainnya ikut membantu melayani pemuda-pemuda yang butuh makan.

Tak pernah kujumpai lagi Yoesoef di tempat pengungsian. Siti maupun Wak Maryam juga tak tahu keberadaannya. Di sana, kami mengikuti kabar pertempuran lewat radio. Setiap hari, Radio Pemberontakan tak berhenti menyiarkan keadaan di pusat Surabaya.

Mallaby tewas. Tak ada yang tahu siapa pembunuhnya, yang jelas pemuda pribumi. Pasukan Inggris murka dan mengumumkan perang. Kudengar Bung Tomo berpidato dengan semangat yang membakar jiwa semua orang.

“Saudara-saudara pemuda-pemuda Indonesia di seluruh tanah air, terutama saudara-saudara pemuda Indonesia yang sedang bertempur di Surabaya pada waktu ini. Banyak teman-teman kita yang telah gugur, Saudara-saudara. Darah telah mengalir di kota ini. Banyak di antara Saudara-saudara yang tidak akan melihat lagi teman-teman Saudara yang tidak bisa kembali ke rumahnya masing-masing. Saudara-saudara, mereka semua telah gugur pada pertempuran-pertempuran yang telah lalu ini. Sudah banyak korban kita, Saudara-saudara. Tapi, percayalah! Mereka ini, Saudara-saudara, mereka semuanya ini, daging, darah, tulang-tulang mereka ini akan menjadi rabuk dari suatu negara merdeka di kelak kemudian hari, di mana, Saudara-saudara, kemakmuran dan keadilan yang merata akan menjadi bagian anak-anak mereka di kelak kemudian hari. Maka, Saudara-saudara teruskan perjuangan. Kita mati, kita lenyap dari dunia ini, tetapi masa depan akan penuh dengan kemakmuran dan keadilan, Saudara-saudara. Marilah, Saudara-saudara, teruskan perjuangan, kemenangan pasti akan di pihak kita. Allahu Akbar!! Allahu Akbar!! Allahu Akbar!! Merdeka!!”

Aku meninggalkan ruangan tempat orang-orang berkumpul untuk menyusul ibuku di dapur umum. Dua hari yang lalu kami mendapat kabar bahwa bapakku dibunuh tentara Inggris. Sedihnya bukan main hatiku. Aku meraung-raung di halaman. Sekarang aku lebih takut lagi kalau ibuku juga dibunuh atau terbunuh. Hidup sebatang kara bukan hal yang mudah.

“Pik! Pik!” Sebuah suara memanggilku setengah berbisik dari balik pepohonan.

“Kang Yoesoef?” Aku menghampiri Yoesoef.

“Kau baik-baik saja?”

“Baik, Kang!” Aku mengangguk.

“Aku turut bersedih atas meninggalnya bapakmu! Tapi sudah kubalaskan dendammu, Pik. Aku sudah menembak Mallaby!”

“Apa?” aku terbelalak. “Kau harus sembunyi, Kang!”

“Aku akan pergi ke Kedung Cowek, Pik!”

Tak lama berselang setelah kedudukan Mallaby diganti Robert Mansergh, kudengar dari Radio Pemberontakan bahwa semua penduduk yang membawa senjata harus menyerahkan diri. Aku merahasiakan kedatangan Yoesoef tempo hari dari siapa pun termasuk Wak Maryam dan Siti, juga ibuku. Tak boleh ada yang tahu tentang Yoesoef yang telah membunuh Brigadir Jendral itu.

Perang meletus beberapa hari kemudian. Bom-bom dijatuhkan dari udara ke gedung-gedung pemerintahan. Surabaya jadi lautan asap dan api. Kami pindah dari pengungsian ke pengungsian lain karena persembunyian sudah tidak aman. Banyak yang terluka dan meninggal, termasuk ibuku. Untung ada Wak Maryam yang berjanji akan menjagaku. Benar-benar hari yang panjang dan melelahkan.

Tiap hari aku mendengarkan perkembangan peperangan dari Radio Pemberontakan. Radio gelap itu kadang-kadang justru membawa petaka bagi orang-orang pribumi. Suara Bung Tomo yang menyihir semua pemuda sering dimanfaatkan pasukan Inggris untuk mendahului tindakan, seperti tadi pagi. Bung Tomo memperingatkan penembak meriam yang ada di Undaan. Tak lama kemudian tersiar kabar bahwa Inggris telah mengahancurkan meriam di Undaan.

“Kang Yoesoef ke mana ya, Mak?” tanya Siti.

Aku hampir tersedak mendengar pertanyaan Siti. Kulirik Wak Maryam yang sedang mengaduk beras.

“Kakangmu ikut perang, hidup atau mati kita hanya bisa menunggunya sampai perang ini selesai.”

Aku ingin memberitahu Siti, tapi urung. Aku tak boleh terlalu gegabah, bisa-bisa nyawa Yoesoef terancam. Banyak mata-mata di sini. Orang pribumi bisa jadi musuh bangsanya sendiri lantaran keserakahan.

“Kalian ikut bantu bungkus nasi sana!” Wak Maryam mengusir kami.

Aku dan Siti buru-buru pergi. Dalam hati aku khawatir dengan keadaan Yoesoef. Tapi benar kata Wak Maryam, aku hanya bisa menunggu sampai perang ini berakhir. Kemungkinannya tiga, hidup, mati, atau tak kembali.

“Aku khawatir dengan keadaan Kang Yoesoef, Pik,” kata Siti muram.

Lagi-lagi aku hanya bisa bungkam. Kurengkuh bahunya. Dia menangis memikirkan nasib kakak satu-satunya yang sampai sekarang tak ada kabarnya.

“Kang Yoesoef pasti kembali,” bisikku menenangkannya. Sekaligus menenangkan hatiku sendiri.

Pemuda-pemuda berdatangan. Ada yang membawa senapan, ada yang membawa luka-luka pada tubuhnya. Aku membantu Wak Maryam membagikan nasi pada mereka. Di dekat pohon, kulihat salah satu teman Yoesoef sedang duduk bergerombol. Kakiku melangkah ke sana dengan sendirinya. Kubagikan nasi pada mereka.

“Lihat Kang Yoesoef, Kang?” tanyaku.

“Tidak, Pik. Sudah dua hari aku tak ketemu Yoesoef.”

Jantungku sekejap berhenti. Aku tersenyum kecil, kemudian berlalu meninggalkan mereka setelah membagi jatah nasi. Kubantu Siti yang sedang menuang minuman. Dapur umum disesaki pemuda-pemuda yang kelaparan dan kelelahan. Kulihat Wak Maryam bersendau gurau dengan seorang perempuan berbalut karung goni. Mereka sibuk membungkusi nasi.

“Kang, lihat Kang Yoesoef tidak?” tanya Siti pada salah seorang teman Yoesoef.

Pemuda yang ditanyai hanya menggeleng lantaran mulutnya belum selesai mengunyah. Siti berlalu dari hadapannya, menanyai teman Yoesoef yang lain. Tapi tak ada yang tahu keberadaan Yoesoef dan dia menangis sambil berlari ke arah Wak Maryam. Wak Maryam mengelus-elus kepalanya dan bilang bahwa Yoesoef akan kembali.

Aku berlari ke ruangan di mana orang-orang sedang mendengarkan berita bahwa Kedung Cowek dihujani meriam. Tempat gudang senjata itu dihancurkan dua jam setelah Bung Tomo memberi komando agar semua senjata dibagikan pada rakyat lewat Radio Pemberontakan. Ah, Bung Tomo memang gegabah. Tiba-tiba aku ingat Yoesoef. Ya, dia ada di Kedung Cowek untuk mengambil senjata bersama rombongan yang membawa truk.

Korban makin banyak yang berjatuhan. Selama 24 jam rumah sakit berjaga penuh karena korban bisa datang terus menerus. Dapur umum juga selalu bersiaga meski pasokan bahan makanan mulai menipis. Pasar-pasar mulai tutup. Para pedagang mengungsi ke perbatasan untuk menghindari bom yang dijatuhkan sewaktu-waktu. Semua orang merasakan ketakutan yang mencekam.

Untung saja kami dapat bantuan dari Sidoharjo beberapa hari kemudian. Banyak sayuran dan beras yang dikirim ke dapur umum sampai bertumpuk-tumpuk di gudang. Aku dan Siti biasanya membantu mengangkut sayuran-sayuran dari gudang ke dapur umum. Kami bersemangat untuk masa depan yang tak bisa diraba.
Sampai dengan perang usai, aku tak pernah bertemu Yoesoef. Aku tinggal dengan Wak Maryam dan dijodohkan dengan seorang tentara bernama Tjipto Soesanto. Dia lebih tua dariku 15 tahun, gagah, dan sangat baik. Sejak menikah dengannya aku dibawanya ikut serta ke Ambarawa. Kutinggalkan Wak Maryam yang membesarkanku dengan kasih sayang seperti ibuku sendiri. Juga Siti—teman baikku.

Pada satu titik, ketika Radio Pemberontakan menyiarkan tentang Kedung Cowek yang dikuasai tentara Inggris, aku sebetulnya yakin bahwa Yoesoef sudah meninggal di antara senjata-senjata yang hendak diangkutnya dengan truk itu. Tapi, aku memilih menenangkan hatiku sendiri. Yoesoef hanya sedang pergi berperang. Dia selalu hidup dalam ingatanku.

Suara Nenek memudar. Matanya yang berkaca-kaca mencerminkan masa yang lampau itu.

******

English translation with assistance of Dalang Publishing. Sal Glynn, editor.

***

RESISTANCE RADIO STATION

Grandma started to give me a back massage, relieving the pain caused by carrying a backpack too often. She applied telon oil and her callused hands made me sleepy. I tried to stay awake, waiting for her to tell stories like she always did. Stories about her lasting youth, about Bung Tomo, about Kang Yoesoef—her idol—who was not my grandpa. My grandpa’s name was Tjipto. Yes, I remember my grandpa’s name correctly. It was Tjipto Soesanto, not Yoesoef.

However, Grandma preferred to tell stories about Yoesoef rather than about my grandpa. She still remembered the man whose whereabouts were unknown even after the war ended. I never knew my grandpa. I was born five years after he died.

“Why don’t you get married soon, Tin?” Grandma asked. Her thumb pressed on a spot in my neck and massaged it to loosen the tight muscles.

“You carry heavy backpacks too often.”

I grinned and moaned quietly, burying my face in the pillow that smelled of telon oil. Damn. Grandma’s massage made part of my back hurt even more. Thank God she quickly rubbed more oil on my back. Its warmth made me sleepier. But she had yet to say anything about Yoesoef, about whistling bullets fired from all directions, and about Bung Tomo.

“Why, Tin? Hah? You should marry while you are still young,” Grandma continued.

“I still like to travel, Grandma.”

“You think you can’t travel after marriage?”

“Seems like it. Look at you: you stay at home, taking care of kids and a sick husband.”

Grandma laughed. “That’s because my family was poor and could not afford a higher education for me, Tin. You shouldn’t compare yourself with me.”

I saw in the mirror that Grandma started to smile. Soon the story about the days of war would flow from her lips. About Bung Tomo, who was always on fire as he delivered speeches on Radio Pemberontakan; about Yoesoef, who killed Brigadier General Aubertin Mallaby; and a little about my grandpa.

I knew these stories well. Grandma never missed the chance to tell them while giving her grandchildren a massage. For her, history was always a current event.

***

October 1945

Radio Pemberontakan aired. The opening song was Peter Hodykinson’s “Tiger Shark,” sung by the Hawaiian Islanders. This was not a government broadcast and I didn’t know why it was named Radio Pemberontakan.

Bung Tomo established the radio station three days after his return to Surabaya. In the beginning, its range was only thirty-four kilometers. Almost every day, I went to Yoesoef’s house so I could listen to Bung Tomo. We usually gathered in the living room. Yoesoef’s sister, Siti, and I sat up front because we were little kids.

Radios were a rare commodity. Only activists and high-class people owned them. I didn’t have a radio in my home. We were poor, my father was just a laborer and my mother did not work. Mother always told me I had to become an office clerk’s wife so I would have a radio and other things we didn’t have. But I didn’t want to be the wife of a pencil pusher. I wanted to be the wife of a revolutionist like Kang Yoesoef.

Japan had lost the war and Indonesia gained its independence. As common citizens, we wanted to live peacefully after surviving those hard times. But it was not that easy to get our independence acknowledged.

Soon after Radio Pemberontakan began to air, the white people returned. Their excuse was disarming the Japanese. This led to the incident where they tore down the Merah Putih flag at the top of Yamato Hotel and replaced it with the tricolor flag of red, white, and blue. Indonesians were angry, including Yoesoef, who carried a gun on that day. Hope faded immediately for most people. But the young revolutionists, including Yoesoef, were never afraid of anything. They were willing to die for the independence.
I went to Yoesoef’s house to meet Siti.

“Where is Siti, Kang?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Pik. Try looking inside.”

I stared at Yoesoef, who was about to leave, as Bung Tomo’s voice bellowed on the radio. The voice that set fire to young men whose blood still surged to hear the word “independent.”

Yoesoef turned off the radio and said good-bye. I looked for Siti in the back of house. She was delousing her mother’s head.

“Pik?” Siti turned. Pik was my nickname, short for Warpiah.

“You girls better stay home or you might get in trouble,” Wak Maryam warned us.

I kneeled next to her, and massaged her bare back. Wak Maryam’s eyes slowly closed because of my massage and the breeze. We heard a gunshot and ran for a hiding place near the well. Wak Maryam tightly held Siti and me.

In the following silence, Wak Maryam warned us not to move while she went to the house. After a while Siti and I followed her.
The living room was a mess. The radio was destroyed. Wak Maryam picked up the pieces scattered on the ground.

“Yoesoef will be mad,” she murmured. “Crazy Dutch.”

I peeked through a crack of a window to look at my house.

“Don’t go now, Pik. You might get shot.” Wak Maryam pulled my arm. Siti and I were herded from the back of the house through the grove of sugar cane.

Gunshots were heard again. I was startled and stumbled over a rock on the dike. I almost fell. Luckily, Siti caught me. Wak Maryam turned.

“Hurry,” she said.

***

During the clash between the revolutionists and the British army, Wak Maryam, Siti, and I lived in a soup kitchen in Pregolan.
Wak Maryam volunteered to cook while Siti and me and other little girls helped with serving the activists.

I never saw Yoesoef at the refugee camp. Neither Siti nor Wak Maryam knew his whereabouts. In the camp, we followed the news through the radio. Radio Pemberontakan kept broadcasting about the situation in the center of Surabaya.

Mallaby died. No one knew who the killer was, other than that he must be Indonesian. British troops were wrathful and waged war. I heard Bung Tomo deliver enthusiastic speeches to arouse the people’s spirit.

“Fellow Indonesian young men throughout the country, especially those who are now on the battlefield in Surabaya: Many of our friends have died. Blood has flowed in this city. Many of your friends will never come home. They died in the recent battles. Comrades, we have suffered a lot of casualties. But, believe me, the flesh, blood, and bones of those who died will one day fertilize an independent country, where their children will enjoy equal prosperity and justice. So, comrades, let’s continue this struggle. While we might die and vanish from this world, the future will be filled with prosperity and justice. Comrades, let us continue this struggle, the ultimate victory will be ours. Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Merdeka!”

I left the room where people gathered to visit my mother in the soup kitchen. Two days before, we received news that the British had killed my father. Terribly sad, I roamed the yard. I was more scared that my mother would also be killed. Living alone is not easy.

“Pik, Pik,” a hushed voice said from behind the trees.

“Kang Yoesoef?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m alright, Kang,” I nodded.

“I am sorry about your father. But I took your revenge, Pik. I shot Mallaby.”

“What?” I stared at him. “You have to hide.”

“I’m going to Kedung Cowek, Pik.”

Soon after, Robert Mansergh replaced Mallaby. I heard on Radio Pemberontakan that every armed citizen had to surrender. I kept Yoesoef’s visit a secret from everyone including Wak Maryam, Siti, and my mother. No one should know that Yoesoef had killed the brigadier general.

War broke out a few days later. Bombs were dropped on government buildings. Surabaya was a sea of smoke and fire. We moved from one hiding place to another. Many of us were injured and died, including my mother. Fortunately, there was Wak Maryam, who promised to take care of me. It really was a long and tiring day.

Every day I followed the war on Radio Pemberontakan. Sometimes, the illegal broadcast brought harm to the pribumi. The young natives were enchanted by Bung Tomo’s voice, but the British often intercepted the broadcast to move one step ahead of the revolutionists. Like on the morning Bung Tomo alerted the revolutionists in Undaan, word spread that the British had smashed the artillery there.

“I’m wondering where Kang Yoesoef is, Mom,” murmured Siti.

I almost choked and glanced at Wak Maryam as she stirred the rice.

“Your brother is on the battlefield, alive or dead. All we can do is wait for him until this war ends.”

I wanted to tell Siti, but I didn’t. I couldn’t let down my guard; Yoesoef’s life could be in danger. There were many spies. Motivated by greed, even pribumi became the enemy of their own country.

“Both of you, go help wrap the rice,” Wak Maryam waved us away.

Siti and I left in a hurry. In my heart, I worried about Yoesoef. But Wak Maryam was right; I should wait for this war to end. There were three possibilities: he would come back alive, dead, or never return.

“I worry about Kang Yoesoef, Pik,” Siti said with sadness.

Again, I was quiet. I put my arm around her shoulder. She cried while thinking about her only brother whose whereabouts were unknown.

“Kang Yoesoef will be back,” I whispered to soothe her and calm myself, too.

The young men came. Some brought guns; some brought the injured. I helped Wak Maryam to distribute the rice to them. Near a tree I saw one of Yoesoef’s friends sitting in a group. My feet headed for them and I handed out the rice.

“Did you see Kang Yoesoef, Kang?” I asked.

“No I didn’t, Pik. I haven’t seen Yoesoef for two days.”

My heart stopped beating for a moment. I forced a wry smile and left the men with the rice. I helped Siti as she poured drinks. The soup kitchen was crowded with starved and exhausted young men. I watched Wak Maryam joking with a woman dressed in burlap. They were busy wrapping rice.

“Kang, did you see Kang Yoesoef?” Siti asked one of her brother’s friends.

The man shook his head because his mouth was full. Siti asked another man, but no one knew where he was. She ran crying to Wak Maryam, who patted her head and said Yoesoef would come back.

I ran to the room where people were listening to the news that Kedung Cowek was destroyed by artillery. The armory was smashed two hours after Bung Tomo gave a command through Radio Pemberontakan to distribute all weapons to the people.

Ah, Bung Tomo was reckless. I suddenly remembered that Yoesoef went to Kedung Cowek to get weapons with a group that had come with a truck.

The number of casualties kept increasing. The hospital was on twenty-four-hour alert because the wounded kept coming. The soup kitchen was always open although the food supply started to diminish. Merchants evacuated to border areas to evade the bombs that could drop at anytime. The markets closed. Everyone was scared.

The next day we luckily got help from Sidoharjo. So much vegetables and rice were sent to the soup kitchen that they piled up in the warehouse. Siti and I helped to bring vegetables from the warehouse to soup kitchen. We were enthusiastic about an uncertain future.

I never saw Yoesoef again. I lived with Wak Maryam and entered into an arranged marriage with a soldier named Tjipto Soesanto. He was fifteen years older than me, well built, and very kind. After our marriage he took me with him to Ambarawa. I left Wak Maryam, who had taken care of me as if she were my own mother. I also left Siti—my best friend.

When Radio Pemberontakan broadcasted the British take over of Kedung Cowek, I was sure that Yoesoef had died with the weapons he was supposed to transport. But I chose to calm my heart. Yoesoef just went to war. In my memories he is still alive.

Grandma’s voice faded, the past reflected in her glassy eyes.

******

L.K. Ara was born in Takengon, Aceh, on November 12, 1937. A poet, writer of children stories as well as a commentator on literary and art publications, he has been widely published in several newspapers and magazines in Indonesia, Malaysia and Brunei. Ara is the recipient of the Hadiah Seni from Pemda Aceh (2009) a prestigious cultural government award from the Province of Aceh.

Ara has served as the cultural editor of Harian Mimbar Umum (Medan), worked for the Secretary of State and until his retirement in 1985 held a position at the Balai Puataka.
Together with K. Usman, Rusman Setiasumarga, and M. Taslim Ali, he founded the Teater Balai Pustaka (1967) which introduced the poets of the Tradisional Gayo, and To’et, who performed in all major cities in Indonesia. Ara has been published extensively by respected publishers such as, Balai Pustaka, Grasindo, Pena, Tonggak, Horison Sastra Indonesia, and Yayasan Mata Air Jernis.

Ara is a regular participant in literary events in Indonesia and Malaysia. In April of this year he attended the Pertemuan Sastrawan NUMERA in Padang.

******

 
Collection Of Poems L.K. Ara
 
Benteng Rikit Gaib 1904

Di lembar buku tua itu
kutemu gambarmu
kampung yang senyap
hanya tumpukan mayat-mayat
dan tiang bambu yang lurus dan layu
seperti tersedu

benteng Rikit Gaib telah rubuh
pagar bambu berduri runtuh
para pejuang negeri
telah dihabisi
oleh Van Daalen dengan keji

lelaki perempuan
orang tua anak anak bahkan
dibunuh secara kejam
tanpa perikemanusiaan

Van Daalen memang mengirim utusan
Meminta pejuang agar suka perdamaian
Tapi pimpinan pejuang
Aman Linting
dan Reje Kemala Darna
Menolak saat itu juga
Karena di dada sudah ditanam
Pohon berbuah tabah
Lebih baik mati syahid daripada menyerah

(Banda Aceh, 29/1/2012)

Debur Ombak Itulah

Debur ombak itulah 

yang memanggil manggil

hingga kami menjejakkan kaki ketempat ini

pada suatu petang yang tenang

menyelusuri jalan yang membentang

dari jalan beraspal hingga jalan bebatuan

hingga ke pinggir lautan



tiba dipintu gerbang yang terbuka

dan leluasa memandang selat Melaka

terbayang kapal kapal perang siap siaga

dengan 2000 para janda 

prajurit yang terlatih dan setia

membela tanah pusaka

dari serangan Portugis dan Belanda



batu batu benteng masih berdiri

meski kurang terpelihara

lubang lubang pengintaian 

masih terbuka ke arah lautan 

tempat musuh datang menyerang

dan kami menyaksikan itu

setelah lebih 500 tahun berlalu

pada saat akar telah menjalar membesar

melilit benteng batu

pada saat lumut menebal

menempel benteng batu

kini kami rindu pada keperkasaanmu

wahai laksamana pertama di dunia 

kini kami kehilangan 

rasa kepahlawanan

rasa pengabdian

rasa kesetiaan

karena lebih memuja kemewahan 

harta benda, pangkat dan kekuasaan



debur ombak itulah

yang setia mengabdi 

sepanjang sejarah dari dulu hingga kini

yang terus berdebur dalam diri

hingga kami tak kan melupakannmu Laksama Malahayati.


(Banda Aceh, 11/1/12)

Hening

Batu menunggu
Aku tahu
Tapi kadang kaki pergi lama
Mengembara
Meninggalkanmu
Aku tahu

Batu menunggu
Aku tahu
Hingga gelombang pasang
Datang menghiburmu
Hingga lumut
Jadi teman akrabmu
Aku tahu

Batu menunggu
Aku tahu
Ketika kau diam
Ditikam tikam
Belati matahari sepanjang hari
Ketika kau diam
Di tikam tikam
Pisau sepi sepanjang hari
Aku tahu
Diammu sungguh diam
Gerak zikir yang dalam
Hingga sampai ke puncak diam
Hening

 
 
(Banda Aceh, 26/11/11)

Drs. MM. Yohannes De Santo was born on the island of Timor, Indonesia, on January 27, 1963. A graduate of The Graduate School of Management PPM Jakarta, he studied English at the Sanata Dharma University in Yogyakarta. He currently lives in Yogyakarta, Indonesia where he is a lecturer in Business Ethics, Self Development, and Strategic Management at the ASMI Santa Maria Yogyakarta.
John is a regular contributor to the Educare Magazine, edited by the Indonesian Bishop Conference Jakarta.

As a bilingual (Indonesian and English) writer, John translates fiction as well as non-fiction. His translations have been published by noted publishers such as: : Kunci Ilmu – The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, 2002 – ISBN 979-3200-006; Bentang –The Priest’s Madona by Amy Hassinger, 2006 – ISBN 979-3062-2; Penerbit Kanisius – Mythology and Shaman by Levy Strauss, 1997 – ISBN 979-497-585-9; Kepelpress – Experience and Education by John Dewey, 2002 – ISBN 979-96230-4-9.

We appreciate John’s generosity in providing us with his sensitive translation of L.K. Ara’s poems for this page.

You may contact John for translation projects at: jds_128@yahoo.com

******

Collection Of Poems L.K. Ara

Fort Rikit Gaib 1904

On a page of an old book
I found your picture.
A quiet hamlet
A pile of corps
A straight bamboo post
Withered as if sobbing.

Fort Rikit Gaib was conquered.
Its thorny bamboo fence broken.
The country’s warriors
Eliminated viciously by
van Daalen.

Men and women
The elderly and even children
All killed cruelly
Without humanity.

Yes, van Daalen did send an envoy
Proposing peace
But the warrior chiefs
Aman Linting and Reje Kemala Darna
Immediately refused.
In their hearts
Resilience flourished.
To die a martyr’s death
Is better than surrender.

(Banda Aceh, 29/1/2012)

The Surf


The breaking waves
keep calling
until we set foot on this place
in still twilight
follow the way
from paved to dirt road
to the ocean’s shore

Arriving at the open gateway
we stare across the Strait of Malacca
imagining ready war ships
two thousand widows
trained and faithful soldiers
defending the homeland
against Portugese and Dutch attacks

The ruins of the fort still stand
despite lack of care
peep holes
still open up to the sea
where the enemy came from
as we witnessed
more than 500 years ago.
As creeping roots
strangle the stony fort
as the moss grows thicker
on the walls of the fort
we now miss your courage.
Ahoy! Unsurpassed Admiral of the world
we have lost
our sense of heroism
our sense of dedication
our sense of loyalty.
We now praise opulence
possessions, rank and power
but the crashing waves
faithfully sustain
through time.
The surf inside us
won’t let us forget you, Admiral Malahayati.

(Banda Aceh, 11/1/12)

Silence

The stone awaits
I know
At times wearisome
Wandering feet
Leave you
I know

The stone awaits
I know
Until the tide comes
To console you
Until moss becomes
Your best friend
I know
The stone awaits.

I know
When you keep silent
Stabbed and stabbed again
The sun a broad knife
When you keep silent
Stabbed and stabbed again
The knife daylong loneliness
I know
Your profound stillness
A prayer
Arrives at utter quietness
Silence.

(Banda Aceh, 26/11/11)

Dewi Anggraeni lahir di Jakarta, Indonesia dan sekarang tinggal di Melbourne, Australia dimana beliau berada di Sekolah Penelitian Kemasyarakatan dan Politik, Jurusan Ilmu Sastra, di Universitas Monash, Melbourne.

Selain sebagai perwakilan majalah Tempo untuk Australia, beliau juga penulis berita tetap untuk The Jakarta Post, Pesona, Femina dan sejumlah media cetak lainnya.

Penulis karya rekaan (fiksi) dan kisah nyata (non-fiksi) yang menguasai dua bahasa dan banyak berkarya ini adalah juga seorang peneliti masalah kemasyarakatan yang diakui. Anggraeni telah menerbitkan karyanya dalam bahasa Indonesia dan Inggris.

Beliau memiliki hubungan dan pengaruh di Australia, Indonesia, Hongkong, Korea Selatan, Inggris, Belanda, dan Amerika. Anda dapat menemukan daftar karya penerbitan Dewi yang lengkap di www.indrabooks.com, www.equinoxpublishing.com, dan www.mizanpublishing.com

Karya kisah nyata (non-fiksi) Anggraeni yang terakhir berjudul, Mereka Bilang Aku China; jalan mendaki menjadi bagian bangsa. – Bentang Pustaka, Indonesia – Oktober 2010 ISBN 978-602-8811-13-2 dan Breaking The Stereotype; Chinese Indonesian women tell their stories. – Indra Publishing – Australia – November 2010 – ISBN 978-192-0787-19-6

AKAR TRADISI

Tanpa semangat sedikitpun, Rusdi naik, lalu duduk di tempat duduk belakang, dan Sadli, sopirnya, menutup pintu mobil. Dia tidak berkata apa-apa selama Sadli mencolok kunci mesin mobil dan menyalakan mesin dengan mulus. Tapi sebelum mobil bergerak dia bertanya, ‘Ibu Sepuh sudah kamu jemput tadi?’ Maksudnya mertuanya, yang baru datang berkunjung dari Palembang.

‘Sudah Pak. Saya langsung antarkan Ibu Sepuh ke rumah.’

Rusdi diam. Dia tidak suka membicarakan urusan keluarga di luar tugas sehari-hari dengan sopirnya, tapi dia tahu pasti Sadli mengetahuinya sampai serinci-rincinya. Sadli dan para pembantu rumah pasti merumpi, saling memberi kabar dan menduga-duga tentang keadaan rumah tangganya. ‘Lakonku dan Rifa tentu jauh lebih menarik daripada sinetron apapun di televisi’, pikirnya gemas.

Lalulintas di penghujung jam kantor, seperti biasa, macet. Tapi kali ini Rusdi tidak resah. Malah dia menikmati kelambatannya mencapai rumah, mengundurkan saat bertemu muka dengan mertuanya.

Dia tahu benar apa yang akan dihadapinya. Mertuanya sangat menentang niatnya untuk membawa Rifa menemui dokter ahli jiwa.

‘Tidak! Aku tidak mengizinkan! Tidak boleh!’ tegasnya di telepon.

‘Tapi, tapi Bu, dokter kami sudah mengatakan bahwa dia menderita tekanan bathin! Kalau tidak mendapatkan perawatan yang layak dia takkan pulih…’

‘Sudah berapa lama dia mengalami tekanan bathin? Mengapa kamu atau Rifa tidak memberitahu aku?’

Rusi mendehem menjernihkan tenggorokannya. Belum lagi sempat dia memikirkan jawabannya, mertuanya sudah memutuskan, ‘Jangan kamu berbuat apa-apa sampai aku melihatnya sendiri. Dan aku akan segera memesan tempat pada pesawat yang pertama yang ke Jakarta besok. Suruh sopirmu menjemputku!’

Setibanya di rumah, Rusdi turun di garasi dan masuk melalui pintu belakang, melewati dapur. Sadli memberikan aktentasnya kepada Titi, pembantu keluarga.
Ketika dia melangkah keluar dari dapur, Rusdi mendapatkan rumahnya sepi. ‘Ibu dan Ibu Sepuh di mana?’ tanyanya kepada Titi.

‘Mereka keluar tidak lama sesudah Ibu Sepuh tiba, Pak,’ sahut Titi dengan wajah bersih dari amarah.

Rusdi hampir mengerutkan keningnya, tapi dia tidak berhenti dan langsung memasuki kamar tidurnya, lalu menutup pintunya. Bebas dari tatapan orang-orang di sekitarnya, Rusdi duduk di tempat tidurnya dan menjatuhkan kepalanya ke dalam genggaman tangannya.

Rasa sakit dan pening di kepalanya agak menyurut, dan diapun tidak bergerak selama beberapa lama. Tiba-tiba dia mendengar pintu depan terbuka dan suara istrinya berbicara dengan Titi. Rasa takjub membuatnya mengangkat kepala. Belum pernah dia mendengar Rifa menggunakan begitu banyak kata-kata sejak beberapa minggu ini. Barangkali Rifa hanya berbicara kalau dia sedang tidak di rumah. Rusdi menunggu. Tapi yang ditunggu-tunggunya tidak muncul. Diapun bangkit pelan-pelan dan keluar dari kamar.

Di halaman belakang Rifa dan ibunya sedang duduk-duduk minum es teh. Rifa menoleh ketika Rusdi mendekat dan melemparkan senyum setengah hati. Rusdi mencium tangan mertuanya. Di dekat perempuan ini, Rusdi, sarjana arsitektur lulusan Universitas Melbourne dan sekarang memangku jabatan penting pada sebuah perusahaan perancang gedung dan bangunan terkenal, kembali pada tuntutan budaya dan adat-istiadat, tentunya sampai batas-batas tertentu.

Setelah menyapa istrinya diapun menarik sebuah kursi dan duduk, sedikit banyak menghadap Rifa dan ibunya. Tengkuknya terasa menegang bersiap menghadapi perang syaraf. Tidak lama mereka mengobrol basa-basi tanpa juntrungannya, karena mertuanya segera memulai ‘serangan’, ‘Rus, aku membawa Rifa ke dukun.’

Mata Rusdi melotot. ‘Apa? Oh, maaf, Ibu, mengapa, buat apa?’

‘Rus, aku ibu Rifa. Aku kenal benar anakku. Dia bukan seorang yang macam-macam. Bukan yang suka mudah mengalami tekanan bathin. Aku curiga ada yang menjahatinya. Dan ternyata aku benar. Kata dukun, dia diguna-guna…”

‘Tentu saja dia mengatakan begitu! Guna-guna macam apa, katanya, kalau saya boleh bertanya?’

Mertuanya bangkit pelan-pelan, melangkah ke dapur, dan kembali dengan sebilah pisau. Tanpa sadar Rusdi merapatkan kedua pahanya dan menempatkan tangannya di pangkuannya. Matanya tidak berkedip mengikuti gerak-gerik mertuanya.

‘Ayo, kalian berdua,’ kata sang mertua dengan tenang.

Rusdi melongo. Rifa bangkit dan mengikuti ibunya, ke kamar tidur mereka! Dengan hati berdebar-debar sarat dengan rasa ingin tahu, sekaligus lega bahwa pisau yang dipegang mertuanya bukan ditujukan pada bagian tubuh dirinya, diapun bangun dan mengikuti mereka. Untung pada saat itu ada sinetron yang mulai, kalau tidak pasti pembantu dan tukang masaknya akan mengintai dari balik pintu dapur.

Di pintu dengan ragu-ragu Rusdi berhenti dan mengawasi mertuanya melangkah ke ranjangnya, lalu berpaling kepadanya dan bertanya, ‘Kamu tidur di sisi mana, Rus?’

‘Di sisi itu,’ sahut Rusdi, perasaan terperangkap mencekamnya.

‘Jadi, kamu tidur di sisi ini, Rif?’ kini si mertua bertanya kepada putrinya sendiri. Rifa mengangguk.

‘Rus, ada guna-guna yang tertanam dalam kasur kalian, di bawah bantal Rifa.’

Rusdi tertegun. Marah dan rasa tak berdaya melumpuhkan syaraf-syaraf tubuhnya. Istrinya sudah diperiksa menderita tekanan bathin. Omong-kosong apa ini, guna-guna? Apa mertuanya tidak bisa menerima kenyataan bahwa putrinya membutuhkan perawatan dokter jiwa? Apa dia harus memindahkan rasa malunya pada sumber di awang-awang agar tidak hilang muka?

‘Jadi itu yang dikatakan si dukun?’ tanya Rusdi sambil meringis.

Mertuanya tidak menjawab, tapi menyerahkan pisau itu kepadanya. ‘Kalau kau tidak percaya, mengapa kau tidak membongkarnya dan melihatnya sendiri?’

Rusdi tak dapat lagi menahan diri. ‘Apa? Aku tidak akan merusak kasur bagus dan enak cuma karena seorang penghuni gua yang sangat kuno, atau seorang penipu yang mengaku sebagai dukun mengatakan bahwa ada guna-guna di dalamnya! Astaga Ibu, kita hidup di abad keduapuluh satu!’

Mertuanya tidak beringsut dari tempatnya berdiri. ‘Tenang Rus, aku juga seorang sarjana, kau ingat? Namun aku tidak pernah melupakan akar budaya dan adat-istiadatku! Nah, jangan mengelak, bongkar kasur ini! Sebelah sini!’

Rusdi meraih pisau tadi, dan sebelum dia menggerakkannya ke arah tenggorokan mertuanya, dia memburu ke tempat tidurnya, menarik selimutnya dan menusuk lalu merobek kasur pada tempat yang ditunjuk mertuanya. Lalu, masih mengikuti petunjuk mertuanya, dia memasukkan tangannya ke dalam lubang yang dibuatnya, mencari-cari.

Tiba-tiba, air mukanya berubah. Tidak lagi memancarkan ‘aku harap tak seorangpun tahu aku melakukan ini’. Tangannya menyentuh sesuatu, dan dia segera menariknya keluar. Sebuah kantong kain putih berada dalam genggamannya. Entah mengapa, dia langsung menjatuhkannya ke lantai. Wajahnya pucat. Dia mematung memandanginya selama tigapuluh detik, lalu memeriksa kasur yang dirusaknya. Tangannya meraba ke sana, ke mari. Tidak ada bekas jahitan atau lubang rahasia yang tadi luput dari perhatiannya. Jadi, dengan kata lain, tidak mungkin barang itu dimasukkan dengan tangan manusia ke dalam kasurnya.

Ketika dia membungkuk untuk memungut kantong putih itu, mertuanya berkata, ‘Jangan!’

Dikeluarkannya sebuah botol kecil dari tas tangannya, yang tentunya didapatnya dari si dukun, membukanya dan menuangkan cairan isinya ke atas kantong putih di lantai, yang mengeluarkan bunyi ‘hsssss’ bagai ular. Kemudian, di depan mata mereka, kantong itu terbuka. Sejumlah paku dan pecahan-pecahan gelas keluar dari dalamnya, jatuh berantakan di lantai. Kalau Rifa tidak menjadi lunglai dan jatuh pingsan, mungkin mereka masih berdiri memaku di tempat masing-masing.

Keesokan harinya di kantor, Rusdi tidak melihat Korina, perancang ruangan gedung yang baru bekerja selama tiga bulan pada perusahaan itu. Di kantornya yang berdinding kaca, dia mencoba menelepon Korina pada telepon genggamnya, lalu ke rumahnya. Pembantunya menjawab dan mengatakan bahwa majikannya sakit dan tak dapat menjawab telepon.

Siang itu Rusdi iseng-iseng bertanya kepada Ita, salah seorang arsitek yang lebih tua dari dirinya, di mana Korina. Ita menatapnya, lalu sebuah senyum ringan tersungging pada wajahnya. ‘Korina? Aku dengar dia pergi ke dukunnya buat urusan sangat penting,’ ujar Ita.

Rusdi tercengang. ‘Korina ke dukun? Astaga! Ternyata kita tidak tahu banyak tentang orang-orang yang kita…’ dia menggumam. Tiba-tiba dia bertanya-tanya, apa tiap orang di kantor mengetahui hubungannya dengan Korina?

‘Apa kata orang tentang aku dan Korina?’ akhirnya dia menemukan suaranya.

Ita memandangnya dengan bauran rasa kasihan dan rasa tidak percaya. ‘Rusdi, kau tidak dilindungi aji halimun. Tiap orang bisa melihat gerak-gerikmu,’ katanya.

Rusdi jadi panik. ‘Jadi, eh, menurut kau, istriku juga tahu?’

Wajah Ita jadi bersungguh-sungguh. ‘Rusdi, semua orang tahu. Coba pikir, mengapa istrimu menderita tekanan bathin?’

Sementara itu di rumah, Rifa sedang duduk di tempat tidur ibunya, menyuapi dirinya soto ayam yang bahan-bahannya disediakan oleh dukun mereka. Ibunya duduk di sisinya, menghiburnya. ‘Semua beres sekarang, Rif,’ bisiknya.

******

Dewi Anggraeni was born in Jakarta, Indonesia and now lives in Melbourne, Australia where she is an Adjunct Research Associate at the School of Political and Social Inquiry, Faculty of Arts, at the Monash University in Melbourne.
Apart from being the Australian representative of Tempo News Magazine, she is a regular contributor to The Jakarta Post, Pesona, Femina, and a number of other publications.

A prolific bilingual fiction and non-fiction writer, as well as a recognized social researcher, Anggraeni has been published in Indonesian and English. She has a presence in Australia, Indonesia, Hong Kong, South Korea, United Kingdom, the Netherlands, and United States.

You can find a complete list of Dewi’s publications by looking up www.indrabooks.com, www.equinoxpublishing.com, and www.mizanpublishing.com

Anggraeni’s latest non-fiction bilingual work appeared under the following titles, MEREKA BILANG AKU CHINA; jalan mendaki menjadi bagian bangsa. – Bentang Pustaka, Indonesia – October 2010 ISBN 978-602-8811-13-2 and BREAKING THE STEREOTYPE; Chinese Indonesian women tell their stories. – Indra Publishing – Australia – November 2010 – ISBN 9781920787196.

ROOTS

Rusdi reluctantly climbed into the back seat of the car before Sadli, his driver, closed the door. He waited while Sadli turned on the ignition and started the engine, then asked, ‘Did you pick up Ibu Sepuh, then?’ referring to his mother-in-law, who had come visiting from Palembang.

‘Yes, Pak. I drove Ibu Sepuh to your home safely.’

Rusdi didn’t enquire further. He was not in the habit of discussing family affairs with his driver, though he swore that Sadli knew every detail anyway. He and the domestic staff would have traded gossip, putting each other in the complete picture. Rusdi and Rifa provided better entertainment to their staff than the nightly soapies on TV.

The peak-hour traffic was heavy as usual, but this time it didn’t bother Rusdi. In fact, he welcomed the slow trip home, delaying his face-to-face confrontation with his mother-in-law.

He knew what to expect. His mother-in-law was dead against his idea of psychiatric treatment for Rifa.

‘I shall never allow it. Never!’ she’d said emphatically over the phone.

‘But mother, the doctor says she is clinically depressed! She’ll never get better unless she gets treatment…’

‘How long has this been going on? Why haven’t you or Rifa told me she wasn’t well?’

Rusdi had cleared his throat. And before he’d had time to think of an answer, his mother-in-law had laid down the law, ‘You are not to do anything to Rifa until I have seen her. And I am getting on the first flight tomorrow. Do arrange for your driver to pick me up!’

Rusdi stepped into the house from the garage through the back door, past the kitchen. Sadli had handed his briefcase to Titi, the maid. Beyond the kitchen the house was quiet. ‘Where are Ibu and and Ibu Sepuh?’ he asked Titi. ‘They went out not long after Ibu Sepuh arrived, Pak,’ replied Titi, her face totally impassive.

Rusdi checked a frown and walked on to his bedroom then closed the door behind him. Alone, he lowered himself on to the bed and dropped his head in his hands.

It seemed to ease his pain so he didn’t move for some time. Suddenly he heard the front door open and his wife’s voice talking to Titi. He hadn’t heard Rifa uttering so many words for weeks. Maybe she did speak when he wasn’t home.

He waited and waited, but Rifa didn’t come in. So he heaved himself up and stepped out of the bedroom.

He found them sitting in the courtyard sipping iced tea. Rifa turned to him and barely smiled. Rusdi rushed to his mother-in-law and kissed her hand. In front of her, Rusdi, a Melbourne University educated executive in a prestigious architecture firm, resumed his traditional self, to a certain degree.

After muttering a greeting to Rifa, he sat down in another chair, vaguely facing his wife and her mother. He felt his neck tense up for the battle to come.

After a brief moment of meaningless small talk, his mother-in-law began the offensive, ‘Rus, I took Rifa to a dukun.’

Rusdi’s eyes nearly popped. ‘You did what? Oh, pardon me. Mother, why on earth did you do that?’

‘Rus, I’m Rifa’s mother. I know my daughter. She’s not the hystrionic type. Not the depressive type. I was sure something had been done to her, and I was right. The dukun said there was guna-guna, a spell…’

‘Oh he would say that, wouldn’t he? What kind of guna-guna, if I may ask?’

His mother-in-law slowly got up, went to the kitchen, and came back with a knife. Rusdi involuntarily brought his legs together and placed his hands in the middle of his lap. His eyes didn’t leave his mother-in-law’s hand for a second.

‘Follow me, both of you,’ she said calmly.

Rusdi watched on, incredulous, when Rifa turned and followed her mother, to their bedroom. Bursting with curiosity, and assured now that the knife was not meant for any part of him, he rose and followed too. But for the fact that one of the soapies had started, he would have been sure that the maid and the cook would have been peering from behind the kitchen door.

Rusdi stood hesitantly near the door and watched, as his mother-in-law stepped towards the bed then turned to him and asked, ‘Which side do you sleep on?’

‘That side,’ replied Rusdi, feeling inexplicably yet definitely trapped.

‘So you sleep on this side, Rif?’ she now asked her daughter. Rifa nodded.

‘Rus, there is guna-guna planted in this mattress under Rifa’s pillow.’

Rusdi was speechless, momentarily paralysed by a combination of anger and powerlessness. His wife had been diagnosed as clinically depressed. What was this nonsense about guna-guna? Couldn’t her mother accept the fact that her daughter needed psychiatric treatment? Did she have to shift the shame to an ephemeral source?

‘Is that what the dukun told you?’ he asked, smirking.

Instead of answering, his mother-in-law handed him the knife. ‘If you don’t believe it, why don’t you open it up and find out for yourself?’

Rusdi could no longer restrain himself. ‘What? I am not going to destroy a perfectly good mattress just because a mad troglodyte or a clever con man who calls himself a dukun told you there was guna-guna in it! For God’s sake, mother, this is the twenty-first century!’

His mother-in-law didn’t flinch. ‘Calm down Rus, I went to school also, remember? But I’ve never forgotten my roots! Now stop arguing and open the mattress! This side.’

He took the knife, and before he moved in the direction of his mother-in-law’s throat, Rusdi dashed towards the bed, pulled the sheet back and slashed the mattress at the nominated spot. Then, still following her instructions, he pushed his hand into the hole he’d made, probing.

Suddenly, the ‘I hope no-one ever finds out about this’ expression disappeared from his face. Rusdi pulled his hand out, and in it, was a small bag made of white cloth. As soon as he was able to, he dropped it on the floor. His face was colourless. He stood motionless for some thirty seconds, then began to examine the mattress. There was no way the bag had been manually put in, unless it had been there when they’d bought the mattress.

When he bent down to pick up the bag, his mother-in-law spoke, ‘Don’t!’

She then took a bottle from her handbag, presumably from the dukun, opened it and poured the liquid contents onto the bag, which for a moment seemed to come alive and began hissing. It then fell open by itself. A handful of nails and pieces of broken glass, and other spiky items scattered on the floor.

They would have stood there for a few more minutes, stunned, if Rifa hadn’t passed out.

The following day in the office, Rusdi couldn’t see Korina, the new interior decorator they’d recruited three months ago. Alone in his glassed office, he rang her home. Her maid answered the phone and said that her mistress was sick and unable to come to the phone.

That afternoon he casually asked Ita, one of his senior architects, about Korina’s whereabouts. Ita looked at him, meaningfully it seemed, and smiled ever so slightly. ‘Korina? I hear she’s gone to her dukun for some urgent matters,’ Ita said.

Rusdi was dumbfounded. ‘Korina went to a dukun? God! How little we know those whom we think are our…’, he mused. Then it occurred to him, did everyone in the office know about him and Korina?

‘What have people been saying about me and Korina?’ he finally found his voice.

Ita now looked at him with a combination of pity and incredulity. ‘Rusdi, you are not invisible,’ she said

Rusdi was alarmed. ‘Do you think, er, my wife knows?’

Ita’s smile disappeared. ‘Rusdi, everyone knows. Why d’you think she‘s been depressed?’

Back at home, Rifa was sitting up in bed recovering, fortified by a thick broth, from a chicken prepared by the dukun, her mother sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘Everything will be okay now, Rif,’ said her mother.

******