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.

******