Cerita Lampau


Kei

Erni Aladjai lahir di Desa Lipulalongo, desa penghasil cengkeh paling ujung Sulawesi Tengah. Dia adalah puteri sulung sepasang petani cengkeh: Hasarudin Aladjai dan Mardia Abd Karim. Erni menamatkan kuliahnya di jurusan Sastra Perancis, Universitas Hasanuddin Makassar. Sebelum memutuskan menjadi penulis penuh waktu, dia sempat bekerja sebagai wartawan dan penyunting berita di Makassar.

Sejumlah karyanya baik berupa puisi, esai, cerpen, dan novelet dimuat di media setempat dan nasional. Cerita pendeknya Mariantje dan Pasangan Tua terbit ulang bersama terjemahannya di laman Dalang Publishing pada tahun 2014. Cerpen ini terbit pertama kali di koran Media Indonesia tanggal 21 April, 2013. “Sampo Soie Soe, Si Juru Masak” menjadi pemenang ketiga dalam Jakarta International Literary Festival (JILFest) Tahun 2012, dua noveletnya, Rumah Perahu dan Sebelum Hujan di Seasea menjadi pemenang ke-II dan pemenang ke-III dalam Sayembara Cerber Femina 2011. Di tahun yang sama, novelnya Kei meraih pemenang unggulan dalam Sayembara Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta.

Bukunya yang sudah terbit : Ning di Bawah Gerhana (Bumen Pustaka Emas, 2013) dan Kei (GagasMedia 2013). Pesan Cinta dari Hujan (Insist Press, 2010).

Erni dapat dihubungi di: erni_aladjai@yahoo.com

 

Bab 8

Langgur, Awal Mei 1999

Angin laut lebih gigil dari bulan-bulan kemarin. Di bibir Pantai Langgur, para lelaki tua dan pemuda berdiri berjejer. Suasana mencekam. Dari jauh, tiga buah sampan dengan nyala lentera meliuk-liuk menuju ke bibir Pantai Langgur.

“Semua siap siaga!” perintah Tinus — lelaki berumur 45 tahun itu adalah pembantu raja di bidang hukum dalam tatanan adat. Para lelaki menahan napas sejenak saat sampan-sampan itu mendekat. Semakin sampan mendekat, suara kecipak dayung mereka semakin terdengar jelas. Tiba-tiba salah satu dari mereka mengangkat lampu lenteranya dan berdiri.

“Oooii yaau ya…!” Sosok yang berteriak itu ternyata seorang perempuan berkerudung.

“Apakah kami bisa masuk, kami membawa makanan dan pakaian untuk keluarga kami yang mengungsi di situ,” ujar salah seorang di dalam perahu. Mereka datang membawakan bantuan makanan untuk saudara-saudara mereka yang mengungsi.

“Ya, saudaraku, kalian bisa masuk dengan aman,” seru Tinus.

Semua lega, ternyata mereka bukanlah para penyerang, bukan pula huin demuan — orang-orang penghasut kerusuhan. Tujuan mereka untuk mengguncang Maluku, tetapi di Kei, baik Islam atau Kristen, sama-sama tetaplah orang Kei.

Para lelaki mengantarkan tiga perempuan itu ke tenda pengungsian. Di sana mereka berpelukan dengan kerabat mereka.

“Kalian jangan sedih, tenang-tenang saja dulu. Kami yakin rusuh ini pasti berhenti. Dan kita bisa bersama lagi. Untuk sementara kami tak bisa lama-lama, kalian mengerti, kan? Ini hanya untuk sementara,” kata perempuan yang bersampan itu sembari menghapus air mata kakak kandungnya.

Kekerabatan orang Kei memang sangat kompleks. Banyak orang Islam menikah dengan orang Kristen. Jadi, jika sang nenek Islam, bisa jadi anak dan cucunya Kristen. Sang suami Kristen, bisa jadi istrinya Islam, atau jika sang kakak Islam, bisa jadi adiknya Kristen atau sepupunya Katolik. Karena itu juga, semua orang Kei bersaudara. Kompleksitas kekerabatan di Kei sama rumitnya dengan irama lagu Bohemian Rhapsody yang dilantunkan grup musik legendaris Queen.

Di hati orang Kei bersemayam snib — wasiat leluhur mereka, yang selalu mengajarkan untuk menjaga, melindungi dan menghormati kaum perempuan. Mereka akan dilindungi lelaki Kei di mana pun, siapa pun dia dan penganut agama apa pun. Pengiriman bantuan makanan yang dibawa tiga orang perempuan yang bersampan itu biasa di Kei, sebab perempuan tahu, mereka tak akan disakiti.

***

Untuk membaca cerita ini secara lengkap silakan membeli bukunya melalui: https://gagasmedia.net/buku/k-e-i/

Kei

Nurhayat Indriyatno Muhamad adalah kepala penyunting harian umum berbahasa Inggris, Jakarta Globe yang terbit di Jakarta. Lahir dan dibesarkan di Tanzania. Dia mendapatkan gelar insinyur tekhnik mesin dari University of Natal, Durban, Afrika Selatan. Pada saat umur 24 tahun Hayat memutuskan untuk pindah ke Indonesia, tanah kelahiran ayahnya, dimana keputusannya itu seketika membuatnya tertarik dengan segala sesuatu yang ada di Indonesia.

Secara tak terduga nasib membawanya kepada pekerjaan di harian umum, hingga akhirnya dia mendapat kesempatan menerjemahkan sebuah buku karya penulis pemenang penghargaan Okki Madasari ke dalam bahasa Inggris. Sejak itu Hayat belum kembali melakukan kilas balik perjalanan hidupnya. Hayat penerjemah dari Kei (Gagas Media 2013), novel pemenang penghargaan karya Erni Aladjai yang diterjemahkan dengan judul sama dan diterbitkan oleh Dalang Publishing di tahun 2014.

Hayat dapat dihubungi di: hayat.indriyatno@yahoo.com

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8

Langgur, May 1999

The wind from the sea was colder than in previous months. Old and young men lined up on the beach. In the distance, a group of three rowboats lit by lanterns snaked their way closer to the shore.

“Everyone get ready.” At forty-five, Tinus was the tribal leader’s assistant for legal matters. The men held their breath as the rowboats approached. As they drew closer, the sound of the oars churning the water grew clearer. Someone in one of the boats held a lantern aloft and stood up.

“Hey, brothers, we are here,” shouted a woman wearing a jilbab.

“Can we come ashore? We have food and clothes for our families taking refuge here,” another person in the boat said.

“Yes, my brothers and sisters, you can come ashore,” Tinus called out.

Everyone was relieved. They were not attackers or people trying to instigate violence. The latter were out to destabilize Maluku, but on Kei, whether Muslim or Christian, everyone was still a Kei.

The men escorted three of the women from the rowboat to the refugee camp. Once there, they embraced their relatives. “Don’t be sad, just calm down. The conflict will end soon and we can be together again. We can’t do anything for now, do you understand? This is only temporary.” One of the women wiped the tears from her sister’s eyes.

The personal ties among the Kei people had always been complex. Many Muslims married Christians, so if a woman was a Muslim, her grandchild could very well be a Christian. A Christian husband could have a Muslim wife, and a Muslim’s sibling could be Protestant and their cousin Catholic. That was part of the reason why the Kei were brothers. Their relationships were as complex as the arrangement of the song “Bohemian Rhapsody” by Queen.

In the heart of the Kei lived snib — a sacred legacy of the ancestors to always guard, protect, and respect women. Kei men had to protect women everywhere, no matter who they were or what religion they followed. The bringing of food by the women in the rowboats was common in Kei. They knew they would never be hurt.

***

Long before the conflict came to the Kei islands, the people had built churches and mosques together. Catholics, Protestants, and Muslims alike joined in cheerfully. The Kei had a life philosophy: we are all eggs from the same fish and the same bird. Their traditions and tribal laws dated back to historic times, prevailing through the years and superseding all else, including religious doctrine.

When the conflict started in Ambon in January 1999, the Kei stayed calm and refused to take sides. Then on March 31, just before daybreak, violence erupted in Tual. The Kei people learned about it from television and radio reports after the sun had risen high in the sky. Most of them following the developments were convinced the conflict would never leap to the Kei islands. An imam at a mosque said: “The traditional laws of Kei come first. Only after that do people heed the Qur’an or the Bible. The last law we obey is the law of the State of Indonesia.”

The conflict was crueler than the angel of death. It spread quickly to the small villages and islands in the area, reaching Elaar and Watraan and other places.

As the conflict escalated, the tribal leaders and settlers — the Buginese, Javanese, Makassarese, Buton, and Chinese — gathered to talk about peace.

***

Namira was trying to calm two young boys at the refugee camp who were arguing and trying to snatch each other’s marbles when Sala came along carrying a pair of yellow flip-flops. He knew she had not worn footwear since he first met her, and did not want her stepping on any more glass shards. Since the night at Max’s house, Sala’s love for Namira had grown by the day. He abandoned his plan of leaving the Kei islands. He wanted the conflict to be over quickly so he could take Namira to Watraan. He wanted to marry her there.

Sala imagined that after a tiring day of forging knives, she would bring him a cup of tea and a plate of fried cassava. His daydreams were filled with the small pleasures of married life. He believed his mother’s soul would be at peace if he went back home and revived the metal shop.

Namira was all the encouragement he needed.

At lunch at the camp, Namira busied herself preparing Sala’s food. It became the talk of everyone working in the kitchen. The volunteers called her and Sala the Romeo and uliet of Langgur. It annoyed and pleased Namira.

“He’s a good man, Ra,” said Rohana. She was short and fat, with round cheeks, and always joking and cheerful.

Namira liked Rohana, and so did many of the other refugees. She told funny stories that made the others laugh as though the violence in Kei had never happened.

One day, the volunteers and social workers were upset because the food aid sent by the government had spoiled. The bread was moldy and the instant noodle packets were torn and infested with ants. Seeing the others upset, Rohana started to chatter.

“A young man named Lius went to the same food stall at lunchtime. One day he asked the woman owning the stall, ‘Aunty, what stew do you have?’

“The owner said, ‘Nail stew, Lius.’

“He ordered the nail stew. The next day he came again at lunchtime. He asked, ‘Aunty, what stew do you have?’

“The woman answered, ‘Bamboo stew, Lius.’

“Then Lius said, ‘Aunty, if this keeps up, tomorrow I’ll
shit a fence.’

”Another time, when the volunteers were gloomy because of news that the military had entered the conflict in Maluku, Rohana had another funny story to tell. She said that when people complain, things only get worse because the universe repays them with more grief. “So let go and laugh,” she said.

The story went like this: A child went home after he was scolded by his teacher at school and told his grandfather. The grandfather became angry and went to the school looking for the teacher. But when he arrived, the teacher had gone home. The grandfather became angrier and went to the teacher’s house. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing his tattoos. When he knocked on the teacher’s door, a soldier in full uniform answered. The soldier was the teacher’s husband. The grandfather suddenly turned coward.

The soldier asked, “Can I help you, pak?”

The grandfather answered, “I wanted to ask the teacher if there was community service at the school today.”

Rohana was endearing to Namira, Sala, other volunteers, and the refugees.

***

Sala touched Namira’s leg. She woke and rubbed her eyes.

“Sorry.” He felt bad waking her up before daybreak.

Namira rose and went to the well. She washed her face and tied her hair back while Sala waited for her. They walked to the ketapang tree and stood so close they formed a single silhouette. Moonlight seeped between the leaves and branches, and fell in a straight line across the ground. Sala pulled Namira into an embrace. He felt uneasy, yet wished he could spend all of his time showing her his love.

A moment later, they headed toward the road and the beach. They walked through patches of beach morning glory and gravel before they reached the white, wet sand. Namira brought a fish basket and Sala carried a set of oars. The village chief ’s boat was moored on the beach. It was used for fishing so there would be food for the refugees.

“I don’t have a good feeling about today. Maybe you should stay on land,” Namira said. Besides her premonition, she had a vision of corpses floating on the water and the fish nibbling on them. She shuddered to think people ate the same fish.

Namira looked at Sala, her intuition tied up in knots. She took the fish basket back out of the boat and Sala followed her.

Deep in his heart, he felt the same. Martina had told him that a woman’s intuition is stronger than a fortuneteller’s prediction.

***

“Not going out to sea today, pela?” a volunteer asked.

“No, Namira won’t let me.”

When the sun was directly overhead, the sound that had haunted everyone for the past two months returned. It was heard in Elaar, Watraan, and Ngursoin. The refugees scattered. Once again, there was crying and the noise of gunshots. A mob appeared from nowhere and surrounded Langgur, like “rats that suddenly appear from unknown holes, right at the eruption of war.”

These unknown rats came with machetes, spears, and arrows. This was the most sorrowful conflict of all — against one’s brothers.

A bomb exploded north of Langgur and shook the ground. It felt as though the village would split apart. The refugees ran every direction. Namira could only sit with her wet cheeks and cover her ears. The trauma she experienced in Elaar made her unable to move.

“Those goddamned police and soldiers. Where did these people get their guns if not from them?” One of the volunteers cursed aloud and added, “This is truly crazy.”

Langgur’s main street was divided. To the right were the local men and refugees, and to the left the attackers who barricaded the road. The parties threw rocks at each other and the attackers shot arrows that showered the other side like shooting stars.

The road was strewn with rocks. A food kiosk close to Max’s house caught fire. Three men lay still on the road. No one helped them. Sala broke through the blockade of men wearing red bandanas. Namira was left behind and hid with another volunteer beside a rusty barrel. A man wearing a red bandana pointed his spear at them.

Namira broke out in a cold sweat.

“Are you Muslim?” he asked.

Namira trembled. The volunteer next to her shut her eyes tight, ready to meet her barbaric end with dignity.

“Hey, pela, don’t you hurt those girls or you’ll get hurt yourself.” A voice like a tiger’s roar pierced Namira’s ears. Sala stood in front of the man with the red bandana. “I won’t fight you, pela. I don’t want to give those seeking bloodshed any reasons to cheer.”

Namira looked intently at Sala.

The volunteer babbled, “Oh, Allah, Jesus, Elohim, Hallelujah, Dalai Lama, gods of the sky, bring peace to Kei.”

Sala stepped up to the man with the spear.

“I’m the same as you, I have the same religion. But if we join in the slaughter, we’ll only satisfy those who want to see chaos in Maluku,” Sala said.

It was like a miracle. The man with the red bandana was quiet. He had only been paid to do something that he was reluctant to do. Sala pulled Namira by the arm. She collapsed in his embrace, sobbing. “Please find Esme,” she said between tears.

***

Black smoke blanketed Langgur and the other villages, resembling a flock of crows passing overhead. The stench of death was like the scent of frangipani at night. The refugees who were still alive fled in boats along with the women and children of the village. This time they headed to Evu.

Sala asked Namira to go there too. He had to remain in Langgur with the other men and protect the village. They planned to secure the public facilities so the village did not have the same fate as the one on the other island — it was best not to mention the name out of decency and horror. The well in that village, the people’s only source of fresh water, was filled with severed body parts. The stench was overwhelming.

The unrest had caused many horrors, stories of corpses without arms or legs, or heads or shoulders or chests. One report from an island to the south reached Langgur, about a gunnysack being found behind the mosque filled with the body of a man and swarming with fat maggots.

***

Namira gazed at Sala with tears in her eyes. She jumped out of the boat and hugged him, crying. Sala held her tight and stroked her hair. He shed a teardrop. It held sadness more profound than the most hysterical crying.

“Go, wait in Evu. Don’t worry. I’ll find you. The conflict will soon wear itself out. I love you.”

Sala peeled Namira’s arms from his waist and took her to the boat. Once on the water, sea foam lapped at its hull. A sea eagle soared in the sky above Langgur, returning to its nest. Below the bird were people without hope of being reunited with their families.

Namira stared at the yellow flip-flops on her feet. They looked like the sign of a long journey ahead of her.

Far away, Sala stood on the beach.

 

 

*****

 

Perempuan Kembang Jepun

Lan Fang lahir di Banjarmasin, Kalimantan, pada tanggal 5 Maret 1970 dan meninggal dunia pada tanggal 25 Desember 2011. Dia adalah putri sulung dari keluarga pedagang  Gautama.
Sebagai lulusan jurusan hukum dari Universitas Surabaya, Lan Fang lebih memilih tujuan hidup sebagai seorang penulis. Novelnya, Lelakon memenangkan Penghargaan Kathulistiwa pada tahun 2008. Karya cerita pendeknya terbit di 20 Cerpen Terbaik Indonesia sebagai bagian dari Anugerah Sastra Pena Kencana (Pena Kencana Literary Awards) pada tahun 2008 dan 2009.

Pada tahun 2009 karyanya yang berjudul Ciuman di bawah Hujanterbit di harian Kompas sebagai cerita bersambung, dan pada tahun 2010 karyanya itu diterbitkan sebagai novel dengan judul yang sama.

Karya-karya Lan Fang yang diterbitkan Gramedia selain itu adalah:  Reinkarnasi (2003), Pai Yin (2004), Kembang Gunung Purei (2005), Laki-Laki yang Salah (2006), Yang Liu (2006), Perempuan Kembang Jepun (2006; cetak ulang 2012), Kota Tanpa Kelamin (2007),  Lelakon (2007).

Lan Fang yang dikenal sebagai penulis yang banyak menghasilkan karya, juga dikenal sebagai seorang dermawan yang sangat peduli terhadap lingkungan. Keyakinan itu tampak di dalam setiap karyanya, melalui peran serta sukarelanya membimbing kelas penulisan di sekolah-sekolah.

Penulis yang banyak menghasilkan karya ini meninggal pada usia 41 tahun akibat penyakit kanker yang dideritanya. Dia meninggal dunia di Singapore pada saat menjalani pengobatan. Kepergiannya yang begitu cepat merupakan kehilangan besar bagi dunia sastra Indonesia dan terutama bagi para pembacanya yang tersentuh melalui karyanya yang jujur dan menyentuh hati. 

***** 

 

Sujono

(Bagian 4)

Sejak Hiroshima dan Nagasaki lebur karena bom atom Sekutu, kekalahan Jepang menjadi berita di mana­ mana. Aku mendengar dari radio, berita di koran, ataupun pengumuman yang ditempel di jalan, pemuda­ pemuda Indonesia langsung mengambil tindakan penting. Proklamasi kemerdekaan didengungkan, pemerintahan baru sesegera mungkin dibentuk, tentara-tentara Jepang dilucuti, instansi-instansi penting dikuasai, juga orang-orang Jepang dipulangkan dengan kapal laut. Mereka disuruh mendatakan diri. Sementara ini mereka dikumpulkan di penjara Kalisosok.

Suasana menjadi tidak menentu karena adanya peralihan kekuasaan.

Pagi itu aku sangat gelisah ketika tidak menemukan Matsumi di rumahnya. Halaman rumah tampak sepi. Tidak terlihat siapa pun, termasuk Karmi, pembantu Matsumi.

Perasaan tidak enak langsung menyergap hatiku. Matsumi tidak pernah meninggalkan rumah. Ia merasa canggung berkumpul dengan perempuan-perempuan Cina tetangganya walaupun di sini ia mengaku sebagai orang Cina. Ia tidak pernah ke pasar. Setiap hari Karmi-lah yang berbelanja ke pasar. Matsumi tidak pernah berjalan-jalan tanpa kudampingi. Ia selalu di rumah. Bermain dengan Kaguya, membuat orisuru sambil duduk di pinggir jendela, membiarkan sinar matahari menjilati kulitnya yang gading ⸺ kadang aku cemburu pada sinar matahari yang bisa setiap saat menjilati kulitnya ⸺ selain itu juga bercinta di bawah futon yang hangat denganku.

Aku mengenal Matsumi sebagai kembangnya kelab hiburan di Kembang Jepun. la kerap membeli kain di toko Babah Oen, toko orang Cina tempat aku bekerja. Selanjutnya, Babah Oen sering juga menyuruhku mengirim kain ke kelab tempat Matsumi bekerja. Aku jadi semakin sering melihat dan bertemu dengannya.

“Haiya … Kita lepot sedikit mengantal kain ke kelab tidak apa-apa. Dalam keadaan pelang sepelti ini, dagang sangat susah. Toko sepi. Untuk makan saja olang-olang pada susah, apalagi mau beli kain. Untung ada kesa-kesa (geisha-geisha) yang halus selalu  pakai  baju balu …,” begitu kata Babah Oen kalau menyuruhku mengantarkan kain.

***

Untuk membaca cerita ini secara lengkap silakan membeli bukunya melalui: https://gpu.id/book/80265/perempuan-kembang-jepun

Potion And Paper Cranes

Elisabet Titik Murtisari lahir dan besar di Salatiga, Jawa Tengah – kota di mana dia betah tinggal karena masyarakatnya yang majemuk dengan latar belakang berbagai budaya dan karena sejarah penjajahan kolonialnya yang masih terlihat dari bangunan-bangunannya. Dia memperoleh gelar master dalam bidang Studi Penerjemahan dari Australian National University (ANU) dan Ph.D dalam bidang yang sama dari Monash University, Australia. Karena kecintaannya mengajar dan melakukan penelitihan riset, dia kembali ke Salatiga dan bekerja sebagai pengajar di Universitas Kristen Satya Wacana. Dia menaruh minat antara lain dalam bidang penerjemahan – terutama penerjemahan karya sastra, budaya, sosiolinguistik dan pragmatik.

***

 

 

Sujono

(Part 4)

 

Surabaya 1943–1945

I am a bastard.

After the Allies dropped atom bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, news of Japan’s defeat spread across the country by radio, newspapers, and announcements posted in the streets. Indonesian revolutionaries took immediate action. They proclaimed the country’s independence, started forming a new government, took control of important institutions, and disarmed the Japanese soldiers. Japanese citizens were required to register and interned at the Kalisosok Prison while waiting to be returned to their country by ship. What would happen next was uncertain because of the change of power.

That morning I was very anxious when I did not find Matsumi at her house. The yard was quiet. I could find no one, not even Karmi, Matsumi’s maid.

I was worried. Matsumi never left the house without me. Although she tried to be Chinese, she felt awkward among the Chinese women who lived in the neighborhood. That’s why she never went to the market. Karmi shopped for her. I always accompanied Matsumi when she went for a walk. Otherwise, she just stayed home, playing with Kaguya, making orisurus near the window, and letting the sunshine stroke her ivory skin. Sometimes I was jealous of the sun that could enjoy her skin all the time.

I met Matsumi as the star of a club in Kembang Jepun. She often bought cloth from the shop owned by Babah Oen, the Chinese merchant I worked for. Babah Oen sent me to the club to deliver the orders. That gave me the chance to see her more often.

“Aiya, it’s good to be a little bit busier. Business is very difficult with the war. The shop is quiet. Even to eat is hard now, let alone buy clothes. Luckily there are geishas who must always wear new dresses,” Babah Oen said, when he sent me on a delivery. The rise and fall of his Chinese pronunciation changed r’s into l’s.

I did not mind making deliveries to Hanada-san’s club. It was a task I looked forward to because it gave me the opportunity to see its most famous, charming woman.

Her name was Tjoa Kim Hwa and she was referred to as Golden Flower. At first, I thought she was Chinese like most of the women in the club. Only a few of them were Javanese. However, later it turned out that she was Japanese — her real name was Matsumi.

Rumors said she was once the most popular geisha in her country. This did not surprise me. Matsumi was a gorgeous woman and very seductive. She made men’s heart race with her smile. Her sideways glances left them breathless as they tried to control their passion. Their desire to make love to her was certain.

Matsumi had a fair and luminous oval face, with eyes not as narrow as those of many Japanese women. Her mouth was small, genuinely small, not shaped with lip rouge to look little. She had small straight teeth. I often peeked into her kimono’s sleeves and saw the ivory skin of her arms when she took the fabric order from me. She walked with fairly quick small steps and sometimes I saw the long deep curve above her heels under her kimono.

The Javanese said that a woman with such a curve gave extraordinary pleasure in bed, and Matsumi had such a heel. Another Javanese belief was that a woman’s skin should not be too fair because it would be dull, or too dark because it would be unattractive. Matsumi’s skin was ivory. Men like women with full lips that close into an attractively shaped mouth. Matsumi’s lips were perfectly shaped, and enticed men.

People call me a bastard, a bastard who likes “beautiful things.” I think that is normal. God gave man eyes to see beauty, and created the senses to enjoy pleasure. It is normal for a man to desire beauty and pleasure, and Matsumi had both.

I can’t deny I fell in love with her. I was in love with how she looked as well as the inner beauty she exuded. It was not an overstatement to say Matsumi was the perfect woman: she had a pretty face, a gracefully shaped body, and a fragrant scent. She was gentle, intelligent, and had a sense of art. She sang like a lark, cleverly arranged words into poetry, played the shamisen with her slim fingers dancing gracefully over the strings, and was skillful at serving people. She was very good at making men happy, spoiling them, and making them feel like a king in her presence.

I often watched her accompany guests at the club. I also saw her treat a guest to the bathing ritual in the ofuro at the back of the club, until they went to one of the rooms and disappeared behind its sliding door. I heard them talk for a while until their voices softened to whispers that turned into grunts, sighs, and finally an uncontrollable long whine.

The more I saw Matsumi the more I wanted to be with her. When I tried to look at her secretly, she caught me immediately and her melancholic eyes met with mine, arousing me.

Once I accidentally saw her soaking in the ofuro. I had to drop off her fabric order. That afternoon the club was still quiet; no one was at the front and I went straight to the back to make the delivery.

There I saw a naked body in the ofuro. She had a smooth ivory neck, shoulders, and back, so smooth a mosquito might slip when it landed. I held my breath and enjoyed the beautiful sight before me. She stood and left the tub, while I enjoyed another view of her heavenly perfect body: full, round, young breasts with a pink small nipple, small waist, flat stomach, curvy hips, and long legs. I did not allow my eyes to blink. I tried hard to control myself so I would not grab her naked body and pull her into one of the rooms.

Matsumi noticed me and was shocked. She stared at me, then scrambled for her kimono, threw it around her body, and ran soaking wet to her room.

Since then I was determined to sleep with her, like her other rich guests. I asked how much it cost to purchase her service. It turned out to be very expensive; I would have to fast for two years to save up enough. Also, she did not entertain just any guest, only high-ranking military officers and wealthy men.

In my desperation, one day, I stole money from Babah Oen’s shop. They found out and I was fired, but I did not care. I could get a job as a coolie anywhere.

Matsumi was surprised. She did not expect I was the guest waiting in her room, and turned awkward. I knew she was not used to serving a poor man like me. She did not know how to carry herself. She knew what to do with Shosho Kobayashi and other wealthy guests, how to make them happy and lead them to perfect satisfaction. She served those guests with the attributes that came with being the most desired geisha, but now she stood rigid and looked confused. With my desire raging, I took her into my arms. I held her tight before undressing her. After exploring her entire body with all my senses and savoring every inch, I finally went inside her.

At first her smooth, cool body tensed, but she soon started to warm. Her sweet breath blew on my ear, and soft sighs and whimpers passed her lips while her wriggling body eagerly met my movements. Watching her sigh with her eyes closed peaked my desire. Our bodies tensed for a moment before we turned limp in each other’s arms. I ended our game of passion with a long deep kiss.

I was completely satisfied.

***

My desire to have Matsumi entirely mine made me lose sight of everything else. I wanted to make her pregnant. I wanted to have a daughter as lovely as her, a child from her womb. I repeatedly told Matsumi my dream until she finally wanted the same thing. A woman’s destiny is to get pregnant and give birth. I talked her into changing her mind from never wanting a child to desiring one.

I wanted more than a child from Matsumi. I wanted her and her child. By having a child, she would be absolutely mine. Giving birth would change her beautiful body so she would no longer be able to work as a geisha. She would sleep and wake up beside me. How wonderful the days would be if my beloved Matsumi was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.

I may have been married and already had a child, but I did not care. My feelings toward Matsumi were incomparable to those I had toward my wife, Sulis.

Finally Matsumi became pregnant.

How happy I was when she told me that she was heavy with child. I kissed every part of her face until she gasped and her cheeks turned red. I was over the moon. Matsumi was mine alone.

Imagine my pride: I, Sujono, only a coolie, was the husband of Matsumi, the most desired woman in Kembang Jepun. Out of the many rich men who were crazy about her, she had chosen me.

I felt very different from the time Sulis told me about her pregnancy. Then I did not feel proud, glad, or happy. Instead, I was angry because she had used me, forcing me to marry her because she claimed to be having my child.

Sulis and I met shortly before we were married. She was a jamu peddler; many coolies along Gula Street often bought her potions.

Sulis was not pretty. Her skin was dark, her eyes big and defiant, and her lips thick. She also had big breasts and coarse black hair. But she was a flirt. She pouted when someone teased her and also liked to giggle. Maybe she did that to attract many customers.

I liked teasing her. I took advantage of her and owed her for jamu—a debt I never paid. I also liked touching her because she gave me the opportunity. She wore a low-cut kebaya, sometimes leaving one button undone so men could see her black bra. She also wore her kain high as if she wanted to show off her legs as she walked. She sat without keeping her knees together and tended to draw her legs apart. Her body language was vulgar and her eyes invited men to tease, touch, kiss, and sleep with her.

I was forced to marry her because she was pregnant.

The child in Matsumi’s womb was mine. I was an experienced man who could tell the difference between soulful lovemaking and the mere union between two sexual organs.

I asked Matsumi to leave Hanada-san’s club because I did not want to share her with other men. She obeyed me and left the club on Kembang Jepun, and gave birth to Kaguya for me.

She bought a house near Kapasan Street, owned by a Chinese and very large compared to my tiny room. It was even too big for Matsumi, Kaguya, and the maid. The windows and doors were always wide open. Sunlight entered the house freely and the air blew in and out through the shutters. The ceilings were high so the inside was cool. The yard was spacious, too.

“I used most of my savings to buy this house. We’ll have many children so we need one that is big enough,” she said.

Matsumi knew how difficult it was to live in a war-torn country. She knew I was poor, and many times unable to buy rice. So she bought things for Sulis, not only rice, but also eggs, vegetables, and fish. She knew I did not have a good education so I could not work in an office. She knew I was not an office worker, only a laborer doing rough work.

She understood I wanted to join the resistance movement. I often imagined myself in a military uniform carrying a rifle over my shoulder. I would stand boldly in a line with other soldiers, defending my motherland and claiming independence. That was what many of us dreamed of right then. With independence, we would be a dignified nation, not an oppressed people who worked as forced laborers under the Dutch and Japanese. We would have the right over our own country.

Slowly, military rank and medals would line up on my shoulders and arms. I would be like Sudirman. Wouldn’t that be something to be proud of rather than thickening my shoulders and arms from carrying Babah Oen’s textile rolls? With the line of medals I would have dignity, not only be a coolie who made Chinese people richer by working for them cheaply. Later, I would tell my children and grandchildren I was one of those who helped found this country.

***

The mood of Surabaya was uneasy.

The Japanese defeat had crippled the city. No one would go out on the street unless they were forced. Only soldiers walked the streets, Allies and Indonesians, and Japanese soldiers who had been arrested or surrendered. The marching steps of the soldiers made the streets dusty. People were afraid of getting searched while others chose to follow the news from the radio.

I did neither.

I spent days walking along the streets of Kembang Jepun, looking for Matsumi and Kaguya. I did not really know where I should go to find them. First, I went to Hanada-san’s club, but it was already closed and sealed. They had taken the owner to jail.

Without fear, I walked back and forth in front of the former Japanese military headquarters. I tried to peek inside, thinking Matsumi might have gone there. I did not see a glimpse of her. The building was cold, dark, gloomy, and seemed haunted. Too many people had died there, and turned into ghosts that roamed the building. People still heard screams and cries coming from inside, and shadows of headless bodies were seen moving back and forth in the dark. It was an evil building.

Matsumi could not have taken Kaguya there. I also asked her neighbors where they might have gone, but all I got were headshakes and doors shut in my face. Karmi, her maid, had gone God knows where. I felt as if I was searching for a needle in a haystack.

Everyone waited for the new government’s next step. What would Soekarno and Hatta do for the new republic? Meanwhile, what would I do with my life?

I was really desperate. I locked Matsumi’s house.

When despair and yearning tortured me, I would go to the house and sit inside. Nothing had changed. Through the large open windows the sun light still came in to warm the rooms. There were paper cranes piled on a table, the pretty little cups Matsumi used for the tea ceremony, a futon on the tatami, and several nicely folded kimonos. The fragrance of her powder had not left the house, although the dust piled up and spiders built their webs. The breeze coming into the house felt humid because the house was empty.

 

*****

 

 

Namaku Mata Hari

12 Juli 1945 – 12 Desember 2022

Remy Sylado, seorang penulis kenamaan Indonesia telah meninggalkan kita semua pada tanggal 12 Desember 2022 lalu. Selain memiliki bakat musik yang besar, seniman dengan nama lengkap Yapi Panda Abdiel Tambayong ini juga cukup dikenal dalam dunia seni peran.

Dalang Publishing telah menerbitkan terjemahan salah satu karya terbaiknya yang berjudul Namaku Mata Hari (Gramedia, 2010). Terjemahan bahasa Inggris karya Dewi Anggraeni, My Name is Mata Hari telah diterbitkan oleh Dalang Publishing pada tahun 2012.
Kami sangat merasa terhormat dan bangga telah menjadi bagian kecil dari perjalanan karya dan sumbangsihnya yang luar biasa bagi dunia sastra Indonesia.

 

 

Bab 16

Aku merasa dikajeni di sanggar seni pinggir Kali Elo ini. Pemimpinnya sendiri merasa senang karena aku ikut-ikutan memanggilnya Mbah Kung.

Di sini aku diberi sebuah rumah kecil, berdinding papan, pas satu kamar, menghadap ke timur. Di depan rumah ini ada burung perkutut dalam sangkar gaya mataraman terbuat dari penjalin dan bambu, yang arang-arang manggungnya, tapi sekali manggung di latar bunyi gamelan, terdengar magis, tak cukup perbendaharaan kata dari pengalaman batin di usiaku yang begini muda untuk bisa menerangkan asrar kedalamannya.

Rencana yang sudah ada dalam pikiranku, adalah aku masih akan tinggal di sini sampai lusa, dan setelah itu aku belum menentukan ke mana arah langkahku. Satu dan lain hal, karena rasa-rasanya aku masih berminat memelihara marahku pada Ruud.

Selain itu, bicara soal lusa, rombongan kesenian pimpinan Mbah Kung ini pada hari itu akan mengisi acara pertunjukan di bawah Candi Borobudur untuk menyambut Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono yang akan datang dari Ngayogyakarta Hadiningrat ke sini mengantar seorang tamu agung dari Batavia, J.Th.Cremer, mirip nama Menteri Urusan Koloni.

Mbah Kung memberi kesempatan kepadaku — mudah-mudahan aku sanggup melaksanakannya — menari berdua dengan Astri putrinya. Semua anggota mendukung. Itu membuat aku semakin percaya, bisa menyesuaikan diri sebagai bagian dari masyarakatnya. Di sini aku merasa benar-benar menjadi manusia, bukan bangsa. Kira-kira dengan perasaan ini, hubungannya pas dengan pandanganku sendiri selama ini, tentang keutamaan maknawi atas kata “kemanusiaan” ketimbang “kebangsaan.”

Lihat saja diriku. Siapa sebetulnya aku? Ayahku seorang Fries, dan dengannya, seperti semua orang yang berasal dari provinsi Friesland, tetap merasa bukan bagian dari bangsa Nederland. Kemudian anakku, dari perkawinan dengan orang Skot, harus disebut apa keorangannya? Orang Skot, sebagaimana umumnya mereka yang berasal dari wilayah Skotland, memang berbahasa Inggris, tapi mereka tidak merasa bagian dari bangsa Inggris. Lalu aku siapa pula, kalau ibuku berasal dari tanah tempat aku berdiri saat ini, daerah Borobudur, puser kebudayaan Jawa nan adiluhung. Jadi, tak ragu lagi, aku adalah manusia, dan aku sedang berada di tengah-tengah manusia.

*****

Untuk membaca cerita ini secara lengkap silakan membeli bukunya melalui: https://gpu.id/book/83865/namaku-mata-hari

My Name is Mata hari

Dewi Anggraeni lahir di Jakarta, Indonesia dan sekarang tinggal di Melbourne, Australia. Selain sebagai perwakilan majalah Tempo untuk Australia, beliau juga penulis dalam bahasa Indonesia dan Dia telah menulis delapan karya fiksi berupa novel, novela, dan cerpen serta lima karya non-fiksi dalam bidang sosial dan politik.

Novel terbarunya, Membongkar yang Terkubur, dan dua kumpulan cerpen dwi-bahasa, Yang Gaib dan Yang Kasat Mata/The Seen and the Unseen diterbitkan oleh Penerbit Ombak 2022.

Dewi Anggraeni: djuta2003@yahoo.com.au

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

In the arts community on the banks of the Elo River, I was welcome and appreciated. The leader showed how pleased he was that I also called him Mbah Kung, the same as the other villagers addressed him.

I was given a small hut for Norman John and myself. The east-facing cottage had wooden walls and one bedroom. A turtledove sang in a cage hanging on the front veranda. It occasionally sang when the gamelan was playing, creating a magical ambience that I was unable to describe. I thought of staying two more days, and after that I had nothing definite planned. I still hadn’t forgiven Ruud.

In two days Mbah Kung’s troupe was to perform at the foot of the Borobudur Temple as part of the ceremony welcoming Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono, the Javanese king who would be visiting from his royal palace in Yogyakarta. He and his entourage were bringing a guest of honor from Batavia, Jacob Theodoor Cremer. The name struck me, as it was the same as that of the Dutch Minister for Colonial Affairs.

Mbah Kung agreed to let me perform a dance with his daughter, Astri. All the other members of the community supported his decision. This gave me the confidence I needed. I hoped I would not disappoint him.

I felt appreciated in this community under his leadership. At the same time, I was reinforced in my stance that humanity was above nationality or ethnicity.

In terms of myself, who was I? My father was born in Friesland, a Dutch province, yet never felt part of the Netherlands. And my son, issue of my marriage with a Scot, would I refer to him as a Scot, as if he were from Scotland? I thought about the Scots, English speakers, but not necessarily a part of England.

How did I refer to myself? My mother originated from the Borobudur region, the cradle of Javanese civilization. No doubt I was human, and lived among other humans.

The next day I had to perform for government officials. It would be a first for me. First experiences always excited me and drove me to keep going. I didn’t want to disgrace myself. I wanted to impress those important persons with my dance.

Mbah Kung told me, “Derive the spirit of the twin dance from the relief images on the walls of the Borobudur Temple.” I was intrigued by his enigmatic instruction and wondered which images he referred to.

That morning I rose before dawn. As soon as light came into our little house, I bathed Norman John, and prepared to go to the Borobudur Temple. Astri came to keep me company and help me find the images. Without her I wouldn’t have known where to search in such a big temple.

Astri took me to the main wall in the second gallery, the Gandavyuha, which had 128 panels. There I saw the image of two dancers with nothing covering their breasts on the right hand side, facing the lead dancer in the middle. I saw nothing irregular about the image.

Astri tried to explain it to me. She spoke in refined Javanese and at first I had difficulty understanding her. Luckily, she pointed to the clothing of the characters in the image and said, “Buddha.” She indicated the lead dancer, and said, “Hindu.”

“Oh, I understand,” I said. “This image is a bit strange because in this Buddhist temple there’s a character wearing a brahmana attire. Is that it?”

“Yes, yes,” she said.

At last we found the image referred to by Mbah Kung. We studied it to draw inspiration for our dance. The image depicted the two dancers tilting their heads slightly upward and to the right. Their right arms lifted with elbows the same height as their chins and the forearms slanted lower, while their left arms extended forward and touched the knees elevated to the height parallel with their breasts.

This was a still stance. Now we had to define the movement prior and following this stance. Combining our imagination we developed the whole, continuous dance, merging body and soul to create beautiful art.

I should have been thinking about the king from Yogyakarta, but instead I concentrated on the official from Batavia. I wanted to know what he looked like. In the end, I was determined to impress the entire audience. Yet I was also aware that what was important was not the quality of the performance, but whether the performers were good looking, and whether they would be willing to be seduced and used. This was conventional practice, Mbah Kung said.

Being away from home the officers and officials took advantage of the situation and requested that their subordinates supply them with live bolster pillows to make their beds more comfortable.

Mbah Kung’s information intrigued me greatly and I wanted to meet such a person. He also said, “All high-ranking officials have two ta-s on their minds: wani-ta, women, and har-ta, wealth.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

Mbah Kung explained, “Women are easily tempted by wealth. Understandably, officials are aware of this and take advantage of it.”

How interesting. I knew that an official’s wealth was usually obtained through corrupt practice. The Dutch East India Company was falling because of rampant corruption and the wealth gained from the corruption was used for high living with women. So much for adults and their world. A child’s world is far better.

The following morning I saw the children of the community play a singing game. I watched and listened. The words sounded simple, but contained advice to take life as it was presented because even in the luckiest situation, one still has to overcome obstacles before reaching a goal. And occasionally, despite of one’s efforts, one would still fail.

Chapter Seventeen

I mused about the important gentlemen coming to Borobudur. What would they look like? Would they have moustaches? Would the tallest gentleman be bald? The thought of a bald man made me yawn with boredom.

Luckily, Jacob Theodoor Cremer had a full head of hair. He was neither young nor old. His overall appearance and demeanor reminded me of the Jewish people in Amsterdam who often assessed a situation by its prospects of bringing a profit or a loss.

Three other European gentlemen positioned themselves around Cremer as they toured the different levels of the Borobudur Temple while Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono waited at the ground level.

Cremer’s visit was part of the endeavor to promote the temple as an extraordinary monument that every enlightened European should see. Having completed the tour, Cremer joined the Jogjakarta king to watch the performance. The sun had set and light came from the strategically positioned torches around the field

Someone walked to the front and delivered a speech welcoming the guests of honor. It was very flattering, and he obviously thought he was following the correct protocol. Finally the time came for Astri and I to dance.

As I expected, Cremer sent one of his guards to see me after we finished. A Limburg-accented Dutch guard invited me to see Cremer.

I remembered Mbah Kung talking about the two ta-s when Cremer spoke to me. As we talked, Cremer kept sneaking a look at my breasts. “You are very good at Javanese dancing,” he said.

I smiled modestly, aware he was an official of the colonial administration.

“Where are you from?”

I answered, “I live in Ambarawa,” knowing that was not what he expected to hear.

“I mean, where in Holland?”

“I was born in Leeuwarden.”

“Hm, Friesland?”

“Yes.”

“I once bought a hat in Leeuwarden.”

“The manufacturer has long gone bankrupt.”

“How do you know?”

“The business belonged to my father.”

“Heavens. Small world.”

I laughed awkwardly, hoping I didn’t come across like a fool.

Cremer quickly continued. “What is your name?”

I answered, “Mrs. MacLeod.”

He looked serious. “Oh? Your husband is English?”

“Scottish.”

“So where is Mr. MacLeod?”

“At this moment it does not concern me.”

Cremer’s face relaxed. “You have problems with your husband?”

I didn’t answer, knowing he would keep asking and I was right.

“What happened?”

I decided to challenge him. I said, “Even if I told you, there is nothing
you can do to help.”

Cremer held my hands. For a moment I thought he was being fatherly, albeit with doubtful sincerity, because he also moved closer to my breasts. A certain tension in his hands made me nervous.

“Why not? I am ready to help. What happened?”

“Common domestic problem. He’s old. I’m young.”

“I see, I see,” Cremer said in the manner of a marriage counselor. “This is a serious problem. You are still excited about life, while your husband is already aging.”

I expected him to have dirty thoughts. “That’s not the problem, Mr. Cremer.”

“What is it then? Tell me, and I will help.”

“I would like my husband transferred away from Ambarawa.”

“Who is your husband?”

After I told him, he said as if it was an easy matter, “Where do you want him moved? To Batavia?”

“I leave that to you, Mr. Cremer.”

“I will make the arrangements. In the meantime, I would like to contact you directly. Please write down your address and your maiden name. What is your maiden name?”

“Margaretha Geertruida Zelle.”

“Hm. Yes, of course. Zelle was the brand of the hat. If you move to Batavia, you must work for me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cremer.” I started to leave.

“Wait,” said Cremer.

I stopped and turned around. “Yes, Mr. Cremer?”

Cremer pulled my hand toward him, placed an arm around the small of my back, and kissed my cheeks, the Dutch way, left, right, then left again. With his arm around my waist, he looked at my breasts and asked, “Are you pregnant?”

A little embarrassed, I replied, ‘Yes, going on three months.”

He moved his hand to my shoulder and said, “Take it easy with your dancing.”

“Yes, Mr. Cremer.” Very Dutch-like, I didn’t show any emotion.

I heard Norman John cry in the distance. Mbah Koeng’s wife had carried him the entire evening.

Chapter Eighteen

I made a point of not going home to Ambarawa until I felt ready. After what had happened with Ruud, I was emotionally distant from him. I did not miss him in the least. I intentionally stayed with the community near the Elo River. While enjoying the fertile land and the peace with nature, I quietly hoped I would also be able to commune with my mother’s ancestral spirit. I was convinced that by now Ruud would be panicking in Ambarawa.

When I returned after a week, Officer van Donck’s wife reported that Ruud had been looking for me everywhere. He had even consulted a hermit who lived on the slope of Mount Ungaran, known as René du Bois. Mrs. van Donck told me that René had tried to find my whereabouts in a pack of cards.

René was a Frenchman who had come to Java twenty years ago as a Dutch officer, posted in Salatiga. The story went that René had come with another French man, Arthur Rimbaud, who was known in his country as a poet. I tended to believe the story because on the table in our house I had found several sheets of paper with Arthur Rimbaud’s poetry. One poem in particular interested me. It was handwritten, titled Départ, and talked about the poet’s satisfaction with the life he lived and his readiness to continue.

I had just picked up the next sheet of paper when Ruud appeared. He startled me with his braying voice.

“Margaretha, darling,” he exclaimed, rushing to hug Norman John and me. “Where on earth have you been?”

I didn’t answer. It was a long story I was not ready to tell.

Ruud showered me with kisses starting on the cheeks to the tips of my fingers. “Oh, darling,” he said, “I was so worried about you and Norman.”

Chapter Nineteen

A Malay proverb says, “Light always comes after dark.” Maybe I could rebuild our relationship from the ruins created when Ruud told me about his idea to bed Nyai Kidhal.

However this was not easy. I wasn’t sure if he had retracted the proposition and was prepared to mend our relationship. I still fretted about him never having said, “sorry,” despite his understanding of the word.

However he never said anything. Maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. In any case, his apology meant nothing if he went on with his crazy idea, nothing but a futile exercise. Oh, why was I so complicated?

Little by little, I learned more about my husband. He was a difficult person to live with. His brain worked like a tangled spool of rough black rope, the kind used to bring up pails of water from the well and blistered my hands. I was left with the unresolved hurt.

I had to admit that during the next five days Ruud treated me with the devotion of a slave toward his sovereign. His behavior after my weeklong absence was more absurd than that of a crazed lover who tried to pluck a star from the heavens for his beloved’s earring.

This bothered me. It was so unusual I expected to see a change any time. Deep down I still waited to hear him say “sorry” for causing me so much hurt. When this never happened, I was very disappointed. Could it be our relationship was the same as it had been in Amsterdam? I felt victorious, but not peaceful.

I assessed a man’s masculinity by his ability to admit to his wife that he was wrong, and apologize.

That night, after putting Norman John to bed, I went to sit on the front verandah. Ruud joined me and put his arm around my shoulders.

Elated, I gazed at the blue sky, but I couldn’t find real peace of mind. Was I too hard to please?

Ruud whispered sweet endearments to me. I was flattered he made the effort. Unfortunately, flattering words only last as long as the scent of a flower. They did not represent the essence of a person’s soul. Had he really abandoned the idea of bedding Nyai Kidhal?

Stroking my belly, Ruud said, “I hope this baby is going to be a girl as pretty as her mother. I’ll be very proud to be her father.” He continued pensively, “Perhaps I’ve not taken fatherhood seriously, but now love has revealed to me the magnitude of being a father to two children.”

I did not respond. I suspected that this idyllic scene was not going to last.

Ruud picked up my hand and kissed my fingers. “What name will we give our child this time?” he asked, still caressing my belly.

“You don’t find many people called Hercules,” I joked, trying to hold on to the constructive atmosphere.

He laughed. “What if it’s a girl?”

“I like Pertiwi.”

“What kind of a name is that?”

“In the West people think of their country as masculine; they call it fatherland. Here in the East, people attribute motherhood to their country, pertiwi.”

“You like that name?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don’t.”

“Then why did you ask me?”

Ruud may not have been able to see my face in the dark, but if he had any sensibility at all, he should have known I was irritated.

He hastened to kiss my cheek and patted me on the back as if to calm me. And then a miracle happened. He said, “Sorry, darling.”

I turned to him, my mouth gaping. I was speechless.

Ruud didn’t understand my reaction. He waved his hand before my face. “What happened to you?”

I was so happy I grabbed him and kissed him. Crushing him in my embrace, I forgot all my hurt and suspicions. If the sky can produce a full moon, I can find happiness in the future. I’m convinced that love derives from passion. I said, “I’m tired, Ruud.”

He took my hand and we went to bed.

I thought, he loves me.

 

*****

Only A Girl – Chapter 9

Akibat Perang Dunia Kedua dan gejolak kemerdekaan Indonesia telah mengubah jalan hidup Lian Gouw. 

Setelah tinggal di negara asing dan berbicara dengan bahasa asing selama hampir empat dasawarsa, Lian memiliki kesempatan untuk mengejar impian lamanya: menjadi seorang penulis. Sayangnya, pada saat yang sama dia tersadar bahwa dia telah kehilangan kemampuan menulis dalam bahasa Belanda. Lian pun memutuskan untuk mempelajari ilmu kepenulisan sastra lalu kembali ke bangku kuliah. 

Setelah menyelesaikan penyuntingan sebanyak empat kali selama tujuh tahun, pada Juni 2009, Only a Girl diterbitkan oleh Publish America. Pada April 2010, hak penerjemahan dan penerbitan Only a Girl untuk bahasa Indonesia dibeli oleh PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama.  

Ketika Lian mendirikan penerbit Dalang di tahun 2012, dia membeli kembali hak penerbitan Only a Girl dari Publish Amerika. Sejak saat itu, Only a Girl diterbitkan oleh penerbit Dalang dan disalurkan oleh Ingram, serta tersedia di amazon.com dan beberapa toko buku mandiri. 

Widjati Hartiningtyas, yang menerjemahkan Only a Girl untuk Penerbit Kanisius di Yogyakarta, layak mendapat penghargaan istimewa atas kerja kerasnya dalam hal mencari kata-kata yang tepat yang menghasilkan Mengadang Pusaran.  

Lian Gouw dapat dihubungi di dalangpublishing@gmail.com  

*** 

 

CHAPTER 9 

 

Nanna covered the tender buds on the rosebushes with empty eggshells to protect them from insects and wished there were a way she could shield her family from harm just as easily. She knew the ancestors and gods would not be able to keep them safe until the war was over. Nanna had always considered war to be a man’s affair, but this war not only involved Carolien, it had also found its way to Jenny.  

The voices of Chip, Ting, and Mundi came from the kitchen area, interspersed with hammering and sawing. Chip had decided that he would use the kitchen cupboard as his hiding place should the Japanese come looking for him, and the dogs would serve as protection. Nanna had not asked for details. She was fully aware of the tension that hung in the air. It made the women nervous and irritable and the men more silent than usual. Nanna spent a lot of time on the front porch bench, looking down the street. When Jenny joined her she silently rubbed the girl’s hand, her heart filled with a mother’s fear for the safety of her children. 

Almost a week went by before a Japanese jeep stopped in front of the house one afternoon. Four Japanese soldiers jumped out and walked up the driveway with their rifles slung loosely across their shoulders. Nanna grabbed Jenny’s arm and drew her close. 

The Japanese halted for a moment in the driveway before the sergeant walked with confident strides up the porch steps. He bowed to Nanna and flashed a big smile to Jenny. He then took a letter out of his shirt pocket and handed Nanna the document. 

She shook her head. “I can’t read.” 

“Who else is home?” The Japanese spoke in heavy accented Malay.  

“My daughters and granddaughters.”  

One of the soldiers offered Jenny a piece of melted chocolate. When she shook her head and scooted closer to Nanna, he shrugged his shoulders.  

“Do you know Ong Chip Hong?” the sergeant asked.  

“Yes, he’s my son.” 

“Where’s he now?” 

“Not home.” 

“When will he be home?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Who’s the head of the household?” 

“I’m a widow. He’s the oldest son living with me, so he is.” Nanna held the Japanese in a steadfast gaze. “Who’s the letter for?” 

“The head of the household.” The soldier replied, puzzled. 

“Then I guess you have to come back when he is home.”  

The soldier who had offered Jenny the chocolate held his arms out for her. “Come.” His broad smile showed a gold tooth. “At home I have a little girl, just like her.” The soldier patted Jenny on the head, then abruptly turned around and joined the others walking down the driveway. 

Nanna waited for the sound of the jeep to disappear into the empty street before taking Jenny inside the house. She knew it was only a matter of time before the Japanese would be back. Her children’s Dutch involvement drew them, and it would not be possible to hold them off forever. 

Two days later, Nanna and Jenny were dusting the altar tables while Carolien worked on a sewing pattern at the dining room table, when the dogs barged into the room barking furiously. Someone was at the gate.  

Nanna put her dust rag down. “Lock up the dogs,” she said, “and tell Chip and Ting the Japs are here.” Nanna threw a quick glance at her late husband’s portrait on the altar wall.  

The same four Japanese soldiers who had come two days before stood on the porch. The one closest to the door asked, “Is Ong Chip Hong home?” 

“No.” Nanna put an arm around Jenny. 

“We need to search the house,” the soldier said. 

Nanna pulled her shoulders back and looked at each soldier with a steady gaze. “I won’t let you in,” she said firmly. 

Some of the soldiers shifted the guns slung across their shoulders.  

The dogs’ barking became faint. Nanna knew they would be locked up in the kitchen by now. She took a few deep breaths. 

Ting opened the front door and spoke into her back. “Mother, please, let me help these gentlemen.” 

Nanna did not move. She had always given Ting the same preferential treatment reserved for Chip, even though he was only a second son, but now he was asking her to take direction from him. Was this the day that her vision would come true? 

Nanna put a hand on Jenny’s shoulder. She steered the girl past the soldiers. “Jenny, come,” she said, “sit by me.” 

Jenny obeyed quietly. 

The men entered the house as Nanna and Jenny took their seats on the porch. The dogs barked ferociously at the intruders, until a rapid rattling of gunshots rang out, followed by screams from Sue, Emma, and Els, mixed with agitated Japanese voices. Nanna felt her chest expand. She clamped one hand around the edge of her seat and grabbed Jenny’s arm with the other. The dogs were quiet now. Nanna took a deep breath. Something hard and large dislodged itself inside her as she tried to breathe and stay calm. Had the time of mourning come already? 

Els came running through the front door. “Nanna! Nanna! They shot the dogs! The Japs are going to kill us all!”  

Jenny jumped up. “Is Claus dead? Did the Japs kill Claus?” 

“Jenny, stay here!” Nanna pulled Jenny back into her seat. Making room for Els on the bench, Nanna reached for the sobbing girl. 

Voices came closer. The Japanese soldiers came through the front door. Nanna spotted Chip in their midst. She saw Ting, Eddie, Sue, Carolien, and Emma following them and she breathed easier. It seemed the dogs had been the only victims of the gunshots. 

Nanna stiffened when the men walked by. She closed a hand around Els’ shoulder. Pulling Jenny closer, she cast a glance at Chip. He looked away but she caught a glimpse of his battered face and noticed the bright red spots on the handkerchief he held pressed against his mouth. 

Nanna watched Chip climb into the Japanese jeep. He moved slowly, burdened by Dutch secrets. Nanna knew her son would not talk. His blood would be thick and silent. 

*** 

Carolien sat on the floor of Ting’s room with Claus’ head in her lap. Ting, sitting next to her, wrapped one of the dog’s front paws in a towel. Claus whimpered and she stroked the dog between his ears.  

One of his pads is cut wide open.” Ting looked up, his face ashen. “He might have stepped on broken glass.”  

“What are you going to do?” Carolien was irritated. She had never understood Ting’s devotion for his dogs. She wanted to tell him to be happy the Japs had only shot the dogs, it could have been any of them, but she knew better. 

“I’ve got to find the shard and take it out. Here, hold the towel against the wound. Try to stem the blood flow.” Ting rose. “I’ve got to get a few things.”  

Once alone in the room, Carolien straightened. Her back hurt from sitting bent over for so long. A heap of bloody towels reminded her of the afternoon. The Japs storming into the house, waving their guns, screaming, “Ong Chip Hong! Come out!” The dogs barking and jumping against the closed kitchen door, the sudden gunfire, the dogs dropping to the floor, her standing there with shaking knees, afraid the bullets would hit the cupboard, penetrate the wood, and hit Chip. What would the Japs do to Chip? Although she was aloof with her brothers, she looked up at Chip and admired him greatly. 

Ting returned, followed by Eddie and Jenny. 

“Claus!” Jenny cried, dropping next to the dog. He lifted his head, whimpering. 

“Here, if you hold his head in your lap, I can help Youngest Uncle check his leg.” Carolien shifted the dog’s head carefully into Jenny’s lap. 

“Oh, Claus. You’ll be okay.” Jenny scratched the dog’s ears. Stroking his muzzle, she repeated, “You’ll be okay. You’ll see.” Claus sighed and slapped the floor with his tail. 

Jenny watched as Ting washed the dog’s paw in a solution of water and iodine before pulling out the shard with a pair of tweezers. “I want to be a veterinarian when I grow up,” she said. 

Ting laughed and Eddie said, “I think you’ll be a good one.” 

Carolien frowned. Jenny was picking up too much of Nanna’s and Ting’s ways. With all the decent occupations to choose from, why did she want to become a veterinarian? 

Eddie helped Ting and Carolien pick up the room before taking a seat on the edge of Ting’s bed. 

“Where are all the other dogs?” Jenny stroked Claus between his ears. 

“Dead.” Eddie clenched his jaws. 

“Caesar too?”  

“No. He almost killed one of the Japs. You should’ve seen how that dog attacked.” Eddie rose. “Fortunately, the Japs didn’t shoot him, they only clubbed him. Youngest Uncle was able to get him away in the midst of the commotion and put him with Emma in the servant’s bathroom. He might have gotten away with a broken shoulder.” 

“Why did the Japs take Oldest Uncle with them and why did they kill all the dogs?” Jenny asked, keeping her eyes on Claus. 

“Before the war, Oldest Uncle worked for the Dutch government. As a matter of fact, he still does.” Eddie stopped abruptly when Carolien glared at him. 

“And?”  

“The Japs wanted Oldest Uncle to tell them about his office. He hid in the big kitchen cupboard, we thought he would be safe there. No one expected the Japs to gun down the dogs.”  

“Are the Japs going to kill Oldest Uncle?”  

“Let’s hope not,” Carolien said. “The Dutch will be back soon and I’m sure they’ll set Oldest Uncle free.” She tried to sound convincing, but she knew that no one, including herself, believed her.  

*** 

Chip’s capture by the Japanese moved slowly into the background of everyday life. Across the country families bound together to get through the war. With the Dutch government shut down and no salary coming in, Ting and Carolien began trading on the black market. The tobacco store that Chip and Ting had set up as a front for their undercover work now also carried clothing and foodstuffs. Carolien took in sewing. Along with Eddie and Ting, she was active in the Dutch Underground.  

With the Dutch schools shut down Els took responsibility for Jenny’s schooling, tutoring her every day so she wouldn’t fall behind. Els had received her teaching credential just before the war broke out but had not worked in a school yet. The family disapproved of her teaching at a school for natives and there had been no openings yet at any of the Dutch schools. 

By September, the mango blossoms had turned into plump, deep-yellow fruit but the war showed no signs of ending soon. Jenny was in the backyard, helping Nanna and Mundi prop up the laden mango branches, when a car stopped by the front gate and the bell rang. She ran to see who it was, but Nanna called her back and sent Mundi instead.  

Jenny shot Nanna a sideways glance. The dogs lay near her, their ears perked, noses pointed toward the gate. An eerie stillness filled the moments before Mundi returned with a letter in his hand. He fell to his knees and bowed deeply before handing Nanna the brown envelope. 

Nanna straightened herself. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was steady but her hand trembled as she took the item. “You and Non Jenny finish up while I take this inside.” 

Mundi remained on his knees as Nanna walked away. “It’s all because of the Dutch, Nonnie.” Mundi sighed, rising when Nanna was out of sight. 

“Why do you say that?” Jenny frowned. She wasn’t used to servants talking without being spoken to first. 

 Mundi reached for the bamboo pole Nanna had left leaning against the tree trunk. “It’s time for the Dutch to go back to their country, Young Miss,” Mundi said and walked away. 

Jenny watched Mundi disappear into the garden. Was Mundi against the Dutch? Did he side with the Japs? Maybe Mundi was traitor…. 

After dinner that night Nanna took a letter from the altar table and handed it to Ting. “The Japs delivered this earlier,” she said. 

Ting used his fruit knife to open the envelope. Jenny saw him blinking hard as he glanced at the page. He cleared his throat before reading aloud to the gathered family. “The Japanese Emperor and government regret that prisoner Ong Chip Hong’s uncooperative attitude necessitated the use of more forceful methods than are customary. We further regret to have to inform you that during the course of interrogation, the above mentioned prisoner died on September 27, 1944. The Japanese authorities have disposed of his body.” Ting’s voice faltered. 

Sue burst into tears. Els got up and walked to Nanna. Eddie pulled Jenny on his lap so Els could sit in the chair next to their grandmother. Carolien and Emma cried into their napkins. 

Nanna walked to the altar. She lit a bundle of incense sticks and raised them high in prayer. “The Dutch are asking too much,” she said without turning around. 

Jenny stared at her grandmother’s rigid back and chewed her knuckles. She noticed a new urn on the altar table. When did Nanna place it there? Was Nanna now asking the spirits why Oldest Uncle had to die? What would their answer be? 

 

***** 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Mengadang Pusaran – Bab 9

Widjati Hartiningtyas memiliki ketertarikan yang kuat pada bahasa. Bahasa asing pertama yang dikuasainya adalah bahasa Inggris. Kecintaannya pada buku dan bahasa membuatnya memilih jurusan bahasa di SMU dan jurusan Sastra Inggris di Universitas Negeri Semarang (UNNES).
Sesudah lulus dari UNNES pada tahun 2004 dengan gelar Sarjana Sastra, Tyas bekerja sebagai seorang guru. Selain bekerja sebagai seorang penerjemah lepas, dia mulai menulis cerita untuk anak. Beberapa karyanya yang telah terbit adalah buku kegiatan Siap masuk SD bersama Piko (PT Tiga Serangkai, 2018) dan seri Petualangan Seru Rori (PT Kanisius, 2017).
Widjati Hartiningtyas bisa dihubungi melalui alamat surel widjati@gmail.com

***

Untuk membaca kelanjutan cerita ini silakan membeli bukunya melalui

 

Bab 9  

 

Nanna menutupi kuncup-kuncup lembut bunga mawar dengan cangkang telur kosong untuk melindunginya dari serangga. Dia berharap semudah itulah cara melindungi keluarganya dari bahaya. Dalam hati kecilnya dia tahu bahwa para dewa dan leluhurnya tidak akan bisa melindungi mereka hingga perang berakhir. Nanna selalu berpikir bahwa perang adalah urusan lelaki. Namun, perang ini tidak hanya melibatkan Chip dan Ting. Perang ini juga telah melibatkan Jenny.  

Suara Chip, Ting, dan Mundi di dapur ditingkahi bunyi orang memalu dan memotong kayu. Chip telah memutuskan untuk bersembunyi di lemari dapur jika orang Jepang mencarinya. Anjing-anjing peliharaan mereka akan bertugas untuk melindunginya.  

Nanna tidak meminta penjelasan secara terperinci. Dia bisa merasakan ketegangan yang ada saat ini. Para perempuan menjadi gugup dan mudah jengkel, sementara para laki-laki menjadi lebih pendiam dari biasanya. Nanna banyak menghabiskan waktu duduk-duduk di beranda depan dan mengawasi jalanan. Ketika Jenny mendatanginya dan dengan manja menggelendotinya, Nanna hanya mengelus-elus tangan gadis itu tanpa mengatakan apa-apa. Hatinya dipenuhi kekhawatiran seorang ibu akan keselamatan anak dan cucunya.  

Suatu siang, hampir seminggu kemudian, sebuah jip Jepang berhenti di depan rumah Nanna. Empat serdadu Jepang turun dari mobil lalu menyusuri jalan masuk dengan senapan melintang di bahu. Nanna meraih lengan Jenny dan menariknya mendekat.  

Serdadu Jepang itu berhenti sesaat di jalan masuk sebelum sang sersan menapaki tangga beranda dengan langkah tegap. Dia membungkukkan badan di depan Nanna lalu menyunggingkan senyum lebar kepada Jenny. Sersan itu mengambil selembar surat dari saku kemejanya kemudian memberikannya kepada Nanna.  

Nanna menggelengkan kepala. “Saya tidak bisa membaca.”  

“Siapa lagi yang ada di rumah?” Sersan itu berbicara dengan bahasa Maleis berlogat asing.  

“Anak perempuan dan cucu perempuan saya.”  

*****

Untuk membaca cerita ini secara lengkap silakan membeli bukunya melalui https://toko.kanisiusmedia.co.id/product/mengadang-pusaran/

 

Nyale

Maria Matildis Banda menamatkan kuliah di Fakultas Pascasarjana UNUD Denpasar. Dosen Fakultas Ilmu Budaya UNUD dan penulis berbakat dan berhasil ini, mulai menulis cerpen pada tahun 1981. Mengajar dan meneliti tradisi lisan daerah-daerah di Nusa Tenggara Timur menjadikan kekuatan baginya untuk menulis novel berlatar daerah. Antara tahun 2015 dan 2021, dia menulis tiga novel yang diterbitkan sendiri di PT.Kanisius. Wijaya Kusuma dari Kamar Nomor Tiga, berlatar budaya patriaki dalam kaitannya dengan kesehatan perempuan melahirkan di Flores. Suara Samudra bercerita tentang penangkapan ikan paus di Lamalera, Pulau Lembata. Bulan Patah merupakan novel yang dimaksudkan menghentikan kelahiran luar nikah di Pulau Flores. Doben (Lamalera 2017) mengemukakan hal-hal tentang politik dan kepentingan berlatar daerah Timor.

Sejak tahun 2000, Maria menulis “Parodi Situasi” di Harian Umum Pos Kupang.

Maria Matildis Banda: bmariamatildis@gmail.com

 

Nyale
Cuplikan dari novel Pasola yang akan segera terbit

 

Malam gelap gulita. Ini malam ketujuh menurut perhitungan rato nyale, tetua adat, yang telah memperhitungkan perjalanan bulan gelap pada bulan Maret tahun 1934 itu untuk kedatangan cacing laut, di Pantai Ratenggaro. Sore hari, semua anggota keluarga membersihkan makam leluhur dan keluarga di depan Kampung Ratenggaro dan sekitarnya. Pada malam hari, perempuan dan laki-laki menari dan kawoking di pelataran.

Setelah Waleka mengikuti Limbu Koni dan Biri pulang ke rumah, masih ada banyak orang yang menari sampai jauh malam demi menunggu waktu kedatangan nyale. Pada jam empat pagi, hampir semua orang meninggalkan rumah menuju pantai yang masih gelap.

Waleka berjalan di depan diikuti Inya Peke. Di belakang Inya Peke, ada Limbu Koni yang menggandeng lengan Banu, anak Inya Peke. Mereka diikuti Biri, teman akrab Limbu Koni, kedua orang tua Waleka, serta anggota keluarga lainnya.

“Kenapa nyale datang waktu bulan gelap?” Banu bertanya. “Nyale takut bulan, takut matahari!” Limbu Koni yang menjawab. “Semoga nyale gemuk-gemuk dan ada semua warna,” katanya lagi.

“Nale atau nyale, Inya?” Banu bertanya lagi.

“Nale atau nyale sama saja, sama-sama cacing laut. Yang pasti, cacing laut yang datang hari ini banyak sekali,” sambung Biri.

Angin berembus perlahan membelai wajah-wajah yang diliputi harapan. Mereka berjalan beriringan menuju Pantai Ratenggaro yang jaraknya hanya selemparan batu dari uma parona.

“Engko cocok tinggal di sini. Dekat pantai. Sudah tiga hari di sini engko tidak pernah mengeluh sesak napas,” kata Limbu Koni yang dijawab Biri dengan lantunan memanggil nyale yang sudah didengarnya sejak sore kemarin.

“Laki-laki yang menarik tanganmu itu … Ndalo namanya? Tidak tahu malu!” Biri berbisik.

“Jangan pedulikan. Biarkan saja. Diam,” kata Limbu Koni.

“Kita pesta hari ini!” kata Inya Peke. “Pesta nyale dan pesta pasola. Waleka pasti gagah sekali hari ini.”

“Saya mau jadi to paholong seperti Bapa Waleka,” Banu berceloteh sambil menarik tangan ibunya.

“Bagus sekali. Bapa Waleka adalah to paholong yang duduk di atas pelana. Gagah perkasa seperti siapa?” tanya Limbu Koni.

“Banu!” jawab Banu sambil tertawa.

Dengan gembira mereka berjalan melalui binya bokolo, pintu gerbang utama di antara makam batu, memasuki jalan setapak menuju pantai. Debur ombak terdengar jelas menandakan bahwa pantai berada sangat dekat. Bulan tidak ada. Kerlap-kerlip bintang, harapan, dan kebutuhan adalah petunjuk jalan menuju pantai. Semuanya ingin menemukan nyale di Pantai Ratenggaro.

Waleka melantunkan kawoking,

Nyale ayam wo wo wu

Ibunda nyale bunda nyale bertelur banyak-banyak

Sebanyak-banyaknya seperti telur siput

Sebanyak-banyaknya seperti telur belalang

Potong-potong gumpalan telur yang banyak

Nyale ayam wo wo wu

Ibunda nyale bunda nyale

Banyak seperti telur siput … wo wo wu

Syair dilantunkan bergantian sejak berjalan dari kampung dengan harapan cacing laut datang dalam jumlah banyak seperti telur siput dan telur belalang. Semua orang masuk ke laut yang sudah surut. Dinginnya air laut di keremangan pagi menyengat kulit kaki yang telanjang. Telapak menyentuh pasir dan batu- batu kecil di dasar laut yang terasa licin. Sementara tangan meraba-raba menyentuh cacing yang licin dan geli. “Oh dapat, licin, banyak, geli, wo wo wu … wo wo wuuu,” ramai suara-suara dengan berbagai ucapan sambung-menyambung.

Bau Nyale adalah kebiasaan menangkap cacing nyale. Bau cacing-cacing laut yang ditangkap itu dapat dicium warga yang ada di pantai.

Waleka bergerak kian kemari menjemput nyale dengan penuh semangat. Dia menyentuh dan menggenggam erat cacing-cacing yang didapatnya dari balik batu-batu kecil.

Inya Peke mengikutinya sambil menadah dengan sebuah keranjang. Banu, Limbu Koni, dan Biri juga berada di sekitarnya. Biri selalu meloncat-loncat karena geli, tapi tetap berupaya untuk memasukkan tangannya ke dalam air, merogoh di balik batu untuk menangkap cacing yang bergerak-gerak dan licin.

Limbu Koni berada dekat Waleka. Dia menahan rasa geli saat cacing-cacing itu menyentuh kakinya berkali-kali. Dia menunduk sambil meraba-raba di balik batu. Demikian juga Waleka. Keduanya tertawa saat tangan mereka saling bertemu. Keduanya menangkap cacing-cacing itu di balik batu yang licin. Mereka bangga bukan main saat berhasil menambah jumlah nyale dalam wadah yang dibawa Banu dan Inya Peke.

“Bola nyale!” tiba-tiba Waleka berseru saat kedua tangannya menjemput sarang nyale. Gumpalan cacing itu membentuk bola besar, sedikit lebih besar dari bola kaki. Dia segera keluar dari air menuju tepi pantai diikuti Limbu Koni, Biri, Banu, Bapa, Inya, kakak, serta keluarganya yang lain.

“Tangkap lagi, Bapa,” Banu girang bukan main. Dia memohon agar boleh menangkap lagi karena di tangannya hanya ada beberapa ekor cacing yang kemudian dimasukkan ke dalam wadah kecil yang tergantung di lehernya.

“Cukup,” jawab Waleka, “ini sudah banyak sekali. Bagi-bagi dengan orang lain,” bisiknya di telinga ponakannya.

Kegiatan menangkap cacing laut itu berhenti ketika ujung sinar matahari mulai muncul di cekungan tanjung kecil di bawah tebing Kampung Ratenggaro. Semua orang kembali ke pantai dengan hasil tangkapannya masing-masing. Dengan gembira, mereka pulang ke kampung. Sarang nyale hanya berhasil didapatkan Waleka.

Meskipun Limbu Koni tidak berkata apa pun padanya, Waleka tahu gadis itu bangga dan mengaguminya.

“Itu tanda engko ada untuk Waleka,” Inya Peke menggoda Limbu Koni. “Jodoh. Lancar semuanya.”

“Pesta tidak lama lagi,” sambung Biri.

“Sama dengan engko. Wuri Wona sudah tidak sabar menunggu,” keduanya tertawa.

Sarang nyale diurai di sisi mata api, bagian tengah rumah panggung yang digunakan sebagai dapur. Bola dibagi tiga dan berada dalam genggaman Limbu Koni, Inya Peke, dan Biri. Selanjutnya diurai. Beberapa kali gumpalan terjatuh karena licin dan cacing yang diurai dari gumpalan bergerak dan merayap gelisah kekurangan air.

Banu yang selalu memungut dan meletakkannya kembali ke dalam wadah. Sungguh sangat banyak cacing gemuk dan berwarna-warni cerah dan menggiurkan.

“Merah, hijau, kuning, putih, hitam, wuiih ada semua warna,” kata Banu dengan gembira. Kedua orang tua Waleka, para perempuan dan laki-laki serta segenap anggota keluarga, gembira. “Gemuk-gemuk! Warnanya terang. Tanda apa Inya?” tanya Banu.

“Tanda subur, panen limpah, hidup jadi lebih baik,” jawab Limbu Koni yang disambut dengan syukur oleh Biri dan Inya Peke. Aneka masakan dari bahan nyale mulai diolah. Limbu Koni dan Biri membantu Inya Peke dan keluarga besar Waleka dengan cekatan.

“Nyale palowor,” kata Inya Peke kepada Limbu Koni.

“Ya Inya,” jawab Limbu Koni sambil tertawa. Bersama Inya Peke dan Biri dia memasak nyale palowor. Masakan dengan bahan utama cacing nyale dan santan kental. Baunya harum dan rasanya lezat setelah dilengkapi dengan berbagai bumbu.

“Kita buat bodho juga kah, Inya?” tanya Biri.

“Ya, dendeng nyale itu disimpan di sini,” jawab ibu Waleka sambil menyerahkan sebuah periuk tanah. “Cukup untuk beberapa bulan ke depan! Wah, banyak sekali!” katanya dengan bangga.

Mereka juga membuat sambal dengan bahan dasar lombok hijau dan cacing yang gemuk-gemuk dan terang warnanya.

Limbu Koni dan Biri terlibat secara langsung dalam segenap kegiatan dapur.

Waleka bangga karenanya. Dia terutama bangga pada Limbu Koni.
Keduanya hanya berani curi-curi pandang dan segera menghindar setelah ketahuan satu sama lain. Akan tetapi, Waleka tahu bahwa nanti di lapangan pasola segalanya akan menjadi lebih indah, memesona.

Sarapan pagi dihidangkan sebelum berangkat ke lapangan pasola. Ayah Waleka bicara sebelum makan. Di hadapan sanak saudara yang datang dari jauh, lelaki tua itu menggarisbawahi beberapa hal. Bapa Tua menyampaikan hal itu dalam bahasa setempat.

“Waleka sudah tangkap sarang nyale pada Bau Nyale di pantai. Jaga itu rezeki untuk sepanjang hidup. Sarang nyale yang besar kumpulan nyale berwarna-warni, gemuk, dan bercahaya. Itu khusus, sangat khusus! Tidak semua pencari nyale mendapatnya. Ini tanda untuk rezeki seumur hidup. Hanya engko saja yang dapat sarang nyale. Itu sungguh luar biasa. Engko diberi banyak. Jaga itu. Kalau engko lupa bahwa engko sudah diberi begitu banyak dalam sarang nyale, apa pun akan diambil kembali dari engko.”

“Ya, Bapa,” jawab Waleka dengan yakin.

“Hidup harus setia dan jujur. Bersyukurlah pada apa yang engko punya. Jangan ambil lebih. Apa pun tantangannya, jangan pernah ambil lebih. Apalagi kalo engko ambil yang bukan engko punya,” kata bapanya lagi. Diikuti dengan berbagai pesan untuk anak cucu turun-temurun. Bapa Tua melengkapi pesan yang disampaikan pada acara duduk bersama di rumah panggung mereka.

“Engko akan jadi to paholong terbaik sepanjang hidup,” kata Bapa Tua lagi dan Waleka mendengar nasihat ayahnya dengan saksama.

“Ya Bapa!”

“Setia dan jujur itu kuncinya,” Bapa Tua tegas. “Tidak hanya pada gaya lompat dan kemampuanmu melayang bersama kudamu, Lenggu Lamura, pada titik lembing dilempar,” Bapa Tua berhenti sejenak sebelum bicara lebih lanjut, “tapi juga setia dan jujur pada kuda yang terbang bersama engko. Di lapangan pasola, engko dan Lamura adalah satu,” Bapa Tua menatap Waleka dengan tajam sambil menggarisbawahi, “Lamura dan engko adalah satu. Ingat itu.”

“Ya Bapa!” Waleka menyetujui dengan sepenuh hati.

“Tidak hanya pada kemenangan dan kepuasan mengenai dan menjatuhkan sasaran, tetapi juga pada kerendahan hatimu merangkul dan menolong kembali lawan yang engko kalahkan.” Bapa Tua berbicara kata demi kata dan diperhatikan dengan saksama oleh semua yang hadir, termasuk Limbu Koni.

Calon istri Waleka itu memperhatikan wajah calon mertuanya. Sorot matanya teduh, alis matanya tebal. Tulang pipinya menonjol dan rahangnya tampak kukuh. Wajah Waleka mirip sekali dengan ayahnya.

“Engko harus yakin bahwa setiap tetes keringat dan setiap tetes darah yang jatuh di lapangan itu jatuh dengan jujur dan setia dan tidak akan jadi kering di sana. Tidak hanya untuk panen hasil kebun, tetapi lebih dari itu, demi kehidupan yang sesungguhnya. Setia dan jujur itu kuncinya!”

Limbu Koni terpana oleh kata-kata Bapa Tua. Dia benar-benar seorang kabani pa ate — julukan yang diberikan kepada laki-laki yang pandai dan cerdas.

Pengalaman hidup dan perantauannya membawa ternak sampai ke Flores, Timor, Alor, bahkan sampai di Maluku dan Sulawesi pada masa muda dulu, membuat Bapa Tua itu matang pada hari tua, di hadapan anak-anak, cucu, dan keluarga besarnya. Apalagi di hadapan Waleka, satu-satunya anak laki-laki dalam keluarga.

“Bapa Tua itu kabani pa ate yang luar biasa,” bisik Biri.

“Ya,” jawab Limbu Koni. “Semoga Waleka bisa menjaga kata-kata Bapa Tua sepanjang hidupnya,” kata Biri. “Semoga.”

“Ya,” jawab Limbu Koni. Dirinya merasa kata-kata itu tidak hanya ditujukan bagi Waleka sebagai to paholong, tetapi juga bagi dirinya yang sudah diterima sebagai bagian dari uma parona keluarga besar Waleka.

Waleka pun merasakan hal sama. Dia tahu, sebagai laki-laki Ratenggaro, dia harus menjadi laki-laki yang setia dan jujur. Tergetar hatinya ketika menyadari Bapa Tua sedang menatapnya lekat-lekat.

“Kalau engko jujur dan setia, engko pasti bisa jaga harga diri keluarga, uma parona, Ratenggaro, kabisu, suku, dan tentu saja harga dirimu sendiri,” Bapa Tua tersenyum setelah selesai bicara. Sorot matanya memberi sinar dan harapan bagi Waleka.

Diam tetapi pasti, Koni juga mencatat setiap kata Bapa Tua ke dalam pikiran dan hatinya. Dia angkat wajahnya sejenak memperhatikan wajah laki-laki tua itu lagi. Koni terkenang Bapa Bili, guru di Weetebula, yang selalu bicara dengan tenang setiap kali memberi nasihat. Saat Koni berpindah tatapannya ke wajah Mama Tua, ibu Waleka melempar senyum yang ikhlas.

*****

Nyale

Yuni Utami Asih adalah seorang pengajar di Program Studi Pendidikan Bahasa Inggris FKIP Universitas Mulawarman sejak tahun 2005 yang juga merupakan tempatnya menuntut ilmu pada tingkat sarjana. Masa kecilnya akrab dengan buku cerita anak yang biasa dipinjamkan bapaknya dari perpustakaan keliling. Pada masa SMA dia jatuh cinta dengan novel terjemahan Erma dalam Bahasa Indonesia dari The Count of Monte Cristo (Dunia Pustaka Jaya, 1992). Dia melanjutkan pendidikan jenjang magister dan doktor di Pascasarjana Universitas Negeri Surabaya. Pada tahun 2011 dia berkesempatan untuk melakukan kunjungan ke Universitas Leiden selama 2 bulan untuk pendalaman tugas akhir program doktor dengan biaya dari Kementerian Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan. Selain mengajar, dia juga beberapa kali menjadi narasumber dalam pelatihan tentang pembelajaran Bahasa Inggris.

Yuni Utami Asih: kelasyuni@gmail.com

 

Nyale
An excerpt from Pasola, an upcoming novel

 

The night was pitch dark. An elder who had calculated the moon journey declared that the nyale, sea worms, were to appear at the Ratenggaro Beach on the seventh night of March 1934. Earlier that afternoon, every family in the Ratenggaro village on Sumba Island, cleaned the ancestral graves and their surroundings. Through the evening, women and men danced and chanted on the village square while waiting for the arrival of the nyale.

After Waleka followed Limbu Koni and Biri home, many people continued to party. Around four in the morning, most of the villagers headed to the dark beach. Bau Nyale was the traditional annual ritual of catching sea worms.

On their way to the beach, Waleka was followed by his sister, Inya Peke. Limbu Koni held Banu, Inya Peke’s son, by the arm as they walked behind them. They were followed by Limbu Koni’s best friend Biri, Waleka’s parents, and other family members.

“Why do nyale come when the moon is dark?” asked Banu.

“The nyale are afraid of the moon and sun!” Limbu Koni replied. “Hopefully there will be a lot of fat, colorful nyale.”

“Nale or nyale, Inya?” Banu asked.

“Nale and nyale mean the same,” Biri replied. “The word refers to a sea worm. I believe that there will be an abundance of sea worms this time.”

The wind gently caressed their hopeful faces as they walked to the Ratenggaro Beach, close to their uma parona, family home. “You should be living here, near a beach,” said Limbu Koni to Biri. “During the three days you’ve been here visiting, you’ve not complained of being short of breath.”

Biri replied by chanting the mantra call for the nyale, then whispered, “The man who pulled your hand — is his name Ndalo? Such a shameless man!”

“Don’t worry about him,” Limbu Koni replied. “Just leave it alone.”

“We’re going to have a party today!” shouted Inya Peke. “We’ll celebrate the nyale catch and the sacred Sumbanese pasola. Waleka will be dashingly handsome at the annual equestrian spear-fighting competition!

“I want to be a to paholong like Bapa Waleka,” Banu said, pulling his mother’s hand.

“That’s good!” Inya Peke replied. “You can be like your Uncle Waleka, a spear fighter who sits high in his saddle. He’s as handsome as …”

“Banu!” Banu replied laughing.

They walked happily through the binya bakolo, the main gate between gravestones, and entered the footpath to the beach. The sound of rolling waves indicated that they were almost there. Starlight, hope, and need led the eager villagers to the Ratenggaro Beach in search of nyale.

Waleka chanted a kawoking, the mantra to call the nyale.

Nyale ayam wo wo wu

The mother of nyale, Mother Nyale

Spawn abundantly

Lay as many eggs as a snail

As many as a grasshopper

Cut up the many egg clusters

Nyale ayam wo wo wu, chicken nyale wo wo wu

The mother of nyale, Mother Nyale

Lay as many eggs as a snail.

The people took turns chanting the mantra as they walked. They hoped the sea worms had been as prolific as grasshoppers and snails. Everyone waded into the receding sea. The chilly water stung their bare legs. Their feet moved across the slippery pebbles while they groped for sea worms. Voices called out in turns: “I caught some!” “They are slippery!” “Wow! There are a lot!” “It tickles!” “Wo wo wu, wo wo wuuu!”

The smell of the sea worm catch filled the air.

Waleka jumped around. Fingering rocks and bed gravel for the sea worms, he held on tightly to the worms he caught.

Inya Peke and Banu followed him, carrying baskets. Limbu Koni, and Biri were nearby. Biri, experiencing her first Bau Nyale, kept dipping her hands in the water, trying to catch the evasive, slippery worms.

Limbu Koni steeled herself when the worms touched her feet. She looked down while fingering a rock. So did Waleka. Both laughed when their hands touched as they caught the worms around the rocks. They proudly added their catch to the growing number of nyale in the baskets Banu and Inya Peke carried.

“A nyale ball!” Waleka shouted as he yanked up a nyale nest. The clump of worms formed a large squirming ball, slightly larger than a soccer ball. He immediately returned to the beach with everyone on his heels.

“Let’s find some more!” Banu shouted excitedly. He wanted to catch more worms because he only had a few in the small basket hanging from his neck.

“We have enough,” Waleka whispered to his nephew. “This is already a lot. We must share with other people.”

The Bau Nyale came to an end as the sun reached the hollow of the small headland below the cliffs of Ratenggaro. Everyone left the shore with their catch and walked cheerfully to the village. Waleka was the only one who had caught a nyale nest.

Though Limbu Koni had not said anything to him, Waleka knew she was proud of him and admired him.

“That is the sign that you are here for Waleka,” Inya Peke teased Limbu Koni. “You are meant for each other. Everything is going smoothly.”

“We will soon have a celebration!” Biri added.

“Just like you. Your fiancé, Wuri Wona, can’t wait.” Limbu Koni and Biri burst out laughing.

Back in the village, the nyale nest was unraveled beside the wood stove, in the center of the stilt house used as a kitchen. The ball was divided into thirds. Limbu Koni, Inya Peke and Biri each took a third. The slippery masses fell several times. The worms, loosened from the ball, writhed and crawled, searching for sea water. Banu always picked them up and put them back into the basket. There were so many fat, bright, colorful, and tantalizing worms!

“Red, green, yellow, white, black — wow, we have every color!” Banu shouted happily. Waleka’s parents and all the other villagers were happy too. “The worms are fat!” Banu shouted again. “They are bright! What does it mean, Mother?”

“It’s a sign of fertile land, abundant harvests, and a better life,” Inya Peke replied. Biri and Limbu Koni agreed, as they skillfully helped Inya Peke and Waleka’s extended family prepare a variety of nyale dishes.

Together with Inya Peke and Biri, Limbu Koni started to prepare nyale palowor, a stew of nyale and thick coconut milk, complemented with various spices. It smelled fragrant and tasted delicious.

They also made a peppery sauce with green chilies and fat, bright, colorful worms. “Are we going to make bodho, too, Inya?” Biri asked.

“Yes, store the nyale jerky here,” Waleka’s mother answered, handing over an earthen pot.

“Wow, we have plenty!” she exclaimed proudly. “This will be enough for several months!”

Waleka was pleased to see Limbu Koni and Biri help with all the kitchen activities. He was especially taken with Limbu Koni. Waleka and Limbu Koni stole furtive glances at each other and immediately looked away after being caught by the other. But Waleka knew that later, on the pasola field, everything would change. Everything would become more beautiful, more intimate.

Finally, breakfast was served. Before everyone started to eat, Waleka’s father, Bapa Tua, gave a speech in the Sumbanese dialect.

In front of the villagers and relatives who had come from afar, the old man underlined several things to the gathering in their stilt house.

“Waleka, you caught a nyale nest during the Bau Nyale on the beach,” he said. “Take care of that fortune throughout life. To find a big nyale nest with colorful, fat, and luminous worms is special, very special indeed! Not all nyale seekers find one. This is a sign of a lifetime fortune. You’re the only one who caught a nyale nest. That is incredible. You’ve been given a lot. Take good care of the gift. If you ever fail to appreciate how much you’ve been given in the form of a nyale nest, you will lose everything.”

“Yes, Father,” Waleka answered confidently.

“Live a life that’s faithful and honest,” his father continued. “Be grateful for everything you have. Don’t take more than you need. Whatever the challenge might be, never take more — let alone things that don’t belong to you.” Bapa Tua continued his speech with life’s wisdoms that had been passed down for generations.

“You will be the best to paholong throughout your life,” Bapa Tua said, and Waleka listened carefully to his father. “Faithfulness and honesty are the keys,” Bapa Tua emphasized. “Not only in the jumping style and your ability to merge with your horse, Lenggu Lamura, when the javelin is thrown, but you also need to be faithful and honest to the horse you are riding. On the pasola field, you and Lamura are one.” Bapa Tua threw Waleka a sharp look before repeating, “You and Lamura are one. Remember that.”

“Yes, Bapa!” Waleka agreed wholeheartedly.

“Keep faithfulness and honesty not only in the victory and satisfaction of defeating an opponent, but also in your humanity in embracing and helping your defeated opponent.” Bapa Tua spoke each word carefully. Everyone present listened attentively, including Limbu Koni.

Waleka’s bride-to-be studied the face of her future father-in-law: calm eyes beneath thick eyebrows, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. Waleka looked very much like his father.

“You must believe that every drop of sweat and every drop of blood that falls on the field falls honestly and faithfully and will not dry up there. Not just for the harvest, but more than that, for real life. Loyalty and honesty are the keys!”

Limbu Koni was moved by Bapa Tua’s words. He was a true kabani pa ate, a very clever and wise man. In his youth, Bapa Tua had traveled to Flores, Timor, Alor, even as far as Maluku dan Sulawesi to trade livestock. His children, grandchildren, and extended family believed that Bapa Tua’s experience made him wise in his old age. Especially for Waleka, the only son in the family.

“Bapa Tua is an extraordinary kabani pa ate,” Biri whispered to Limbu Koni. “Hopefully, Waleka can live up to Bapa Tua’s words for as long as he lives. Hopefully.”

“Yes,” Limbu Koni replied. She felt that Bapa Tua’s words were not only directed at Waleka as a to paholong, but also at her for being accepted as a part of Waleka’s extended family.

Waleka felt the same. He realized, as a Ratenggaro man, that he must be a faithful and honest man. His heart fluttered when he saw Bapa Tua looking at him intently.

“If you are faithful and honest, you will be able to take care of family pride, uma parona, Ratenggaro, kabisu, tribe, and yourself for sure.” Bapa Tua smiled. The look in his eyes gave Waleka light and hope.

Silently, Limbu Koni recorded all Bapa Tua’s words in her mind and heart. She lifted her head for a moment to watch the old man’s face again. Then Limbu Koni shifted her gaze to Mama Tua. Waleka’s mother threw her a warm smile.

“Do you understand, Waleka?” Bapa Tua asked.

“Yes, Bapa.” Waleka answered confidently.

*****

 

 

 

 

 

.

Yun Labu dan Sayak-betingkat

Cerpen-cerpen Benny Arnas tersebar luas di kalangan surat kabar antara lain di Kompas, Koran Tempo, dan majalah Horison. Dia meraih sejumlah penghargaan, di antaranya Juara I Lomba Menulis Novel tentang Kanjeng Nabi Muhammad saw. tahun 2021 lewat karyanya Kayu Lapuk Membuat Kapal (Diva Press, 2021) dan Pemenang Unggulan Sayembara Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta tahun 2016 lewat karyanya Curriculum Vitae (Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2017).
Sejak 2009, Benny berkhidmat di Benny Institute, perkumpulan kebudayaan di kampung halamannya, dengan menyelenggarakan kelas menulis, kelas seni peran, kelas bahasa Inggris, kelas aksara ulu, pekan sastra, ajang penghargaan film, perserikatan buku, dll.

Benny Arnas Instagram: bennyarnas

 

 

Yun Labu dan Sayak-betingkat

 

Di bantaran anak Sungai Musi yang rindang, konon di kawasan yang sekarang dikenal sebagai Musi Rawas Raya, terdapat dua kerajaan. Pagarbesi, kerajaan dengan bala tentara dan abdi yang banyak di bagian selatan dan Batangpuan, yang jauh lebih kecil, di utaranya. Para perempuan, dari dua kerajaan yang suaminya pulang tiga bulan sekali sebab bertugas di Kerajaan Pagarbesi, berkeyakinan bahwa wujud cinta yang berbalas adalah bila sayak-betingkat, wadah makanan dari batok kelapa yang ditumpuk, kembali dalam keadaan kosong. Tidak terkecuali bagi Yun Labu. Putri Kerajaan Batangpuan itu melepas kebangsawanannya setelah dikawini Napalong, pengembara tampan yang berasal dari Kerajaan Pagarbesi.

Pertautan itu tidak mendapat restu Ginde Ulak dan Putri Mayang, orangtuanya yang tidak lain adalah pemuncak Kerajaan Batangpuan. Selain harkat yang tidak sejenjang, cara Napalong mengawini Yun Labu juga membuat mereka merasa diremehkan.

Napalong menculik Yun Labu ⸺ meskipun Yun Labu mengatakan kalau dialah yang minta diculik ⸺ dan membawanya ke kepala puak di kampungnya untuk dikawinkan. Hampir saja, Napalong dibunuh oleh para prajurit Kerajaan Batangpuan, bila Yun Labu tidak mengancam akan terjun ke jurang berbatu di perbatasan Kerajaan Batangpuan.

“Aku tak sudi pengembara itu menjadi bagian dari kerajaan ini,” desis Ginde Ulak dengan gigi bergemeretakan.

“Pun aku.” Putri Mayang tidak mau kalah. “Kabar terakhir yang kudengar, Napalong akan mengajar kuntau di Kerajaan Pagarbesi,” nada suaranya getir.

Ginde Ulak mengangguk-angguk. Bara di matanya belum padam. “Apakah Napalong benar-benar menguasai ilmu bela diri itu hingga dia dijadikan pelatih?”

Putri Mayang tersenyum miring. “Bila Napalong menjadi abdi, Yun Labu akan jarang berjumpa dengannya.”

“Di mana Yun Labu tinggal sekarang?” Ginde Ulak mengerenyitkan dahi. “Kau sudah memerintahkan prajurit membuatkannya pesanggrahan?”

“Napalong sudah membuatkannya pondok,” Putri Mayang mengibaskan ujung selendang yang melingkari pinggangnya.

“Hanya pondok?” Gindek Ulak melotot.

“Lupakah Yun Labu sejak remaja gemar sekali mempermalukan keluarga dengan menjadi Umak Panggung di hajatan rakyat? Dia pasti tidak menggerutu.”

“Ini karena kau terlalu membebaskannya dalam bergaul!”

“Kupikir putri kita benar-benar belajar membuat syair dari Napalong,” jawab Putri Mayang dengan penuh rasa bersalah. “Bukankah bangsawan yang cakap bersyair akan dipandang lebih terhormat dari yang lain?”

“Apa tidak sampai di telingamu kalau pemuda itu justru tak bisa menulis dan membaca huruf Ulu?”

Putri Mayang menatap tajam suaminya. Bagaimana mungkin seseorang disebut pujangga tanpa kecakapan menulis aksara udik. “Tentu saja aku tahu, Kak, tapi orang-orang tua dan peramal justru mengatakan itulah yang membedakan Napalong dengan penyair lain. Belum tersebut sepak terjangnya yang kerap menumpas para pembuat onar!”

“Lalu mengapa kau membiarkan saja Yun Labu bergaul dengan Nenek Bengkuang, bekas juru masak Kerajaan Pagarbesi?” gerutu Ginde Ulak.

“Keinginan Yun Labu untuk berurusan dengan kuali, periuk, tungku, dan rempah, tidak kuasa dicegah siapa pun. Kakak pasti tahu itu. Lagi pula, aku tidak pernah menyangka kalau Yun Labu diam-diam masih mengunjungi Nenek Bengkuang dan memaksa perempuan tua itu mengajarinya memasak,” Putri Mayang membela diri. “Dari dulu Yun Labu memang tidak peduli dengan gelar putri rajanya!” gerutu perempuan paruh baya itu seraya mendengus. “Oh ya, pondok tempat tinggalnya di selatan.”

“Maksudmu kampung yang belum kita namai itu?” sambar Ginde Ulak.

Putri Mayang mengangguk. “Batangpuan dan Pagarbesi ‘kan belum bersepakat siapa yang memiliki hutan di dekat perbatasan itu? Kakak lupakah?”

Ginde Ulak terdiam.

“Oh ya, kabarnya Wak Juai sudah sakit-sakitan.” Putri Mayang tersenyum licik.

“Kenapa kau malah membicarakan abdi Pagarbesi itu?” sahut Ginde Ulak, jengkel. “Lebih baik kausiapkan penyambutan putra kita yang akan tiba dari Tiongkok beberapa hari lagi. Apa kau tidak penasaran melihat Tanjung Samin setelah sepuluh tahun berpisah?”

***

Kehadiran Napalong membuat Yun Labu tidak lagi menjadikan Nenek Bengkuang sebagai satu-satunya pencecap masakannya sebelum disajikan. Walaupun Napalong tidak pandai memasak, tetap penting bagi Yun Labu untuk memastikan kalau apa-apa yang diraciknya akan disukai pemuda yang paling dia cintai itu.

Napalong dan Nenek Bengkuang tidak pernah berselisih paham tentang rasa masakan yang dihidangkan. Bila sambal terlalu pedas Nenek Bengkuang akan mengatakan kalau itu disebabkan beberapa potong nanas yang baru dia makan. Bila sayur bening terasa hambar, Napalong akan mengatakan dia terlalu banyak menambahkan gula batu pada tehnya hari itu.

Setelah sepekan menghabiskan bulan madu di pondok, Napalong meminta kesediaan Nenek Bengkuang untuk tinggal bersama istrinya. “Nenek dan istriku sudah sangat dekat, tinggal berdua akan membuat saling menjaga.” rayu Napalong.

Jarak antara tempat tinggal Yun Labu dan Kerajaan Pagarbesi tidaklah terlalu jauh, apalagi ditempuh dengan berkuda. Namun, Yun Labu dan Napalong paham benar bagaimana peraturan kerajaan bagi abdi baru. Pada tahun pertama pengabdian, mereka hanya disilakan pulang menemui keluarga sekali dalam tiga bulan. Dan adalah tabiat para istri untuk mengirimi suami mereka makan siang melalui kangantat. Petugas pengantaran barang kerajaan itu akan datang pada waktu Duha dengan kereta yang ditarik dua kuda.

“Berjanjilah,” kata Napalong kala temaram senja. Sedepa dari pondok mereka, di bawah kerimbunan pohon enau, dia masih bisa menangkap binar kedua mata istrinya. “Sebagai tanda kesetiaan, Adik hanya akan memasak masakan-masakan yang pernah kumakan saja.”

Yun Labu tertawa kecil sebelum kemudian membalas, “Tapi Kakak belum pernah kumasakkan gulai tempoyak ikan baung, sambal pie, nawan nangu kuah santan, atau gulai ampai dengan cendawan lebek, yang rasanya pasti bikin ketagihan.”

Napalong tersenyum lebar. “Yang sudah pernah kau masak, lebih dari cukup, Dik.”

Melambung nian perasaan Yun Labu.

“Tapi …,” Napalong menatap Yun Labu, “Benarkah kau akan setia, Dik?”

“Lha?” Yun Labu mengangkat alisnya. “Kenapa sekarang malah engkau yang meragukanku, Kak? Tergantung perasaanmu padaku, Kak.” Meskipun berusaha tegar, Yun Labu gagal menyembunyikan kegalauannya. “Aku akan jadi seperti apa yang kaupikirkan,” tangisnya pecah.

Napalong menyeka air mata istrinya. “Biar adil,” dia merangkulnya, erat. “Adik pun harus memberikan syarat kesetiaan kepada Kakak.”

Yun Labu terdiam sebelum merenggangkan pelukan dan menatap wajah Napalong dengan penuh kelembutan. “Bila sayak-betingkat-ku kembali dalam keadaan kosong, artinya kau masih menyambut kerinduanku. Tapi bila ada makanan tersisa, berarti Kakaklah sudah tak setia.”

Napalong mengangguk.

***

Dua bulanan kemudian, Kerajaan Pagarbesi berduka. Wak Juai, kangantat sepuh, yang telah mengabdi kepada Pagarbesi sejak masih remaja, berpulang.

Sore harinya, seorang pemuda yang mengaku bernama Rimau menghadap raja di pelataran singgasananya. Dia menyatakan kesanggupannya untuk menggantikan Wak Juai. Untuk meyakinkan pihak kerajaan, dia memamerkan kemampuannya meringankan tubuh sehingga bisa mendatangi tempat yang jauh dalam waktu singkat dengan menunggangi pelepah kelapa.

Raja, permaisuri, dan segenap petinggi Kerajaan Pagarbesi pun takjub dengan kebulatan tekad pemuda yang bersimpuh di hadapan mereka itu. “Baiklah,” Raja merengangkan sandaran bahunya dari singgasana, “Tutupi wajahmu dengan kain kecuali sepasang matamu ketika menjalankan tugas!” Walaupun tidak diungkapkan, Raja Pagarbesi menyimpan kekhawatiran. Ketampanan wajah Rimau mungkin saja menggoda perempuan-perempuan muda yang dengan setia menyiapkan sayak-betingkat untuk suami mereka.

Rimau menyanggupinya.

***

Meskipun sudah memasuki pekan kedua dari bulan ketiga tugasnya di Kerajaan Pagarbesi, Napalong masih tidak bisa mengajar para prajurit dengan pikiran yang jernih. Sama seperti hari dan pekan sebelumnya, dia tidak sabar menunggu matahari tepat berada di atas kepala, waktu kangantat datang dengan sayak-betingkat kiriman Yun Labu. Ketika pengganti Wak Juai datang, Napalong bertanya tentang keadaan istrinya.

Rimau membungkuk sambil berkata, “Maaf, Kisanak, selain hamba adalah kangantat baru, hamba pun tidak akan mencari tahu tentang para pengirim dan penerima sayak-betingkat.”

Siang itu, Napolong terkejut menemukan makanan yang lain dari yang diharapkan. Sayak-betingkat yang dia terima berisi nasi dan segenggam ikan seluang goreng di sayak paling bawah, gulai tempoyak ikan baung di atasnya, sambal cong di tingkat berikutnya, dan beberapa pucuk kemangi dan terong ungu di sayak paling atas — masakan yang belum pernah Yun Labu sajikan untuknya dalam masa bulan madu mereka. Meskipun begitu, dia memaksakan diri untuk menghabiskan isi sayak-betingkat itu. Dia tidak ingin kehilangan Yun Labu.

***

Hingga hari kesebelas dari bulan ketiga, setelah kepergian Napalong, Yun Labu tidak bisa lagi menyembunyikan kebahagiaannya karena sayak-betingkat yang dia kirimkan selalu kembali dalam keadaan kosong. Dengan penuh debar, perempuan itu pun menuliskan sajak kerinduannya. Wahai Kakak Sayang, sayang seorang …, Yun Labu menyenyumi larik pertama yang dia tulis, lalu menerawang.

Yun Labu tersenyum menulis larik-larik kerinduan seolah-olah dia sendiri tidak mampu menghentikan tangannya menggoreskan dawat. Diam-diam dia telah menghabiskan dua gulungan daun nipah.

Di hari kedua belas, Yun Labu membuka sayak-betingkat dengan tidak sabaran. Benar saja, yang paling dia tunggu pun ada di sana.

          Ai Adik nun di sana.

Yun Labu memejamkan mata seraya menempelkan daun nipah itu ke dadanya. Ah, Kakak, siapakah kiranya prajurit yang kaumintakan bantuan untuk menuliskan kata-kata indah yang kaututurkan? Yun Labu tersenyum sebelum melanjutkan membaca.

           Tentulah kehormatan tak tepermanai bagi hamba

          yang telah disilakan menikmati hidangan ketulusan

Yun Labu menerawang dengan mata berbinar. Membayangkan sang suami menyebut diri sendiri sebagai hamba dan makan siang kirimannya sebagai hidangan ketulusan membuat perasaan Yun Labu melayang di antara awan-gemawan ketersanjungan.

Yun Labu menyimpan surat itu diam-diam. Dia tidak ingin membagi rasa bahagia itu, kepada Nenek Bengkuang sekalipun. Yang membuatnya makin terharu adalah bahwa laki-laki berjiwa ksatria seperti suaminya telah bersusah payah menurunkan kejemawaannya di hadapan seseorang yang dia mintai bantuan untuk menuliskan syair untuknya.

Yun Labu memegang surat itu erat-erat. Menggulungnya lamat-lamat. Menciumnya dengan penuh penghayatan, seakan-akan bau badan suaminya melekat di daun nipah itu. Belum pernah dia sebahagia ini. Yun Labu pun mengingat-ingat. Kurang dari tiga pekan lagi suaminya akan kembali. Dia membalas:

          Aku tahu Kakak masih bersetia di sana.

          Habiskanlah sajianku. Tunaikanlah amanahmu.

          Adik tunggu dengan hati yang luluh.

Hari keempat belas.

           Di manakah kiranya kau berada, Dik?

          Jangan bermain-main. Cinta telah membuat Kakak buta.

          Pada tempat. Juga tanda-tanda.

Yun Labu tahu apa yang harus dia tulis.

           Tak usah tergesa-gesa, Kak.

          Orang-orang sabar senantiasa diganjar keajaiban.

Hari kelima belas.

           Jangan memanjangkan tali kelambu, Dik.

          Akan Kakak jelang dikau. Ke nirwana. Pun lembah kegelapan.

Kebahagiaan Yun Labu alangkah ruahnya:

          Adik tidak ke mana-mana, Kak.

          Masih setia merindu — di hatimu yang tiba-tiba biru.

Sebagaimana biasa, Yun Labu pun menggulung daun nipah itu lalu menyelipkannya di antara lalapan bunga kunyit di sayak teratas.

Hari keenam belas.

Petang itu, selain mengantar sayak-betingkat yang kosong ke pondok Yun Labu, Rimau juga menyampaikan sebuah amanah. “Maaf Puan, besok aku takkan menjemput sayak-betingkat sebab suamimu ingin makan siang di pondok kalian.”

“Maksudmu apa, wahai Kangantat? Bukankah dia harus tinggal dua pekan lagi di Kerajaan Pagarbesi? Aku minta tolong kepadamu untuk mengingatkannya tentang ini kepadanya.”
Rimau bergeming. Sesungguhnya, sejak kali pertama menggantikan Wak Juai aku menantikan pertemuan kalian besok. Dia kembali ke kereta kudanya dan hilang di balik pepohonan.

“Bila memang benar apa yang dikatakan kangantat itu, kau tak perlu khawatir, Yun,” Nenek Bengkuang yang sedari tadi menyapu di belakang pondok menghampiri dan mencoba menenangkan. “Bisa saja kangantat itu tak tega melihat Napalong yang selalu memikirkanmu.”

“Tapi, Nek,” Yun Labu mencoba menyanggah, “Bukankah setelah kami kawin, Kakak sudah berjanji untuk berhenti mengembara? Tidak mudah menjadi abdi kerajaan. Kenapa Kakak justru hendak menyia-nyiakan kesempatan ini. Dua pekan itu tidak lama bila dia mau bersabar dan benar-benar memikirkan kehidupan kami.”

Nenek Bengkuang mengelus rambut Yun Labu. “Kudengar kangantat itu bukan orang sembarangan. Dia bisa menjangkau suatu tempat dengan perantara daun atau ranting atau pelepah. Siapa tahu dengan kesaktian yang dimilikinya dia akan mengantar Napalong untuk makan siang lalu mengantarnya ke kerajaan sesudahnya. Atau ….”

“Oh, benarkah itu, Nek?” potong Yun Labu. Lalu mengiba, seolah-olah langit mampu mendengar keresahannya, “Semoga dia juga tak lupa mengingatkan suamiku untuk bersabar.”

***

Sejak pagi Yun Labu memasak semua masakan yang pernah dia buat untuk Napalong. Seolah tahu diri, Nenek Bengkuang pun sigap membersihkan rumah dan menebas rumpun ilalang dan semak sikaduduk di sekitar pondok. Jelang matahari menudungi bumi dengan sempurna, Yun Labu telah mengangkat nasi dari periuk dan membubuhkannya ke dalam bakul daun pandan. Di atas meja kayu setinggi dua jengkal, nasi, lauk, sayur, sambal, dan ayam kampung panggang telah tersaji.

“Yun, perkiraan kita benar!” teriak Nenek Bengkuang dari luar. Suaranya bergetar.

“Kangantat itu benar-benar mengantar Kakak?” sahut Yun Labu juga dengan berteriak. Dia masih sibuk menata-nata meja makan.

“Kangantat itu terbang di atas pelepah nira!” mata Nenek Bengkuang membelalak, tangan kanannya menunjuk-nunjuk langit.

“Bersama Kak Napalong, ‘kan?” Yun Labu merapikan rambutnya. Wajahnya semringah.

“Bersama laki-laki tak dikenal,” Nenek Bengkuang buru-buru menuju Yun Labu, menyeret lengannya ke muka pintu.

Di luar, Yun Labu termangu sejenak sebelum berteriak, “Siapa yang kau bawa ini, Kangantat?” Dia menunjuk laki-laki yang menyunggingkan senyum. Ditaksirnya lelaki itu berusia sepuluh tahun lebih tua dari Napalong.

“Bukankah dia suamimu?” Rimau balik bertanya.

“Kau jangan membuat api di sini, Tuan!” Nenek Bengkuang angkat bicara. “Dia cucuku yang setia.”

“Tapi, bukankah dialah laki-laki yang selalu cucumu kirimi sayak-betingkat itu?” Lagi, Rimau balik bertanya.

“Apakah mendiang Wak Juai tidak mewasiatkan senarai penerima sayak-betingkat untuk penerusnya?” Dada Nenek Bengkuang megap-megap.

“Tentu aku menerimanya, Puan.”

“Lalu mengapa kau mengantar sayak-betingkat-ku kepadanya?” Telunjuk Yun Labu mengarah pada laki-laki yang dibawa Rimau. Dia benar-benar geram. Bukan hanya membayangkan semua masakannya dihabiskan oleh orang tidak dikenal, tapi juga kata-kata dalam surat yang selama ini begitu indah kini menjadi begitu menjijikkan.

“Puan,” ujar Rimau, nada suaranya tegang. “Aku mengantarkan ratusan sayak-betingkat tanpa peduli jati diri penerima — termasuk usia, asal, dan kegemaran mereka.”

“Mengapa kau tak mau tahu?” tanya Nenek Bengkuang, cepat.

“Itu cara terbaik untuk menguji ketangkasan dan ketelitianku.

“Dan kau telah gagal!” sambar Yun Labu.

“Walaupun belum lama mengambil alih pekerjaan Wak Juai, aku belum pernah membuat kekeliruan. Sayak-betingkat-ku selalu sampai di tangan yang tepat yang sebagian besarnya adalah laki-laki, termasuk mereka yang baru menikah. Ada juga, mereka yang dicintai sanak kerabatnya dan orang-orang murah hati yang tak ingin diketahui siapa dirinya. Sebagian lainnya adalah para duda .…”

“Dan aku duda,” sebuah suara tiba-tiba memotong.

Rimau, Yun Labu, dan Nenek Bengkuang, serta merta menoleh ke arah laki-laki yang sedari tadi diam.

“Nah kau!” Yun Labu kembali menunjuk-nunjuk duda itu, “Mengapa kau menghabiskan makan siang yang bukan hakmu. Mengapa kau malah merayuku seolah-olah kau adalah suamiku! Kau … kau … kau ….” tangis Yun Labu pecah.

Duda itu terdiam sejenak sebelum membentang dalih. “Apakah salah kalau aku juga beroleh keberuntungan sebagaimana Wak Dullah, Subir, atau Tuan Halipan, yang dikirimi sayak-betingkat oleh orang-orang yang tidak mereka kenal. Bahkan Subir akhirnya menikah dengan janda yang mengiriminya makan siang. Apakah salah bila aku juga mengharap? Apakah salah bila aku menaruh harapan pada seorang dermawan yang mengirimiku sayak-betingkat? Gadis atau janda sungguh aku tak peduli!”

“Aku bukan keduanya,” Yun Labu membelalak. “Aku seorang perempuan bersuami.”

“Benar kau bukan suaminya?” potong Rimau seraya menoleh ke duda itu. Kain yang melilit wajah menyembunyikan keterkejutannya.

Duda itu terkesiap mendapati pertanyaan Rimau. Dia terburu-buru mengangguk.

“Jawab saja!” desak Rimau.

“Adakah abdi lain di Kerajaan Pagarbesi yang mahir bersyair selain seorang juru tulis kerajaan sepertiku?” suara sang duda bergetar.

“Napalong!” sahut Yun Labu cepat. “Suamiku yang tak lain tak bukan adalah pelatih kuntau di Pagarbesi. Kau pasti kenal.”

Juru tulis kerajaan itu meneguk liur. Bagaimanapun, nama itu sangat masyhur di kerajaan.

Yun Labu mendengus tetapi sebelum sempat menumpahkan kemarahannya, kangantat bersuara.

“Maafkan saya, Puan dan Nenek,” Rimau membungkuk. “Apa yang harus aku lakukan untuk menebus kesalahan ini?”

“Kau antar Yun Labu menemui suaminya besok agar masalah mereka beres!” ketus Nenek Bengkuang sebelum mengajak Yun Labu masuk dan menutup pintu pondok dengan serampangan.

***

Setelah berhari-hari berjalan kaki melintasi belasan sungai dan rimba, Napalong tiba di pondok mereka dengan kerinduan yang hampir meletus di dadanya. Sepelemparan batu dari pondoknya, dia melihat Yun Labu dan neneknya sedang bercakap-cakap dengan kangantat dan laki-laki yang tidak dia kenali. Sebagai seorang yang memegang syarat, janji, dan tanda-tanda, Napalong berikhtisar kalau dia telah keliru memilih perempuan untuk dititipi kepercayaan. Di matanya, Yun Labu telah mengabaikan kesepakatan sejak mengiriminya sayak-betingkat berisi masakan-masakan yang tidak pernah dia cicipi. Dia benar-benar kesal, bagaimana Yun Labu begitu tega mempermainkan perasaannya.

***

Sesampai di perguruan Pagarbesi, begitu mengetahui kalau Napalong sudah menghilang sekitar sepekan Yun Labu mati-matian menyembunyikan tangis yang meledak dalam mata dan dada. Peraturan melarang siapa pun meneteskan air mata di lingkungan kerajaan, sebab itu pertanda raja belum mampu menyejahterakan para abdi dan rakyatnya.

Ingin sekali Rimau memeluk Yun Labu. Ingin sekali dia berkata bahwa, kalau sang suami memang mencintainya, dia akan kembali. Namun … Rimau tidak ingin mengacaukan segalanya.

***

Tanjung Samin dengan bangga menunjukkan peti kecil yang bertuliskan Wasiat Wak Juai dalam huruf Ulu yang terukir indah. Dia telah diterima menggantikan Wak Juai di Kerajaan Pagarbesi sebagai kangantat, pekerjaan yang dilamar olehnya atas perintah orangtuanya.

“Tak percuma kau kami kirim ke Tiongkok untuk belajar siasat dan ilmu kesaktian, wahai putraku” ujar Putri Mayang seraya memeriksa tumpukan bilah-bilah gelumpai yang terdapat dalam peti. Di balik singgasananya, Putri Mayang membentang pesan terakhir Wak Juai. Dia terburu-buru menukar-letak dua nama penerima sayak-betingkat sebelum memasukkannya lagi ke dalam peti. “Sudah Ibu periksa nama-nama para pengirim dan penerima. Lakukanlah tugasmu. Kami yakin kau akan menunaikannya dengan baik,” ujarnya seraya memberikan peti itu kepada putra sulungnya.

“Tidak seperti adikmu, kau benar-benar anak yang membanggakan!” seru Ginde Ulak, jemawa. “Kau tidak mengaku bernama Tanjung Samin, bukan?”

“Aku memperkenalkan diri sebagai Rimau,” jawab Tanjung Samin, tegas dan bangga.

“Juga tidak mengaku berdarah Batangpuan.”

Ginde Ulak mengangguk-angguk puas. “Selain pesan ibumu agar kau mengabaikan jati diri penerima sayak-betingkat, kau juga harus memastikan kalau Yun Labu dalam keadaan baik-baik saja, apalagi memenuhi segala kebutuhannya. Tentu bukan untuk mengajaknya pulang. Bagaimanapun adikmu telah membangkang dan membuat malu keluarga dan kerajaan!”

“Sampai kapan dia dihukum, Yah?” suara Tanjung Samin melemah. Matanya sendu serta-merta.

Ginde Ulak membuang muka.

***

Nasib membuat keberhasilan Putri Mayang memisahkan Yun Labu dan Napalong dibayar setimpal. Tanjung Samin merasa telah menjadi orang kelaparan yang disajikan buah simalakama. Dan dia telah memilih untuk menyakiti adik yang sangat dia sayangi. Menyesal telah menyebabkan sang adik larut dalam penderitaan, Tanjung Samin kembali ke Tiongkok tanpa pamit kepada Ginde Ulak dan Putri Mayang.

***

Puluhan tahun kemudian, Tanjung Samin pulang untuk menggantikan Ginde Ulak di singgasana Kerajaan Batangpuan.

Dia memang berhasil membujuk Yun Labu kembali ke kerajaan. Namun, dia tidak kuasa menghentikan sang adik untuk setiap hari menanak nasi dan memasak gulai di dapur istana. Kepada orang-orang yang bertanya tentang perilaku sang adik, tanpa beban Tanjung Samin menjawab, “Memasak bukan hanya membuat kunyahan yang memenuhkan perut, tapi juga memuaskan kerinduan seseorang. Suatu hari, Napalong, sebagaimana orang-orang yang mendengar kisah ini, akan takjub dengan kesetiaan adikku.”

*****

 

Love in a Coconut Shell

Pada tahun 2005 Umar Thamrin menerima beasiswa Fulbright Grant dan Catherine and William L. Magistretti Graduate Fellowship untuk menyelesaikan pendidikan pascasarjana di Amerika Serikat. Sebelum kembali ke tanah air pada penghujung 2017, dia menerima tawaran dari University of Oregon untuk menjadi peneliti dan pengajar selama setahun.

Saat kembali ke tanah air, dia prihatin melihat rakyat yang tetap saja terpinggirkan dan sejarah yang begitu mudah terlupakan. Inilah yang mendorongnya untuk merenung, mengenang, dan menulis. Umar sekarang mengajar linguistik pada Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin.

Umar Thamrin : umar2x.umar@gmail.com

 

Love in a Coconut Shell

 

On the bank of a shady tributary of the Musi River, on the island of Sumatra, now known as Musi Rawas Raya, there once were two kingdoms — Pagarbesi and Batangpuan. Pagarbesi, which had a substantial army and was well populated, was located in the southern part ⸺ with Batangpuan, which was a much smaller kingdom, just north of it. The men enlisted in the Pagarbesi kingdom army were granted home leave only once every three months during their first year of service. Their wives sent their lunch in a sayak-betingkat — home-cooked food placed in containers of stacked coconut shells. The women believed their husbands expressed requited love when the shells returned empty.

Yun Labu, the princess of the Batangpuan kingdom, was no exception. She had forfeited her nobility by marrying Napalong, a handsome traveler from the Pagarbesi kingdom.

Yun Labu’s parents, the king and queen of the Batangpuan kingdom, did not approve of the marriage. Their daughter had married a commoner and they had been humiliated by the way the couple had married.

Napalong had kidnapped Yun Labu — although Yun Labu claimed it was she who had asked to be kidnapped — and taken her to the chief of his village to marry them. Soldiers of the Batangpuan kingdom would have killed Napalong if Yun Labu had not threatened to kill herself by jumping into a rocky ravine near the border of Batangpuan.

“I don’t want that wanderer to be a part of this kingdom,” hissed the Batangpuan king, Ginde Ulak.

“Neither do I,” Queen Putri Mayang replied, no less fiercely. “The last I heard, Napalong plans to teach martial arts to the soldier recruits in the Pagarbesi kingdom.”
Ginde Ulak nodded. His eyes glowed with anger. “Has Napalong really mastered martial arts so well that he is qualified to teach it?”

“If Napalong becomes a teacher in martial arts at the Pagarbesi court, Yun Labu will rarely see him.” Putri Mayang flicked the end of the shawl wrapped around her waist.

“Where does Yun Labu live now?” Ginde Ulak asked, frowning. “You ordered soldiers to build a house for her, didn’t you?”

“Napalong built her a hut,” Putri Mayang smirked.

Ginde Ulak’s eyes widened. “Just a hut?” he asked furiously.

“Oh, I’m sure she didn’t complain. You forget that when she was a teenager, Yun Labu would embarrass us by hosting commoners’ parties.”

“This happened because you gave our daughter too much freedom.”

“I honestly thought our daughter was learning how to write poetry from Napalong,” Putri Mayang said remorsefully. “Wouldn’t a noble who is good at writing poetry be held in higher esteem?”

Ginde Ulak snorted. “Bah. That young man can’t even write and read Ulu letters.”

Putri Mayang glared at her husband. How was it possible that someone was called a poet without being able to write the traditional script of the upstream region? She said, “Of course I know that, dear. However, according to the elders and fortune tellers, that’s exactly what sets Napalong apart from other poets — not to mention the way he deals with troublemakers!”

“And why did you allow Yun Labu to befriend Grandma Bengkuang, the former cook of the Pagarbesi kingdom?” grumbled Ginde Ulak.

“My dear, you know that no one can keep Yun Labu away from pots, pans, stoves, and spices. Still, I never dreamed that Yun Labu would secretly visit Grandma Bengkuang and compel the old woman to teach her how to cook! Yun Labu never cared about being a princess! And to answer your question, she lives in the south.”

“In the village we haven’t named yet?”

Putri Mayang nodded. “Well, remember, Batangpuan and Pagarbesi haven’t agreed on who owns the forest near the border.”

Ginde Ulak fell silent.

“I heard that Wak Juai is sick.” Putri Mayang smiled slyly.

“Why are you bringing up gossip about the Pagarbesi messenger?” Ginde Ulak snapped.

“You should instead be preparing to welcome our son. He’s arriving from China in just a few days. Aren’t you eager to see Tanjung Samin after ten long years?”

***

After Napalong and Yun Labu married, Grandma Bengkuang was not the only one who tasted Yun Labu’s cooking before it was served. Napalong was not a good cook, but it was still important to Yun Labu that the young husband she loved liked her cooking.

Grandma Bengkuang and Napalong never disagreed about how Yun Labu’s dishes tasted. If the chili sauce tasted too strong, Grandma Bengkuang blamed the pieces of pineapple she had just eaten. If the spinach soup tasted too bland, Napalong blamed the extra sugar he had added to the tea he just drank.

After spending a week of their honeymoon in their cottage, Napalong asked Grandma Bengkuang if she would be willing to stay with his wife when he left to teach martial arts to the soldier recruits at the Pagarbesi court. “You and my wife have become very close,” Napalong pointed out. “If you two live together, you can take care of each other.”

The couple’s cottage was not too far from the Pagarbesi kingdom, especially on horseback. But Yun Labu and Napalong knew the royal rules for first-year enlisted service members. Home leave was only granted once every three months. It was customary that wives sent their husbands homemade lunches through a kangantat. The royal messenger, who drove a two-horse carriage, arrived by mid-morning every day to pick up the sayak-betingkat lunches the women had packed into coconut shells for their husbands.

One late afternoon, shortly before reporting to the Pagarbesi court, Napalong stood with Yun Labu under a palm tree near their cottage. In the fading twilight, he could still catch the gleam of love in his wife’s eyes. “Promise me,” he said, “that as a token of your loyalty, you will only send me dishes that I know are yours — dishes you have already prepared for me.”

Yun Labu chuckled. “But dear, I haven’t yet cooked you a red-tailed catfish in fermented-durian curry; a chili sauce with shrimp paste; gill mushroom coconut milk soup; or oyster mushrooms in a light curry — dishes that surely will whet your appetite.”

Napalong grinned. “Honey, the dishes you’ve already prepared for me are more than enough.”

Yun Labu flushed with pleasure.

“But …” Napalong held Yun Labu’s eyes, “will you be loyal to me, honey?”

“What?” Yun Labu raised her eyebrows. “You doubt me? My behavior will depend on your feelings toward me.” Yun Labu tried to appear strong but could not hide her anxiety. She burst into tears. “I’ll be whatever you believe me to be!”

Napalong wiped away his wife’s tears and held her tightly. “To be fair,” he said, “you should ask for a token of my loyalty.”

Yun Labu paused then stepped back from Napalong’s embrace. She looked at him tenderly. “If my sayak-betingkat comes back empty, it means you love me and are loyal to me. But if my sayak-betingkat comes back with food left in it, it means that you are no longer loyal.”

***

Two months later, the Pagarbesi kingdom mourned. Wak Juai, the old kangantat who had served Pagarbesi as its messenger since he was a teenager, had passed away.

That afternoon, a young man came to the Pagarbesi court and introduced himself as Rimau. He said that he was willing to replace Wak Juai as the royal court’s messenger. To convince the king, the queen, and the courtiers, he demonstrated his ability to lighten his body so that he could go to distant places in a short time by riding a coconut frond.

Everyone was amazed by the self-confidence of the young man who stood before them.
The king leaned forward. “Very well,” the king said and continued, “cover your face with a full mask when carrying out your duties.” The king was concerned that the young wives who faithfully prepared a sayak-betingkat for their husbands might be seduced by Rimau’s handsome looks.

Rimau bowed.

***

Even though it was now the second week of his third month of duty in the Pagarbesi kingdom, Napalong still had trouble focusing on teaching martial arts to the soldiers. Just like the previous days and weeks, he waited impatiently for the sun to reach that part in the sky when the kangantat came with Yun Labu’s sayak-betingkat.

On Rimau’s first day of delivering sayak-betingkat, Napalong eagerly asked Wak Juai’s successor how his wife was doing.

“Pardon me, sir,” Rimau bowed. “Aside from being a new kangantat, I have no intention of meddling in the private affairs between senders and receivers of the sayak-betingkats.”

That day, Napalong was surprised to find dishes he did not expect in the stack of coconut shells that contained his lunch. The bottom shell contained rice and a handful of fried anchovies; the middle shell held a fermented-durian curry and a tomato chili sauce. The top shell held a few sweet basil leaves and a purple eggplant. Yun Labu had never served him any of those dishes during their honeymoon. Still, he forced himself to eat all of it so he could return an empty sayak-betingkat. He did not want to lose Yun Labu.

***

On the eleventh day of the third month after Napalong had reported to the Pagarbesi court, Yun Labu pulsed with joy. Her sayak-betingkat always returned empty. Unable to contain her happiness, she started writing a love poem to express her longing.

          O my dear, my only love …

Yun Labu smiled at the first line she’d written, then pondered. As if she could not stop her own hand from moving, she finished two scrolls of nipah palm leaves, before she knew it.

On the twelfth day, Yun Labu impatiently opened the returned sayak-betingkat. As she had hoped, what she had been waiting for the most was there.

          My darling, you are far away …

Yun Labu closed her eyes as she pressed the nipah leaf to her chest. Oh, my dear husband, who was the soldier you asked to help write down the beautiful words you spoke? Yun Labu smiled before she continued to read.

          Certainly, the honor is immeasurable for this servant

          who has been asked to enjoy your token of sincerity.

Yun Labu’s eyes sparkled as she mused. Her husband called himself a servant and the lunches she sent were a token of sincerity. The flattery sent her floating in the clouds.

Yun Labu kept the poem a secret. She did not want to share her happiness with anyone ⸺ not even with Grandma Bengkuang. What moved her even more was that a man with a chivalrous spirit like her husband had humbled himself by asking someone to help write the poem for him.

For a while, Yun Labu held the letter tightly. Then she slowly rolled it up and kissed it passionately as if her husband’s scent lingered on the leaf. Never before had she been this happy.

Yun Labu mused, My husband will come back in less than three weeks. She took up her pen and wrote:

          I know you are still faithful

          Enjoy my dishes — fulfill your duty

          Your wife will always await you with a yearning heart.

Fourteenth day. Yun Labu opened the empty coconut shell and read:

          Where are you now, my love?

          Don’t deceive me

          Love has made me blind

          Blind to my surroundings

          Blind to my circumstances.

Yun Labu knew what she had to write.

          No need to be in a hurry

          Patience is always blessed with a miracle.

The fifteenth day.

          Don’t tease me, sweetheart

          I will take you

          To nirvana as well as the valley of unconsciousness.

Yun Labu overcome with desire, wrote,

          I’m not going anywhere, my love

          I’m still faithfully longing

          For your heart that has suddenly turned blue.

As usual, Yun Labu rolled up the palm leaf and tucked it between the turmeric flowers in the top coconut shell of that day’s sayak-betingkat.

On the evening of the sixteenth day, Rimau arrived with the empty sayak-betingkat.

“Pardon me, ma’am,” he said to Yun Labu. “Tomorrow I won’t pick up your sayak-betingkat, because your husband says he wants to have lunch at home.”

“What do you mean, Kangantat?” Yun Labu was alarmed. “Shouldn’t he stay in the Pagarbesi kingdom for another two weeks? Please remind him of this.”

Rimau did not respond. Actually, he thought, since the first time I replaced Wak Juai, I’ve been looking forward to witnessing the two of you reuniting with each other. Rimau returned to his horse-drawn carriage and disappeared between the trees.

“If it’s true what the kangantat said, you don’t need to worry, Yun,” said Grandma Bengkuang, who had been sweeping behind the hut. She joined Yun Labu and tried to calm her. “Perhaps the kangantat can’t bear to see Napalong pining for you.”

“But, Grandma,” Yun Labu argued, “didn’t my husband promise to settle down after we were married? It’s not easy to become a courtier. Why would he waste this opportunity? Two weeks will go by fast if he is patient and takes our future into serious consideration.”

Grandma Bengkuang stroked Yun Labu’s hair. “I heard that the kangantat is not just anyone. He can go anywhere by riding on a leaf, a branch, or a palm frond. Who knows, with his supernatural power, he might fly Napalong here to have lunch with you and then fly him back to the palace undetected. Or —”

“Oh, is that true, Grandma?” Yun Labu interrupted. And as if heaven could hear her anxiety, she exclaimed, “Hopefully, the kangantat also won’t forget to remind my husband to be patient.”

***

Since early morning the next day, Yun Labu had been cooking all the dishes she had ever prepared for Napalong.

Grandma Bengkuang had cleaned the cottage and cut down the weeds and bushes around it. Before midday, Yun Labu scooped the rice from the pot and moved it into a pandan leaf basket. She arranged the rice and side dishes ⸺ vegetables, chili sauce, and grilled home-raised chicken ⸺ on a short wooden table.

“Yun, we were right!” Grandma Bengkuang shouted from outside.

Yun Labu was still arranging dishes on the dining table. “What? Is the kangantat really bringing my husband?”

“The kangantat is flying on a palm frond!” Grandma Bengkuang shouted in a trembling voice. Gasping, she pointed at the sky.

“Napalong, my husband, is with him, right?” Yun Labu smoothed her hair, smiling.

“He is with a stranger!” Grandmother Bengkuang rushed inside, grabbed Yun Labu by her arm, and dragged her through the front door.

Outside, Yun Labu stood stunned for a moment, then shouted, “Kangantat! Who did you bring here?” She pointed at the smiling man the messenger had brought, figuring him to be about ten years older than Napalong.

Rimau hesitated. “This isn’t your husband?”

“Don’t you stoke a fire here, sir!” Grandma Bengkuang barged into the conversation.

“She’s my faithful granddaughter!”

“But isn’t this the man your granddaughter has been sending her sayak-betingkats to?”

Grandma Bengkuang huffed, “Didn’t the late Wak Juai pass down the list of sayak-betingkat recipients to you, his successor?”

“Of course he did!”

Yun Labu pointed again at the man the kangantat had brought. “Then why did you give my sayak-betingkats to him?” she asked, disgusted. Not only had all of her cooking been consumed by this stranger, but the poems that had been so beautiful to her ears were now equally disgusting.

“Ma’am!” Rimau’s voice was strained. “I deliver hundreds of sayak-betingkats without knowing the recipients’ details. I only know their names, not their ages, origins, or preferences.”

Grandma Bengkuang squinted. “Why don’t you want to know?”

“It’s a good way to test my ability to be accurate without that information.”

“And you have failed!” Yun Labu snapped.

“Even though I just recently took over Wak Juai’s job, I have never made a mistake. Each sayak-betingkat I delivered has reached the right recipient. Most of them are men — newlyweds, as well as those who are loved by relatives and generous people who do not want their identities known. Among the recipients are also widowers —”

“And I’m a widower.”

Rimau, Yun Labu, and Grandma Bengkuang all looked at the man who had so far been silent.

“And you!” Yun Labu pointed at the widower. “Why did you eat the lunches that were not yours? Why did you lure me with words, as if you were my husband! You … you … you ….” Yun Labu broke into tears.

The widower stood silent for a moment, then replied softly. “Would it be wrong if I hoped to have the same luck as some of the men who receive a sayak-betingkat from unknown senders? One man even ended up marrying the widow who sent him lunch. Is it wrong for me to dream? Is it wrong for me to believe that someone generous would send me a sayak-betingkat? Be it a girl or a widow, I really don’t care!”

“I’m neither of those!” Yun Labu exclaimed. “I am a married woman!”

Rimau turned to the widower. “You really aren’t her husband?” Rimau’s mask hid his surprise.

The widower gasped and shook his head nervously.

“Please answer!” Rimau pressed.

“Is there another scribe in the Pagarbesi kingdom who writes poetry as well as I can?” The widower’s voice trembled.

“Napalong!” snapped Yun Labu. “My husband is a martial arts master at Pagarbesi. You must know him.”

The royal messenger swallowed hard. Napalong was indeed well-known in the Pagarbesi kingdom.

Yun Labu fumed, but before she could vent her anger, the kangantat spoke. “Pardon me, ma’am and Grandma.” Rimau bowed. “What can I do to make up for this mistake?”

Grandma Bengkuang’s answer was curt. “Tomorrow, you will escort Yun Labu to the royal training camp to meet her husband and clear up this mistake!” She told Yun Labu to go back into the hut, then slammed the door behind them.

***

A stone’s throw from the cottage, Napalong stood, watching his wife and Grandma Bengkuang speaking with the kangantat and a man he did not recognize. After days of walking through many jungles and crossing many rivers, Napalong arrived at their cottage with a longing that almost made his chest burst. Now, watching the scene outside their cottage, Napalong concluded that he had been mistaken to trust the woman he had married. As a man devoted to his duties, promises, and obligations, Napalong realized that Yun Labu had broken her promise when she sent him the sayak-betingkats that contained dishes he had never tasted. He was devastated to discover how Yun Labu could be so insensitive to his feelings.

***

The next day, after arriving at the Pagarbesi training camp, Yun Labu found out that Napalong had left about a week before. Grief filled her eyes and chest, but rules prohibited crying near the palace, because it would show that the king had not led his servants and people to prosperity.

Rimau wanted very much to embrace Yun Labu. He wanted to tell her that if her husband really loved her, he would come back. However, Rimau dared not disrupt the plan his queen mother had devised. He thought back to how it had all come about.

***

Inside the castle of the Batangpuan kingdom, Tanjung Samin, proudly showed his parents, King Ginde Ulak and Queen Putri Mayang, the nipah scrolls on which Wak Juai’s instructions were written in beautifully engraved Ulu scripts. At the behest of his mother and father, Tanjung Samin had applied for and been accepted to replace Wak Juai in the Pagarbesi kingdom as a kangantat.

“It’s not for nothing that we sent you to China to learn politics and magic, my son,” said Putri Mayang, taking a roll of nipah leaves from a bamboo holder.

Behind the throne, as her husband and son talked, Putri Mayang examined the lontar scrolls of Wak Juai’s instructions. After she found Napalong and Yun Labu’s rolled together names, she hastily took another roll of names and switched the leaves before rolling the scrolls up and stuffing them back into the bamboo holder. “I have checked the names of the senders and recipients,” she said to her son, handing him the bamboo holder. “Do your job. We are sure you will do it well.”

“Unlike your sister, you’re an obedient son!” applauded Ginde Ulak with conceit. “You didn’t tell them that your name is Tanjung Samin, did you?”

“No, I introduced myself as Rimau,” answered Tanjung Samin. “Nor did I tell them I have Batangpuan royal blood.”

Ginde Ulak nodded with satisfaction. “In addition to your mother’s request that you hide the identities of the sayak-betingkat recipients, you must also make sure that Yun Labu is well, that all her needs are met. You may not bring her home, of course. Your sister has disobeyed us and brought shame to the family and the Batangpuan kingdom.”

“For how long will she be punished, Father?” Tanjung Samin’s voice weakened as he lowered his eyes.

Ginde Ulak looked away.

***

Fate evened the score of Putri Mayang’s victory in separating Yun Labu from Napalong. After seeing that he had broken his sister’s heart by trickery, Tanjung Samin felt like a starving person being served a simalakama. According to local belief, the fruit, if eaten would kill his mother; and if left uneaten would kill his father. He had chosen to hurt his little sister whom he loved very much. Filled with painful regret that he had made his sister suffer, Tanjung Samin returned to China without saying goodbye to Ginde Ulak and Putri Mayang.

***

Decades later, Tanjung Samin returned to succeed Ginde Ulak on the throne of the Batangpuan kingdom.

He coaxed Yun Labu to return to the kingdom, but he could not prevent her from daily cooking rice and curry in the palace kitchen. To people who asked about his sister’s odd behavior, Tanjung Samin replied lightly, “Cooking not only produces food that satisfies the body, it also fills one’s longing. One day, Napalong, like the people who hear this story, will be astounded and find sustenance in my sister’s loyalty.”

*****

 

 

Perempuan Naga

Falantino Eryk Latupapua. Perempuan Naga adalah cerpen pertama yang ditulisnya. Sebelumnya, dia sering menulis puisi di media sosial dan disertakan dalam beberapa buku kumpulan puisi, yakni Pemberontakan dari Timur (CV. Maleo, 2014) dan  Biarkan Katong Bakalai (Kantor Bahasa Maluku, 2013). Dia memperoleh gelar sarjana pendidikan Bahasa Indonesia di Universitas Pattimura pada 2004. Sejak 2005, dia mengabdi pada almamaternya sebagai dosen. Pada 2011, dia memperoleh gelar magister dalam bidang sastra pada Fakultas Ilmu Budaya, Universitas Gadjah Mada. Saat cerpen ini ditulis, dia telah menjadi kandidat doktor dalam bidang ilmu susastra pada Fakultas Ilmu Budaya, Universitas Indonesia. Selain menulis karya sastra, dia telah menghasilkan berbagai tulisan pada jurnal ilmiah dan buku.

Falantino Eryk Latupapua: falantinoeryk@gmail.com

 

Perempuan Naga

 

Ikan kuah kuning itu sudah mendidih. Asap putih tipis mengepulkan wangi daun kemangi bersamaan dengan semburat bau halia, serai, dan kunyit yang sudah dia tambahkan tadi. Tangan kanan Eba memeras sebutir jeruk nipis ke dalam mangkok berwarna kecokelatan yang beberapa bagiannya sudah sumbing karena terbentur.

Sudah siang. Sebentar lagi Joro pulang, batin perempuan itu sambil menyeka keringat yang turun pelan-pelan di pelipisnya dengan sepotong kain cita berwarna jingga pucat yang dihamparkannya di bahu kiri. Rambutnya yang keriting disanggul sekenanya. Beberapa helai anak rambut yang mulai beruban menjuntai melewati kerah kebaya merahnya yang sudah lusuh.

Dalam satu gerakan yang cekatan, Eba menyisihkan biji-biji jeruk nipis itu dengan jemarinya yang legam. Dia lalu membuangnya ke dalam garuru, tempat sampah yang dibuat dari ujung pelepah pohon sagu, yang terletak di kaki tungku. Sambil menuangkan perasan jeruk hingga melebur ke dalam kuah yang tengah menggelegak, Eba mengaduknya pelan-pelan. Beberapa saat kemudian, dia menyendok kuah dan potongan tebal daging ikan cakalang ke dalam mangkuk. Dia membungkukkan kepala, lalu menutup matanya selama beberapa detik sambil menghela napas panjang seakan menghayati kenikmatan masakannya sendiri.

Dengan sepotong kayu, Eba mengacak sisa-sisa api di bawah besi tungku agar benar-benar padam. “Joro akan makan dengan lahap,” bisiknya. Ada senyum tipis tersungging di bibirnya yang tebal. Eba berjalan ke meja makan dan meletakkan mangkuk itu. Di sana sudah ada sepiring kecil irisan jantung pisang yang ditumisnya dengan sepetak bawang dan sejumput garam.

Hati Eba serasa mekar. Dia sudah mengenali perasaan ini dengan baik selama dua puluh tahun pernikahan mereka. Dia sangat suka memasak. Ini yang membuatnya berbeda dari banyak perempuan di Kampung Sameth, Pulau Haruku, tempat mereka tinggal. Perempuan-perempuan itu gemar sekali duduk bergunjing ketimbang berjibaku di dapur. Dibandingkan mereka, dirinya tentu jauh lebih baik dalam menjalani hidup yang paling pantas bagi seorang ibu rumah tangga, yakni melayani suami dan anak-anak.

Tiba-tiba, Eba terpaku di pinggir meja. Tubuhnya menegang. Matanya berair. Dia tahu bahwa perasaan sedih ini akan selalu muncul ketika menyadari bahwa masakan yang disiapkannya akhir-akhir ini semakin sedikit takarannya. Bayangan anak-anaknya saling berebutan menyendok makanan ke piring memeras hatinya. Anak-anaknya sudah mati.

Sambil menggeleng pelan, Eba menghapus air matanya. Sudahlah. Jangan menangis lagi. Nanti tulang-tulang mereka bergerak dalam kubur, tidak tenanglah mereka di sana, di dalam hati dia menasihati dirinya. Ada senyum pahit terbit di bibirnya. Eba meraih tudung saji yang tergantung di dinding lalu dihamparkannya di meja. “Cuma papeda yang belum masak. Akan baik bila aku mengaso sebentar. Air akan kujerang nanti. Papeda akan kusiapkan begitu dia tiba. Joro akan merajuk jika papeda-nya sudah agak dingin.” Eba berbicara pelan. Sambil menghela napas berat, dia membalikkan badannya lalu melangkah pelan ke arah belakang.

***

Eba berjalan melewati dapur yang masih dipenuhi asap dari tungku yang tadi digunakan untuk memasak. Dia terbatuk-batuk sejenak sambil melangkah melewati pintu, yang seperti dinding-dinding rumah mereka itu, dibuat dari gaba-gaba, pelepah dahan pohon sagu yang berukuran besar. Atap rumah terbuat dari helai-helai daun sagu yang diikat lalu ditopang oleh kerangka yang terbuat dari bilah-bilah bambu. Rumah itu terletak di atas tebing karang, terasing di bagian selatan kampung. Tebing karang hitam yang mencuat menjadi benteng pengadang deburan ombak dahsyat pada saat musim timur. Di belakang rumah yang menghadap laut, Eba dan Joro biasanya duduk sambil memandang Pulau Ambon di kejauhan sana. Jika hari sedang cerah, puncak Gunung Salahutu terlihat amat mengagumkan disiram cahaya matahari. Hari ini gunung itu terlihat agak menakutkan dibalut awan kelabu.

Joro memahat ceruk kecil di sela-sela dinding karang yang terjal. Lewat ceruk itulah mereka bisa berjalan menuruni tebing menuju bibir pantai di bawah sana untuk sekadar berak, mencari kerang, atau memancing ikan.

Eba menghempaskan pantatnya ke atas balai-balai yang terbuat dari gaba-gaba di bawah jejeran pohon ketapang. Pohon ketapang yang paling tinggi ditanam oleh Joro dua hari sesudah anak lelaki bungsu mereka mati, dua tahun lalu. Anak itu jatuh lalu terseret ombak saat mengambil kerang laut yang menempel di tebing karang. “Diambil setan laut,” demikian kata para tetua kampung. Mayatnya ditemukan mengapung di lautan oleh nelayan dari desa tetangga, sehari kemudian. Tubuh itu sudah membengkak. Mulutnya menganga. Setelah dua hari menangisi anak itu, Eba dan Joro memutuskan untuk menanam sepohon ketapang untuk mengingat hari penuh kesedihan itu.

Sekarang, Eba memejamkan matanya. Dia merasa kesedihan itu mulai kembali datang dan mencoba menepiskannya dengan menghirup bau laut dalam-dalam. Bau garam yang bercampur dengan semburat bau ikan cakalang setengah kering menguar dari atas jemuran bambu yang membujur di samping rumah. Jemuran bambu itu didirikan oleh anak tertuanya sebelum mati sebulan lalu. Tiada sakit yang anak itu derita. Pada subuh di hari Minggu, dia ditemukan sudah tidak bernyawa oleh Joro yang bersiap pergi memancing ikan. Mata anak itu masih terbuka, tubuhnya menegang dengan bekas cekikan di lehernya. Tangis Eba pecah.

“Dicekik setan,” demikian gumaman tertahan dari beberapa orang kampung sambil menatap Eba dengan pandangan yang sulit dia pahami.

Seminggu sesudah masa berkabung lewat, Joro menanam anakan pohon ketapang yang ketiga persis di sebelah kanan pohon ketapang kedua yang mulai tumbuh besar. Pohon ketapang yang kedua itu ditanam oleh Joro saat anak perempuan mereka mati, setahun lalu. Anak perempuan satu-satunya itu disengat kelabang yang sepertinya jatuh dari atap rumah ke atas tempat tidurnya. Tidak lama kemudian, tubuh anak itu kejang sambil menjerit kesakitan dengan mata membelalak, lalu mati. Kelabang itu menghilang entah ke mana.

Dahan ketapang kering melayang dan jatuh di pangkuan Eba. Menurut Joro, pohon ketapang yang ditanamnya adalah lambang pengharapan akan kehidupan, agar tidak ada lagi kematian. Akan tetapi, setelah kehilangan yang bertubi-tubi itu, Eba merasa suaminya itu hanya mengada-ada. Anak-anaknya mati satu demi satu, berguguran bagaikan daun-daun ketapang itu.

Eba ingat kepada anak perempuannya yang cantik dan rajin, anak lelaki bungsunya yang nakal tetapi menggemaskan, dan anak sulungnya yang penurut dan tampan, sama seperti bapaknya. Eba kembali dihumbalang oleh perasaan benci yang sama dahsyatnya dengan kebencian yang serta-merta menjalari dirinya tatkala mendengar bisik-bisik perempuan kampung yang menyebut-nyebut sesuatu seperti “digigit setan” saat melayat jenazah anak itu.

Eba tidak punya kekuatan untuk melawan perlakuan penduduk kampung terhadap dirinya. Semua penduduk kampung ini adalah kerabat suaminya. Eba merasa akan melukai perasaan Joro apabila dia bertengkar melawan perlakuan mereka yang semena-mena itu. Akhirnya, dia selalu diam dan menelan rasa benci itu untuk dirinya sendiri.

***

Eba seorang yatim piatu. Dia lahir dan tumbuh di Kampung Kairatu, di Pulau Seram. Bapaknya mati empat bulan sebelum dia lahir. Eba lalu dibesarkan oleh Nenek, dukun kampung yang membantu persalinan ibunya. Ibunya meninggal empat hari sesudah melahirkannya. “Dimakan naga,” demikian jawaban beberapa perempuan di Kampung Kairatu yang ditanyai tentang asal-muasal kematian ibunya. Sang Nenek, seperti biasanya, selalu bungkam ketika ditanya.

Nenek membesarkannya dengan penuh sayang. Perempuan tua itu amat suka menari. Nenek biasanya menari di dalam kamarnya yang temaram. Dia menggumamkan semacam nyanyian tanpa kata untuk mengiringi gerakannya.

Beberapa kali Eba melihatnya menari di halaman belakang gubuk mereka pada malam hari, terutama saat bulan sedang penuh. Sesekali, Nenek akan memanggil Eba, lalu memintanya mengikuti gerakan tarian itu.

Eba tidak kunjung memahami maksud Nenek menyuruhnya ikut menari. Akan tetapi, lama-kelamaan dia semakin suka menari. Eba bisa menirukan tarian Nenek dengan sempurna sambil menutup mata. Meskipun begitu, dia tetap tidak bisa menggumamkan nyanyian Nenek yang sering dia dengar.

Joro dan Eba berjumpa pada pesta katreji, tarian khas Maluku yang dipengaruhi budaya Portugis, di Kampung Kairatu. Pertemuan itu terjadi setahun sesudah Eba kehilangan Ica, suami pertamanya.

Ica mati diserang seekor celeng ketika berburu di hutan.

Joro datang ke pesta dansa itu bersama-sama dengan pemuda-pemudi lain atas undangan penyelenggara pesta. Mereka segera saling jatuh cinta pada pandangan pertama. Joro ingin segera menikahi Eba. Akan tetapi, niat Joro itu ditentang keras oleh kerabat mereka, termasuk para tetua Kampung Sameth. Selain Eba adalah seorang janda, pertentangan itu juga disebabkan kedua kampung memiliki hubungan pela gandong, hubungan persaudaraan antarkampung secara adat. Seorang laki-laki dari Kampung Sameth tidak boleh menikahi perempuan dari Kampung Kairatu. “Pamali. Leluhur akan marah. Kita semua akan kena musibah,” kata mereka. Di samping itu, desas-desus bahwa Eba adalah perempuan suanggi, pengamal ilmu hitam, telah santer terdengar di Kampung Sameth.

Seperti biasa, Joro diam saja. Dia adalah laki-laki yang rajin dan sederhana, tidak pernah banyak bicara. Joro lalu mengajak Eba kawin lari ke rumah sahabatnya di Kampung Tala, di sebelah barat Pulau Seram. Sesudah melangsungkan pernikahan, mereka bertekad untuk menetap dan membangun hidup baru di Kampung Tala.

Empat bulan kemudian, datanglah berita dari Kampung Sameth. Ibu Joro hampir mati karena sakit. “Dia dirasuki suanggi,” demikian tukas beberapa kerabat sambil menatap Eba dengan tajam dan penuh kecurigaan saat mereka berdua tiba di sana.

Eba bisa merasakan bahwa mereka mencurigai dirinya telah mengirim guna-guna hingga ibu mertuanya jatuh sakit.

Joro adalah anak tunggal dari salah satu tetua Kampung Sameth. Bapaknya terbunuh saat kerusuhan berdarah antara orang-orang Islam dan Kristen di pulau itu pada 1999, dua puluh tahun lalu. Oleh karenanya, para tetua kampung meminta agar dia tetap tinggal di rumah pusaka untuk menjaga warisan keluarga mereka.

Joro tahu bahwa perempuan yang menjadi istrinya tidak diinginkan oleh keluarga besarnya. Dia tetap bergeming. Laki-laki itu tetap melaut dan pergi ke hutan. Permintaan para tetua agar membuang perempuan itu dan mencari istri yang sepadan tidak dia dengarkan. Joro tidak pernah menyatakan perasaan cintanya dengan cara memeluk Eba atau sekadar mengusap kepala anak-anaknya. Akan tetapi, dia tidak pernah ringan tangan atau tidak setia. Di mata Eba, dia laki-laki sempurna. Dia tidak banyak berubah sejak saat pertama Eba menangkap kilatan penuh sayang di matanya.

Saat anak bungsu mereka mati, desas-desus yang berkembang di kampung mengenai Eba sebagai pembawa petaka bagi keluarga besar mereka makin santer. Hal itu sampai ke telinga Eba, juga ke telinga Joro dan kedua anak mereka yang tersisa. Eba masih belum lupa perlakuan perempuan-perempuan kampung yang memunggunginya saat tiba di sungai untuk membasuh perabotan dapur atau mencuci pakaian. Berbulan-bulan mereka semua menolak berbicara dengannya.

Eba tidak tahan lagi.

Joro pun demikian. Dia segera membawa Eba dan kedua anak mereka menjauh ke pinggiran kampung dan mendirikan rumah sederhana untuk mereka tinggali. Joro tidak lagi sering bertemu dengan orang-orang kampung. Dia selalu pergi ke hutan dan memancing seorang diri. Kebunnya pun dikerjakan seorang diri.

Saat kematian ketiga menghampiri keluarga mereka, orang-orang kampung itu makin berani. Mereka meneriaki Eba dengan sengit, menyebut-nyebutnya sebagai perempuan naga dan suanggi.

Menurut Joro, orang-orang kampung percaya bahwa dalam tubuh Eba bersemayam seekor naga yang akan membunuh anggota keluarganya pelan-pelan dengan berbagai cara. Naga itu berdiam di dalam jiwa perempuan keturunan suanggi.

Beberapa orang lain bersikeras bahwa itu adalah akibat yang harus ditanggung oleh Eba dan Joro karena berani melangsungkan pernikahan meskipun punya hubungan pela gandong. Mereka tidak segan mengusir dan meludahi Eba saat berpapasan.

Eba lebih sering mengurung diri di rumah. Dia tidak pernah muncul di kebaktian gereja, bahkan tidak pernah lagi pergi ke sungai untuk mencuci baju dan perabotannya. Dia merasa marah atas segala tuduhan yang dilontarkan padanya oleh warga kampung. Dia sendiri tidak mengerti mengapa hidupnya dikelilingi kematian. Dia juga tidak memahami pikiran mereka yang menganggap dirinya sebagai pembawa kematian. Dia bukan suanggi. Dia pun tidak percaya pada takhayul tentang naga dan hubungan pela gandong yang bisa membunuh anak-anaknya. Sejak kecil, Nenek selalu membawanya ke gereja dan mengajarinya berdoa. Di setiap ruangan di gubuk Nenek ada gambar Tuhan, kecuali di kamar temaram tempat Nenek menari.

Eba percaya pada Tuhan. Saat kecil, dia kadang-kadang menangis sambil menatap gambar di dinding gubuk, meminta orangtuanya hidup lagi, atau meminta supaya Nenek jangan mati karena dia tidak sanggup membayangkan akan menjalani hidup seorang diri. Meskipun orang tuanya tidak pernah hidup lagi dan Nenek akhirnya mati, Eba tetap suka pada Tuhan yang selalu disebutnya dalam doa.

***

“Mama Eba! Mama Eba! Buka pintu! Buka!” suara ketukan keras di pintu depan yang diringi teriakan seseorang membuat Eba terperangah. Dia tersadar dari lamunannya. Eba segera berdiri dari balai-balai, lalu mengayunkan langkah setengah berlari melewati dapur menuju ruang depan.

“Mama Eba! Buka pintu! Cepat!” suara itu semakin keras. Eba meraih gerendel pintunya, lalu menggeserkan pengaitnya ke arah kiri.

Seraut wajah kecokelatan yang kurus dan penuh keringat menatapnya dengan mata merah membelalak seakan terkejut bercampur takut. Eba mengenali anak gadis itu. Namanya Pite, anak dari adik sepupu suaminya. Sebelum Eba membuka mulutnya untuk berbicara, Pite kembali berteriak dengan kencang. Tubuhnya bergetar makin hebat. “Mama Eba! Mama Eba! Bapa Joro jatuh dari pohon cengkeh. Bapa Joro sudah mati! Bapa Joro sudah mati!” anak itu berbicara dengan tersengal-sengal sambil menahan tangis.

Dunia di hadapan Eba tiba-tiba gulita. Bibirnya tidak sanggup bicara. Dia mundur selangkah sambil berpegangan pada daun pintu. Tangan dan kakinya gemetar. Air matanya menggenang, tetapi tenggorokannya seperti tercekat, tidak mampu mengeluarkan suara.

“Mama Eba … Mama Eba …!” teriak Pite sambil menunjuk ke arah kejauhan di lembah.

Orang-orang tampak menyemut di sana. Sebagian dari mereka mengenakan pakaian berwarna hitam yang biasanya dikenakan oleh para tetua kampung. Mereka menyusuri jalan menanjak yang mengarah rumah Eba. Diiringi tabuhan tifa bertalu-talu yang menyiarkan kematian ke penjuru kampung, mereka mengusung sesosok tubuh dengan langkah yang terburu-buru.

“Joro …!” raungan Eba tenggelam dalam keriuhan warga kampung yang mendekati rumah Eba.

Terdengar ratap para perempuan menyebut-nyebut nama Joro bersahut-sahutan dengan gemuruh suara para lelaki meneriakkan serentetan kalimat yang bernada marah. “Perempuan suanggi! Pembunuh Joro! Perempuan naga! Usir dia! Eba! Keluar kamu!”

Eba dibekap kebekuan. Kakinya yang baru mulai berlari untuk menemui tubuh yang ditandu itu seakan terpaku. “Joroo!” Teriakan yang terasa memarut tenggorokkannya tidak juga melewati bibirnya yang kering, bergetar.

Tiba-tiba Eba terlempar ke masa tiga puluh tahun lalu, saat pertama kali dia menyadari bahwa orang-orang yang dikuasai amarah sanggup berbuat apa saja. Peristiwa serupa telah menimpa Nenek ketika ratusan warga Kampung Kairatu tiba-tiba mendatangi rumahnya sambil meneriakinya dengan sebutan suanggi lalu menghancurkan rumah dan segala isinya.

Eba didera kerinduan yang tak terperikan pada Nenek. Dia berlari meninggalkan Pite, menuju ke kamar tidurnya. Dia membuka lemari kayu tua dan mengeluarkan kotak kayu yang terletak di salah satu sudutnya. Air matanya berguguran membasahi kotak itu. Dia membukanya dengan tergesa-gesa lalu meletakkannya di atas meja. Pada bagian dalamnya terukir gambar kepala naga. Eba melepaskan tusuk kondenya hingga rambutnya tergerai lepas. Dia memejamkan matanya. Tubuhnya mulai bergoyang pelan. Dorongan yang gaib mengantar Eba ke dalam tarian yang dulu membuat orang-orang Kampung Kairatu menuduh Nenek sebagai suanggi.

Bunyi riuh teriakan manusia diselingi ratap tangis itu makin dekat. Eba mempercepat gerakan tariannya. Bayangan Nenek muncul di hadapannya berujar lirih, “Ingatlah, setiap perempuan adalah naga yang mampu menghanguskan seisi dunia dengan dengan api. Bahkan jika harus menangis pun, api itu tidak akan bisa dipadamkan oleh air mata. Jangan biarkan kekuatan dalam dirimu kalah dengan kepahitan!”

Gerakan tarian Eba semakin liar. Kepalanya mendongak ke atas. Satu demi satu gambaran muncul di dalam ingatannya. Anaknya yang mati satu demi satu; tarian yang dilakukannya diam-diam di hadapan kotak kayu Nenek yang terbuka; Joro yang selalu tersenyum di hadapan sepiring ikan kuah kuning; perempuan-perempuan kampung yang menggunjingkan kotak kayu bergambar naga miliknya; serta para tetua kampung yang selalu menatapnya dengan pandangan penuh kebencian.

Dengan lengan kirinya, Eba meraih kotak berisi ukiran naga itu. Dia memeluk kotak pemberian Nenek itu erat-erat. Satu-satunya peninggalan Nenek yang mampu dia selamatkan dari amuk orang-orang Kampung Kairatu yang menuduh perempuan tua itu suanggi. Nenek yang sangat dia sayangi, yang mengajarinya menari, berdoa, dan memasak papeda dan ikan kuah kuning paling enak di dunia.

Suara riuh orang-orang dan gegap tabuhan tifa makin dekat dan begitu mengancam. Beberapa saat kemudian, telinganya menangkap suara batu yang berjatuhan melubangi atap rumah yang terbuat dari daun sagu. Suara puluhan laki-laki dan perempuan bersahutan, “Keluar kamu, Eba! Perempuan suanggi! Joro mati! Enyahlah kamu!”

Eba membuka mata saat merasakan hawa panas di sekelilingnya. Api telah menjalari dinding rumah itu dengan amat cepat. Matanya perih dan nafasnya mulai sesak karena dikepung asap tebal. Di tengah kobaran api sekeliling lemari kayu, Nenek tersenyum penuh sayang sambil membuka kedua lengannya. Eba menari sambil bergerak maju lalu melebur dalam pelukan Nenek. Kotak kayu jatuh ke lantai saat Eba menyandarkan kepalanya di dada Nenek. Panas membara di sekeliling berganti menjadi kehangatan yang melenakan Eba. Dia kembali menutup mata. Senyum yang manis tersungging di bibirnya. Bersamaan dengan itu, suara gemeretak yang keras disusul gemuruh bangunan roboh membubungkan asap hitam pekat dan pijaran bunga-bunga api ke langit yang mulai memerah.

***

Tabuhan tifa berhenti. Keriuhan orang-orang yang berkumpul di sekeliling rumah itu berangsur hening. Hanya terdengar suara ombak menghantam tebing karang. Pada sela-sela gumpalan asap tebal yang masih mengepul dari reruntuhan rumah, terlihat barisan para tetua kampung yang berpakaian hitam. Mereka menatap kobaran api pada reruntuhan rumah dengan pandangan penuh kemarahan.

Di tengah barisan para tetua, berdiri seorang laki-laki bertubuh subur. Dia berpakaian hitam panjang. Kulitnya bersih, wajahnya bulat, dengan rambut yang berminyak. Laki-laki itu berdiri sambil menatap lurus ke depan. Dia menengadahkan telapak tangan kanan ke arah reruntuhan rumah. Tangan kirinya memegang buku tebal berwarna hitam yang sedang terbuka. Dengan suara berat dan lantang, laki-laki itu berkata, “Saudara-Saudaraku dalam iman! Ini adalah suatu peringatan tentang hukuman Tuhan bagi siapa saja yang menyembah berhala. Ingatlah, Tuhan kita adalah Tuhan yang pencemburu. Tuhan akan menghukum manusia yang menduakan-Nya. Seperti ada tertulis di dalam firman ….” Laki-laki itu diam sejenak, lalu menunduk. Dia menatap buku tebal yang ada di tangan kirinya. Dia menghela napas dalam-dalam, lalu mengucapkan dengan lantang kata-kata yang dibacanya dari buku itu, “Enyahlah dari hadapan-Ku, hai kamu orang-orang terkutuk, enyahlah ke dalam api yang kekal yang telah sedia untuk iblis dan malaikat-malaikatnya. Amin!”

Lautan manusia menggumamkan, “Amin.” Gerimis perlahan turun dari langit yang mulai gelap. Satu per satu orang-orang itu berjalan menjauh dari reruntuhan rumah yang hampir habis dilalap api. Beberapa laki-laki kembali menggotong mayat Joro yang terbaring di atas tandu dan ditutup sehelai kain hitam. Mereka semua berjalan dengan langkah pelan dan dalam diam menuruni lembah menuju ke arah kampung.

 

*****

Dragon Woman

Pada tahun 2005 Umar Thamrin menerima beasiswa Fulbright Grant dan Catherine and William L. Magistretti Graduate Fellowship untuk menyelesaikan pendidikan pascasarjana di Amerika Serikat. Sebelum kembali ke tanah air pada penghujung 2017, dia menerima tawaran dari University of Oregon untuk menjadi peneliti dan pengajar selama setahun.

Saat kembali ke tanah air, dia prihatin melihat rakyat yang tetap saja terpinggirkan dan sejarah yang begitu mudah terlupakan. Inilah yang mendorongnya untuk merenung, mengenang, dan menulis. Umar sekarang mengajar linguistik pada Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin.

Umar Thamrin: umar2x.umar@gmail.com

 

Dragon Woman

 

Eba squeezed lime juice into a small brown bowl with a chipped rim. Her curly graying hair was put up in a bun. Damp ringlets fell over the collar of her shabby red kebaya. With a corner of the pale orange shawl draped around her shoulders, Eba dabbed at the beaded sweat on her temples and thought, It is already afternoon. Joro will be home soon.

The skipjack tuna soup was simmering. Thin spirals of steam rose with the scent of basil, ginger, lemongrass, and turmeric from the golden broth. Using her fingers, Eba deftly removed the lime seeds from the bowl, tossed them into the garuru, a basket made from woven sago palm fronds, and poured the juice into the bubbling broth. After a few stirs, she spooned the broth and thick chunks of skipjack tuna into a serving bowl. She brought her face closer to the steaming bowl and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She enjoyed her cooking.

Eba scattered the remaining embers of the earthen stove until the flames were completely extinguished. “Joro will enjoy it,” she whispered. A thin smile curled Eba’s thick lips as she placed the bowl on the table, next to a small plate of ​​banana blossom slices she had fried with a handful of onions and a pinch of salt.

Eba bloomed with joy. During her twenty years of marriage, she had learned to recognize this feeling of satisfaction after she prepared a meal. She really liked to cook. This was what made her different from many of the other women in Sameth, a village on Indonesia’s Haruku Island, where she and Joro lived. Most women on the island preferred to sit and gossip instead of spend time in the kitchen. Compared to them, Eba was certainly a much better housewife. She lived to serve her husband and children.

Eba froze at the edge of the table. Her eyes grew misty and a familiar sadness washed over her, as she looked at the table. Once, the portions she cooked had been much larger. Children had stood around the table vying to fill their plates. But her children had all died. Now, thinking of them, Eba’s heart felt like a pincushion with numerous pins stuck into it.

Eba shook her head slowly, and wiped her eyes. That’s enough. Don’t cry anymore. Crying will only make their bones tremble in their graves; they will not be able to rest peacefully. A bittersweet smile replaced her tears.

Eba reached for a food cover hanging on the wall and placed it over the dishes on the table. “All that’s left to prepare is the papeda,” she said quietly, referring to the traditional Moluccan sago congee dish. “I’ll take a short break and boil the water later. Then I can prepare the sago congee as soon as Joro arrives. He will sulk if I serve him cold papeda.” She took a deep breath and turned away from the table.

***

Eba walked through the kitchen, where the cooking fire was still smoldering, and stepped outside through a door made of gaba-gaba. Like the rest of the house, the door was made from slats cut out of sago palm midribs while the thatched roof was held up by bamboo beams. Their house stood secluded on a cliff, in the southern part of Sameth, with its main door facing the sea. The black coral cliffs extended into the water, serving as a bulkhead that protected them from the mighty waves during the east monsoon.

Behind the house, where Eba now stood, she and Joro used to sit and look at Ambon Island in the distance. On a clear day, they could see the peak of Mount Salahutu, bathed proudly in the sunlight. Today, the mountain, wrapped in dark clouds, looked a little ominous.

Joro had chiseled out a narrow path between the steep rocky slopes so they could walk from their house down to the beach, where they fished, dug for clams, and responded to the call of nature.

Eba slumped onto a bench built with gaba-gaba. The bench was shaded by three ketapang trees. Joro had planted the tallest of these sea almond trees the day after they buried their youngest son two years ago. The boy had been harvesting barnacles off the cliff when he fell and was swept away by the sea.

“He was taken by the sea devil,” said the village elder when, the next day, fishermen from a neighboring village found the boy’s open-mouthed, bloated body floating in the ocean. After two days of mourning, Eba and Joro decided to plant a ketapang tree in remembrance of their son and that sorrowful day.

Eba closed her eyes. Inhaling the scents of the sea, she tried to dismiss the melancholy, lingering in her mind. She caught a whiff of the skipjack tuna drying on the bamboo racks lined up along the side of the house. Her eldest son had built the racks before he died on a Sunday, just a month ago. Joro had been getting ready to go fishing at dawn when he found his son’s dead body. The boy’s eyes were open, and bruises circled his neck. The boy had never been sick. Eba began to cry, remembering how the villagers had given her strange looks while muttering, “Strangled by the devil.”

After the customary week of mourning, Joro planted the third ketapang sapling, just to the right of the second which he had planted a year ago when their only daughter died. The girl had been stung by a centipede that had fallen from the ceiling onto her bed. The child jolted upright and, wide-eyed, screamed in pain. She died while the centipede disappeared.

A dry ketapang twig dropped onto Eba’s lap. Each time Joro had planted a ketapang tree, he told her it was a symbol of hope for life and a prevention of more death. But after her continual losses, Eba came to believe that her husband was just making up stories to soothe her. Her children had fallen one by one, like the dried ketapang leaves.

Eba remembered her beautiful and diligent daughter; her youngest son, who was naughty but adorable; and her obedient, eldest son who was handsome, just like his father. A hatred flared in her heart — a hatred as terrible as what she had felt during the wake for her daughter, when she overheard the village women whisper, “Bitten by a demon.”

Eba had not wanted to confront the villagers who treated her badly. Everyone in this village was related to her husband, and Eba didn’t want to hurt Joro’s feelings. She therefore kept silent and dealt with the hatred she felt, alone.

***

Eba was an orphan. She was born and raised in Kairatu, a village on Seram Island. Her father had died four months before she was born, and her mother died four days after giving birth to her. Eba’s grandmother, the village midwife who had helped Eba’s mother give birth to her, raised Eba. “Eaten by a dragon,” was the reason several village women attached to her mother’s death. Eba’s grandmother, as usual, kept silent.

Eba’s grandmother raised her with great affection. The old woman loved to dance. She usually danced in her dimly lit room while humming a mantra but several times, Eba saw her dancing at night in their hut’s backyard during the full moon. Occasionally, her grandmother called to Eba to dance with her.

Although Eba did not understand why her grandmother asked her to join in the dance, she gradually began to like dancing. Soon, Eba could imitate her grandmother’s moves with her eyes closed. But she still could not hum her grandmother’s strange song.

Eba’s first husband, Ica, had been killed by a boar while he was hunting in the forest. A year after Eba lost Ica, she met Joro in Kairatu at a katreji, a traditional Moluccan dance influenced by Portuguese culture. Joro had been invited to the dance party along with other young people.

It was love at first sight. Joro wanted to marry Eba immediately, but Joro’s relatives, and the village elders of Sameth, were opposed. Besides the fact that Eba was a widow, Kairatu and Sameth had a pela relationship, a traditional alliance between villages that did not allow a man from Sameth to marry a woman from Kairatu. “Taboo,” the villagers said. “The ancestors will be angry. Bad luck will befall all of us.” Moreover, the widely-spread rumor in Sameth was that Eba was a suanggi, a witch who practiced black magic.

As usual, Joro was silent. He was a diligent, simple, reserved man. He asked Eba to elope with him to his best friend’s house in Tala, a village on the west side of Seram Island. After their marriage, they settled down and built a new life in Tala.

However, four months later, they received news from Sameth. Joro’s mother was dying. When they arrived, several relatives eyed Eba suspiciously. “She’s possessed by a suanggi,” they said, as if Eba had cast a spell to make her mother-in-law ill.

Joro had been the only child of a Sameth elder who was killed during the bloody riot between Muslims and Christians on the island in 1999, twenty years ago. The village elders now wanted Joro to move back to his ancestral house in Sameth, to protect their family’s heritage.

Joro was well aware of his extended family’s rejection of his wife, but he ignored it. He and Eba moved to Sameth. Turning a deaf ear to the elders’ requests to rid himself of Eba and find a suitable wife, Joro simply continued his routine of fishing and working the land. He never expressed his love by hugging Eba or stroking their children’s heads, but he was never abusive or unfaithful. And to Eba, he was the perfect man. He had not changed much from the time Eba had first caught an affectionate glint in his eyes.

When their youngest child died, the rumor spread that Eba was the bearer of bad luck. The rumor reached the ears of Eba and Joro, as well as their two remaining children. Eba would never forget how the village women turned their backs on her when she came to the river to wash clothes and kitchenware. For months, they all refused to speak to her. Finally, Eba could not take it anymore.

Joro felt the same. He took Eba and their two children to the outskirts of the village and built a hut for them to live in. Joro no longer mingled with the Sameth villagers. He went alone to hunt in the forest and fish in the sea. He worked his garden by himself.

When the third death struck Joro’s family, the village people grew contentious. Screaming fiercely at Eba, they called her a dragon woman and a suanggi. The villagers blamed Eba and Joro for breaking the pela relationship. They shooed and spit on Eba whenever they passed her.

Joro explained to Eba that the villagers believed that a dragon lived in her body and that the beast would slowly kill off her family in various ways. The dragon was passed down through generations of women.

Eba secluded herself at home. She no longer attended church and never went to the river to wash her clothes and kitchenware. She raged at all the villagers’ accusations against her. She didn’t understand why her life was surrounded by death. Nor did she understand why everyone thought of her as a jinx. She was not a suanggi. She did not believe the superstitions about dragons and the violations of pela relationships that could kill her children. If only they knew that during her childhood, her grandmother used to take her to church and taught her to pray. A picture of God hung in every room in her grandmother’s hut — except in the dim room where she danced.

Eba believed in God. When she was a child, she would sometimes sit and cry while staring at one of the pictures of God, hanging in her grandmother’s hut, begging God to let her parents live again or begging God not to let her grandmother die because she could not even bear to imagine living her life alone. And even though her parents never lived again and her grandmother eventually died, Eba still loved God, and always called on Him in her prayers.

***

“Mama Eba! Mama Eba! Open the door! Open the door!” The screaming and rattling of the front door jolted Eba out of her daydream. She jumped up from the bench and ran to the front door.

“Mama Eba! Open the door! Hurry up!” the voice screamed louder. Eba flung the slide bolt to the left.

A sweaty brown face stared up at her, with wide, bloodshot eyes filled with shock and fear. Eba recognized the skinny girl. Pite was the daughter of one of her husband’s cousins. Before Eba could utter a single word, Pite started to scream again. Shaking violently, she cried, “Mama Eba! Mama Eba! Uncle Joro fell out of a clove tree. Uncle Joro’s dead! Uncle Joro’s dead!”

The world around Eba turned black. Trembling, she took a step back, still holding onto the door. Her eyes filled, and her throat tightened. She couldn’t make a sound.

“Mama Eba! Mama Eba! Look!” Pite pointed at the throngs of people gathering below them at the base of the cliff. Some wore the black clothes typically worn by village elders. The crowd rushed up the path that led to Eba’s hut, accompanied by the drumming of tifas. The single-headed goblet drums broadcasted Joro’s death throughout the village.

“Joro!” Eba’s howl was drowned out by the clamor of the villagers approaching Eba’s house, carrying Joro’s body.

The women wailed, calling Joro’s name, while the men shouted a series of angry accusations. “Suanggi bitch! Joro’s killer! Dragon bitch! Banish her! Eba! Get out!”

Eba stood paralyzed, stunned with fear. “Jorooo!” The scream caught in her throat before it could pass her dry, trembling lips.

Without warning, Eba was thrown back thirty years in time, when she first realized that people driven by hate were capable of doing anything. She had been with her grandmother when a similar incident had happened. Hundreds of people from Kairatu had swarmed her grandmother’s house, called her a suanggi, and then destroyed the house and everything in it.

Overcome by an unspeakable longing for her grandmother, Eba spun away from Pite and ran to her bedroom. She opened the cupboard and took out a wooden box tucked back in a corner of a shelf. Tears fell on the box as she hurriedly opened it and placed it on the table. A dragon’s head was carved in the bottom of the box.

Eba snatched out the hairpin holding her bun, and her hair fell loose. She closed her eyes, and her body began to slowly sway. A supernatural urge led Eba to perform the dance that had caused the people of Kairatu to accuse her grandmother of being a suanggi.

Outside, screams interspersed with wailing grew louder. Eba’s movements grew faster. Her grandmother’s image appeared to her and whispered, “Remember, every woman is a dragon capable of scorching the whole world with her fire. But even if she is compelled to cry, her tears will not extinguish that fire. Do not allow hardship to weaken you!”

Eba’s dance became wilder. She looked up. One image after another appeared in her mind. Her children who died, one by one; Joro, who always smiled in front of a plate of papeda and yellow fish soup; the dance she performed surreptitiously in front of her grandmother’s open dragon box; the village women who gossiped about the box; the village elders who always stared at her with a hateful gaze.

Eba grabbed her grandmother’s dragon box and hugged it tightly to her chest. The dragon box was the only thing she had saved from the fury of the Kairatu people who accused the old woman of being a suanggi — the grandmother she loved so much, who had taught her to dance, pray, and cook the world’s most delicious papeda and yellow fish soup.

The wailing, along with the threatening clamor of boisterous screams and the drumming of tifas, were so close. Rocks pelted the roof of sago palm leaves, as the voices of dozens of men and women shouted, “Get out, Eba! Suanggi bitch! Joro is dead! Kill her!”

Eba opened her eyes when she felt the heat surround her. The fire had spread through the hut very quickly. Her eyes stung and she choked on the thick smoke. Amid the flames flaring from the wood cupboard, her grandmother emerged and smiled lovingly as she opened her arms.

Eba danced into her grandmother’s arms. The dragon box fell to the floor as Eba rested her head on her grandmother’s chest. The scorching heat turned into a comforting warmth and lulled her. Eba closed her eyes again. A sweet smile tugged at her lips.

A loud crackling sound was followed by the rumbling of the hut’s collapsing frame. Thick black smoke billowed. Sparks of fire merged with the crimson sky.

***

The drumming of the tifas stopped. The crowd surrounding the house gradually quieted. Now, only the waves crashing against the cliffs was heard. Cloaked by the thick plumes of smoke rising from the ruins of Eba and Joro’s hut stood a row of village elders dressed in black. With eyes ablaze with anger, they stared at the lingering flames licking at the charred ruins.

In the middle of the line of elders stood a man dressed in a long black cassock. He was fair-skinned and well-groomed. Looking straight ahead, he turned his right palm towards the burned hut. His left hand held an open, thick, black book. With a deep, loud voice, the man intoned, “My brothers and sisters in the faith! This is a warning! God will punish anyone who worships idols. Remember, our God is a jealous God. God will punish people who doubt Him. As it is written in this book …” The man paused, then lowered his head. He stared at the book in his left hand. He took a deep breath, then read aloud from the book, “Get away from me! God has cursed you! Go into the everlasting fire that was prepared for the devil and his angels! Amen!”

The ​​crowd murmured, “Amen.”

A light rain drizzled from the dark sky. The crowd turned away from the ruins of a hut almost completely devoured by fire. Several men carried the stretcher with Joro’s body, covered with a black sheet. They all walked slowly and silently down the cliff towards the village.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Rubini dan Ibu Ratu

Berti Nurul Khajati lulusan IKIP Muhammadiyah Purworejo. Dia lulus pascasarjana tahun 2021 di UHAMKA Jakarta. Kini, dia tinggal di Bekasi, Jawa Barat, dan mengajar di SD Negeri Setia Asih 06, di Kecamatan Tarumajaya. Dia dan kawan-kawan telah menerbitkan buku cerita anak berjudul Aku Anak Laut (Rose Book, 2019) dan Mencari Harta Karun (Rumah Imaji, 2022). Dia juga menulis karya ilmiah yang telah diterbitkan oleh beberapa jurnal ilmiah. Menulis cerita pendek tanpa kata serapan adalah tantangan baru baginya.

Berti Nurul Khajati: bertikhajati2@gmail.com

 

 

Rubini dan Ibu Ratu

 

“Dini hari, tanggal 6 Maret 1942, Purworejo diserang oleh satuan Isoroku Yamamoto. Pasukan Jepang ini bergerak dari arah Yogyakarta. Purworejo yang masih dikuasai oleh Belanda dengan tentara KNIL-nya sempat melancarkan perlawanan sengit di wilayah tenggara Kota Purworejo. Namun, pasukan Jepang mampu memadamkan perlawanan itu sehingga pada pukul sebelas siang, Kota Purworejo sudah dikuasai.” Tuso mendengarkan siaran radio sambil berjongkok di depan tungku. Sebilah arit berkilat-kilat terselip di dinding berkilau memantulkan sinar api tungku ke wajah Tuso.

Siaran radio masih berlangsung. Gawat! Jepang sudah masuk Purworejo, bisik hatinya. Dia melirik ke arah istrinya. Dada Tuso berdegup kencang mengingat perintah Pak Lurah untuk memimpin perlawanan jika tentara Jepang menyerang.

Rubini tengah mondar-mandir menyiapkan nasi liwet dan daun singkong berkuah santan. Dia menaruh piring dan mangkuk di atas meja kayu sambil bersenandung lirih. Padi di sawah mereka sudah menguning. Beberapa hari lagi mereka panen.

Dor! Dor! Dor! Tiba-tiba terdengar suara tembakan. Tuso dan Rubini saling pandang.

Dengan sigap, Tuso meraih arit yang terselip di dinding dan menarik tangan Rubini. “Cepat keluar! Bersembunyilah di sawah! Merunduk di antara batang-batang padi!”

“Kang Tuso mau ke mana?” Rubini berteriak gemetar.

“Jangan khawatirkan aku! Cepat sembunyi sebelum mereka datang!”

Rubini menyibak batang-batang padi yang dipenuhi oleh bulir-bulir yang membulat. Padi-padi sudah saatnya dipanen. Namun tiba-tiba Desa Clapar, desa terpencil di atas bukit dekat Purworejo itu, menjadi medan pertempuran antara tentara Jepang dan Belanda.

Rubini tetap bertahan di antara batang-batang padi yang tumbuh subur dengan bulir-bulir gabahnya yang tajam menusuk kulit. Rasa gatal bercampur perih membuat Rubini tidak betah, tetapi untuk keluar dari tempat persembunyiannya pun dia tidak punya keberanian.

Matahari sore sudah waktunya terbenam. Warna merah lembayung menyemburat di ufuk barat, seakan melengkapi ceceran darah dari tubuh-tubuh yang bergelimpangan di sepanjang jalan yang membelah desa. Dengan kepala terunduk, Rubini mengintip dari kerimbunan batang padi. Letusan bedil masih terdengar sesekali, sebelum akhirnya sunyi menguasai malam yang gelap-gulita karena tidak seorang pun menyalakan pelita. Dengan tubuh penuh goresan luka, Rubini mengangkat kakinya yang lama terbenam di lumpur sawah dengan susah-payah. Sebagian lumpur mengering di betisnya.

Dari tempat persembunyiannya, Rubini melihat tentara Jepang menggelandang beberapa pemuda desa dengan tangan terikat ke belakang dan meninggalkan tubuh-tubuh meregang nyawa itu begitu saja. Pembantaian oleh tentara Jepang, dengan cara menembaki para lelaki desa yang tidak memiliki senjata, telah usai. Dengan cepat, mereka berderap mengikuti perintah pemimpinnya ke luar dari Clapar.

Para perempuan mulai berani keluar dari persembunyiannya dan suasana semakin gaduh. Terhuyung Rubini menghampiri tubuh-tubuh yang tergeletak bersimbah darah. Tubuh-tubuh penuh luka masih bergelimpangan. Erangan demi erangan semakin menghilang seiring suara mengorok yang menandakan lepasnya nyawa dari badan. Desah napas yang memburu berganti dengan cekaman kesunyian yang menakutkan. Desa Clapar telah berubah menjadi desa mati. Para lelaki yang semula menghidupkan desa dan mengolah sawah telah dibantai oleh serangan tiba-tiba. Mereka hanya membawa senjata berupa arit yang biasanya digunakan sebagai alat untuk memanen padi.

Perempuan-perempuan Desa Clapar tidak sempat lagi menangisi kematian suami dan anak lelaki mereka. Mereka harus segera menggali kuburan agar tubuh-tubuh tidak bernyawa itu dapat dimakamkan malam itu juga. Suara jangkrik berselingan dengan suara linggis dan pacul yang berbenturan dengan tanah dan bebatuan merindingkan bulu roma Rubini.

Di pinggir jalan setapak yang ditumbuhi rerumputan, tubuh Tuso tergeletak bersimbah darah. Bau anyirnya menusuk hidung Rubini. Dia bersimpuh sambil memegang dadanya yang tiba-tiba sesak. Orang yang dicintainya meninggal dengan cara mengenaskan. Sama seperti perempuan-perempuan lain, Rubini menguburkan Tuso dengan pakaian yang melekat di badan. Tidak ada waktu lagi untuk mencari kain kafan. Tanah yang digali pun tidak terlalu dalam. Keterbatasan tenaga perempuan membuat kuburan-kuburan itu lebih mirip kuburan kucing daripada kuburan manusia.

Usai menguburkan jasad suaminya, Rubini bergegas membungkus pakaian seadanya. Para perempuan memutuskan untuk segera keluar dari Desa Clapar agar terhindar dari serangan tentara esok hari. Mereka meninggalkan Desa Clapar dengan berbekal buntalan sekadarnya, menyebar ke mana saja.

Rubini menuju Bapangsari dengan harapan bertemu sepupunya yang tinggal di desa atas perbukitan Menoreh itu. Gonggongan anjing di kejauhan dan rasa dingin yang menggigit kulit membuat hati Rubini berdesir. Bulan sabit di langit tidak cukup menerangi langkahnya.

Jalan menuju Bapangsari lengang ketika Rubini keluar dari Desa Clapar. Dia berjalan semalaman. Tiba-tiba, hari sudah berganti. Terik matahari yang mulai tajam bersama debu yang ditebarkan angin menyengat kulit Rubini. Perjalanan yang ditempuhnya sudah cukup jauh dari Clapar. Kakinya pegal dan perutnya lapar. Dengan gontai, dia melangkah menuju pohon asam untuk melepaskan lelahnya. Ada selokan kecil berair bening tidak jauh dari pohon. Rubini segera ke sana, menciduk airnya dengan tangan, lalu meneguknya. Segarnya air terasa membasahi kerongkongannya. Rubini kembali ke pohon asam dan bersandar pada batangnya. Angin semilir yang bertiup membuatnya mengantuk.

“He, kamu! Di mana laki-lakimu sembunyi?”

Rubini tersentak membuka matanya. Di depannya berdiri tiga tentara Jepang bersenjatakan bedil. Dia menolehkan kepala ke segala arah, namun tidak seorang pun tampak kecuali ketiga tentara yang berwajah garang. Terhuyung Rubini berusaha bangkit.

“Saya tidak punya laki-laki, Tuan. Saya janda.”

“Janda, he? Kau orang punya laki-laki melawan kami!” Wajah tentara itu terlihat kejam.

Matanya melotot dan urat-urat lehernya tampak seperti kawat-kawat yang menjulur tidak beraturan.

“Tidak, Tuan. Suami saya mati karena sakit.”

“He! Kamu orang bohong, ya? Itu apa kaubawa?” Bayonet yang tergantung di pinggangnya diangkat dan diarahkan pada buntalan yang tergeletak di tanah.

“Ini buntalan baju, Tuan. Saya mengunjungi sepupu.”

“Bohong!” Tentara itu mengangkat bedilnya. Diacungkannya senjata itu tepat di dada Rubini.

Rubini terkejut; keringat dingin mengalir di sekujur tubuhnya. Dengan tangan gemetar, dia mencari pegangan pada batang pohon tempatnya istirahat.

Seorang tentara yang sudah agak tua berbicara dalam bahasa mereka. Tampaknya teman-temannya dapat menerima omongan tentara tua itu. Mereka melanjutkan perjalanannya dengan langkah cepat.

Dengan lutut yang masih lemas, Rubini meraih buntalan pakaiannya dan melanjutkan perjalanan ke Bapangsari.

***

Segera setelah berhasil menguasai Purworejo, Jepang membangun benteng pertahanannya. Benteng besar itu harus dikerjakan siang malam karena akan digunakan sebagai tempat untuk mengintai keberadaan KNIL.

Dari Desa Bapangsari, yang letaknya tinggi di atas perbukitan Menoreh di antara Kota Yogyakarta dan Purworejo, garis pantai dari Jatimalang sampai Congot memang jelas terlihat. Namun di sekitar bukit itu, ternyata masih banyak rumah-rumah penduduk yang mengganggu jalannya pembangunan benteng Jepang. Jepang memerintahkan Pak Lurah untuk merobohkan rumah-rumah itu.

***

Hari beranjak sore ketika Rubini tiba di Bapangsari. Langkahnya sudah terseok-seok. Tumitnya yang pecah-pecah dengan beberapa luka lecet di jari-jarinya membuat Rubini meringis menahan pedih. Dia berhenti di dekat batu besar. Di sekelilingnya ada orang-orang yang bekerja. Mereka menggunakan pacul dan linggis untuk menggali tanah yang keras berbatu. Bentuk galian itu memanjang dari ujung selatan ke utara. Rubini melihat bekas rumah-rumah yang dibongkar. Di ujung jalan Desa Bapangsari yang dulu sering dilalui ketika berkunjung ke rumah Karmin, sepupunya, dia melihat gundukan tanah bekas galian. Rumah sepupunya telah dibongkar dan digali menjadi parit juga.

Wajah Rubini pucat-pasi. Harapan untuk bertemu sepupunya hilang sudah. Hatinya ngeri dengan kenyataan di depan matanya. Sepupunya sudah kehilangan rumah. Rubini memandangi kesibukan yang terjadi di depan matanya. Dengan perasaan bingung, dia menolehkan kepalanya ke kanan-kiri. Ada di mana Karmin sekarang, batin Rubini.

Tiba-tiba, seorang pekerja yang memanggul pacul melewati Rubini, berhenti dalam perjalanannya. Dia membalikkan badan dan, setelah menatapnya dengan cermat, datang menghampiri Rubini.

Mulut Rubini terbuka dan berteriak, “Karmin!” Hati Rubini membuncah. Matanya bersinar.
Karmin dengan cepat meletakkan jari telunjuk di bibirnya. “Kamu harus segera pergi dari sini!” Matanya yang cekung memancarkan kekhawatiran. Dia memegang bahu Rubini dan mendorongnya.

“Tapi …,” Rubini berusaha bertahan. Dipegangnya lengan Karmin. Dia berkeras untuk tinggal.

Karmin melanjutkan ucapannya dengan berbisik, “Bapangsari sudah dikuasai Jepang.

Kami laki-laki di desa ini harus bekerja menggali parit. Kamu harus pergi dari sini! Kalau ketahuan Jepang, kamu bisa celaka. Cepat pergi!” Karmin berbisik.

“Tolonglah saya, Kang.” Rubini memohon dengan mata berkaca-kaca. “Saya sekarang sebatang kara. Suamiku sudah dibunuh Jepang. Kamulah satu-satunya pelindungku.” Suaranya berbisik parau. Hatinya hancur melihat rumah sepupunya yang sudah dibongkar.

Tiba-tiba, dari balik timbunan tanah bekas galian, muncul seorang laki-laki bertubuh pendek. Dengan topi yang menutupi tengkuk, dia meneriakkan perintah kepada para pekerja dengan logat yang terdengar aneh.

Seketika Karmin merunduk dan mendorong Rubini dengan paksa. “Cepatlah pergi! Jika tertangkap, kamu akan dijadikan jugun ianfu.”

“Jugun ianfu? Apa itu?” Sergah Rubini.

“Melayani tentara Jepang seperti kamu melayani suamimu,” balas Karmin cepat. Hatinya kecut mengingat beberapa perempuan desa yang sudah menjadi jugun ianfu. Dia tidak rela Rubini menjadi bagian dari mereka. Ditatapnya wajah Rubini yang tiba-tiba memerah, lalu memucat.

Rubini pasrah saja ketika Karmin mengajaknya menjauh dari tempat itu.

Karmin menarik Rubini yang sudah kepayahan berjalan. Mereka menyusuri pematang sawah supaya terlihat seperti petani dan menjauh dari Bapangsari ke arah barat. Kira-kira dua jam berjalan, mereka menemukan sebuah dangau di tengah sawah. Setelah yakin keadaan aman, Karmin mengajak Rubini berhenti. Hatinya iba melihat keadaan Rubini. Namun jika membiarkannya tetap di Bapangsari, akan sangat berbahaya.

“Kamu akan kuantarkan ke Karangbolong. Ingat Yu Srini? Dia adalah bibi kita.” Karmin berbicara dengan sungguh-sungguh. Dia membenamkan tangannya ke dalam lumpur sawah. Lalu dengan sekali sentakan, dia menariknya. Seekor belut gemuk tertangkap olehnya. Karmin membuang isi perut dan mencuci belut itu dengan air sawah.

Sinar matahari sudah meredup ketika Rubini menyantap belut bakar.

“Saya menurut nasihatmu saja, Kang. Ngeri hatiku mendengar pekerjaan jugun ianfu.” Wajah Rubini bergidik membayangkan pekerjaan yang tidak pernah terpikirkan olehnya.

Dalam kegelapan yang membungkus dangau, Karmin melindungi sepupunya. Dia berjaga semalaman agar Rubini dapat beristirahat. Dilihatnya Rubini yang tertidur pulas dan mendengkur halus dengan penuh iba.

Ketika bangun keesokan harinya, Rubini merasa lebih kuat. Wajahnya lebih segar meskipun masih ada sisa-sisa kelelahan. Pegal di kakinya jauh berkurang. Mereka berjalan menyusuri kebun-kebun penduduk sehingga dapat memetik kacang panjang dan menggali sedikit ubi untuk mengisi perut. Ketika malam tiba, mereka menumpang di dangau petani di tengah ladang.

Dua hari satu malam mereka berjalan, tibalah di rumah Yu Srini. Di depan rumah kayu berdinding gedek, Karmin mengetuk pintu. “Kulonuwun ⸺ Permisi.”

Monggo ⸺ Silakan masuk.” Perempuan berambut putih yang digelung sederhana membukakan pintu. Wajahnya sejenak menegang,; lalu dia berteriak, “Karmin?” Senyumnya mengembang di bibir tuanya yang keriput.

Karmin menyalami bibinya. Jantungnya berdebar. Hatinya bahagia melihat bibinya sehat. Tebersit rasa khawatir kalau bibinya berkeberatan menampung Rubini di rumahnya.

Yu Srini mengalihkan pandangannya kepada Rubini. “Lho! Ini Rubini, kan? Aku masih ingat. Apa yang terjadi?” Yu Srini tidak dapat menahan hasratnya untuk bertanya.

Rubini tidak menjawab. Dia malah menggenggam tangan Yu Srini erat-erat lalu menubruk tubuh renta itu dan menangis di pundaknya.

Yu Srini mengelus punggung Rubini. “Kita bicara di dalam, ya.” Dia menggandeng tangan Rubini dan menyuruhnya duduk di bangku kayu.

Karmin mengikuti di belakang mereka. Sambil menikmati air putih dan singkong rebus, Karmin bercerita. “Rumahku di Bapangsari telah dihancurkan. Tempatnya digunakan untuk membangun benteng Jepang. Aku mau menitipkan Rubini di sini. Aku tidak mampu melindunginya dari Jepang karena aku pun harus bekerja untuk mereka sebagai romusha ⸺ pekerja paksa yang tidak dibayar.”

Yu Srini terhenyak. “Terus kamu tinggal di mana?”

Karmin menukas, “Aku bisa tinggal di mana saja. Tapi Rubini tidak. Dia butuh perlindungan. Suaminya dibunuh oleh Jepang sehingga tidak mungkin baginya untuk kembali ke Clapar.”

Yu Srini menyimak cerita Karmin dengan wajah sendu. Matanya memerah. Dia mengusap air matanya dengan ujung kebaya.

Sementara, Rubini hanya mampu menunduk terisak-isak.

***

Yu Srini tinggal sendiri di rumah peninggalan suaminya. Perempuan berusia enam puluh tahun itu berjualan makanan di depan rumahnya. “Terkadang orang yang mau pergi ke pantai belum sempat sarapan,” kata Yu Srini sambil menata dagangannya di atas pelupuh. Meja pendek yang terbuat dari bambu itu, berlubang di bagian tengah agak ke belakang agar dia dapat duduk sambil melayani pembeli. Beberapa lelaki datang dan duduk di dingklik di depan pelupuh. Mereka memesan nasi dan lauk-pauk sambil duduk di kursi bambu pendek itu.

Rubini segera menyesuaikan diri dengan kehidupan Yu Srini. Dia membantu memasak nasi dan lauk-pauk di dapur dan membawanya keluar.

Dari tempat Yu Srini berjualan, Rubini dapat melihat pantai berbatu karang di kejauhan. Ketika pembeli sudah sepi, dia sering mengamati kegiatan di pantai itu. Dilihatnya lelaki-lelaki Karangbolong merayapi tangga-tangga bambu yang dipasang di ketinggian batu karang. Tangga-tangga itu dibuat untuk memanen sarang burung walet yang dipercayai sebagai obat beraneka penyakit.

Burung-burung yang membuat sarang dengan air liurnya itu menjadi tumpuan penduduk Karangbolong. Pemanen harus bergelantungan di tangga-tangga bambu. Gemuruh ombak memecah karang disertai cipratan air dan tiupan angin kencang menjadi tantangan berat. Selain itu, bertarung dengan sambaran-sambaran burung walet yang berusaha mempertahankan sarangnya juga sering membuat perhatian mereka terpecah. Jika sudah begitu keadaannya, kemungkinan untuk jatuh menjadi semakin besar. Barang yang dipanen dengan taruhan nyawa itu harganya sangat mahal. Pembelinya, kebanyakan para pedagang keturunan Cina yang berasal dari luar kota, seperti Purworejo dan Yogyakarta. Mereka akan meramu sarang burung walet menjadi obat untuk menyembuhkan dan memulihkan tenaga orang yang sakit parah dan memperbanyak air susu perempuan yang baru melahirkan.

Dengan menjual hasil panennya, laki-laki Karangbolong mencukupi kehidupan keluarganya.

***

Penanggalan di dinding telah menunjukkan bulan Agustus 1945. Wulan Kesanga, bulan kesembilan dalam penanggalan Jawa, sudah tiba. Saatnya untuk panen sarang burung walet.

Para lelaki sudah siap dengan peralatannya. Tali-tali berukuran besar digulung dan disampirkan di atas bahu. Tali-tali itu akan digunakan untuk menggantung keranjang-keranjang bambu tempat menampung hasil panen. Mereka dibantu oleh istri-istri mereka. Perempuan-perempuan itu melangkahkan kaki dan mengangkut keranjang-keranjang itu di atas kepala mereka.

Rubini merasakan detak jantungnya berpacu melihat laki-laki Karangbolong merambati tangga bambu yang digunakan untuk memanen sarang burung walet. Merayap di kecuraman tebing karang tempat burung walet bersarang, mereka tampak seperti semut yang merangkak-rangkak di dinding raksasa. Oh, alangkah kecilnya nyawa mereka, batin Rubini sambil memandang ombak yang datang silih berganti. Gulungan ombak itu mengingatkan Rubini pada Ibu Ratu, panggilan untuk Nyi Roro Kidul, yang dipercaya oleh penduduk Karangbolong sebagai pelindung mereka. Mereka melaksanakan upacara sedekah laut sebagai ungkapan rasa terima kasih kepada Ibu Ratu setiap musim panen sarang burung walet tiba.

Matahari sore menyisakan warna jingga. Bayang-bayang para pemanjat memanjang di hamparan pasir pantai. Satu per satu mereka menuruni tangga-tangga bambu, lalu berjalan beriringan menuju desa. Panen sarang burung walet hari itu usai sudah. Bersama perempuan-perempuan yang lain, Rubini berlari kecil membawa ceret dan cangkir menyambut para lelaki yang pulang dengan selamat.

***

Yu Srini menyetel radio tua peninggalan suaminya. “Jepang menyerah tanpa syarat kepada Amerika setelah Kota Hiroshima dan Nagasaki dibom atom. Kesempatan ini digunakan oleh para pemuda untuk mewujudkan cita-cita perjuangannya. Hari ini, 17 Agustus 1945, Sukarno – Hatta telah menyatakan kemerdekaan Indonesia dan bendera merah putih berkibar di Jakarta.” Siaran radio berkumandang ke segala penjuru. Terdengar sorak-sorai orang berkumpul di pantai.

Rubini menyusul. Dia ikut larut dalam kegembiraan orang ramai. Sudah tiga tahun Rubini menumpang di rumah Yu Srini. Selain merayakan kemerdekaan Republik Indonesia, hari ini Rubini juga akan turut melaksanakan sedekah laut yang ketiga kalinya. Dia sibuk membantu bibinya menyiapkan bunga melati, mawar, dan kantil untuk sesaji. Tangannya sudah cekatan menata bunga-bunga itu di atas nampan beralaskan kain putih. Terbayang olehnya tokoh Adipati Surti, utusan Pangeran Kartasura, dalam dongeng Karangbolong. Dia memetik sarang burung walet yang akan digunakan untuk menyembuhkan permaisuri Kesultanan Kartasura yang sedang sakit keras. Tiba-tiba, wajah Tuso terbayang di pelupuk mata Rubini. Aku masih mencintaimu, Kang.

Malam itu bulan purnama. Rubini bersiap dengan pakaiannya yang terbaik, berdandan agar kelihatan pantas saat menghadap Ibu Ratu. Dibawanya seperangkat sesaji yang berisi bunga-bunga. Rubini bersandar pada bongkahan batu karang di tepi pantai. Matanya menatap ke laut lepas. Perjalanan hidupnya penuh liku. Dia kehilangan suami karena kekejaman Jepang. Usahanya mencari perlindungan ke Bapangsari tidak berhasil. Akhirnya bibinya yang sudah renta bersedia menampungnya di Karangbolong. Inilah yang terbaik bagi Rubini. Tekadnya sudah bulat. Angin pantai yang bertiup ke tengah laut mendorong Rubini melangkah semakin jauh ke tengah laut. Tidak ada yang dapat menghalanginya. Rubini, perempuan sederhana dari Desa Clapar, memasrahkan dirinya menjadi pengabdi Ibu Ratu.

Ketika air laut mencapai pahanya, Rubini melepaskan sesaji. Dilihatnya kuntum-kuntum bunga itu mengambang beberapa saat sampai hilang terbawa ombak ke tengah laut. Dia menarik napas dalam-dalam untuk memenuhi paru-parunya dengan udara berbau garam itu.

 

*****

The Sacrifice

Pada tahun 2005 Umar Thamrin menerima beasiswa Fulbright Grant dan Catherine and William L. Magistretti Graduate Fellowship untuk menyelesaikan pendidikan pascasarjana di Amerika Serikat. Sebelum kembali ke tanah air pada penghujung 2017, dia menerima tawaran dari University of Oregon untuk menjadi peneliti dan pengajar selama setahun.

Saat kembali ke tanah air, dia prihatin melihat rakyat yang tetap saja terpinggirkan dan sejarah yang begitu mudah terlupakan. Inilah yang mendorongnya untuk merenung, mengenang, dan menulis. Umar sekarang mengajar linguistik pada Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin.

Umar Thamrin: umar2x.umar@gmail.com

 

The Sacrifice

 

“At dawn, on March 6, 1942, Isoroku Yamamoto’s Japanese troops attacked the Dutch territory in the southeastern region of Purworejo City from the direction of Yogyakarta, Java. The Dutch Royal Netherlands East Indies Army (KNIL) troops staged a fierce resistance, but the Japanese unit quelled the opposition, and by eleven o’clock that morning, they controlled the entire city.”

In Clapar, a remote village on a hillside near Purworejo, Tuso crouched in front of a clay wood stove, listening to the radio. The glint of a sharp sickle, tucked into the woven bamboo wall, reflected the glow of the stove’s fire onto his face.

Glancing at his wife, Rubini, Tuso’s heartbeat raced. Cripes! The Japs have entered Purworejo! He remembered the village chief ordering him to lead the villagers to fight the Japanese if they attacked.

Rubini was busily preparing a soup of cassava leaves and coconut milk. Nasi liwet, a rice dish cooked the traditional way, simmered in a heavy claypot filled with just enough water to turn the hard grains into soft fluffy rice atop a brown crust.

Humming softly, she placed the plates and bowls on the wooden table. The rice in their field had turned yellow. In a few days, they could harvest.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Gunshots pierced the air.

Tuso grabbed the sickle and pulled Rubini by the hand. “Hurry! Hide in the rice field! Duck down between the rice stalks and stay there!”

Rubini screamed, “Where are you going?”

“Don’t worry about me! Hurry! Go hide before they get here!”

Rubini ran to the rice field and parted the stalks, heavy with plump grains. The paddies were ready for harvest. But, alas, Clapar had become a battlefield of the Japanese and Dutch troops. The sharp grains pricked her skin, making her itchy and sore. But Rubini did not dare leave her hiding place, amid the intermittent gunshots.

The late afternoon sun shimmered crimson on the western horizon as if to mirror the bloodied bodies lying along the road that divided the village.

Still bent, Rubini peeked through the thick wall of rice stalks. From her hiding place, she saw Japanese soldiers herding several village youths, their hands tied behind their backs. The wounded were left to die on the street. Following their commander’s order, the invading unit now quickly left the village. The Japanese-led massacre of the unarmed village men was over.

Late afternoon faded into night with a blanket of silence and darkness. No one dared to light a lamp. Covered with scratches and dried mud on her calves, Rubini struggled to pull her feet out of the wet soil of the rice field.

As the women ventured out from their hiding places, the village filled with their wailing. Rubini staggered toward the bloody bodies strewn about the village, listening as moan after moan ended with snorts of released souls and an eerie, stifling silence.

In the span of a few hours, Clapar had become a village of the dead. The men who had founded the village and cultivated the rice fields, armed only with the sickles they used for harvesting rice, had been slaughtered.

The women of Clapar had no time to grieve over their husbands and sons. They had to quickly bury the bodies before morning’s light. The chirps of crickets mingling with the thumping and clanging of crowbars and hoes biting into soil and stones, terrified Rubini.

On the side of a path overgrown with grass, Rubini found Tuso’s body, covered in blood. She knelt, the rancid smell piercing her nose, and held her heaving chest. The man she loved had died a miserable death. As did the other women, Rubini buried Tuso with the clothes he wore. There was no time to look for a shroud. The women were not strong enough to dig deep. The shallow graves were more fitting for a cat than a human being.

After burying her husband, Rubini rushed home to pack some clothes. The women had decided to leave Clapar immediately to escape a possible military attack the next day. They only carried basic supplies, bundled in their sarongs, and they spread out, without any particular destination in mind.

Rubini decided to head for Bapangsari, a village located on the Menoreh hills between Yogyakarta and Purworejo. She hoped to find her cousin who lived there. The light of the crescent moon was too weak to illuminate her path, and she shivered in the frigid air, as dogs howled in the distance.

The road to Bapangsari was deserted when Rubini left Clapar. She walked all night until, suddenly, morning dawned. Soon, the blazing sun and flying dust stung her skin. Her feet ached, and she was hungry. Rubini dragged herself to a nearby tamarind tree to rest. Near the tree, she spied a small ditch with clear running water, and she rushed to it, gulping down a handful. The cool water refreshed her. Rubini returned to the tamarind tree and sat down, leaning against its trunk. The soft breeze lulled Rubini to sleep.

“Hey, you! Where is your man hiding?”

Rubini jerked awake and opened her eyes. Three ferocious-looking Japanese soldiers, armed with rifles, stood looking down at her. She looked around, but saw no one in sight. Rubini staggered as she stood up. “I don’t have a husband, sir. I am a widow.”

“A widow, huh? Your husband dared to fight us?” The soldier’s eyes bulged from his cruel face. The veins in his neck pulsed like tangled live wires.

“No, sir. My husband died because he was sick.”

“Damn liar! What do you have in there?” The soldier pointed his bayonet at the bundle on the ground.

“That is a bundle of clothes, sir. I’m on my way to visit my cousin.”

“Liar!” The soldier raised his rifle and pointed the gun at Rubini’s chest.

Rubini gasped. Trembling, she groped for a hold on the tree she had rested under.

The oldest among the soldiers said something in Japanese. The other soldiers seemed to agree, and they all left quickly.

Rubini, still shaking, grabbed her bundle of clothes and resumed her journey toward Bapangsari.

***

Immediately after occupying Purworejo, the Japanese started the construction of a big, tall fort in Bapangsari. The around-the-clock operation completed the fort in a very short time. The fort was used to monitor the movement of KNIL soldiers. From Bapangsari, the coastline from Jatimalang Beach to Congot Beach was clearly visible because the Japanese had ordered the village head to destroy the houses that hindered the construction and sightline of the Japanese fort.

***

It was late afternoon when Rubini arrived at Bapangsari. Her heels were cracked and her toes were blistered. Wincing, she shuffled to a nearby boulder. Around her, men were digging up the hard, rocky ground with shovels and crowbars. They were hollowing out a moat that ran south to north. Rubini saw the ruins of the demolished houses. At the end of the road, she took to visit her cousin, she saw a mound of excavated soil. Her cousin’s house had also been demolished and turned into a moat.

Rubini paled, horrified by what she saw. Gone was her hope of meeting up with her cousin. Rubini looked at the bustle around her. Where is my cousin Karmin now?

A worker carrying a hoe passed by Rubini. Suddenly, he stopped and turned around. Peering at her closely, he walked up to her.

Rubini gasped. “Karmin!” she shouted. Her heart swelled with joy and her eyes sparkled.

Karmin quickly put his index finger to his lips. His sunken eyes brimmed with worry. “Shh! You must leave immediately!” He grabbed Rubini by the shoulder and pushed her ahead of him.

Rubini resisted. She held on to Karmin’s arm and insisted on staying.

Karmin whispered, “The Japanese are in control of Bapangsari. All the men in this village have to dig ditches. You must get out of here! If the Japanese catch you, they’ll hurt you! Go! Hurry!”

“Help me, Karmin,” Rubini pleaded with teary eyes. She looked at the ruins of her cousin’s house and whispered hoarsely, “I’m alone now. The Japanese killed my husband. You’re the only one I can ask for help.”

From behind the pile of excavated earth, a short man appeared wearing a flap cap that protected his head and neck from the sun. He shouted orders to the workers with a strange accent.

Karmin crouched and pushed Rubini. “Go! Hurry! If you’re caught, they’ll turn you into a jugun ianfu.”

“Jugun ianfu? What’s that?” Rubini asked, alarmed.

“A ‘comfort woman.’ You’ll be forced to ‘serve’ the Japanese soldiers in the same way you ‘served’ your husband.” Karmin winced, remembering the village women who had been turned into jugun ianfu.”

Horrified, Rubini shuddered.

Karmin stared at Rubini’s flushed face. I can’t let you endure the same fate. He pulled her with him, telling her they had to leave.

Exhausted, Rubini numbly obeyed.

In order to appear like farmers, they walked along the rice fields, heading west. After two hours, they came upon an empty hut in the middle of a rice field. After making sure the hut was safe, Karmin told Rubini she could rest there. He felt sorry for his cousin, but if he let her stay in Bapangsari, it would be too dangerous for her.

“I’ll take you to Karangbolong,” Karmin said. “Remember our aunt, Yu Srini?” Karmin solemnly pushed his hands down into the muddy water of the rice field. When he jerked them up, he held a big flapping eel. Karmin gutted the eel and washed it in the paddy’s irrigation ditch.

Twilight had already begun to set in when Rubini took her first bite of the grilled eel. Thinking about having to work as a jugun ianfu and performing the duties of an occupation she could not imagine existed, Rubini shuddered and said, “I’ll just follow your advice.”

In the darkness that enveloped the hut, Karmin kept watch all night so Rubini could sleep soundly and rest. With pity, he listened to her soft snoring.

Rubini woke in the morning feeling refreshed, although her face still showed traces of tiredness. The soreness in her legs felt more bearable.

She and Karmin walked along agricultural plantations so they could find vegetables like long beans and sweet potatoes to eat. After being on the road for two days and one night, they arrived at Yu Srini’s door.

Karmin knocked on the door of a house with woven bamboo walls and called, “Kulonuwun, excuse me.”

Someone answered, “Monggo — Please, come in.” A woman with white hair put up in a simple bun opened the door. She stiffened for a moment, then exclaimed, “Karmin?” A smile stretched across her wrinkled old lips.

Relieved and happy to find his aunt healthy, Karmin bowed. Bringing his hands together, he took his aunt’s fingertips and brought her hands to his forehead in traditional greeting. Meanwhile he worried that she might not be willing to take in Rubini.

Yu Srini turned to Rubini. “Oh! This is Rubini, right? I still remember ….” She paused but then could not help asking, “What happened to you?”

Rubini did not answer. Instead, she held Yu Srini’s hand tightly. Collapsing against the old woman, Rubini burst out crying on her aunt’s shoulder.

Yu Srini stroked Rubini’s back. “Let’s talk inside,” she said, taking Rubini’s hand to seat her on a wooden bench. Karmin followed behind them.

While enjoying some boiled cassava and a mug of water, Karmin told their story. “My house in Bapangsari has been destroyed. The land was used to build a Japanese fort. I want to leave Rubini here. I can’t protect her from the Japanese because I have to work for them as a romusha — unpaid forced labor – for food and shelter.”

Yu Srini gasped. “Then where do you live now?”

“I can live anywhere,” Karmin replied. “But Rubini can’t. She needs someone to protect her. Her husband was killed by the Japanese, and it’s impossible for her to return to Clapar.”

Yu Srini’s eyes turned red. She wiped her tears with the hem of her kebaya, the long-sleeved blouse worn by native women.

Sobbing, Rubini lowered her head.

***

Yu Srini lived alone in the house she had inherited from her deceased husband. The sixty-year-old woman sold food in front of her house. “Sometimes people who go to the beach don’t have time to eat breakfast,” said Yu Srini, arranging her wares on a short, horseshoe-shaped bamboo table that allowed her to easily serve her customers. Several men took a seat on the short bamboo stools in front of the table. They ordered rice and side dishes.

Rubini quickly adjusted to Yu Srini’s lifestyle. In the kitchen, she helped with cooking the rice and side dishes. Later, she carried the food out.

From in front of the house where Yu Srini operated her food stall, Rubini could see a rocky beach in the distance. When there were no customers, she watched the activity on the beach ⸺ Karangbolong men climbing bamboo ladders set high on the rocks to
harvest swiftlet nests, which were believed to have medicinal properties that cured various diseases.

Built with the birds’ saliva, swiftlet nests were the mainstay of the Karangbolong people’s livelihood. The roar of the waves crashing on the rocks, high winds, and bird attacks from swiftlets defending their nests posed formidable challenges. Distracted, a climber could lose his balance and fall.

The nests that were harvested by risking a man’s life were very expensive. The buyers were mostly Chinese traders from cities such as Purworejo and Yogyakarta. The traders used the nests to concoct medicine to heal and revitalize the sick. The broth made from the birds’ nests was also often used to increase breast milk from new mothers. By selling the swiftlet nests, Karangbolong men could support their families.

***

The wall calendar showed August 1945. It was also Wulan Kesanga, the ninth month on the Javanese calendar. It was the time to harvest the swiftlet nests.

The men stood ready, equipped with their tools. Each carried a coil of large rope draped over their shoulders. The ropes were used to hang bamboo baskets in which the harvest was placed. The men were assisted by their wives, who carried the harvesting baskets on their heads.

Watching the Karangbolong men climb the bamboo ladders, Rubini’s heartbeat quickened. As the men crawled up the steep cliff to reach the swiftlet nests, they looked like ants crawling on a giant wall. Oh, how futile their life is, thought Rubini, watching the waves roll in, one after another.

The waves reminded Rubini of Ibu Ratu, the appellation for Nyi Roro Kidul, the spirit that reigned over the sea and protected the people of Karangbolong. At the beginning of every swiftlet nest harvest season, a sea alms ritual was carried out as an expression of gratitude to Nyi Roro Kidul.

The cliffs glowed orange in the late afternoon sun. The shadows of the climbers stretched across the sandy beach. One by one, they climbed down the bamboo steps, then walked together back towards the village. The swiftlet nest harvest of that day was over. Together with the other women, Rubini, carrying a jug of water and cups, hurried to meet the men who had managed to come home safely.

***

Yu Srini turned on her husband’s old radio. “Japan surrendered unconditionally to America after atomic bombs dropped on the cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Our youth has seized this opportunity to realize the purpose of their struggle. Today, on August 17, 1945, Indonesian President Soekarno and Vice President Hatta have proclaimed Indonesia’s independence, and the red and white flag is flying in Jakarta.” The radio broadcasts echoed in all directions. The people gathered on the beach cheered.

Rubini joined the joyful crowd on the beach. It had been three years since she came to live in Yu Srini’s house. After the celebration of Indonesia’s Independence Day, Rubini would perform the sea alms ritual for the third time.

Helping her aunt prepare for the event, Rubini arranged the jasmine, roses, and white champaca flowers on a tray lined with a white cloth. She remembered the Karangbolong fable, where Adipati Surti, envoy to Prince Kartasura, fetched a swiftlet nest to heal the dying empress of the Kartasura sultanate. Suddenly, Tuso’s face flashed before Rubini’s eyes. I still love you.

That night, a full moon lit the sky. Rubini was dressed in her best clothes. She wanted to look proper for Nyi Roro Kidul, the sea goddess. She carried the tray of floral offerings to the beach. Rubini leaned against a boulder on the shore and looked out to sea.

Her life had been full of twists and turns. Japanese cruelty had taken her husband. She had unsuccessfully sought refuge in Bapangsari and now lived with her old aunt in Karangbolong. But this was what was best for her. She had made up her mind.
The coastal wind blowing out to sea enticed Rubini to wade farther out. There was nothing that could stop her.

Rubini, a simple woman from Clapar, gave herself to serve Nyi Roro Kidul. When the seawater reached her thighs, Rubini released her offerings. The flowers floated for a while until the waves carried them away. Taking a deep breath, Rubini filled her lungs with the salty air.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Pekik Burung Kedasi di Tepi Kahayan

Han Gagas lahir di Ponorogo, 21 Oktober 1977. Dia alumni jurusan geodesi UGM Yogyakarta. Cerpennya dimuat media massa seperti Horison, Kompas, Tempo, Republika, dan Suara Merdeka. Karyanya yang terbit, diantaranya novel Orang-orang Gila (Buku Mojok, 2018). Novelnya Balada Sepasang Kekasih Gila pemenang lomba Falcon Script Hunt 2020 akan difilmkan Falconpicture dan catatan pengalamannya selama tinggal di Yerusalem berjudul Adzan di Israel akan diterbitkan Penerbit Gading pada akhir tahun 2021.

Karya terbarunya, kumpulan cerpen Sepasang Mata Gagak di Yerusalem diterbitkan Penerbit Interlude pada bulan Juni, 2021.

Saat ini tinggal di Solo, Jawa Tengah, selain menulis juga mengelola media daring Nongkrong.co

Penulis dapat dihubungi melalui surel: han.gagas@gmail.com

 

 

Pekik Burung Kedasi di Tepi Kahayan

 

Setelah berkuliah selama lima tahun di Yogyakarta, Mawinei baru bisa pulang kampung ke desanya yang terletak jauh di pedalaman Kalimantan Tengah. Dia menyimpan kerinduan yang amat sangat pada keluarga dan kawan-kawan masa kecilnya yang mengajaknya berkumpul kembali.

Kerinduan yang begitu kuat membuatnya rela menempuh perjalanan panjang dengan bis kota dari Yogyakarta ke Surabaya, kemudian naik kapal laut sehari semalam ke Pelabuhan Sampit, di Kalimantan Tengah. Dari sini, dia menempuh jalur darat dengan bis kota ke Palangkaraya dan berlanjut ke kampungnya yang terletak di Kabupaten Gunung Mas di tepi Sungai Kahayan. Di kendaraan, dia mendengar para penumpang sedang membicarakan pembukaan Asian Games 2018 di Jakarta yang dibuka Presiden Jokowi dengan meriah saat dia masih di kapal laut semalam.

Semua orang menyambut kedatangan Mawinei sebagai satu-satunya perempuan yang jadi sarjana di kampung ini. Mawinei diharapkan bisa mengangkat mutu kehidupan orang tuanya, juga kaum di desanya sebagai keturunan Dayak Ngaju. Rumah betang, rumah panjang Dayak, dihiasi janur dan ramai didatangi banyak orang, termasuk Danum, Simpei, dan Ekot. Mereka adalah anak tetangga dan teman main Mawinei sejak anak-anak.

Berbagai makanan tersaji. Masakan kesukaan yang diharapkan Mawinei juga ada. Kandas sarai, sambal serai yang dicampur dengan ikan baung bakar, menjadi pelepas kerinduannya akan kelezatan masakan Dayak yang khas. Mawinei mendekati Danum yang berkumpul dengan Simpei dan Ekot. Mereka makan bersama sambil bersendau gurau. Bapak-bapak mengobrol dan tertawa terbahak-bahak sembari minum baram, minuman keras yang terbuat dari peragian air beras dan singkong. Baram dalam botol dituangkan dalam gelas-gelas kecil yang beredar dari satu tangan pria ke tangan pria lain. Semua terlihat bergembira, makan bersama.

Namun, Mawinei merasa ada yang lain, ada sesuatu yang tengah terjadi, yang belum dia ketahui. Dalam kegembiraan orang-orang itu, Mawinei merasakan ada kegelisahan yang samar yang coba disembunyikan. Sejak kecil, Mawinei seperti memiliki kepekaan menduga kecemasan.

Benar pula, sehari setelah Mawinei tiba di kampungnya, ketakutan menyeruak tiba-tiba di pagi buta, saat Mina, Bibi, Sanja berteriak minta tolong. “Tolong! Hanjak, Hanjak berak darah!”

Kabut pagi berangsur menghilang berganti dengan terang tanah. Orang-orang berdatangan. Tampak Mina Sanja kebingungan, wajahnya dibasahi air mata.

Balian, bapa dukun, segera dipanggil. Lelaki tua itu datang dengan raut muka tenang. Dia duduk dan mulai menyandah, menerawang untuk melihat sebab penyakit. Dia melanjutkannya dengan upacara sangiang, pengobatan dengan bantuan roh leluhur. Tubuh kurus balian terlihat bergetar seperti kerasukan roh. Setelah kembali tersadar, dia berbicara dengan pembantu utamanya dalam urusan perdukunan. Lelaki itu segera berlari mengajak para tetangga masuk hutan, mendongkel beberapa tanaman untuk diambil akar dan dedaunannya.

Daun dan akar rumput bulu ditumbuk, lalu dibalurkan di pusar Hanjak. Ada pula yang menyeduh dedaunan itu, dan air saringannya diminumkan ke Hanjak. Akar halalang dan bopot turut pula ditumbuk dan diseduh dengan air panas, kemudian diminumkan. Ketiga jenis tanaman ini diyakini sebagai obat sakit perut dan muntaberak, serta dapat mengatasi pendarahan.

Sehari kemudian, anehnya, keadaan Hanjak memburuk. Mina Sanja bingung bukan kepalang. Walau muntahberaknya berhenti, suhu tubuh Hanjak masih panas sekali. Biasanya, setelah diobati balian, orang sakit jadi sembuh. Namun kali ini keadaan tidak berubah jadi baik. Seperti ada keganjilan yang terjadi.

Udara memang terasa lebih menyengat kulit, dan angin seperti jarang berembus. Alam seperti berubah, tidak seperti biasanya. Langit sepenuhnya biru, tidak ada awan bergerombol sedikit pun. Burung kedasih yang dipercayai penduduk sebagai penanda keburukan dan kematian bercokol di pucuk pohon meranti, berbunyi nyaring, suaranya seperti memekik-mekik.

Paras wajah Hanjak tampak pucat dan bibirnya membiru. Tubuhnya kejang-kejang hebat, matanya terbelalak, dadanya tersengal-sengal seperti orang yang kehabisan napas. Tanpa siapapun duga, Hanjak mengembuskan napas terakhir.

Mina Sanja hanya mampu menangis.

***

Sehari setelah Hanjak dimakamkan, Danum datang berkunjung Mawinei. Mawinei tersenyum sumringah. Mereka kawan karib selama bersekolah di SD Bukit Tunggal, dan telah lama tidak berakrab-akraban lagi. Sebelum pergi kuliah, Mawinei juga bersekolah SMA di Palangkaraya., Karena jaraknya jauh, dia kos di sana, sedangkan Danum tetap tinggal di desa. Orang tuanya tidak memiliki biaya untuk menyekolahkannya tinggi-tinggi. Untuk sekian tahun, kedua dara ini pun tidak bisa bertemu karena terpisahkan jarak.

Narai kabar, apa kabar?” kata Danum dengan hati senang, senyumnya merekah lebar. Dia memeluk erat Mawinei yang balas memeluknya dengan hangat.

Kabar bahalap, en ikau kenampi, kabarku baik, dan kamu? Mawinei memegang kedua bahu Danum, lalu melangkah mundur dan menatap temannya dengan saksama.

Danum tersenyum lebar. Sambil memegang lengan Mawinei, dia berkata, “Kabarkuh bahalap.”

Mereka melepas pelukan, dan duduk bersebelahan di kursi serambi.

“Udara terasa panas ya…” kata Mawinei sambil mengipas-ngipaskan jemarinya ke muka.

“Iya.” Danum terlihat sedih. Dia menarik napas panjang lalu berkata, “awalnya aku kira cuaca yang panas ini membawa penyakit pada warga. Namun, setelah apa yang terjadi pada Hanjak, kemarin, aku yakin semua ini karena Sungai Kahayan yang kotor.”

“Kahayan kotor?” tanya Mawinei sambil menatap sepasang mata Danum yang resah.

“Kau belum tahu, sungai yang kita sering main dulu, kini sangat kotor, airnya bikin gatal-gatal. Tambang-tambang itu buang limbah ke sungai.”

“Tambang?” tanya Mawinei tidak mengerti.

Danum mengangguk mantap.

Benar pula, Mawinei melihat sebagian besar anak yang bermain gundu kakinya busik, korengan.

“Kau sarjana ilmu lingkungan kan, kau bisa teliti air sungai nanti,” kata Danum. Mawinei mengangguk sambil tersenyum.

***

Mawinei dan Danum melangkah melewati kebun durian dan rotan milik Bapa Dukun. Setelah melewati pohon cempedak yang buahnya sering mereka nikmati semasa kecil, mereka tiba di setapak penuh rerumputan. Tampak beberapa huma di lereng bukit terlihat kehijauan penuh kebun sayur yang subur.

Langkah mereka tiba di bibir sungai, dan terkejutlah Mawinei ketika melihat sungai. “Wah, airnya coklat!” teriaknya.

“Sudah tak jernih seperti dulu, padahal lima tahun lalu masih jernih. Katanya karena lahan gambut di hulu sana yang bikin coklat,” kata Danum dengan muka yang sedih.

“Bukan, dulu sungai ini jernih, aneh, sekarang seperti berlumpur,” selidik Mawinei sambil menatap pinggiran sungai.

“Kau masih ingat kan, dulu masa kita kecil, juga kadang minum air sungai ini, tanpa pakai direbus, perut juga tak sakit.” Suara Danum bergetar. Dia mengarahkan pandangannya jauh mengikuti alur sungai yang seperti lumpur cair dengan garis-garis berkilauan di permukaannya.

Mawinei mengangguk. Ingatannya merawang ke waktu masa sekolah dasarnya. Bersama Simpei, Ekot, dan anak-anak lain, mereka sering bermain di situ saat sungai mendangkal. Air sangat jernih dan surut meninggalkan pinggiran yang landai, berpasir agak putih ⸺ tidak berlumpur seperti ini. Mereka asyik bermain pengantin-pengantinan. Danum jadi pasangannya Simpei. Ekot jadi penghulu, dipasangi jenggot dari sabut kelapa di dagunya dengan cara dilem dengan pulut. Si penghulu duduk di gundukan pasir yang dibentuk seperti singgasana. Mawinei jadi saksi pernikahan, ditambah seorang anak lain. Beberapa anak menonton sambil cekikikan.

Hujan yang sebelumnya gerimis, tiba-tiba berubah deras dalam waktu cepat. Upacara perkawinan anak-anak itu langsung buyar. Mereka berlarian cepat untuk kembali ke betang, tetapi jalan setapak sungguh licin membuat sebagian bocah terjatuh dengan bokong kesakitan. Mereka yang tidak jatuh, menertawainya. Sesampainya di rumah, semua anak dimarahi orang tuanya masing-masing. Pagi buta saat berangkat sekolah, sebagian memperlihatkan pahanya yang memerah bekas cubitan ibunya.

Mawinei tersenyum-senyum saat mengingat kejadian itu.

Danum menepuk bahu Mawinei, menyadarkannya dari lamunan.

“Seperti ada bau, tercemar ini,” kata Mawinei setelah mendekatkan tangkupan air di tangan ke hidungnya. Air sungai tampak berminyak, ada cairan tertentu yang tidak menyatu dengan air. Angin berembus kencang. Rambut Mawinei yang sepinggang sebagian berterbangan, menutupi parasnya yang tampak prihatin. Tangannya segera merapikan rambutnya kembali. Dia berkata, “Aku ingin lihat tambang yang kau katakan. Mari kita pergi ke sana.”

“Jangan, jauh di hulu,” kata Danum mencegah, sebelum lanjut, “harus naik perahu. Besok saja sambil ajak Ekot dan Simpei.”

***

Besok paginya, sesudah subuh, Mawinei telah bersama Danum. Simpei dan Ekot juga sudah bergabung. Mereka berempat berkumpul di jalan masuk dermaga kecil di pinggir sungai. Lanting-lanting mulai terlihat. Rumah-rumah yang berdiri di atas sungai itu mengandalkan tiang-tiang kayu ulin yang kokoh, serta didirikan di atas gelondongan kayu dan ditambatkan pada pohon atau tonggak-tonggak yang ditanam di daratan tepi sungai. Beberapa perahu tertambat di pokok-pokok kayu atau tiang-tiang beton. Beberapa lentera di perahu dan di lanting-lanting yang belum dimatikan, masih berpendar syahdu.

Mawinei bersama teman-temannya berniat berangkat pagi-pagi agar waktu lebih panjang karena berharap bisa kembali ke rumah sebelum gelap malam. Gelapnya subuh menuju pagi tidak membuat mereka takut, justru merasa segar.

Mereka berjalan mendekati pinggir sungai, menyusuri dermaga kecil dengan papan-papan kayu dari ulin sebagai jembatan yang menghubungkan perahu dan kapal. Gelaran air sungai yang sebelumnya gelap mulai berkilauan oleh sinar matahari pagi. Ufuk timur berwarna kuning terang. Cahaya matahari yang lembut, membuat orang-orang tampak bersemangat di pagi hari itu.

Seorang bapak mendekati Ekot, dan berbicara tentang harga, sambil menunjuk beberapa perahu ketinting yang tertambat di tepi sungai. Ekot menyanggupi. Mereka menyewa perahu khas Kalimantan yang bisa menampung empat sampai sepuluh orang itu untuk menyusuri sungai hingga sejauh mungkin ke hulu.

Air muka Mawinei tampak sangat gembira, sudah lama dia tidak menyusuri sungai dengan perahu ketinting.

Danum juga terlihat senang saat masuk perahu.

“Kau masih ingat nggak, dulu sering renang di situ,” tunjuk Ekot ke sungai belakang lanting-lanting.

“Iya, tentu, di situ kan?” tunjuk Simpei ke lanting paling besar di antara lanting-lanting lain.

“Oh ya, betul.” Wajah Ekot jadi cerah, tampak gembira membicarakan masa anak-anak yang bahagia.

“Tapi kau takut jumpalitan, payah, kau hanya berani terjun, hahaha,” ejek Simpei.

“Ya lompatanlah,” balas Ekot.

“Iya tapi jumpalitan takut, wekwekwek.” Simpei memukul lengan Ekot membuatnya mengaduh sakit.

Namun, sedetik kemudian Ekot tidak lagi meringis kesakitan, tapi nyengir cengengesan.

“Iya, ngaku kalah, tapi siapa yang berani renang menyeberang, ayo siapa?” ledeknya. Dan Simpei pun terpaksa mengangguk sambil menunjuk Ekot. Memang Ekot anak paling berani berenang menyeberang sungai walaupun arusnya deras. Anak-anak lain takut keterbawa arus. Mereka hanya berenang sepanjang tepian.

Mereka, sebagaimana anak-anak Kalimantan lain di tepi Sungai Kahayan, tidak perlu belajar renang pada siapa pun. Kehidupan nenek moyang mereka tidak pernah jauh dari kehidupan sungai. Sejak bayi, mereka sudah dimandikan di sungai. Oleh ibu, tubuh mereka diapung-apungkan di air, sehingga secara alami sejak kecil sudah pandai mengapung. Makin beranjak besar, biasanya sepulang sekolah pada siang jelang sore hari, saat masih terik, mereka akan terjun ke sungai, berenang sepuasnya, dengan gaya apa pun yang mereka bisa lakukan. Ada gaya katak, lumba-lumba, bebas, macam-macamlah, yang penting bisa berenang dan tidak tenggelam. Sesekali mereka juga membawa bola untuk permainan, lempar sana lempar sini, diperebutkan.

Juru mudi perahu duduk paling belakang mengendalikan perahu dengan mesinnya, terkadang menggeser tungkai mesin ke kiri dan ke kanan mengikuti jalur sungai.

Ekot duduk paling depan, disusul Simpei, Mawinei, dan Danum.

Suara mesin menderu, menyibak air, menciptakan arus dan mendorong perahu melaju kencang. Zaman dulu, perahu didayung dengan bilah kayu ulin yang liat dan kuat. Kini alat yang canggih telah memudahkan manusia untuk bisa cepat sampai tujuan.

Sungai membentang lebar kecoklatan. Gelaran airnya beriak-riak. Beberapa perahu melintas berlawanan arah. Di antaranya seorang nelayan dengan jala di perahunya, tampak hendak menjaring ikan di sungai.

Di bantaran kedua sisi sungai, tumbuh pepohonan lebat. Rimbunan bambu, serta pohon buah-buahan macam pisang, nangka, durian, karamunting, dan jambu monyet juga banyak tumbuh.

Tanah Kalimantan yang bergambut merupakan lahan subur untuk pohon-pohon buah semacam itu. Sungai besar ini mengalir sepanjang enam ratus kilometer dari Pegunungan Muller atau Pegunungan Raya yang membelah Palangkaraya, Kabupaten Pulang Pisau, dan Kabupaten Gunung Mas di Kalimantan Tengah, sampai akhirnya bermuara di Laut Jawa.

Simpei mengeluarkan rokoknya, mengambilnya sebatang. Korek api digeretnya, lalu ujung rokok itu disentuhkannya pada api. Simpei mengisap dalam-dalam rokoknya, lalu memberikan bungkusan rokok beserta koreknya kepada Ekot.

Ekot menolak halus.

Wajah Simpei tampak nikmat setelah mengisap rokok sembari menikmati empasan angin di atas perahu yang melaju.

Pohon loa, yang kokoh dan besar, sesekali terlihat di tepi sungai menjadi tameng agar pinggiran sungai tidak tergerus. Buah-buahnya yang merah disukai monyet, tupai, dan burung.,

Perahu makin menjauhi permukiman. Lanting-lanting sudah tidak kelihatan. Sesekali terdengar bunyi burung-burung dan pekik bekantan dari hutan. Pinggir-pinggir sungai masih ditumbuhi pepohonan dan rimbunan hutan karamunting.

Mereka menyusuri sungai di bawah jembatan dan makin melaju menuju hulu. Wajah pinggir-pinggir sungai mulai berbeda. Daratan pinggir sungai banyak terbuka lebar oleh kegiatan masyarakat. Air terlihat makin coklat dan berbuih.

“Orang-orang sukanya ikut-ikutan, karena harga karet mahal, semua pada nanam karet, hutan pada ditebangi untuk diganti kebun karet. Kini orang-orang pada keblinger menanam sawit, kalau sawit milik rakyat tak seberapa, tapi kalau milik perusahaan sampai ribuan hektar, pohon-pohon hutan habis ditebangi,” keluh Ekot.

“Harga karet sudah lama turun, orang-orang tak mau menyadap getah karet lagi, sekarang lihat, kerjaan masyarakat cari emas,” tunjuk Simpei.

Di daratan terlihat kegiatan masyarakat menambang emas. Tanah-tanah di pinggir sungai telah rusak, tidak ada kehijaun tanaman sama sekali. Tanah berlumpur coklat menciptakan air berbuih yang kotor. Daratan jadi becek, penuh kubangan air coklat. Alat tambang, sebuah kotak yang menyambung panjang dan lurus untuk “menangkap” emas, menjulur hingga ke sungai.

Gubuk-gubuk penambang berserakan di dekat mesin diesel. Dan selang-selang besar menggelontorkan air ke bawah. Tanah-tanah bagian atas sungai tergerus dengan kocoran air yang disemburkan oleh selang-selang raksasa, membuat daratan pinggir sungai longsor dan langsung terjun ke sungai, tak hanya menciptakan kerusakan sungai tapi juga pendangkalan.

Bahkan sebagian alat-alat tambang itu berdiri di atas sungai, berlandaskan kayu-kayu ulin seperti rumah-rumah lanting. Pipa-pipa membentang ke sana-sini, mencurahkan air kotor, menggempur tanah, dan membuang segala lumpur langsung ke sungai.

Sungai tidak hanya berlumpur, tetapi juga bercampur dengan minyak tumpahan solar sisa mesin diesel. Kilau-kilau minyak di permukaan air sungai memendar berwarna kebiruan tersapu cahaya matahari, mengilat-ngilat berbentuk bundaran-bundaran yang kemudian hanyut menjauh. Mesin terus menderu, tanpa henti, menggaruk tanah dasar sungai yang diyakini ada bijih-bijih emas. Kilau-kilau minyak itu bercampur dengan merkuri yang sangat berbahaya bagi lingkungan hidup. Dengan memanfaatkan sifat merkuri yang berupa air raksa sebagai pelarut, nantinya emas akan dengan sendirinya terpisahkan dari bebatuan lainnya.

“Berarti karena tambang-tambang ini yang bikin perut anak-anak sakit, pada gatal-gatal semua, karena merkuri,” kata Mawinei.

Danum mengangguk mantap.

Perahu mereka berjalan pelan. Ekot mengeluarkan kameranya, dan sesekali dengan diam-diam memotret kegiatan tambang emas itu. Beberapa penambang tampak waspada saat perahu mereka agak dekat.

“Kini hal sama terulang, bukan Belanda atau Jepang yang kita lawan, tapi keserakahan manusia merusak alam, dan yang paling menyedihkan mereka sebangsa dengan kita,” kata Ekot sedih.

“Anugerah Tuhan sesungguhnya tak pernah sepadan dengan uang,” tambah Mawinei.

Perahu terus melaju, dan Mawinei tampak makin prihatin melihat begitu banyak tambang bertebaran di pinggir-pinggir sungai. Sekelompok orang menjalankan alat yang berbeda dengan sebelumnya yang mereka lihat, ditambah kapal keruk dan pompa air. Alat itu makin besar daya rusaknya dalam menggerus bibir sungai, menciptakan lumpur dan endapan-endapan kotor yang jauh lebih banyak. Di sepanjang bantaran sungai, terdapat banyak lubang menganga berisi lumpur.

“Besok aku akan menemui Idris, kawanku di LSM. Kita tak bisa biarkan ini terus terjadi,” kata Ekot.

“Kalian belum tahu yang terjadi di hutan sana,” Simpei menunjuk ke ladang gundul di perbukitan samping kanan dari sungai dan lanjut, “itu tambang batubara yang jauh lebih besar membuat hutan gundul. Tak hanya itu, juga kebun sawit milik perusahaan,” tambah Simpei.

“Iya itu juga. Beberapa anak mati tenggelam saat bermain di bekas galian tambang yang dibiarkan terbengkalai,” sahut Ekot dengan wajah meredam amarah.

“Yang jadi danau itu?” tanya Simpei.

Ekot mengangguk.

“Kita tak bisa biarkan semua kejahatan ini terus berlangsung!” teriak Mawinei

***

Beberapa hari kemudian, Idris, Ekot, dan Mawinei menemui pegawai pemerintah daerah yang bertugas mengurusi bagian pertambangan. Danum dan Simpei terpaksa menunggu di luar karena hanya dibatasi tiga orang yang bisa masuk ruangan petugas. Mereka sebelumnya telah mengambil contoh air sungai dan Mawinei menelitinya di makmal di Kota Kuala Kurun. Hasilnya menunjukkan terjadi pencemaran air sungai yang sangat tinggi.

“Sebagian besar tak berizin,” kata pegawai itu.

“Kami tak bisa melarang karena mesin tambang mereka berdiri di atas tanah hak mereka. Punya surat izin tanah juga,” tambahnya.

“Iya Pak, tapi akibatnya terjadi pencemaran lingkungan, dampaknya ke kita semua, kepentingan bersama atas sungai itu terganggu,” kata Idris keras.

“Masalahnya, alasan mereka itu untuk mata pencaharian, untuk cari nafkah. Kalau dihentikan, apa kalian mau ngasih mereka pekerjaan, ngasih mereka makan?” sahut bapak itu tidak mau kalah.

“Ya tetap harus ditertibkan, Pak. Bukan masalah orang cari nafkah, tapi tambang itu pakai merkuri, Pak, itu yang berbahaya,” jawab Ekot tegas.

“Jangan sampai ada yang kehilangan nyawa, Pak,” Mawinei ikut tambah kata, wajahnya tampak geram. “Banyak yang sakit perut, mencret,” katanya dengan gusar.

Mawinei menyerahkan berkas keluhan warga di kampungnya yang sudah ditandatangani banyak orang.

Ekot menyerahkan berbagai foto dan bukti rekaman kegiatan tambang itu.

Idris menyerahkan hasil penelitian air sungai dari makmal.

“Iya kalian tunggu saja, kami akan segera bertindak.” kata petugas yang mulai mengerti kerisauan anak-anak muda itu setelah melihat bukti-bukti yang lengkap.

***

Sebulan setelah pertemuan itu, tambang-tambang tidak berizin dihentikan. Bahan merkuri disita. Namun, banyak tambang lain yang masih berjalan. Suatu perusahaan tambang yang mendapat dukungan kekuasaan yang sangat besar mengajukan para pengacara untuk melawan laporan LSM yang dipimpin Idris. Para pegawai pemerintah daerah itu pun tidak mampu bertindak lebih jauh lagi.

“Setidaknya kita telah berjuang, pencemaran air sungai ini telah berkurang,” kata Mawinei mencoba sedikit menenangkan Idris yang masih tidak terima.

Danum mendesah, matanya menerawang gelisah.

Simpei menghisap rokoknya dalam-dalam.

“Tambang-tambang besar, terutama batubara, sulit dihentikan karena menghasilkan pendapatan yang besar bagi pemerintah,” kata Ekot dengan wajah masam.

“Jadi, perjuangan kita masih panjang, kawan,” kata Mawinei yang disambut anggukan kawan-kawannya.

“Iya dan jangan mudah menyerah!” seru Danum tegas.

 

*****

 

Crying Cuckoos over the Kahayan

Pada tahun 2005 Umar Thamrin menerima beasiswa Fulbright Grant dan Catherine and William L. Magistretti Graduate Fellowship untuk menyelesaikan pendidikan pascasarjana di Amerika Serikat. Sebelum kembali ke tanah air pada penghujung 2017, dia menerima tawaran dari University of Oregon untuk menjadi peneliti dan pengajar selama setahun.

Saat kembali ke tanah air, dia prihatin melihat rakyat yang tetap saja terpinggirkan dan sejarah yang begitu mudah terlupakan. Inilah yang mendorongnya untuk merenung, mengenang, dan menulis. Umar sekarang mengajar linguistik pada Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin.

Dia dapat dihubungi melalui surel: umar2x.umar@gmail.com

 

 

 

Crying Cuckoos over the Kahayan

 

Mawinei had just finished her studies in Yogyakarta and, after five years away from home, she yearned to return to her remote village in Central Kalimantan. She felt a deep longing for family and childhood friends who were urging her to come home.

Her intense nostalgia made her decide to take the long, arduous journey home. She took a bus from Yogyakarta to the port city Surabaya, then a ship overnight from Surabaya to Sampit Harbor in Central Kalimantan. After arriving the following day, she took a bus from the harbor to the Palangkaraya bus station, where she transferred to another bus to her village in the Gunung Mas Regency, on the banks of the Kahayan River. On the bus, Mawinei listened to the passengers talking about the spectacular opening of the 2018 Asian Games in Jakarta that had taken place while she was crossing the Java Sea. They said President Jokowi had delivered the welcoming speech.

At her village, everyone welcomed Mawinei’s return. She was the only woman there with a bachelor’s degree. The villagers — descendants of Borneo’s indigenous Dayak Ngaju tribe — hoped that with her education, Mawinei could improve the lives of not only her parents, but also of the entire community. The betang, a traditional Dayak longhouse now used as a village center, was decorated with janur — young, still-yellow coconut leaves — and crowded with people. Danum, Simpei, and Ekot, Mawinei’s childhood playmates, were there too.

Various traditional dishes were served. Grilled mystus fish, dressed with a lemongrass chili sauce, satisfied her longing for the special flavor of Dayak cuisine.

Mawinei excitedly joined Danum who sat with Simpei and Ekot. The four of them had a good time, sharing food and catching up.

The elders chatted and laughed loudly while passing tiny shot glasses of baram, liquor made from fermented rice water and cassava. Everyone ate and drank, while enjoying themselves.

But Mawinei sensed that something was amiss. She had been sensitive to other people’s feelings since she was a child, and now, amid this happy atmosphere, she felt a touch of anxiety lurking beneath the surface.

***

In the early morning after the reunion, fear gripped the village when people were awakened by Sanja’s screams. “Help! Hanjak is passing blood!” People came running to see what was happening. They found Sanja, crying and looking bewildered. Her five-year-old son lay listless on a cot.

A balian, shaman elder, was immediately called upon.

As the morning mist gradually lifted, the old man arrived with his assistant. They entered the room quietly and sat down. Leaning against the wall, the balian stood observing Hanjak to figure out the cause of the child’s bloody diarrhea. Next, he performed the traditional healing ritual, seeking help from the ancestral spirits. During the sangiang, the balian’s thin body trembled, and he appeared to be possessed by the supernatural. After he regained cognizance, the balian quietly spoke to his assistant, who rushed out from the room toward the small forest behind the house. Several men followed him.

They returned with a bag filled with special roots and leaves. Some neighbors ground the billygoat roots and leaves making a poultice to spread on Hanjak’s navel. Others brewed a tea from the spear grass and white jasmine roots for him to drink. The villagers believed that these three plants were natural remedies for treating gastric disorders.

The next morning, Hanjak looked worse. Sanja was baffled. Even though Hanjak had recovered from the diarrhea, he still had a high fever. This was unusual; the balian never failed to heal his patients.

Something else felt strange in the village. The weather had changed. The still air felt prickly. The cloudless sky was a stark blue. A plaintive cuckoo perched in the top of a shorea tree, shrieking. The ear-piercing noise frightened the villagers, who believed the bird to be a bearer of evil and death,.

By nightfall, Hanjak lay shivering, his eyes wide open in his pale face, gasping for breath. Mystified, the balian started to chant. A few moments later, Hanjak was dead. Sanja wailed inconsolably.

***

The day after Hanjak was buried, Danum went to visit Mawinei. Mawinei was happy to have some alone time with her best friend from elementary school days; they had been separated a long time. Mawinei had attended middle and high school in Palangkaraya, living in a boarding house nearby her school. She then had moved to Yogyakarta to attend college while Danum had stayed in the village. Her parents could not afford to provide her with a higher education. That distance had kept the two best friends from seeing each other all those years.

“How are you?” Danum grinned.

Mawinei grabbed Danum’s shoulders, then stepped back and took a good look at her friend. “Good, and you?”

“I’m good too.”

The two young women hugged each other tightly then took a seat on the porch chairs.

“It’s awfully hot, isn’t it?” Mawinei fanned her face with her hands.

“Yes, it’s abnormally hot.” Danum took a deep breath. “At first, I thought the unusually hot weather was causing villagers to get sick. But now, after what happened to Hanjak, I think we’re getting sick because the Kahayan River is so polluted.”

“The Kahayan is polluted?” Startled, Mawinei looked into Danum’s troubled eyes.

“The river we used to play in is now very dirty. The water makes you itch. The miners have been dumping their toxic waste into the river.”

“Miners?” Mawinei couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Danum nodded.

Mawinei thoughts turned to the children she had seen playing marbles. They all had scabs on their legs.

“You have a bachelor’s degree in environmental sciences, right?” Danum smiled. “You can check the river water yourself.”

***

Their walk to the river, took Mawinei and Danum through a durian and rattan plantation owned by a shaman elder. They passed the cempedak trees, which reminded them of the sweet, creamy, durian-like fruit they had enjoyed as children, and arrived at a footpath overgrown by weedy grasses. The hillside was covered with a lush green of thriving vegetable gardens.

At the river’s edge, Mawinei halted, shocked. “Oh, my God, the water’s brown!”

“Five years ago, it was still clear,” Danum said sadly. “People say that the destruction of the peatland upstream is doing it.”

“I don’t think so,” Mawinei said, examining the riverbank. “The river water used to be crystal clear, and now it’s muddy. This is strange.”

“Do you remember how, when we were little, we sometimes drank the water straight from this river? And yet we didn’t get sick.” Danum looked at the river of her childhood, now a slimy stream of mud with sparkling oil lines on its surface.

Mawinei nodded. She remembered playing there with Simpei, Ekot, and other children at low tide, when the clean, receded water left a sloping riverbank covered with white sand ⸺ not mud.

They had a lot of fun. She remembered the day they pretended to hold a wedding there, in the light rain. Danum was Simpei’s bride. Ekot, as the village priest, was given a beard made of coconut husk and attached to his chin with jackfruit tree sap. He officiated on a sand mound they had shaped like a throne. Mawinei and another child posed as witnesses, while other children watched them, giggling. The drizzle had suddenly turned into a heavy rain. The make-believe wedding was instantly forgotten, as everyone scurried to the betang. But the slippery footpath made some of them fall on their behinds. Those who did not fall laughed at the ones who did and held their butts with a painful grimace. When they arrived at the betang, the children were scolded by their parents, and the next day, on their way to school early in the morning, some showed the red pinch marks their mothers had left on their thighs.

Mawinei smiled remembering the incident. Danum tapped Mawinei’s shoulder, and woke her from the daydream.

Mawinei scooped up a handful of river water and brought it to her nose. “It stinks!” She scowled and sniffed again. “It is polluted.” The river water looked oily from waste liquids that did not mix with the water. The heavy wind blew Mawinei’s waist-length hair across her face. She quickly tied her hair back and said, “I want to see those mines you mentioned. Let’s go there.”

“We can’t go now,” Danum said. “It’s too far upstream. We have to take a boat. Let’s go tomorrow and ask Ekot and Simpei to come with us.”

***

The next morning, at daybreak, the four friends gathered at the entrance of the small pier by the river. They wanted to leave early so they would have plenty of time and still get home before dark. The dawn wind was refreshing.

Lantings lined the water’s edge. The traditional stilt houses were built with sturdy Kalimantan ironwood and floated atop pilings driven deep into the riverbed. Several boats, tied to wooden poles or concrete pillars, rocked in their moorings. Several lanterns still glimmered in the boats and stilt houses, casting a hazy light on the water’s surface.

Mawinei and her friends walked along the pier to the end of the ulin-planked bridge where the boats were moored. The eastern horizon turned a bright yellow. The river water sparkled when the morning light hit its surface. The soft morning light energized the workers.

A man approached Ekot and, pointing to several ketintings docked along the river, began negotiating a price. Ekot rented one of the dugout canoes, outfitted with an engine and outriggers, that could hold up to ten people to go as far as possible upstream.

Mawinei felt happy; it had been a long time since she had sailed on the river in a ketinting. Danum also looked happy when she boarded the boat.

The engine roared. It pushed the boat forward, splitting the water into wakes. In the old days, sturdy ironwood paddles rowed ketintings to their destination. Now, technology quickly transported people from one place to another.

The helmsman sat at the back of the boat, controlling the engine. He moved the rudder to the left and right as needed, adjusting to the river’s current.

Ekot sat at the front; Simpei sat behind him; then came Mawinei and Danum.

“Do you remember when we used to swim there?” Ekot pointed to the water behind the stilt houses.

“Sure, over there, right?” Simpei pointed at the biggest stilt house.

“Yeah, right!” Ekot’s face brightened while talking about their happy childhood days.

“But you were afraid to do a backflip ⸺ chicken!” Simpei teased. “You were only brave enough to jump.”

“At least I jumped!” Ekot retorted.

“Yeah, but still, you were too much of a scaredy-cat to do a flip.” Simpei slapped Ekot’s arm.

Ekot screamed theatrically, then grinned mischievously. “Okay, I admit defeat, but who dared to swim across the river? Come on, tell me, who?”

Simpei could only nod and point at Ekot, who was indeed the most courageous swimmer in the group. The others, too afraid of being swept away by the current, only swam along the riverbank.

Like other Kalimantan children who lived by the Kahayan River, the four friends needed no one to teach them how to swim. Their ancestors never lived far from the river. When they were babies, their mothers had bathed them in the river, laying them on their backs atop the water until they quickly learned to float naturally on their own. In elementary school the children usually went home at noon, the hottest part of the day.They would plunge into the river and swim as long as they wanted, using whatever style came naturally to them. Some swam like a frog, others like a dolphin — or anything else, as long as they remained afloat and kept from drowning. Sometimes they brought a ball to throw back and forth among them. The one who caught the ball would throw it randomly, and everyone one would race to catch it.

As the river widened, its rippling water grew browner. Several boats passed them, traveling in the opposite direction. On one, a fisherman was preparing to cast his net into the river.

Both sides of the riverbank were overgrown with small groves of bamboo, coconut, and fruit trees interspersed by patches of brush and flowering rose myrtles. The fruit trees — bananas, jackfruits, durians, cluster figs and cashews — thrived in the fertile soil of Kalimantan’s peatland.

The great Kahayan River river was six hundred kilometers long, spilling from its birthplace in the Muller Mountains; it divided Palangkaraya, ran through the Pulau Pisau dan Gunung Mas Regencies in Central Kalimantan, until it emptied into the Java Sea.

Simpei lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He offered the pack of cigarettes and lighter to Ekot, who politely refused. Simpei relaxed and enjoyed the cigarette and the breeze.

The cluster fig trees that grew on the riverbanks helped prevent erosion. Their red fruits were favored by monkeys, squirrels, and birds.

The boat moved farther and farther from civilization. The stilt houses were now out of sight. Above the noise of the motor, they caught the occasional birds chirping and monkeys squealing from the forest.

Cruising under a bridge, they continued upstream. Now the scenery changed. Large areas of vegetation had been cleared away for community activities. The river water turned darker and dirtier.

“People are quick to jump on the bandwagon,” Ekot complained. “As soon as the price of rubber skyrocketed, everyone started clearing land in the forest to plant rubber. Now everyone is clearing land to plant palm trees. Privately-owned palm tree orchards aren’t that large, but when big corporations build palm tree farms, they can stretch across thousands of hectares, and the forest trees are done.”

“The price of rubber dropped a long time ago,” Simpei added. “People don’t want to tap rubber anymore. Now people are mining gold. Just look at them!” Simpei pointed at a group panning gold along a destroyed section of the riverbank that was completely void of vegetation.

The sodden land was riddled with stagnant, grimy puddles. Long, narrow sluice boxes, used to separate gravel from gold, extended far into the river. Huts that housed the miners were scattered around the diesel engine. The forceful spray of water, gushing from giant hoses, had eroded the riverbanks. At those places, the river had become shallow.

Some of the mining equipment was installed directly over the river. Just like the lanting houses, they had been built on pilings made of ironwood. A maze of pipes gouged the earth, spewing toxic waste directly into the river.

The river was not only muddy, it was contaminated by diesel fuel spilling from the engine. Rainbows of glistening oil shimmered in the sunlight, swirling on the river’s surface as the current moved them.

Engines roared ceaselessly while tearing up the riverbed in search of gold ore. To separate gold ore from gravel, the miners used mercury. The elemental metal mixed with oil and sparkled dangerously on the water’s surface. The environment was under attack.

“Now it’s obvious,” Mawinei said. “These mines are causing the sickness in our village.”

 

Danum nodded.

Their boat slowed. Ekot took out his camera, and began capturing pictures of the gold-mining activities. Some miners looked at them suspiciously.

“History is repeating itself.” Ekot was clearly distressed. “But now, we’re not fighting the Netherlands or Japan. Instead, we’re fighting against human greed that is destroying our habitat. And the saddest thing is that the culprits are our own people.”

“God’s gifts are priceless.” Mawinei murmured.

The boat continued upstream, and Mawinei became increasingly alarmed at the ubiquitous gold panning along the riverbanks. They passed a group of people using a set of equipment different from what they had seen earlier. The powerful dredgers and giant water pumps caused even more destruction, turning the riverbank into one giant mudhole.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to see my friend Idris,” said Ekot. “He’s involved with a non-governmental organization that advocates for environmental issues. We can’t let this continue to happen,”

“Look!” Simpei shouted. “Look what’s happening, in the hills over there!” He pointed to a barren field on the hill to their right. “That large coal mine caused this deforestation. And they’re not the only vandals! Don’t forget the corporate-owned oil palm plantations.”

Ekot’s face flushed with anger. “Worse than that, some children drowned while playing in an abandoned mine pit.”

“The one that has become a lake?” asked Simpei.

Ekot nodded.

“We can’t let all these crimes continue!” Mawinei shouted.

***

A few days later, Idris, Ekot, and Mawinei met with the local government official assigned to deal with mining issues. Danum and Simpei had to wait outside because only three people were allowed in the official’s room. They had brought a water sample they had taken from the river, which Mawinei had examined in a laboratory in nearby Kuala Kurun, the capital of the Gunung Mas Regency. The test results showed an unacceptably elevated level of pollution.

“Most of them are unlicensed,” the official said of the gold miners. “We can’t restrict their activities because they’re using their equipment on their own property, and they have proof of ownership.”

“Regardless, sir, they are destroying the environment, and the pollution they’re causing is impacting all of us,” Idris said, irritated. “Our lives are centered around this river, which is now making us sick.”

“The problem is that gold mining is their livelihood.” The official became indignant. “If we stop them, will you give them jobs or provide food for their families?”

“You must do something, sir,” Ekot joined in. “It’s not about allowing them to keep their jobs and feed their families; it’s about not allowing them to use dangerous toxins like mercury in their operations.”

“Please don’t wait until we have fatalities, sir.” Mawinei added, obviously upset. “Many villagers are suffering — and dying — from strange illnesses.” She handed the official a piece of paper with signed complaints from people in her village.

Ekot gave him the photos he took that evidenced the destruction caused by the mining activities.

Idris presented the lab results from the river water tests.

As the official carefully read thorough the documentation, he frowned. He was holding sufficient evidence of a potentially deadly situation. He looked up slowly. “Please give us time,” he said. “We will take action. Immediately.”

***

A month after the meeting, the unlicensed mines were prohibited from continuing their operations. All materials that contained mercury was confiscated. Even so, many other mines still operated. A big mining company, with the backing of powerful people, retained lawyers to dispute the reports Idris had presented. This stymied the local government officials.

“At least we tried, and the pollution of this river has been reduced,” said Mawinei, trying to calm Idris who still couldn’t accept their setback.

Danum sighed and looked anxiously into the distance.

Simpei took a long drag on his cigarette.

“Big mining companies, especially coal companies, are nearly unstoppable because they generate huge revenue for the government,” said Ekot.

“So we still have a long way to go, my friend.” Mawinei ’s words were greeted by nods from her friends.

“Yes!” they cheered. “And we won’t give up easily!”

 

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Cenning Rara

Pada tahun 2005 Umar Thamrin menerima beasiswa Fulbright Grant dan Catherine and William L. Magistretti Graduate Fellowship untuk menyelesaikan pendidikan pascasarjana di Amerika Serikat. Sebelum kembali ke tanah air pada penghujung 2017, dia menerima tawaran dari University of Oregon untuk menjadi peneliti dan pengajar selama setahun.

Saat kembali ke tanah air, dia prihatin melihat rakyat yang tetap saja terpinggirkan dan sejarah yang begitu mudah terlupakan. Inilah yang mendorongnya untuk merenung, mengenang, dan menulis. Umar sekarang mengajar linguistik pada Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin.

Dia dapat dihubungi melalui surel: umar2x.umar@gmail.com

 

 

Cenning Rara

 

Caya berdiri dengan tangan terkepal menggenggam kerikil mengadang traktor yang akan merobohkan rumah teman halusnya. Dahan-dahan pohon ara sebesar dua kali lengan orang dewasa itu menjuntai menyentuh tanah. Sopir traktor sudah meneriakinya berkali-kali, tetapi Caya malah membalasnya dengan makian dan lemparan kerikil. Orang-orang yang berkerumun menggeleng-geleng. Gadis remaja kurus dengan tubuh cekung dan rambut terurai sampai ke pinggang itu benar-benar nekat. Bujukan yang disampaikan orang-orang pun tidak digubrisnya. Malah Caya menuduh orang-orang desanya bersekongkol untuk mengusir teman halusnya.

“Pergi,” teriak Caya sambil melempari traktor dengan kerikil.

Ayahnya muncul dari balik kerumunan.

“Papa, tolong usir pergi pengacau itu!” Caya menangis sejadi-jadinya sambil menunjuk sopir traktor. “Dia mau bongkar rumah temanku. Temanku tidak salah.”

Yusuf membujuk putri semata wayangnya itu. Caya kehilangan ibunya saat dia dilahirkan. Teman-temannya tidak ada yang mau bermain dengannya karena dia mengidap ayan. Yusuf meminta sopir traktor itu memberinya waktu membujuk anaknya.

Sopir traktor itu menggeleng. Dia tidak bisa menunggu. Pekerjaannya harus selesai hari ini. Kalau tidak, dia bisa dipecat. Dia punya keluarga yang butuh makan.

Yusuf terpaksa bermohon-mohon.

Karena sudah menjelang sore, akhirnya sopir traktor memberinya waktu sampai besok pagi.

Yusuf kembali menghampiri Caya yang tersenyum puas menyambutnya meskipun wajahnya masih basah dengan air mata. Yusuf duduk di dekat Caya, bersandar pada pohon ara. “Teman halusmu di mana, Nak?”

“Dia di dalam, tidak mau keluar, takut sekali lihat raksasa besi itu.”

Desa yang terletak di hulu Sungai Sampara, dekat Kota Kolaka, di Sulawesi Tenggara ini, dulunya adalah hutan belukar. Penghuninya ular, buaya, dan makhluk halus. Sekarang ular dan buaya sudah jarang terlihat. Makhluk halus pun merasa tidak lagi nyaman tinggal bersama manusia.

“Kenapa teman halusmu masih bertahan di sini, Nak?”

Caya menarik napas panjang, lalu menjelaskan. Teman halusnya iba melihatnya dan memutuskan tinggal untuk menemaninya. “Sekarang bagaimana saya bisa tega membiarkan rumahnya dibongkar?” kata Caya dengan nada haru sambil memandang traktor yang terparkir di tepi jalan. Beberapa pohon di sekitarnya bergelimpangan, tercabut dengan akar-akarnya.

“Jalanan ini ndak aman lagi,” kata Yusuf. Dari cerita kepala pelebaran jalan, dia tahu jalan ini akan ramai dilalui truk-truk raksasa pengangkut hasil tambang nikel. Persawahan sebentar lagi akan menjadi perumahan. “Nak, kamu harus kasi tahu teman halusmu, beginilah yang manusia sebut perkembangan.”

Caya mendongak, menatap daun-daun ara yang berisik tertiup angin.

“Temanmu pasti ndak tahan dengan suara ribut.” Yusuf terdiam sejenak, meluruskan punggungnya yang bersandar pada pohon ara, lalu berkata, “Kamu bicara dengannya, Nak. Kamu perlu melepaskannya. Dia juga pasti tahu apa yang sedang terjadi di desa ini.” Yusuf mengusap-usap kepala Caya, lalu berdiri dan melangkah pergi.

***

Yusuf duduk termenung di toko kelontongnya yang makin hari makin sepi. Dia sudah berusaha membujuk anaknya untuk merelakan pohon itu dirobohkan. Namun, dia kasihan juga melihat anaknya yang kesepian. Terkadang dia tidak habis pikir kenapa Tuhan tega menyiksa anaknya seperti itu. Tuhan sudah mengambil ibu Caya, dan Caya sendiri mengidap ayan. Mungkin ini karma. Sebelum istrinya meninggal, Yusuf memang bekerja sebagai lintah darat. Namun, semua penghasilan pekerjaan haram itu sudah dikembalikan kepada masyarakat.

Uang yang dipakai untuk modal toko kelontong adalah uang hasil penjualan kebun warisan orangtuanya. Tidak ada alasan Tuhan untuk menghukum anaknya. Anak itu tidak makan uang haram. Anak itu tidak berdosa.

Diam-diam Yusuf juga bangga melihat anaknya mengadang traktor itu dengan berani untuk membela teman halusnya. Tidak seperti diriku yang benar-benar lemah, tidak bisa membela anakku sendiri saat anakku membutuhkan. Caya kesepian dan satu-satunya teman bicaranya hanyalah teman halusnya. Yusuf merasa benar-benar tidak berguna sama sekali. Seharusnya dia malu kepada istrinya yang berkorban untuk melahirkan Caya dengan selamat. Yusuf memaki-maki dirinya sendiri.

Seseorang muncul di pintu.

Yusuf terkesiap. Baru kali ini dia melihat seorang calabai, bencong, berpakaian seperti ulama — Dia bersarung dan sorban putih melingkar menutupi songkok hajinya, sementara bagian ujung sorban itu menjuntai sampai ke bahu.

“Saya Bissu Saleh,” kata calabai itu, dan belum sempat Yusuf menjawab, dia pun menyambung, sambil mengerling kepada Caya yang duduk membisu di sudut toko, “Anak Puang bukan anak sembarangan.”

Yusuf menyambut uluran tangan Saleh.

“Banyak yang mengira saya ini calabai,” Saleh membuka pembicaraan. Dia pun bercerita tentang perbedaan antara bissu dan calabai. Bissu adalah calabai suci penasihat rohani kerajaan kuno Bugis-Makassar. Makanya, banyak orang menyangka bissu bukan Muslim. Saat kerajaan Bugis Makassar menerima Islam sebagai agama kerajaan, bissu patuh, dan menjadi Muslim. Hanya saja, bissu tidak menunaikan salat di masjid karena tidak ada saf untuk calabai. Banyak bissu yang sudah berhaji. “Saya tidak pakai ini, kalau saya belum haji,” kata Saleh menunjuk songkok hajinya. Saat menunaikan haji, dia harus memilih menjadi laki-laki, dan kembali menjadi calabai saat kembali ke desanya.

Saleh sama seperti Caya; dia mempunyai teman halus. Teman halusnya itu mengikutinya ke mana saja dia pergi. Bahkan dalam setiap pekerjaannya, teman halusnya ikut membantu.

Yusuf mengangguk-angguk mendengar penjelasan Saleh.

Sebenarnya Saleh datang atas panggilan saudaranya untuk menjadi indo’botting, perias pengantin Bugis, pada perkawinan putri saudaranya. Dia mendengar dari seorang ibu penjual nasi kuning, langganan pekerja jalanan, tentang Caya yang mengadang traktor untuk membela teman halusnya.

“Nak Caya akan kesepian terus sebelum dia punya sesuatu yang bisa bikin dia diterima masyarakat.” Saleh menatap Yusuf tidak lagi seringan tadi.

“Jadi?” sambar Yusuf.

Saleh tersenyum dan menyabarkan Yusuf untuk mendengarkan ceritanya. Semua orang mempunyai sesuatu yang membuat mereka bisa diterima di masyarakat. Pedagang mempunyai dagangan, orang-orang pintar ilmu pengetahuan, petani tanaman. “Kalau Caya apa?”

Yusuf menggeleng. Caya tidak bersekolah. Dia tidak tahan diejek teman-temannya.

Saleh cerita, dia dulu seperti Caya — terkucilkan sampai akhirnya dia bertemu Puang Matoa, pimpinan bissu. Puang Matoa mendidiknya menjadi bissu. Dia bukan lagi calabai bus malam, calabai yang hanya senang hura-hura dan meresahkan masyarakat.

“Saya mau minta izin Puang untuk mengangkat Caya menjadi anak muridku.”

Yusuf menoleh kepada Caya yang bersungguh-sungguh memperhatikan Saleh.

“Ilmu apa yang akan Bissu Saleh ajarkan?” Yusuf mendesak.

“Ilmu cenning rara,” jawab Saleh.

“Ilmu apa itu?” Yusuf diam menunggu penjelasan.

Namun, Saleh hanya menatapnya, lalu sambil berpaling kepada Caya dia bertanya,

“Puang tidak kasihan sama Nak Caya?”

“Saya harus tahu dulu, ilmu macam apa itu?” Suara Yusuf meninggi.

“Ilmu pemikat leluhur Bugis,” jawab Saleh sambil menyilangkan tangannya di depan dada.

“Ilmu musyrik,” sergah Yusuf.

Saleh meraih gelas air minum di depannya yang disajikan Caya, meneguknya, lalu meletakkannya kembali ke atas meja dengan perlahan-lahan.

“Puang tahu gincu?” tanya Saleh dengan tatapan masih tertuju pada gelas. “Dulu, di Eropa, perempuan yang memakai gincu dianggap pemuja setan.”

Yusuf menyeringai, “Pernah ke Eropa?”

“Pernah, kami keliling Eropa, pentas,” kata Saleh dengan dagu terangkat.

Yusuf meringis.

“Memang banyak yang salah sangka, orang-orang pikir bissu itu tinggal di desa terpencil, dan tidak tahu dunia luar.” Saleh pun menceritakan perjalanannya keliling Eropa.

Caya bersemangat mendengar. Sesekali dia menyela, bertanya saat ada hal yang menarik baginya.

Yusuf hanya terdiam mendengarkan, sambil memperhatikan Caya yang tersenyum lebar. Belum pernah anaknya sebahagia saat ini.

“Jadi Puang mengizinkan?” tanya Saleh dengan tatapan menodong.

Yusuf menghela napas, memperbaiki sikap duduknya, lalu berkata, “Anak bukan barang. Saat kita mati, putus hubungan. Doa anak bisa melapangkan dan menerangi kubur orangtuanya.”

“Tapi…” Saleh merapatkan punggungnya pada sandaran kursi.

“Tadi saya yang diam mendengar, sekarang tolong saya didengar juga,” hardik Yusuf dengan badan condong kepada Saleh.

Saleh terdiam.

Yusuf menjelaskan ketakutannya. Dia muslim yang taat. Kemusyrikan masuk dosa besar. Mereka yang musyrik tidak ditanya lagi saat kiamat nanti, langsung dilempar ke kerak neraka. Percaya pada mantra-mantra itu kemusyrikan. “Cukup sudah kita menderita di dunia ini, jangan lagi di akhirat.”

Matahari dengan cahayanya kemuning merasuk dari sela-sela dinding papan. Induk ayam berkotek-kotek memanggil anak-anaknya yang masuk mencari remah-remah makanan. Caya berdiri mengusir keluar anak-anak ayam itu, lalu kembali duduk.

“Boleh saya jelaskan, Puang?” tanya Saleh dengan sabar.

Yusuf mengangguk.

Saleh menjelaskan mantra bukan sesuatu yang tertulis di atas batu. Mantra mengikuti perkembangan kerohanian masyarakat. Dulu mantra-mantra itu berbahasa Bugis-Makassar kuno. Sejak Islam masuk, mantra-mantra memakai ayat-ayat dari Alquran. “Kita tidak lagi berdoa kepada dewata, tapi kepada Allah,” kata Saleh menutup penjelasannya.

“Untuk usir setan, iya, tapi untuk bikin orang suka kita, saya baru dengar,” sela Yusuf.

Saleh terdiam.

Yusuf pun melanjutkan, “Musyrik itu orang yang pake Alquran untuk guna-gunai orang supaya orang suka dia.”

“Percaya saya Puang. Saya ini haji,” kata Saleh dengan nada membujuk.

“Haji bukan jaminan. Lihat saja, banyak yang pergi haji, setelah pulang tambah rakus, makan uang rakyat.” Suara Yusuf kembali meninggi.

Saleh tersenyum. “Saya hanya menawarkan bantuan. Puang yang putuskan terima atau tidak.”

Caya memegang lengan kursi kuat-kuat, tetapi tangannya tidak cukup kuat untuk menahan badannya yang terempas ke depan.

Yusuf melompat menangkapnya, tetapi terlambat.

Caya terkapar dengan badan mengejang dan mulut berbusa.

Yusuf membopong Caya masuk ke kamarnya, lalu kembali ke ruang toko, dan berkata,

“Anak itu kalau terlalu tertekan, ayannya muncul.”

Saleh tidak lagi berkata apa-apa, kecuali minta pamit.

“Sampai kapan Bissu Saleh di sini?” Suara Yusuf tidak setegas sebelumnya.

“Kembali ke Pangkajene lusa.” Saleh berpamitan. Azan magrib mendayu-dayu mengiringi kepergian Saleh yang akhirnya menghilang di balik rimbunan bambu.

Tengah malam, Yusuf bermunajat. “Ya Allah, aku hanya ingin melihat anakku bahagia.” Yusuf mengulang-ulang perkataannya. Tidak seperti biasanya, suara-suara kalong yang berebut buah tidak terdengar. Angin pun berhenti bertiup. Yusuf terkesiap saat Caya menyentuh punggungnya.

“Pa, ayo kita ke masjid,” kata Caya.

Yusuf memandang wajah Caya yang bersinar dengan senyumnya. Azan subuh sayup-sayup terdengar. “Iya Nak, kita ke masjid,” kata Yusuf.

Dalam perjalanan pulang dari masjid, Yusuf berkata kepada Caya dengan nada bersungguh-sungguh, “Musyrik itu dosa besar. Setiap saat kita bisa musyrik. Iblis sangat lihai menipu manusia. Bahkan menjelang kematian kita, iblis masih bisa membuat kita musyrik.” Daun-daun bambu bekersik menggigil tertiup angin subuh di sudut jalan. Yusuf dan Caya berbelok masuk ke jalanan kecil menuju rumah. Yusuf bertanya pelan, “Kamu tahu Nak kapan kita selamat dari kemusyrikan?”

Caya menggeleng.

“Kita mengucapkan syahadat saat mengembuskan napas terakhir kita.”

***

Yusuf mengantarkan Caya ke terminal bus. Sepanjang jalan, tidak sepatah kata pun terucap dari mulutnya. Yusuf mengelus-elus kepala Caya saat anaknya mencium tangannya sebelum naik ke bus yang membawanya ke Pangkajene.

Saleh dengan sabar menunggu Caya melepaskan tangan ayahnya. “Jangan khawatir Puang, Caya sudah jadi anak saya sendiri.”

Yusuf mengangguk dengan isak yang tertahan di tenggorokannya.

“Kamu baik-baik di sana, Nak. Dengar Bissu Saleh.” Yusuf menyodorkan wajahnya lewat kaca jendela yang terbuka.

Caya secepatnya menghapus air matanya, lalu mengangguk-angguk.

Bus bergerak perlahan keluar dari terminal.

Caya menoleh ke belakang memandang ayahnya yang berdiri di tepi jalan sampai akhirnya pandangannnya terhalang oleh bus yang mengekor, lalu merebahkan punggungnya dan memandang truk-truk yang menumpahkan tanah ke atas persawahan yang mengering. Desa ini benar-benar sudah ramai. Rumah dan toko nampak di mana-mana. Segerombolan burung-burung pipit beterbangan saat bus berbelok di dekat semak-semak. Seharusnya bukan aku yang harus pergi belajar cenning rara agar pendatang-pendatang itu bisa menerimaku. Pendatang-pendatang itu yang harus bisa menerima diriku.

Caya menengok ke belakang sebelum bus berbelok dan merayap ke jalan yang memutar di pinggang gunung. Desanya sudah tidak nampak. Caya mengusap air matanya yang meleleh di sudut matanya. Aku harus secepatnya kembali. Kasihan ayahku, hidup sendirian.

Saleh duduk tenang di sampingnya.

Caya masih tidak percaya Saleh mau mengangkatnya menjadi anak murid, padahal dia baru saja mengenalnya. Alasannya hanya karena dia dulu bernasib sama dengan dirinya, terkucilkan, tidak masuk akal. Pasti ada alasan di balik itu, tetapi untuk apa aku menanyakannya. Yang terpenting Wa’ Saleh mau mengajarkanku sesuatu yang membuat aku tidak lagi kesepian.

“Kamu sudah lupa dengan temanmu?” tanya Saleh sambil mengangkat dagu seakan menunjuk di sampingnya. “Temanmu itu enak, naik bus, ndak bayar.”

Caya menoleh. “Iya Wa’, rumahnya juga ndak dibayar,” jawabnya dengan mata berbinar.

Saleh langsung menutup mulutnya dengan tangan, dan wajahnya memerah menahan tawa. “Ndak salah Nak saya mengangkatmu menjadi muridku,” katanya di sela-sela tawanya yang tertahan.

Caya menerima pujian itu dengan anggukan.

Bus meraung-raung saat melewati kelokan terakhir di puncak gunung, lalu meluncur dengan ringan melewati jalan yang menurun.

“Dulu saat saya kecil, saya seperti kamu, pemberontak.” Sepanjang jalan Saleh bercerita tentang masa kecilnya. Orang-orang membencinya hanya karena dia berjalan seperti perempuan. Ayahnya memukul kakinya sampai bengkak supaya dia berhenti berjalan seperti itu. Dia pernah mencoba, tetapi temannya mengejeknya. Kata mereka, cara jalannya seperti anak baru sunatan. Akhirnya dia capek mencoba, ayahnya juga capek memukulnya, teman-temannya capek mengejeknya.

Saat dia dewasa, dia senang membantu ibunya memasak. Ibunya dengan sabar menjelaskan bahwa memasak itu pekerjaan perempuan. “Kamu bantu ayahmu bertani,” kata ibunya. Dia pun membantu ayahnya menanam padi di sawah. Namun baru beberapa ikat selesai, dan matahari belum terlalu terik, ayannya muncul. Akhirnya ayahnya tidak pernah lagi mengajaknya ke sawah.

Untungnya setiap pagi, ibunya sangat sibuk. Mereka tujuh bersaudara, dan masih kecil-kecil. Terpaksa ayahnya mengizinkannya membantu ibunya menyiapkan sarapan. Dia bertugas membuat kopi dan teh. Setelah ibunya mengajarkannya, dia mahir membuat kopi dan teh. Malah lebih nikmat dari kopi dan teh buatan ibunya. Pelan-pelan, dia membantu ibunya membuat segala jenis sarapan, seperti nasi goreng, nasi ketan, dan bubur jagung.

Keahlian masak-memasak Saleh berkembang. Akhirnya dia mahir dalam memasak acara hajatan. Dalam sebuah pesta perkawinan dia bertemu Puang Matoa, pimpinan Bissu. Saat itu Puang Matoa diundang untuk menampilkan tarian ma’giri, tarian sakral bissu yang memperlihatkan kemampuan mereka menari dengan gemulai dan kekebalan tubuh dari senjata tajam. Hanya bissu yang mampu melakukan itu dan syarat menjadi bissu sangat susah. Dia harus suci dan harus punya roh pelindung. Dia harus berpuasa selama tiga hari. Setelah itu dia dikafani seperti sudah mati. Selama dikafani, rohnya akan menjelajahi alam gaib sedangkan calon bissu terselap. Seberapa jauh rohnya menjelajah, tergantung pada kekuatan roh bissu itu. Ketika roh pulang ke tubuh, saat itulah dia sah menjadi bissu. Kalau rohnya tidak pulang, dia akan mati.

“Kenapa Wa’ bisa nekat?” Caya melirik kepada Saleh.

“Ya, memang sudah nasib,” kata Saleh sambil mengusap-usap dada.

***

Pangkajene ternyata sebuah kota kecil dekat Makassar. Kota ini diapit oleh laut dan perbukitan batu. Sungai besar bernama Kali Bersih membelah kota kecil itu. Bukit-bukit batu mulai terkikis habis untuk dijadikan semen dan marmer. Saleh tinggal di sebuah rumah kayu panggung di tepi sungai belakang pasar. Suara bising tidak sedetik pun berhenti. Truk-truk di jalan dan ketinting-ketinting di sungai menderu-deru. Caya tidak bisa tidur sampai terdengar azan subuh. Azan subuh pun membahana dari segala penjuru, saling berlomba menggapai langit.

“Kamu ndak bisa tidur, Nak,” kata Saleh saat Caya keluar ke ruang tamu.

“Iya Wa’.” Caya merapikan rambut yang terurai di wajahnya.

“Beginilah nanti desamu, kamu harus mulai belajar.” Saleh meneguk kopi hangatnya. “Tapi bagus, makin ramai tambang, makin ramai juga masjid.”

Keramaian kota ini membuat Caya ingin segera kembali ke desanya. Untung, pada malam itu, dia sudah memulai pelajarannya.

Saleh memperkenalkannya kepada teman halusnya. Saleh memberi salam saat membuka pintu kamar arajang, pusaka, itu dan bau kemenyan merebak. Kamar itu lebih kecil dari kamar yang ditempati Caya. Di dalamnya, ada sebuah ranjang mungil, ditutupi kelambu. Kamar itu gelap, hanya cahaya dari ruang tamu yang menyelusup masuk. Saleh bersila dan berdoa sejenak, lalu membuka kelambu itu. Saleh menunu dupa di dalam mangkuk tembikar di sudut kanan depan ranjang. Nampak pernak-pernik kuno tertata rapi di atas ranjang. Saleh berbicara akrab kepada teman halusnya, lalu menarik tangan Caya mendekat dan duduk di sampingnya.

Saleh memperkenalkan Caya dan menjelaskan maksud Caya untuk belajar cenning rara.

Caya merasakan dirinya melayang, dan melihat teman halusnya berangkulan dengan seseorang berjubah putih yang bercahaya menyilaukan. Makin dia menatap lelaki berjubah itu, makin menyilaukan. Akhirnya, Caya harus menutup matanya dengan kedua tangannya, tetapi cahaya itu tetap terasa, bahkan makin menyilaukan. Caya pun berteriak sejadi-jadinya. Setelah itu, cahaya tadi menghilang, dan penglihatannya menjadi gelap gulita. Saat kesadaran Caya kembali, dia bertanya, “Apa yang terjadi?”

“Kamu lihat Nak?” Saleh menggenggam tangan Caya.

Caya pun menceritakan apa yang dilihatnya. “Sebenarnya siapa itu?”

“Seorang sufi. Tidak boleh saya sebut namanya.” Saleh meminta Caya berwudu, memakai sarung, dan kembali masuk ke kamar arajang. Mereka bersila di hadapan arajang lalu Saleh mengajarkan Caya mantra cenning rara.

Saleh mewanti-wanti agar Caya jangan menggunakan cenning rara untuk keburukan. Kalau dia melakukan itu, lelaki berjubah cahaya itu yang akan datang dan menghukumnya.

Caya mengangguk gembira dengan anggapan dia bisa segera kembali ke desanya, bertemu ayahnya, dan bisa tidur lelap.

Ternyata, Saleh masih menahannya. Dia masih harus mengajarkan Caya menggunakan cenning rara untuk merias pengantin. Dalam tiga bulan ke depan, ada tiga acara perkawinan, dan Saleh meminta Caya untuk membantunya menjadi indo’ botting.

Saleh mengajarkannya cara merias pengantin. Terkadang, dia tidak bisa menahan luapan kemarahannya, saat perhatian Caya terpecah. “Itulah gunanya kamu baca cenning rara saat merias, supaya kamu betul-betul perhatikan setiap garis yang kamu bikin. Ini bukan kertas, ini muka orang.”

Anak perempuan yang menjadi korban percobaan riasan Caya terkikik-kikik mendengar Saleh marah.

Caya pun membaca mantra cenning rara.

“Belum sekarang, nanti,” hardik Saleh, “kalau pengantin betulan.”

Anak perempuan itu memegang perutnya, tertawa terbahak-bahak.

Caya jengkel ditertawai dan diriasnya anak itu mirip topeng monyet.

Saleh tertawa terpingkal-pingkal.

***

“Kamu sudah siap, Nak,” kata Saleh saat melihat hasil merias Caya pada minggu kedua.

Awalnya Caya canggung saat merias pengantin untuk pertama kalinya dan di depan orang banyak. Namun, akhirnya dia bisa menunjukkan keterampilannya. Saleh memujinya.

Malam akhir pekan bulan ketiga, Caya duduk di teras dengan Saleh sambil memandangi gerimis. Raungan truk di jalan dan katinting di sungai bersahut-sahutan. Caya tersenyum. Suara bising yang dulu membuatnya tidak bisa tidur, sekarang malah membawanya terlelap.

“Kenapa kamu senyum-senyum?” tanya Saleh.

“Saya mulai senang tinggal di sini, Wa’.”

“Bagaimana perasaanmu, Nak, waktu berhasil merias?”

“Senang sekali,” kata Caya tersenyum lebar dengan mata berbinar-binar.

“Masa panen sudah lewat. Masa menanam sudah tiba. Musim panen, musim kawin; musim bekerja sebagai indo’ botting,” kata Saleh tersenyum simpul.

Gerimis bermain riang dengan cahaya lampu jalan yang temaram. “Akhirnya,” Saleh menghela napas panjang, “janjiku kepada Puang Matoa sudah saya tepati.”

Caya tersadar, rupanya itulah alasan Saleh mengajarinya.

“Kamu harus pulang besok. Papamu pasti sudah rindu sekali.”

“Terima kasih, Wa’,” kata Caya dengan lirih.

“Sama-sama, Nak.” Saleh berdiri dan masuk ke kamarnya.

***

Caya mengubah toko kelontong ayahnya menjadi salon kecantikan. Orang-orang menyukai caranya merias yang apik. Pelanggannya membeludak. Setelah menyelesaikan pekerjaan terakhirnya hari ini, Caya duduk beristirahat.

Yusuf datang menghampirinya. “Papa bangga sekali.” Setelah terdiam sejenak, dia melanjutkan, “Bagaimana dengan teman halusmu?”

“Malah bertambah banyak.” Caya tersenyum lebar.

Yusuf melemparkan pandangannya ke persimpangan jalan raya di mana dulu ada pohon ara. “Terima kasih, Nak,” kata Yusuf lirih.

“Saya yang berterima kasih, Pa.” Caya meraih tangan ayahnya dan menciumnya.

 

*****

Cenning Rara

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, dia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Dia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini dia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Oni dapat dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

Cenning Rara

 

Caya, defiant with her clenched fist full of pebbles, stood her ground and blocked the tractor about to demolish her imaginary friend’s house. The bodhi tree’s branches, twice the width of a man’s arm, scraped the ground.

The tractor driver had yelled at her many times, but Caya answered with angry words and pelted pebbles. The gathered villagers shook their heads. The skinny young girl with hair down to her waist must be really desperate. Unmoved by anyone’s persuasion, she refused to budge and even accused the villagers of conspiring to evict her imaginary friend.

“Go away!” Caya yelled, throwing pebbles at the tractor.

Her father emerged from the crowd, and Caya pointed at the tractor driver. “Father, please tell that intruder to go!” she cried. “He wants to destroy my friend’s house. My friend hasn’t done anything wrong!”

Yusuf tried to calm his daughter, his only child. Because of her epilepsy, no one wanted to play with her. He knew that Caya was lonely, and her imaginary friend was the only person she had to talk to. Yusuf asked the tractor driver to give him a few minutes to reason with his daughter.

The driver shook his head. No, he could not wait. He had to finish clearing this area today. He could not afford to be fired. He had a family to feed.

Yusuf pleaded for more time.

The two bantered back and forth until finally, because it had become so late, the driver climbed out of the tractor cab and told Yusuf he would return the next morning to complete his job of clearing the land.

Yusuf walked back to Caya, whose smile shined through a face wet with tears. “Where is your friend now, Caya?”

“She is inside her house in the tree. She doesn’t want to come out. She is afraid of that steel monster.”

Yusuf’s and Caya’s village, upstream on the Sumpara River, near Kolaka City in Southwest Sulawesi, was once a forest, only inhabited by snakes, crocodiles, and forest spirits. Now, snakes and crocodiles were rarely seen, and the forest spirits, not comfortable living near humans, had moved to the mountains.

Yusuf sat down at the base of the bodhi tree and drew his daughter to him, “Why does your friend remain here when the others have gone, Caya?”

Caya sighed. “She feels sorry for me and stays to keep me company.” Caya stared at the tractor parked near the roadside, surrounded by uprooted trees. “How could I allow anyone to destroy her house?”

“This road is no longer safe,” Yusuf told his daughter. “These rice fields will soon be transformed into a housing complex. This road will become busy with giant trucks transporting nickel ore.” He paused. “Caya, you must tell your friend what is going on. This is what we humans call progress.”

Caya raised her head, and looked at the heart-shaped leaves of the bodhi tree rustling above her in the wind.

“Your friend would definitely not like the noise.” Yusuf straightened his back and stretched. “You must talk to her, Caya. You have to let her go. I’m sure she already knows what is happening to this village.”

Yusuf stroked Caya’s hair, then rose and left.

***

Yusuf sat lost in thought in his convenience store. Fewer customers were visiting his shop with each passing day. Yusuf had eventually persuaded his daughter not to interfere with the felling of the bodhi tree, but he worried about this lonely daughter of his, sitting quietly beside him. At times he could not accept God punishing his daughter so harshly. Not only had God taken Caya’s mother during childbirth, but He had also cursed his daughter with epilepsy. Maybe it was karma. Yusuf had been a loan shark. But when his wife died giving birth to the imperfect baby daughter he held in his arms, he had returned all the blood money to the community. He had sold the land inherited from his parents and used the money to build his convenience store. So there was no reason for God to punish his innocent daughter. She had played no part in the dirty money.

Secretly, Yusuf felt proud of his daughter for standing up to the tractor to protect her imaginary friend. She had been so brave and strong — unlike himself, who was too weak to defend his own daughter when she needed him. Yusuf felt useless. He would be ashamed to face his wife, who had sacrificed her life to give birth to Caya. Yusuf cursed himself.

The store’s front door opened.

Yusuf’s eyes widened. He saw a calabai wearing the attire of a religious man — a sarong and a white turban wrapped around his hajj skullcap. He had heard about calabai. According to the Bugis gender system, calabai were generally born male but took on the role of a heterosexual female. Their fashions and mannerisms were distinctly feminine but did not match that of “typical” heterosexual women. Yusuf had never seen a calabai dressed like a holy man.

“I am Saleh,” said the calabai, and before Yusuf could reply, the calabai continued, looking at Caya who sat quietly in a corner of the store, “Your child, sir, is a gifted child.”

Yusuf shook the hand Saleh offered while Caya placed a glass of water in front of him.

Saleh opened the conversation. “Many people think I am a calabai, but I am bissu— the so-called ‘fifth gender’ in the Bugis gender system.” Sensing Yusuf’s curiosity, he then explained the difference between a bissu and a calabai. “Originally,” he said, “a bissu was a sacred Bugis-Makassar transvestite who worked as the spiritual adviser at the court of the ancient Bugis-Makassar kingdom. Because they were transvestites, many people thought that bissus could not be Muslims. But when the Bugis-Makassar kingdom accepted Islam as the state religion, the bissus followed and embraced Islam, except that they could not pray in the mosque. Why? Because in a mosque the places for men and women to worship were clearly marked — there were no designated places marked for bissus. Yet many bissus had completed the pilgrimage to Mecca and were therefore hajis. “I could not wear this,” Saleh said, pointing at his skullcap, “if I had not gone on a pilgrimage.” During his pilgrimage, he had to choose to be a man. But when he returned to his village, he went back to being a calabai again.

Saleh, like Caya, had a mystical spirit-friend. This spirit-friend accompanied Saleh everywhere he went; it even helped him with his work.

Yusuf and Caya listened carefully.

Saleh had been invited to their village by a relative who wanted him to be the indo’botting, Bugis bridal makeup artist and counsel, at his daughter’s wedding. After arriving in the village, Saleh had overheard the woman who sold turmeric rice to the road construction workers talk about Caya blocking the tractor to save her imaginary friend’s house.

“Unless Caya can be a meaningful part of society, she will be lonely,” Saleh said.

“And?” Yusuf probed.

Saleh smiled and asked for Yusuf’s patience while listening to his story. “To be accepted by society, a person must have something to offer. Traders, for instance, offered their goods; educated people offered their knowledge; and farmers offered their crops. What does Caya have to offer?”

Yusuf shook his head. Caya couldn’t even go to school because of her schoolmates’ bullying.

“I, too, was ostracized before I met Puang Matoa, the bissu leader,” Saleh told Yusuf. The elder transvestite taught him to become a bissu, and Saleh turned from a streetcorner prostitute and public annoyance who liked to party into a holy transgender. “Yusuf,” Saleh said, “I ask your permission to make Caya my disciple.”

Yusuf glanced at Caya. “What will you teach her, Bissu Saleh?” he asked cautiously

Cenning Rara,” Saleh answered.

“What is that?”

Saleh glanced at Yusuf, then tilted his head toward Caya. “Don’t you feel sorry for her?”

“I need to know what you are going to teach her.” Concern raised Yusef’s voice.

“Cenning Rara, the Bugis love spell.” Saleh folded his arms across his chest.

“That sounds like black magic,” Yusuf said, alarmed.

Saleh reached for the glass of water Caya had served him earlier. After taking a sip, he slowly placed the glass on the table.

“You know what lipstick is,” Saleh said while looking at the glass. “But did you know that a long time ago, European women who wore lipstick were labeled satan worshippers?”

“Oh, and you’ve been to Europe?” Yusef scoffed.

“Actually, yes, I have toured all across Europe.”

Astonished, Yusuf had nothing to say.

“Many people make the wrong assumption that bissus live in secluded villages and are oblivious to the outside world,” Saleh said. “Now, let me tell you about my adventures around Europe.”

During Saleh’s storytelling, Caya sat mesmerized, completely drawn into Saleh’s tales. She interrupted him occasionally, asking for more information whenever she found something he said particularly interesting.

Yusuf listened quietly, watching how engaged his daughter was. He had never seen Caya this happy and alive.

After Saleh finished his European tales, he looked at Yusuf. “So, do you give me your permission?”

Yusuf squirmed in his seat. “A child is not an object to possess,” he said. “When a person dies, they lose all their possessions. But a child’s prayer can bring joy and light to a parent’s grave —”

“But —”

“But, I have listened to you without interrupting, now please listen to me.” Yusuf leaned toward Saleh, who quietly settled back into his chair.

“I am apprehensive,” Yusuf began. “As a devout Muslim, I view idolatry as a great sin.

Those who serve idols will not be judged on Judgment Day; rather, they will be cast immediately into the depths of hell. Believing in spells is an act of idolatry. It is enough to suffer in this world: I don’t want to suffer in the afterlife.”

The bright afternoon sun crept through the slits in the planked wall. A hen clucked loudly, looking for the chicks that had entered the shop, pecking for food crumbs. Caya shooed the chicks out, and returned to her seat.

“Let me explain it to you,” Saleh said, patiently. “Cenning Rara is a spell that is handed down by our Buginese ancestors. It makes the practitioner’s client appear youthful and healthy, with an alluring attraction in her visage. Such a spell may succeed in enticing a member of another sex without producing any harmful side effects for the one the spell is cast upon. Indeed, Cenning Rara and other sorts of love magic are regarded as rather common.”

Saleh told Yusuf that spells, like Cenning Rara, were not something written down like a permanent formula. Rather, spells evolved and changed in accordance with a society’s spiritual development. For example, after the arrival of Islam, spells that were written in the ancient Bugis-Makassar language transitioned into spells that used verses from the Quran. “We no longer pray to a pantheon of gods, but to Allah the Almighty God,” Saleh concluded.

“You can probably use those spells to drive out evil spirits, but this is the first time I’ve heard that they can be used to make someone desire you,” Yusuf said. “Idol worshippers use verses from the Quran to trick people into liking them.”

“Please believe me, sir, that is not the case. I am a haji.”

“Being a haji is no guarantee that you’re telling the truth!” Yusuf became agitated again.

“Just look around you! After returning from the pilgrimage, many hajis are even greedier and more prone to embezzle public funds.”

Saleh smiled. “I can only offer help. It is up to you whether you want to receive my help or not.”

The clattering of Caya’s chair interrupted the conversation. Caya clenched the arms of her chair, as an epileptic seizure contorted her body. Yusuf jumped up to keep her from toppling forward, but he was too late. Caya writhed on the floor, eyelids fluttering.

Yusuf carried her into her room behind the shop. When he returned, he told Saleh, “This is what happens when Caya is placed under too much stress.”

Saleh had nothing more to say. He rose and excused himself to leave.

“How long will you be here in the village?” Yusuf’s voice was kinder.

“I return to Pangkajene the day after tomorrow,” Saleh said, as he walked out the door.

The soft, melodious magrib, twilight call to prayer, accompanied his departure until he disappeared behind a bamboo grove.

At midnight, Yusuf prayed desperately. “Oh, God, please, I only wish for my child’s happiness.” The night was unusually quiet. There were no bats shrieking as they fought over fruit. Yusuf repeated his prayers over and over until even the wind had stopped blowing.

He startled when Caya touched his back as the call to the dawn prayer softly announced a new day. “Father, let’s go to the mosque.” Caya smiled.

On their way home from morning prayers, Yusuf told Caya, “Idolatry is a grave sin. We can be tempted into committing idolatry at any time. The devil is very good at tricking humans. He can even trick us into sinning while we’re on our death bed.”

The morning breeze caressed the bamboo leaves at the street corner. Yusuf and Caya turned and followed the small path to their home. “Do you know how to escape the sin of idolatry, my daughter?”

Caya shook her head.

“We say the shahadah, confession of faith, before taking our last breath.”

***

Yusuf said nothing as he accompanied Caya to the bus station for her journey to Pangkajene. At the station, Yusuf stroked his daughter’s head when she kissed his hand.

Saleh waited patiently as father and daughter said goodbye. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said. “I will take care of Caya as if she were my own child.”

Yusuf couldn’t speak. He simply nodded.

Caya and Saleh boarded the bus. Yusuf ran to the open bus window. “Take care of yourself, Caya! Obey Bissu Saleh!”

Caya wiped her tears and waved.

Slowly, the bus pulled out of the station. Caya looked back at her father, standing on the roadside. When she could no longer see him, she settled into her seat, watching the passing scenery of trucks burying dry rice fields with dirt.

Saleh sat calmly beside her.

Caya saw that her village was indeed bustling with construction. New houses and shops had sprung up everywhere. A flock of birds flared up when the bus took a turn near their bushes. I shouldn’t be the one who has to learn Cenning Rara so people will accept me. They should learn to accept me as I am.

Caya took a last look back before the bus took another turn and she could no longer see her village. As they crawled up the twisting road of the mountainside, Caya dried her eyes. I’ll come back as soon as I can. Poor Father is all alone.

***

Caya was still in disbelief that Saleh wanted her as his student. He barely knew her! His only reason was that she suffered the same fate he did, being ostracized. There must be another reason behind it — but why question it? Saleh is going to teach me a skill that will keep me from being lonely, and that is all that matters.

“Have you already forgotten your friend?” Saleh pointed his chin to the empty seat next to him. “Your friend is lucky. She didn’t have to pay to get on the bus.”

Caya turned to him, eyes sparkling. “Yes, and she didn’t have to pay rent either.”

Saleh quickly covered his mouth. His face reddened as he tried to keep from laughing. “I wasn’t wrong when I invited you to become one of my disciples.” He chuckled.

The bus engine growled as it crawled up the last part of the mountainside before it cruised leisurely down the other side.

“When I was a child, I was like you, a rebel,” Saleh said. “People ridiculed me for walking like a woman. My father beat my legs until they were swollen, trying to change my natural gait.”

Saleh sighed, remembering. “Whenever I tried to walk like a man, my friends said I looked like a boy who had just been circumcised. In the end, I grew tired of trying, my father grew tired of beating me, and my friends grew tired of teasing me.”

Saleh smiled, looking down at Caya. “When I was growing up, I enjoyed helping my mother cook. My mother was a patient woman, but she told me that cooking was a woman’s job. She told me that I should help my father in the fields. So I tried doing that, and I went to help him early in the day. But after working just a few rows, I had an epileptic seizure. My father never asked me to work in the fields again.”

Cayla listened, rapt.

“I was one of seven children. Fortunately, my mother’s busy-ness in the morning turned to my advantage. My father had no choice but let me help my mother make breakfast. My job was to prepare the coffee and tea. Under my mother’s guidance, I soon became an expert in making coffee and tea — even better than my mother! Little by little, I started helping her make all kinds of breakfast dishes, like fried rice, glutinous rice, and grits.

“As my cooking skills improved, I began catering for parties. It was at one of the wedding receptions I had been commissioned to cook for, that I met Puang Matoa, the bissu leader. He had been invited to perform the ma’giri, a sacred bissu dance that showed how a bissu’s graceful body was invulnerable to sharp objects. Only bissus were able to perform the dance and it was extremely difficult to become a bissu.”

The process of becoming a bissu, said Saleh, required him to be sanctified and have a protective spirit. After a three-day fast, he would be wrapped in a burial cloth as if he were dead. His soul would then depart his body and travel to the spirit world. The distance his soul traveled depended on the strength of his spirit. If his soul returned, he would be confirmed as a bissu. If his soul did not return, he would die.

“Why would you risk your life like that?” Caya glanced at Saleh.

“Because it was my destiny.”

***

The Kali Bersih river divided Pangkajene, a small mining town near Makassar on the island of Sulawesi. The quarries nearby had gouged the rocky hills for mining operations. Saleh lived in a wooden stilt house on a noisy street behind the market. Cars and trucks honked endlessly on the busy street, accompanied by the rush of the river.

On her first night in Saleh’s house, Caya lay awake until she heard the dawn call for prayer. Several mosques blared prayer calls from every direction, as if competing with each other to reach heaven.

“You couldn’t sleep?” Saleh asked when Caya walked into the living room.

“No, it was too noisy,” Caya said, fluffing her flat, bed hair.

“Your village will soon become just as busy, and you will have to learn to live with it.” Saleh sipped his hot coffee. “But it is all good; the booming mining industry will also increase attendance at the mosque.”

Caya felt a tug of homesickness. If it were not for the fact that Saleh would start her lessons that night, Caya would have asked to return to her village.

Saleh invited Caya to meet his guiding spirit. When he opened the door to the arajang, sacred chamber, the aroma of frankincense enveloped them. The room was smaller than Caya’s room. It had a small bed, draped with a mosquito net that served as a spirit-altar. The only light in the room came from the living room. Saleh seated himself cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed. After saying a short prayer, he stood, opened the mosquito net, and lit the frankincense in its earthen container at the front of the bed. The bed was decorated with antique trinkets.

As Saleh talked with his guiding spirit, he pulled Caya’s hand to sit next to him. Saleh introduced Caya to his guiding spirit and explained why Caya wanted to learn how to cast the Cenning Rara spell.

As Caya entered the spiritual world, she began to float. She saw her imaginary friend embrace an old man dressed in a white robe, enveloped in a blinding aura. The longer she looked at him, the brighter the light became. Caya put her hands over her eyes, but she couldn’t shut out the light. She screamed. The light disappeared, and Caya plunged into a deep, unconscious darkness.

***

“What happened?” Caya asked when she came to.

Saleh grabbed Caya’s hands. “What did you see?”

“I saw an old man, dressed in a white robe, surrounded by a blinding light.” Caya told Saleh. “Who was that?”

“A sufi, a mystic,” Saleh said. “I’m not allowed to speak his name.” He told Caya to perform ablution, change into a sarong, and return to the arajang chamber.

They sat cross-legged in front of the small bed. “Now I will teach you the Cenning Rara,” Saleh said. “You must never use the spell for evil purposes. If you do, the man you saw will punish you.”

Assuming that she could immediately return to her village, be with her father, and sleep soundly in her own bed that night, Caya nodded happily. But Saleh kept her in Pangkajene. Caya still needed to learn how to use Cenning Rara for bridal makeup.

There were three weddings coming up during the next three months and Saleh told Caya to assist him as he performed his task as an indo’botting. Saleh taught her how to skillfully apply bridal makeup. At times, he lost his temper when Caya became distracted. “That’s why you must recite the Cenning Rara mantra while you work,” he scolded. “That way, you’ll be focused on every line you draw. Remember, you’re not drawing on a piece of paper! You’re working on a human face.”

The girl who was Caya’s practice model giggled when Saleh reprimanded Caya. When Caya dutifully started reciting the Cenning Rara mantra, Saleh snapped, “Not now! Wait until you work on a real bride!” At that, the model burst out laughing.

Upset over being laughed at, Caya made the girl look like a monkey. And then it was Saleh who could not control his laughter.

***

After Caya had worked for two weeks as his apprentice, Saleh told her she was ready to work on her own. Initially, Caya felt awkward when she had to do the makeup in front of so many people. But in the end, she proved herself, and Saleh congratulated her.

Caya had lived with Saleh for almost three months when, one evening, they sat relaxing on the porch, watching a light rain. The sounds of passing trucks and boats filled the evening air. Caya smiled. The noise that used to keep her awake now lulled her to sleep.

“Why are you smiling?” Saleh asked.

“I’m beginning to enjoy my stay here.”

“How did you feel after you finished your first job?”

“I was delighted.” Caya’s eyes sparkled. “It made me very happy.”

“The harvest season is the wedding season — that’s when the indo’botting is busiest,” Saleh said, showing his crooked smile. “But the harvest season is over, and now it is time for planting.”

The drizzle danced through the light of the dim streetlamp. Saleh let out a long sigh then said slowly, “I have finally fulfilled my promise to Puang Matoa.”

Caya then realized, why Saleh had taught her. He had passed on his knowledge.

“You will go home tomorrow,” Saleh said. “Your father must have missed you very much.”

Saleh rose and went into his room.

***

Caya remodeled her father’s store into a beauty salon. People liked her makeup style and she quickly became in very high demand. After serving her last customer for the day, Caya sat down in one of the salon chairs.

Yusuf joined her and said, “I am so proud of you.” After a moment of silence, he asked, “How is your imaginary friend?”

Caya broke into a big smile and said, “Oh, there are many of her now!”

Yusuf gazed across the road where the bodhi tree once stood. “Thank you, my daughter,” he said, gently.

“It is I who should thank you.” Caya took her father’s hand and kissed it.

 

*****

Laki-Laki dari Ratenggaro

Maria Matildis Banda menamatkan kuliah di Fakultas Pascasarjana UNUD Denpasar. Dosen Fakultas Ilmu Budaya UNUD dan penulis berbakat dan berhasil ini, mulai menulis cerpen pada tahun 1981. Mengajar dan meneliti tradisi lisan daerah-daerah di Nusa Tenggara Timur menjadikan kekuatan baginya untuk menulis novel berlatar daerah. Antara tahun 2015 dan 2021, dia menulis tiga novel yang diterbitkan sendiri di PT.Kanisius. Wijaya Kusuma dari Kamar Nomor Tiga, berlatar budaya patriaki dalam kaitannya dengan kesehatan perempuan melahirkan di Flores. Suara Samudra bercerita tentang penangkapan ikan paus di Lamalera, Pulau Lembata. Bulan Patah merupakan novel yang dimaksudkan menghentikan kelahiran luar nikah di Pulau Flores. Doben (Lamalera 2017) mengemukakan hal-hal tentang politik dan kepentingan berlatar daerah Timor.

Sejak tahun 2000, Maria menulis “Parodi Situasi” di Harian Umum Pos Kupang.

Maria dapat dihubungi melalui surel: bmariamatildis@gmail.com

 

Laki-Laki dari Ratenggaro

 

“Selamat datang kembali, Julia. Kamu cantik seperti dulu,” Rita melepaskan pelukannya dan memperhatikan dengan saksama wajah Julia. Digenggamnya tangan Julia erat-erat, lalu membawanya ke dalam mobil. “Terima kasih sudah mau datang. Terima kasih Julia,” Rita menghapus air matanya.

Gha Bili tetap menjadi guru. Sama dengan Yusak, guru SMP,” kata-kata Rita mengantarkan mereka ke masa lalu, saat mereka berkawan akrab meski berada di sekolah yang berbeda. Rita dan kakaknya, Bili, datang dari Pulau Sumba bersama Yusak, teman Bili, untuk melanjutkan sekolah di Kupang. Rita yang datang untuk bersekolah Sekolah Pendidikan Keperawatan segera bersahabat dengan Julia dan menjadi simpul yang menghubungkan mereka berempat.

“Harusnya Gha Bili tahu kamu datang untuknya. Ya Tuhan… kamu sungguh-sungguh datang untuk Bilikah?” Rita melirik Julia sekilas.

***

Perjalanan dari Bandara Tambolaka di Weetebula, ke Ratenggaro, melewati padang-padang luas, menambatkan Julia pada kenangannya. Dia bersandar di sudut kursi dan melihat ke luar jendela.

“Terkenangkah?” tanya Rita dengan pelan. “Nanti kita akan lewat lapangan Maliti Bondo Ate.”

Julia hanya mengangguk. Dia terhanyut dalam gelombang kenangan tentang pertama kali dia datang untuk menghadiri pasola, acara adat Sumba Barat yang diselenggarakan setiap tahun antara bulan Februari dan Maret. Sesaat itu, dia nginap di sebuah hotel di Weetebula. Sebelumnya, Bili sudah menjelaskan kepadanya bahwa pasola itu adalah pertandingan ketangkasan berkuda sambil melemparkan lembing tumpul untuk menjatuhkan lawan.

Julia tersenyum saat teringat belajar kayikiling, bersuara seperti ringkikan kuda yang dikumandangkan para perempuan untuk mendukung perjuangan laki-lakinya di lapangan pasola.

Rita tertawa saat Julia berhasil dan berlari ke lapangan.

Dari tempat duduknya di panggung, Julia memperhatikan Rita yang penuh semangat sedang bercakap-cakap dengan Bili.

Bili mengangkat kepalanya sambil mengacungkan tangan tinggi-tinggi dan melambai.

Julia membalas lambaian itu dengan jantung berdebar. Rasa cinta memenuhi hatinya. Dia mengambil tas yang dibawanya, membuka kancing, dan memastikan bahwa lukisan Bili di atas punggung kuda dengan latar belakang pohon konji ada di dalamnya. Dia tersenyum saat terkenang bagaimana Bili meyakinkannya bahwa konji itu mirip sakura.

Saat itu, mereka sedang mengopi pada waktu istirahat kelas. Bili yang gemar memotret itu menyodorkan foto konji berbunga kepadanya. “Tumbuh di kampung,” kata Bili. Melihat ketertarikannya pada foto itu, Bili menyambung, “Di Sumba Barat, pohon konji tidak sebanyak di Sumba Timur. Yang pasti, konji ada di sekitar Ratenggaro, kampung saya. Nanti saya akan antar engko ke sana biar saksikan sendiri indahnya,” kata Bili.

“Sakura Sumba!” kata Julia.

“Konji Sumba. Bukan sakura Sumba.” Bili memperbaiki.

Sekarang, sambil bersandar pada kursi mobil yang sedang melewati lapangan kosong, Julia tersenyum teringat lukisan konji itu. Dia melukis pohon konji yang tinggi dan rindang bunganya memenuhi dahan dan ranting. Bili berpakaian Sumba lengkap. Dia duduk di punggung kuda dinaungi rindang bunga konji. Lukisan itu akan diberikan pada hari disaksikannya sendiri bagaimana Bili berlaga di lapangan Maliti Bondo Ate.

Namun hadiah itu tidak pernah sempat diberikan.

***

Ingatan Julia mengantarkannya kembali pada pasola 1979. Puluhan ekor kuda dengan to paholong, pelaku pasola, tampak berkejaran. Bili berada di tempat terdepan. Tubuhnya tampak lebih tinggi dari to paholong lainnya. Henggul, destar, berwarna merah melingkari kepala. Hanggi, sarung, melingkari pinggang dan menyilang di dadanya yang telanjang. Kudanya berlari kencang dan Bili mengangkat lembing, siap melempar.

“Ririri… ririri… ririri… riririiiii,” begitulah suara yang ditimbulkan ujung lidah bergetar menyentuh bagian bawah langit-langit gigi. Perempuan di sekitar melompat. Rita dan Julia pun melompat girang ketika Bili berhasil menjatuhkan lawan.

Terlihat Bili dan pengiringnya mengitari lapangan sekali dan berhenti di dekat kerumunan laki-laki dari kelompok lawan yang berupaya menolong anggota kelompok mereka yang terjatuh.

Julia dan Rita bergabung dengan kerumunan yang mengelilingi Bili dan korbannya.

“Oh, itu Gha Yusak,” Rita berkata ringan.

“Mereka tidak balas dendam? Setelah dijatuhkan tersungkur begitu, tidak marah?” tanya Julia sambil mengerutkan kening.

“Tidak.” Rita selanjutnya menjelaskan bahwa pasola adalah upacara adat Sumba yang diselenggarakan setiap tahun demi adat, keluarga, dan kemasyarakatan yang menjunjung tinggi sikap jujur, setia, dan kesatria.

Ketika pasola berakhir, Bili bersama beberapa to paholong pergi untuk memastikan Yusak dalam keadaan baik di kampungnya.

Julia bersama Rita dan beberapa perempuan duduk di kaki panggung. Banyak orang yang bertanya langsung siapa Julia. Tidak henti-hentinya Rita menjelaskan dengan ramah bahwa Julia adalah kekasih Bili yang bekerja di Kupang sebagai seorang perawat. Kelak akan tinggal di Ratenggaro bersama Bili.

Salah satu dari mereka bertanya, “Sudah ikut Bili tinggal di Ratenggaro?”

“Segera setelah nikah,” Rita tertawa sambil melanjutkan, “Julia orang Kupang. Dia tidak mau ikut Bili sebelum Bili datang melamar ke keluarganya di Kupang dan menikah.”

Derap kaki kuda mendekat dan memasuki lapangan pasola menarik perhatian mereka. Julia ingat jelas bagaimana dia memperhatikan segerombolan kuda dengan masing-masing dua penunggang berhenti di kaki panggung. Beberapa orang yang dibonceng melompat turun. Dalam waktu sangat singkat dan tanpa kata-kata, para laki-laki itu mengangkat tubuh Rita.

Rita berteriak dan memberontak, tetapi tenaganya tidak seimbang dengan tenaga para laki-laki itu.

Julia kembali bergidik saat diingatnya kembali peristiwa siang itu yang selama ini disimpan dan terkunci dengan baik. Dia kembali merasakan kebingungan, tidak mengerti apa yang terjadi. Dengan mata berkunang-kunang, dia melihat Rita didudukkan dengan paksa di belakang salah satu penunggang. Lalu, satu laki-laki meloncat duduk di belakang Rita yang terus-terusan memberontak dan berteriak-teriak marah. Laki-laki di belakangnya membekapnya erat-erat.

Julia berlari mengejar sambil berteriak-teriak memanggil Rita.

Sementara, orang-orang yang masih tersisa di lapangan menertawakannya.

“Rita dibawa ke mana?” tanya Julia.

“Diculik! Kawin tangkap!”

“Kawin tangkap? Maksudnya?” tanyanya lagi dengan wajah pucat ketakutan.

“Kawin tangkap. Dijadikan istri, karena ada yang sayang, karena keluarga mau, nanti perempuan juga mau,” jawab salah satu perempuan sambil tertawa ringan. “Dibawa ke rumah laki-laki, masuk kamar, dan tidak keluar lagi sebelum jadi istri. Ya, namanya juga sudah diculik dan dimasukkan ke kamar untuk tidur sama-sama. Ya nikah tinggal diurus…”

“Siapa laki-laki itu? Dari kampung mana? Saya akan lapor polisi,” Julia tambah pucat, tambah ketakutan ketika orang-orang meninggalkan lapangan tanpa beban.

Julia pun teringat jelas kegugupannya saat berjalan ke sisi jalan sendirian. Dia berharap penculikan itu hanya main-main antara orang-orang muda di sana. Dia mematung dan tidak mau beranjak saat beberapa orang penonton mengajaknya ke Ratenggaro, menunggu Bili di sana. Angin berembus kencang menimbulkan gemuruh saat merebahkan ilalang di padang-padang terbuka. Julia berjalan kian kemari, duduk dan berdiri, melihat di kejauhan, memasang telinganya untuk menangkap derap kaki kuda yang datang mendekat, mengharapkan Bili segera datang menjemputnya. Beberapa saat kemudian, didengarnya derap kaki kuda yang muncul dari arah Ratenggaro. Kian lama kian dekat. Julia memberanikan diri untuk menghentikan seorang laki-laki tua yang tampak terburu-buru.

Julia menceritakan dengan singkat apa yang terjadi dengan Rita dan memohon bantuan untuk sampai di jalan raya menuju Weetebula.

“Kawin tangkap,” kata laki-laki itu, “dalam satu tahun ini, sudah tiga terjadi. Rita jadi yang keempat.”

“Bapa tahu dia dibawa ke mana? Apakah ada yang melaporkan ke polisi?” tanya Julia.
Laki-laki itu menggeleng dan mengatakan bahwa hari ini juga keluarga penculik akan datang ke rumah keluarga perempuan.

Julia diam. Hatinya lega. Dia pun meninggalkan lapangan. Dia hanya ingin menjauh dari kegegeran kawin tangkap itu. Dia sangat takut mengalami hal yang sama.

Laki-laki itu mengantarnya sampai di tepi jalan raya.

“Hati-hati di jalan,” katanya.

Jantung Julia berdebar menyadari kebaikan laki-laki tua itu. Dia mengucapkan terima kasih beberapa kali, lalu segera naik angkutan umum ke Weetebula.

Julia memejamkan matanya. Dia memaksa dirinya untuk menyelesaikan ingatan pahit itu yang mengubah kehidupannya.

Di Weetebula, Julia mengurung diri di dalam kamar penginapan menunggu kedatangan Bili. Pada malam hari, salah satu anggota keluarga Bili mengantarkan sepucuk surat. Bili memintanya menunggu di penginapan selama dua atau tiga hari. Katanya dia akan menyusul Julia setelah urusan Rita selesai.

Hingga kini, Julia sukar menerima bahwa hal seperti itu bisa terjadi pada Rita, seorang perawat yang bekerja di Puskesmas Pembantu di desanya. Bagaimana mungkin Rita mau dinikahkan. Pertanyaan-pertanyaan dan rasa marah masih menetap di dalam hatinya ⸺ sulit dihapusnya. Julia menekankan tangannya pada dadanya. Dia menelungkupkan wajahnya dalam telapak tangan dan mengangkatnya kembali sambil mendesah. Dihapusnya air mata yang mengalir di pipinya.

Rita meraih tangannya dan meremasnya. “Engko terkenang tujuh tahun lalukah? Sudah,” katanya lembut, “engko sudah di sini sekarang. Gha Bili pasti akan senang sekali.”

Julia membuka jendela lebih lebar. Angin laut mengeringkan airmatanya dengan usapan segar. Julia menekan kepalanya ke sandaran kursi dan menuruskan kenangannya.

Terasa kembali risaunya ketika Bili belum juga datang ketika pada hari ketiga matahari mulai condong ke barat. Julia ingat dirinya keluar dari rumah penginapan dan berdiri di gerbang. Tiba-tiba, sebuah bemo menepi di tempatnya berdiri. Penumpangnya segera turun dan, dalam sekejap, Julia diangkut ke dalam bemo. Sopir segera tancap gas dengan kecepatan tinggi.

“Mana Bili!” Julia berteriak dan berusaha sekuat tenaga mendobrak pintu. Dia memukul dan menendang, terempas ke kiri dan ke kanan. Dia berteriak dan menangis kehilangan akal. Kedua lengannya lebam akibat genggaman tangan laki-laki yang mendekapnya.

Selebihnya dia hanya menangis kelelahan. Kendaraan tetap melaju kencang berbelok-belok, memasuki jalan yang lebih kecil, melewati padang-padang luas, dan berhenti di gerbang sebuah kampung saat senja sudah dijemput malam. Bili kamu di mana? jeritnya dalam hati.

Pintu bemo dibuka perlahan.

“Kamu berani culik saya? Kamu kira bisa kawin tangkap dengan saya? Awas kamu saya lapor ke polisi. Awas kalau sampai Bili pacar saya tahu!” Julia berteriak. Ketika dia menjejakkan kakinya di tanah, saat itu juga dia diangkut oleh empat laki-laki penculik. Dia segera dibawa naik ke rumah panggung dan segera pula dibawa masuk ke dalam salah satu kamar. Suara teriakannya menimbulkan keramaian warga kampung yang penuh sesak. Mereka mengepung dan menjaga Julia dengan ketat.

Julia merasa terancam. Dia menangis dan berusaha tenang. Sepertinya tidak ada ruang sedikit pun untuk kabur. Kamar itu berukuran satu setengah kali dua meter, berdinding bilah bambu yang disusun meninggi dan dirangkai tali. Loteng kamar adalah bagian dari ujung atap dari lipatan alang-alang. Lantai kamar sekaligus digunakan sebagai alas tidur yang dibuat dari susunan bambu bulat berjejer rapat terangkai tali dilengkapi dengan sebuah bantal tipis bersarung yang tampak masih baru. Kamar itu benar-benar untuk satu atau dua orang tidur. Kamar tanpa kain pintu dan tanpa daun pintu. Sekelompok perempuan berjaga-jaga tepat di depannya.

Suara gong dipukul beberapa kali dan keramaian di luar rumah lebih menakutkan Julia. Makanan yang disodorkan padanya tidak disentuhnya sama sekali. Dia duduk meringkuk di sudut kamar mendengarkan suara-suara di luar.

“Jangan takut,” suara seorang perempuan penjaga bicara. “Nanti laki-laki Inya akan datang. Baik-baik saja. Jangan berteriak. Nanti Inya akan ditertawakan orang-orang yang berjaga-jaga. Tabah saja supaya Inya tidak bertambah sakit.”

Sebutan inya, panggilan untuk perempuan yang dihormati dan dicintai menurut kebiasaan setempat, agak menenangkan Julia.

“Makanlah supaya Inya punya tenaga,” perempuan itu membujuk.

Hari makin malam dan suasana rumah itu makin ramai.

Tidak pernah terlintas sekilas pun dalam pikiran Julia bahwa dia akan mengalami nasib mengerikan seperti itu. Julia terisak, berusaha keras memikirkan cara untuk menyelinap dan menghilang dari keangkeran rumah yang akan menjadi saksi dirinya dibekap laki-laki yang tidak dikenalnya sama sekali. Tubuhnya sangat penat dan rasa sakit membalut hatinya.

Tengah malam Julia terkejut.

Tiba-tiba, seorang laki-laki muncul di kegelapan dan mendekapnya dengan memutar badannya supaya Julia tidak dapat melihatnya.

Julia memberontak. Tendangannya yang melayang kian kemari menimbulkan bunyi-bunyi di lantai dan dinding kamar. Suara tawa di luar kamar membuatnya lebih menggigil ketakutan sekaligus menjadikannya berbuat nekat. Dia menggigit dengan sekuat tenaga lengan laki-laki yang memeluknya.

“Tenang Julia, ini saya! Julia. Sayang…” suara laki-laki diikuti pelukan erat. “Jangan kuatir. Ini saya, Bili!”

“Kak Bili,” Julia tersentak dan terjatuh dalam pelukan Bili sambil menangis tersedu-sedu.

Suara-suara di luar kamar diliputi tawa dengan penuh tanda tanya tentang berlangsungnya kawin tangkap yang sedang terjadi antara perempuan yang diculik dan laki-laki yang memperistrinya. Sudah biasa, malam pertama yang menegangkan dan menyakitkan itu menjadi sesuatu yang menyenangkan bagi kedua belah pihak. Urusan lainnya dapat diatur kemudian.

“Julia…sayang,” kata Bili lagi sambil mendekap Julia erat-erat.

“Kenapa kamu tega buat begini?” tanya Julia sambil menghapus air mata. Napasnya terengah-engah, sesak dengan kemarahan.

Julia berada dalam dekapan Bili tetapi masih dengan kewaspadaan penuh pada napas Bili yang memburu. “Saya mohon jangan lakukan apa pun. Diam saja,” Julia menangis perlahan Bagaimana kekasihnya sendiri bisa melakukan penculikan terhadap dirinya dengan tujuan kawin tangkap? Julia berusaha tenang dan berpikir keras apa yang akan dilakukannya.

Suara orang yang berjaga-jaga mulai berkurang. Cahaya pagi menyelinap melalui kisi-kisi dinding kamar dan jatuh pada wajah Bili. Betapa cintanya dia pada laki-laki itu, tetapi betapa bencinya pada kenyataan yang dipaksakan padanya.

***

Julia menarik napas panjang. Berikutnya bagian yang paling menakutkan dari ingatan itu. Dia mengambil sebotol air dari tasnya dan meneguknya, sebelum kembali ke masa lalu.

Hari itu, Julia menghadapi semua kejutan dengan tenang. Dia telah membuat perencanaan yang akan diwujudkannya satu per satu.

Dia diterima dengan ramah oleh ayah Bili dan segenap anggota keluarga.

“Bapa!” Julia tersentak kaget. Laki-laki yang mengantarnya ke tepi jalan raya ternyata adalah ayah Bili.

Julia menikmati hidangan nasi dan ayam rebus yang disiapkan ibu Bili.

Hatinya gelisah, ingin sekali dia bertanya tentang Rita, tetapi tidak ditanyakannya. Dia memperhatikan sekilas kampung dengan rumah-rumah beratap tinggi menjulang ke langit. Dia merasakan berembusnya angin pantai dan debur ombak yang memecah sepanjang waktu di kaki tebing kampung.

“Tolong antar saya ke Weetebula untuk ambil tas pakaian dan ole-ole lukisan yang saya bawa untukmu,” Julia berkata dengan berusaha santai ketika mereka kembali sendirian.

“Kita naik kuda. Berani?” tanya Bili sambil mengedipkan mata. “Sesuai janji, saya akan membawamu berkeliling sampai di tempat pohon konji berbunga. Saya akan ambil beberapa fotomu di sana. Kita berkuda,” Bili tertawa gembira.

Bulan Maret bukan saatnya konji berbunga, kata Julia di dalam hatinya. Namun dia berkata, “Ya, setelah kembali dari Weetebula. Saya harus ganti baju sebelum difoto. Kita kan akan kembali lagi ke sini? Bukankah penculikan ini artinya saya sudah jadi istri kamu?”

“Ya, beberapa hari ini keluarga akan ke Kupang melamarmu dan kita segera menikah di sana,” jawab Bili dengan bangga.

“Ya,” Julia berupaya melemparkan senyum, sedangkan pikiran dan hatinya mendidih oleh rasa marah.

***

Julia tidak pernah bertemu Bili lagi.

Di Weetebula, Julia masuk ke dalam kamar penginapan dan tanpa membawa apa-apa menyelinap keluar melalui jendela kamar mandi, melompati pagar belakang, dan segera menuju lapangan terbang Tambolaka dengan angkutan umum yang kebetulan lewat dan disewa khusus. Dia kembali ke Kupang dengan penerbangan pertama.

Berbagai upaya dilakukan Bili dan keluarganya untuk menebus kesalahan kawin tangkap itu. Mereka datang dengan sejumlah antaran sarung adat, kuda, sapi, dan kerbau sebagai tanda maaf dengan tulus. Kedua orang tua dan adik-adik Bili, termasuk Rita, ikut turun tangan meminta Julia menerima Bili kembali.

Rita menceritakan bahwa otak penculikan terhadap mereka sebenarnya adalah Yusak yang dijatuhkan Bili di lapangan Pasola dan teman baik mereka ketika sekolah bersama di Kupang. Rita tidak memiliki kekuatan menolak akibat rasa malu karena sudah dibawa ke rumah laki-laki itu.

Akan tetapi, Julia tetap menolak. Dia tetap merasa bahwa kawin tangkap melalui penculikan itu telah menenggelamkannya ke dalam ketakutan. Dia takut hidup di lingkungan itu sebagai seorang istri dari lelaki yang ikut dalam kebiasaan yang ditentangnya.

Julia mengepalkan tangan. Hari itu dia menutup riwayat cintanya dengan Bili. Sekarang dia sudah bertahan tujuh tahun. Dia meneguk air dari botol minumnya.

***

Tujuh tahun berlalu. Kini Julia bersama Rita dalam mobil menuju Ratenggaro.

Rita bercerita tentang Bili. Katanya, Bili tidak pernah membicarakan Julia. Guru SMP itu menghabiskan waktunya setelah pulang sekolah dengan beternak di padang, duduk sendirian atau bersama kudanya di bawah pohon konji, menulis buku, dan berjaya di lapangan pasola setiap musim.

“Apakah engko masih marah?” tanya Rita. Setelah beberapa saat dalam keheningan, dia melanjutkan dengan lembut, “Sudah lama sekali…. Sejak melahirkan anak pertama, rasa marah saya berangsur-angsur hilang. Yusak laki-laki yang baik. Entah mengapa dia memilih menikahi saya dengan cara kawin tangkap. Kami memiliki dua anak perempuan. Gha Yusak dan Gha Bili bertobat dan berjanji menjadi penentang kawin tangkap. Mereka sadar bahwa perlakuan kawin tangkap adalah penghinaan pada perempuan dan gadis-gadis zaman sekarang tidak boleh mengalaminya. Kamu bagaimana? Sudah tujuh tahun, Julia. Inya dan Bapa juga sudah tidak ada. Apakah kamu datang untuk Bili?”

Julia tidak menjawabnya. Setelah bekerja di Puskesmas Kota Kupang selama tiga tahun, Julia melanjutkan kuliah di Fakultas Keperawatan selama empat tahun. Pekerjaan dan kuliahnya lancar dan berhasil baik. Dalam kesendiriannya, dia tahu bahwa dia masih mencintai Bili. Akhirnya dia memutuskan bertemu Rita dan berkunjung ke Ratenggaro untuk memastikan bagaimana keadaan Bili sekarang.

Mereka hampir tiba. Debur ombak dari kejauhan menyambut kedatangannya. Mereka melewati barisan kubur-kubur batu di kiri kanan jalan menuju gerbang. Mobil berhenti di dalam gerbang utama Kampung Ratenggaro yang menelannya ke dalam masa lalu.

Rita turun dari mobil dan Julia menyusul.

“Gha Bili,” Rita berteriak.

Bili keluar dari kambu luna, kolong rumah, yang baru saja dibersihkannya. Laki-laki itu terpaku menatap Julia.

Julia menatapnya tanpa kata-kata. Tubuh Bili tampak lebih tinggi dan kurus. Rambutnya terpangkas rapi. Rahangnya kukuh dan sorot matanya tampak teduh. Mata itulah yang pernah membuat Julia jatuh cinta setengah mati. Julia mengulurkan tangan.

Bili diam menatap wajah Julia lekat-lekat. Diraihnya tangan Julia, lalu ditangkupnya dengan kedua tangannya. “Saya tahu saya menyakitimu, Julia,” kata Bili dengan suara serak. Dia menunduk. Setelah diam sejenak, diangkatnya kembali kepalanya dan berkata pelan,

“Pulanglah. Saya tahu kamu masih sendiri. Terima kasih. Pada waktunya nanti, saya dan keluarga akan ke Kupang melamarmu dengan cara yang seharusnya.” Bili membawa tangan Julia ke dadanya. Beberapa saat kemudian, tangan Julia dilepaskannya.

Bili berbalik dan berjalan menuju kudanya yang sedang merumput dalam rindang pohon beringin di samping rumahnya. Dia melepaskan tambatan dan melompat ke atas punggung kuda, menarik tali kendali, dan membawa kudanya lari melalui gerbang kampung.

Julia memperhatikan punggung laki-laki itu yang menjauh menuruni jalan di antara makam. Derap kaki kuda melesat jauh meninggalkan Ratenggaro.

Julia mengikuti Rita memasuki rumah yang dulu begitu mengerikan baginya. Tergetar hatinya saat Rita mengajaknya ke kamar tidur Bili. Kamar tidur di mana dia diringkukkan tujuh tahun lalu. Julia terpaku pada lukisan di dinding yang menampilkan laki-laki dari Ratenggaro itu tegak di atas kudanya dengan latar belakang pohon konji yang sedang berbunga lebat.

Julia teringat lukisan yang ditinggalkan saat melarikan diri dari penginapan tujuh tahun yang lalu. Saat itu, dia berharap Bili akan mengantarnya ke tempat konji berbunga. Waktu itu bulan Maret dan konji belum berbunga. Julia tersenyum sekilas menyadari saat ini konji sedang berbunga dan menampilkan keindahannya pada musim kemarau.

Sementara itu, Bili menghentikan kudanya di bawah pohon konji yang berbunga lebat ⸺ tempat pertemuan yang dijanjikan pada kekasihnya yang gemar melukis itu.

*****

The Man from Ratenggaro

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, dia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Dia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini dia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Oni dapat dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

The Man from Ratenggaro

 

“Welcome back, Julia.” Tearfully, Rita released her embrace and grasped Julia’s hands. She looked at her friend closely. “You are as beautiful as ever. I appreciate you coming.”

Rita made conversation on their way to the car. “Gha Bili is still teaching,” she said, using the Sumbanese word “gha” to refer to her older brother. “Just like Yusak, he works at a middle school.”

Rita’s words took the friends back to the past when the four of them were close, even though they had attended different colleges. Rita and Bili were from Sumba Island in eastern Indonesia. They went to Kupang, together with Yusak, Bili’s friend, to continue their education. Rita went to nursing school, where she immediately befriended Julia. Rita became the thread that tied the four together.

“I wish Bili knew that you are here to visit me. Oh, my God! You really came here for Bili, didn’t you?”

***

The drive from the Tambolaka Airport in the Southwest Sumba Regency to the Ratenggaro village, took them through the vast savanna. Julia settled back into the corner of her seat and looked out the car window, watching her memories return.

“We’ll drive by the Maliti Bondo Ate pasola field later,” Rita said softly. “Do you remember?”
Julia nodded and began reliving her first pasola on her first visit to Sumba Island when she stayed in a hotel in Weetebula.

***

Bili had explained to her that pasolas were a series of traditional javelin fights on horseback between villages throughout Sumba Island to herald the beginning of the planting season. The annual celebrations were held between February and March, in a festival-like atmosphere.

Sitting in the bleachers before the match, Julia had learned how to kayikiling — bray like a horse — with the other women, as they cheered for their men competing on the pasola field. Rita had run out onto the field to tell Bili about Julia’s accomplishment. During their lively conversation, Bili had looked up and waved at Julia. She waved back, her heart pounding with love. She reached for the large portfolio bag at her feet, to make sure her painting of Bili on horseback beneath a flowering konji tree was still there.

***

Julia smiled, remembering when Bili had tried to explain to her that konji blossoms were not cherry blossoms.

They were having coffee between classes, talking about Bili’s photography hobby, when Bili showed her photos he had taken of blossoming konji trees. “They grow in my village,” Bili said. Noting Julia’s interest, he continued. “In the western part of Sumba, konji trees are not as common as they are on the eastern side. But for sure, they grow around Ratenggaro, my village. I will take you there so you can see for yourself how beautiful they are.”

“Sumba cherry blossoms!” Julia had exclaimed.

And Bili had corrected her, “Sumba konji ⸺ not cherry — blossoms.”

Now, leaning against the back of her car seat, passing stretches of open fields, Julia thought about the konji painting she had kept in her bag of Bili, wearing traditional Sumbanese attire, sitting high on his horse, shaded by the lofty branches of a mature konji tree in full glory, draped with blossoms.

She had planned to give Bili the painting after his competition at the Maliti Bondo Ate pasola field that day. But the gift had never been given.

Julia decided it was time to open the door to the memory she’d kept locked away for seven years.

***

The pasola of 1979.

On the Maliti Bondo Ate pasola field, horses carrying their to paholong, pasola riders, chased one another. Bili was in the front row. He looked taller than the others. He wore a red henggul, triangular headband, and hanggi, a handwoven heirloom cloth wrapped crosswise around his waist and bare chest. Spurring his horse into a gallop, Bili raised his blunted javelin, aiming to throw.

“Ririri! Ririri! Ririri! Riririiiii!” Trilled the women spectators, their cheers shredding the air. Everyone, including Rita and Julia, jumped up excitedly when Bili unhorsed his opponent.

Bili and his team circled the field once in triumph before halting near the crowd gathered around the opposing team, busy helping their fallen teammate.

Julia and Rita joined the crowd.

“Ah, poor Gha Yusak,” Rita said casually.

“Won’t those two hate each other now?” Julia frowned. “How could Yusak not be angry, after Bili knocked him down like that?”

Rita explained a time-honored component of the pasola was to uphold the tradition of family values regarding honesty, loyalty, and chivalry.

After the pasola had ended, Bili and several of his teammates had gone to Yusak’s village to check on their friend, while Julia, Rita, and the other women gathered at the lowest rung of bleachers.

The women were curious about who Julia was. Rita answered their questions, explaining tirelessly that Julia worked in Kupang as a nurse and was Bili’s girlfriend.

“Is she staying with Bili in Ratenggaro?” asked a villager.

“No — but she will as soon as they are married!” Rita laughed. “Julia doesn’t want to live with Bili until Bili has proposed to her family in Kupang and married her!”

The sound of horses galloping onto the pasola field, drew their attention. Julia remembered clearly how the team of horses — two riders on each horse — reined in right in front of them. Three men quickly dismounted. Without saying a word, they grabbed Rita and pushed her up onto the saddle behind a rider, as another man leaped onto the saddle behind her. Rita’s screamed were cut short as the man behind her gagged her. Her struggles meant nothing in the arms of such strong men.

Terrified, Julia had run after them, screaming while the other women watched her, laughing.

“Where are they taking Rita?” Julia cried.

“She is being kidnapped! Bride kidnapping!”

Bride kidnapping?” Julia blanched.

“For marriage!” a woman answered lightheartedly. “Either someone wants her as a wife, or a family wants her as a daughter-in-law. A kidnapped bride is taken to the man’s house and kept in a room. It is only natural that the man and woman will sleep together, and after that — what else but a wedding ceremony can follow?”

“Who is the man? Where does he live? I’ll report him to the police!” Julia grew more frightened when everyone started leaving the pasola field as if nothing had happened.

She had hoped it was just a practical joke ⸺ a Sumbese prank that young people pulled. She stood petrified, not wanting to leave, even when several spectators offered to take her to Ratenggaro to wait for Bili there. Wearily, she walked to the roadside alone.

A strong wind whistled across the open pasola field, bending the tall grasses surrounding it. Standing on the roadside, Julia peered hopefully into the distance, listening for the pounding hooves of Bili’s horse, coming to pick her up.

When an old man on horseback appeared on the road, coming from the direction of Ratenggaro, Julia mustered up her courage and waved at him to stop. The old man seemed to be in a hurry, but listened patiently as Julia told him briefly what had happened to Rita,

The old man nodded. “We’ve had three bride kidnappings already this year. Your friend Rita makes the fourth.”

“Do you know how I can find out where they took her? Will anyone contact the police?”

The old man shook his head. “No, I imagine that the kidnapper’s family will contact your friend’s family later today.”

Julia fell silent. She just wanted to distance herself from the confusion of this bride-kidnapping business. What if it happened to her?

Julia asked the old man for a lift to the main road to the airport.

“Be careful,” he said when he let her off at the main road.

Julia was touched by the old man’s kindness. She thanked the good man many times, then boarded a bus to Weetebula.

***

In the car, Julia closed her eyes, reliving the confusion, the not knowing what had happened or what was going to happen next. She still couldn’t reconcile the Rita she’d known as an educated nurse working at the village’s health center with the Rita who had been a kidnapped bride. Why did Rita accept that forced marriage? Julia still harbored resentment in her heart. Sighing, she wiped her eyes and lifted her head.

Rita reached for Julia’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Let it go. You’re here now. Gha Bili will be very happy.”

Julia lowered the car window. The refreshing sea breeze cooled her damp cheeks. She pressed her head back into the car seat and continued to reminisce.

***

In Weetebula, she locked herself in her hotel room and waited for Bili. That evening, a letter arrived from him, asking her to wait at the hotel while he handled the matter of Rita’s kidnapping. He would meet her there in two or three days.

She remembered being anxious when on the third day Bili had not shown up when it began to get dark. She had left the hotel room and was standing at the front of the gate when a bemo, motorized rickshaw, pulled up. Four men jumped out and forced her into the vehicle.

She shouted, “Where is Bili?” while kicking at the bemo’s door and banging her fists against its closed windows. She could not keep her balance and was thrown from side to side, as the vehicle sped through winding, narrow roads and a vast savanna. Terrified, she screamed and cried, losing her mind. Her arms ached from the men restraining her. Finally, exhausted and depleted, she could only whimper as the vehicle raced on. It was dusk when the bemo finally stopped at a village gate. Bili, where are you? The bemo door opened, slowly.

Fury fueled her courage. “How dare you kidnap me?” she shrieked. “You think you can force me into a marriage by kidnapping me? No! I will report you to the police. Just wait until my boyfriend Bili finds out about this!” Julia continued yelling and struggling as her kidnappers hauled her up the ladder of a stilt house and directly into a room.

Her screaming had drawn the attention of the villagers, who crowded into the area and surrounded the house like a barricade to prevent her from escaping.

Inside the stilt house, Julia had tried to calm herself. She assessed the small room that was now her prison. The walls were made of bamboo slats tied together by ropes. The ceiling was thatched grass. The floor was made of bamboo poles, strapped together. On the floor, a thin pillow in a fresh pillowcase indicated where she was expected to sleep.

The room was about five feet by seven feet, just big enough to accommodate two people. It had neither a door nor a door curtain. Instead, a group of women guarded the room’s access.

Outside, a gong sounded. Julia heard the crowd grow louder and rowdier.

Julia huddled in the corner. Leaving the food offered her untouched, she listened to the escalating commotion outside.

“Don’t be afraid, Inya,” one of the women guards soothed. “Your man will come soon. Just relax; everything will be fine. Don’t scream; the people outside will only laugh at you. Don’t fight it; you’ll only make yourself sick.”

When Julia heard the woman address her as “Inya” — the word used by locals to address a woman they respected and loved, she became calmer.

“Eat something,” the woman coached. “It will give you some strength.”

The later it became, the more crowd noise grew around the house.

Julia hurt everywhere. Terrified by the thought that a man she had never met would soon overpower her, she tried to focus on how to escape. It had never crossed her mind she would ever have to go through such a horrific experience.

At midnight, she was startled by the appearance of a man who grabbed her and spun her around so that she stood with her back against his chest. She could not see his face.

Julia struggled to break free, and the scuffling of her kicking feet and flaying arms on the floor and walls drew laughter from outside the little room. That boisterous merriment frightened her so much that she bit down hard on the arm of the man who held her tightly against him.

“Calm down, Julia, it is me! Julia, my love!” the man loosened his grip into an embrace. “Don’t worry. It’s me, Bili!”

“Bili!” Stunned, she fell limp into Bili’s embrace, sobbing.

The voices outside of the room were filled with amusement, as people speculated about the goings-on between the man and the kidnapped woman inside the room. The crowd knew that every couple’s first night together started tense and uncomfortable, but usually ended quite pleasantly for them. Everything else could be arranged later.

“Julia, love,” Bili murmured, holding her tightly.

“How could you have the heart to do this to me?” Julia gasped, angrily. She had felt weary in Bili’s arms, and “Please, don’t do anything. Can you just keep still,” How could her own boyfriend kidnap her and try to force her into marriage? She tried to remain calm and figure out what to do next.

The voices of the waiting crowd thinned. The morning light slipped through the slits of the bamboo wall and fell on Bili’s face.

How much she loved this man, and at the same time hated the way he had forced this experience on her.

***

Julia took another deep breath as the countryside sped past her window. The next part of the experience had scared her the most. She removed a water bottle from her bag and took a sip before sinking back into the past again.

The day after the kidnapping, she had forced herself to appear relaxed. She had formulated a plan that she was going to execute, step by step.

Julia was well received by Bili’s entire family. She had been surprised to discover that the kind old man on horseback who had taken her to the main road, was Bili’s father. Regardless, she enjoyed the rice and boiled chicken that Bili’s mother had prepared. She wanted to ask about Rita, but felt too nervous to do so. Instead, she looked around at the Ratenggaro village, taking in the traditional houses with their high-hat roofs, feeling the restful sea breeze, and hearing the waves break against the foot of the cliff that carried the village.

When she and Bili were alone again, she said, “I need to return to my hotel room in Weetebula to get my travelling bag and the painting I brought for you.”

“Would you dare to go on horseback?” Bili winked, then laughed happily. “As I promised, I will take you to the place where the konji trees bloom. I want to photograph you there. Let’s go on horseback.”

After all those years, Julia still remembered thinking, You told me that konji trees do not bloom in March, while saying calmly, “Yes, after we collect my things from Weetebula, I want to change before you take my picture.” For good measure, she had added, “We will return here afterwards to spend the night, right? Your bride-kidnapping me means that I am already your wife?”

“Yes,” Bili had said proudly. “During the next few days, my family will go to Kupang to ask for your hand. After that, we’ll get married there right away.”

Julia had smiled, but inside, she was consumed with fury.

When they arrived at her hotel in Weetebula, Bili waited on his horse. Julia went into her room, grabbed her bare necessities, climbed out through the bathroom window, and jumped over the backyard fence of the hotel. She waved down a passing cab, sped to the Tambolaka Airport, and took the first flight out to Kupang. That had been the last time Julia had seen Bili.

Bili’s family tried to make amends for their cultural misunderstanding of kidnapping a non-Sumbanese woman. They traveled to Kupang, bringing the traditional handwoven fabric, a horse, cow, and buffalo as tokens of their apology. Bili’s parents and siblings, including Rita, asked Julia to accept Bili again.

Rita told Julia that the mastermind behind the kidnappings had been Bili’s friend Yusak, who Bili had unhorsed during the pasola. “How could I refuse to marry Yusak after I had spent the night with him at his house?” Rita asked. “I was too ashamed to do so.”

But Julia remained steadfast. The trauma of her abduction had placed her in a state of constant fear. How could she be a loving wife to a man she feared? How could she be a loving wife to a man who engaged in activities that she considered immoral?

That day, on her way to the Tambolaka Airport, she closed the final chapter of her love story with Bili.

***

Now, seven years later, here she was in a car with Rita on the road to Ratenggaro. Julia clenched her fist, took another sip from her water bottle, and returned to the present.

“Let me tell you about Bili after you left,” Rita said. “He never spoke about you. After school, he always spent his time tending to livestock on the savanna and sitting alone with his horse under a konji tree, writing a book. He continued to participate in every pasola season — and came out a winner. Are you still angry?”

After her question was met with silence, Rita continued, “It has been a long time. After my first child was born, my anger dissolved into love. Yusak is a good man. I may not understand what made him kidnap me as a part of our wedding arrangements, but now we have two daughters. Yusak and Bili have repented, realizing that bride kidnapping is an insult to women and that no woman should have to go through this trauma. What about you? It has been seven years, Julia. Bili’s and my parents have passed away. Are you here to see Bili?”

Julia still did not answer. She had worked three years at the Kupang City Health Center, then continued her education at the Faculty of Nursing in Kupang for another four years. She did well in her career and education, but she had been lonely. She knew she still felt love for Bili, and had finally decided to visit Rita in Ratenggaro to find out if her lingering feelings for him were real.

They were almost there. The distant sound of crashing waves welcomed them as they drove by a row of stone graves. Rita braked inside the gate of the Ratenggaro village, in front of the stilt house where Julia’s imprisonment had occurred seven years ago.

“Gha Bili!” Rita called, as she and Julia got out of the car.

Bili emerged from the kambu luna, the stable beneath the stilt house, which he had just finished cleaning. He saw Julia and froze.

Julia looked at him silently. Bili looked taller and thinner. His hair was well kept. She searched the dark eyes that had once made her fall helplessly in love and offered Bili her hand.

Bili’s jaw set. Solemnly, he took Julia’s hand and held it with both of his. He bowed his head. “I hurt you, Julia,” he said with a husky voice. After hearing no response, Bili raised his head and said quietly, “Thank you for coming. but go home. I know that you are still single. Soon, my family and I will go to Kupang and propose to you properly.” Bili brought Julia’s hand to his chest and held it there tightly.

Then, Bili let it go. He turned away and walked to his horse tethered in the shade of the banyan tree next to the stilt house. He leapt into the saddle took the reins, and spurred the horse out the village gate. Julia watched Bili gallop away past the cemetery and the gates of Ratenggaro.

She and Rita entered the stilt house of Julia’s nightmares. Julia shuddered when she and Rita entered Bili’s room. It was the room where, seven years ago, she had spent hours in terror.

Julia startled when her eye caught sight of a painting showing a pasola rider sitting high on his horse with a blooming konji tree in the background. She now remembered having left the painting in her hotel room when she fled Sumba Island seven years ago.

Seven years ago, she had wished Bili would take her there. But it was March then, and the konji tree was not blooming. Julia smiled. The konji bloomed in the summer, now.

At that same moment, as if by osmosis, Bili halted his horse under a blooming konji tree — the place he had promised to take a girl who loved to paint and lived in his heart.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Semayamkan Mamak

Lintang Amartya Padmarini adalah perempuan kelahiran 2002 yang dibesarkan di Sleman, Yogyakarta. Sehari-harinya, Lintang adalah mahasiswa Studi Perdamaian dan Konflik di S1 Hubungan Internasional UGM. Dia turut berkecimpung di Girl Up UGM, perkumpulan yang menyuarakan kesetaraan antara lelaki dan perempuan di kampusnya. Perjalanannya menempuh pendidikan di jenjang perguruan tinggi mengenalkannya pada banyak peminatan baru, termasuk di antaranya pemberdayaan perempuan, menentang kekerasan, dan mendukung perdamaian. Walau demikian, Lintang tetap menggemari kesusastraan Indonesia, khususnya buku-buku Ahmad Tohari. Judul novelnya Lintang Kemukus Dini Hari mengilhami nama Lintang.

Lintang dapat dihubungi melalui surel: lintangamartya02@gmail.com

 

 

Semayamkan Mamak

 

Tidak bosan-bosannya aku mengenang kisah hidup Mamak yang dia ceritakan sendiri selama hidupnya. Menurut cerita tersebut, aku terlahir sebagai anak haram. Mamakku wanita Jawa baik-baik, dilahirkan oleh keluarga terhormat yang bermukim di Semarang, sebuah kota pelabuhan di Pulau Jawa, jauh dari Pulau Buru ini. Dia mengungkapkan bahwa dirinya dan serombongan gadis seumurannya diboyong paksa ke Pulau Buru untuk dijadikan wanita penghibur oleh tentara Dai Nippon. Mamak berkata merekalah yang menduduki tanah air kita selama Perang Dunia II berlangsung di Indopasifik dari 1942 hingga 1944.

Mamak mengutuk para serdadu keparat yang setelah menghamili gadis-gadis itu, langsung pergi meninggalkan mereka begitu Jepang dikabarkan kalah. Miris hatiku mendengar penggambaran Mamak akan betapa kejamnya perilaku serdadu Jepang tersebut.

Tidak hanya sampai di situ, Mamak turut mengenang bagaimana dia dan sekumpulan gadis-gadis lainnya tidak punya perlindungan di tengah-tengah pulau terpencil yang langka penghuni. Mereka terancam kelaparan, melahirkan tidak selamat, dan terjangkit penyakit malaria. Satu per satu tumbang. Hanya Mamak dan seorang temannya yang selamat. Keduanya akhirnya menikah dengan laki-laki penduduk suku Alfuru, seorang di antaranya adalah bapak tiriku. Berdasarkan kisahnya, Mamak dan bapak tiriku menikah hanya karena dengan itulah, Mamak dapat bertahan hidup, sedangkan Bapak menikahi Mamak karena kecantikannya.

Lahirlah aku di tengah-tengah suku Alfuru, suku pedalaman di Pulau Buru, pulau terpencil yang adalah bagian dari kepulauan Maluku. Akulah satu-satunya kulit kuning di antara kulit kehitaman khas penduduk asli pulau itu. Satu-satunya sipit di antara wajah-wajah bermata bulat di pulau itu. Rasanya seperti diriku ini memang ditakdirkan untuk diasingkan. Tidak ada yang mau berteman denganku, apalagi mengajak berburu. Temanku hanya Mamak, orang pertama yang mengajariku bahasa Indonesia. Setiap kali waktuku tidak kuhabiskan untuk berburu, pastilah aku bercengkerama dengan Mamak menggunakan bahasa Indonesia. Mamak adalah wanita cerdas yang dapat dengan mudahnya mengenalkanku ke bahasa ibunya itu, sehingga jadilah bahasa itu bahasa rahasia kami berdua di Pulau Buru.

Karena Mamak dan bapak tiriku tidak menikah atas dasar cinta, begitupun hubunganku dengan bapak tiriku itu. Dia tidak punya pilihan lain selain menerima keberadaanku karena dengan demikian, Mamak mau mempertahankan pernikahan mereka. Mustahil menghadirkan adik sambung yang dapat memperbaiki hubungan kami karena setelah melahirkanku dengan susah payah, rahim Mamak tidak kuat menaungi jabang bayi lagi. Hubungan kami tetap dingin, hampir-hampir disisipi benci. Setiap kali bapak tiriku mulai mencak-mencak karena gagal menangkap hewan buruan, Mamak selalu berbisik kepadaku dalam bahasa Indonesia, “Lari! Lari sebelum kamu kena pukul.”

***

Di tahun 1969, beberapa bulan setelah Mamak meninggal ketika umurku 25, Pulau Buru kedatangan penghuni baru. Mereka orang-orang dari Jawa, kebanyakan lelaki. Semuanya bisa bicara bahasa Indonesia. Perawakan sebagian besar diantaranya mirip Mamak, bahkan ketika kutemui lebih dekat, cara bicara mereka juga mirip. Kagum betul aku. Walau ternyata mereka lebih kagum — dan juga kaget — ketika melihat lelaki sipit kuning berpakaian bawahan kolor khas Alfuru tapi mirip Asia Timur. Para penghuni baru ini lebih kaget lagi ketika mengetahui aku mampu berbahasa Indonesia, walau jauh dari kata mahir.

Diketahuilah bahwa orang-orang itu adalah tahanan. Aku melihat bagaimana mereka ditertibkan dengan kekerasan, sebagaimana yang dilakukan bapak tiriku kepadaku. Pada waktu itu memang kemampuan bahasaku sangat payah, tapi manusia tetap bisa mencium amarah dan penindasan, dalam keterbatasan berbahasa sekalipun. Terenyuhlah aku melihat mereka, mengingat kami sama-sama korban amarah dan penindasan.

Ada seorang di antara mereka yang sangat membekas. Karman namanya. Lelaki yang gagah, tegap, seumur bapak tiriku. Bedanya dengan bapak tiriku, Karman tidak pernah memarahi, apalagi memukulku. Kami berteman baik sejak dia mendapati kehadiranku yang malu-malu mengintip dari balik pagar penjara. Dia menyapaku dan menggaetku dalam perbincangan mendalam. Kami sama-sama diselimuti rasa ingin tahu yang sama kuatnya. Dia yang menganggap kehadiran laki-laki kulit kuning di Buru ini janggal, dan aku yang baru sekali ini melihat orang Jawa selain Mamak. Aku serbu dia dengan pertanyaan tentang Jawa. Kuceritakan pula tentang Mamak yang katanya lahir di Jawa, tetapi telah berpulang beberapa bulan lalu, dan pada saat-saat terakhirnya mengharap dikuburkan di sana.

Karman tertawa kecil ketika kutanyai. Matanya menerawang, sepertinya dia tidak sabar ingin pulang. “Jawa itu pulau besar, tak seperti Buru ini,” katanya.

Aku manggut-manggut. Seperti apa, sih, pulau yang besar itu? Kupikir pulauku ini sudah cukup besar, ternyata masih ada yang lebih besar lagi. Aku memikirkan Mamak yang minta dikebumikan di Jawa. Pasti menyenangkan jika bisa bersatu dengan tanah yang luar biasa luasnya.

“Bagaimana dengan Semarang? Mamak lahir dan ingin dimakamkan di sana. Apakah kotanya cukup luas?” tanyaku. Karman membalasnya dengan anggukan.

“Kalau kau ingin memenuhi kemauan mamakmu, pergilah ke Jawa naik perahu,” ujar Karman sambil berlari mundur ketika ada seruan meneriaki namanya. Itu seruan sipir penjara, memanggil nama tahanan yang masih keluyuran meski sudah waktunya bagi mereka untuk kembali melakukan kerja paksa. Karman menambahkan di sela-sela napasnya yang terengah, “Semarang itu kota pelabuhan yang ramai.”

Begitu lama aku berpikir, hingga tak sadar Karman lenyap dari mata. Rupanya dia sudah kembali ke dalam bangunan penjara. Belum juga sempat aku melambaikan kepergiannya.
Untung kami bertemu lagi. Aku dan Karman mulai lebih akrab. Seiring dengan semakin banyaknya jumlah pertemuan rahasia kami, begitupun kemampuan berbahasa Indonesiaku semakin membaik. Sebetulnya, mustahil juga pertemuan ini disebut rahasia.

Kami bukan pasangan muda dimabuk cinta yang sembunyi-sembunyi bertemu di semak-semak. Siapapun yang berdiri cukup dekat dengan kami akan dengan mudahnya mendapati bahwa kami duduk saling membelakangi, dibatasi oleh pagar hunian tahanan di Pulau Buru, supaya kalau kami ketahuan, aku tinggal lari.

Baru juga kuketahui di kemudian hari bahwa Karman dan kawan-kawannya ini bukan tahanan biasa, mereka adalah tahanan politik. Di mataku yang saat itu masih awam dengan kemutlakan kuasa negara, sulit untuk membayangkan bagaimana seseorang bisa ditahan hanya karena berpolitik. Karman dipenjara karena ikut andil dalam PKI yang dituduh menyulut pemberontakan yang menghabisi nyawa 7 petinggi militer, walau sebetulnya dia tidak tahu-menahu tentang pemberontakan itu. Maklum, tahu apa seorang juru tulis pemula tentang pembunuhan pembesar militer? Yang Karman lakukan hanya menulis persuratan sesuai perintah, tahu-tahu saja dia ditangkap.

Mungkin karena itulah Karman tidak pandai berburu. Dia bukan pembunuh ulung. Dia tidak ditahan karena menghilangkan nyawa seseorang, tetapi karena menulis. Badannya tegap tapi tidak berguna, dia terlampau kikuk untuk membidik ayam hutan. Jemarinya yang panjang lebih sering dipakai untuk diam-diam berguru menulis pada Pak Pram, salah seorang tahanan yang lebih mahir dalam kepenulisan, dan bukannya untuk melepaskan anak panah. Walau ini bukan masalah besar baginya. Dia tetap bisa menyantap rangsum untuk makanan sehari-hari. Namun, bagiku, tanpa tangkapan unggas atau ikan harian, aku tidak akan bisa makan. Alhasil, pada hari kami berjanji untuk bertemu, tangan kami berdua selalu penuh oleh hasil buruanku. Satu dua kubawa pulang untuk dimakan bersama bapak tiriku yang sudah jompo, sisanya diperdagangkan ke kepala sipir dengan Karman sebagai perantara. Bukan apa-apa, aku hanya menjual hasil buruanku untuk mendapatkan uang. Karman memberitahuku bahwa orang tidak lagi mempertukarkan barang dan jasa dengan hasil buruan, tetapi menggunakan uang. Karenanya, aku gigih mengumpulkan uang tersebut untuk membiayai perjalananku ke Jawa demi memakamkan Mamak, meskipun Karman sempat tergelak melihatnya. Agaknya butuh ribuan hari jika hasil buruanmu hanya sebatas unggas, begitu katanya.

“Lain kali, cobalah berburu celeng. Kurasa harganya lebih mahal,” Karman terkekeh melihatku menyodorkan bangkai ayam hutan lewat celah pagar.

“Kau pikir mudah menangkap celeng seorang diri?” dengusku.

“Memang tidak. Kenapa tak minta bantuan orang lain?”

Aku terhenyak. Sudah seumur hidup dikucilkan, kukira aku sudah kebal. Rupanya aku tetap tertohok ketika tersadarkan bahwa aku memang terasingkan. Untungnya, Karman tidak menunggu jawaban, buru-buru dia memilah hasil buruanku hari ini. Iseng saja aku menyeletuk, “Karman, menurutmu mengapa Mamakku minta dimakamkan di Jawa?”

“Entahlah. Mungkin Buru bukan tempat pulang bagi beliau,” Karman mengedikkan bahu.

“Bahkan meskipun anak semata wayangnya ada di sini?” kepalaku tertunduk, tungkaiku lunglai. Aku memalingkan wajahku, takut-takut mendengar jawaban dari Karman, apapun itu.

Karman mendongak cepat ketika mendengar pertanyaanku. “Yang benar saja? Aku yakin bukan itu maksud beliau.”

Aku mengangguk lesu. Tidak dapat kumungkiri bahwa kerisauan ini sudah lama bercokol di ujung pikiranku, “Aku juga berharap demikian.”

“Jawab jujur. Memangnya kau sendiri merasa nyaman berada di Buru? Jangan menyamakan rasa nyaman dengan kebiasaan, kau juga tahu bahwa keduanya berbeda.

Siapa tahu tempatmu bukan di sini, siapa tahu mamakmu ingin mencarikanmu kenyamanan yang selama ini tak kau dapatkan. Tidak ada salahnya mencoba melancong ke Jawa, kalau memang itu yang kau hendaki.”

Aku merengut mendengar jawaban Karman. Harga diriku mencoba berontak biarpun kalah ketika pikiranku mengiyakan Karman. Alhasil, kami kembali terjebak dalam diam.

“Ngomong-ngomong, kalau nanti aku mati, apakah kau keberatan menguburkanku di Buru ini?”

Aku sudah menduga Karman akan buka suara duluan, hanya tidak menyangka dia akan menanyakan itu. Sejenak teringat tatapan mengawang Karman ketika belum lama aku menghujaninya dengan pertanyaan seputar Jawa. Sepertinya aku salah duga, barangkali tatapan itu bukan tatapan mendamba ingin pulang, justru tatapan pedih karena tak merasa rindu dengan tanah sendiri. Ibu Pertiwi pasti bercanda, bagaimana bisa ada sekian banyak anak manusia yang tercerai berai dari rumahnya?

***

Tahun ini 1972, tiga tahun berselang setelah meninggalnya Mamak. Jumlah manusia di bumi Indonesia ini sudah semakin banyak, tetapi baru sekali ini dalam 28 tahun aku hidup kulihat kerumunan manusia sebanyak ini. Kudapati diriku terkungkung di tengah lautan manusia khas kerumunan di kota pelabuhan, Semarang. Memang benar, semasa hidupnya, Mamak sering bercerita tentang betapa sibuknya Semarang. Walau ternyata, bagi seseorang yang dibesarkan di pedalaman Pulau Buru sepertiku, tempat ini masih jauh lebih bising daripada apa yang aku bayangkan. Tidak habis-habisnya aku tercengang ketika mendapati bahwa tanpa bergerak pun, bahuku tetap bersenggolan dengan bahu manusia-manusia lain yang lalu-lalang di pelabuhan. Sudah seramai ini, padahal matahari masih menyebul malu-malu di ufuk timur.

Kakiku terus melangkah hingga akhirnya menjauh dari tepi pelabuhan. Tujuanku hadir di kota ini hanya satu, yaitu mencari adik Mamak, bernama Sumarni yang lebih akrab dipanggil Marni. Menurut cerita Mamak, beliau tinggal di Kelurahan Tanjung Mas, tidak jauh dari pelabuhan. Atau semisal aku gagal menemukan beliau, paling tidak aku harus mendapati keturunan R. Projowinoto, yang menurut catatan yang diberikan Mamak, kakekku sendiri, mantan polisi pelabuhan di Semarang.

“Permisi,” ujarku seraya menghampiri sekumpulan bapak-bapak yang tengah bersenda gurau di warung kopi Pelabuhan Tanjung Mas. “Bisakah saya ditunjukkan kediaman Bapak R. Projowinoto? Beliau mantan polisi yang pernah ditempatkan di pelabuhan ini.”

Bapak-bapak tersebut mengernyitkan kening. Salah seorang di antara mereka bertanya,

“Anda siapanya? Bapak R. Projowinoto sudah meninggal sejak lama.”

Aku manggut-manggut. Masuk akal bahwa kakekku sudah meninggal karena anak sulungnya saja juga sudah. Akan tetapi, sepertinya sulit dipercaya kalau aku bilang akulah cucunya. Kujawab saja sekenanya, “Hanya kerabat.”

Mereka terlihat lebih bingung lagi. Tentunya bingung mendapati lelaki muda sepertiku, bermata sipit, berkulit kuning, tetapi mengaku berkerabat dengan R. Projowinoto, yang kuduga terlihat seperti lelaki Jawa pada umumnya.

“Kerabat?” tanya seorang dari bapak-bapak tersebut. Pandangannya tidak bersahabat.

Aku menelan ludah lalu menjawab, “Saya cucunya.”

Sontak bapak-bapak itu tak kuasa menahan raut terkejut. Seorang di antara mereka bertanya dengan salah satu alis terangkat, “Betul kamu cucunya? Siapa ibumu? Lahir dari putri yang mana kamu?”

“Mamak saya Sumaryati, Pak.” jawabku dengan sedikit terganggu.

Lebih terkejut lagi raut bapak-bapak itu. Seorang lain menanggapi, “Ya Gusti, Sumaryati yang itu? Yang sudah lama hilang itu?”

Mendengar tanggapan tersebut, sepertinya Mamak dianggap hilang oleh orang-orang di kampungnya.

Sek digowo karo Jepang kuwi? Yang dibawa oleh Jepang itu?” Bapak-bapak itu saling bertanya dalam bahasa daerah yang tidak dapat kupahami.

Salah seorang turut menimpali. “Maryati adalah temanku di Sekolah Rakyat.”

Seorang bapak kemudian melihat ke arahku dan bertanya, “Ada bukti apa yang bisa menunjukkan kalau kamu benar anak Maryati?”

Tanganku merogoh bungkusan sederhana yang aku bawa dari Pulau Buru. Kusodorkan foto Mamak semasa gadis. Foto itu disimpan Mamak baik-baik, sebelum akhirnya diwariskan ke aku. Sambil memperhatikan bapak-bapak itu mencermati foto Mamak, aku diam-diam tersenyum. Foto itu mengingatkanku pada cerita Mamak. Kata beliau, waktu kecil, aku begitu heran melihat Mamak ada di kertas.

“Betul, ini memang Maryati,” ujar seseorang, ditanggapi dengan anggukan oleh lainnya yang ikut mencermati foto Mamak.

“Karena Bapak R. Projowinoto sudah berpulang, bisakah saya diantar ke rumah Ibu Marni?” aku menyela. Beliaulah adik kesayangan Mamak yang namanya kerap muncul dalam igauan dan yang agaknya Mamak rindukan di alam bawah sadarnya. Di saat nyawanya digerogoti malaria sekalipun, hanya Marnilah nama yang Mamak serukan.

Bapak-bapak tersebut mengangguk. Beriring-iringanlah kami menyusuri tepi jalan raya menuju kediaman Marni.

Ke rumah kayu yang kokoh itulah aku diantarkan oleh bapak-bapak warung kopi. Kulihat lalu-lalang manusia yang sibuk menjemur dan mencelup kain di halamannya. Kain panjang bercorak berukuran besar-besar digantung di tali-tali yang melintang disangga tongkat, warna dan coraknya yang beragam mengingatkanku pada cerita Mamak akan indahnya kain yang bernama batik. Para wanita di sini terlihat masih menggunakannya, walau tidak sedikit juga yang tidak.

Aku menunggu di ambang gerbang sementara para bapak memasuki halaman rumah dan menemui seorang perempuan tak jauh dari pintu utama. Mereka berbincang, samar-samar kudengar mereka menyebut nama Mamak dan Marni. Salah satu bapak berseru menyuruhku mendekat, mengenalkanku kepada perempuan berkebaya dan berkain batik yang sedari tadi mereka ajak bicara. “Marni, ini dia. Anak muda yang mengaku putranya Maryati.”

Pandanganku bertumpu ke sepasang mata milik Marni, bibiku. Marni mirip sekali dengan Mamak, walau Mamak lebih kurus dan kumal sedangkan Bibi Marni nampak molek. Awalnya aku tangkap raut curiga ketika dia melihat ke arahku dengan raut tidak percaya, keningnya mengernyit dan mulutnya sedikit terbuka. Lalu kutangkap pula raut haru ketika lamat-lamat dia melihatku. Dihampirinya aku, dilihatinya aku dan semakin kentara raut harunya melihatku.

“Siapa namamu, Nak?” tanya Marni.

“Man Beta, Bibi.”

Marni, yang tampak terhenyak, mengatupkan tangannya di mulut. Sebelum bertanya lebih lanjut, tak lupa dia mengucap terima kasih kepada para bapak yang mengantarkanku.

Matur nuwun, terima kasih,” begitu ucapnya, lantas dibalas oleh bungkuk hormat dari para bapak yang izin pamit.

Sepeninggal para bapak, Marni mengajakku untuk masuk dan duduk berhadapan di meja ruang tamu. Dia memperhatikan garis wajahku lebih seksama sambil bergumam, “Walau sipit begini, begitu mirip kamu dengan Mbakyuku, Maryati.” Senyum tipis merekah di bibirnya, air mukanya penuh haru. “Bagaimana kabarnya sekarang? Apakah dia baik-baik saja? Bisakah aku bertemu dengannya?”

Aku menggeleng, “Mamak sudah meninggal sejak lama. Sakit malaria, tak tertolong.”

Marni terkejut, lalu menengadahkan kepala. “Gusti, belum juga aku sempat bertemu lagi dengan Mamakmu. Rupanya dia sudah tenang di atas sana, cepat sekali dia berpulang.”

Sorot mata Marni meredup, bahunya terkulai lemas.

Aku tersenyum getir, menunjukkan belas kasihku.

Suasana hening sejenak, Marni masih berusaha melumat kabar duka. Sementara, aku tidak enak mengusiknya. Tidak terbayang seperti apa rasanya dipisahkan berpuluh tahun hanya untuk mendengar kabar bahwa yang tercinta sudah tiada.

“Jadi, selama ini dimana kau tinggal? Di mana Mbakyuku tinggal?” tanya Marni.

“Di Pulau Buru, Bibi. Pulau kecil di timur sana, jauh dari Jawa.”

“Astaga, jadi para Jepang itu membawa Mbakyu jauh ke sana? Ke pulau terpencil?

Bahkan aku tak tahu ada pulau bernama itu di timur.” Marni menghela napas untuk kesekian kalinya, tatapannya merana seakan penuh penyesalan karena tidak dapat mengelakkan takdir yang tidak mengenakkan.

“Ya, Bibi,” jawabku dengan sendu.

“Jangan bilang, kau anak dari Jepang itu?”

“Benar, Bibi.”

Marni mengusap wajahnya gusar. “Astaga, tak kusangka. Ternyata Mbakyuku sendiri yang jadi korban tentara Jepang. Sungguh kasihan, padahal Bapak bilang Mbakyu akan disekolahkan.” Tatapannya yang tadinya merana kini berkilat-kilat penuh kebencian, agaknya Marni tersakiti karena dikhianati.

“Betul, Bibi.”

“Ada maksud apa kau kemari?” Kata-katanya lugas, tetapi memancarkan kehangatan.

Aku mengeluarkan kantong istimewa dari dalam buntel kadutku. “Aku hendak menguburkan Mamak.”

Gemeletak bunyinya ketika kantong tersebut kuletakkan di atas meja. Rasanya seakan tapak kaki Mamak kembali mengetuk bumi ini.

***

Tidak butuh waktu lama bagi Marni untuk segera menghubungi adik laki-lakinya dan memanggil pemuka agama setempat ke rumahnya. Langsung dipastikan bahwa Mamak akan dimakamkan sekarang ini juga di pemakaman keluarga. Kantong berisi Mamak sudah diambil alih oleh Marni dan adiknya, aku hanya terbengong-bengong hingga Marni menyerukan namaku untuk ikut bergegas. Di tengah huru-hara pemakaman sekalipun, masih kudapati adik Marni mendelik ke arahku sembari bertanya ke kakaknya, “Berarti, sekarang tanah warisan Bapak akan dibagi tiga?” Marni hanya mendesis menyuruh adiknya diam.

Perjalanan dari rumah Marni menuju tempat kuburan terasa begitu panjang. Kakiku berat melangkah, walau pikiranku berulang kali meyakinkan diri bahwa inilah yang Mamak mau.

Aku tidak kuasa menahan nuraniku untuk tidak mengenang Mamak. Berkali-kali ku camkan bahwa kepulangannya tidak sama dengan kehilangannya, bahwa dia tetap bersamaku.

Mamakku, Mamakku yang manis. Yang kini tinggal belulang.

Mamakku yang ku pertanyakan. Mamakku yang entah dimana, tapi orang bilang dia sudah tenang di atas sana. Di atas yang mana?

Mamakku yang kupertanyakan. Katanya harus dimandikan, biarpun hanya tinggal belulang. Padahal di Buru sana, aku yang mengais kuburannya dengan hati-hati, mengelapi sisa-sisanya tiap hari menjelang keberangkatanku ke Jawa. Apakah masih tidak cukup bersih?

Mamakku yang kupertanyakan. Kata pemuka agama harus didoakan dengan salat, padahal aku tak tahu Mamak punya agama. Padahal aku sendiri pun tak punya.

Mamakku, Mamakku.

Yang dikebumikan dengan tata aturan yang bahkan aku tidak mengerti. Dibungkus kain, didoakan dengan rapalan doa yang berbeda dengan yang dibacakan tetua adat di Pulau Buru. Liang lahatnya digali dengan pacul, berlainan dengan kuburnya di Pulau Buru dulu yang hanya boleh digali dengan kayu. Salah satu kebaya kesayangannya tidak boleh ikut dikuburkan, bertolak belakang dengan di Pulau Buru. Tidak mengapa.

Yang dikuburkan diiringi dengan pertengkaran adik-adiknya mengenai warisan kakek, soal apakah aku yang anak orang asing ini patut mendapatkannya atau tidak. Soal adik Marni yang tidak terima ketika kakaknya berniat menyisakan warisan untukku, walaupun aku sendiri tidak menginginkannya. “Untuk apa memberikan warisan kepada seseorang yang tidak mengharapkannya? Tidak ada guna!” begitu seru adik Marni ketika menentang kakaknya. Tidak mengapa.

Yang disemayamkan tanpa aku ikut serta di dalamnya.

Ketika liang lahat sudah digali, tanah merah sudah menganga, wajah-wajah asing mengelilingi liang. Tukang kubur sudah membawa seonggok kain putih berisi Mamak, walau sudah bukan Mamak yang kubungkus dengan kantong anyaman. Saat itulah aku menjerit.

Susah payah aku katakan pada tukang kubur untuk serahkan Mamak padaku. Tak ada yang mengerti raunganku meminta Mamak. Wajah-wajah itu menatapku keheranan. Tidak sedikit pula yang risih melihat lelaki dewasa menangis meraung di pekuburan.

Barulah ketika Marni menyerahkan Mamak kepadaku, aku terdiam.

Wajah-wajah itu seakan diberi jawaban atas keheranannya.

Angin bertiup hening, kicau burung terdengar samar di kejauhan.

Selamat berpulang, Mamak. Setelah penantian panjang, berlabuhlah engkau dalam kedamaian tiada ujung. Putramu ini telah semayamkan engkau.

Mengapa.

*****

Mother’s Footsteps

Pada tahun 2005 Umar Thamrin menerima beasiswa Fulbright Grant dan Catherine and William L. Magistretti Graduate Fellowship untuk menyelesaikan pendidikan pascasarjana di Amerika Serikat. Sebelum kembali ke tanah air pada penghujung 2017, dia menerima tawaran dari University of Oregon untuk menjadi peneliti dan pengajar selama setahun.

Saat kembali ke tanah air, dia prihatin melihat rakyat yang tetap saja terpinggirkan dan sejarah yang begitu mudah terlupakan. Inilah yang mendorongnya untuk merenung, mengenang, dan menulis. Umar sekarang mengajar linguistik pada Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin.

Dia dapat dihubungi melalui surel: umar2x.umar@gmail.com

 

 

Mother’s Footsteps

 

I never tired of reminiscing about the stories my mother told me about her life. Although she was born to a respectable family in Semarang, a port city on Java Island, I was an illegitimate child. Mother said that when the Japanese occupied our country during World War II, they forced her and other teenage girls to be their “comfort women” on Buru Island, a remote island within the Maluku Islands of Indonesia.

Mother cursed the soldiers who used the girls as sex slaves, then abandoned them — pregnant girls and young mothers alike — as soon as Japan lost the war. Mother’s stories about the cruelty of the Japanese soldiers always made me sad.

Mother also told me stories about how hard life was for her and the other girls on this almost uninhabited desert island. With no one to protect them, children were born without any medical help and young mothers suffered from malnutrition and malaria. In the end, only Mother and one other girl survived. They eventually married men of Buru’s Alfuru tribe. Mother said that the only reason she married my stepfather was to save our lives.

Thus, I was born into the Alfuru tribe of Buru Island. I was the only one among the black islanders who had light skin; the only one among the round-eyed faces who had slanted eyes. I felt destined to be ostracized. No one wanted to be friends with a boy who looked like me, let alone ask me to go hunting with them. My only friend was Mother, who was very smart. She easily taught me to speak her mother tongue, and whenever I wasn’t hunting for food, I chatted with Mother in Indonesian, which became our secret language on Buru Island.

My mother did not marry my stepfather out of love, and their strained relationship impacted that of mine with my stepfather. He had no choice but to accept me, as doing so was his only assurance that mother would stay in their marriage. A sibling might have eased my relationship with my stepfather, but after giving birth to me, Mother was too weak to bear another child.

Therefore, my interactions with my stepfather remained cold and indifferent, bordering on hate. Whenever my stepfather started yelling at me because his fishing net came up empty or his arrows missed their prey, Mother always whispered to me in Indonesian, “Run! Run before he hits you!”

***

In 1969, a few months after Mother died, a boatload of people landed at Buru Island. They were from Java — mostly men — and I was very surprised to discover that all of them spoke Indonesian. Most of them had the same physical features Mother had; even their way of speaking sounded like Mother’s.

However, I, in turn, surprised them as well. Clearly they were startled to see a light-skinned young man with slanted eyes, dressed in the drawstring pants that Alfuru men wore. When I spoke to them in halted Indonesian, they stared at me in disbelief.

Later, I learned that the boat people were prisoners. I watched them being forced into submission with the same cruelty my stepfather exhibited toward me. Despite my poor Indonesian, I could understand their emotional words of anger and oppression. I felt sorry for them. We were all victims of anger and oppression.

I will always remember Karman, a handsome, strong man about my stepfather’s age. But unlike my stepfather, Karman never said a harsh word to me, let alone hit me. We became best friends after he caught me peeking over the prison fence. He greeted me, and we engaged in a friendly conversation. We were curious about each other. He said the presence of an Asian-looking man on Buru struck him as odd, and I said it was the first time I’d met a Javanese other than my mother. I told him about Mother — that she had been born on Java and had passed away a few months ago. I also told him about her wish to be buried on her home island.

Then I grilled him with questions about Java.

Karman chuckled and looked sadly into the distance, as if he could see the homeland he longed for. “Java is a big island.” He paused. “Nothing like Buru.”

“How big is the island?” I thought Buru Island was big, but apparently Java was a bigger one. I thought about Mother’s last wish to be buried on Java: It would be nice to be buried on such a big island.

“How about Semarang? Is that a big city?” I asked. “It’s where Mother was born, and she still has relatives there. That’s where she wants to be buried.”

Karman nodded. “To fulfill your mother’s wish, you’ll have to go to Java by boat.”
A prison guard hollered out the names of the prisoners who had not reported in for their period of forced labor.

“Semarang is a bustling port city,” Karman said while trotting backward toward the guard. I was so buried in my thoughts about Semarang, I didn’t realize Karman had disappeared into the prison building before I could wave goodbye.

Slowly, Karman and I began getting to know each other better. As the number of our secret meetings grew, so did my Indonesian vocabulary. Our meetings were not secret in the sense of young lovers meeting clandestinely; anyone with eyes could easily see us, sitting back to back, separated by the prison fence. If anyone objected to my sitting there,

I could just run away.

I found out that Karman and the other boat people were not ordinary prisoners; they were political prisoners. At that time, I had no idea about the absolute power of the Indonesian government. Therefore, it did not make sense to me to hear that someone could be arrested just because of his political affiliation.

Karman said he was imprisoned for being a member of the PKI, the Communist Party of Indonesia, that was accused of carrying out a coup against the current Indonesian government and killing seven of Indonesia’s top military officers. Karman was arrested even though he knew nothing about the coup.

“What would a clerk like me know about assassinating military officers?” he asked. “All I had done was my job ⸺ writing letters. I was not arrested for being a skillful killer, but simply for writing.”

That explained why Karman was not a good hunter. His body was sturdy but useless in that regard. His fingers were too clumsy to aim an arrow at wild chickens or birds. Instead, he used his long fingers to learn how to write stories from Pak Pram, a fellow prisoner who was also more proficient at writing than aiming arrows.

But being a competent hunter was not as big of a necessity for Karman as it was for me. Without hunting, he could still eat — he had his prison food rations — but I would starve. Consequently, on the days we promised to meet, I always took one or two birds from my bag home to eat with my elderly stepfather, and sold the rest to the prison guards, with Karman as an intermediary.

Karman had told me that people no longer bartered goods and services. Instead, they used money. Therefore, I was determined to earn enough money to pay for my trip to Java to bury Mother, even though Karman laughed when I told him my plan.

“If all you sold were your hunted birds, it would take thousands of days to earn enough money to travel to Java!” Karman chuckled as I wriggled a dead wild chicken through the gap in the fence. “Now, a wild boar might bring you more money!”

“You think it’s easy to catch a wild boar by yourself?” I grumbled.

“Of course not!” Karman gave me a once-over. “Why don’t you ask a friend to help you?”

Karman’s question startled me. Having been ostracized all my life, I thought I was accustomed to being on my own. But his question made me realize how lonely I was. Fortunately, Karman did not wait for my answer; he was too busy inspecting my catch of the day.

“Karman, do you know why my mother wanted to be buried in Java?”

“I have no idea.” Karman shrugged. “Maybe Buru never became home for her.”

“Even though her only son was born here and lives here?” I looked down, afraid to hear Karman’s answer, whatever it was.

Karman quickly looked up. “I’m sure that’s not the way she looked at it.”

I nodded wearily. “I hope you’re right.” The thought had been brewing in my mind for a long time.

Karman looked at me closely. “Are you comfortable living in Buru all by yourself? Be honest. Don’t confuse comfort with habit; you know they are different. Perhaps you don’t really belong here. Who knows? Your mother may have wanted you to find the comfort you’ve never experienced so far. There’s nothing wrong with traveling to Java, if that’s what you want.”

I scowled at Karman’s answer, but I knew he was right, and I remained silent.

“By the way,” Karman continued, “when I die, will you bury me here in Buru?”

Though I had expected Karman to continue our conversation, I had not expected him to continue it with a question like that. I thought back to Karman’s empty gaze when I bombarded him with questions about Java. Perhaps I had been wrong in thinking that he was homesick then. Perhaps his sadness came from the fact he had no place to be homesick for. Could Mother Nature be so cruel that she would allow so many of her children to be torn from their homes?

***

I had heard that the population in Indonesia had grown, but it was not until 1972, three years after Mother’s death, that I saw as many people as I saw upon arrival in Semarang. I quickly found myself trapped in their midst.

During her life, Mother had often told me how busy Semarang was. And she was right! But, as a man who was born and raised on Buru Island for all of my twenty-eight years of life, I never imagined any place could be as busy as this. Even though dawn was just breaking, people crowded the street. Even standing to the side of the road, I could not avoid being bumped by other people as they hurried by.

I continued walking away from the port. I had to find my mother’s sister, Aunt Marni. Mother had told me that her sister lived in Tanjung Mas, a neighborhood adjacent to the port. According to the note Mother had left me, I needed to find either my Aunt Marni, or a relation of Raden Projowinoto — my grandfather and a former policeman in this port.

A group of gentlemen were sitting around at the Tanjung Mas Harbor Coffee Shop. “Excuse me,” I said, interrupting their lively conversation. “Do any of you know a Raden Projowinoto? He used to be a policeman at this harbor.”

The men frowned. “Who are you?” one of them asked. “Mr. Projowinoto died a long time ago.”

I nodded. I had not expected my grandfather to still be alive. After all, even his eldest daughter — my mother — was dead. But realizing I would have to tell a long, complicated story if I identified myself as his grandson, I simply said, “I’m just a relative.”

Now everyone looked at me, clearly confused. It must have indeed been mystifying to hear a young, Asian-looking man, speaking Indonesian, state that he was related to Raden Projowinoto, who I imagined looked like a typical Javanese man.

“A relative?” asked one of the men, scrutinizing me.

“I am his grandson.”

The men could not contain their surprise. “Really?” one of them asked with raised eyebrows. “Who is your mother?”

“My mother was Sumaryati, sir.” I was starting to feel annoyed with their suspicious questions.

Now the men looked stunned. “Oh, my Lord!” one exclaimed. “That Sumaryati? The one the Japanese took away?”

The man turned to the others, and everyone started talking at once in an animated, regional dialect that I could not understand.

One of the men looked up at me. “Maryati was my friend in elementary school.”

“Can you prove you’re Maryati’s son?” asked another.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the picture of Mother as a young girl. She had always cherished the picture, now after her death, it was mine to cherish.

While watching everyone crowd over Mother’s picture, I quietly smiled, remembering Mother telling me that when I was little and saw the picture for the first time, I was startled to see her face on a piece of paper.

“I’m sure, this is Maryati,” said the man I had given Mother’s picture to. The others nodded.

I quickly spoke up to prevent them from further interrogating me. “Perhaps one of you could show me the way to my Aunt Marni’s house?”

Aunt Marni was Mother’s favorite sibling ⸺ the one she said she missed the most. Marni’s name had been the one Mother called most often during the delirium of her final days, before succumbing to malaria.

The men nodded, and we all walked along the sidewalk to Aunt Marni’s house.
As we entered her neighborhood, we passed people drying and dyeing textiles in their yards. Long, large-patterned cloths hung on the clotheslines. The assorted colors and motifs reminded me of Mother’s stories about the beautiful Javanese batik cloth. Many of the women here still wore it, although just as many of them did not.

I waited at the gate while the men entered the front yard of a sturdy wood house. A woman met them at the door. I could faintly hear them mentioning Mother’s and Aunt Marni’s names. One of the men called out for me to come closer and introduced me to a woman dressed in a kebaya, Indonesian blouse, and batik sarong. “Marni,” he said, as he waved me closer, “this is the young man who claims to be Maryati’s son.”

I looked at Aunt Marni. She resembled Mother, except that Mother had been skinny and disheveled while Aunt Marni looked healthy and cared for.

At first, Aunt Marni looked at me suspiciously. Frowning, she took stock of me for several seconds. Then I saw her eyes change. The longer she looked at me the sadder her eyes grew. She whispered, “What is your name, son?”

“Man Beta, Aunt Marni.”

Aunt Marni’s hand flew to her mouth, and she quickly thanked the men who had brought me.

They bowed and said goodbye.

Aunt Marni invited me in, and we sat together in the living room. She took a closer look at my face and murmured, “Even though you have slanted eyes, you still look like my sister, Maryati.” Her lips curved into a gentle smile, and her eyes filled with tears. “How is she now? Is she fine? Can I see her?”

I shook my head. “Mother died from malaria, three years ago.”

Aunt Marni’s face turned to shock. “Oh, my God! My sister went to heaven before I had the chance to see her. She passed away at such a young age.” Aunt Marni’s eyes dimmed, and her shoulders drooped. She grew silent, trying to process the bad news I’d delivered.

I grimaced; I felt her sorrow. I could only imagine what it must have been like to be separated from one’s sister for decades only to be told that the beloved sister had passed away.

“So where have you been living all this time?” asked Aunt Marni. “Where did my sister live?”

“We lived on Buru Island, Aunt. A small, deserted island in Maluku, far from Java.”

“So the Japanese took my sister all the way there, to a small, deserted island,” Aunt Marni murmured. “I didn’t even know there was such an island in the east.” Aunt Marni’s gaze languished, as if regretting her powerlessness to reverse fate.

“You’re a Japanese soldier’s son?”

“That’s right, Aunt.”

Aunt Marni ran a hand brusquely across her face. “This is so hard to believe. My poor sister was a war victim of the Japanese army. Father had told me that the Japanese would send her to a school.” Her eyes now glittered with the hatred of betrayal. “Why did you come here?” Her question was straightforward yet warm.

I took a woven drawstring sack out of my bag. “Mother wanted to be buried here,” I said. The sack made a tapping sound when I put it on the table. It sounded like Mother’s footsteps.

***

Aunt Marni immediately contacted her younger brother, my uncle, and the neighborhood priest. They decided to bury Mother that same afternoon in the family plot. Aunt Marni and my uncle took my drawstring sack containing Mother’s bones from me. Everything was happening so fast! I sat bewildered until Aunt Marni called my name and hurried me along.
In the midst of the busy funeral arrangements, my uncle, glaring at me, asked Aunt Marni,

“Does our inheritance now have to be divided into thirds?”

Aunt Marni hushed Uncle.

The journey from Aunt Marni’s house to the cemetery felt much longer than the actual distance. My feet moved reluctantly, even though I repeatedly reminded myself that this was Mother’s wish. Over and over I told myself that Mother’s return to her birthplace was not the same as her leaving me and my birthplace. She was still with me, would always be with me.

Mother, my dear, sweet mother. Now only her bones were left.

Mother, my dear, sweet mother. I did not know where she was, but people said she was at peace up there. Where was “up there”?

Mother, my dear, sweet mother. The priest said her bones had to be bathed, even though in Buru, after I had carefully dug up her grave, I had wiped her bones every day before my departure for Java. Even in death, was Mother still not clean enough?

Mother, my dear, sweet mother. The priest said we had to say their funeral prayer for her. I didn’t know if Mother had practiced any faith. I didn’t.

Mother, my dear, sweet mother.

She was buried in a way that even I did not understand. Here, she was wrapped in a cloth, her bones were prayed over with a prayer different from that of the elders on Buru Island. Here, they dug her grave with shovels and hoes; while in Buru, only wooden tools were allowed to dig her grave. In Buru, she was allowed to be buried with her favorite kebaya; here, this was not allowed.

It did not matter.

I watched the gravediggers shovel out Mother’s final resting place while her siblings squabbled over Grandfather’s inheritance ⸺ about whether I, the son of a foreigner, deserved a share. Uncle argued with Aunt Marni, who wanted to share their inheritance with me, even though I had told them I did not want anything. “Why share our inheritance with someone who doesn’t expect it?” Uncle yelled at Aunt Marni “It doesn’t make sense!”

It did not matter.

When Mother’s grave, a gaping hole in the red earth, was ready, strangers surrounded the pit. The gravedigger picked up the bundle of white cloth that now contained Mother’s bones and prepared to lower it into the grave. And even though they were no longer the bones I had wrapped in a woven drawstring sack and carried with me all the way from Buru to Java, I screamed at the gravedigger, “No! Give Mother to me! I am the one who must bury Mother!”

And this mattered.

No one understood why I was screaming. Some looked confused; others were irritated to see a grown man wailing in the cemetery.
It was only when Aunt Marni took the white bag from the gravedigger and handed Mother to me that I fell silent.

Everyone suddenly seemed to understand.

The wind blew quietly, birds chirped in the distance.

Goodbye, Mother. After your long voyage, you have finally arrived in a place of endless peace. Your son has buried you according to your wish.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Suatu Subuh di Cihanjuang

Candra Padmasvasti lahir di kota Bandung, 11 Oktober 1974, berasal dari keluarga pendidik dan pecinta karya sastra. Membaca dan menulis buku harian menjadi kegemarannya sejak kecil.

Candra bekerja sebagai penasehat di bidang pemenuhan hak anak dan perempuan di lembaga nasional dan internasional. Dia kerap menulis berbagai tulisan laporan kegiatan bahan pelatihan dan berkas perancangan seputar kebijakan untuk pekerjaannya. Suatu Subuh di Cihanjuang adalah cerita pendek pertamanya, yang melecut keyakinannya bahwa menulis adalah tentang keberanian untuk bermimpi dan jujur pada diri sendiri.

Candra dapat disapa di c.padmasvasti@gmail.com

 

 

Suatu Subuh di Cihanjuang

 

Alunan karinding, alat musik dari bilah bambu khas Jawa Barat, mengeluarkan nada tinggi melengking, berpadu dengan embusan angin malam yang dingin. Karinding selalu dimainkan di acara adat. Suara mendengung hasil perpaduan sentilan jari dan tiupan udara dari mulut si pemain, membuat suasana di pertemuan adat terasa mendebarkan.

Setelah acara selesai. Panitren, sang penjaga adat, berlari dari Bale Saresehan menghampiri jendela dapur Uwa Enok yang masih terbuka. “Sudah diputuskan! Citrik akan dinikahkan dengan Kang Dayat!” ujarnya di antara tarikan napas dan langkah kakinya yang bergegas menjauh. 

Uwa Enok yang sedang duduk di atas dipan di dekat jendela dapurnya langsung menutup wajah dengan kedua telapak tangannya. Wanita tua itu menangis, berusaha mencerna berita yang disampaikan oleh panitren.

Citrik yang sedang duduk menghangatkan tubuhnya di depan hawu, tungku kayu bakar, seketika merasa mual. Pepes jamur, lauk makan malam tadi, terasa mengimpit kerongkongannya. Gadis remaja tigabelas tahun itu menggelugut membayangkan Mang Dayat, lelaki paruh baya yang biasa dia panggil paman, akan menjadi suaminya.

Pernikahan Mang Dayat dengan Bi Nenden memang belum dikaruniai keturunan. Perilaku mereka sangat berlawanan, Mang Dayat suka berbicara, sedangkan Bi Nenden sangat pendiam. Perempuan di kampung kerap menggunjingkan kelakuan Mang Dayat, yang sering punya hubungan khusus dengan perempuan dari luar Cihanjuang. Sebagian dari mereka menuduh Bi Nenden yang tidak dapat memberikan anak, sebagai alasannya.

Mengapa harus aku yang memberinya anak? Citrik merasa jijik. Tangannya menarik tepian kain sarung dari sisi kedua lengannya, membungkus tubuh mungilnya, dan membenamkan kepalanya.

Citrik teringat kejadian beberapa hari lalu. Kala itu dia dan Uwa Enok sedang berjalan sepulang dari sungai.

Tiba-tiba dari barisan pohon, Mang Dayat muncul menghadang mereka. “Aduh wanginya,” goda Mang Dayat sambil mendekatkan kepalanya ke arah tubuh Citrik.

Citrik langsung menjerit dan berlindung di belakang badan Uwa Enok. Gelung Citrik terlepas, rambutnya yang hitam jatuh tergerai melewati pundaknya yang basah. Tubuh gadis itu hanya dibalut kain sarung, selepas mandi di sungai.

Citrik merinding karena masih bisa merasakan napas Mang Dayat di lengannya.

“Mau apa kamu, Dayat?” Uwa Enok membentak.

“Mau menikah dengan ponakanmu,” ujar Mang Dayat tergelak. Bau minyak rambut Mang Dayat tercium begitu kuat, mengalahkan wangi sabun mandi dari tubuh Citrik dan Uwa Enok. Mang Dayat mengusap kumisnya sambil menatap Citrik. Mata lelaki tua itu bergerak menyapu wajah pucat Citrik. Pandangannya menjelajahi leher yang jenjang lalu turun ke pundak nan putih. Bola matanya kian membesar saat tilikannya tiba pada pinggul sintal Citrik yang terbalut kain sarung basah.

“Jangan kurang ajar!”  Uwa Enok berteriak marah.

“Aku akan buatkan rumah terbagus di Cihanjuang untukmu, Citrik,” ucap Mang Dayat merayu Citrik tanpa menghiraukan hardikan Uwa Enok. “Kamu bisa dapat semua yang kau mau dengan uang hasil usaha ternakku.” 

Citrik masih tidak menjawab, kedua tangannya terus memeluk keranjang berisi baju yang baru dicuci sebagai tumpuan tubuhnya yang gemetar.

“Anak ini sudah mendapat rumah dari ku.” Uwa Enok berucap sambil mengangkat dagu, matanya menatap tajam lelaki yang ada di depannya. Lalu bibirnya mengatup, tarikan napasnya yang pendek diembuskan lewat kedua lubang hidungnya. 

“Rumah usang bekas perawan tua tidak pantas untuk gadis cantik seperti Citrik,” ejek Mang Dayat diikuti suara tertawanya yang menjengkelkan.

Wajah Uwa Enok memerah. Tangannya mengepal menahan amarah. “Awas! Aku laporkan kepada sesepuh adat!” Uwa Enok berteriak lantang.

Mang Dayat justru tertawa liar. “Dengan kepandaian ilmu sirep akan aku tembus mimpi sesepuh adat. Dia akan menuruti semua kemauanku.”

Uwa Enok tersentak. Dia diam kehabisan kata-kata.

Melihat perubahan sikap Uwa Enok, Mang Dayat kembali tertawa keras. Kedua tangannya bertengger di pinggang, menampakkan perutnya yang montok berguncang. “Aku berkuasa di Cihanjuang! Perempuan tua macam kamu tidak ada artinya bagiku.” Mang Dayat menunjukkan jari telunjuknya ke arah Citrik. “Dia milik aku!”

Citrik merasa dirinya diperlakukan layaknya barang untuk dimiliki. Tenggorokannya tercekat menahan tangis.

Uwa Enok masih diam mematung.

Mang Dayat berlalu menjauh.

Uwa Enok berbalik badan dan memeluk Citrik.

Keduanya bertangisan di sisi jalan setapak. Sesaat mereka merasa agak tenang, Uwa Enok mengajak Citrik pulang ke rumah.

“Ayo pulang malu jika ada yang melihat kita sedang bertangisan,” Uwa Enok mengusap air mata Citrik, “Kita pasti akan dapat jalan keluarnya.”

Kalimat terakhir Uwa Enok membuat hati Citrik tenang. Dua perempuan itu pun berjalan menuju ke rumah.

***

Keesokan harinya, pendar matahari lamat-lamat menerobos celah dinding dapur yang terbuat dari bambu. Citrik masih masygul menerima keputusan adat. Hanya dengan memasak pikirannya dapat teralihkan. Wangi dapur ini yang berlantai tanah dengan empat batang kayu pohon hanjuang di setiap sudutnya, seakan menjadi rahim ibu yang memberinya rasa tenteram. Uwa Enok pernah bertutur tentang pohon hanjuang. Batangnya terkenal kuat menopang bangunan. Daunnya berwarna merah dan hijau, melambangkan keseimbangan antara manusia dan alam. Menurutnya, pohon hanjuang adalah lambang perempuan Cihanjuang, yang kuat dan mampu menjaga keseimbangan keluarga. Singgasana perempuan Cihanjuang adalah dapur, tempat dia bertahta, mengolah apa yang diberikan alam menjadi makanan untuk keluarganya. “Kelak dapur dan seluruh isinya ini akan menjadi milikmu, Citrik,” Uwa Enok berkaul.

Tangan Citrik menggeser selot kayu, membuka jendela. Angin pagi yang dingin membuat pipinya yang putih bersemu merah. Kedua matanya menatap langit sejenak. Alis mata yang tebal dan bulu mata yang lentik, membuat Citrik terlihat cantik alami.

Dia teringat saat datang bersama Bapak dari Bandung ke Cihanjuang di bulan Agustus 1949. Cihanjuang, desa kecil di pegunungan Sukabumi adalah tanah kelahiran Bapak dimana Uwa Enok, kakak perempuan satu-satunya, menetap. Bapak menangis di pangkuan Uwa Enok, sambil menceritakan perihal rumah yang dibakar dan Ibu yang dibunuh gerombolan Tentara Islam Indonesia.

Saat itu, usia Citrik masih lima tahun. Kejadiannya terjadi begitu cepat. Malam itu dia terbangun sudah berada di gendongan Bapak. Pandangannya kabur tertutup asap, napasnya sesak oleh udara yang terasa panas sampai ke dada. Bapak berusaha keluar dari rumah, berlomba dengan jilatan api yang berasal dari rumah-rumah lainnya. Orang-orang berlarian, suara jeritan dan tangisan terdengar dimana-mana. Bapak dan Citrik menanti Ibu keluar dari rumah untuk mengajaknya berlari menjauhi kampung. Namun sayang, Ibu tidak pernah keluar dari rumah.

Bapak sering bercerita tentang dendamnya pada gerombolan yang membuat Ibu mati. “Kartosoewirjo, pemimpin gerombolan itu tidak puas dengan kemerdekaan Indonesia yang masih dibayang-bayangi Belanda,” kata Bapak berapi-api, “Dia memaksa Jawa Barat menjadi Negara Islam Indonesia.”

Menurut Bapak, gerombolan itu bergerilya di hutan-hutan untuk mempertahankan diri dari kejaran TNI-AD. Mereka membutuhkan persediaan makanan yang banyak. Biasanya, saat tentara Indonesia tahu bahwa gerombolan akan mendatangi kampung untuk mencari bahan makanan, mereka akan meminta warga kampung mengungsi. Gerombolan itu mengharuskan setiap rumah menyediakan beras atau bahan makanan di teras rumah. Jika tidak disediakan maka mereka akan merusak atau membakar rumah tersebut.

“Malam itu gerombolan Tentara Islam Indonesia di Tasikmalaya menyerang markas TNI-AD disana sehingga TNI-AD di wilayah Kabupaten Bandung harus berpindah tugas ke sana. Tidak ada yang tahu bahwa gerombolan itu akan datang ke kampung kita,” ujar Bapak pilu.

Sejak itu, setelah sekian tahun tinggal di Kabupaten Bandung bersama Ibu dan Citrik, Bapak kembali tinggal di Cihanjuang, kampung kelahirannya. Hari-hari Bapak hanya diisi dengan meratapi kematian Ibu. Sampai akhirnya Bapak mulai sering berbicara sendiri dan julukan orang gila melekat pada dirinya.

Tak sampai dua tahun sejak Citrik tinggal di Cihanjuang, pada suatu subuh Uwa Enok menemukan tubuh Bapak sudah kaku. Ajal menjemput Bapak di kala tidur. Kedukaan yang menimpa Citrik, membuatnya tumbuh menjadi gadis pendiam, yang jarang bergaul dengan anak-anak sebayanya.

***

Jemari Citrik yang lentik mengambil tiga batang kayu bakar, memasukkan satu per satu ke lubang hawu. Citrik menempelkan bibirnya yang tipis pada sepotong bambu pendek lalu meniupkan udara ke arah bara sampai menjadi api. Tiba-tiba dia tersadar belum melihat Uwa Enok sejak fajar.

Walaupun Uwa Enok terkenal jarang berbicara, Citrik selalu merasa lebih tenang jika berada di dekatnya. Uwa Enok adalah pengganti orang tuanya.

Citrik mengangkat langseng, alat untuk memasak air dan mengukus makanan, dan meletakkannya di atas hawu.  Langseng tembaga berwarna kuning keemasan itu terlihat seperti topi pesulap terbalik. Citrik berpendapat memasak itu memang mirip melakukan pertunjukan sulap.

Uwa Enok lah yang memperkenalkannya pada serunya memasak. Semua orang di Cihanjuang mengakui kepiawaian Uwa Enok memasak, karena masakannya selalu mendapat pujian dari sesepuh adat. Kata Uwa Enok, kemampuan memasak penting bagi perempuan Cihanjuang, tidak saja karena nikmatnya masakan akan membuat keluarga bahagia, tapi juga sebagai bentuk syukur atas apa yang kita dapatkan dari alam.

Saat masih tinggal bersama orangtuanya, Citrik membayangkan dia akan bersekolah seperti anak-anak lain. Namun bayangan itu pupus, karena di Cihanjuang belum ada sekolah. Anak-anak di Cihanjuang belajar dari alam.  Mereka belajar makna kesabaran dan keuletan melalui bertani.

“Alam adalah guru terbaik bagi manusia,” demikian wejangan Uwa Enok saat mengajarkan tentang ngahuma, menanam padi di ladang dengan cara tumpang sari. Padi ditanam bersama tanaman jagung dan pisang yang sudah ditanam terlebih dulu, sehingga tanah menjadi subur dan panen melimpah. Adat ngahuma ini adalah aturan yang tidak boleh dilanggar, supaya manusia tidak lupa dari mana dia berasal dan menghormati alam yang telah memberinya kehidupan.

Suara ketukan keras diikuti bunyi pintu dapur yang didorong kasar menyadarkan Citrik dari lamunannya. Dia membalikkan badan.

Terlihat Bi Nenden berjalan cepat menghampirinya. Istri dari Mang Dayat itu terlihat marah, tidak seperti biasanya. “Kamu pikir bisa memiliki suamiku karena kamu lebih muda?” Bi Nenden berteriak.

Citrik kaget merengket ketakutan.

“Perempuan tidak tahu malu!” Tangan Bi Nenden mendorong lengan Citrik dengan keras.

“Nenden!” Sebuah suara keras terdengar dari arah luar. Uwa Enok berjalan mendekat.

Saur kudu dibubut!” Uwa Enok mengingatkan falsafah adat untuk berbicara dengan hati-hati. “Ini rumahku. Kamu harus menghormatinya!” Uwa Enok berdiri di depan Citrik dengan sikap melindungi. Bibirnya bergerak merapalkan sesuatu. Tiba-tiba udara dapur terasa lembab. “Aku pun tak sudi Citrik menjadi istri kedua suamimu,” kata Uwa Enok tegas.

Semburat marah di mata Bi Nenden perlahan berubah menjadi tatapan kosong dan dia pun menangis tersedu-sedu. “Hampura, mohon maaf, Bi Nenden merajuk sambil berjongkok. “Kamu tahu bagaimana aku sudah lelah menghadapi suamiku yang buta oleh nafsu.”

“Dari mana suamimu belajar ilmu sirep?” Uwa Enok bertanya dengan nada memaksa. Pandangannya menyelidik menatap mata Bi Nenden yang langsung terlihat gugup.

“Dia belajar kepada seseorang dari selatan Pulau Jawa.” Bi Nenden menjawab lemah. “Ilmu itu menghancurkan suamiku.” Bi Nenden terisak.

Uwa Enok mengambil gelas dari rak bambu, mengisinya dengan air dari kendi, lalu meniup gelas itu sebelum disodorkan kepada Bi Nenden yang langsung meminumnya habis.

Uwa Enok berjongkok sejajar dengan Bi Nenden dan berbisik dengan suara lirih, “Mari kita ke mata air untuk minta petunjuk dari Nyi Mas Hanjuang.” Mata air Nyi Mas Hanjuang adalah tempat sakral yang berada di balik bukit. Uwa Enok sering berdoa di sana.

Kedua perempuan itu perlahan bangun dari jongkok. Uwa Enok menatap mata Bi Nenden lalu mengangguk dan menggerakkan kepalanya ke samping sebagai ajakan untuk berangkat. Mereka berjalan keluar dari dapur.

Jantung Citrik berdegup kencang saat dia memandang punggung kedua perempuan yang terlihat menjauh itu.

***

Hari sudah gelap, tapi Uwa Enok tak kunjung pulang sejak berangkat ke mata air Nyi Mas Hanjuang bersama Bi Nenden. Walaupun Citrik tahu Uwa Enok sudah biasa pergi ke mata air, hati Citrik tetap khawatir. Apakah Uwa Enok sudah makan? tanyanya dalam hati. Dia memandang lauk ulukutek leunca yang dimasaknya tadi pagi masakan kesukaan Uwa Enok yang terbuat dari oncom, campuran peragian tempe dengan leunca, jenis sayuran lalapan yang banyak tumbuh di daerah Jawa Barat. Citrik menunggu Uwa Enok sambil bergolek di pembaringan. Tidak berkuasa untuk tetap terjaga, akhirnya gadis itu pun terlelap.

***

Di tengah malam Citrik masih terlelap di pembaringan. Sinar lampu cempor membuat bayangan lekuk pinggulnya tampak di dinding. Suara tokek yang keras membuat Citrik terjaga dari tidurnya. Gadis itu mencari tubuh Uwa Enok di sebelahnya, tetapi hanya ada dirinya di pembaringan. Uwa Enok kenapa masih belum kunjung datang?  Citrik mengkhawatirkan Uwa Enok yang harus berjalan jauh ke mata air Nyi Mas Hanjuang.

Citrik teringat saat pertama kali berdoa di mata air Nyi Mas Hanjuang tahun lalu. Saat itu Citrik baru saja selesai mendapat haid yang pertama, dan Uwa Enok mengutarakan padanya bahwa sudah waktunya Citrik belajar doa khusus karena sudah menjadi perempuan dewasa. Perjalanan ke mata air Nyi Mas Hanjuang harus melewati hutan larangan. Hutan yang membentang di punggung bukit ini adalah wilayah sakral yang dilindungi oleh adat. Peraturan adat melarang wilayah hutan larangan digunakan untuk bercocok tanam, apalagi memotong pohonnya tanpa ijin dari sesepuh adat. “Tidak boleh pakai alas kaki dan tidak boleh bicara sepatah kata pun.” Uwa Enok menjelaskan adab sebelum melewati hutan larangan.

Malam itu, suara jangkrik yang riuh berirama menemani perjalanan dua orang perempuan, melalui hutan larangan.  Citrik berjalan di belakang Uwa Enok yang memegang obor. Citrik teringat rasa dingin di telapak kakinya saat menapaki tanah yang lembab. Baju hangat dan kain kebaya tebal tidak mampu menahan angin gunung yang menusuk sampai tulang. Saat itu, sebenarnya dia sudah lelah dan kedinginan, tapi mengadu pada Uwa Enok hanya akan membuat perempuan tua itu gusar. Citrik sudah hapal tabiat Uwa Enok. Jika keinginannya tidak terpenuhi pasti akan marah, berbeda dengan sifat dirinya yang selalu mengalah.

Air terjun Nyi Mas Hanjuang adalah sebuah bengkahan kecil di antara tebing. Mereka tiba di sana hampir tengah malam. Cahaya obor menunjukkan bebatuan besar di sekitarnya. Citrik mendengar suara air yang keras, menunjukkan air terjun ini deras dan letaknya cukup tinggi.

Uwa Enok menjura dan duduk di atas batu, diikuti oleh Citrik.

Tetap tanpa suara, Citrik langsung mengambil sesajen dari kain gendongan. Baskom berukuran kecil berisi satu ekor ayam panggang, sebuah kelapa muda dan bunga kenanga segenggam tertata rapi di atas batu.

Uwa Enok membakar dupa. Lalu kedua perempuan itu duduk bersila, mulai berdoa. Hanya terdengar derasnya suara air terjun, Citrik semakin tenggelam dalam semedinya. Wajah dan tubuhnya basah terkena cipratan air yang memandikannya. Rasa dingin di tubuhnya berangsur-angsur menjadi biasa. Wangi dupa memenuhi relung hidung dan mengantarkan pikiran Citrik melayang, mengapung, membubung bersama mantra yang mengalir dari bibirnya.

“Aku terima yang kau berikan” sebuah suara wanita yang lembut tiba-tiba terdengar di antara rapalan mantra. Nadanya jelas dan terdengar bersahaja. Suara itu bukan masuk ke telinga Citrik, lebih tepat terdengar di dalam kepalanya.

“Saya sudah melengkapi seluruh syarat yang Nyi Mas minta,” suara Uwa Enok, masih terdengar di dalam kepala Citrik.

“Ada di tanganmu,” suara lembut itu terdengar lagi.

Uwa Enok mengatupkan kedua telapak tangannya di atas kepala untuk beberapa saat, lalu menariknya ke pangkuan dengan gerakan cepat. Sesaat dibukanya kedua telapak tangan, terlihat besi tipis dan kecil berwarna emas kehitaman sepanjang telapak tangan. Uwa Enok kembali menjura dan mengucapkan rasa terima kasih.

“Keris ini adalah titipan yang harus kau jaga” suara lembut itu kembali terdengar, “Gunakanlah untuk menjaga keselarasan antara manusia dan alam.”

Uwa Enok kembali mengucapkan terima kasih lalu menyentuh lengan Citrik mengajak pamit pulang. Mereka berjalan menjauh dari mata air. Perjalanan pulang tidak seberat saat berangkat, terasa lebih cepat berlalu. Mereka tiba di kampung saat subuh mulai menyentuh punggung Gunung Cimentang.

Citrik melamun sambil rebahan di pembaringan. Lamunannya mengantarkan kantuknya kembali menyerang. Gadis itu pun kembali tertidur pulas.

***

Kabut subuh masih menyelimuti kampung Cihanjuang, ketika Uwa Enok membuka pintu dapur. Perempuan tua itu masuk dengan gerakan perlahan. Buliran keringat terlihat di dahinya, dia nampak kelelahan namun bibirnya tersenyum saat memandang Citrik yang terlelap di atas dipan bambu. Uwa Enok menarik selimut yang tergulung di kaki Citrik, dan menyelimuti tubuh gadis itu. Diusapnya kepala Citrik perlahan, sebelum merebahkan dirinya untuk beristirahat.

***

Saat malam Jumat Kliwon, malam Jumat yang dikenal keramat oleh penghuni Dessa Cihanjuang, Citrik menyiapkan sesajen di dapur seperti biasanya. Empat butir telur rebus, segelas kopi pahit, lima kuncup bunga mawar, segenggam bunga kenanga, satu butir kelapa hijau, dan satu sisir pisang mas. Sesajen disimpan di pojok ruangan bersisian dengan hawu. Uwa Enok yang mulai membakar dupa, merogoh isi kutang dan mengambil kain putih yang membungkus Keris Nyi Mas Hanjuang. Perlahan Uwa Enok menempatkan keris itu di antara sesajen setelah melepaskan kain pembungkusnya.  

Harum dupa mengisi dapur sampai ke langit-langit. Asap dupa dan hawu bersatu. Citrik duduk bersila di sebelah Uwa Enok. Keduanya menjura ke arah sesajen lalu menempatkan kedua telapak tangan di atas tungkai.

Uwa Enok mulai membaca mantra dengan suara lirih.

Hanjuang beureum hejo.  Hanjuang berwarna merah hijau.

Hanjuang nu ngaleupaskeun. Membebaskan simpul yang tercengkeram. 

Ti kiwa tengen luhung mancur. Hanjuang pembawa ilmu. 

Poek mongkleng sateuacan isuk. Di gelap gulita sebelum pagi.

Mantranya berbeda dari yang biasa kita baca setiap malam Jumat ya, Uwa?” tanya Citrik

“Perintah Nyi Mas Hanjuang.” Uwa Enok menjawab tanpa memandang wajah Citrik.

Melihat bahasa tubuh Uwa Enok, Citrik enggan bertanya lebih lanjut. Dia pun memejamkan mata dan mulai mengikuti rapalan mantra Uwa Enok. Beberapa saat kemudian, udara di dapur terasa lebih panas. Citrik melayang, mengapung, membubung bersama mantra yang mengalir dari bibirnya. Malam semakin tua, kabut dingin menyelimuti Cihanjuang, dan wangi kenanga ajek di dapur sepanjang malam.

***

Matahari dari balik Gunung Cimentang mulai beranjak naik. Citrik terlihat cantik menggunakan kebaya putih dan sarung berwarna hijau. Dia menunggu Uwa Enok menyiapkan dirinya untuk hadir di acara adat.

Tirai kamar tersibak dan Uwa Enok melangkah keluar. Wangi kenanga kembali menelusup ceruk hidung. Dia mengenakan kebaya putih yang biasanya, tetapi dia terlihat berbeda. Uwa Enok terlihat sangat anggun. Rambutnya disanggul cepol ke atas. Walaupun kulitnya telah keriput, tetapi terlihat bersinar. Uwa Enok tersenyum dan mengajak Citrik mengikutinya.

Citrik berjalan di belakang Uwa Enok, sesekali mencoba bersisian agar dapat mengintip wajah Uwa Enok. Citrik memeluk baskom berisi kue apem di dadanya, risau terjatuh.

Di Bale Saresehan sudah banyak warga yang datang untuk berdoa. Semua mata memandang Uwa Enok yang melangkah masuk. Dagunya terangkat, cepolnya yang tinggi membuat tulang pipinya menonjol.

Di ujung ruangan, terlihat kain batik dengan corak daun berwarna hijau dan merah, menutupi tubuh manusia beralaskan tikar pandan. Tadi pagi, panitren memukul kentongan dan mengabarkan kematian Mang Dayat kepada warga. Mang Dayat ditemukan meninggal saat tidur. Tubuhnya sudah kaku kala subuh menyentuh bumi.

Bi Nenden terlihat duduk menunduk di dekat jenazah.

Citrik menempatkan baskom yang dia pegang bersama kumpulan sesajen di dekat jenazah, lalu duduk di sebelah Uwa Enok. Wangi pandan di sekitar jenazah terpintal bersama harum kenanga dari tubuh Uwa Enok. Nada karinding melambat. Sebentar lagi acara doa kematian akan dimulai. Citrik melirik ke arah Uwa Enok.

Mata Uwa Enok memandang ke arah Bi Nenden.

Perlahan kepala Bi Nenden terangkat dan keduanya saling menatap.

Uwa Enok pun mengangguk lamban.

Sekelebat, Citrik melihat ada segaris senyum tipis di wajah kedua perempuan itu. Citrik tertegun. Daun-daun pohon hanjuang di sekitar Bale Saresehan berlenggok tertiup angin. Kematian selalu mengundang pilu, tapi kali ini tidak.

 

*****

 

The Sacred Waterfall

Pada tahun 2005 Umar Thamrin menerima beasiswa Fulbright Grant dan Catherine and William L. Magistretti Graduate Fellowship untuk menyelesaikan pendidikan pascasarjana di Amerika Serikat. Sebelum kembali ke tanah air pada penghujung 2017, dia menerima tawaran dari University of Oregon untuk menjadi peneliti dan pengajar selama setahun.

Saat kembali ke tanah air, dia prihatin melihat rakyat yang tetap saja terpinggirkan dan sejarah yang begitu mudah terlupakan. Inilah yang mendorongnya untuk merenung, mengenang, dan menulis. Umar sekarang mengajar linguistik pada Universitas Islam Negeri Alauddin.

Dia dapat dihubungi melalui surel: umar2x.umar@gmail.com

 

The Sacred Waterfall

 

The reverberating tones of a bamboo karinding, mingled with the sighs of the cold night wind. As was custom, the Sudanese mouth harp was played during a meeting of the village elders. With the karinding placed between his lips, the player tapped the end of the instrument with his fingers to create the thin vibrations that added to the tension in the Bale Sarasehan.

At the end of the meeting, a village elder rushed from the civic center to Uwa Enok’s open kitchen window. “It’s confirmed!” cried the panitren to the old maid. “Citrik will marry Dayat!” Panting, he hurried away.

Seated on a bench inside the open kitchen window, Uwa Enok covered her face with both hands and wept, trying to make sense of what the panitren’s announcement meant for her niece.

Thirteen-year-old Citrik huddled near the hawu. The kitchen’s clay stove warmed her. The pepes — roasted mushrooms wrapped in banana leaves — she had eaten at dinner weren’t settling well in her stomach. Now, hearing the panitren’s words, she shivered, picturing the middle-aged man she’d always addressed as uncle becoming her husband.
Dayat and his wife, Bi Nenden, were childless. The couple were complete opposites. Dayat was talkative; Bi Nenden was quiet. The women in the village gossiped about Dayat’s affair with a woman who lived outside of Cihanjuang, a small village near Sukabumi in West Java. Some of them blamed Bi Nenden’s infertility for Dayat’s infidelity.
Why do I have to be the one who gives him children? Disgusted, Citrik nestled her slender body into her sarong and buried her face in her arms. She thought about the incident with Dayat that had happened a few days ago. Remembering the old man’s breath on her arm, Citrik shuddered.

***

That day, she and Uwa Enok had been walking home after doing laundry and bathing in the river. Citrik’s sarong was wrapped tightly around her body; her wet black hair fell loosely over her damp shoulders.

Unexpectedly Dayat had emerged from behind the treeline and blocked their passage. Leaning into Citrik, he teased, “My, my, don’t you smell nice!”

Startled, Citrik ducked behind Uwa Enok.

“What do you want, Dayat?” Uwa Enok had snapped.

“I want to marry your niece.” Mang Dayat chuckled. The cloying smell of his pomade completely smothered Citrik’s and Uwa Enok’s clean fragrance. The old man stroked his mustache and peered into Citrik’s pale face. His greedy gaze slid down her slender neck, landing briefly on her white shoulders, and — eyes widening — settled on the curves of Citrik’s hips swaddled in the wet sarong.

“Don’t be vulgar!” Uwa Enok screamed, furiously.

Mang Dayat ignored Uwa Enok and continued leering at Citrik. “I’ll build the most beautiful house in Cihanjuang for you, Citrik. I can give you everything you want with the money I make in my cattle business.”

Citrik remained silent behind her aunt, pressing her full basket of freshly-washed clothes against her trembling body.

Uwa Enok raised her chin and glared at Dayat. “Citrik will inherit my house,” she hissed through pressed lips.

Dayat laughed. “An old house from an old maid is not suitable for a girl as beautiful as Citrik.”

Fury flushed a dangerous red in Uwa Enok’s face. “Watch your mouth!” she snarled. “I’ll report you to the elders!”

Dayat burst into boisterous laughter. “With my sirep, mantra, I can hypnotize the elders, and, under the spell of my magic, I can make them do anything I say!”

Uwa Enok gasped.

Taking full delight in springing his secret on Uwa Enok, Dayat put his hands on his hips, and snickered, exposing his fat shaking belly, “I’m the law in Cihanjuang! I don’t listen to old maids like you.” Pointing at Citrik, he declared, “She’s mine!”

Citrik’s throat tightened, trying to swallow the terror of being treated as an object that could be owned by another.

Uwa Enok stood rigid until Dayat walked away. Then she turned around and hugged Citrik. In tears, they held one another on the side of the path until they calmed down. Uwa Enok wiped Citrik’s tears. “Let’s go home. People are looking at us,” she said and soothed,

“We’ll find a way out of this problem.”

***

The morning after the village elders’ decision, as the sun crept between the bamboo slats of the kitchen wall, Citrik, still upset, tried to distract herself by preparing breakfast. This kitchen, with the floor’s earthy aroma and the four strong hanjuang tree trunks anchoring each corner, felt as safe as a mother’s womb.

Uwa Enok had told her about the hanjuang tree. Its trunk, widely praised for its strength, was used as building pillars. Its red and green leaves symbolized harmony between mankind and nature. Uwa Enok had also told her that hanjuang trees were like the Cihanjuang women, who had to be strong to maintain unity in their families. Cihanjuang women reigned in the kitchen, where they turned nature’s gifts into sustenance for their families. “This kitchen, and everything in it, will be yours, Citrik.” Uwa Enok had promised her.

Citrik unhooked the wooden latch and pushed the window open. The cold morning breeze brought some color to her pale cheeks. Her thick eyebrows and curled eyelashes added to Citrik’s natural beauty. For a moment, she stared at the sky.

***

Citrick and her father first moved to Cihanjuang from the Bandung Regency in August 1949. Cihanjuang, a small village in the mountains surrounding Sukabumi, West Java, was her father’s home village, where Uwa Enok, his only sister, lived. Her father had wept on Uwa Enok’s lap as he told her about the Islamic Armed Forces of Indonesia setting fire to their village.

Citrik was five years old. It had happened so fast. She remembered waking up in her father’s arms, her vision blurred by the thick smoke. She gasped as the hot air filled her lungs.

Clutching her to his chest, her father raced out of the burning house, with the fire raging around them. Outside was a chaos of panicked people running, screaming, and crying.

Citrik’s mother didn’t make it out of their house.

“That night, a mob from the Islamic Armed Forces in Tasikmalaya attacked the Indonesian Army’s headquarter there,” Citrik’s father told his sister bitterly. “No one expected the mob to attack our village. That mob leader, Sekarmadji Maridjan Kartosoewirjo, wants West Java to become the Islamic State of Indonesia. According to him, the current government is allowing the Dutch to maintain control and therefore he is planning an insurgence.”

When the Indonesian Army came too close, the Islamic Armed Forces mob retreated to the forest. Because the mob needed a large supply of food to survive while hiding in the forest, they demanded that each village household leave rice and other food items on the porch before they abandoned their villages. They destroyed the houses of those who did not comply.

After having lived for so many years in the Bandung Regency with Citrik and her mother, Citrik’s father’s days back in his home village were filled with grieving his wife’s death.

Soon, he began talking to himself, and neighbors started whispering about “the crazy man.” Then, one morning, Uwa Enok found her brother, after living less than two years in Cihanjuang, lying cold on his bed. He had died in his sleep.

Grief made Citrik grow into a quiet, lonely girl.

***

Citrik’s slender fingers placed three sticks of firewood, one by one, into the hawu hole. She pressed her thin lips against a short piece of bamboo and gently blew air onto the coals until they flamed. Citrik wondered where Uwa Enok was that morning. Even though Uwa Enok rarely spoke, Citrik felt safer when her aunt was around.

Citrik lifted the langseng and placed it on the hawu. The large copper pot was used to boil water, but it was also used as a water pan for steaming. The golden yellow pot looked like an upside-down magician’s hat. Cooking, Citrik thought was just like performing a magic show.

It was Uwa Enok who had introduced Citrik to the adventure of cooking. In Cihanjuang, Uwa Enok was known as a skilled cook. The village elders always praised her culinary talent. Uwa Enok said that cooking was an important skill for Cihanjuang women to possess, not only because well-prepared food brought joy to their family, but also because it was an expression of gratitude for nature’s gifts.

Uwa Enok taught Citrik many things. While living in Bandung, Citrik had assumed she would go to school like the other children. But that notion disappeared when she and her father arrived in Cihanjuang, which had no schools.

“Nature is our best teacher,” Uwa Enok had advised Citrik, while showing her ngahuma, farming rice by intercropping. Rice was planted next to corn and bananas to fertilize the soil, resulting in a more abundant harvest. The ngahuma was an important tradition that reminded humans of their humble origins and to respect nature as the source of life. Thus, children in Cihanjuang learned the meaning of patience and courage through farming.

A loud knock on the kitchen door startled Citrik from her daydream. She whirled around as the door flung open with a loud bang.

Bi Nenden rushed in, her placid face contorted with outrage. “You think you can steal my husband because you’re younger?” shouted Mang Dayat’s wife.

Stunned, Citrik began to tremble.

“Shameless bitch!” Bi Nenden grabbed Citrik’s arm and shoved her hard.

“Nenden!” Shouted a voice from outside. Uwa Enok walked through the door. “Saur kudu dibubut!” she said, standing protectively in front of Citrik. “This is my house. You must be respectful!” Uwa Enok’s lips moved, as if chanting silently, and the air in the kitchen turned damp. “I don’t want Citrik to be your husband’s wife, either,” she said.

The fury in Bi Nenden’s eyes dissolved into a blank stare. She started to cry. “Hampura, forgive me,” Bi Nenden moaned as she slumped into a squat on the earthen floor. “If only you knew how tired I am of dealing with a husband who’s blinded by lust.”

“Where did your husband learn hypnotism?” Uwa Enok asked, looking intently at Bi Nenden.

“He learned it from someone in the southern part of Java,” Bi Nenden answered softly between tears. “That knowledge destroyed my husband.”

Uwa Enok took a glass from the bamboo rack and filled it with water from a clay jug. She blew her support on the glass before handing it to Bi Nenden, who emptied it immediately.

Uwa Enok squatted on the floor next to Bi Nenden. “Let’s go to the waterfall to ask Nyi Mas Hanjuang for advice,” she whispered encouragingly. The Nyi Mas Hanjuang waterfall was a sacred place on the other side of a sacred forest on the mountain ridge. Uwa Enok often went there to pray. The old woman looked into Bi Nenden’s eyes, nodded, and tilted her head toward the door. The two women rose and slowly walked out of the kitchen.

Watching the two women’s backs as they walked away, Citrik’s heartbeat quickened.

***

It was already dark, but Uwa Enok and Bi Nenden had not returned home from their visit to the Nyi Mas Hanjuang waterfall. Even though Citrik knew that Uwa Enok was accustomed to visiting the waterfall, she still worried.

Looking at the ulukutek leunca she had cooked earlier that morning, Citrik wondered if Uwa Enok had eaten yet. The traditional Sundanese salad was her aunt’s favorite dish. It was made from oncom, fermented tempeh, and fruit and leaves of leunca, black nightshade, a flowering plant that grew in West Java.

Citrik decided to lie down while waiting for her aunt’s return. Unable to stay awake, the girl finally fell asleep.

***

Midnight came, and Citrik was still fast asleep on her bed. The light of the oil lamp cast a shadow of her curved hip against the wall. A gecko’s deep, throaty call woke Citrik. The girl looked for Uwa Enok next to her, but she was alone on the bed. Why is Uwa Enok not home yet? Citrik grew more worried. It was quite a long walk to the Nyi Mas Hanjuang waterfall.

Citrik thought about another midnight, one year ago, when she had prayed for her first time at the Nyi Mas Hanjuang waterfall. Citrik had just completed her first menstrual cycle, and now that she had become a woman, Uwa Enok told her it was time to learn the special prayers.

To get to the Nyi Mas Hanjuang waterfall, they had to travel through an enchanted forest on a mountain ridge protected by traditional law. The area could not be used for farming, and no trees could be cut without permission from the village elders. “We must walk barefooted, and we are not allowed to speak,” Uwa Enok had explained to Citrik before they entered.

That night, accompanied by the lively chirping of crickets, Uwa Enok and Citrik walked barefoot through the sacred forest. Citrik walked behind Uwa Enok, who carried a torch.

Citrik still remembered how cold her feet were as she stepped across the damp ground. Her warm clothes and heavy kebaya, long-sleeved blouse, had not been enough to protect her from the cold mountain wind that pierced her to the core. But although she was tired and cold, Citrik knew better than to complain. She knew her aunt’s character well. Unlike herself, who was always compliant, Uwa Enok became angry when she didn’t get her way.

It was almost midnight when they arrived at the Nyi Mas Hanjuang waterfall. The water broke out of a steep cliff. The light from Uwa Enok’s torch illuminated the large steep rocks around it. Citrik could hear the roar of cascading water, which told her that the feeder stream was heavy, and the waterfall was high.

Uwa Enok bowed and sat down on a flat rock. Citrik silently unfastened the sarong sling that held their offerings. She took the small bowl filled with a roasted whole chicken, a young coconut, and a handful of cananga flowers, and arranged everything neatly on the rock.

Uwa Enok lit incense. Then, seated cross-legged, they began to pray. The only sound came from the rushing water. Citrik sank deeper into her meditation as the falling water misted her face and body. The scent of the incense filled Citrik’s nostrils. Her thoughts drifted as her mind followed the cadence of the mantra she recited.

“I accept your offering.” A soft female voice interrupted Citrik’s silent chanting. The voice was clear and its tone unassuming.

“I have done everything you asked for.” Citrik heard Uwa Enok’s voice.

“It’s in your hands,” answered the soft female voice.

Uwa Enok clasped her hands above her head. She held them there for a moment before bringing them down to her lap with one swift movement. When she opened her hands, she held a thin piece of metal the length of her palm. Uwa Enok bowed and expressed her gratitude.

“This kris is entrusted to you,” said the soft female voice. “Use it to maintain harmony between humans and their natural environment.”

Uwa Enok again thanked the spirit. She touched Citrik’s arm, motioning that they were leaving. The journey back home was not as laborious as their trip to the waterfall. They arrived at the village as dawn crawled up the back of Mount Cimentang.

Citrik’s mind wandered as she remembered that first visit. Soon, she fell asleep again.

***

The early morning mist still veiled Cihanjuang when Uwa Enok opened the kitchen door. The old woman entered slowly. Perspiration dampened her forehead. Though exhausted, she smiled looking at her niece, fast asleep on the bamboo cot. Uwa Enok pulled up the blanket that had rolled down to Citrik’s feet and covered the girl. She gently stroked Citrik’s head before lying down beside her.

Thursday nights were sacred nights in the Cihanjuang village, and Citrik prepared the offerings in the kitchen as usual. Four boiled eggs, a cup of black coffee, five rose buds, a handful of cananga flowers, a young green coconut, and a hand of lady-finger bananas.

She placed the offerings in the corner of the room next to the hawu.

Uwa Enok lit the incense. She reached inside her camisole and took out the Nyi Mas Hanjuang kris, wrapped in white cloth. She slowly unwrapped the kris and placed it carefully among the other offerings. The scent of incense spiraled up to the kitchen ceiling, its smoke mingling with that of the kitchen fire.

Citrik sat cross-legged next to Uwa Enok. Placing their palms on their thighs, they bowed toward the offerings.

Uwa Enok began to whisper a chant in Sundanese.

Hanjuang beureum héjo,

Hanjuang is red and green,

Hanjuang nu ngaleupaskeun,

Hanjuang frees those in bondage,

Ti kiwa tengen luhung mancur,

Hanjuang brings knowledge,

Poek mongkleng sateuacan isuk,

During the dark hours before the break of dawn.

“Uwa, is the mantra different from the one we usually chant on Thursday nights?” Citrik asked.

“It is the way Nyi Mas Hanjuang ordered it,” Uwa Enok answered, without looking at Citrik.

Sensing that now was not a good time to question her aunt any further, Citrik closed her eyes and began to follow Uwa Enok’s chanting. A few moments later, the temperature in the kitchen rose — it became very hot. As she recited the mantra, Citrik fell under its spell. The night was growing older and a cold fog shrouded Cihanjuang. Throughout the night, the cananga fragrance lingered in the kitchen.

***

The rising sun peeked out from behind Mount Cimentang. Citrik looked beautiful, dressed in a white kebaya and green sarong. She waited for Uwa Enok to get ready.

The room’s door curtain parted, and the fragrance of cananga filled Citrik’s nostrils again. Uwa Enok wore her usual white kebaya, but she looked different — she looked elegant. Her hair was tied in a bun on top of her head, and her wrinkled skin was radiant. Uwa Enok smiled and asked Citrik to follow her.

Carrying a bowl of apem, steamed cakes made of palm sugar and rice flour, Citrik walked behind Uwa Enok. Worried that she would drop the bowl, Citrik held it tightly against her chest. Every so often, Citrik moved next to Uwa Enok to glance at the older woman’s face.

At the Bale Saresehan, many people had already arrived to pray. All eyes were on Uwa Enok as she entered the hall with her chin raised. Her high bun accentuated her cheekbones.

At the end of the hall, a batik cloth patterned with green and red leaves covered a body lying on a pandan mat. Earlier that morning, a village elder had beaten the bamboo drum and announced Mang Dayat’s death to the villagers. Mang Dayat had died in his sleep. His body was already stiff when the first light of dawn broke through the horizon.

Bi Nenden sat next to the body, staring at the floor.

Citrik placed the bowl of cakes with the other offerings near the shrouded body, then sat down next to Uwa Enok. The pandan’s fragrance mixed with the cananga scent from Uwa Enok’s skin. The karinding music tapered off. Soon, the funeral prayer would begin. Citrik glanced at Uwa Enok.

Uwa Enok was looking at Bi Nenden.

Bi Nenden raised her head slowly, and the two women looked at each other.

Uwa Enok nodded briefly.

Stunned, Citrik saw the two women exchange faint smiles.

The foliage of the hanjuang trees around the Bale Saresehan swayed in the wind.

Death usually invites grief and mourning — but not this time.

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

.

Jejak

Wina Bojonegoro, penerima Anugerah Sabda Budaya Sastra 2018 dari Universitas Brawijaya, Penghargaan Beritajaim.com 2021. Menulis cerpen sejak 1988 ditayangkan di berbagai media nasional.

Karyanya juga terbit di puluhan buku antologi. Pada bulan Maret 2021, dia mendirikan Perempuan Penulis Padma untuk menampung para penulis lulusan sekolah menulis Padmedia, dan penulis perempuan lainnya. Lembaga itu telah berbadan hukum dan saat ini memiliki 83 anggota. Wina tinggal di Omah Padma – di Pasuruan. Dia dapat dihubungi melalui surel : wina.bojonegoro@gmail.com dan tentang dia dapat disimak di www.winabojonegoro.com

 

Jejak

 

Lelaki yang rambutnya memutih itu duduk di teras samping rumahnya, menatap pohon mangga lalijiwo yang tengah menunggu musim panen tiba. Seharusnya Wibowo bahagia, seperti musim-musim sebelumnya. Tetapi kali ini, ada sesuatu yang meruyak pikirannya.

“Aku telah gagal,” gumamnya seraya menghela napas panjang seolah dia hendak membuang segenap benih kekacauan.

“Kita tidak gagal.” Suara istrinya menelikung dari arah samping, melalui kembara hening yang menggenggam sore itu. “Dia berhasil menyelesaikan pendidikan strata dua di Jerman dengan beasiswa. Sekarang telah bekerja sebagai peneliti pada lembaga besar dengan gaji yang bagus. Kita tidak sia-sia mendidiknya.”

Wibowo menoleh ke samping. Di kursi yang sejajar dengan dirinya duduk Respati Rahayu, yang telah dinikahi lebih dari tiga puluh lima tahun. Selama ini perempuan itulah yang mendukungnya untuk menentukan apapun. Pilihan hidup, membangun rumah, bahkan memilih calon menantu di antara sekian lelaki yang disodorkan anak semata wayang mereka.

“Kurasa kita selama ini sepakat, bahwa keberhasilan orang tua dalam mendidik anak bukan sekedar ditandai pada pendidikan tinggi.” Wibowo ingin berpidato panjang lebar, tetapi melihat isterinya menyuguhkan teh serai kesukaannya, dia menelan ludah, lalu membuang nafas lagi. Direguknya teh serai wangi yang selalu menjadi teman mereka berbincang di sore hari. Irisan jahe dalam campuran serai menerbitkan pedas hangat di tenggorokannya. Kosarasa yang selalu dikenang saat mereka berjauhan, teh serai dengan irisan jahe buatan Respati Rahayu.

“Sementara orang lain tidak tahu harus bagaimana menangani pendidikan anaknya, kita berhasil menanamkan nilai, bahwa sekolah dengan beasiswa itu sebuah kehormatan.” Sang istri memulai lagi. “Kita tak perlu menyuap agar anak kita mendapatkan pendidikan baik. Mulai SD sampai S2 dia selalu masuk sekolah terbaik. Palupi tumbuh menjadi anak mandiri, tanpa merepotkan kita. Ini pencapaian kita sebagai orang tua.”

“Keberhasilan orang tua, yang paling penting adalah menanamkan nilai-nilai kebangsaan,” ujar Wibowo sembari menggenggamkan tangan. “Pendidikan memang sangat penting; tetapi menanamkan nilai kebangsaan, itulah dasar dari semua sikap dan perilaku.”

Respati Rahayu menoleh kepada suaminya dengan mata memicing. “Jadi anak kita tidak punya wawasan kebangsaan?” Suaranya meninggi. “Kurang apa? Dia hapal pancasila. Punya bendera di lemari yang siap dikibarkan kapan saja, hapal lagu Indonesia Raya.” Mata Respati yang biasanya lembut, kali ini terlihat nyalang. “Malah kita punya seperangkat gamelan yang masih dimainkan. Kita menggunakan bahasa Jawa dan bahasa negara dalam perbincangan sehari-hari. Anak kita juga….”

“Bagaimana bisa kamu bilang anakmu itu berkebangsaan?” Wibowo menyela. “Mencari nama buat calon anaknya saja impor. Apa tidak ada nama Indonesia atau Jawa yang indah dan gagah?” wajah Wibowo yang sudah tegang sejak semula, menjadi kian kencang. Lelaki Jawa yang bersikeras membangun joglo di bagian depan rumah induk itu terlihat sangat masgul.

Nama Wibowo Besari yang disandangnya adalah pesan leluhur yang berarti: lelaki berwibawa, digdaya tanpa menyakiti, besar tetapi tidak jumawa, mengayomi tanpa merendahkan. Nama itu serupa titah sang romo yang pernah menjabat sebagai camat di kawasan Tejowangi ini.

Wong Jowo ojo nganti ilang Jawane. Jadi orang Jawa jangan sampai hilang jati dirinya.” Ucapan ayah Wibowo Besari itu, dijadikan pegangan dalam menjalani hidup. Sebab demikianlah takdir telah disematkan atas dirinya sebagai wong Jowo, maka dibuatlah rumah joglo, pendopo seni, sebagai ciri kejawaan dan membeli seperangkat gamelan slendro dan pelog. Lalu, dia mengajak para tetangga memainkannya. Sesekali jika rejeki membaik, keluarga ini mengundang tetangga untuk kenduri di rumah joglo itu. Nasi tumpeng dengan ayam ingkung, ayam panggang dalam keseluruhannya, menjadi hidangan wajib yang disuguhkan.

***

Terngiang di kotak ingatan Respati perselisihan lama antara dirinya dan sang suami. “Palupi Retnaningrum Hapsari itu kepanjangan. Cukup dua nama seperti kita. Wibowo Besari. Respati Rahayu.” Keluh Respati sembari mengelus perutnya yang membuncit.

“Diajeng tahu artinya tiga nama itu?” Tanya Wibowo muda dengan senyum menggoda.

“Ya tahulah. ‘Palupi’ artinya teladan. ‘Hapsari’ artinya permata yang bersinar. Sek sek… ‘Retnaningrum’ artinya apa ya Mas?”

“Retnaningrum artinya kepribadian yang luwes dan welas asih. Jadi harapanku anak ini kelak menjadi pribadi yang welas asih, berhati mulia, menjadi teladan bagi orang-orang di sekelilingnya.” Sepasang mata Wibowo muda berkilau.

“Itu kalau anak kita perempuan. Lha, kalau lelaki?” Respati melirik tajam ke arah suaminya.

“Dia akan kuberi nama Jagad Reksaning Bawono. Tetapi kata bu bidan, anak kita perempuan.” Wibowo tersenyum lebar, tanda kemenangan.

Saat itulah Respati paham bahwa nama dalam tatanan kemasyarakatan Jawa memiliki aturan tak tertulis. Satu nama menandakan keluarga itu dari golongan petani atau pekerja tingkat bawah. Dua nama biasa digunakan dalam keluarga pegawai pemerintahan, guru atau pedagang. Tiga nama lazim digunakan keluarga ningrat atau pejabat tinggi. Namun, saat ini penggolongan itu tidak lagi menjadi pakem. Meski begitu, Wibowo memiliki pendirian: menggunakan nama Jawa pada anak cucunya adalah wajib, agar darah yang mengalir di tubuh mereka terpantulkan dari nama yang disematkan.

***

Kabar saat Palupi mengandung anak pertama, tentu menjadi sebuah cahaya bagi pasangan yang terlambat memiliki cucu. Hasil pemeriksaan USG mengabarkan anak dalam kandungan Palupi adalah perempuan. Wibowo mulai menderas nama berminggu-minggu, hingga suatu hari dia tampak tersenyum simpul di rumah joglo.

“Aku telah menemukan nama yang tepat buat cucu kita,” katanya pada Respati yang menyusul duduk di kursi rotan jengki. “Maharani Mahisa Suramardini.” Dengan pengucapan patah-patah dan suara didengung-dengungkan, Wibowo mengucapkan nama itu disertai wajah puas.

Respati mendelik.

“Kenapa? Hebat kan?” tanya sang suami.

Respati menggeleng. “Orang Jawa kalau keberatan nama bisa sakit-sakitan.”

“Tunggu dulu.” Wibowo melanjutkan dengan mata berbinar-binar, “Maharani Mahisa Suramardini adalah gelar Ratu Sima, raja Kalingga yang masyhur. Dia bukan saja ratu yang adil dan bisa menerima perbedaan agama, namun juga cantik jelita. Budi pekertinya luhur, sehingga dicintai kaum jelata, disegani golongan kelas atas.”

“Tapi kita ini bukan golongan atasan, Pak. Apalagi trah raja atau ratu. Kita cuma pensiunan pegawai negeri. Kebetulan saja mertuaku pensiunan camat. Masa iya memberi nama cucu seberat itu?” tangkis Respati dengan pikiran ruwet. Setelah diam sejenak, dia berkata, “Mengeja namanya saja susah. Bagiku nama Ningsih, Endang, Wati, itu jauh lebih mudah dan indah.”

Wibowo tersenyum lebar, “Sudah kurenungkan berminggu-minggu. Kucarikan padanan dan perbandingan, lihat itu di buku catatanku. Ada berapa ratus nama dengan artinya?” Wibowo meraih buku catatan bersampul biru di atas meja kecil, mengacungkannya pada Respati sambil berkata, “Ini perjuangan tak mudah untuk menemukan nama yang tepat buat cucu pertama kita. Sebagai kakek, aku ingin turut andil dalam melestarikan nama, tanda kecintaan kita pada leluhur.”

Respati hanya bisa mengangkat pundak. Darahnya pun Jawa tulen, seluruh urutan garis leluhurnya adalah Jawa. Namun dalam melakoninya sehari-hari, suaminya jauh lebih Jawa dari dirinya.

Wibowo memegang teguh falsafah Memayu Hayuning Bawana yang memiliki makna menjunjung tinggi kemanfaatan diri bagi dunia dan isinya. Barang siapa berbuat kebaikan, dia akan selamat dunia akhirat. Salah satu wujudnya adalah, menolak pagar beton atau besi. Dia menggantinya dengan pagar pohon beluntas, yang ditanam rapat mengelilingi batas halaman sebagai kesadaran hidup bertetangga yang saling menghidupi. Beluntas itu menjadi sayuran yang boleh diambil siapa saja sebagai bahan urap-urap atau pecel.

Merasa telah menemukan wangsit nan jitu, Wibowo menelpon Palupi dengan gegap gempita. “Maharani Mahisa Suramardini. Ini nama yang luar biasa, Ndhuk. Jejak kita sebagai wong Jowo akan terekam dalam nama anakmu. Kelak ketika dia dewasa, orang-orang luar sana akan mengenal anakmu sebagai orang Jawa. Jangan lupa, jika ada yang bertanya, kakeknya yang memberi nama!” calon kakek itu tertawa riang.

“Romo…,” suara Palupi mengandung keengganan, dari nadanya dia terdengar ingin melawan.

“Bagaimana? Bagus kan nama pilihan Romo?” Nada bangga Wibowo masih tergambar.

“Tapi Romo, maaf, kami telah menemukan nama buat bayi kami.”

Jawaban Palupi itu seketika mencegah Wibowo untuk berkata selanjutnya. Raut wajahnya mendadak kaku dan pasi. Dia menatap istrinya, yang juga tengah menatapnya.

Kekecewaan mewarnai mata sang calon kakek.

“Lalu siapa nama yang akan kau berikan pada anakmu?” Respati tampak mencoba mencairkan ketegangan yang mendadak hadir di antara dua pihak.

“Alexa Caroline Andromeda,” jawab Palupi kembali riang, seakan dia telah menemukan gugusan bintang di langit yang mudah diraih dengan kedua lengannya.

“Artinya?” tanya sang ibu lagi.

“Alexa itu bahasa Yunani, artinya perempuan pembela manusia. Caroline artinya tangguh dan mengagumkan. Andromeda adalah nama gugusan bintang di alam semesta yang sangat luas, jauh lebih besar dari Bimasakti.”

“Kenapa harus pakai bahasa Yunani? Tidak adakah nama asli Indonesia atau Jawa yang cukup memadai sebagai pengganti anak perempuan hebat?” Sesungguhnya ini kalimat Wibowo. Respati mencoba mengutipnya.

“Anu Bu, sudah terlanjur.” Suara Palupi terdengar gamang.

“Terlanjur bagaimana? Wong anak belum lahir kok.” Sekarang Respati yang mulai merasa masgul. Dia tak ingin anaknya salah menyikapi bayinya, sesuatu yang sangat dilarang dalam budaya Jawa.

“Sudah memesan pakaian bayi, keranjang tidur, dan lukisan dinding kamar tidur dengan nama itu.” Nada suaranya menurun, seakan menyesal telah menyampaikan.

“Kamu kok lancang tho, Nduk?” Wibowo menyela. “Kamu jangan nggege mongso – mendahului kehendak Tuhan. Jangan membeli perlengkapan bayi sebelum upacara tingkeban yang diadakan saat kandungan berusia tujuh bulan agar kamu dan bayimu sehat dan persalinannya lancar. Keheningan hadir setelah kalimat itu terlontar.

“Palupi, kamu tahu kenapa huruf ha na ca ra ka itu nyaris lenyap?” tiba-tiba sang ayah mendesak.

Palupi terdiam.

Respati membasuh wajah dengan kedua tangan, menyadari kegentingan akan panjang.

“Sepertinya anak-anak muda sudah tidak ngajeni leluhurnya.” Wibowo berhenti sejenak, kemudian melanjutkan dengan suara meninggi, “Kenapa nama saja harus impor? Nama seharusnya digunakan untuk menjaga nilai kedirian, agar anak-anak muda tak lupa akar leluhurnya.” Wibowo menunggu tanggapan Palupi. Ketika tidak juga muncul, dia menyerang, “Mestinya kalian malu sama orang Jepang. Mereka maju. Mengikuti jaman, tetapi perilakunya tetap Jepang. Budaya mereka abadi. Hurup kanji dipakai sampai sekarang.” Wibowo berhenti terengah-engah sebelum menyambung dengan tegas, “Nama mereka pun tetap Jepang.”

Palupi tetap membeku.

Dengan berusaha menerobos keheningan, Wibowo mengakhiri dengan berteriak, “Kamu apa? Jawa? Indonesia? Bule bangsa apa?”

***

Sejak hari itu, Wibowo enggan berbicara dengan Palupi, anak perempuan yang dulu sangat dipujanya. Dia lupa, Palupi pernah menjadi bahan pembicaraan di pertemuan apapun, dengan siapapun.

Respati, sebagaimana seorang ibu, selalu berusaha menjadi jembatan dalam hubungan antara ayah dan anak yang membeku sejak persoalan nama itu mencuat.

“Ndhuk, apakah kamu tak ingin menyapa romomu lebih dulu?” Sang calon nenek menelpon tanpa sepengetahuan suaminya.

Palupi mendesah.

Embusan napasnya terdengar oleh Respati yang meneruskan dengan desakan, “Apa sulitnya menerima usulan nama romo?” Pertanyaannya hanya disambut dengan jeda panjang.

Kemudian Palupi berkata, “Bu, Palupi memang orang Jawa. Itu darah yang mengalir di tubuh saya tak dapat disangkal. Namun, sebagai seseorang, saya berhak memberi nama anak saya sesuai dengan selera. Seperti Romo dulu juga memberi nama Palupi sesuai dengan keinginan Romo dan Ibu.”

“Boleh. Tetapi yang tidak disukai romo adalah nama impor itu. Gunakan nama Jawa atau Indonesia yang mampu menjadi jati diri leluhurmu.” Dada Respati penuh, tetapi ditahannya kuat-kuat. Sebagai ibu, dia tidak pernah mengalami perselisihan seruncing ini dengan anaknya. “Seandainya kamu tahu, bagaimana romo berjuang menderas nama buat cucu pertamanya, kamu akan bangga ditakdirkan lahir dari benihnya.”

“Saya mengerti. Tetapi saya harus menghormati suami saya. Dia punya hak memberi nama pada darah dagingnya.”

Bendungan yang menahan beban akhirnya meluber. Pelan-pelan air mata bergulir di pipi Respati yang telah kehilangan kemulusannya. Matanya kelabu. Benar, dia tak salah mendidik Palupi. Tetapi sungguh, dia tak menyangka akan sekokoh ini sikapnya. “Apakah kamu sudah bicara dengan suamimu soal nama itu?” suara parau meluncur dari tenggorokan Respati.

“Belum. Seperti Ibu menghormati sikap Romo, saya pun menghormati suami. Bukankah itu yang Ibu ajarkan? Saya menunggu waktu yang tepat untuk membahas soal nama Jawa dengan Bang Syarif. Pada saat itu baru saya akan usulkan.”

Hening menjaga jarak di antara ibu-anak.

“Ibu berharap suamimu mengerti.” Respati merendahkan suaranya. “Nama yang kita sematkan untuk anak kita adalah upaya melestarikan jati diri. Kelak mereka pasti akan menelusuri jejak budaya dan leluhurnya, setidaknya dimulai dari bertanya arti namanya,”

Respati merasa menemukan kalimat yang tepat. “Ciri khas daerah dalam nama itu akan selalu dibawa oleh si anak ke mana pun dia pergi, dan menjadi ciri khas di negeri manapun, dia akan dikenali sebagai anak Indonesia, khususnya Jawa.”

Palupi tahu, ketika ibunya telah berbicara dalam nada rendah, itu adalah perasaan penting yang keluar dari hati. Dia tidak menyela ketika ibunya melanjutkan, “Tetapi meski terlahir sebagai wong Jawa, kami tak ingin menjadi kolot. Masih ingat? Ketika kamu menyodorkan calon suami, pertanyaan romo waktu itu bukan kenapa bukan orang Jawa? Apakah sudah punya rumah? Dari keluarga apa? Tidak kan? Pertanyaan Romo hanya satu: apakah dia menjunjung tinggi kehormatanmu sebagai perempuan?

Terdengar isak kecil dari seberang.

Respati menahan diri agar tak larut dalam suasana. Dia menyadari, dalam dunia yang serba cepat dan tanpa batas saat ini, menjaga jejak kebangsaan melalui nama amatlah muskil. Nama berbau dunia luar seringkali lebih terlihat kekinian. Menjaga nama-nama Jawa tetap digunakan bagaikan menegakkan benang basah.

***

Makan malam yang seharusnya sederhana dan riang sebagaimana tiga tahun berjalan, tidak lagi malam ini. Palupi terlihat menahan gelombang di dadanya. Sementara Syarif Hidayatullah, sang suami, mengunyah makanan lambat-lambat seperti tak ada rasa dalam masakan itu. Suara televisi menyiarkan berita banjir di sana sini, membuat Palupi semakin tegang. Dia mematikan TV.

Lelaki campuran Bugis – Palembang yang meminang Palupi dengan seperangkat alat sholat dan perhiasan emas itu menyudahi makan malam dalam diam. Dia meneguk air putih lalu berdiri, tak ingin melanjutkan perbincangan yang sudah dimulai oleh Palupi sejak mereka duduk di ruang makan itu.

“Tunggu, Bang. Kita belum selesai,” sergah Palupi.

Syarif kembali duduk dengan enggan, jemarinya memain-mainkan gelas yang telah kosong.

“Kumohon Abang bisa menerima ini. Soal nama anak kita, dan soal upacara tingkeban yang diminta Ibu.” Suara lembut Palupi terdengar seperti rayuan.

Syarif menatap isterinya dalam-dalam. Isi kepalanya mengatakan tak ingin membahas soal nama anak, baginya itu harga mati. Orang tua berhak memberi nama anak masing-masing tanpa campur tangan siapapun.

“Memang tidak menyenangkan hidup sebagai anak tunggal.” Suara Palupi berubah menjadi tegas. “Ada kewajiban secara tidak tertulis untuk meneruskan adat, dan leluhur. Aku sudah berusaha menolak mereka soal nama dan tingkeban, tapi hasilnya aku bertengkar dengan Romo dan Ibu – sesuatu yang tidak pernah terjadi seumur hidupku.” Palupi tertunduk, air mata bergulir di sepasang pipinya.

Syarif menutup mulutnya dengan kedua tangan sambil sikunya bertelekan pada meja. Ada selembar rasa bersalah melintas di hatinya. Tetapi sisi lain menolak. “Bukankah setiap anak perempuan yang diserahkan kepada mempelai pria saat akad nikah, menjadi hak sepenuhnya sang suami?” suara Syarif pelan dan datar, tetapi Palupi menyahut dengan cepat.

“Suami memberi mahar pada isteri bukan berarti membeli.” Kalimat itu terdengar garang di telinga Syarif, perempuan ini seperti bukan Palupi yang biasanya. “Murah sekali jika seorang lelaki membeli perempuan dengan seperangkat alat sholat, lalu dia berhak sepenuhnya atas perempuan itu.” Palupi menatap tajam mata suaminya yang hitam kelam.

“Berapa biaya yang dikeluarkan lelaki untuk mendapatkan seorang perempuan dalam keadaan terbaik mereka? Lalu bandingkan dengan berapa biaya orang tua merawat anak perempuan itu sejak dia dalam kandungan, hingga usia pantas menikah. Berapa nilai modal yang ditanam?”

Kata-kata yang sudah tersimpan di mulut Syarif raib.

“Aku menyerahkan diriku padamu, suamiku, karena aku mencintaimu.” Berbaris-baris kalimat telah siap dilontarkan oleh Palupi, tetapi dia menjaga martabat suaminya.

Syarif terlihat makin membeku.

“Setelah seluruh cinta mereka tumpah ruah demi anaknya semata wayang, agar aku menjadi perempuan berpendidikan dan berbudi pekerti baik, sehat jasmani dan rohani, aku menyerahkan diri sepenuhnya untukmu secara suka rela. Sekarang, sulitkah bagimu menerima nama hadiah dari orang tuaku karena semata kau ayah bayi ini?”

Syarif melihat sepasang mata istrinya berkilat. Selama tiga tahun pernikahannya, Palupi tidak pernah bicara berapi-api seperti malam ini.

“Baiklah.” Akhirnya Syarif merendah. “Nama bayi pertama boleh memakai hadiah dari romo. Tetapi soal tingkeban, itu tidak ada dalam ajaran agama kita.”

Palupi berdiri gesit, tubuhnya terlihat tegap meskipun dalam keadaan hamil menjelang tujuh bulan. “Adat dan agama dua hal yang tak bisa menyatu, Bang. Mereka berjalan beriringan seperti rel kereta untuk mencapai satu tujuan, kerukunan.” Palupi meninggalkan Syarif sendirian di ruang makan dan berjalan cepat-cepat menuju kamar untuk menelpon ibunya.

***

Kyai Brajadenta, gamelan milik keluarga Wibowo, siang itu mengalun lembut di rumah joglo Wibowo. Gamelan yang ditabuh oleh sebelas lelaki dan beberapa perempuan tetangga itu menampakkan sisi terbaik dari sebuah pasugatan, jamuan untuk tamu-tamu yang dihormati. Suasana ramah dan penuh canda memenuhi joglo dan rumah induk yang rimbun oleh pepohonan. Orang-orang yang belum tentu setahun sekali berjumpa, hari ini berkumpul dalam suasana semarak.

Semalam telah dilakukan pengajian untuk mendoakan sang ibu dan janin dengan sajian makanan langka, tujuh buah tumpeng ditambah jajanan pasar, ketan kolak, pisang raja. Sekarang saatnya rangkaian upacara lengkap yang dimulai dengan siraman.

Sebuah sudut telah disiapkan dengan hiasan aneka kembang dan jambangan berisi air dari tujuh sumber dan bunga tujuh rupa: mawar, melati, kenanga, gading, sedap malam, kemuning, pacar banyu. Palupi dengan riasan sederhana dan kemben jumputan merah hati, menggunakan hiasan melati ronce menutupi pundak dan dadanya. Dia duduk di sebuah kursi kayu, siap memulai upacara siraman oleh para tetua termasuk keluarga besan yang jauh-jauh datang dari Makassar.

Syarif tak henti menebar senyum. Keluarga besar di Makassar ternyata menyambut baik upacara adat tingkeban ini. Para perempuan justru sangat senang dan sukarela mengenakan kebaya dan jarit, sedangkan para lelaki menggunakan blangkon dan beskap. Segala keriuhan itu menjadi sebuah tontonan menarik di mata adik bungsu Syarif, yang mengabadikan semuanya untuk santapan youtube.

*****

Traces

Alvin Steviro dibesarkan di sebuah keluarga Kristen beraliran Injili, masa remajanya diisi dengan ketertarikan terhadap pertanyaan-pertanyaan eksistensial dan filsafat barat. Pada tahun 2011, dia mengambil program S1 dengan jurusan Sastra Inggris. Setelah itu, dia mengambil program S2 Studi Kultural dan lulus di tahun 2019.

Walaupun tertarik dengan persoalan kemasyarakatan, politik, dan kebudayaan, takdir telah membawanya ke sisi-sisi yang lebih mudah berguna dalam hidup. Sekarang dia sedang bekerja sebagai penulis halaman daring serta penerjemah lepas.

 

 

Traces

 

The man with greying hair sat on the side porch of his house, looking at a lalijiwa mango tree, laden with fruit ready to harvest. Wibowo should’ve felt as happy as he had the seasons before, but this year, something disturbed him terribly. “I have failed,” he murmured and sighed deeply, wishing to rid himself of the unrest.

“No, we haven’t.” His wife’s voice rose from alongside him, breaking through the stifling silence of the afternoon. “She finished her master’s study in Germany with a scholarship. Now she’s working as a researcher at a big institution, earning good pay. We didn’t raise her in vain.”

Wibowo looked at Respati Rahayu, his wife of more than thirty-five years. During all those years, this woman had supported his decisions on everything: from life choices to decisions regarding the construction of their new home and even selecting a son-in-law from the many candidates their only child introduced to them. “I thought we agreed that the parents’ success in educating their child is not measured by how educated the child turns out to be.”

Wibowo was about to embark on a long lecture, but when his wife offered him his favorite lemongrass tea, he merely swallowed and sighed once more. He then took a sip of the fragrant tea, their ever-faithful companion during their afternoon talks. Sliced ginger in the tea warmed his throat. It was the vocabulary of taste that lingered in his mind whenever they were apart ⸺ the lemongrass tea with ginger, brewed by Respati Rahayu. His wife resumed their conversation. “While a lot of people don’t know how to handle their children’s education, we taught our daughter that getting a degree with a scholarship award is an honor. We did not have to bribe anyone to secure a good education for our child. She always went to the best schools, from elementary to graduate studies. In addition, Palupi grew into an independent adult who doesn’t trouble us. This is our achievement as her parents.”

“The most important achievement as her parents is to impart the value of nationalism,” Wibowo said, clenching his fists. “Education is very important, yes, but nationalism is the foundation of a person’s character.”

Respati Rahayu squinted at her husband. “You don’t think our daughter is nationalistic enough?” Her voice rose. “She can recite the Pancasila — Indonesia’s official philosophical theory — by heart. In one of her closets she stores an Indonesian flag she can raise anytime. She can sing all three stanzas of the Indonesia Raya, our national anthem. What more do you expect of her?” Respati’s gentle eyes now flashed. “We even have gamelan instruments that we still play! We speak Javanese and Indonesian in our daily conversations. Our daughter also —”

“How can you say that your daughter is nationalistic enough?” Wibowo interrupted. “She even chose an imported name for her child as if there are no Indonesian or Javanese names that carry a sense of beauty or pride!” Wibowo’s taut face tightened even more. Sorrow clouded the eyes of the Javanese man who had insisted on building a joglo — a large gazebo with a traditionally trapezoid-shaped roof — in front of the main house.

His name, Wibowo Besari, carried an important message from his ancestors: he was to be a gentleman, an unbeatable man who does no harm, a man noble yet humble, a protector who doesn’t belittle others. Wibowo’s name resonated his father’s wishes.

“A person of Javanese descent should never let go of his Javanese-ness,” his father had told him. “He should never lose his identity.” His father, who once served as the head of the Tejowangi district, considered a name to be a directive of one’s lifestyle. Fate had made Wibowo a Javanese man, and, as befitted a Javanese man, he showed his Javanese-ness: He built a joglo and bought slendro and pelog gamelan instruments to play. Occasionally, when he came by some extra money, he invited his neighbors to the joglo for a kenduri, a celebration of gratitude, where he served the Javanese staple dishes for such an occasion: nasi tumpeng — coned rice cooked in coconut milk, turmeric, and other spices — and ayam ingkung, a whole spiced, roasted chicken.

***

“Palupi Retnaningrum Hapsari is too long,” Respati remembered arguing with her husband while being pregnant of their daughter. “A two-word name, like we have: Wibowo Besari, Respati Rahayu, is enough,” she had grumbled, rubbing her growing belly.

“Do you know what the three words mean, dear?” Young Wibowo had teased, smiling.

“Of course, I do! ‘Palupi’ means role model. ‘Hapsari’ means shining gem. And ‘Retnaningrum’ — wait, what does ‘Retnaningrum’ mean?”

“Retnaningrum means a flexible and compassionate personality. I hope that one day this child will be a generous, noble person admired by the people around her.” Young Wibowo’s eyes sparkled.

“That’s if our child is a girl.” Respati peered at her husband. “What if it’s a boy?”

“Then I’ll name him Jagad Reksaning Bawono!” Wibowo grinned victoriously. “But the midwife said that our child will be a girl.”

It was then that Respati realized that there were unwritten rules for naming in the Javanese community. Having only a one-word name marked a person as coming from a low, working-class or farming family. Civil servants, teachers, and traders commonly had two-word names. Three-word names signified a lineage of royal blood or high-ranking officials.

While such name-ranking was no longer relevant in modern Indonesian times, Wibowo was firm. His children and grandchildren must be given three-word Javanese names that reflected the rank of blood that flowed through their veins.

***

The news that their daughter, Palupi, was expecting her first child brought some light to the lives of the old couple who had waited a long time for a grandchild. When the sonogram revealed that Palupi’s child was a girl, Wibowo started thinking of possible names. For weeks he pondered, until one day, Respati found him sitting in his joglo, smiling.

“I have found the perfect name for our granddaughter,” he said to his wife when she pulled up a wicker chair and joined him. “Maharani Mahisa Suramardini.” Wibowo looked content as he carefully pronounced each word.

Respati’s eyes widened.

“What’s the matter?” Wibowo asked smugly. “Isn’t it perfect?”

Respati shook her head. “According to Javanese belief, a child with such a pretentious name may be prone to illness.”

“Now, just wait a minute.” Wibowo’s eyes glowed. “Maharani Mahisa Suramardini is the title of Queen Shima, the seventh-century ruler of the great Kalingga kingdom. She was not only fair and capable of reconciling religious differences, but she was also beautiful. She was noble, so she was loved by the commoners and respected by royalty.”

“But we’re not nobility, dear, let alone royalty,” Respati countered, confused. “Yes, your father was a district head before he retired, so we’re just a family of a retired civil servant. Would it be proper to give our grandchild such a regal name?” After a moment of silence, she continued, “Just spelling the names is already difficult. For me, names like Ningsih, Endang, and Wati are easier to pronounce and more beautiful.”

Wibowo smiled radiantly. “I’ve thought about this for weeks! I searched for names and compared them. Look in my notebook. You’ll see how many hundreds of names and their meanings I went through.” Wibowo reached for a blue notebook on the small table and handed it to Respati. “Finding the best name for our first grandchild wasn’t easy. As her grandfather, I’d like to partake in conserving our traditional names, as a token of love for our ancestors.”

Respati could only shrug. Like all of her ancestors, she, too, was full-blooded Javanese. But, when it came to adhering to Javanese culture and tradition, her husband had far more Javanese-ness than she did.

Wibowo clung to the philosophy of Memayu Hayuning Bawana — doing the best you can for the world and everything that lives within it. Those who did good in this life would be rewarded in the hereafter. In practicing this belief, Wibowo refused to build a concrete wall or iron fence around his home. Instead, he planted a camphorweed hedge which would also be beneficial for the neighborhood as anyone was allowed to take cuttings of the camphorweed for their vegetable salad.

Certain that he had found the perfect name, Wibowo excitedly called Palupi. “Maharani Mahisa Suramardini!” he crowed into the phone. ” It’s perfect! Our Javanese bloodline will be recorded in your daughter’s name. As she grows up, people will recognize your daughter as a Javanese. Don’t forget to tell everyone who asks that her grandfather gave her the name!” The soon-to-be grandfather laughed cheerfully.

“Dad,” Palupi’s voice was filled with reluctance.

“So what do you think?” Wibowo could not hide his pride. “Didn’t I pick a great name?”

“Yes, Dad, but we’ve already picked a name for our baby.”

Wibowo stiffened, speechless. His face fell. He looked helplessly at his wife, who stood looking at him.

“So,” Respati said into the speaker phone, wanting to relax the sudden tension between the two, “what will you name her?”

“Alexa Caroline Andromeda,” Palupi replied happily, as if she had plucked a star from a celestial constellation.

“What does it mean?” Respati inquired.

“Alexa comes from a Greek word that means a woman who fights for mankind. Caroline means tough and amazing. Andromeda is the name of a galaxy greater than the Milky Way!”

“Why do you want to borrow Greek words?” Respati spoke Wibowo’s words for him. “Aren’t there any Indonesian or Javanese names that describe an amazing girl?”

“Oh, well, Mom, it’s a done deal.” Palupi sounded anxious.

Now Respati was the one who started to feel concerned. In Javanese culture, a baby’s name wasn’t a “done deal” until the baby was born. Respati didn’t want her daughter’s actions to tempt fate. The Javanese culture strongly opposed making any preparations for the baby’s birth before the fetus was seven months old. She probed, “How can that be? The child hasn’t been born yet.”

“Mom, we’ve already ordered monogrammed clothing and a crib. The mural in the baby’s room also has that name on it.” Palupi lowered her voice as if she were sorry for having told them.

“How dare you!” Wibowo interrupted “You can’t act ahead of God’s will! You can’t buy things for the baby before the seventh month of your pregnancy, when we hold the tingkeban ritual for you and your baby’s wellbeing and an easy delivery!”
Silence followed Wibowo’s outburst.

“Palupi.” Wibowo suddenly probed, “Do you know why the ha na ca ra ka letters, the Javanese script, have nearly vanished?”

Still, Palupi remained silent.

Respati wiped her face with both hands. She realized this argument would last for some time.

“It seems that this younger generation no longer respects their ancestors.” Wibowo’s voice rose again. “Why do you have to use foreign words for something as essential as a name? A name should be used to preserve one’s sense of self, so that the young won’t forget where they came from!”

Wibowo stopped, waiting for Palupi’s response. But as Palupi gave none, he grew more furious. “You should be ashamed! Look at the Japanese. They are a developed nation. They’ve adapted to the times, but their behavior is still Japanese. Their culture is eternally Japanese. Their kanji script is still used to this day.” Wibowo caught his breath then continued firmly, “Their names are still Japanese!”

Palupi still would not respond.

Desperate to break through her silence, Wibowo shouted, “What are you? A Javanese? An Indonesian? Or are you a foreigner? From which country?”

***

Ever since that day, Wibowo refused to talk to Palupi, the daughter he had always been so proud of, the daughter who had been the topic of every conversation he had regardless of with whom and the occasion.

Just like any mother would, Respati tried to repair the rift between father and daughter. The soon-to-be grandmother called her daughter without telling Wibowo. “Dear, shouldn’t you reach out to your father first?”

Palupi only sighed.

Respati heard her sigh and pressed on. “What’s so difficult about accepting your father’s suggested name for the baby?”

The question was met by a long pause before Palupi eventually replied. “Mom, I am Javanese. There’s no denying that the blood that flows through my veins is Javanese. But as an individual, I have the right to name my child the way I see fit ⸺ just like you and Dad named me ‘Palupi’ according to your wishes as my parents.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Respati conceded. “What your father doesn’t like are the foreign names. Can’t you use some Javanese or Indonesian names that pay tribute to your ancestors and heritage?” Respati had never experienced such a sharp disagreement with her daughter. It bothered her very much but she rallied, “If only you knew how your father labored over his first granddaughter’s name, you would be proud to be his daughter.”

“I understand, Mom. But I have to respect my husband’s preferences, too. Syarif also has a say in naming his own child.”

Respati’s strength crumbled. Slowly, tears rolled down her wrinkled cheeks. She knew she had not steered Palupi wrong, but she had never expected her daughter to hold on this strongly to her opinion. “So have you discussed the name problem with your husband?” Respati’s asked hoarsly.

“No, I haven’t. I’m still waiting for the right time to discuss Javanese names with Syarif. When we do I’ll let him know what I think. I respect my husband just like you respect Dad. Isn’t that what you taught me?”

Silence strained the distance between mother and daughter.

“I hope your husband will understand.” Respati lowered her voice. “The name we give to our children is an attempt to preserve our Javanese identity. One day, the children will trace their cultural and ancestral origins, first and foremost by asking what their names mean.”

Respati felt she had found the right words. “The uniqueness of a place will be stamped in the name a child will carry wherever it goes. Whichever country your daughter travels to, she’ll be known as an Indonesian, more specifically, a Javanese.”

Palupi knew that when her mother lowered her voice, she was sharing her innermost feelings. Palupi didn’t interrupt, and Respati continued. “Although we’re born Javanese, we also try to be less old-fashioned. Do you remember when you first introduced Syarif to us? Your father didn’t ask you why he wasn’t Javanese; he didn’t ask whether Syarif owned a nice house; he didn’t ask which family he came from. He didn’t. He only asked you if this suitor upheld your honor as a woman.”

Respati heard her daughter’s choked sob through the phone. She steeled herself, not allowing the emotionally-charged atmosphere to get the better of her. She realized that in a borderless world where everything moved at lightning speed, conserving traces of nationality was an arduous, quixotic task. Foreign names sounded more modern. Preserving Javanese names was like trying to keep a wet thread standing upright.

***

Dinner had always been simple and joyful over the course of three years of marriage, but not tonight. Palupi was noticeably restless while her husband chewed his food indifferently. The TV broadcast of widespread flooding added to Palupi’s anxiety, and she turned it off.

Syarif Hidayatullah, the Bugis-Palembang man who had courted Palupi with gold jewelry and a Islamic prayer rug, beads, robe and Quran, finished his dinner in silence. Reluctant to continue the conversation Palupi had started when they first sat down to dinner, he finished his glass of water and rose.

“Wait, dear.” Palupi touched his arm. “We’re not done.”

Reluctantly, Syarif sat back down and started spinning the empty water glass.

“Please accept the Javanese name for our child,” Palupi pleaded softly, “and the tingkeban ritual that my mother is asking for.”

Syarif held his wife’s eyes. He was done with this discussion. The naming issue was non-negotiable. It’s the parents’ right to name their children without anyone’s interference.

“It’s not simple being the only child.” Palupi continued in a firmer tone. “There are unwritten responsibilities and expectations about passing on cultural and ancestral heritages. I tried to refuse their suggestions for the baby’s name and their request to hold the tingkeban ritual, and all I accomplished was getting into a fight with my parents ⸺ something that has never happened.” Palupi bowed her head, tears running down her cheeks.

Syarif planted his elbows on the table and dropped his chin into his hands, covering his mouth. Guilt crept into his heart, but his mind was made up. “When a daughter is handed over to a man in a wedding ceremony, doesn’t she become her husband’s possession?” Syarif asked matter-of-factly.

Fury rose in Palupi. “No! Just because a husband presents his wife with a dowry, it does not mean that he purchased her!”

Her words struck Syarif as harsh. This wasn’t the Palupi he knew. He glared at her.

“If a man could purchase full ownership of a woman in the prime of her life with just some gold jewelry, a set of Islamic praying beads, robe, mat, and Quran, then how does that expenditure compare to how much her parents spent on raising her, from conception till she walks down the aisle? How big was their investment?”

Syarif swallowed the words he had been ready to speak.

Palupi was ready to deliver several carefully prepared sentences, but she was mindful of her husband’s dignity. She said, “I surrendered myself to you, my husband, because I love you.”

Syarif remained silent, dumbfounded.

“After my parents gave all their love to their only child and raised me to be an educated and well-mannered woman in good physical and spiritual health, I voluntarily handed myself over to you. Now, why is it so hard to accept the cultural gift from my parents in the form of a Javanese name for our baby just because you’re the father of this child?”

Syarif saw the anger in his wife’s eyes. During their three years of marriage, Palupi had never once spoken with such force as she had tonight.

“All right,” Syarif slowly conceded. “Our first child can be named according to your father’s gift. But our religion doesn’t acknowledge the meaning of a tingkeban ceremony.”

Despite her large belly, Palupi rose quickly and straightened herself. “Tradition and religion are two things that cannot merge. They walk side-by-side, like railroad tracks headed for one destination ⸺ in this case, harmony!” Palupi left Syarif sitting at the dining room table and hurried to the bedroom to call her mother.

***

Gamelan music floated softly through Wibowo’s joglo. Played by men and women from the neighborhood, it was the best part of welcoming the honored guests. A warm and relaxed atmosphere filled the joglo and the main house, surrounded by mature trees. People who might not see each other even once a year, came together that day for the celebratory occasion.

The previous evening, prayers were said for Palupi and her unborn baby. Seven trays of coned rice surrounded by miscellaneous rare side dishes, native Javanese snacks, a sticky rice compote, and a special variety of banana were served. Today, it was time for the complete tingkeban ceremony, which started with the siraman a component of the ritual.

In a corner, decorated with flowers, stood a special container filled with water from seven different sources and seven different types of flowers: rose, jasmine, cananga, magnolia, tuberose, orange jasmine, and impatience. Palupi wore simple make-up and a red, tie-dyed kemben, bustier. A shawl of laced jasmine covered her shoulders and chest. Seated on a wood chair, Palupi was ready for the siraman. All present elders, including those on her husband’s side who had come all the way from Makassar, stood ready to pour a ladle of the flowered water over her.

As for Syarif, he could not stop smiling. His family had gladly accepted the tingkeban ceremony. The women were excited to wear the kebaya, Javanese long-sleeved blouse, and sarong. The men eagerly donned the traditional blangkon, Javanese cap, and beskap, jacket. All these formalities delighted Syarif’s youngest brother, who recorded everything for a YouTube presentation.

 

*****

 

Yang Beralih

Rinto Andriono adalah penyintas serangan penyumbatan pembuluh otak yang menyebabkan kelumpuhan tubuh kanan pada usia 46 tahun. Menulis adalah salah satu kegiatan penyembuhan yang disarankan oleh dokter syaraf untuk mengembalikan kemampuan membangun penalaran. Rinto mulai menulis enam bulan setelah serangan pada tengah 2018.

Sebelum sakit, Rinto adalah perencana pemulihan pasca bencana, yang banyak bekerja di beragam tempat bencana di Indonesia dan Asia. Setelah sakit lebih banyak melakukan kajian, pelatihan daring dan penulisan pembelajaran di bidang yang sama. Untuk mengisi waktu senggangnya, dia suka membaca tentang penyelamatan alam dan filsafat, dan jalan kaki.

Rinto menulis sebagai sarana pemaknaan hidupnya yang sekarang sangat terbatas. Menulis membebaskan pikiran dan batinnya, yang saat sebelum sakit dulu mungkin terbelenggu, meski tubuhnya sangat bebas.

Dengan pendampingan menulis dari Ahmad Yulden Erwin, Rinto membuat belasan cerita pendek yang dibukukan sendiri dalam buku elektronik berjudul Kencan Hikikomori. 

Rinto Andriono telah berpulang pada tanggal 29 November 2021, jam 08.30 pagi (WIB) di Rumah Sakit Dr. Sardjito, Yogyakarta karena serangan jantung. Kami sangat kehilangan seorang penulis berbakat.

Selamat jalan sahabat. Istirahatlah dalam damai.

 

 

Yang Beralih

 

Matahari sudah tinggi, udara Yogya sudah berjam-jam membungkus badan Soumi dengan gerah. Lengket, panas dan lembab menyatu mengumpulkan resah. Soumi resah, hatinya sangat resah. Resah yang berkepanjangan membuatnya gundah. Gundah pada kehidupan sepinya. Kehidupan yang dipilihnya sendiri semenjak itu. Hidup yang telah memenangkan hati memang bisa jadi sulit, karena ternyata hidupnya tidak selalu bisa dimenangkannya. Tetapi bukan semata-mata dia yang membentuk hidupnya – ada dengus bengis yang turut mendorongnya menyeberangi jati dirinya.

***

“Soumi, bangunlah, sudah subuh!” teriak Karyo dari luar kamar.

Saat itu ibu Soumi sedang menginap di rumah sepupunya yang belum sehari menjanda. Soumi ditinggal serumah hanya berdua dengan Karyo, suami Ibunya yang tentara. Karyo bukan bapak kandungnya. Soumi adalah buah pernikahan ibunya dengan suami sebelumnya. Ibunya dan Karyo tidak beranak. Hanya Soumi semata wayang anak mereka.

Ingatan Soumi cepat mengisi sepenuh kesadarannya, dia sudah terbiasa bangun sebelum subuh. Galibnya ibunya menjerang air di perapian. Pagi ini, dia yang akan melakukan itu tanpa ibunya. Soumi riang dan ringan. Bagai kedasih yang berbahagia dia bangkit dari pembaringan. Soumi segera menyahuti Karyo sambil melangkah membuka gerendel kamarnya.

Tiba-tiba dengan sangat berdaya, pintunya terdorong terbuka. “Heh ….” Seolah kerbau dungu Karyo mendengus dan menyergapnya.

“Ahh ….” Soumi tidak cukup sigap dan berdaya untuk melawan.

Ratusan lukisan hidupnya koyak seketika. Lukisan-lukisan yang polos tentang masa lalunya, yang warna-warni tentang cita-citanya, yang bergelora tentang cintanya dan yang masih samar-samar tentang masa depannya. Semua berubah bagi Soumi pagi itu. Seketika, dia menjadi kain mota yang koyak, luruh dan tidak berguna!

***

Dari dalam kamarnya, Soumi membaui wewangian badan Karyo yang sudah mandi dan hendak pergi bekerja. Seketika Soumi mual. Lantas dia mendengar Karyo pergi sambil bersiul-siul, seolah tidak terjadi apa-apa.

Soumi bergegas pergi ke kamar mandi dengan hati luluh lantak. Dia mandi lama sekali. Seolah noda yang dipaparkan Karyo sangat sulit hilang, dia menggosok tubuhnya lagi dan lagi. Air bilasan mengalir tanpa henti, tapi perasaan ternoda dalam hatinya tetap tidak mau pergi.

Kembali di kamarnya, dia menekuri foto-foto dirinya, kemudian berucap, “Apa gunanya foto-foto ini?” Dia membakar semua foto-foto masa kecilnya, raport sekolah, ijazah tiga kali kelulusan di SD, SMP dan SMA, kartu penduduk serta akta kelahirannya. Dia mengemasi barangnya sekaligus mengemasi batinnya. Soumi merasa harus meninggalkan rumah lamanya dengan segala kelemahan dan kekalahan sebagai perempuan yang pernah dikenalnya.

“Aku tidak mau hidup sebagai perempuan!” ikrar Soumi yang masih dalam tubuh perempuannya, “Dunia ini memang bukan untuk perempuan!”

Sekarang Soumi memang menjadi butuh jati diri yang baru. Namun Soumi belum memikirkan, kemungkinan menjadi lelaki. Dia masih jijik dengan jenis kelamin Karyo.

“Aku tidak ingin berubah menjadi pemerkosa seperti Karyo! Aku juga tidak akan lagi menjadi korban permekosaan siapa pun!” kata Soumi mantap meninggalkan rumahnya.

Bagi Soumi, rumah sudah kehilangan teduhnya, bahkan, dia pergi tanpa merasa perlu menghiraukan pintunya yang masih dibiarkan menganga. Dia hanya meninggalkan pesan pendek untuk berpamitan pada ibunya. Riwayat rumah itu sudah padam bagi Soumi.

“Ini sudah bukan rumah!” Soumi pergi dari rumahnya, sekaligus meninggalkan jati dirinya.

***

Setelah mencobai hidup di Malang dan Surabaya, akhirnya Soumi terdampar di Yogya. Kota berhati nyaman yang telah membuka diri untuknya. Soumi sekarang bertubuh lebih kekar. Dia melatih dirinya dengan bela diri tinju dari Thailand. Rambutnya pun terpotong pendek dan rapi. Dia menggunakan jel rambut yang pekat. Jejak sisir nampak jelas di rambutnya.

Sebelum wabah covid, Soumi bekerja menjadi pramusaji di sebuah rumah makan modern. Pembawaannya yang rapi bahkan cenderung halus membuatnya banyak disukai orang-orang. Pekerjaannya pun membaik, dia tidak hanya menjadi pramusaji namun telah dipercaya menjadi penyelia. Soumi merasa hidup kini telah berpihak padanya. Namun semua kandas setelah wabah covid berjalan hingga bulan kedelapan. Rumah makannya tidak lagi sanggup melawan gempuran kehilangan pelanggan disertai kenaikan harga-harga bahan baku. Benteng penghidupan. Soumi pun ikut runtuh bersamaan dengan itu.

Siang itu, dia berpeluh mengantri. Wabah covid yang berumur setahun telah memakan kehidupannya hingga tersisa remah-remah terakhir. Soumi mengantri untuk mendaftar menjadi penerima Bantuan Langsung Tunai (BLT) dari pemerintah.

“Nama?” tanya petugas Kepanewonan Mergangsan pendek.

“Soumi.”

Petugas yang bosan mendongak, mendesak, “Yang benar?”

“Benar, Pak, saya Soumi.” Soumi menegaskan diiringi goresan enggan sang petugas di borang pendaftaran.

“Kau laki-laki atau perempuan?” tanya sang petugas menyelidik.

“Bukan keduanya.” jawab Soumi dengan penuh keyakinan.

Petugas itu berhenti menulis. Dia bersandar di kursinya seolah paling benar. Dia menarik nafas dalam-dalam seperti mempersiapkan sebuah ceramah panjang tentang ragam jenis kelamin yang diijinkan untuk surat-surat kependudukan di negara kesatuan ini. Serangkaian kata berhamburan dari mulut ceroboh tak bermasker. Mulai dari pilihan di borang hingga perintah agama. Intinya, Soumi harus memilih, laki-laki atau perempuan. Titik!

Bagi Soumi, perintah mengisi borang ini sangat berat. Dia enggan membuka kenangan pahit masa lalunya – saat dia masih perempuan dan lemah. Meski sekarang sudah tidak menganggap dirinya perempuan, dia tidak lantas menyebut dirinya laki-laki. Dia sudah mantap dengan dirinya yang bukan keduanya. Kemantapan itu seiring dengan kekosongan jati dirinya yang mulai terlukis dengan gambaran diri yang baru. Soumi merasa nyaman dengan dirinya sekarang yang jauh dari dirinya dahulu, tetapi dia tetap bukan Karyo yang laki-laki dan bengis serta jumawa.

“Coba lihat KTP?” pinta petugas yang mulai putus asa dengan keterangan Soumi.

“Saya tidak punya KTP, hanya kartu penduduk musiman dari Kelurahan,” jawab Soumi.

“Tidak punya KTP tidak boleh mendapat BLT.” kata petugas pendek memungkasi upaya Soumi untuk menyambung hidupnya.

Soumi sebenarnya enggan beradu mulut, tetapi dia sangat membutuhkan BLT untuk kelangsungan hidupnya. Dan jawaban dari petugas di manapun selalu seragam. Jawaban yang sudah dihafal Soumi dari pengalamannya mengurus surat-surat kependudukan. Seolah memutar pita rekaman rusak, Soumi pun mengulang membacakan berbagai rujukan Kesepakatan Internasional tentang pengakuan terhadap jenis kelamin ketiga. Masalah ini sebetulnya bisa teratasi bila Soumi pulang ke kampung halamannya dan mengurus surat pindah. Tapi itu mustahil bagi Soumi karena Karyo masih hidup dan dia sudah tidak menginginkan jati dirinya yang lampau. Lukisan yang telah koyak biarlah usang. Soumi sedang melukis yang baru.

“Urus KTP dulu, baru bisa ambil BLT,” kata petugas ketus memungkasi adu mulut dengan berteriak, “Antrian berikutnya!”

***

Di bulan Maret 2021, Soumi dan kawan-kawannya telah memasuki bulan kelima kehilangan pekerjaan di rumah makan. Wabah ini mengharuskan mereka memutar otak lebih kencang. Inilah saatnya dimana dunia manusia berubah sedemikian cepat sehingga meninggalkan manusia-manusia yang hidup di dalamnya. Para manusia tunggang-langgang mengikuti dunianya yang telah bergeser tidak sekehendaknya. Ini ibarat rumah yang justru pergi meninggalkan penghuninya.

Soumi dan kawan-kawan pun berangsur kehilangan isi tabungannya dengan pasti. Mereka berusaha menyambung hidupnya dengan berbagai cara. Mengurangi catuan makanan harian adalah pilihan pertamanya. Soumi pun berkeras untuk tidak berobat meski batuk atau demam datang mendera. Soumi telah berpindah ke kamar sewaan yang lebih sempit, kumuh, terpencil, tetapi murah. Sambil mencari pekerjaan apa pun yang mungkin diraihnya.

Kawan-kawannya pun berlaku sama. Pilihannya, terus berusaha sebisanya atau punah. Suatu ketika mereka bersepakat bertemu. Kepencilan masa wabah membuat mereka saling terasing. Mereka butuh bertemu di taman kota untuk sekedar mengadukan keluh dan mendengarkan resah.

“Kau sekarang jadi apa, Gar?” tanya Wulan, dulu sesama pramusaji dengan Soumi.

“Aku jualan ikan cupang,” jawab Tegar, mantan kasir rumah makan yang tegar. “Ikan kecil biaya pemeliharaannya irit.”

“Aku bikin lumpia, tapi harus pesan dulu baru nanti kubuat dan kukirim ke pemesan.” terang Wulan.

Soumi senang kawan-kawannya terus berusaha semampunya. Di masa wabah ini yang penting obah mamah – terus bergerak meski hasilnya sedikit, hanya cukup untuk makan.

“Sekarang pendapatan keluarga kami menjadi lebih sedikit,” papar Wulan, “anak-anak sudah tidak pernah bisa plesir lagi.”

“Ya … tidak ada lagi cukup uang untuk kebutuhan sampingan,” lanjut Tegar, “semua mendapat rejeki tipis-tipis tapi rata, ini waktunya berbagi.”

“Sudah sebulan ini, kami selalu melewatkan sarapan, bukan karena ingin langsing seperti orang-orang gedongan, tapi biar irit,” timpal Wulan.

Lain Wulan dan Tegar, lain pula Yanto. Dia adalah mantan satpam rumah makan. Tubuhnya kekar dan sehat. Memenuhi syarat sebagai penjaga keamanan yang baik. Namun nasibnya tidak sebagus badannya. Yanto ketularan covid dan menghabiskan dua setengah minggu di rumah sakit untuk sembuh dari penyakit ini. Dia sampai harus menggadaikan kendaraannya untuk mencukupi kebutuhan keluarganya.

Hidup mereka seperti buah simalakama; bila tidak bekerja maka tidak bisa makan tetapi bila terus berusaha maka bahayanya adalah kemungkinan tertular covid.

“Rasanya bagaimana, Yanto?” tanya Tegar.

“Kau pernah merasakan influensa yang sangat berat?” tanya Yanto kembali.

“Iya,” jawab Tegar.

“Nah, rasa itu kau kalikan tiga, begitu rasanya.” terang Yanto. “Pertama kau akan kehilangan penciumanmu, lalu zat asam tidak bisa disera tubuh karena paru-paru berlendir. Bila tak dibantu pasokan zat asam, kau akan lemas dan menemui ajal.”

“Hiiii.” nyali Tegar mengkeret.

Soumi mendapati Jamila, mantan tukang masak di tempat kerjanya dulu, menyendiri dan kurang bersemangat.

“Hai, Jamila.” sapa Soumi.

“Kita ini menyaksikan rumah makan tempat kita bekerja tidak mampu lagi mencari makan.” kata Jamila, tukang masak yang sudah belasan tahun bekerja di situ, seolah menyesali keadaan.

“Sekarang kau kerja apa, Jamila?” tanya Soumi.

“Aku belum dapat, seumurku sudah susah mencari kerja dan memulai dari awal lagi.”

“Tapi kau bisa memasak!” yakin Soumi, “Usaha yang besar memang bertumbangan, tapi usaha yang kecil masih ada peluang tumbuh kembang.”

“Tidak mungkin aku bisa hidup, aku butuh biaya besar.”

“Heh, kau tidak boleh patah.”

Jamila tidak menyahuti Soumi, Dia mengeloyor pulang.

Mereka berpisah, hingga seminggu kemudian, mereka bertemu lagi.

Mereka berkunjung ke rumah sewaan Jamila sebagai pelayat yang hendak menghormati Jamal untuk terakhir kalinya. Wabah covid ini memang seperti saringan yang telah memisahkan manusia yang kuat dari yang lemah dengan garis pembatas yang tegas.

Dari teman-temannya, Soumi tahu bahwa Jamila menderita hepatitis C semenjak dari Jamila masih bujangan tua yang dikenal sebagai Jamal.

***

Sepanjang hidupnya Jamal telah lelah memperjuangkan KTP untuk mendapat Bantuan dari Badan Penyelenggara Jaminan Kesehatan (BPJS). Penyakitnya membutuhkan perawatan berlanjutan yang tidak murah. Dia membutuhkan pengobat yang mahal. Semua ongkos perawatan kesehatan itu tidak mampu dibayarnya. Saran kepala desa di kampungnya, Jamal bisa saja mendapatkan KTP asal tidak terlalu keras kepala untuk mengakui bahwa dia berkelamin lelaki.

“Surat Kelahiranmu laki-laki kan, Mal?” kata Kepala Desa, “Isian jenis kelamin di KTP-mu ikut Surat Kelahiranmu saja, biar nanti bisa dapat BPJS.”

“Iya.” kata Jamal berat.

“Nyatanya yang busuk menggantung itu juga kelamin laki-laki,” sindir Kepala Desa, “jakunmu itu lho, tidak bisa menipu, hahaha ….”

Namun hingga setua ini Jamal alias Jamila enggan mengakui kenyataan tubuhnya. Semenjak akil balik dia tidak pernah merasakan dirinya sebagai laki-laki. Jamal remaja tidak pernah menyelesaikan sekolah menengahnya. Dia tidak betah terus menerus dirisak oleh kawan-kawan juga gurunya. Mereka memanggilnya banci.

Ayahnya pun gemar memukulinya dan ibunya tidak berdaya. Ayahnya tidak bisa menerima Jamal yang berperilaku gemulai seperti perempuan. Dia mendidik Jamal kecil dengan penuh kekerasan karena keyakinannya agar Jamal bisa menjadi lelaki tulen. Dia berpikir, bila sering dipukuli maka Jamal akan berubah menjadi seperti lelaki.

Jamal remaja yang tidak pernah ingin menjadi laki-laki, memilih kabur dari rumah. Dia lebih senang dengan jati diri Jamila-nya. Dia merasa lebih nyaman memasak dan memakai daster yang sejuk. Jamila cukup beruntung, dia tidak pernah terpaksa melacur. Kebisaannya memasak menjaga hidupnya dengan tetap bekerja puluhan tahun dari warung hingga rumah makan. Jamila piawai mencampur bumbu dan mengolahnya sehingga tiap-tiap rempah mengeluarkan rasa terbaiknya.

Namun kini, demi agar ongkos pengobatannya bisa ditanggung negara, akhirnya Jamal luluh. Dia menyerah. Dia nyaris mendapatkan KTP laki-laki untuk mengurus BPJS. Namun takdir berkata lain. Hidupnya telah lebih dahulu luluh sebagai korban pemaksaan jati diri. Kematian adalah cara termurah untuk menghemat biaya pengobatan seorang waria sakit, penganggur, dan putus asa.

***

Sambil menunggui jasad Jamila di rumahnya, Soumi mengenang sahabatnya. Dia berkenalan dengan Jamila di rumah makan itu, sebagai rekan kerja. Namun pertemuan itu sangat bermakna. Jamila membuat Soumi mampu menuntut kembali hidupnya. Soumi masih ingat bahwa Jamila adalah tukang masak yang diandalkan di rumah makan itu. Dia baik pada sesama rekan kerja. Dia kakak yang baik bagi Soumi. Sayangnya, di akhir hidupnya, Jamila harus berjuang keras membujuk negara untuk mendapatkan pengakuan dengan jenis kelamin ketiganya. Perjuangannya itu berpacu dengan penyakitnya. Sayang, penyakitnya berjalan lebih cepat dari pada perjuangannya. Saat Jamila mau mengalah menerima pilihan antara dua jenis kelamin yang disediakan oleh negara, penyakitnya sudah semakin genting.

Jamila yang selama ini mendukung Soumi dan menghibur hatinya. Dia yang menyembuhkan luka-luka hati Soumi. Jamila yang memperkenalkan Soumi pada banyak paguyuban orang-orang berjenis kelamin ketiga. Dari paguyuban itu, Soumi tahu bahwa Tuhan tidak hanya menciptakan siang dan malam, tetapi ada juga fajar dan senja seperti Jamila dan kawan-kawan. Mereka perempuan yang terjebak dalam tubuh lelaki, atau sebaliknya. Bahkan yang seperti Soumi, yang tidak merasa aman sebagai perempuan tetapi merasa jijik sebagai lelaki pun ada dan mereka saling menguatkan jati diri.

“Bukankah fajar dan senja yang membuat semesta menjadi lebih indah?” kata mendiang Jamila pada Soumi dulu, “Jika hanya ada siang dan malam maka bumi akan membosankan.”

Soumi benar-benar mencamkan perkataan Jamila itu. Dia mulai bangkit melukisi lagi kain mota hidupnya dengan berbekal kalimat itu. Soumi merasa dia berhak pula hidup di dunia sebagai ciptaan Tuhan yang setara dengan yang lain. Dia boleh saja tidak merasa sebagai laki-laki atau perempuan, tapi Soumi adalah manusia, itu yang ditekankan Jamila.

“Aku juga manusia.” tegas Soumi saat itu.

“Dulu, sosok banci adalah wajar di pertunjukan wayang kulit,” cerita Jamila pada Soumi dalam salah satu obrolannya,

“Betulkah?” tanya Soumi.

“Iya dan ketahuilah wayang kulit adalah cerminan dari masyarakat kita.”

“Lelaki dan perempuan sama-sama dibutuhkan dalam hidup ini.” lanjut Jamila, “Batari Durga yang garang, sebelumnya adalah Dewi Uma yang lembut.”

“Ya, Dewi Uma moksa menjadi Batari Durga yang raksasa dalam rangka melawan nafsu Batara Guru.” timpal Soumi lamat-lamat. Dia pernah mendengar kisah itu. Kisah perubahan jati diri Dewi Uma itu yang mendorong Soumi menjadi seperti sekarang ini. Dia menolak sebagian sisi perempuan dirinya yang lemah dan berusaha menambalnya dengan sisi lelakinya yang kekar. Namun Soumi tidak serta-merta menganggap dirinya lelaki. Dia beralih menjadi jenis kelamin ketiga yang membuatnya menjadi lebih nyaman sekarang ini. Dia sekarang lebih siap bila harus membela diri jika dirundung Karyo lagi.

“Hidup kita pun seharusnya begitu, siapapun setara di muka bumi ini dan harus saling menjaga,” pungkas Jamila.

Namun rupanya, cita-cita Jamila tidak terjadi hingga ajal menjemputnya. Kawan-kawannya tetap harus mengasongkan tubuh Jamila, mencari kampung yang masih mau menerima jenazah waria di kuburan milik mereka. Sedikit kampung yang mau menerima pemakaman waria. Mereka menganggapnya sebagai aib. Akhirnya sebuah kampung di perbatasan Kota Yogya dan Bantul mau menerima, itupun dengan biaya bedah bumi yang tidak mudah ditanggung oleh kawan-kawan waria yang terdampak kemelut keuangan pada waktu wabah covid ini.

***

Wabah ini diikuti oleh masalah keuangan yang menekan semua pengeluaran warga. Beberapa bidang usaha bahkan tidak dapat bertahan memperebutkan pelanggan yang semakin sedikit. Seperti rumah makan tempat Soumi dan Jamila bekerja. Sebagian besar mahluk indah jenis kelamin ketiga ini bekerja di bidang jasa. Jasa-jasa itu adalah kebutuhan yang akan disingkirkan warga dari senarai belanjanya bila pendapatan menurun. Perempuan mengurangi belanja perawatan tubuh di salon. Pria hidung belang tidak lagi beruang untuk membiarkan mulut waria memuaskan kelaminnya. Tidak ada uang kecil untuk waria pengamen.

“Ih, maharani amat, mengubur bangkai saja semahal itu ongkosnya?” kata Shinta, waria yang menawarkan jasa di Perlimaan Kalasan.

“Ah, kau jangan sirsak, cin, jangan pelita hati begitu, ini demi Kak Jamila.” sanggah Diana bendahara patembayan saat menghimpun saweran agar Shinta tidak culas dan pelit.

Akira kan sudah lama tidak laku nyebong!” aku Shinta.

“Ah … nggak percaya, kau tiap malam berapose begitu?” Dewi menawar.

“Covid, Boo … akira jual harga obral ini ….” kata Shinta sambil mengangsurkan uangnya yang kumal.

“Cari BLT sana, kan pemerintah sudah bagi-bagi enam ratus kepeng.” sahut Dewi sambil menyambar uang Shinta.

“Nggak dapat BLT, Booo …,” nyinyir Shinta, “Aku nggak ada KTP.”

“Ahhh … kau sembuh dulu dari banci, baru bisa punya KTP,” Dewi mengelak.

“Emang banci itu penyakit, koq pakai sembuh? Kata Dinsos, itu penyakit kemasyarakatan,” pungkas Shinta masih dengan nada nyinyir.

Soumi yang dari tadi menguping pembicaraan para pelayat di rumah Jamila membatin, Huh, penyakit kemasyarakatan ….

Bagi Soumi yang sudah belajar dari Jamila ini adalah akar masalahnya. Selama jenis kelamin ketiga dianggap sebagai penyimpangan yang harus diluruskan oleh negara maka selamanya nasib Jamal-Jamila yang lain akan selalu begitu. Mereka akan terus diburu dan dipaksa untuk menerima jati diri yang hanya memperhitungkan bentuk alat kelamin yang menempel di tubuh. Padahal pengakuanlah yang dibutuhkan Jamila dan kawan-kawan.

“Waktu fajar dan senja memang sempit, karena itu mereka yang terlahir tidak siang dan tidak malam adalah kelompok yang terbatas jumlahnya.” Soumi menderas mengulang perkataan Jamila tentang kaum waria.

“Namun bukan berarti kita bisa ditindas”, berontak batin Soumi, “hidupku pun akan seperti Jamila, akan kuhabiskan untuk melawan!”

Soumi teringat bahwa Jamila pernah bercerita bahwa di Sulawesi ada adat yang pernah mengakui lima jenis kelamin secara setara di masyarakat. Di Bugis selain laki-laki dan perempuan, ada calalai yang bertubuh perempuan tetapi mengambil peran-peran laki-laki dalam kesehariannya. Ada juga calabai yang memerankan peran perempuan namun bertubuh lelaki. Dan jenis kelamin kelima, adalah kelompok para bissu yang tidak laki-laki maupun perempuan. Soumi merasa nyaman dengan kelompok ini. Kelimanya pernah diakui disana secara adat, meski adat sekarang sudah sering digugat.

“Orang-orang hanya belum mengerti,” tiba-tiba suara Jamila menyahut di kepala Soumi. Dengan sangat jelas, Soumi seolah melihat sosok Jamila. Dia melihat Jamila melempar senyum.

“Jamila ….” sapa Soumi lirih.

“Kau hanya perlu terus mewartakannya.” kembali suara Jamila mengiang.

“Akan kulakukan sepenuh hidupku,” janji Soumi mantap.

“Kita semua tercipta setara,” Jamila yakin sebelum bayangannya kembali memudar.

Soumi kembali nelangsa kehilangan Jamila yang seumur hidupnya gagal berdamai dengan khalayak.

Bisik Soumi memandang tubuh kaku Jamila yang sedang menunggu pengangkutan ke liang lahat. Hati Soumi merasakan sedemikian, pelupuk matanya menghangat seketika. Air matanya kemudian merebak. “Jamila, aku tahu, kau ingin mati sebagai perempuan.”

*****

Yogyakarta, Mei 2021

 

 

 

The Third Gender

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, dia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Dia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini dia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Oni dapat dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

The Third Gender

 

It was already midday, and the stifling, muggy, Yogyakarta air enveloped Soumi’s perspiring body. The humidity made Soumi restless. And as the restlessness dragged on, she became depressed about her lonely life — the life she had chosen on that terrible day. Indeed, anyone’s life could be difficult, for it might not always turn out to be the most rewarding. But Soumi had not deliberately chosen this life. A violent force had driven her to cross the boundary of her identity.

***

“Soumi, get up!” Karyo shouted from outside Soumi’s room. “It is dawn already!”

That morning, Soumi was home alone with Karyo, her mother’s husband. Soumi’s mother was staying with her cousin, whose husband had died the day before. Karyo, who served in the military, was not Soumi’s biological father. Soumi was the only child from her mother’s previous husband, and she was the only child in the family. Soumi’s mother and Karyo didn’t have children.

Soumi was used to getting up before dawn, and she quickly rose. Usually, her mother boiled the water. This morning Soumi would have to do it herself. Happy like a lovebird flying into the morning, she answered Karyo’s call and lifted the door latch.

The door slammed into her, shoved open forcefully by Karyo, who lunged at her, snorting like a bull in heat.

Caught off guard, Soumi was neither ready — nor strong enough — to fight back.

Hundreds of life’s memories tore apart all at once: the innocence of her past, the colorful fantasies of her aspirations, the passionate hopes of love to come, and the anticipation of her unknown future. Everything changed that morning. Her entire life had turned into a torn, crumpled, useless canvas.

***

Afterwards, in her room, Soumi smelled Karyo’s cologne. He had showered and was ready to go to work. Soumi felt nauseated. She heard Karyo leave, whistling as if nothing had happened.

Totally undone, Soumi rushed to the bathroom. She showered for a long time. She scrubbed her body over and over again as if she could never wash away the stain Karyo had left on her. But despite the endless streams of water, she could not rinse away the blotch in her heart.

Back in her room, Soumi pulled out her photo albums and scrapbooks. What good are these for? she thought, and she burned all her childhood pictures, her school diplomas, her identification card, and her birth certificate. Then she packed up what was left of her belongings, along with her heart. Soumi felt forced to leave the house she had lived in as a female, with her weaknesses and defeat.

“I don’t want to live as a female anymore!” Soumi declared to herself. “This world definitely doesn’t belong to women!”

Now Soumi would need a new identity. She considered disguising herself as a man, but she was disgusted by the male sexuality. “I don’t want to be a rapist like Karyo!” Soumi said firmly to herself. “Nor do I want to ever be raped by anyone again!”

For Soumi, the house had lost its protective meaning. She was no longer a part of the house’s story. She left a short message for her mother. “This is no longer home,” Soumi said, and, leaving the front door wide open, she left the house, as well as her sexual identity as a woman.

***

After trying to make a living in Malang and Surabaya, Soumi arrived in Yogyakarta. The charming city welcomed her. Soumi now had a masculine appearance. She wore her hair short and neat, and she used hair gel that made grooves in her freshly combed hair. She practiced self-defense with Thai boxing.

Soumi worked as a waitress in a modern restaurant. Her well-kept, almost delicate appearance made many people like her. She did her job well and was promoted. Soumi felt that life was finally on her side. But it all ended during the eighth month of the COVID pandemic. The restaurant could no longer survive the decreasing number of customers and the increasing cost. Soumi’s life fell apart together with the restaurant.

A year into the pandemic, Soumi stood in a long queue, drenched in perspiration. The ongoing COVID pandemic had depleted the last of her savings. She was now lined up to register for the cash subsidy the government was providing.

“Your name?” asked the unmasked officer from the Mergangsan District.

“Soumi.”

The bored officer looked up. “Really?”

“Yes, sir. My name is Soumi.” The officer scribbled on the registration form.

“Male or a female?” The officer scrutinized Soumi.

“Neither,” Soumi answered firmly.

The officer stopped writing. He leaned back in his chair with a righteous air. He took a deep breath, readying himself to deliver a long speech about the legal aspects of the gender entry on the government application form. A barrage of words burst from his mouth. His lecture started by pointing out the stated gender options on the registry form and went on to discuss the religious views on the matter. Bottom line, he said, Soumi had to choose between being male or female. Period!

Soumi filled out the form with difficulty. She didn’t want to remember the bitter past when she was a weak woman, but she did not refer to herself as a man either. She had affirmed to herself that she was neither man nor woman, and she had begun a fresh painting of herself on a new canvas. She felt comfortable with her new self — someone very different from her previous self, but still not a man, like Karyo, who was cruel and conceited.

“Your ID, please?” The official was losing patience with Soumi.

“I don’t have an ID. I only have the temporary resident registration card from the precinct.”

The officer abruptly ended Soumi’s application to survive. “Without a proper ID, you are not eligible for the subsidy.”

The official answers were always the same, wherever she went. She remembered the answers well from her attempts to obtain legal identity documents. Over and over again, sounding like a broken record, Soumi recited the list of the many international agreements that recognize the third gender, which is neither male nor female.

Soumi could solve the problem by obtaining relocation papers from the authorities in her former neighborhood. But for Soumi, that was impossible because Karyo still lived there and she didn’t want to face him — or her former self. The torn painting of her past should be left to deteriorate; Soumi was painting a new one.

“After you obtain the proper ID, you can come back and get the subsidy,” the official said bluntly and turned away. “Next in line!” he shouted.

***

In March 2021 it was five months that Soumi and her workmates had been laid off from their job at the restaurant. The pandemic had forced them to get creative to survive. The world was spinning so fast, it left its inhabitants behind. People were required to catch up with a world that had moved on without their consent, like a house that had abandoned its residents.

Soumi and her friends had depleted their savings. They tried to survive in various ways. Eating less was their first option. Soumi decided not to see the doctor when she had a fever and cough. Soumi moved to a smaller room. The boardinghouse was located in a secluded corner of a slum, but the rent was cheap. She tried to find any job she could get; her friends were doing the same. They either survived or perished.

One day, the friends all arranged to meet at the city park. The isolation necessitated by the pandemic had alienated them from one another. They needed to meet just to share their worries.

“What are you doing now, Gar?” Wulan asked Tegar. Like Soumi, she used to work as a waitress.

“I am selling betta fish, the Siamese fighting fish,” Tegar answered. He used to be the cashier. “Taking care of these small fish is cheap.”

“I make and deliver spring rolls, on order,” Wulan said.

Soumi was happy that her friends were doing their best to survive. During this pandemic, it was critical to do whatever was necessary to make enough to eat.

“Because money is so tight,” Wulan continued, “the children can’t have a vacation.”

“Yeah, we no longer have extra money for entertainment,” Tegar answered. “Our meager income is spread thin.”

“This month,” Wulan added, “we skipped breakfast, not because we eat a rich person’s diet, but to save money.”

Just as things were different for Wulan and Tegar, they were also different for Yanto. He had been the restaurant’s security guard. His athletic build had made him a good fit for the job, but, unfortunately, his immune system was not as strong as his body. He caught COVID and spent almost three weeks in the hospital. Yanto had to pawn his vehicle to pay the bills.

Their lives were in a no-win situation – if they didn’t work, they could not eat; if they did work, they risked catching COVID.

“How did it feel to have COVID, Yanto?” Tegar asked.

“Have you ever caught a really bad cold? Multiply that feeling by three, and you’ll get an idea of how it felt. First, you lose your sense of smell; then, you can’t breathe because your lungs are filled with phlegm. Unless you get oxygen, you suffocate and die.”

Tegar cringed. “Oh, gawd!”

Soumi walked over to Jamila. The cook at their former workplace sat alone, not engaging with the others.

“Hi, Jamila,” Soumi said. “What are you doing now?”

“I don’t have a job. It is difficult for someone my age to find a new job and start all over again.” Jamila, who had worked at the restaurant for more than ten years, lamented the situation. “We have witnessed how the restaurant where we worked lost its business.”

“But you can cook!” Soumi asserted. “The big businesses may have collapsed, but a small business might still have a chance to grow.”

“It is impossible; I need a lot of money.”

“Hey, don’t lose hope!” Soumi encouraged.

Instead of answering, Jamila went home.

The friends parted only to meet again one week later when they went to Jamila’s rented house to pay their last respects to her. The pandemic functioned as a sieve, separating the strong from the weak. Jamila was suffering from hepatitis C — and had been ever since she had been known as Jamal, an old bachelor.

***

Jamal had tried for many years to obtain a formal ID so that he would be eligible for the government’s health insurance subsidy to treat his hepatitis C. The treatment for his illness was expensive, and he could not afford to pay the medical expenses. The village chief had told him that it was quite possible to obtain a formal ID if Jamal would just check the box for “male” on the application.

“Your birth certificate states you are a male, right?” the village chief asked. “Just fill out the form according to the information on your birth certificate. After that, you can apply for health insurance.”

Jamal hesitated.

“Look,” the village chief sneered, “that thing hanging between your legs is a male sex organ — and you cannot hide your Adam’s apple either.”

But Jamal refused to accept his physical appearance. Since adolescence, he had never identified as a male. Jamal, the teenager, didn’t finish high school. He could not bear the bullying from his classmates and teachers. They called him banci — a fag.

His father often beat him, and his mother was powerless to protect him. His father could not accept Jamal’s effeminate behavior, and he believed that beating Jamal would toughen him up. If I beat him often, he’ll change and become a real man, the father thought.

But Jamal had no intention of ever being identified as a man, and he finally chose to leave home. Jamal was much more comfortable being known as Jamila. He felt better when he could cook wearing a loose long dress. He was lucky enough that he did not have to resort to becoming a prostitute. For decades, Jamila worked as a cook in small eating stalls and then moved as a chef from one restaurant to another. Jamila was an expert in mixing spices to bring out the best flavor of each component of the dish.

But now that Jamila had to depend on a government subsidy for her hepatitis C medication, she gave up. She could have obtained a formal ID as Jamal, a male, but fate had a different plan for her. Caught between gender identities, Jamila’s life quickly deteriorated. Death was the cheapest way out for a sick, unemployed, and desperate transgender.

***

At Jamila’s wake, Soumi reminisced about her friend. She had met Jamila in the restaurant, but their relationship was more meaningful than that of mere co-workers. Jamila enabled Soumi to move on with her life. Jamila had been a respected chef at the restaurant; she had been kind to her workmates and was like a good sister to Soumi, who had watched Jamila’s struggle to convince the government to acknowledge her choice of gender. Soumi also had watched Jamila racing against her disease’s progression, and losing the race. When Jamila finally gave in and chose the gender “male” stated on the government form, her disease had become acute.

But all through her struggle, Jamila had supported Soumi. She helped mend Soumi’s broken heart. She introduced Soumi to the transgender community and support systems. Soumi learned that God not only created night and day, but also dawn and dusk. Soumi and her friends were neither night nor day; they were people trapped inside mislabeled bodies. As individuals with conflicting identities, Soumi and her friends supported each other.

“Aren’t dawn and dusk making the universe more beautiful?” Jamila used to ask Soumi. “This world would be a dull place with only night and day.”

Soumi had taken Jamila’s words to heart when she started the new painting on the canvas of her life.

Jamila had stressed to Soumi that although the current world might not allow her to choose something other than being a man or a woman, she was still a human being who had the right to live as one of God’s creations, just like everyone else.

“I am a human being,” Soumi asserted to herself.

Soumi also remembered Jamila telling her, “There used to be transgender characters in the shadow puppet play.”

Really? Soumi had wondered then.

“The shadow puppet play simply reflects the condition of our society.” Jamila started to explain. “Men and women are both needed in this life,” Jamila said. “The character Batari Durga is indeed fearsome, but before that, she was as gentle as Dewi Uma.”

“Yes,” Soumi said softly, “Dewi Uma attained moksha and became the giantess Batari Durga to fight the lustful Batara Guru.”

Soumi had heard that story. The transformation of Dewi Uma had encouraged Soumi to become who she was now. While she rejected the weak female part of herself and tried to supplement it with the tough male part, Soumi didn’t automatically consider herself to be a man. Instead, she had slipped into the third gender to make herself comfortable with the way she felt now. She was prepared to defend herself should a Karyo attack her again.

“Everyone who lives on this earth is equal and must look after each other,” Jamila had concluded.

But Jamila’s aspiration was not fulfilled until her death. Her friends carried her body from one village to another, trying to find a village cemetery that would accept a transgender for burial. Most villages considered having a transgender buried in their cemetery a stigma. Finally, the friends found a village on the outskirts of Yogyakarta, bordering Bantul, that allowed them to bury Jamila in their cemetery. They were charged an exorbitant fee, which they had collected with great difficulty from their financially-strapped transgender friends.

***

“Ew, that’s a lot of money!” exclaimed Shinta, a transgender who worked as a prostitute near the Kalasan intersection. “Does it cost that much just to bury a dead body?”

The pandemic had put a financial burden on everyone. Most transgenders had to work in the service sector. When people’s incomes decreased, they cut their spending on luxuries first. People cut back on personal grooming. Pleasure seekers didn’t have enough money to pay the transgender prostitutes. There was no small change for transgender buskers.

“Aw, don’t be such a tight ass; this is for our sister Jamila,” Diana retorted, trying to keep Shinta from being stingy while she was collecting money for Jamila’s burial.

“I haven’t been able to hook up with a john for a long time,” Shinta whined.

“Oh, I don’t believe you. How much do you charge for a trick?” Dewi asked.

“It is COVID, dear, I’m having a sale.” Shinta handed over some crumpled bills.

Dewi grabbed Shinta’s money. “Go get some subsidy; the government is handing out six hundred thousand!”

“No subsidy for me, dear,” Shinta sighed. “I don’t even have an ID.”

“Ah, first you must be cured from being a queer, then you can get an ID,” Dewi shrugged.

“Yeah, who says that being a queer is a disease that has to be cured?” Shinta asked, sarcastically. “The social service says that being queer is a social disease.”

Soumi, listening to the conversation at the wake, thought, Social disease, huh …

Soumi had learned from Jamila that this attitude was the root of the problem. As long as the third gender was considered an aberration, the fate of the other Jamal–Jamilas would stay the same. All they actually needed was recognition and acceptance.

Soumi repeated Jamila’s words: “The dawn and dusk do not last long; therefore, they who are not born as day or night are limited in number.”

But that doesn’t mean we can be persecuted. Soumi’s spirits rose. “I will be like Jamila; I will spend the rest of my life striving for justice.”

Soumi remembered Jamila telling her that a tradition in Bugis, Sulawesi, recognizes five equal genders in society. In addition to man and woman, there is calalai, a woman who has the role of a man in society. There is calabai, a man who has the role of a woman. The fifth gender, bissu, is neither male nor female. Although tradition recognizes these five genders, today, many contest it.

Suddenly, Soumi heard Jamila’s voice: “People just do not understand.” It was so clear, she almost could see Jamila smiling at her.

“Jamila …” Soumi said, softly.

“Keep spreading this awareness.” Jamila’s voice continued.

“I will do it for the rest of my life,” Soumi promised.

“We are all created equal,” Jamila declared before her shadow faded away.

Soumi was overcome with her loss of Jamila, who had failed to make peace with society. With her eyes burning and tears running down her cheeks, Soumi looked at Jamila’s corpse, waiting to be buried. Soumi whispered, “Jamila, I know that you wanted to die as a woman and you did.”

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

Horas, Ibu!

Reni Renatawati adalah seorang mahasiswi sastra Inggris dari Universitas Kristen Satya Wacana Salatiga. Lahir pada 6 Januari 2001 di Pasar Rebo, Jakarta, Reni adalah keturunan dari dua suku yang berbeda; Batak dan Jawa. Sebagai seseorang yang senang mendengarkan lagu, menggambar, dan membaca buku karya penulis Indonesia maupun luar negeri, Reni memiliki impian untuk menjadi seorang penulis profesional yang membahas dan menguak tentang kebudayaan, dan permasalahan sosial yang terjadi di Indonesia melalui karya sastra rekaan yang berdasarkan atas penelitian. Tujuan utama dari impian yang diutarakan adalah agar membuka mata rakyat Indonesia mengenai kebudayaan, termasuk juga dengan permasalahan yang ada di kemasyarakatan Indonesia.

Reni dapat dihubungi di renirenataharianja16@gmail.com

 

 

 

Horas, Ibu!

 

Hembusan semilir angin senja memainkan rambut Jakob yang mulai memutih. Kedua netranya menatap nanar tanah merah tempat ibunya dikubur. Sudah lewat duabelas tahun, sejak kematian ibunya, dan limabelas tahun tanpa kehadiran kedua saudaranya yang lenyap di tanah orang karena beralasan mau mengadu untung dan nasib. Kedua saudaranya yang pergi ke tanah Jawa dan menghilang dari Siborong-borong, kampungnya di Sumatera Utara, kini berdiri di samping Jakob, menatap kubur ibu mereka dengan khidmat sembari membiarkan para tukang gali kubur membongkar kubur dan peti mati ibunya.

Di tanah batak, adalah hal wajar untuk keluarga melakukan upacara kematian bagi para leluhur, termasuk kepada orang tua yang telah lama meninggal dengan memindahkan tulang belulang mereka ke tempat yang lebih baik dari sebelumnya. Maksud dari adat ini adalah untuk menghormati mereka. Saat itu pula, seluruh sanak saudara haruslah kembali dari perantauan ke kampung halaman untuk mempersiapkan upacara, seperti yang sedang terjadi pada keluarga Jakob dan kedua abangnya.

***

Dua bulan yang lalu, saat Jakob dan istrinya hendak berjualan di pasar, kedua abangnya tiba-tiba muncul di halaman rumahnya. Walau waktu itu matahari belum tampak, tetapi Jakob bisa melihat wajah kedua abangnya yang secerah mentari. Ketika istri Jakob menyambut mereka ramah, Jakob membeku di ambang pintu. Dia baru tersadar ketika istrinya menggoyangkan bahunya dan memintanya untuk segera memotong babi peliharaan mereka untuk dijadikan jamuan. Meskipun Jakob melakukan apa yang diminta istrinya dan menerima kedua abang beserta keluarga mereka masuk, hatinya meneriakkan kata tidak suka dengan kedatangan mereka.

Ketidaksukaan Jakob pada abang-abangnya itu bukan tanpa alasan. Saat kedua abangnya memutuskan untuk pergi hampir dua dasawarsa yang lalu, ibu sedang sekarat dimakan penyakit. Dan seakan mengejek harapannya, ibunya yang mati-matian bertahan hidup akhirnya pergi tanpa pamit dalam tidur. Tidak memiliki uang yang cukup, Jakob menguburkan ibunya di belakang rumah dengan acara sederhana, tanpa kehadiran kedua abangnya.

Tiga hari setelah kedatangan dua abangnya, saat matahari telah lama terbenam dan seluruh keluarga mereka sudah tertelan mimpi, tiga pria masih terjaga dibawah rona lampu teplok. Tidak ada sepatah katapun yang keluar dari bibir mereka sampai akhirnya abang tertua, amang Lamsihar menghembuskan napas panjang sambil menatap Jakob lekat-lekat. “Kami sudah mendengar soal ibu,” katanya pelan, “Dia dikubur dimana, Jakob?”

Jakob tidak segera menjawab. Buta karena amarah dan kesedihan, dia kembali menatap kedua abangnya dan menarik napas dalam-dalam, seakan enggan untuk memberitahukan keberadaan ibunya. Tapi dalam hatinya, Jakob sadar kalau kedua abangnya juga berhak untuk mengetahui keberadaan ibu mereka. Mau bagaimanapun keadaan mereka dan dirinya, mereka adalah keluarga. Pada akhirnya, Jakob menghembuskan napas perlahan, dan memberitahu mereka bahwa dia di kubur di belakang rumah.

“Kenapa ibu dikuburkan di sana?” tanya amang Ruhut, “Bukankah dulu ibu pernah bilang kalau dia ingin dikuburkan di antara leluhur kita?”

Mendengar perkataan amang Ruhut, hati Jakob serasa diiris pisau tumpul. Dia berusaha mengatupkan bibirnya serapat mungkin. Jakob mulai tertawa lirih, tetapi masih cukup terdengar oleh kedua abangnya yang menatapnya bingung. Dalam hati kecilnya, Jakob berharap kalau abangnya mengerti kesusahan dan sakit hati yang dicicipinya saat pemakaman ibunya terjadi.

“Hatiku sakit melihat kalian berdua,” tutur Jakob sambil mengepalkan kedua tangannya, berusaha mengendalikan rasa perih di hatinya yang kembali muncul, tetapi gagal ketika dia kembali menatap kedua abangnya dengan netranya yang memerah dan berkaca-kaca. “Abang bisa saja makmur di tanah Jawa. Punya uang, punya jabatan, punya keluarga yang sejahtera, tapi rasanya sekarang semuanya percuma saja.”

“Apa maksudmu, Jakob?” tanya amang Lamsihar dengan suara bergetar.

“Buat apa uang sebanyak pasir lautan, jabatan setinggi awan kalau kalian tidak pernah mendengar ratapan ibu?” Sambarnya pedas, “Jujur saja aku heran dengan ibu yang menangisi dua orang yang melupakan keluarganya di kampung.”

Jakob melihat air muka amang Ruhut yang mengeras, sementara amang Lamsihar hanya terdiam dengan lekukan memilukan menghiasi wajahnya yang keriput. Tidak ingin menuang minyak ke dalam api, Jakob berdiri tanpa mengatakan apapun dan meninggalkan kedua abangnya dalam kesunyian.

Sesampainya di kamar tidur, istri Jakob yang mengetahui sikap Jakob terhadap kedua abangnya berusaha menenangkan suaminya. Dia mengatakan bahwa ibu mertuanya tak akan senang dengan sikap Jakob yang terkesan kekanak-kanakan, dan tidak mau mendengarkan kedua abangnya yang sudah datang jauh-jauh demi melihat ibu mereka yang sudah tiada. “Adalah salah kalau kau mengusir mereka, Pak,” katanya selembut kain satin, “Jangan lupa, kalau kalian itu saudara satu darah dan ibu.”

“Lantas kenapa?” tanya Jakob sembari menggelengkan kepalanya, “Aku bukan marah karena mereka pergi ke Jawa demi memperbaiki keuangan mereka. Aku marah karena tidak sekalipun mereka pulang untuk menjenguk ibu. Dan sekarang, setelah ibu sudah mati selama dua belas tahun, mereka baru datang? Sudah tidak ada gunanya lagi keberadaan mereka disini.”

Tak mengatakan apapun, istrinya duduk di samping suaminya dan mengelus-elus pundaknya.

“Pak,” sanggah istrinya, “sadarkah kamu kalau apa yang baru saja kau katakan itu jahat? Janganlah hatimu jadi gelap karena ketidaktahuanmu itu.”

Jakob diam seribu bahasa sementara istrinya melanjutkan, “Bukalah hatimu, Pak. Beri mereka kesempatan dan waktu, itu saja.” Ujar istrinya meyakinkan.

***

Paginya, Jakob tengah bersiap untuk memberi makan ternak ketika tanpa sengaja dia melihat kedua abangnya yang tengah mengisap tembakau di depan rumah sambil menyesap kopi hitam yang masih mengepul. Sayup-sayup, Jakob dapat mendengar apa yang tengah mereka bicarakan. Dia tidak dapat mempercayai telinganya ketika amang Ruhut mengangkat suaranya, menyatakan penyesalannya karena tidak pulang kampung lebih cepat.

“Aku hanya bisa berandai, Bang,” ucapnya lesu, “seandainya aku pulang lebih cepat, mungkin aku masih bisa bertemu ibu. Dan mungkin saja Jakob tidak semarah ini.”

Jakob termenung. Ucapan amang Ruhut terus menerus berputar dalam kepalanya tanpa henti. Namun Jakob menggelengkan kepalanya dan pergi dari tempatnya berdiri tanpa memiliki niat untuk membuka hati. Rasa sakit hatinya sudah terlalu dalam menguasai dirinya.

Selepas memberi makan babi dan ayam peliharaannya, Jakob berjalan sembari mengenang ibunya. Pikirannya sekalut hatinya.

Saat Jakob melihat sekitarnya, dia sudah berdiri di samping kuburan ibunya dibelakang rumahnya. Jakob menatap kuburan ibunya sambil menghela napas panjang sebelum tersenyum kecil. Dia merasa kalau ibunyalah yang membawa dia kemari.

“Bu, ini anakmu, Jakob,” sapanya dalam hening, “Maaf kalau beberapa hari ini aku tidak bisa datang menjenguk.”

Jakob menceritakan kepada ibunya yang berada di langit bahwa kedua abangnya sudah kembali dari tanah Jawa setelah lama menghilang ditelan waktu dan bumi. Dia juga menceritakan keluh kesah yang tersembunyi dalam hatinya yang tidak memiliki kesempatan untuk berbicara.

“Entahlah Bu,” desahnya lirih, “Rasanya sudah tidak ada lagi yang benar dalam diriku ini,” katanya sambil menatap langit biru. “Aku merasa… apa yang aku lakukan ini tidaklah benar.”

Tidak ada yang menjawab selain suara tawa keponakannya dari dalam rumah. Jakob mengerjapkan kedua matanya beberapa kali sebelum menghela napas panjang sembari mengusap wajahnya yang sekasar pasir dengan gusar. Batinnya lelah. Sungguh, dia berharap ibunya dapat berbicara kepadanya sekarang dan memberikan sebuah petunjuk atau apapun. Namun kenyataan bahwa ibunya tidak lagi akan bisa membantu, menamparnya keras. Pada akhirnya, Jakob memutuskan untuk kembali masuk ke rumah tanpa mendapatkan jawaban dari siapapun.

***

Malamnya, Jakob terbangun dari tidurnya dan tidak bisa mempercayai matanya. Dia yakin sekali kalau semalam dia jatuh tertidur di dalam kamarnya dan bukannya di alam terbuka. Terlebih, yang membuat Jakob bergegas bangkit berdiri dari pembaringan adalah keberadaan ibunya yang tengah duduk bersila di sampingnya. Seakan mengajaknya untuk menari, rumput dihadapannya bergoyang dengan gemulai. Rambut ibunya yang digelung rapi dan mulai berwarna seputih tulang tersisir oleh angin. Ibunya menatap Jakob hangat dan tidak mengatakan apapun sambil menepuk tanah di sampingnya, meminta Jakob untuk duduk. Ragu-ragu, Jakob duduk di sebelah ibunya dengan kaku.

Tak ada yang berbicara di antara mereka untuk waktu yang cukup lama. Jakob sibuk dengan pikirannya yang mulai meracau. Dia sama sekali tidak tahu apakah ini tanda petaka, atau petunjuk dari Tuhan.

“Jakob,” panggil ibunya, “Bagaimana kabarmu?”

Jakob terdiam. Belum pernah dia mendengar suara ibunya yang sehalus sutera, bahkan ketika ibunya masih hidup. Mati-matian Jakob berusaha menahan tangis dengan mengangguk-anggukan kepalanya.

Ibunya mengelus pucuk kepala anaknya. Terlihat jelas guratan kebahagiaan terpancar dari wajahnya. “Bagus, bagus,” ibunya terus mengatakan hal yang sama sembari membiarkan Jakob tidur bertumpu pada pangkuannya, “Ibu lihat, kedua abang mu sudah pulang, ya.”

Jakob mengangguk dalam diam dan menutup kedua matanya, menikmati sentuhan kasih ibunya yang sudah lama tiada.

“Ibu senang sekali saat akangmu pulang setelah sekian lama tinggal di tanah Jawa,” ucapnya bahagia sebelum menatap netra Jakob dengan matanya yang bersinar, “Ibu lihat anak-anakmu dan anak kedua akangmu baik-baik.”

Jakob hanya mengangguk.

“Jakob, anakku,” lanjutnya, “Kenapa dengan hatimu, Nak?”

Jakob tercengang mendengar ibunya. Dia benar-benar tidak menyangka kalau ibunya mendengar perkataannya pagi tadi. Ingin rasanya dirinya bangkit dan membela dirinya, tapi bagai tersihir, tubuhnya tidak menuruti kemauannya.

“Mendengar perkataanmu pagi tadi, aku jadi teringat saat kamu berusaha membela keluarga kita empatbelas tahun lalu,” katanya sambil tertawa renyah.

Perkataan ibunya membuat Jakob teringat saat dirinya melemparkan tinju ke wajah salah satu pedagang yang dikenalnya di pasar. Sesungguhnya, Jakob tidak ingin menimbulkan kekacauan, tapi cibiran pedagang itu pada keluarganya membuat dirinya lepas kendali.

“Mana ada keluarga yang lupa akan kedudukannya!” serunya pada Jakob, “Tak pernahkah ibumu mengajari soal itu? Atau memang benar kalau sudah tak ada adat di keluargamu dengan mengizinkan akangmu pergi merantau dan membiarkan mereka melupakan dari mana mereka berasal?”

Hari itu pula, ibunya berkali-kali berlutut meminta maaf kepada seluruh orang di pasar karena keributan yang berkesan kekanakan yang dilakukan Jakob.

“Apa yang kau lakukan ke pedagang itu sama dengan apa yang kau lakukan pada kedua akangmu,” tuturnya, “Kau tidak mau mendengarkan kedua akangmu dan terlalu berpaku pada sakit hatimu.”

“Lalu aku harus apa?” tanya Jakob lemas, “Bukannya sudah terlambat buat mereka untuk melihat ibu?”

“Mereka kemari bukan tanpa alasan,” jawab ibunya sabar, “Ingat apa yang pernah istrimu katakan beberapa malam lalu?”

“Ya. Dia memintaku untuk membuka hatiku,” jawab Jakob sambil menahan tangis.

“Kalau begitu, lakukanlah,” kata ibunya sambil mengusap rambut Jakob yang seputih tulang, “Ibu yakin, mereka datang untuk kebaikan kalian bertiga.”

Jakob mengangguk lemah. Rasa berat di hatinya kini sirna terbawa angin saat air mata mengalir deras dari kedua matanya dan membasahi pakaian ibunya yang tertawa sambil menepuk-nepuk bahu Jakob.

“Janganlah menangisi aku, Nak,” hiburnya, “Tangisilah hatimu, dan ingat kalau tidak ada kata terlambat untuk meminta maaf.” Ibunya kini bangkit berdiri dan mulai berjalan menjauhi Jakob yang termenung menatap punggung ringkih ibunya yang semakin menjauh dan menghilang terbawa angin.

Jakob menutup kedua matanya, membiarkan air mata yang menggenangi kedua pelupuk matanya mengalir melintasi pipinya yang tirus sebelum terbangun dari tidurnya.

Istrinya yang tidur di sebelahnya terbangun. Dia mendapati suaminya yang duduk di ranjang, gemetaran dengan wajah seputih kertas. “Ada apa, Pak?” tanya istrinya sambil mengusap pelan pungung Jakob yang berkeringat.

“Aku tidak apa,” jawab Jakob dengan suara bergetar, “Hanya, mendapat sebuah pencerahan.”

***

Lepas beberapa hari, seluruh keluarga dari Jakob dan kedua abangnya berkumpul di ruang tengah. Jakob sendiri duduk diam sambil sesekali menghisap tembakau saat abangnya membenarkan tempat duduknya dan mulai berbicara mengenai alasan mereka pulang kampung. “Abang sudah membicarakan ini dengan amang Ruhut jauh sebelum kami sekeluarga berencana untuk datang, dan Ruhut beserta keluarga bersedia ikut serta,” ujar amang Lamsihar, “Akan tetapi Jakob, adat ini tidak akan bisa dilakukan tanpa restu darimu juga.”

Jakob menatap lurus amang Lamsihar. Meskipun dia paham akan adat yang dimaksud oleh kedua abangnya, rasa penasarannya memadamkan bara amarah yang tersisa dalam hatinya. “Apa maksud abang berdua?” tanyanya sebelum dia bisa menguasai bibirnya.

“Kami mau minta keikutsertaan dari keluargamu untuk memindahkan tulang belulang ibu ke tempat yang lebih baik.” balas amang Lamsihar, “Itulah alasan kami datang di saat yang bersamaan.”

“Kami tahu mungkin sudah terlambat bagi kami untuk bisa melihat ibu,” sambung amang Ruhut sambil tersenyum sendu, “Tapi hanya inilah yang bisa kami lakukan, setidaknya agar beliau bisa memiliki tempat peristirahatan yang lebih layak.”

Isak tangis terdengar dari bibir Jakob, diiringi dengan air mata yang mengalir semakin deras. Kedua abangnya terkejut melihat tangisan Jakob dan menanyakan ada apa gerangan. Jakob mengutarakan segala yang ada di dalam hatinya selama ini, terutama amarah yang menguasai dirinya. Berkali-kali Jakob membungkukan badan hingga kepalanya nyaris menyentuh lantai, memohon pengampunan dari kedua abang dan keluarganya.

“Jakob, janganlah membungkuk,” sambar amang Ruhut, “Kami juga sama bersalahnya dengan dirimu. Biarlah kita memperbaiki apa yang rusak, diawali dengan memindahkan ibu ke tempat yang lebih baik.”

Pagi itu, kabut yang seakan menutupi rumah kini lenyap, diganti dengan rona hangat matahari.

***

“Horas! Horas! Horas!” seru para penggali kubur, menandakan tulang ibu si empunya acara telah ditemukan. Jakob bersama abang-abangnya segera membalas seruan yang bermakna doa ucapan syukur itu. Mereka sudah siap dengan kain putih di tangan masing-masing untuk menerima tulang ibu mereka. Mereka membawa tumpukan tulang ibunya ke tempat yang telah disediakan untuk dibersihkan dengan air campuran kunyit dan jeruk nipis.

Saat Jakob membersihkan tulang ibunya, perkataan ibunya menghampiri pikirannya. Terngiang di telinganya suara ibunya yang lembut, yang menyibakkan tabir amarah yang menyelubungi mata hatinya. Satu-satunya suara yang membimbing hati Jakob keluar dari ketersesatan di kekelaman. Air mata kelegaan meleleh dari pelupuk mata Jakob.

*****

Rest in Peace, Mother!

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si KuncungBobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

 

Rest in Peace, Mother!

 

The late afternoon breeze ruffled Jakob’s graying hair. He stared at the red earth of his mother’s grave. Twelve years had gone by since his mother’s passing, and fifteen years without the presence of his two brothers, who had left Siborong-borong, their village in North Sumatra, to seek their fortune in Java. Now, the two brothers stood beside Jakob, gazing solemnly at their mother’s grave while the gravediggers unearthed her coffin.

One of the Batak customs is to honor deceased ancestors, including those who died long ago, by moving their bones to a better burial place and holding a proper funeral ceremony. On such occasions, all relatives had to come home to prepare for the ceremony, and this was now happening in Jakob’s family.

***

 

Two months ago, when Jakob and his wife were about to leave their house to sell some produce at the market, his two brothers and their families suddenly appeared in his front yard. Even though the sun had not yet risen, Jakob could see his two brothers were as cheerful as the sun. While Jakob’s wife greeted them kindly, Jakob stood frozen in the doorway. He only returned to reality when his wife shook his shoulder and asked him to go slaughter one of their pigs to prepare a welcome feast. Although Jakob did as his wife asked and invited his two brothers and their families to come in, he spurned their arrival.

Jakob’s anger with his brothers was not without reason. When his two brothers decided to leave home fifteen years ago, their mother was suffering from a severe illness. Despite Jakob’s hopes and her desperate attempts to survive, their mother died in her sleep without saying goodbye. Not having enough money for a proper burial, Jakob buried his mother in his back yard with a simple ceremony, without the presence of his two brothers.

Now, three days after the arrival of his two brothers, after the sun had long set and the other family members were fast asleep, the three brothers sat by the light of the oil lamp. They were silent, until finally Lamsihar, the eldest brother, sighed. “We heard about Mother’s passing,” he said quietly. “Where did you bury her, Jakob?”

Jakob did not answer immediately. Consumed by anger and sadness, he looked silently at his brothers. As if reluctant to reveal the location of their mother’s grave, Jakob took a deep breath. Deep in his heart, Jakob knew that his two brothers had the right to know this information, and that despite their circumstances, they were still family. Jakob sighed, “Our mother is buried in the back yard.”

“Why did you bury Mother there?” asked Ruhut, the middle brother. “Didn’t she say that she wanted to be buried among our ancestors?”

His brothers looked at him, confused.

Jakob wanted his brothers to understand the heartache he had experienced at their mother’s makeshift funeral. “It hurts me to look at the two of you,” Jakob said, clenching his fists. He tried to control the pain in his heart, but couldn’t. Looking at his two brothers with red teary eyes, he said, “Perhaps you succeeded in making your fortune in Java — you have money, you have position, your families are privileged — but now all of that seems pointless.”

“What do you mean, Jakob?” asked Lamsihar in a trembling voice.

“What’s the use of owning as much money as there is sand on the beach, and holding a position as high as the clouds, if you never listened to Mother’s crying?” Jakob snapped. “Honestly, it always surprised me why Mother cried for two men who had deserted their family.”

Jakob saw Ruhut’s jaw set, while Lamsihar remained silent, a sad curve settling on his wrinkled face. Not wanting to add any more fuel to the fire, Jakob rose and, without saying anything, left his two brothers.

In their bedroom, Jakob’s wife tried to calm him. She knew how her husband felt toward his brothers. Nonetheless she told him that his mother would not be happy with his childish attitude and his refusal to listen to his two brothers. Afterall, they had come from far away to see their deceased mother. “It would be wrong for you to throw them out, dear,” she said softly. “Remember that you are blood brothers.”

“So what?” Jakob shook his head angrily. “It doesn’t bother me that they went to Java to better their financial situation; it bothers me that they not once came home to see Mother. And now, they come twelve years after she died? There’s no point in having them here anymore.”

Jakob’s wife sat down beside her husband and caressed his shoulder. “Darling,” she soothed, “don’t you realize that what you just said is evil? Don’t close your heart because of your ignorance.”

Jakob remained silent.

His wife continued reassuringly, “Open your heart, dear. Just give them a chance and time. That’s all.”

***

 

The next morning, Jakob was preparing to feed the livestock when, by chance, he saw his two brothers smoking in front of the house while sipping their hot, black coffee. He could faintly hear their conversation and couldn’t believe it when he heard Ruhut loudly regret not returning home sooner.

“If only,” Ruhut said wearily to his brother, “I had come home earlier, I might have seen Mother, and maybe Jakob wouldn’t be so angry.”

Jakob contemplated Ruhut’s words echoing in his mind. Then, shaking his head, Jakob was again consumed by resentment and continued on without any intention of forgiving his brothers.

After feeding his cattle, pigs, and chickens, Jakob paced aimlessly around, thinking about his mother and feeling troubled. He soon found himself standing beside his mother’s grave in the garden behind his house. Jakob stared at his mother’s resting place and exhaled a long sigh. Smiling a little, he felt that it was his mother who had brought him here.

“Mother, here’s your son Jakob,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t visit you for a few days.” Jakob told his mother that his two brothers had returned from Java after having been gone for a long time. He also told her about the grievances he carried in his heart.

“I don’t know, Mother,” he sighed softly. “I don’t think I’m a good person.” Looking up at the blue sky, he continued, “I feel that what I’m doing is not right.”

No one answered. There was only the sound of his nephews’ laughter from inside the house. Jakob blinked a few times before taking another deep breath. Irritated, he ran a hand across his weathered face. He was tired and fervently wished that his mother could talk to him now and advise him. Realizing once again that his mother was not available to help, upset him. Finally, Jakob turned to go home, even though no one had answered his questions.

***

 

Later that night, Jakob woke up and couldn’t believe his eyes. There was his mother, sitting cross-legged beside him. The grasses in front of them swayed gracefully as if tempting her to dance. Jakob was sure he had fallen asleep in his room and not outdoors, but he rushed to get up. His mother’s hair was neatly tied back and had started to turn as white as ivory. The wind sifted playfully through the strands. She looked at Jakob warmly and patted the ground beside her.

Hesitating, Jakob stiffly sat down next to his mother.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Jakob was preoccupied with his jumbled thoughts. He had absolutely no idea if this was a sign of disaster, or a sign from God.

“Jakob, how are you?” his mother asked.

Jacob remained silent. He had never heard his mother speak with such a silken voice, even when she was still alive. Nodding his head, Jakob desperately tried to hold back his tears.

Jakob’s mother caressed the top of his head. Happily, she said, “It is all right; things are good.” While motioning Jakob to lay his head on her lap, she said, “I know that your two brothers have come home.”

Jakob nodded. He closed his eyes and enjoyed his mother’s loving touch that he had missed so much.

“I’m very happy to see your brothers have come home after living in Java for such a long time,” Jakob’s mother continued cheerfully. Her eyes sparkled. “I see that your children and your brothers’ children are doing well.”

When Jacob nodded without commenting, his mother continued, “Jakob, what’s wrong with you, Son?”

Jakob was surprised. He had not expected that his mother had heard him talking to her that morning. He wanted to lift his head and defend himself, but somehow, he couldn’t.

“What you said this morning reminded me of the time you tried to defend our family fourteen years ago.” Jakob could hear the smile in her voice. He remembered that day in the market when he punched a shopkeeper he knew in the face. Jakob had not meant to cause any trouble, but had lost his temper when the man insulted his family.

“How can one forget his family?” the shopkeeper had yelled at Jakob. “Didn’t your mother ever teach your brothers about that? Or does your family no longer uphold any tradition and thus allows your brothers to leave and forget their homeland?”

On that day, his mother repeatedly knelt to apologize to everyone in the market for the childish commotion Jakob had caused.

“What you did to that shopkeeper back then is the same as what you’re doing to your two brothers now,” she said. “You don’t want to listen to your two brothers because your anger won’t let you.”

“Then, what should I do?” asked Jakob miserably. “Isn’t it too late for them to visit you, Mother?”

“They’re not here without reason,” his mother answered patiently. “Remember what your wife said a few days ago?”

“Yes,” replied Jakob, holding back his tears. “She asked me to open my heart.”

“Then listen to her,” his mother said, stroking Jakob’s graying hair. “I’m sure your brothers came for the good of the three of you.”

Jakob nodded in relief. He no longer felt burdened. He burst out crying, wetting his mother’s clothes with his tears. His mother laughed and patted Jakob’s shoulder.

“Don’t cry for me, my child,” she comforted. “Cry for yourself. Remember that it’s never too late to make amends.” Jakob sat up as his mother rose. He watched his mother’s frail back slowly disappear in the wind.

Jakob closed his eyes. When he opened them, he was in his own bed with tears flowing down his hollow cheeks.

His wife, asleep next to him, woke up. Gently rubbing Jakob’s damp back, she felt him shaking and saw his ashen face. “What’s the matter, Jakob?”

“I’m fine,” Jakob replied in a quivering voice. “I’ve just had some revelations.”

***

 

A few days later, Jakob and his two brothers gathered in the living room with their families. Jakob sat quietly, occasionally taking a drag of his cigarette, as Lamsihar adjusted his seat and started talking about the reason for coming home. “I discussed this situation with Ruhut long before we planned to visit,” Lamsihar said. “Ruhut and his family were willing to join us. Still, Jakob, it is not possible to perform this funeral ceremony without your consent.”

Jakob looked evenly at Lamsihar. Although he knew about the custom his two brothers were talking about, his curiosity about their sincerity snuffed the last of the burning embers of anger he still carried in his heart. “What do you two mean?” he asked.

“We would like to ask your family to participate in moving Mother’s remains to a more suitable place,” replied Lamsihar. “That’s why we all came home together.”

“We knew that it was too late for us to see Mother,” Ruhut added, with a sad smile. “But this is the only thing we can do at least Mother can have a better resting place.”

Jakob began to sob.

His two brothers were shocked by Jakob’s reaction. Jakob confessed that anger had taken the better of him all this time. Bowing several times until his head almost touched the floor, he begged for forgiveness from his two brothers and their families.

“Jakob, stop it, please!” Ruhut exclaimed. “We are just as guilty as you are. Now, let us fix what is broken, starting with relocating Mother’s grave to a better place.”

That morning, the fog that usually covered the house was gone. It was replaced by the warm glow of the sun.

***

 

“Horas! Horas! Horas!” the gravediggers called out, signaling they had found the bones of Jakob’s mother. Jakob immediately joined his two brothers in responding to the call which meant a prayer of thanksgiving. The three brothers stood, holding white cloths in their hands, ready to receive their mother’s bones.

They carried the bones to the place they had prepared, and cleaned them with a mixture of turmeric and lime juice.

While Jakob cleaned the bones, he recalled his mother’s words. Her gentle voice had removed the shroud of anger that had covered him. Hers was the only voice that had been able to guide him out of the darkness. Tears of joy streamed from Jakob’s eyes.

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

Hikayat Jarot di Agustusan

Han Gagas lahir di Ponorogo, 21 Oktober 1977. Dia alumni jurusan geodesi UGM Yogyakarta. Cerpennya dimuat media massa seperti Horison, Kompas, Tempo, Republika, dan Suara Merdeka. Karyanya yang terbit, diantaranya novel Orang-orang Gila (Buku Mojok, 2018). Novelnya Balada Sepasang Kekasih Gila pemenang lomba Falcon Script Hunt 2020 akan difilmkan Falconpicture dan catatan pengalamannya selama tinggal di Yerusalem berjudul Adzan di Israel akan diterbitkan Penerbit Gading pada akhir tahun 2021.

Karya terbarunya, kumpulan cerpen Sepasang Mata Gagak di Yerusalem diterbitkan Penerbit Interlude pada bulan Juni, 2021.

Saat ini tinggal di Solo, Jawa Tengah, selain menulis juga mengelola media daring Nongkrong.co

Penulis dapat dihubungi melalui surel: han.gagas@gmail.com

***

 

 

Hikayat Jarot di Agustusan

 

Para penghuni kolong jembatan sebagian masih terlelap; sebagian ngopi, sebagian yang lain mancing dan menjaring ikan. Ada pula yang mendengarkan siaran radio, “Pidato Kemerdekaan oleh Bapak Presiden, dilanjutkan lagu kebangsaan Indonesia Raya.”

Jarot sedang membangun bedeng untuk tempat tinggalnya. Saat matanya melihat gitar bas terapung mengalir di arus sungai, dia berlari mengambil. Jarot membersihkan, dan mulai memperbaikinya.

Jarot mau ngamen dengan gitar bas itu buat cari uang. Dia membuat senar dari ban dalam sepeda, dan memasangkannya. Dia coba memetik dan berbunyi “dung-dung-dung.”

Jarot mulai bernyanyi menjajal gitar, sebuah lagu didendangkan:

Di sini senang, di sana senang. Di mana-mana hatiku senang. Lalalalalalala, lalalalalala, lalalala, lalalalalaa, lalalalala, lalalala….

***

Jarot menenteng gitar bas memasuki perkampungan yang penuh bendera merah putih, umbul-umbul terpasang di tepi jalan, berjajar-jajar, semarak karena Agustusan, perayaan kemerdekaan. Dia mendekati sebuah rumah dan mulai menyanyi.

Halo-halo Bandung, ibu kota Periangan. Halo-halo Bandung, kota kenang-kenangan, sudah lama beta… tidak berjumpa dengan kau, sekarang telah menjadi lautan api, mari bung rebut kembali!

Jarot bernyanyi dengan gegap gempita, hingga banyak orang yang mendengar pada senyum-senyum sendiri.

“Edan, ngamen pakai lagu kebangsaan, hehehe,” terdengar suara seseorang.

Jarot juga menyanyi lagu Indonesia Raya, suaranya semangat penuh seluruh.

“Indonesia Tanah Airku/Tanah Tumpah Darahku/Di sanalah aku berdiri jadi pandu ibuku/ Indonesia-kebangsaanku/Bangsa dan tanah airku/Marilah kita berseru/Indonesia bersatu.”

Banyak orang yang mendengar jadi turut menyanyi, terutama pada kalimat, Indonesia bersatu! Seruan itu menggetarkan dan mengobarkan semangat semua terlecut sifat kebangsaannya bahkan beberapa anak mulai mengekornya saat mengamen.

Orang-orang tua, yang dimulai oleh seorang mantan pejuang kemerdekaan yang berbaju coklat, juga ikut. Jadinya mulai banyak orang-orang tua termasuk emak-emak turut mengekor Jarot.

Sambil menyanyi makin semangat, Jarot mengamen dari rumah ke rumah, termasuk kios-kios dan toko.

Semua yang mengekor ikut menyanyi bagai paduan suara jalanan yang penuh gelora. Bulan Agustus, bulan perayaan kemerdekaan Republik Indonesia, ini tahun terasa lebih ramai dan semangat. Sebagian warga segera mengenakan pakaian terbaik yang mereka miliki, sebagian lain mengambil ember untuk suara tabuhan. Suara Jarot dan paduan suara jalanan itu makin menggetarkan bendera merah putih dan baliho yang berkibar-kibar di seantero jalanan.

Saat menemukan bendera berkibar di depan SD, Jarot berhenti dan berteriak, “Siiiiiiaaaaaaappppp! Graaaakkkk!!” Orang-orang tua yang mengekornya, termasuk anak-anak turut berdiri dalam keadaan siap.

“Kepada bendera merah putih, hormaaaatttttttt graakkk!” seru Jarot.

Jarot menghormati bendera. Orang-orang mengikuti.

Masyarakat yang menonton jadi senyum-senyum sendiri.

Tak jauh dari arak-arakan Jarot, di sebuah warung, sejumlah orang bercakap-cakap sambil makan.

“Orang edan, gemblung kok diikuti!”

“Ndaklah, dia menyatukan mereka, coba lihat, itu ada yang sukunya Batak, Jawa, Sunda, macam-macam jadi satu, iya khan hehehe….”

“Iya seh, hehehe.”

“Eh, pengamen itu siapa namanya?” tanya yang lain. Dia menunjuk Jarot yang wajahnya seperti orang lugu, hidungnya pesek, dan giginya tonggos.

“Jarot tha, kenapa?”

“Asyik orangnya, kemarin aku lihat dia membersihkan sungai. Sampah-sampah dia kumpulkan dan dia pilah mana yang secara alamiah dapat terurai dan mana yang tidak, sebagian dia bakar. Dia juga menanami bantaran sungai dengan bibit pohon mangga.”

“Wah, sungai yang bersih sana itu tha?

Ibu penjual yang mendengar ikut menyahut: “Iya, Jarot yang bersihin!

***

Lambat laun sejumlah penduduk membantu Jarot maka sungai yang sebelumnya sangat kotor dan dipenuhi semak belukar itu kini jadi lebih bersih dan tertata. Seiring berjalannya waktu pohon-pohon makin membesar dan meninggi membuat lingkungan sekitar sungai jadi rindang dan teduh, sehingga jadi tempat yang enak buat memancing. Kadang-kadang pula Jarot ikut memancing, dan memperoleh hasil yang lumayan untuk lauk makan.

Makin hari kehidupan di sekitar sungai makin bertambah maju, dengan dibangunnya taman dan tempat bermain anak-anak. Saran itu adalah usulan yang disampaikan Jarot di rapat warga yang disetujui Ketua RT dan RW. Dengan bantuan dana dari pemerintah kota, taman dan tempat bermain anak itu dibangun. Makin majulah kehidupan di sekitar sungai, dan itu jadi percontohan tempat-tempat lain untuk memajukan wilayahnya masing-masing.

Jarot sendiri makin dikenal sebagai penggiat lingkungan. Kehidupan di tepian sungai itu yang sebelumnya sepi-sepi saja sekarang berkembang.

Jasa parkir dibuka di dekat bantaran sungai, beberapa warung tenda dibuka untuk melayani pengunjung taman. Toko pulsa, tukang cukur, warung nasi, jualan es, jualan bensin dan toko kelontong mendadak ramai, bisa dibilang berkat Jarot usaha para warga sekitar jadi makin laku, makin banyak mendatangkan keuntungan.

Jarot sendiri tak memungut beaya dari siapa saja yang ingin menikmati taman dan tempat bermain anak-anak itu. Hanya ada seorang tetangga yang bertugas mengawasi kendaraan sambil memasang kaleng besar buat wadah uang seikhlasnya untuk membayar parkir. Lembaran-lembaran uang yang masuk ke dalam kaleng itu nanti akan digunakan untuk kebutuhan warga, khususnya untuk membantu biaya pengobatan bila ada yang sakit, dan biaya melahirkan.

Hari-hari jadi penuh kesibukan, penuh kesungguhan. Semua berjalan sesuai adatnya selama beberapa tahun hingga pada satu malam yang tak biasanya, Jarot bermimpi aneh yang membuatnya merasa gelisah, merasa terancam.

Ada bayangan gelap membekapnya malam-malam. Jarot megap-megap tak berdaya, dan terbangun saat dia nyaris kehabisan napas. Keringat dingin bercucuran di dahi.

Dia tak tahu siapa pemilik bayangan itu. Jarot mulai menyelidiki hal ikhwal yang barangkali berhubungan dengan mimpinya. Dia menelisik ke dalam dirinya sendiri. Dia tahu ada sikap suka dan tidak suka dari warga masyarakat mengenai dirinya. Baginya semua itu wajar sepanjang dia tak diganggu, dia sendiri tak berniat mengganggu yang lain, dia akan menjalani semua hal dengan hati ringan.

Dia selalu percaya pada naluri yang kerap terbukti, bahwa ada orang lain yang tak menyukai kehadirannya. Pastinya pemilik bayangan itu. Wajahnya gelap.

Saat Jarot mencoba menerawang lebih dalam dan khusyuk, secara aneh tabir hitam menutupi parasnya membuat muka itu jadi rata. Hanya bagian pakaian yang samar-samar bisa dilihat. Setelan bajunya rapi, berjas dan berdasi, jam berantai emas terselip di saku baju, dia bersepatu selop.

Mimpi buruk tak cuma sekali mendatanginya. Termasuk malam itu, mimpi lebih menyeramkan! Tak hanya bayangan gelap yang membekap tetapi juga puluhan orang datang menyerbu, sedangkan sosok malaikat kematian pun datang mengancamnya. Dini hari itu, Jarot terbangun dengan keringat bercucuran, bayangan itu tak juga lekas pergi. Cukup lama dia terbangun dan cukup lama bayangan itu ada di pelupuk matanya, seakan menjerat ingatannya. Jarot segera mendaraskan wirid yang panjang, bersembahyang sampai subuh menjelang hingga hatinya merasa tenang.

Hari itu Jarot berpuasa.

Dia berpikir barangkali dalam hidupnya pernah melakukan hal tak baik yang tak dia sadari. Dia ingin menebus hal tak baik itu yang barangkali ada hubungannya dengan mimpi buruknya selama ini. Semua hal baik dia upayakan di hari itu, namun kesialan bisa datang kapan saja, tanpa diduga.

Malam itu sesudah Jarot berbuka puasa, seperti biasa dia mempersiapkan diri dengan semangat untuk esok hari merayakan hari kemerdekaan. Jarot mengumpulkan bendera untuk persiapan upacara bendera.

Tiba-tiba datang puluhan orang.

“Jarot!” teriak seseorang.

Dalam kegelapan, gelaran air sungai masih terlihat hamparannya karena tersirami cahaya sinar rembulan. Lampu merkuri di pojok jembatan berkemilau bergoyang-goyang karena

cahayanya terhambat bebatuan.

Tak banyak orang di kolong jembatan pada malam itu, andai pun ada akan menyingkir melihat puluhan orang datang membawa ancaman.

“Keluar kau!” teriak orang-orang itu lebih keras.

Jarot tergeragap, hatinya berdesir, jantungnya berdetak tak biasa, namun dia segera menenangkan diri, melangkah keluar dari bedengnya.

“Ada apa? Tenang, semua bisa dibicarakan.”

“Persetan dengan omonganmu!”

Beberapa orang langsung merangsek menyerang Jarot, mengeroyoknya.

“Tenang, sabar, apa mau kalian? Ayo bicara baik-baik,” kata Jarot sebelum berbagai tonjokan dan tendangan menghantam tubuhnya, bertubi-tubi. Hidungnya berleleran darah, perutnya nyeri tanpa ampun. Kepalanya pusing, pening, ngilu, dan rasa nyeri meradang di sekujur tubuhnya.

“Pergi dari sini kalau kau tak mau mati!” Hajaran itu berlangsung makin beringas tak peduli.

Jarot diam tak melawan. Tubuhnya tersungkur ke tanah.

“Minggat! Kalau besok kau masih ada, kau akan kami habisi!”

“Ingat itu!”

Sejumlah orang meludahi muka Jarot, “Cuihh! Cuihh! Cuihh!”

“Pergi jauh dari sini! Kalau tidak, kau mampus! atau mereka warga kampung akan kami habisi, rumah mereka akan kami bakar!”

***

Diluar sepengetahuan Jarot, sesudah kejadian malam itu, di sebuah kantor pemerintah daerah, seorang yang berbaju rapi, berjas dan berdasi, dengan jam berantai emas di saku kanan dan bersepatu selop, berbincang dengan seseorang.

“Bagaimana?”

“Sudah kami bereskan, Tuan.”

“Bagus. Tak ada yang bisa menghubungkan gembel itu denganku, karena beberapa bulan lagi pembangunan baru akan dimulai, hahaha.”

“Benar sekali Tuan, hehehe.”

Lelaki yang dipanggil tuan itu puas siasatnya berhasil dengan baik. Dia tahu betul bahwa Jarot bisa jadi ancaman pada pembangunan jembatannya. Dia tahu Jarot punya kemampuan menghalangi rencana pembangunan yang akan merubuhkan jembatan lama dan menggantikannya dengan yang lebih lebar dan besar.

Namun perbaikan itu tidak akan dapat terlaksana tanpa merusak taman Jarot dan menyingkirkan penduduk desa. Belum tersebut dampak pembangunan yang akan timbul pada lingkungan sekitar sungai. Seorang pengusaha juga telah berjanji akan mendirikan sebuah pabrik besar di tepi sungai itu baginya.

Semua jalan telah ditempuhnya. Sesama teman pejabat pemerintah sudah disuap. Hanya baru-baru ini dia menyadari ada perubahan pola pikir dari warga di sekitar jembatan dan sungai, dan itu berasal dari pergerakan yang disebarkan oleh Jarot. Hal itu mudah dilihat dengan semakin bersih dan tertatanya lingkungan sekitar sungai. Dia yakin Jarot bukan orang sembarangan. Dia yakin, Jarot disusupkan oleh gerakan kelompok tertentu. Setidaknya oleh para penggiat lingkungan, atau HAM, LSM kiri, atau kelompok ikatan buruh.

***

Di malam menjelang hari perayaan kemerdekaan, Jarot melangkah kesakitan menjauhi kampung yang telah membuatnya jatuh cinta. Malam itu malam yang naas bagi kehidupan Jarot yang direnggut kebebasannya.

Di hari kebebasan bangsa Indonesia dari penjajah, Jarot terusir dari gubuk tempat tinggalnya selama ini.

Paginya, orang-orang kampung geger, semua bingung tanpa Jarot.

Tak ada Jarot yang memandu upacara bendera, tak ada lagi arak-arakan dan paduan suara yang membahana di kampung itu tepat di Hari Kemerdekaan.

*****

 

Jarot’s Independence Day

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si KuncungBobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

***

 

 

Jarot’s Independence Day

 

Some of the folks who lived under the bridge were still asleep; some sat drinking coffee; others fished the river. Still others listened to the radio broadcast: “The President’s Independence Day speech will be followed by the national anthem, Indonesia Raya.”

Jarot was building a shelter to live in when he saw a bass guitar floating in the river. He ran for it. After Jarot caught the instrument, he cleaned it and tried to fix it. He used the inner tubes of a bicycle to make strings for the guitar. Fancying himself performing with the bass guitar to earn money, he tried to pluck. Boom, boom, boom!

Strumming the guitar, Jarot sang, “I’m happy here, I’m happy there. I am happy everywhere. Lalalalalala, lalalalalala, lalalala, lalalalala, lalalalala, lalalala …”

***

Carrying his bass guitar, Jarot entered the village, decorated with red and white Indonesian flags and banners lining the roadsides in celebration of Indonesia’s Independence Day on August 17. He approached a house and began to sing.

“Hello, hello, Bandung, capital of the Periangan. Hello, hello, Bandung, city of memories. I haven’t seen you for a long time; now you’ve become a sea of​​ flames; let’s reclaim it!”

Jarot sang so loud that he made many people smile.

“He is crazy, singing patriotic songs,” someone said, laughing.

Jarot also sang Indonesia Raya with enthusiasm.

“Indonesia is my homeland, the land where I spilled my blood. It’s where I stand to support my fatherland. Indonesia is my nationality, my nation and homeland. Let us shout: Indonesia unite!”

Many people began to sing along, repeating, especially, the phrase “Indonesia unite!” It was such a rousing call that it ignited everyone’s feelings of nationalism. Some children even began to follow the street singer, as he moved about the village.

The elderly, led by a brown-uniformed ex-freedom fighter, also joined. Thus, many adults, including mothers, started to trail behind Jarot.

Jarot’s singing became more and more enthusiastic as he went door to door, visiting food stalls and shops.

His followers looked like a lively street choir. This year’s August celebration of the independence of the Republic of Indonesia seemed livelier and more spirited. Some residents put on their best clothes; others took pails to use as drums. The voices of Jarot and the street choir seemed to make the red-and-white flags and banners decorating the streets flutter faster.

When Jarot saw the flag flying in front of an elementary school, he stopped and shouted, Attention!” The parents and children who followed him straightened up.

“Salute the colors!” cried Jarot and saluted the flag.

Everyone followed suit.

The bystanders watching them, smiled.

In a food stall, not far from the Jarot-led procession, a number of people were eating and making comments.

“Foolish people. Why are they following Fatso?”

“Jarot unites them. Look! Amongst them are Bataknese, Javanese, and Sundanese. Don’t you think all of them are having a good time together?

Even some of the old people have joined him!” The commenter laughed.

“Hey, what’s the busker’s name?” another asked, pointing at Jarot.

With his flat nose and protruding teeth Jarot looked like the village fool.

“That’s Jarot. Why?”

“He is a busy person. Yesterday, I saw him taking trash out of the river. After he sorted the garbage, separating the biodegradable from the non-biodegradable, he burned some of it. He also planted mango saplings on the riverbanks.”

“Wow! Is that the river he cleaned up over there?”

The food stall owner was listening to the conversation and chimed in, “Yes, Jarot is the one who cleaned it!”

***

Gradually, over time, a number of residents began helping Jarot clean up the river. Previously very dirty and filled with shrubs, the river was now cleaner and the surroundings were better managed. As time went by, the trees grew bigger and taller, creating a cool and shady environment, a good place for fishing. Sometimes Jarot joined the fishermen and caught a good meal.

At a community meeting, Jarot put forth an idea that was approved by the neighborhood and hamlet leaders. With help from the government’s city funding, the community built a park and children’s playground. Life around the river became more prosperous, and the settlement became a model for other places to develop their rundown areas.

Jarot became increasingly recognized as an environmental activist. The previously dreary life on the riverbanks was now flourishing.

A parking lot and several tent stalls opened near the riverbank to serve visitors. Cellphone shops, barbershops, food stalls, a gasoline outlet, and variety stores now buzzed with customers. Jarot could be credited for the booming businesses of the local residents, as well as for their now thriving lives.

Jarot did not collect any fees from people who wanted to enjoy the park and the children’s playground. Instead, a person from the neighborhood was put in charge of the parking lot, where visitors could place their voluntary donations in a large can. The money was used to help residents with medical expenses, such as childbirth.

Jarot’s days were filled with noble activities. Everything continued as usual for many years until one night, he had a strange dream that made him feel uneasy and threatened.

In his dream, a dark shadow appeared and swiftly smothered him until he could hardly breathe. Gasping helplessly, Jarot woke up just as he was about to suffocate. Cold sweat dripped down his forehead.

He didn’t know who the shadow belonged to. Jarot began to investigate things that might explain his nightmare. He looked within himself. He knew that in the community there were people who liked him and people who disliked him. To Jarot, this was to be expected, as long as no one disturbed him. He was a light-hearted person and did not intend to bother others.

But Jarot had always believed his often-proved instinct that some people didn’t like his presence. Jarot figured that one of these people must be the owner of the shadow. His face was dark. When Jarot tried to take a better look, the black veil that covered the strange figure flattened his face. Only his clothes were vaguely visible. Standing in loafers, the figure was dressed in a nice suit and wore a necktie. A gold chain was attached to the watch tucked in his vest’s pocket.

The nightmare returned. This time, the dream was even more sinister. Not only did the shadowy figure rush in, but so did dozens of people. The dark shadow of the “angel of death” was amongst them.

Jarot woke up sweating profusely. The image of the shadow remained, even after Jarot had been awake for a long time. It seemed to be stamped into his memory. Jarot immediately recited a long wirid, hoping that the prayer said after the regular prayers, would calm him.

That day, Jarot fasted.

He wondered if perhaps he had inadvertently done something wrong. He wanted to make up for the bad thing that might have something to do with his recurring nightmare. All day, he tried to do good, but he knew that bad luck could come at any time, unexpectedly.

That evening, after Jarot broke his fast, he prepared himself with his usual enthusiasm for the celebration of Indonesia’s Independence Day. Inside his shack, Jarot was gathering flags for the flag ceremony when suddenly dozens of people stormed the bridge.

“Jarot!” someone shouted.

In the darkness, the riverbank was visible, basking under the moonlight. The light from the lantern at the corner of the bridge, shimmered between the rocks.

There weren’t many people under the bridge that night, and even if there had been, they would have fled when they saw dozens of menacing people arrive.

“Get out!” the people shouted louder.

Jarot staggered, his heart hammering. Quickly, he calmed himself and walked out of his shack.

“What is wrong?” he asked the crowd. “Calm down. Everything can be discussed.”

“To hell with your talk!” Several people charged at Jarot, ganging up on him.

“Calm down, be patient, what do you want? Let’s talk!” Jarot cried before he was overtaken by the mob and repeatedly punched and kicked. His nose was bloodied. His stomach hurt terribly. He was dizzy and ached all over.

“Get out of here if you want to stay alive!”

The beating from the mob accelerated without mercy. Jarot did not fight back. He fell to the ground.

“Get lost! If you’re still around tomorrow, we’ll kill you!”

“Remember!”

Several people spat on Jarot’s face. Ptui! Ptui! Ptui!

“Leave! Or you’ll die! We’ll burn this village and kill the residents!”

***

Later that night, a local government official was holding a conversation with a man standing in loafers, wearing a nice suit fitted with a necktie. A gold chain was attached to the watch tucked in the man’s vest pocket.

“Well?” the official asked.

“We’ve taken care of it, sir.”

“Good! I don’t want to have anything to do with that scumbag. In a few months, the new bridge construction project will start.” The official laughed.

“That’s right, sir,” the man said, joining in the laughter.

The official was satisfied that his scare tactic had worked. Only recently had he noticed a change in the mindset of the population living under the bridge and on the riverbanks. Jarot’s ideas had changed them. This was evidenced by the cleaner and more orderly environment around the river. He was sure that Jarot was not an ordinary person, and he was sure that causes such as human rights activists, leftist NGOs, and labor union groups supported Jarot.

Therefore, the official knew very well the threat that Jarot posed to carrying out his bridge construction plans. He also knew that Jarot had the ability to block the construction project, which could not take place without destroying Jarot’s shack and removing the other villagers in order to tear down the old bridge and replace it with a wider and bigger one. The negative impact that the development would have on the river’s environment was another factor, as was the large factory that a businessman promised to build for him on the riverbank.

But now, all safety measures had been taken. The official had even bribed his government colleagues.

***

On the eve of Indonesia’s Independence Day, the day when the Indonesian people celebrate their freedom from the colonizers, Jarot left the place he had fallen in love with. He was evicted from the shack under the bridge, which he had called home all this time and pain-ridden from the fateful night that had stripped off his freedom.

On the morning of August 17, there was a big commotion among the villagers. Without Jarot, everyone was confused. And on that Independence Day there was no one to direct the flag ceremony, no one to lead the parades, and no one to direct the street choirs in the riverbank settlement under the bridge.

 

 

 

*****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

Mengenang Padewakkang

Andi Batara Al Isra lahir di Ujung Pandang, 9 Januari 1994. Sedang pusing kuliah antropologi di University of Auckland, Selandia Baru, melalui beasiswa pendidikan Indonesia LPDP. Karyanya berupa cerpen dan puisi telah diterbitkan di berbagai majalah dan surat kabar, juga pernah dimuat dalam beberapa buku antologi bersama. Selain itu, tulisannya pernah menjuarai beberapa lomba penulisan tingkat nasional dan memperoleh penghargaan, seperti cerpennya yang berjudul Keranda Puang mendapatkan penghargaan FLP Awards 2017 sebagai Cerpen Terpuji. Batara juga telah menerbitkan dua buah buku puisi tunggal, yakni Di Seberang Gelombang (2019) dan Gersik dalam Matriks (2020). Cerpen Mengenang Padewakkang yang dimuat pada laman Dalang Publishing ini merupakan karya pertamanya yang diterjemahkan ke dalam bahasa asing. Bergelut di Forum Lingkar Pena, Yayasan Antropos Indonesia, Wijen Projects, dan Perpustakaan Antropologi FISIP Unhas. Batara juga mengelola laman www.bacabata.com, sebuah laman yang terbuka bagi siapa saja untuk mengirimkan dan menerbitkan tulisan. Sila kunjungi akun Facebook Andi Batara Al Isra atau akun Twitter dan Instagram @bataraisra. Bersurat di aali598@aucklanduni.ac.nz.

 ***

 

 

Mengenang Padewakkang

 

ARNHEM Land, Australia, Desember 1945

Sudah bertahun-tahun Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing menatap kosong kaki langit. Di tangannya ada pipa tembakau dari kayu yang sejak lama tak pernah lagi mengepul. Dia menunggu kapal-kapal dari Makassar kembali menanam sauh seperti dulu. Setelah angin tenggara yang bertiup antara akhir Maret hingga April, membawa layar padewakkang, kapal dagang milik orang Makassar, ke utara puluhan tahun silam, tak ada lagi yang tersisa selain kenangan. Kepergian mereka seperti kehilangan sebagian dari diri sendiri.

Burarrwanga, lelaki berambut putih dan berkulit gelap itu, adalah pemimpin kelompok suku Yolngu, penduduk pribumi kawasan ini. Meski keriput, meski tubuhnya terlihat rapuh dihantam angin pantai dan gurun, harapannya tidak pernah pupus. Lama sekali, setiap tahun, ketika baarramirri, angin dari arah barat laut, tiba antara Desember dan Januari, sepanjang pantai ini penuh orang dan kapal yang tertambat. Ada yang mengangkat keranjang, ada yang menyelam mencari teripang, dan ada yang mengasapi hasil buruan tersebut. Bayangan tentang masa indah itu tidak pernah hilang dari ingatan Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing. Dia akan terus menunggu Daeng Gassing bersama para pelaut Makassar lainnya datang dari seberang lautan dengan membawa beras, emas, dan tembakau. Memang sudah sejak ratusan tahun lalu, orang Makassar kerap datang ke Arnhem Land, membangun hubungan baik yang saling menguntungkan dengan penduduk asli di sana, termasuk leluhur Burarrwanga. Hubungan baik tersebut berjalan hingga kini.

“Mungkin mereka ditelan ular petir di tengah lautan,” kata Marika, istri Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing.

“Jangan bilang sembarangan. Ular petir hanya menyerang orang jahat yang berlayar. Orang baik seperti mereka tidak akan ditenggelamkan.”

“Sudahlah, Burarrwanga, masih ada pohon asam yang dulu mereka tanam. Kau bisa istirahat di bawahnya,” lanjut Marika.

“Sudah lama nama itu tidak kudengar. Terakhir kali kau memanggilku seperti itu saat mereka masih di sini kan?”

“Ya, orang-orang, bahkan para orang kulit putih sekarang lebih mengenalmu dengan Dayn Gatjing ketimbang nama lahirmu.”

Sambil menghela napas, Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing mengingat kembali apa yang telah dilakukan orang-orang berkulit putih itu pada hidupnya. Kapal-kapal padewakkang milik orang Makassar sudah tiada, diusir oleh Persemakmuran Australia engan alasan-alasan yang tidak masuk akal. Sekarang, yang berseliweran hanyalah kapal-kapal mereka, menguasai lautan dan menguras hasilnya tanpa ampun, terutama teripang. Orang Yolngu tidak mendapatkan apa-apa. Mereka tidak dilibatkan dalam pasar. Persemakmuran Australia mengambil semuanya.

Ingatan Burarrwanga lalu terbang ke masa puluhan tahun silam. Masa ketika pantai-pantai Arnhem Land masih dipenuhi layar padewakkang orang Makassar.

***

Siang yang terik di bulan Januari 1905 seolah matahari berlipat ganda di tanah ini. Meski begitu, beberapa awak kapal serta orang-orang Yolngu bertelanjang dada dan kaki tetap sibuk mengangkat keranjang bambu berisi puluhan teripang yang baru saja ditangkap dari dasar laut. Teripang-teripang tersebut akan dibawa ke sebuah tempat pengasapan di mana Daeng Gassing, seorang pemimpin kapal asal Makassar, duduk mencatat jumlah pikul yang hari ini berhasil dikumpulkan.

Di sebelahnya, Burarrwanga duduk mengawasi anggota kelompoknya yang ikut membantu kegiatan tersebut. Di tangannya terdapat pipa kayu berisi tembakau pemberian bapaknya, yang jauh di masa lalu adalah juga pemberian seorang pelayar asal Makassar. Hampir setiap pria dewasa di kelompoknya memiliki benda ini. Mereka menyebutnya pipa Makassar sebab orang Makassarlah yang membawa benda ini dari seberang lautan.

“Tembakau yang saya simpan sejak setahun lalu kau ke sini sudah habis. Sekarang kau bawa lagi,” ucap Burarrwanga sambil asap keluar dari hidungnya.

“Itu yang leluhur kita selalu lakukan sejak ratusan tahun lalu. Sudah kebiasaan bukan? Setiap tahun, kami, orang-orang Makassar, bawakan kalian barang dan sebagai gantinya, kalian sebagai penduduk asli di sini bantu kami kumpulkan teripang,” kata Daeng Gassing sambil mencatat angka-angka yang kurang dimengerti oleh Burarrwanga. Orang-orang di Arnhem Land tidak begitu mengerti tulisan. Mereka tidak punya aksara. Jika ingin merawat ingatan, mereka menggambar atau mengukir kayu serta batu.

“Kami tidak akan merasa sebaik ini jika di masa lalu, orang-orangmu tidak ke tanah ini mengumpulkan teripang. Kalian bisa ambil itu semua, kami tidak memakannya,” kata Burarrwanga sambil sedikit tertawa.

“Rasanya memang tidak enak. Tidak ada orang Makassar yang makan hewan aneh ini. Kami jual ke Tiongkok. Harganya mahal. Pantaimu menghasilkan banyak sekali teripang dengan mutu bagus,” sambung Daeng Gassing.

“Kau tahu, aku berharap suatu hari aku bisa mengunjungi kampung halamanmu. Pasti tempat itu sangat makmur dan maju. Banyak kapal dan rumah besar, kan?” tanya Burarrwanga.

“Kalau tanah itu sangat makmur, kami tidak mungkin ke sini mencari teripang. Di sana banyak masalah, terutama setelah orang Belanda menguasai Makassar. Namun di sisi lain, kami senang bisa ke sini, leluhur kami pun pasti senang,” jawab Daeng Gassing.

Apa yang lelaki Makassar itu mungkin tidak sadari adalah bahwa selama ratusan tahun, leluhurnya telah membawa perubahan besar bagi kehidupan di Arnhem Land. Mereka memberikan beras, logam, tembakau, minuman keras dan barang-barang lain yang tidak pernah dilihat orang Arnhem Land sebelumnya. Tanah ini sudah seperti bagian dari mereka. Bahkan di masa lalu, desas-desus pernah menyebar bahwa Arnhem Land adalah bagian kekuasaan Kerajaan Gowa. Itu pula alasan mengapa orang Makassar memiliki nama khusus bagi tanah ini. Mereka menyebutnya Maregeq.

Di tengah percakapan itu, Marika yang sedang hamil besar tiba-tiba mendatangi mereka berdua. Dia berlari-lari kecil dengan napas tersengal-sengal.

“Orang Persemakmuran… ada orang Persemakmuran Australia … saya lihat mereka … bawa pistol … senapan … ke sini.”

Mendengar itu, Daeng Gassing dan Burarrwanga langsung meminta orang-orangnya menyiapkan senjata. Orang Makassar menyelipkan badik dan parang di balik sarung, sementara orang Yolngu menyiapkan tombak dan panah. Mereka tidak ingin kekerasan. Hanya saja, karena orang-orang Persemakmuran Australia membawa senjata, segala kemungkinan harus dipersiapkan.

“Anda terlalu jauh dari kampung halaman dan sudah terlalu banyak mengambil teripang di tanah orang. Anggap saja ini peringatan.” Kata seorang polisi Persemakmuran Australia begitu dia berhadapan dengan Daeng Gassing.

“Kapal-kapal saya terdaftar di syahbandar Port Bowen. Apa yang perlu diperingatkan?”

“Lihat,” polisi itu mengeluarkan selembar kertas, “saya ditugaskan mengawasi kalian karena meracuni orang-orang asli sini. Kalian mengajarkan mereka mabuk!”

“Hei, apa urusanmu menganggu kesenangan kami?” Burarrwanga angkat suara. Dia tidak senang melihat orang Persemakmuran Australia mencampuri kehidupan orang-orangnya.

“Itu yang sering dikatakan para penjahat. Dengar, tanpa sadar, kalian dirusak oleh orang-orang ini yang entah datang dari mana,” polisi itu menatap Burarrwanga sambil tangannya menunjuk Daeng Gassing.

“Bukan kau yang memerintah di sini!” Dengan geram, Burarrwanga sekonyong-konyongnya berusaha meninju polisi yang berada di depannya. Sedikit meleset, tetapi polisi itu kehilangan keseimbangan dan jatuh ke belakang.

Begitu tersungkur, polisi itu tiba-tiba melepaskan tembakan peringatan ke angkasa. Orang-orang di sekitarnya menutup telinga. Kini, orang-orang Makassar dan Yolngu menghunus senjata tajam, siap menyerbu pasukan polisi berkulit putih. Namun, Daeng Gassing memberikan isyarat agar menahan serangan.

“Karena ini hanyalah peringatan, kami akan pergi. Kami sebenarnya tidak ingin ada pertumpahan darah. Tapi, sebelum itu, pukulan harus dibalas dengan pukulan…” Debuk! Bogem mentah mendarat di wajah Burarrwanga.

Polisi Australia berambut pirang itu pergi membawa pasukannya begitu saja setelah menghantam tulang pipi Burarrwanga.

Orang-orang kini mengeremuni Burarrwanga. Beberapa yang lain hendak melawan balik dan mengejar polisi Persemakmuran Australia, tetapi Burarrwanga yang setengah sadar memberikan isyarat agar menyudahi persoalan ini. Pukulan polisi itu terlampau keras. Kepala Burarrwanga berkunang-kunang, seperti ada banyak kanguru yang melompat-lompat di sekelilingnya. Pandangannya semakin kabur, dia tidak lagi melihat wajah Daeng Gassing dengan jelas. Semuanya berubah hitam. Dia pingsan.

***

Dua tahun setelah peristiwa peringatan pada 1905, tiba waktu dimana orang Makassar harus benar-benar hengkang dari Arnhem Land sebab Persemakmuran Australia yang telah mengeluarkan larangan pelayaran bagi orang Makassar untuk memasuki wilayah Australia. Berita itu merupakan kabar buruk. Lebih buruk dari badai yang sering menghantam padewakkang saat melintasi lautan. Bagaimana tidak, mencari teripang sampai ke tanah jauh adalah kebiasaan yang sudah dilakukan turun-temurun sejak pertengahan 1600. Leluhur Daeng Gassing yang berlayar lebih dulu ke Arnhem Land ketimbang orang berkulit putih yang datang belakangan bersama ribuan tahanan dan senapan.

Mata Burarrwanga belum lepas dari lidah api unggun yang menjilat sunyi. Menit-menit berlalu, belasan orang yang duduk mengelilingi penerang itu tak mengeluarkan suara sama sekali. Yang terdengar hanya debur ombak menyapu pasir, decit papan kapal yang digoyang arus, dan ranting patah yang dilahap api. Mereka bingung, marah, sekaligus sedih, sebab esok hari, setelah padewakkang pergi, mereka mungkin tidak akan pernah bertemu lagi.

Burarrwanga mengais-ngais api dengan ranting. Dilihatnya sisa bakaran yang telah jadi abu, persis harapan orang-orangnya. Dia menghela napas lalu mengembuskannya kuat-kuat. Dia terlampau pusing. Banyak hal jumpalitan di kepalanya seperti kanguru yang biasa dia buru di padang sabana. Dia memikirkan nasib orang-orang dan keturunannya kelak jika dia bersama istri dan anaknya memutuskan ikut ke Makassar bersama para pelayar yang telah dia kenal bahkan sejak dia mulai bisa mengingat.

Persis di hadapannya, di sebelah kobar api yang menari-nari, dia melihat wajah murung Daeng Gassing. Burarrwanga heran, harusnya lelaki berkumis tebal dan berambut panjang itu tidak perlu terlalu sedih sebab Daeng Gassing akan kembali ke Makassar beserta belasan awak kapal yang rindu melihat nyiur pelepah.

“Kau yakin mau tinggalkan Arnhem Land?” Daeng Gassing memecah sunyi.

“Saya harus. Orang Persemakmuran Australia telah mengambil semuanya, tidak ada lagi yang bisa saya pertahankan. Kami tidak bisa hidup tanpa kalian,” jawab Burarrwanga sambil tangannya melempar ranting ke dalam api.

“Tapi orang-orangmu? Kau mau biarkan mereka?”

“Para tetua akan memilih pemimpin suku yang baru setelah saya pergi. Ini kesempatan terakhir saya seberangi gelombang dan melihat ada apa di balik kaki langit. Aku ingin kehidupan yang lebih baik bagi istri dan anakku.

Mereka bersitatap. Bara seolah berpindah dari arang ke mata dua orang yang sudah seperti saudara itu. Daeng Gassing tidak ingin Burarrwanga meninggalkan orang-orangnya begitu saja. Namun dia bisa apa. Dia tidak berhak menghalangi mimpi seseorang.

“Kemarin saya bertemu seorang ibu, dia menangis sambil terduduk dan memukul-mukul pasir begitu tahu kita akan pergi,” kata Marika.

Daeng Gassing masih tertunduk. Tangannya memegang sejenis gelas dari bambu berisi ballo, minuman keras khas Makassar yang terbuat dari nira enau atau kelapa, yang jauh-jauh dia bawa dari Makassar. Tak lama berselang, dia bangkit lalu menyerahkan gelas itu pada Burarrwanga. “Ini malam terakhir kita bersenang-senang. Di sana masih banyak, habiskan saja,” tawar Daeng Gassing yang disambut oleh Burarrwanga dengan senang hati.

“Saya, sebenarnya, tidak mau pergi. Bagaimana pun, di sini saya lahir. Di sini pula saya harus mati,” Marika kembali bersuara dengan sirih pinang di mulutnya. Pernyataannya membuat orang-orang di sekeliling api unggun itu kaget.

“Hanya kau dan anak kita yang tidak bisa saya tinggalkan. Saya rela melepaskan apa pun, tapi kalian? Saya tidak bisa.” Burarrwanga sambil menggelengkan kepala.

Malam masih pekat. Orang-orang mulai beradu mulut. Setelah Marika mengeluarkan pendapat, anggota kelompok lain mulai ikut bicara. Sebagian besar mereka tidak sepakat jika Burarrwanga pergi. Kepergian orang Makassar sudah cukup menyakitkan. Jika pemimpin kelompok yang beberapa tahun lalu berjasa atas keberaniannya terhadap pasukan Persemakmuran Australia juga pergi, mereka betul-betul kehilangan harapan.

Adu mulut tersebut berakhir dengan ketidak sepakatan antara Burarrwanga dengan orang-orangnya, termasuk Marika. Burarrwanga masih keras kepala. Dia masih ngotot akan membawa Marika ke Makassar meski Marika sendiri tidak ingin ikut dan anggota kelompok lain sudah mencegahnya. Burarrwanga lalu sekonyong-konyongnya meninggalkan api unggun dan menuju gubuknya untuk tidur. Dia sudah sangat mengantuk.

***

Dalam mimpinya, Burarrwanga bangkit dan menoleh ke sana kemari. Jantungnya berdebar. Dia mencari Daeng Gassing dan orang-orang Makassar yang lain. Burarrwanga tak melihat satu pun dari mereka. Dia gugup. Harusnya hari ini, dia, Marika, dan anak semata wayangnya ikut ke Makassar.

Hari mulai sedikit terang. Dari kejauhan, matahari mulai menyingsing sedikit demi sedikit meski bintang kejora seperti enggan pergi. Jangan-jangan, padewakkang telah berlayar meninggalkannya? Pikir Burarrwanga. Dia curiga sebab semalam, dalam ingatannya, Daeng Gassing dan beberapa orang Yolngu tidak sepakat jika dia harus ikut ke Makassar. Burarrwanga lantas mencari orang-orangnya. Dia kesal. Dia merasa dikhianati.

Burarrwanga mulai heran. Dia belum mendapat satu pun anggota kelompoknya bahkan di gubuk-gubuk yang mereka dirikan. Ke mana mereka? Diculik orang Persemakmuran Australia? Batin Burarrwanga.

“Tidak, mereka tidak diculik,” teriak seseorang dari kejauhan.

Mendengar suara itu, Burarrwanga membalikkan badan. Namun tak ada siapa-siapa. Seseorang jelas-jelas bersuara dan mendengar suara batinnya. Dia menoleh ke sekitar, hanya seekor kanguru yang menatapnya dari atas bukit karang.

“Kau tersesat?”

Burarrwanga kembali menoleh ke depan dan didapatnya seekor kanguru tepat di hadapan wajahnya. Dia berteriak lalu tersungkur. Burarrwanga menoleh ke arah bukit tempat kanguru itu awalnya terlihat, tetapi ia sudah tak ada. Entah bagaimana kanguru itu berpindah secepat kilat ke hadapannya. Yang lebih aneh lagi, kanguru itu bisa bicara. Burarrwanga mulai bertanya-tanya, apakah semua ini nyata atau hanya sekadar mimpi belaka sebab tidak mungkin ada kanguru yang bisa bicara.

“Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing, kau mau tinggalkan orang-orangmu begitu saja?”

“Dari mana kau tahu nama saya? Dayn Gatjing? Nama saya hanya Burarrwanga!”

“Oh, kau akan tahu nanti. Tidak lama lagi.”

Kanguru itu lantas mengubah wujudnya dengan cara yang sukar dipercaya. Ia menjadi seorang wanita berkulit kuning. Mirip seperti kulit orang-orang Makassar yang lebih terang dari kulit orang-orang Yolngu. Wanita itu melayang. Lalu dengan sekali lambaian, bukit-bukit rata dengan tanah. Sungai mengalir ke angkasa lalu jatuh sebagai hujan yang lembut. Matahari yang sudah setengah naik tiba-tiba tenggelam lagi. Malam datang dan bintang-bintang muncul kembali. Di langit, mereka berputar mengelilingi Burarrwanga. Benda-benda indah lainnya muncul seperti lukisan. Warna malam tidak hanya hitam, paduan kabut merah, hijau, biru, kuning, dan warna-warna lain yang belum pernah Burarrwanga lihat sebelumnya seolah ditumpahkan begitu saja. Burarrwanga takjub melihat pemandangan itu.

“Kau… kau Baiyini, leluhur pertama orang Yolngu?”

“Aku adalah apa yang kau pikirkan, Dayn Gatjing. Aku melukis semua ini, lalu mengirimnya ke alam tempat kalian hidup.”

“Kau … Mimi, roh pelukis? Bukan, kau… Barnumbirr, roh penciptaan!” Burarrwanga hendak sujud tetapi sosok gaib itu menyuruhnya untuk bangun.

“Tegarlah, dan kembalilah ke orang-orangmu. Kau hanya tersesat. Kau takut tanah ini mengecewakanmu lebih jauh. Tapi apa kau lupa? Orang-orang sebelummu bertahan sejak ribuan tahun, bahkan sebelum padewakkang orang Makassar datang dan sebelum para orang kulit putih menembakkan senapan kali pertama. Kalian akan baik-baik saja puluhan hingga ratusan tahun ke depan. Tinggallah di tanah ini, kenanglah yang pergi.”

Burarrwanga terbangun menangis masih mendengar petuah sosok itu. Kini dia mengerti. Dia tadi berada di wongar, alam mimpi. Alam tempat roh leluhur hidup dan menciptakan dunia. Tidak sembarang orang bisa ke sana. Menurut cerita para tetua, hanya mereka yang terpilih oleh roh leluhur saja yang bisa mendapat petunjuk melalui mimpi dan membuka gerbang ke wongar untuk melihat wujud asli para pencipta. Dia mendapat penglihatan dan telah diberkati.

***

Abu dan sisa-sisa unggun semalam masih teronggok di pesisir. Air telah pasang. Orang-orang sibuk mengangkat barang dan keranjang terakhir berisi teripang kering ke atas padewakkang. Angin tenggara sudah bertiup kencang. Para awak kapal mulai menyiapkan layar. Sauh akan dilepas, tetapi Daeng Gassing masih berdiri di tepian.

“Tiba-tiba sekali kau putuskan tidak pergi. Kau dapat mimpi?”

“Ya, aku berada di wongar dan bertemu kanguru. Sulit kujelaskan, tapi leluhur menyuruhku tetap di sini.”

Hal itu memang sangat sulit dimengerti oleh Daeng Gassing. Seseorang yang semalam sangat bersikeras untuk pergi dari tanah ini dan ikut berlayar, kini berubah pikiran hanya dengan alasan diberi petunjuk oleh seekor kanguru dalam mimpi.

Namun itu kepercayaan Burarrwanga. Entah dia bertemu leluhur atau apa di alam sana, Daeng Gassing tidak mau memikirkannya lebih jauh. Dia lega Burarrwanga batal meninggalkan kampung dan orang-orangnya. Yang Daeng Gassing yakini, Burarrwanga harus terus berjuang merebut kembali hak-hak atas tanah leluhurnya dari orang-orang Persemakmuran Australia.

“Oh iya, bisakah saya mengambil namamu? Akan saya taruh di belakang nama saya. Burarrwanga Daeng Gassing, atau dengan penyebutan orang Yolngu, Dayn Gatjing. Ya, Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing!”

“Tanda persaudaraan?”

“Saya akan mewariskan nama-nama Makassar dan menceritakan kisah kalian kepada anak saya, kepada cucu saya, kepada cucu dari cucu saya. Panggil saya Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing!”

“Tentu. Kita mungkin akan bertemu kembali suatu hari ketika musim baarra tiba dan angin mamirri bertiup,” Daeng Gassing kurang yakin dengan istilah Yolngu yang dia pakai.

“Hahaha, baarramirri, musim ketika angin bertiup dari arah barat laut.” Burarrwanga melambaikan tangan terakhir kali, diikuti oleh orang-orang Yolngu. Mata mereka terpaku pada layar padewakkang hingga tidak terlihat lagi di kaki langit.

*****

Remembering Padewakkang

Penulis pemenang penghargaan Junaedi Setiyono, lahir di Kebumen pada 16 Desember 1965, menyelesaikan pendidikannya dari sekolah dasar sampai sarjana di Purworejo. Pada 2013 dia memperoleh beasiswa untuk bimbingan disertasinya di Ohio State University Amerika Serikat selama empat bulan. Dia menyelesaikan doktornya dalam bidang Pendidikan Bahasa di Universitas Negeri Semarang pada 2016.

Pada 2006 naskah novelnya berjudul Glonggong memenangi Sayembara Menulis Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, dan setelah diterbitkan Serambi, 2007, novel tersebut menjadi Finalis Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2008. Novelnya yang kedua, Arumdalu, (Serambi, 2010) masuk sepuluh besar Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2010. Pada 2012, naskah novelnya yang ketiga, Dasamuka, kembali memenangi Sayembara Menulis Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, dan kemudian diterbitkan oleh Penerbit Ombak pada 2017. Pada tahun yang sama, novel tersebut diterjemahkan ke dalam Bahasa Inggris oleh Maya Denisa Saputra dan diterbitkan oleh Dalang Publishing di California, USA. Novel ini pemenang Penghargaan Sastra 2020 dari KEMDIKBUD.

Setiyono dapat dihubungi lewat alamat surelnya: junaedi.setiyono@yahoo.co.id

 

 ***

 

Remembering Padewakkang

 

ARNHEM Land, Australia, December 1945

Holding a wooden tobacco pipe that had not been lit for a long time, Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing stared at the horizon. He waited for the merchant ships from Makassar, which used to cast their anchor here. Decades ago, the southeast winds that blew in March and April had blown the padewakkang sails northward. Their departure had been like losing a part of himself.

However, Burarrwanga, the dark-skinned, gray-haired chief of the Yolngu tribe the natives who lived in the region — had never lost hope that once again, just like a long time ago, the baarramirri, the northwestern winds that blew in December and January, would bring back the padewakkang vessels to moor in these waters. People would once again crowd the coastal area, filling their baskets with the teripang, sea cucumbers, they had gathered. Some of them smoked their catch. The image of such a beautiful time was ingrained in Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing’s memory. He kept waiting for Daeng Gassing and the other Makassar sailors, who came from the other side of ocean and brought rice, gold, and tobacco. Some hundred years ago, the Makassaran people had first come to Arnhem Land. The good relationship they established with Burarrwanga’s ancestors and the natives of Arnhem Land had been maintained all this time.

“Perhaps they were swallowed by the thunder snake in the middle of the ocean,” said Marika, Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing’s wife.

“Don’t talk nonsense. The thunder snake only attacks the wicked men at sea. Good men, like the Makassar sailors, wouldn’t be sunk.”

“Never mind, Burarrwanga,” Marika said. “There is still that tamarind tree they planted. You can take a rest under it.”

“I haven’t heard you call me by that name for a long time. The last time you used it was when they were here, right?”

“Yes, everyone, even the white men, now know you better as Dayn Gatjing than by your birth name.”

With a heavy sigh, Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing recalled what the white men had done to his life. The padewakkangs were gone. They had been banned forty years ago by the Australian Commonwealth for irrational reasons. Now, only the white men sailed back and forth, ruling the ocean and exploiting its wealth, especially the teripangs. The Yolngu people were no longer involved in any of the trading and did not receive anything the Australian Commonwealth took everything.

Burarrwanga would never forget the days when the coastal area of Arnhem Land was crowded by padewakkangs, merchant vessels owned by Makassaran people.

***

It was quite hot during the month of January in 1905. It was as if the sun’s heat was multiplying. Despite the conditions, bare-chested, barefooted ship crews and Yolngu people continued to lift bamboo baskets filled with just-harvested teripangs from the seabed. These sea cucumbers were taken to a smoking place where Daeng Gassing, captain of one of the docked Makassaran trade vessels, sat taking notes of how many pikuls of teripangs were collected that day. Each pikul weighed about 133 pounds.

Sitting next to Daeng Gassing, Burarrwanga smoked his pipe and watched members of his tribe working with the Makassarans. The pipe was a gift from his father, who in turn had received it as a gift from a Makassaran sailor quite a long time ago. Almost all of the adult males in Burarrwanga’s tribe owned such a pipe. They called it pipa Makassar because the Makassaran sailors were the ones who brought these pipes to them from the other side of the ocean.

“I’ve used the tobacco you gave me when you came a year ago.” Burarrwanga exhaled smoke through his nostrils. “But now you’ve brought me more again.”

“This is a custom our people have upheld over hundreds of years,” Daeng Gassing said while making notes Burarrwanga could not decipher. The Yolngu were illiterate. When they wanted to remember something, they drew or carved pictures on wood or stone. “Every year, we Makassaran merchants bring you certain items. In return, your people help us gather the teripangs.”

“We wouldn’t be doing so well if your men didn’t come here to gather teripangs.” Burarrwanga grinned. “You can take all of them. We don’t eat them.”

“Teripangs actually taste pretty bad,” Daeng Gassing agreed. “No one in Makassar eats these strange animals, either. We sell them in China, where sea cucumbers are expensive. Your teripangs are good quality.”

“I hope that one day I can visit your home. I am sure your native village is prosperous and developed.” Burarrwanga sighed before asking, “Are there a lot of ships and big houses?”

“If were prosperous back home, we’d unlikely be here looking for teripangs.” Daeng Gassing paused a moment before continuing. “There are many problems back home especially after the Dutch took control over Makassar. On the other hand, we are happy to come here. I’m sure this is also making our ancestors happy.”

The Makassaran sea captain most likely did not fully realize the enormity of the great changes the Makassarans had brought to the lives of Arnhem Land’s natives over the centuries. Along with bringing them rice, metal, tobacco, and liquor, the Makassar merchants also brought other goods that the people of Arnhem Land had never seen before. Arnhem Land became a part of the Makassar sailors’ homeland. They called this land Maregeq because of an old rumor that said Arnhem Land was a part of the Gowa Kingdom.

During Burarrwanga and Daeng Gassing’s conversation, Marika, who was more than six months pregnant, suddenly came running towards them. “The Commonwealth men …,” she panted, stumbling towards them. “I saw them … they’re carrying guns ….” Marika stood in front of her husband and the captain, shaking and gasping for breath.

Daeng Gassing and Burarrwanga quickly alerted their men. The Makassaran sailors grabbed their machetes and axes while the Yolngu men prepared their spears and arrows. They didn’t like violence, but if the Commonwealth men came armed, they had to be prepared for every possibility.

Soon, an Australian Commonwealth constable stood in front of Daeng Gassing. “You have strayed too far from your homeland, and you’re harvesting too many teripangs in an area which is not yours. Consider this a warning.”

“My ships have been registered by the harbormaster of Port Bowen,” Daeng Gassing retorted. “What are you warning me for?”

“Look at this.” The constable took out a piece of paper. “I have orders to watch all of you Makassarans because you’re a bad influence on these natives. You’re causing them to become drunkards.”

“Hey, this is not your business, is it?” Burarrwanga raised his voice. He didn’t like the Australian Commonwealth interfering with their lives. “Why do you bother us?”

“Listen.” The constable shot Burarrwanga a sharp look, then continued while pointing at Daeng Gassing, “These men — only God knows where they came from — will get you in trouble.”

“You have no say here!” Burarrwanga suddenly swung at the constable. His punch was a bit off target, but the constable lost his balance and fell backward. He drew his pistol and fired a warning shot into the sky.

Startled, those around Burarrwanga covered their ears.

Both the Makassaran and Yolngu men reached for their weapons, ready to attack the group of white-skinned constables. But Daeng Gassing signaled to hold off the attack.

“Because this is only a warning, we will leave,” said the constable. “We don’t want any violence here, but one punch deserves another.” The blond constable landed a well-aimed punch on Burarrwanga’s cheek and left.

People crowded around the dazed Burarrwanga. Some of them made ready to chase the constable, but Burarrwanga signaled them to stop. The constable’s punch made Burarrwanga see stars and many kangaroos jumping around him. Everything turned blurry then became dark. He fainted.

***

Two years after the incident in 1905, the Australian Commonwealth banned Makassar ships from entering Australian territory. This was worse than the storms that frequently hit the padewakkangs while crossing the ocean. Makassaran fishermen had come to harvest teripangs off the Arnhem Land coast since the mid-1600s. The olive-skinned ancestors of Daeng Gassing had sailed to Arnhem Land much earlier than any of the white-skinned Commonwealth men who arrived on these shores with thousands of prisoners and rifles.

On the night before the padewakkangs lifted anchor from Arnhem Land for the final time, Burarrwanga sat staring at the flames of the fire that absorbed the silence. Time passed, as a dozen men sat around the fire without uttering a word. The only sounds that broke the silence were the breaking waves sweeping the sand, the creaking boards of ships swaying in the water, and the crackling of broken branches being swallowed by the flames. The men gathered around the fire were confused, angry, and sad. It was unlikely that after the padewakkangs set sail the next day, they would ever see each other again.

Burarrwanga raked the fire with a branch. For a moment he rested his eyes on the pile of ashes in the fire pit. It occurred to him that the ashes resembled their hopes. Burarrwanga sighed, then blew onto the smoldering branches until he became dizzy. Suddenly, many thoughts somersaulted inside his head. It was as if the kangaroos he used to hunt in the savanna had jumped into his head. He could leave with the sailors, whom he’d known for as long as his memory could serve him. He contemplated the fate of his tribe and his descendants if he decided to move to Makassar with his family.

Across the fire, Burarrwanga saw Daeng Gassing’s gloomy face lit by the dancing flames. Burarrwanga wondered why the man with the thick moustache and long hair looked sad. Afterall, he and his crew were about to go home. Burarrwanga had spoken his thoughts.

“Are you sure you want to leave Arnhem Land?” Daeng Gassing’s voice broke the silence.

“I have to.” Burarrwanga threw some branches into the flames. “The Australian Commonwealth men have taken everything. There is nothing left that I am able to protect. We cannot live without you and your men.”

“But what about your tribe? You will just leave everyone?”

“The elders will choose a new chief after I’m gone. This is the last opportunity for me to cross the ocean and see something behind the horizon. I want to have a better life for my wife and son.”

The two men stared at one another. The heat of the fire seemed to move into the eyes of the two men who had become like brothers.

Daeng Gassing didn’t want Burarrwanga to abandon his tribe, but there was nothing he could do. He had no right to keep Burarrwanga from pursuing his dream.

Marika rose and broke into their thoughts. “Yesterday, I met a mother. When I told her that we were leaving, the woman dropped to the ground, crying. She punched the sand repeatedly while begging me to stay.”

Daeng Gassing bowed his head. He held a bamboo mug containing ballo, an alcoholic drink from Makassar made from coconut flower sap. He rose and handed the mug to Burarrwanga. “Tonight is the last time to have fun together. There is still plenty of ballo where this came from. Drink up!”

Burarrwanga happily accepted the mug.

“I don’t want to go,” Marika said between chews on the roll of betel leaves in her mouth. “I was born here, and I want to die here too.” Her words surprised everyone sitting around the fire.

“I can’t leave you and our son,” Burarrwanga said. “I am ready to leave everything, but not you.” Burarrwanga shook his head. “No that I cannot do.”

It was a dark and gloomy night. People started arguing. After Marika stated her preferences openly, other people started joining in the discussion. Most of them did not want Burarrwanga to leave for Makassar. The departure of the Makassaran men already hurt them. If Burarrwanga, their chief, who protected their land with his bravery against the Australian Commonwealth forces, was gone too, they would be totally lost.

Arguing bitterly, Burarrwanga, his people, and Marika could not reach an agreement. Burarrwanga stubbornly held on to his opinion. He intended to take Marika and their son with him to Makassar, even if Marika herself didn’t want to accompany her husband and even though his council of elders had already forbidden him to do so. Suddenly, Burarrwanga felt very sleepy. He abruptly rose and, leaving the fire, headed for his hut. He needed to get some sleep.

The discussion ended without any solution.

***

That night, in Burarrwanga’s dream, he rose and looked around. His heart pounding, he searched nervously for Daeng Gassing and the other Makassaran men. Burarrwanga didn’t see any of them. He, his wife, and his only child were supposed to leave for Makassar that day.

The sky began to brighten. In the distance, the sun started to rise gradually, while the morning star seemed reluctant to leave. Did the padewakkangs sail without me? Burarrwanga wondered. He suspected that Daeng Gassing and his crew had betrayed him, but Burarrwanga had considered those men to be his friends. He remembered that Daeng Gassing and some of the Yolngu men hadn’t agreed with his decision to follow Daeng Gassing to Makassar. Irritated and feeling deceived, Burarrwanga looked for his tribe’s men.

He was astonished not to find anyone. Even the hut they had built was empty. Where are they? Had they been kidnapped by the Australian Commonwealth men?

“No, they haven’t been kidnapped,” came a shout from afar.

Burarrwanga looked around anxiously, but there was no one. He had clearly heard someone shouting, someone responding to his inner dialogue. Burarrwanga looked around again. A kangaroo sitting on top of a dead coral rock, was the only living creature around.

“Are you lost?”

Burarrwanga fastened his eyes on the dead coral rock again, but the kangaroo had vanished. How strange, Burarrwanga thought, a talking kangaroo. He began to wonder if what was happening was real or if he was dreaming. It was impossible for a kangaroo to talk!

“Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing, are you simply going to abandon your tribe?” The kangaroo again appeared on the dead coral rock.

“Who told you that my name is Dayn Gatjing?” Burarrwanga shouted, rubbing his eyes. “My name is just Burarrwanga!”

“Oh, you will find out, soon. Just wait a moment.” The kangaroo then turned into an olive-skinned woman.

Burarrwanga could hardly believe his own eyes. The woman’s skin color resembled that of the Makassaran people, lighter than the skin of the Yolngu people. The woman floated through the air. With a wave of her hand, the hills became as flat as the plains. Rivers flowed to the sky and then fell as soft rain. The sun, which had already risen halfway into the sky, suddenly sunk again. Night came, and stars emerged and circled in the sky around Burarrwanga. Other beautiful things appeared like paintings. The night was not just black. It was a hazy combination of red, green, blue, yellow, and other colors Burarrwanga had never seen before. The colors seem to spill around him. Burarrwanga was astonished seeing such a scene.

“You …” Burarrwanga stammered, “are you Baiyini, the First Being of the Yolngu people?”

“I am whoever you think I am, Dayn Gatjing. These are all my paintings. I send them to the world you live in.”

“You … are you Mimi, the painter’s spirit? No, you … you are Barnumbirr, the spirit of creation.” Burarrwanga knelt, but the mysterious creature asked him to rise.

“Take heart and return to your people,” said the spirit. “You are only lost. You are afraid that this land will continue to disappoint you. But you must remember that your ancestors stood firm for thousands of years. They were here long before the Makassaran merchants moored their padewakkangs here and long before the white-skinned people fired their first gunshot here. You will be all right for decades, even centuries to come. Just stay here and remember those who have to depart.”

Burarrwanga woke up crying. He could still hear the apparition’s advice. Now he understood. He had visited a wongar, the dream place where the Yolngu’s ancestral spirits lived and created this world. Not just anyone could visit there. According to the elders, only the chosen ones were given guidance in a dream and could enter the gate to wongar to see the creators in their real form. Burarrwanga had just received such guidance and, therefore, had been blessed.

***

The ashes of the previous night’s fire were still piled on the beach. The tide was already high. Crew hands were busy carrying the last baskets containing dried teripang onto the padewakkangs. The southeast wind started to pick up. The ship crews began preparing the sails. The anchors would soon be lifted. But Daeng Gassing still stood on the beach.

“You decided not to go quite suddenly,” he said to Burarrwanga. “Did you have a dream?”

“Yes, I was in a wongar and met a kangaroo. It is difficult to explain. In short, my tribe’s ancestors asked me to stay here.”

Daeng Gassing could not understand Burarrwanga’s behavior. How could someone who only the night before was so eager to leave this land and sail to Makassar change his mind just because of a dream — a dream about a kangaroo that had advised him to stay?

But that was Burarrwanga’s belief. Whether or not he met his ancestor or whoever in a mystical world, Daeng Gassing didn’t want to pursue it further. He was relieved that Burarrwanga had changed his mind about leaving his homeland and his people. The only thing that Daeng Gassing wanted to ensure was that Burarrwanga would keep fighting to get back his homeland’s rights from the Australian Commonwealth people.

“By the way, may I take your name and add it to the end of my real name?” asked Burarrwanga. “My new name would then become Burarrwanga Daeng Gassing or, using the Yolngu pronunciation, Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing!”

“Is it a sign of brotherhood?” Daeng Gassing asked.

“I will pass down the Makassaran name and tell the story about you to my son, my grandson, the grandson of my grandson. Call me Burarrwanga Dayn Gatjing!”

“Of course. We will possibly meet again one day, when the baarra season comes and the mamirri blows.” Daeng Gassing was not sure if he had used the proper Yolngu terms.

“Hah!” Burarrwanga laughed. “It’s baarramirri, the season when the wind blows from the northwest.” Burarrwanga raised his hand and waved goodbye for the last time. The Yolngu people around him followed his gesture. Everyone’s eyes remained glued to the padewakkang sails until they vanished in the horizon.

 

 

 

 *****

Pohon Pongo

Setiap orang hendaknya menjadi filsuf bagi dirinya sendiri sehingga hidupnya akan bermakna.

Rinto Andriono adalah penyintas serangan penyumbatan pembuluh otak yang menyebabkan kelumpuhan tubuh kanan pada usia 46 tahun. Menulis adalah salah satu kegiatan penyembuhan yang disarankan oleh dokter syaraf untuk mengembalikan kemampuan membangun penalaran. Rinto mulai menulis enam bulan setelah serangan pada tengah 2018.

Sebelum sakit, Rinto adalah perencana pemulihan pasca bencana, yang banyak bekerja di beragam tempat bencana di Indonesia dan Asia. Setelah sakit lebih banyak melakukan kajian, pelatihan daring dan penulisan pembelajaran di bidang yang sama. Untuk mengisi waktu senggangnya, dia suka membaca tentang penyelamatan alam dan filsafat, dan jalan kaki.

Rinto menulis sebagai sarana pemaknaan hidupnya yang sekarang sangat terbatas. Menulis membebaskan pikiran dan batinnya, yang saat sebelum sakit dulu mungkin terbelenggu, meski tubuhnya sangat bebas.

Dengan pendampingan menulis dari Ahmad Yulden Erwin, Rinto membuat belasan cerita pendek yang dibukukan sendiri dalam buku elektronik berjudul Kencan Hikikomori. Saat ini, Rinto sedang menulis cerpen bertokoh mahluk indah ciptaan Tuhan yang mengalami peralihan kelamin, sembari mengikuti lokakarya menulis di UKSW-Salatiga yang dibimbing oleh Purwanti Kusumaningtyas dan Lian Gouw.

Rinto dapat dihubungi di rinto.andriono@gmail.com.

 

 

Pohon Pongo

 

Miranti terbangun dari tidurnya, dia berpeluh di tengah malam yang dingin. Napasnya tersengal-sengal. Di dalam kepala Miranti masih menggema bisikan Lukman baru saja.

“Mir, pergilah ke Pohon Tempat Memohon! Bawa serta Kasih bersamamu.” Kata-kata Lukman begitu bening mengiang dalam tidurnya.

Miranti menatap Kasih, putrinya yang sedang terlelap di sampingnya. Berbeda dengannya, tiada peluh yang membasahi badan Kasih. Udara malam itu memang sedang dingin, lumrahnya udara musim kemarau yang kering dan panas?

Miranti sudah tidak bisa lagi memicingkan mata. Malam terlalu rusuh dan hatinya sudah terlalu resah. Baru-baru ini dia sering bermimpi tentang Lukman, suaminya yang menghilang di tengah Rimba Raya Sebangau, di Kalimantan Tengah, sejak tiga tahun yang lalu. Berpuluh rombongan pencari sudah menghutan berbulan untuk mencari suaminya. Namun sampai kehabisan perbekalan, hasilnya selalu hampa. Sehampa hati Miranti yang kembali menjadi separuh setelah biasanya penuh bersama Lukman.

Lulusan dari Kedokteran Hewan Institute Pertanian Bogor, Miranti sekarang bekerja sebagai perawat kesehatan orangutan-orangutan untuk Taman Nasional Sebangau dalam kerja sama dengan Borneo Orangutan Survival Foundation, BOSF. Kedukaan mendalam karena kehilangan suaminya membuat Miranti enggan kembali ke Bogor, kota kelahirannya. Pengetahuannya tentang siloka yang diwarisi dari para karuhun Sunda membuat Miranti yakin bahwa kekasihnya masih hidup di suatu tempat di hutan raya Kalimantan ini. Dalam bisikan mimpi Miranti, Lukman sedang mempersiapkan sesuatu untuk masa depan mereka dan anaknya, untuk kehidupan yang pernah mereka impikan hidup menyatu dengan hutan. Untuk itu, Miranti yakin, dia dan Kasih putri mereka, hanya perlu menunggu waktunya tiba.

“Lukman, aku tahu kau akan datang untuk menjemput kami, tapi kapan? Aku sudah lelah,” ratap Miranti sambil mendekap Kasih.

Miranti termenung, dia mengingat kembali kata demi kata percakapan mereka sebelum Lukman beranjak dari pelukannya demi nasib hutan yang mereka cintai. Dalam mimpinya malam itu, Miranti seolah terlempar ke masa lalu, memang belakangan ini garis waktu semakin semena-mena melengkung dari masa kini ke masa lalu Miranti. Dan Lukman berganti-ganti antara hidup dan tiada. Ingin rasanya Miranti tidak pernah tersadar dari mimpinya, dimana Lukman nyata bersamanya.

“Aku akan pergi sebentar. Jaga baik-baik anak kita, ya,” Lukman berkata kepada Miranti pada hari buruk yang selalu mengawan di hati Miranti dan membuat hari-harinya kelabu.

Miranti masih mengingat jelas kata-kata yang timbul dari hati risaunya itu. “Apakah kau tidak bisa menunda kepergianmu?”

“Tidak, aku hanya hendak memenuhi baktiku.”

“Tetapi terlalu berbahaya, para preman kebun sawit sedang mencarimu.”

“Sang Roh adalah segala cahaya hidupku, aku hanyalah pantulan cahayanya.” Itu yang dikatakan Lukman saat itu, saat mereka beradu mulut tentang bahaya yang mengancam Lukman selaku rimbawan pegiat kelestarian.

Miranti teringat saat dia mencegah, “Ya, tetapi keadaan di Taman Nasional Sebangau sedang genting, mereka masih kesal karena kau gagalkan upaya mereka menyerobot wilayah taman.”

Miranti tahu, Lukman bukannya tidak sungguh-sungguh memikirkan ucapannya. Miranti merasa Lukman sedang menghadapi buah simalakama. Miranti teringat melihat Lukman termenung, menghentikan gerak tangannya membungkus barang-barang. Lukman pasti ingat belaka betapa dia dan kawan-kawan suku Dayak Ngaju telah mempermalukan para pengusaha sawit dengan bukti penyerobotan kawasan taman.

“Cahaya yang membimbingku ke sana segera,” Lukman menukas, setelah menyingkirkan semua kebimbangan.

“Mereka tak kan berhenti berusaha memperluas kebun sawitnya hingga ke dalam wilayah taman, Roh memang sudah membimbingmu tapi bisakah kau melakukannya nanti?”

“Tidak bisa, Sayang, mungkin darmaku sedang dibutuhkan hutan ini sekarang, percayalah!” Lukman berusaha menenangkannya.

“Ya, tapi waktunya itu lho yang tidak tepat!”

Lukman tidak menggubris penyanggahannya.

Kemudian hening melingkupi keduanya, mereka terdiam menahan kerisauan masing-masing. Malam itu, Lukman pergi dan menghilang begitu saja di dalam rimba.

Kawan-kawan rimbawan pegiat lingkungan menduga Lukman telah dilenyapkan di tengah prahara yang melanda hutan. Beberapa orang mempercayainya bahwa inilah bentuk balas dendam dari para mandor kebun karena Lukman telah giat menggalang perlindungan bagi hutan. Mereka sepertinya menganggap Lukman sebagai pelaku penjegalan terhadap perluasan kebun sawit yang jauh menjorok ke Taman Nasional Sebangau. Namun tidak ada yang bisa membuktikan kebenarannya.

Itu adalah adu mulut terakhir Lukman dengannya. Miranti terhenyak dari lamunannya. Dia menghela nafas sambil mengusap kening Kasih yang mulai terbangun.

Miranti mendengar sayup-sayup lolongan dan seruan orangutan. Miranti menajamkan telinganya.

Para orangutan berida terdengar memimpin barzanji. Miranti semakin risau, dia tahu belaka bahwa orangutan adalah mahluk batiniah yang bisa turut merasakan nasib rimba. Mereka seolah bisa mendengar senandung paduan suara hutan yang makin lama makin lirih dan parau. Itu adalah nyanyian hutan yang sedang sekarat. Hanya orangutan-orangutan paham benar dengan suara itu.

Pagi kembali menyingsing dengan kesibukan Miranti pada tugas-tugas perawatan orangutan. Banyak orangutan yang diselamatkan para jagawana dari taman nasional mengalami luka bakar parah, lemas dan kekurangan air. Sisi timur Taman yang berdekatan dengan wilayah Ibu Kota Negara di Sepaku, wilayah Penajam Paser Utara, mulai terbakar. Banyak satwa liar dan orangutan terluka.

Untungnya semua kejadian pilu ini tidaklah mempengaruhi masa kecil Kasih. Sebagai anak yang selalu ingin tahu, Kasih setiap hari mengikuti perjalanan para jagawana memberikan makan pada orangutan. Kasih begitu menyukai kegiatan ugahari bersama para jagawana itu. Bahkan dia sering tidak menghabiskan buah makan siangnya. Dia sangat suka menyisakan bekal buahnya untuk Pongo, anak orangutan kesayangannya. Mereka adalah dua makhluk berlainan jenis, tapi nampak seperti telah lama saling kenal. Mereka sering saling mengulurkan tangan, bertukar ubi dengan pisang. Kadang mereka kedapatan sedang bermain bersama. Sementara itu Laksmi, ibu Pongo, dan Miranti sama-sama hanya mengawasi dari kejauhan.

“Bu, ayo kasih makan Pongo dan Laksmi ….” Kasih merajuk ibunya. Miranti melihat dari jendelanya dua orangutan itu sudah menanti di luar, di pinggir hutan.

Miranti dan Kasih beranjak menemui Laksmi dan Pongo.

Laksmi adalah orangutan betina dewasa, yang sudah hampir dua puluh tahun hidup di Taman Nasional Sebangau. Di balik bulunya, tubuh Laksmi penuh dengan carut bekas luka, yang dia peroleh dari para mandor, semenjak maraknya perkebunan sawit di situ. Berangkat dari pengalaman itulah, Laksmi menjadi orangutan yang selalu waspada. Nyawanya pernah hampir melayang bila tidak diselamatkan oleh para jagawana, akibat siksaan mandor yang kejam. Mirantilah yang memberinya nama Laksmi. Ia adalah salah satu induk orangutan di Taman dan sekaligus penyintas yang ulet. Laksmi menjadi orangutan yang selalu waspada.

Pagi ini kabar kebakaran taman semakin meluas. Gambut yang kering karena kemarau yang panjang menjadi penghantar api yang baik. Kebakaran tidak dari ujung dahan yang hijau, namun bara merayap dari dasar akar tanah gambut tak terkendali. Bau kayu lembab yang terbakar mulai menguar dihantarkan asap putih menebal campuran uap air dan zat asam arang. Satwa-satwa dan penduduk kampung tepi rimba pun sesak nafas dibuatnya.

Laksmi menatap Miranti tak seperti biasa. Matanya yang coklat terasa menghampiri hati Miranti dengan kepiluan mendalam. Miranti mahfum. Dia tahu belaka soal kabar kebakaran itu. Dia merasa, Laksmi punya rasa yang sama tentang kebakaran itu. Mereka ibu yang sama-sama risau dengan keselamatan dirinya dan anaknya. Seolah ada satu pertanyaan yang mempertautkan keduanya, Akankah mereka masih bisa menemukan hari esok yang kembali menghijau?

Sesaat kemudian, tempat pemberian makan para orangutan menjadi riuh. Para orangutan yang sedang sarapan seolah tiba-tiba menyahut sebuah panggilan dari dalam rimba. Miranti turut menoleh ke arah rimba. Laksmi sontak menjadi gelisah. Sejenak dia menatap Miranti tanpa bersuara. Lalu, sambil mengerang, Laksmi menarik tangan Pongo untuk kembali menghutan.

“Barzanji lagi? Tadi sudah.” Miranti merasa merinding ketika para orangutan itu semakin sering barzanji, seolah mereka bertanya, “Apa yang salah dengan kehidupan hutan ini?”

Miranti melihat Pongo enggan mengikuti ibunya. Ia masih sibuk menghisap daging ubi yang manis yang baru saja diberikan kepadanya oleh Kasih. Namun sepertinya hati Laksmi sudah terpanggil ke sisi lain hutan. Pongo melambaikan tangannya pada Kasih yang kecewa dengan tingkah Pongo dan Laksmi yang tidak biasa.

Mawas dengan suasana orangutan yang tampak genting, Miranti juga menggenggam tangan Kasih yang sedang penuh tanda tanya.

“Kenapa mereka pergi cepat kembali menghutan, Bu?” tanya Kasih.

“Mereka harus menghadap Sang Roh Rimba.”

Kasih tidak puas dengan jawaban ibunya, tetapi dia harus bergegas mengikuti langkah ibunya yang juga tergesa-gesa kembali ke pusat perawatan.

Sesampainya di Pusat Perawatan, Kasih masih tidak terima. Dia masih memberondong ibunya dengan pertanyaan-pertanyaan atas apa yang baru saja dialaminya di pinggir hutan.

“Siapakah Sang Roh Rimba?” cecar Kasih.

“Dia adalah kekuatan atas segala kekuatan yang menghidupi segala sesuatu di dalam hutan. Dia yang menghidupkan dan mematikan semua yang ada di dalam rimba.”

“Termasuk Ayah?” Tanya Kasih.

Pelan dan lirih Miranti menjawab, “Iya ….”

Dalam benak Miranti, dia tertegun dengan pertanyaan Kasih baru saja. Miranti pun baru beberapa hari ini merasa bahwa Lukman tidak mati. Dia tinggal bersama Sang Roh Hutan dan belakangan sering mengunjunginya di dalam mimpi. Mimpi-mimpi yang membuatnya risau sepanjang hari.

Dalam pengamatan Miranti, hidup terberat Laksmi, Pongo dan para orangutan adalah saat musim kering. Saat kemarau seperti ini hutan akan penuh asap, banyak pohon yang terbakar. Mereka juga kesulitan memperoleh makanan. Laksmi dan Pongo sering hanya mengandalkan sedikit ubi dan pisang dari Taman Nasional, sekadar untuk ganjal. Makanan sedang susah didapat.

Jatah makan dari Taman Nasional hanya diberikan satu kali sehari. Pongo dan kawan-kawan masih lapar. Karena mereka rindu akan pucuk daun dan buah manis yang makin susah didapat saat kemarau, mereka menyerbu umbut sawit di kebun sawit pinggiran Taman Nasional Sebangau. Makanan yang bila tak hati-hati, akan menghadiahkan bilur pegal dan ruam panas di badan, akibat siksaan para mandor. Para mandor sering mengusir orangutan kelaparan dengan senapan angin, air panas, racun babi hutan atau cairan asam.

Sepengetahuan Miranti, pada musim kemarau putih penuh asap seperti ini, orangutan-orangutan sering berkumpul di Pohon Agung di penjuru Taman. Mereka bersama-sama barzanji dipimpin oleh orangutan berida. Mereka menyerahkan jiwa dan tubuh yang sedang kelaparan ini pada Sang Roh yang kali ini mewujud sebagai Pohon Agung, bersama dengan kelaparan, api yang melelehkan kulit dan asap yang membuat sesak nafas. Semua itu adalah jelmaan Sang Roh Rimba.

Pohon Agung tempat mereka barzanji adalah pohon berbuah buni. Bijinya yang lezat disukai orangutan, tupai, dan burung-burung. Batangnya besar, dahannya kekar, kulit batangnya obat yang mujarab, jerubung yang rimbun merupakan rumah buat aneka satwa termasuk orangutan. Akar Pohon Agung itu kuat dan menancap dalam untuk menahan perawakan yang tinggi besar. Pohon Werkodara demikian Kasih dan Miranti yang berdarah Parahiyangan menyebut pohon besar sekeluarga Pohon Bodhi ini.

Miranti sudah beberapa kali menyaksikan dalam tugasnya sebagai dokter orangutan di hutan, bagaimana sekumpulan orangutan menampilkan kerisauan mereka dengan barzanji. Para berida seperti kesurupan, mereka berayun, melolong, meraung dan terus mencoba meraih dahan, daun, dan ranting pohon. Ini pohon bukan sembarang pohon, ini adalah Pohon Tempat Memohon. Orangutan itu seolah menyerahkan seluruh jiwa dan tubuhnya untuk dirasuki roh.

Selama delapan tahun bekerja, Miranti berpendapat bahwa para orangutan itu adalah mahluk yang sangat rohaniah. Meskipun mereka seolah kesurupan saat barzanji, sebenarnya mereka sedang menghadap Roh Rimba. Miranti percaya pada ketulusan hati orangutan.

Pada saat barzanji, Miranti merasa seekor orangutan berida tertua meraung berkata, “Roh pasti akan memelihara kita. Dia hadir di mana-mana, sebagai yang baik dan yang buruk.”

Dengan raungan yang kuat orangutan berida itu lanjut seperti berkata, “Dia yang kita takuti, tapi sekaligus yang kita rindukan.”

Riuh di hutan mereda. Miranti membayangkan barzanji para orangutan telah selesai. Menurut Miranti memang para orangutan itu bukan sedang menggugat Sang Roh atas kebakaran dan kelaparan yang berkepanjangan ini. Mereka tak pernah menggugat. Mereka tak pula sedang memohon azab bagi para mandor yang kejam atau para cukong sawit yang serakah. Mereka bukan pendendam. Mereka hanya menyerahkan diri mereka pada keseimbangan alam. Mereka percaya bahwa alam hanyalah bandul yang bergerak di antara titik keseimbangan. Mereka ikhlas-ikhlas saja bila dalam pergerakan bandulan itu berarti adalah kepunahan jenis mereka.

Miranti yakin, hutan yang bernyanyi dengan parau inilah yang didengar oleh para orangutan yang tadi berkumpul melakukan barzanji. Hal ini tidak bisa didengar oleh manusia yang terlalu banyak tuntutan dan praduga. Hanya makhluk yang lugulah yang bisa mendengarkan nyanyian hutan dan riuhnya pertautan perasaan pohon-pohon di dalam jaringan syaraf di dasar rimba. Hanya merekalah yang bisa mendengar suara bariton pohon mahoni tua, suara sopran pohon ulin yang kokoh atau suara tenor pohon meranti yang tinggi langsing. Pada hutan yang sehat, suara-suara itu menjadi sebuah senandung paduan yang merdu.

***

Kebakaran hutan Taman Nasional Sebangau pada puncak kemarau 2019 sungguh hebat. Kebakaran terjadi bersamaan dengan rencana pembangunan Kawasan Sepaku, Penajem Paser Utara sebagai ibukota negara yang baru. Ibukota yang lama telah terlampau banyak beban. Pemerintah meniatkan membangun ibukota yang baru dengan gagasan lapis sanding antara manusia dengan alam. Namun, sepertinya, pelaksanaan gagasan tersebut banyak kecolongan dalam penerapannya. Kebakaran adalah cara yang paling hemat dan mudah untuk membuka hutan.

Taman Nasional Sebangau pun ikut terbakar hebat. Bara api begitu dalam dan luas membakar jaringan syaraf akar di dasar rimba. Hutan sekarat. Udara pengap, zat asam berubah menjadi asam arang yang mematikan kehidupan. Senandung paduan suara pohon-pohon tertelan riuh gemertak dahan yang terbakar menjauhi kebakaran yang tak kunjung ada ujungnya. Mereka terpontang-panting menjauh. Kelelahan dan nafasnya sesak zat asam arang. Akhirnya jatuh dan terpanggang.

Orang-orang mengungsi keluar kota atau bersembunyi di dalam rumah. Mereka yang tidak memiliki kemewahan mengungsi ke pulau yang aman, akan bersembunyi saja di dalam rumah.

Miranti sangat berat hati untuk mengungsi. Perasaannya akan kehadiran Lukman justru semakin menguat di saat genting ini. Namun demi kesehatan Kasih, Miranti pun terpaksa memesan tiket pesawat dengan masygul. Menghadapi kenyataan seperti ini, hati Miranti seperti hendak terbelah ke dua sisi yang berbeda.

Gerak hatinya mengajaknya tetap di sini untuk tetap dekat dengan Lukman. Namun, kewarasan pikirannya berkata lain. Belakangan ini, penampakan Lukman semakin nyata di dalam mimpi dan lamunannya. Dia semakin mengejawantah dalam keseharian Miranti. Seolah dia menemani.

***

Pagi Rabu itu, di puncak kemarau tahun 2019, kelabu menutup langit Taman Nasional Sebangau. Seolah paham dengan perasaan ibunya, Kasih pun nampak bergeming untuk tidak pergi dari Kompleks Perumahan Taman Nasional Sebangau. Kasih selalu mengkhawatirkan nasib Pongo. Kekhawatiran ini bertambah sejak Pongo dan Laksmi meninggalkannya dengan tiba-tiba beberapa hari lalu di tempat pemberian jatah makan orangutan.

“Ayo, kita ke tempat pemberian makan orangutan!” rengek Kasih pagi itu.

Sudah dua hari ini, karena kelangkaan pasokan bahan baku, Pengelola Taman sementara menghentikan pemberian makan kepada orangutan.

“Tapi tidak ada jagawana yang memberikan makan di sana,” kata Miranti.

“Aku ingin ketemu Pongo.” Kasih memaksa.

“Para jagawana sedang sibuk, mereka membantu pemadaman kebakaran hutan.” Miranti membujuk.

“Ya… kita saja yang ke sana saja.”

Akhirnya Miranti pun menyerah. Namun dia membuat semacam penawaran pada Kasih.

“Tapi setelah itu, jika kita terpaksa harus mengungsi ke Bogor, Kasih mau ikut ya.” Miranti membuat penawaran sekedarnya, dia sendiri enggan pergi meskipun akal nalarnya menyuruh dia pergi dari tempat ini.

Kasih mengangguk, meski Miranti meragukan anggukan Kasih juga sampai ke hati anak itu. Miranti merasa, Kasih seolah melihat jalan keselamatan yang lain, yang tidak bisa dia ceritakan.

Miranti memasangkan masker penyaring udara menutupi hidung dan mulut Kasih. Tempat pemberian makan orangutan hanya jarak yang dekat saja, jarak jalan kaki. Namun kali ini terasa sangat jauh. Miranti sangat merasa tidak aman. Dia membawa beberapa tabung oksigen kecil di dalam ranselnya, bersama air dan sedikit kudapan.

Taman Nasional gelap dan sangat berasap. Langit pun jingga, seolah turut terbakar. Udara amat panas.

Sebentar kemudian mereka sudah tiba di tempat pemberian makan. Tempat yang biasanya ramai, kini sepi dan kelabu. Tidak ada reriungan para orangutan seperti biasanya.

“Pongo, sini dong,” celoteh Kasih dengan riang.

Ibunya masygul membisu. Angin bertiup membawa asap yang semakin tebal. Membelah keabuan, dua sosok nampak tertatih datang dari kejauhan. Pongo dan Laksmi datang menghampiri.

“Kamu lapar, Pongo?” Kasih mengeluarkan beberapa buah pisang.

Kewarasan akal pikiran Miranti risau dengan keselamatan mereka di tengah hawa pengap kebakaran hutan ini. Tetapi sepertinya pikiran waras itu sudah bertekuk lutut pada daya gerak hatinya. Dia membiarkan Kasih berceloteh riang dengan Pongo. Laksmi hanya menatap dari kejauhan seperti biasa. Tiba-tiba hidung Miranti seperti mencium bau Lukman. Bau yang dahulu pernah akrab dan kini hanya terekam dalam kenangan.

“Baumu sekarang dapat kurasakan kembali di hidungku Lukman,” gumam Miranti. Bau itu mengudara di sekitar tubuh Miranti bersisihan dengan bau asap yang mematikan. Miranti tak kuasa menolak daya tarik bau itu. Dia sadar dirinya harus menggapai tabung oksigen yang dibawanya, tetapi tak dilakukannya. Bau Lukman sangat kuat membawa Miranti pada kedamaian yang selama ini dirindukannya. Kedamaian yang salah tempat, apa boleh buat. Gerah rusuh suasana hati Miranti. Udara semakin panas. Miranti limbung.

Dalam limbungnya, segala sesuatu seolah mencari jalan selamat sendiri-sendiri. Kewarasan nalar Miranti berusaha menggerakkannya untuk menyelamatkan diri segera. Namun batinnya membuai dengan bayangan kedamaian bertiga bersama Lukman dan Kasih di dalam rimba. Sementara jantung dan paru-parunya mulai memberontak kekurangan zat asam. Dengan mata berkunang-kunang dia melihat tampak Laksmi kembali merimba menggandeng tangan Pongo. Seperti tidak rela ketinggalan, Kasih pun menyeret tangan Miranti mengikuti Laksmi dan Pongo. Kaki-kaki Miranti terseok-seok mengikuti Kasih yang menjadi sangat yakin dengan langkah-langkahnya. Nampaknya mereka akan pergi menjauh ke dalam rimba ke pohon tempat memohon.

Dalam keadaan kabut itu, Miranti semakin merasakan kehadiran Lukman. Baunya semakin menguat di tengah kabut asap. Sesampai di bawah pohon tempat memohon dengan mata setengah terkatup, Miranti seolah melihat bayangan Lukman muncul tampak segar bugar dari lubuk naungan rimba yang terdalam.

Dia menyapa, “Aku telah lama menunggu kalian, Mir ….”

Miranti tersenyum. Nalarnya sudah sepenuhnya bertekuk lutut, terlebih saat melihat Kasih melompat-lompat kegirangan menyambut Lukman.

Tidak ada asap dan gemertak suara ranting terbakar. Hanya suara Lukman yang bening menyapa. Tidak ada cukong sawit dan mandor jahanam. Hutan pun masih sangat perawan. Seperti pertama kali semesta membuatnya. Semua mahluk hidup seolah roh yang segar bugar, meninggalkan jasad yang renta dan penuh masalah.

Lukman membungkuk untuk menggendong Kasih. “Biarkan ibumu menyelesaikan moksanya,” kata Lukman mencubit hidung Kasih.

Langit jingga telah menjadi merah.

Miranti terbaring dengan landasan akar besar Pohon Tempat Memohon.

 

*****

Pongo’s Caring Tree

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si KuncungBobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pongo’s Caring Tree

 

Miranti awoke in the middle of the cold night, sweating and short of breath. Lukman’s soft voice still echoed in her head.

“Mir, go to the Caring Tree! Take Kasih with you.” Lukman’s words had been clear in her sleep.

Miranti looked at Kasih, her daughter, sleeping next to her. Unlike her, Kasih was not soaked in perspiration. The air that night was unusually cold for the hot, dry season.

Miranti could not fall back asleep. The night had been too restless, and now, she too felt unsettled. Recently, she’d been dreaming about Lukman often — Lukman, her husband, who had disappeared in the Rimba Raya Sebangau, a jungle in Central Kalimantan, three years ago. For months, numerous search-and-rescue units looked for her husband. But although they searched until they ran out of supplies, they always came back empty-handed — as empty as the half of Miranti’s heart that was usually filled with Lukman’s presence.

A graduate of the Veterinary School of the Bogor Agricultural Institute, Miranti worked as a veterinarian, in collaboration with the Borneo Orangutan Survival Foundation, BOSF, at the Sebangau National Park, a large nature reserve that was carved out of the Rimba Raya Sebangau jungle. She was in charge of the welfare of the orangutan population in the park. The deep sorrow of losing her husband made Miranti reluctant to return to Bogor, her hometown. Miranti inherited her knowledge of siloka, a mystical cultural belief, from her Sundanese karuhun, ancestors. Siloka convinced her that Lukman was still alive somewhere in the Kalimantan jungle. In Miranti’s dream, Lukman was preparing something for their family’s future, for the life they had dreamed of: a life in union with the forest.

Miranti believed that she and their daughter Kasih just needed to wait for the right time. “Lukman, I know you’ll come for us, but when?” Miranti whimpered, holding Kasih. “I’m so tired.”

Miranti remembered their conversation, word for word, the day Lukman walked out of her embrace for the sake of their beloved forest. In her dream that night, it was as if she were thrown into the past. Indeed, lately she often moved back and forth in time, while Lukman alternated between life and nothing. Miranti wished she would never wake up from her dream, where Lukman was with her.

“I’ll be gone for a while,” Lukman had said to her on that terrible day that always darkened Miranti’s heart and saddened her days. “Take good care of our child, will you?”

“Can’t you delay your trip?” Miranti clearly remembered the words that had risen from her troubled mind.

“No, I need to fulfill my duty.”

“But it is too dangerous; the palm oil thugs are looking for you.”

“The Spirit is the light of my life; I am only a reflection of its light.” That was what Lukman always said when they argued about the dangers that threatened him as a forester and conservation activist.

“Yes, but the situation in Sebangau National Park is precarious; the palm oil thugs are still upset because you prevented them from invading the park area.” Miranti remembered her effort to keep Lukman from leaving.

She knew that Lukman was not really ignoring her fear; she knew Lukman was faced with a dilemma. Lukman had stopped his packing to think for a while. She now wondered if he had been remembering then how he and his friends from the Dayak Ngaju tribe had humiliated the palm oil entrepreneurs with evidence of their invasion into the park area.

“The light is leading me to it right now,” Lukman had finally said, after clearing all his doubts.

“They won’t stop trying to expand their palm plantations into the park area,” Miranti had persisted. “Yes, Roh, the Spirit, has already guided you, but can’t you do it later?”

“I can’t, honey.” Lukman had tried to calm her. “It seems that this forest needs my service right now. Trust me!”

“Yes, but the timing is not right.”

Lukman ignored her refutation.

In the silence that followed, they each held their own worries. That night, Lukman disappeared into the jungle.

Environmental activist and forester friends suspected that Lukman had been killed in the midst of the disaster that was sweeping the forest. Some people believed that his disappearance expressed revenge from the plantation foremen against Lukman’s activism. The foremen considered Lukman the perpetrator in blocking the encroachment of the expanding palm plantations into the Sebangau National Park. But they had no proof.

That was Lukman’s last argument with her.

Miranti broke out of her daydream. Kashi started to wake up. Sighing, Miranti rubbed the child’s forehead. She looked up when she heard the screeching and screams interspersed with the soulful calling of the orangutans in the forest.

The senior orangutans were leading the barzanji, a litany of woe. Miranti’s worry heightened. Orangutans were creatures who shared the fate of the jungle. They seemed able to hear the song of the dying jungle. The chorus, which grew fainter and sounded hoarse from time to time. Only orangutans understood that voice.

The morning came and presented Miranti with tasks to care for the orangutans in the national park. Many of the rescued orangutans were weak from dehydration and suffered from severe burns. The Penajam Paser Utara region, at the eastern side of the park adjacent to the state capital area in Sepaku, had caught fire, injuring many orangutans and other wild animals.

Fortunately, these many sad events did not affect Kasih’s childhood. Every day, Kasih followed the rangers as they fed the orangutans. Kasih truly enjoyed this daily activity. In fact, she often saved her fruit from lunch for Pongo, her favorite orangutan. Although she and Pongo were two creatures of different species, they didn’t act like it. They often reached out to each other, as if they had known each other for a long time, and sometimes Pongo exchanged sweet potatoes for bananas. They played together while Miranti and Laksmi, Pongo’s mother, just watched from a distance.

“Mom, let’s feed Pongo and Laksmi!” Kasih nudged her mother. Miranti looked out of the window and saw the two orangutans waiting outside, at the edge of the forest.

Miranti and Kasih went to meet Laksmi and Pongo.

Laksmi had lived in the Sebangau National Park for almost twenty years. Amid her fur, her skin was mottled with scars evidence of the cruel plantation foremen who had arrived in the park along with the development of the palm plantations. Laksmi quickly became a wary orangutan. If a ranger had not rescued her, she would have died from the foremen’s torture. Miranti gave her the name Laksmi. One of the resilient survivors in the park, Laksmi remained vigilant of her surroundings.

That morning’s news had reported that the park fires had spread. The dry peat, a result of the long drought, was a good conductor of fire. The fires did not spread from the tips of green branches, but rather crept uncontrollably along the peat-covered soil. The smell of burning damp wood wafted through the area. A mixture of water vapor and carbonic acid filled the air with thick white smoke, which made it hard for the animals and the village inhabitants at the edge of the forest to breathe.

Laksmi gave Miranti an unusual look. Her brown eyes seemed to reach out with a deep sorrow. Miranti understood. She felt she and Laksmi shared the same feelings about the fire. They were both mothers who worried about their safety and their children’s. It seemed that one question connected the two of them: Would they still be able to find a green forest in the future?

Suddenly, the orangutans having breakfast stopped eating and became very noisy. They seemed to answer a call from the jungle. Miranti looked towards the woods.

Barzanji again? They just did it. Miranti felt goosebumps. When the orangutans repeated barzanji again and again, it was as if they were asking, “What’s wrong with the life of this forest?”

Laksmi became restless. For a moment, she stared silently at Miranti then grunting, grabbed Pongo’s hand, and turned back to the woods.

Miranti saw that Pongo was reluctant to go with his mother. He was still busy munching on the sweet potato Kasih had just given him. But Laksmi’s instinct urged her to move to the other side of the forest. Pongo waved at Kasih, who was disappointed by Pongo’s and Laksmi’s unusual behavior.

Aware of the precarious orangutan atmosphere, Miranti held Kasih’s hand.

“Why did they leave so quickly, Mom?” Kasih asked.

“They must face the Spirit of the jungle.”

Kasih was hardly satisfied with that answer, but her mother was hurrying the two of them back to the Care Centre.

Kasih was still full of curiosity. She kept bombarding her mother with questions about the experience at the edge of the forest. “Who is the Spirit of the jungle?” Kasih probed.

“He is the power of all forces that support everything in the forest. He is the one who regulates everything in the jungle.”

“Including Dad?” asked Kasih.

“Yes,” Miranti replied, slowly and softly.

Kasih’s question stunned Miranti. She had only recently began feeling that Lukman was still alive. In her mind, he lived with the Spirit and, lately, had begun visiting her in dreams that bothered her all day long.

In Miranti’s observations, the hardest time for Laksmi, Pongo, and the other orangutans to survive was the dry season, when many trees burned, filling the forest with smoke. Food was scarce. Laksmi and Pongo often relied on a few sweet potatoes and bananas from the Sebangau National Park rangers, which was barely enough to keep the hunger pangs away. Food rations were given only once a day and left Pongo and his friends still hungry. Starving for the now-scarce tender leaves and sweet fruit of the forest, the orangutans ransacked the palm shoots sprouting from the tree tops at the plantations on the outskirts of Sebangau National Park. If the orangutans weren’t careful, their rampaging for food could result in injury or death. The plantation foremen used air guns, hot water, wild boar poison, or acid to get rid of the hungry apes.

Miranti knew that during this white, smoke-filled dry season, orangutans often gathered at the Caring Tree across the park. Led by the berida, a senior orangutan, they performed a litany of woe: surrendering their starving bodies, suffocated by the smoke and sinched by the fire, to the Spirit, manifested this time as the Caring Tree. It was all the manifestation of the Spirit of the jungle.

The Caring Tree, where they performed their barzanji, was a buni tree, an offshoot of the bodhi tree family. Its delicious seeds were treats for orangutans, squirrels, and birds. The trunk was large, the branches were stout, the bark contained an effective medicine, and the lush canopy was a home for various animals, including orangutans. The roots of the Caring Tree were strong and bored deep into the soil to uphold the tree’s enormous stature. Kasih and Sundanese-blooded Miranti, knew this big tree to be the werkodara tree.

As a veterinarian, Miranti had observed several times how a group of orangutans performed a barzanji to express their anxiety. During the ritual, the elderly orangutans appeared entranced. They swung, screeching, from branch to branch while ripping branches, leaves, and twigs of a big tree which was no ordinary tree. It was the Caring Tree where the orangutans seemed to surrender their entire bodies and souls to the Spirit of the jungle.

During her eight years of working at the center, Miranti had concluded that orangutans were very spiritual creatures. Even though they acted possessed during the barzanji, they were actually facing the jungle’s Spirit. Miranti believed in the orangutans’ sincerity.

During this most recent barzanji, Miranti believed that the old orangutan’s roar said, “The Spirit will surely take care of us. He is present everywhere, in the good, as well as in the bad.” With a strong moan, the elderly orangutan continued, as if saying, “The Spirit is the one we fear and miss at the same time.”

The boisterousness in the forest died down. Miranti imagined the orangutans’ barzanji had finished. In Miranti’s mind, the orangutans were not blaming the Spirit for the prolonged fire and hunger. They never accused. Nor did they plead for punishment of the cruel foremen or the greedy palm oil barons. Orangutans were not vengeful. They merely surrendered themselves to the balance of nature. They believed that nature was just a pendulum swinging between points of equilibrium, and they would simply accept the fact if the pendulum’s movement meant the extinction of their kind.

Miranti was sure that the forest’s hoarse singing was heard by the orangutans who had gathered to perform a barzanji. Humans, with too many demands and preconceived notions, could not hear the song of the forest. Only innocent creatures could hear that song and the raucous feelings of the trees embedded in the jungle floor. Only the forest creatures could hear the baritone of an old mahogany tree, a sturdy ironwood’s soprano, or the tenor of the tall, slender meranti tree. In a healthy forest, the voices would turn into a melodious chorus.

***

The Sebangau National Park’s forest fires at the peak of the 2019 dry season were enormous. The fires occurred at the same time as the plan to develop Kawasan Sepaku, Penajem Paser Utara, as the new capital of Indonesia. The old capital had become too outdated. The Indonesian government intended to build a new capital, with the idea to juxtapose humans and nature. However, the implementation of these ideas encountered their own problems: fire was the most economical and easy way to clear forests.

The flames were so intense and widespread that they burned the root networks beneath the jungle floor. Now, the forest was dying. The air was stuffy, and acidic substances turned into deadly charcoal. The crackle of burning branches choked the trees’ choir.

The chirpy larks tried to escape the never-ending fire. Fatigued and short of breath from the carbonic acid in the air, the birds fluttered frantically. They finally fell and were roasted.

People fled from the city. Those who did not have the luxury of fleeing to safety hid in their homes.

Miranti was very reluctant to leave. Her sense of Lukman’s presence was even stronger at this critical time. But for the sake of Kasih’s health, Miranti was, miserably, forced to book a plane ticket. Facing this reality, Miranti’s heart split into two.

While Miranti’s rational mind urged her to leave, her emotional impulses urged her to stay near the forest, to stay close to Lukman. His presence had become more and more evident in her dreams and fantasies. He was increasingly present in Miranti’s daily life. It was as if he were keeping her company.

***

That eventful Wednesday morning, at the peak of the 2019 dry season, the skies of Sebangau National Park were gray. As if she understood her mother’s feelings, Kasih wasn’t interested in leaving the Sebangau National Park housing complex. Kasih was worried about Pongo. Her concern had grown after Pongo and Laksmi had suddenly left her at the orangutan feeding site, a few days ago.

“Come on, let’s go to the orangutan feeding place!” Kasih cajoled her mother that morning, not knowing that the park had temporarily stopped feeding the orangutans due to scarce supplies.

“But there is no ranger to feed them there,” Miranti said.

“I want to see Pongo,” Kasih pleaded.

“The rangers are busy,” said Miranti, trying to convince her. “They’re helping out with the forest fires.”

“That’s okay,” insisted Kasih. “We can go by ourselves.”

Finally, Miranti gave up. However, she used her consent as a bargaining chip with Kasih. “But if after we visit, we are forced to flee to Bogor, you must come with me without fussing.” Miranti spoke half-heartedly; she, herself, was reluctant to leave, despite what her common sense told her.

Kasih nodded, but Miranti doubted that Kasih’s nod was sincere. She wondered if Kasih saw another way of salvation, one she could not verbalize.

Miranti placed an air filter mask over Kasih’s nose and mouth. The orangutan feeding site was only a short walking distance away, but this morning, it seemed to be so far. Feeling very anxious, Miranti placed several small oxygen cylinders in her backpack, along with water and a few snacks.

The Sebangau National Park was dark and dreadfully smoky. The sky was orange, as if it too were on fire. The air was horribly hot.

When Miranti and Kasih arrived at the feeding site, the usually busy place was now deserted and gray. There were no happy orangutan sounds.

“Pongo, come here!” Kasih called out cheerfully.

Miranti remained speechless.

The wind carried the thickening smoke. Parting the gray air, two limping figures appeared in the distance. Pongo and Laksmi were coming closer.

“Are you hungry, Pongo?” Kasih took out a few bananas.

Miranti worried about their safety in the midst of this forest fire’s suffocating air. But her rational mind buckled again under her heart’s impulse. She let Kasih chat happily with Pongo, as Laksmi watched from a distance as usual. Suddenly, Miranti caught Lukman’s aroma — the scent that had once been so familiar, now had become only a memory.

“I can smell your presence, Lukman,” murmured Miranti. His scent seemed to envelope her along with the deadly smoke. Miranti could not resist the scent’s appeal. She realized she needed the oxygen cylinder she carried, but she didn’t reach for it. The scent of Lukman was very strong. It brought Miranti the peace she had been longing for. It didn’t seem to matter that it was a misplaced peace.

The air was getting hotter.

Miranti staggered.

In her confusion, everything seemed to seek its own way of survival. Miranti’s sensibilities tried to move her to save Kasih and herself immediately. Instead, she lulled herself into the notion of peace with Lukman and Kasih in the forest. Meanwhile, her heart and lungs battled oxygen deficiency. Light-headed, she saw Laksmi take Pongo’s hand and walk back into the woods. Not wanting to be left behind, Kasih grabbed Miranti’s hand and followed them without hesitation.

Miranti, still stunned at the crossroads of destiny, lumbered along. In the choking fog, Lukman’s presence was even more apparent. After they arrived at the Caring Tree, his scent grew stronger, overpowering the smog. Through her half- closed eyes, Miranti saw Lukman’s shadow appear from the deepest shade of the woods. Looking refreshed, he said, “I’ve been waiting for the two of you for a long time, Mir.”

Miranti smiled. As she watched Kasih happily greet Lukman, her sensibilities left her completely.

There was no smell of smoke, no crackle of burning branches — there was only Lukman’s voice greeting her clearly. There were no palm oil barons and foremen. The forest was still virgin like the first time the universe made it. All living things were spirits in good health, who had left their frail and problem-riddled bodies behind.

Lukman bent to pick up Kasih. “Let your mother finish her transition, her moksha.” Lukman pinched Kasih’s nose playfully.

The orange sky turned red.

Miranti lay at the base of a large root of the Caring Tree.

 

*****

Mitoni Terakhir

Ranang Aji SP adalah penulis fiksi dan nonfiksi. Lahir di Klaten, 1 Desember 1978. Cerpennya diterbitkan oleh pelbagai media cetak dan digital di Indonesia, seperti Kompas, Koran Tempo, Media Indonesia, Republika, Jawa Pos, Lampung Post, Harian Fajar Makasar, dan beberapa surat kabar lain. Cerpennya juga terkumpul dalam antologi tunggal dan bersama: Srigala Yang Berzikir Di Akhir Waktu (Nyala, 2018), Hujan Klise (Penerbit Buku Kompas, 20219), Urban(is)me (Binsar Hiras, 2020). Naskah kritik sastranya berjudul: “Sepotong Senja Untuk Pacarku: Antara Sastra Modern-PascaModern, Makna Dan Jejak Terpengaruhannya” termasuk 20 naskah terpilih dalam Sayembara Kritik Sastra 2020 Badan Bahasa Kemendikbud dan terhimpun dalam Antologi Kritik Sastra: Teks, Pengarang dan Masyarakat. Saat ini tinggal di Magelang-Jawa Tengah.
Penulis dapat dihubungi melalui surel: ranangajisuryaputra@gmail.com

 

 

Mitoni Terakhir

 

Di halaman belakang rumah, peninggalan suamiku, aku duduk sendiri, memandang pohon randu alas yang meranggas. Kukira, waktuku sudah segera akan tiba. Aku tidak tahu kapan itu terjadi, tapi, cepat atau lambat, malaikat maut itu pasti akan segera datang menjemputku. Menyusul para leluhurku untuk berkumpul bersama. Kematian adalah kepastian buat siapa saja, apalagi buat perempuan seusiaku saat ini. Sebelum ajalku, aku hanya ingin merasakan, menyaksikkan dan memberikan berkah pada darah dagingku yang terlahir di bumi ini, agar tumbuh sehat sebagai jiwa terberkati. Seperti para leluhurku juga memberkatiku di masa lalu.

Dari rahimku ini, telah lahir tujuh anak perempuan dan setiap anak telah melahirkan anak-anaknya, para cucuku yang lucu. Kecuali anak bungsuku, Setyaningsih, dia baru dua tahun menikah dan belum sempat mendapatkan anak. Semua anak dan cucuku mendapat restu dan berkah dari orangtuanya dengan cara yang sama. Eka Yuningsih, anak pertamaku, ketika mengandung anak pertamanya, semua menyambutnya dengan bahagia. Ketika usia kandungannya menginjak tujuh bulan, seperti adat Jawa yang terberkati, kami, ayah dan ibunya menggelar acara mitoni. Demikian pula dengan anak-anakku yang lain.

Dalam setiap hajatan itu, semua kerabat datang, semua tetangga hadir juga anak-anak sekitar yang ceria menonton rangkaian acara. Mereka tertawa sembari berdesak-desakan di halaman. Terkadang mereka ikut melihat bagaimana kami mengguyur tubuh anak dan cucuku yang masih di dalam rahimnya, dengan air bunga. Tentu saja aku tahu anak-anak itu menginginkan dawet ayu, dan juga semua makanan yang kami sediakan untuk hajatan ini. Aku membiarkan mereka ribut, gaduh di antara suara gending Jawa yang mengiringi. Terkadang, aku berpura-pura marah, meminta mereka agar diam dan menunggu di latar. Sambil aku tanya, sudah bawa kereweng belum. Kereweng adalah pecahan genteng. Dalam acara mitoni, biasanya ditukarkan dengan dawet, dan lain-lain.

“Sudaah,” jawab mereka serempak.

Namun, semua upayaku agar mereka diam, sia-sia belaka. Para mahluk kecil nan berisik itu, selalu tak tertaklukkan oleh siapa saja, kecuali oleh dawet ayu. Perut mereka yang seluas langit dan sedalam lautan, tak juga kunjung puas, meskipun bermangkok-mangkok dawet sudah disiramkan ke dalam perutnya. Bahkan ketika perut itu sudah dijejali oleh jajanan yang mereka inginkan. Ah, dasar anak-anak.

Semua tampak menjadi sibuk dan repot, memang, namun kerepotan itu membuat kami, para orangtua bahagia. Karena, aku dan mereka tahu, bahwa semua kerepotan dan keringat dari para kerabat, tetangga yang berkumpul dalam acara itu, adalah pancaran tangan kami semua yang menjemput cahaya berkah dari langit. Cahaya berkah yang kemudian kami berikan pada anak dan cucuku di dalam kandungan. Agar kelak, mereka juga tumbuh dan meneruskan berkah itu pada anak cucu mereka. Juga melalui cara ini, sebagai orang Jawa.

Dahulu, di masa kecilku, aku juga seperti mereka anak-anak kampung yang ceria itu ketika ada hajatan, tak kecuali juga ketika ada yang menggelar hajatan bagi seorang calon ibu. Aku bersama kangmasku, setelah mendengar kabar itu, segera berlari gembira di sepanjang jalan kampung, mengumpulkan pecahan genteng, berebut dengan teman-teman yang lain. Semua itu nanti kami tukarkan dengan segelas dawet dan makanan lain. Kami juga dizinkan ayah menonton pergelaran wayang orang atau wayang kulit setelahnya.

Biasanya, anak-anak punya cara agar mendapatkan lebih dawet ayu. Mereka antri sampai berkali-kali, hingga akhirnya, ibu-ibu tua yang menjaga dan melayani, menegur mereka dengan suara serak dan muka cemberut, “Sudah, gantian sama yang lain. Masak terus menerus berputar seperti itu.”

Kami selalu suka dengan semua hajatan, tanpa kecuali. Kami sadar, semua itu cara para leluhur, agar kami anak cucunya bersyukur dan menghargai lingkungan. Tanah yang menumbuhkan semua kebutuhan kami, dan juga pada Sang Hyang Widi di atas langit. Semua itu, tentu saja, seperti kata bapakku, Mitoni adalah cara orang Jawa mencintai, menghargai kehidupan mereka di muka bumi. Juga tentang persoalan bagaimana kelak seluruh keturunan bisa menjalani kehidupan dengan berkah orangtua mereka yang mengemban amanah menjaga kehidupan hingga anak cucu di masa depan.

Namun, sayang, Setyaningsih, anak bungsuku, agak berbeda. Ketika hamil pada akhirnya, dia menolak melakukan hajatan mitoni. Katanya, adat itu sudah terlalu kuno – tak lagi mencerminkan lingkungan masyarakat dan pendidikannya. Katanya, negara barat, Amerika, tempatnya bersekolah, tak ada kebiasaan seperti hajatan di Jawa. Dia memang berniat melakukan hajatan, tetapi dengan cara yang berbeda. Cara yang lebih sederhana. Dia sebut hajatan itu dalam bahasa Inggris, baby shower. Aku belum pernah mendengar sebelumnya, sampai dia katakan itu.

“Teman-teman sudah seperti itu semua, Bu,” katanya mencoba meyakinkanku.

“Apa bedanya, Nduk? Lagipula kenapa harus seperti teman-temanmu?”

“Repot, Bu, hajatan seperti itu, ribet dan tak masuk akal,” katanya padaku, sedikit tampak enggan menjawab.

“Tentu saja tidak begitu,” kataku sedih. “Tentu saja di sana tak ada mitoni. Semua tempat punya caranya sendiri.” Kupandangi mukanya yang bersih dan halus. Dia perempuan yang cantik. Bahkan lebih cantik dari aku. Lebih pintar dariku. Semua yang diidamkan perempuan, ada padanya. Dia bisa membentuk apa yang dia suka dalam wajah dan tubuhnya, dengan uangnya. Begitu cantik dirinya dengan semua perubahan itu, sampai aku tak yakin apakah benar dia anakku, Setyaningsih. Semua agak berubah, dari alisnya, bentuk bibirnya dan hidungnya yang menjadi mancung. Hampir semuanya tak lagi milikku, atau suamiku.

Aku mulai sadar, dunia ini memang mudah berubah. Semua akan selalu berubah. Tak ada kepastian, selain kematian, bukan? Anakku, Setyaningsih juga tampak jauh berubah. Dia tak lagi seperti anak-anak yang dulu selalu kurawat dan kuberikan pendidikan, agar nantinya dia tumbuh menjadi perempuan Jawa yang ikut merawat miliknya sendiri, dengan percaya diri.

Tapi, tampaknya dia begitu terpesona dengan dunia yang berbeda dari yang dimilikinya. Setyaningsih juga selalu berbahasa lain, yang saudara-saudaranya tak menggunakannya. Berpakaian seperti noni-noni berambut jerami yang menjadi teman-temannya. Suaminya, sama saja. Pramono, seorang pengusaha berhasil yang lebih banyak hidup di negara asing dan mulai kesulitan melafalkan bahasa-bahasa setempat. Dia nurutin saja semua apa yang dikatakan istrinya. Katanya, “Ibu tak usah repot-repot bikin hajatan itu. Biar kami sendiri yang menangani.”

Dari tujuh anak perempuanku, Setyaningsih memang berbeda. Persis seperti pepatah lama, tak ada yang sempurna dari semua telur milik kita. Aku tak menyalahkannya. Dia mendapatkan sekolah yang telah membuatnya berpikir dia lebih pintar dari orang lain. Aku hanya ingin dirinya menjadi diri sendiri, sebagai orang Jawa. Menjalani upacara adat yang sudah menjadi baju masyarakatnya sejak dulu. Itu saja.

Usiaku mungkin akan selesai dalam hitungan waktu yang tidak terlalu lama. Meskipun usia manusia hanya Tuhan yang tahu akan berapa lama. Aku hanya ingin menjalani sekali lagi merasakan bagaimana indahnya memberikan berkat pada anak cucuku yang masih sempat aku lihat. Memberkati bersama para kerabat, tetangga dan anak-anak yang lucu nan bandel dalam acara mitoni.

Eka Yuningsih sudah membantuku menyampaikan semua keinginanku pada Setyaningsih. Katanya, aku harus bersabar. Tidak perlu ngotot dan memaksanya yang sudah punya pendapatnya sendiri. Dia ingin membuat acaranya sendiri, seperti semangat zamannya yang ingin seperti bangsa lain.

“Mungkin paling penting adalah doa ibu saja,” bujuk Yuningsih padaku, setelah gagal membujuk Setyaningsih.

“Ibu, jika tetap berkeras hati juga, nanti malah jatuh sakit. Ibu harus jaga kesehatan Ibu, agar bisa menyaksikkan cucu-cucu tumbuh.”

“Apakah Ibu salah, jika ingin memberikan berkah pada kandungan anakku. Doa terakhir yang tak akan terdengar lagi setelah kematianku nanti?” Yuningsih kulihat bimbang. Dia hanya diam dan mencium tanganku.

“Ibu jangan bicara seperti itu,” katanya kemudian.

Di halaman belakang rumah warisan suamiku ini, aku duduk menatap pohon randu alas yang meranggas – pohon yang tak lagi berdaun di musim kemarau. Mendengarkan tembang megatruh yang mengingatkanku agar bersiap dijemput kematian. Di sana, aku merenung dalam sendiriku. Mungkin aku salah. Mungkin aku semacam orangtua yang kaku. Mungkin aku terlalu memaksakan keinginanku sendiri pada anak-anakku. Orangtua yang sudah tidak sesuai dengan keinginan zaman. Keinginan anak-anaknya. Tidak tahu keinginan anak-anaknya? Hmm ….

Sekilas, aku lihat langit yang penuh awan, di antara sela-sela ranting pohon randu alas yang meranggas. Aku bersedih mengingatnya, jika begitu. Namun, kesedihanku bukan semata karena aku tak dituruti keinginanku. Mungkin memang iya. Aku tak boleh berbohong. Tapi, kesedihanku juga karena mengingat bahwa kematianku nanti, mungkin berarti juga kematian warisan leluhurku di tanahnya sendiri. Kematian doa-doa yang penuh berkah dari langit. Ah, semoga tidak. Aku masih berharap Setyaningsih, anakku yang cantik itu, sadar – sehingga aku masih bisa memberkati anak cucuku dalam hajatan itu untuk terakhir kali. Sebelum ajal menjemputku. Aku berharap seperti itu.

*****

The Last Mitoni

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si KuncungBobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

 

The Last Mitoni

 

Sitting alone in the backyard of the house I inherited from my husband, I look at the withered tree. I think my time will come soon. I do not know when it will be, but, sooner or later, the angel of death shall come to unite me with my ancestors. Death is a certainty for everyone, especially for a woman of my age. But, before my time comes, I just want to feel, witness, and bless my children so that they become healthy, honorable souls. I’d like to give them what my ancestors gave to me.

I have given birth to seven daughters and six have given birth to my adorable grandchildren. My youngest daughter, Setyaningsih, has been married for two years and has yet to have children. All my children and grandchildren have received their parents’ blessings in the traditional Javanese way.

When Eka Yuningsih, my eldest daughter, was pregnant with her first child, everyone was happy. When she reached her seventh month of pregnancy, following revered Javanese custom, we, her parents, held a mitoni, a ceremonial celebration to bless the mother and unborn child. We did this also for our other children.

All of my relatives and neighbors came with their children to every celebration. The children enjoyed the entire affair. They crowded into the yard, laughing. Sometimes they came to watch how we poured water, scented with flower petals, over our daughter and unborn grandchild.

I knew for sure that the children craved dawet ayu, a Javanese cold drink made of coconut milk and flavored tapioca balls, and all the food we provided for these celebrations. I allowed the children to make a lot of noise while an orchestra played Javanese music. Sometimes, I pretended to be angry and told them to be quiet and wait in the front yard. I asked them, “Have you brought kereweng with you?” At a mitoni, these roof-tile chips are used as tokens to exchange for dawet ayu and other snacks.

“Yes, we sure have,” the children chanted.

But all my efforts to quiet them were in vain. Nothing but dawet ayu could quiet these noisy little creatures whose stomachs were as wide as the sky and as deep as the sea. And, even though they had poured bowls of dawet ayu into their bellies and stuffed their tummies with snacks, they wanted more. Ah, that’s just the way children are.

Everyone seemed to be in a frenzy. But the flurry of activities made us parents happy. We all knew that the efforts made by relatives and neighbors who had gathered for the event reflected the light and blessings from the sky — blessings that we then bestowed upon my child and the grandchild inside her womb so that, later, they could pass on these blessing to their children and grandchildren in a similar manner. This is the Javanese way.

Back then, in my childhood, I also acted like those cheerful village children when there was a celebration. One held for a prospective mother was no exception. As soon as we heard that there would be a celebration, my kangmas, brother, and I immediately ran happily along the village road to collect shards of roof tile, fighting over them with other friends. Later, we would exchange the shards for a glass of dawet ayu and other snacks. My father also allowed us to watch the puppet show afterwards.

Usually, children would find a way to get more dawet ayu. They would line up many times until, finally, the old woman in charge of the dawet table scolded them. “That’s enough!” Frowning, she would add, “Let others have a turn. Don’t keep coming back for more.”
We always loved celebrations of all kinds, without exception. We all knew that through these celebrations our elders showed us how to be grateful and respect our environment, how to revere the land that grows all our needs, and honor Sang Hyang Widi, The Great One in heaven. Above all, my father said, mitoni is the way Javanese people show love and respect for their life on earth. It is the ability to live a life full of blessings from our parents, who fulfilled the task of protecting the environment for future generations.

Unfortunately, Setyaningsih, my youngest child, thinks a little different. When she finally became pregnant, she refused to celebrate the occasion with a mitoni. She said that the practice was too old-fashioned; it no longer reflected her community and social environment. She said that in Western countries, like America, where she received her education, people do not have traditions like those of the Javanese. She intended to celebrate the rite of passage, but in a different way. A simpler way. She said the celebration was called a baby shower in English. I had never heard the expression before she used it.

“All my friends throw a baby shower, Mom,” Setyaningsih said, trying to convince me.

“What’s the difference?” I said. “Besides, why do you have to be like your friends?”

My daughter hesitated for a moment, then said, “Mom, a mitoni is troublesome, complicated, and absurd.”

“That’s not true,” I said, hurt.

“Of course there is no mitoni over there in America. Every culture has its own traditions.” I looked at my daughter’s clean, smooth face. She was a beautiful woman. Prettier than me. Smarter than me. She had everything that a woman could want. With her money, she shaped her face and body any way she desired.

All of her shapings had made her so beautiful that I wasn’t sure if she really was Setyaningsih, my daughter. All her features seemed changed: the curve of the eyebrows, the shape of the lips, and the nose that had turned pointy. Nothing about her was mine or my husband’s.

I began to realize that change was easily made in this world. Everything would always change. Apart from death, there was no certainty. My daughter, Setyaningsih, had also changed. She was no longer the child I had raised and cared for so that she could grow into a Javanese woman who confidently took care of her own children.

Instead, it seemed that Setyaningsih was fascinated with a world different from her own. Setyaningsih now spoke a language her siblings did not use. She dressed like her friends, the straw-haired noni-noni, young women of Dutch descent.

Her husband was no different. Pramono, a successful businessman who lived mostly in a foreign country, started to have difficulty pronouncing words of our Javanese language. He followed his wife’s footsteps and said to me, “You don’t have to bother preparing for the celebration. Let us handle it ourselves.”

Of my seven daughters, Setyaningsih is the different one. Just as the old saying goes, nothing is perfect. I don’t blame her, especially considering her education that gave her the ability to think differently than most people. I just want her to be herself, a Javanese. To perform a ceremony that has been a tradition of our people for a long time is all I want. I am old and likely to die soon. Even though only God knows when that will happen, I just want — one more time — to feel how beautiful it is to bless my grandchildren, to hold a mitoni with relatives, neighbors, and children who are mischievous but loveable, while I still have time.

Eka Yuningsih has helped to convey all my wishes to Setyaningsih. Yuningsih told me to be patient. Setyaningsih had her own opinions and wanted to make her own plans. True to the spirit of her generation, she wanted to be like someone of another nation.

“Perhaps, your prayers are the most important,” Yuningsih said after she failed to persuade Setyaningsih to change her mind. She added, “Mom, if you continue to force the issue, you will get sick. You have to take care of your health, so you can watch your grandchildren grow.”

“Am I wrong for wanting to bless the womb of my own daughter? Say the prayer no one will hear again after my death?” I saw Yuningsih turn uncertain.

She quietly kissed my hand and said, “Mom, don’t say that.”

I’m sitting in the backyard of the house my husband left me, staring at the bare cotton tree a tree that loses its leaves in the dry season. Listening to a megatruh, a Javanese song that reminds me to be ready to meet the angel of death, I contemplate: Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe I am some kind of a willful parent. Maybe I am imposing my own will too much on my children. A parent who is not in sync with the aspirations of the times, oblivious of what her children want. Hmm ….

Between the bare branches of the cotton tree, I see a clouded sky. My sadness is not only a result of me not getting my way. Or, maybe it is. I can’t pretend. But my sadness also comes from the knowledge that my death might mean the death of my ancestral heritage in its very own place of birth. The expiration of the blessings from heaven. Ah, I do hope it won’t. I still hope that Setyaningsih, my beautiful daughter, will come to her senses so I can for the last time bestow my blessings upon my children and grandchildren in this celebration before the angel of death comes to collect me. I do hope so.

*****

 

 

 

 

Kuli Kontrak

Mochtar Lubis adalah seorang jurnalis dan pengarang ternama Indonesia. Beliau lahir di Padang, Sumatera Barat tanggal 7 Maret 1922 dan wafat di Jakarta tanggal 2 Juli 2004. Karya-karyanya antara lain novel Jalan Tak Ada Ujung (1952), novel Harimau! Harimau! (1975), kumpulan cerpen Perempuan (1956), dan novel Maut dan Cinta (1977) yang diterjemahkan ke dalam bahasa Inggris oleh Dalang Publishing Love Death and Revolution (2015).

Terbit bulan Desember 2020. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2020 ada pada Novita Dewi. 

 

 

 

Kuli Kontrak

 

Lampu-lampu di beranda dan kamar depan telah dipadamkan. Ayah sedang menulis di kamar kerjanya. Dan kami anak-anak berkumpul di kamar tidur ayah dan ibu, mendengarkan cerita ibu  sebelum kami disuruh tidur. Ibu bercerita tentang seorang pelesit, pemakan orang, yang dapat menukar- nukar tubuhnya dari manusia menjadi macan dan kemudian jadi manusia kembali, berganti-ganti.

Untuk mengenal pelesit itu orang harus melihat bandar bibirnya yang licin di bawah hidung, dan kalau dia berjalan maka tumitnya yang ke depan. Sungguh amat menakutkan dan mengasyikkan cerita ibu itu, dan kami duduk sekelilingnya berlindung dalam selimut; agak ketakutan, amat menyenangkan benar.

Sedang kami begitulah tiba-tiba terdengar ribut di luar rumah dan kemudian terdengar opas penjaga rumah kami berteriak-teriak memanggil ayah dari luar, “Inyik! Inyik!”

Kami semua terkejut.

Ibu berhenti bercerita.

Ayah terdengar bergegas membuka pintu kamar kantornya dan terus ke beranda.

“Aduh, ada lagi kampung yang perang, barangkali,” seru ibu.

Dan kami pun mengikutinya ke beranda.

Di masa itu ayah bekerja sebagai demang di Kerinci dan dalam tahun dua puluhan dan tiga puluhan itu keadaan daerah itu seperti di masa abad pertengahan saja. Karena soal pembagian air sawah, soal kerbau dan sebagainya, satu kampung lalu menyatakan perang kepada kampung yang lain. Senjata yang lazim dipakai dalam perang ini ialah batu sebesar telur ayam diayunkan ke arah musuh dengan tali-tali istimewa untuk pengayunkannya. Baru semingguan yang lalu ayah pergi ke Sungai Deras menghentikan perang semacam ini dan dia kena peluru batu kesasar yang merenggutkan topi helmnya dari kepalanya. Untunglah tidak tepat, kenanya. Hanya pening juga kepala ayah beberapa lama dibuatnya.

Baru setelah perkelahian dapat dihentikan oleh polisi dengan menembakkan senapan berkali-kali  ke udara dan kedua kepala  kampung dari desa yang berperang itu dipertemukan, dan mereka mendengar ayah nyaris kena lemparan batu mereka yang berperang, maka kepala-kepala  kampung itu meminta-minta maaf dan ampun, dan berkata bahwa mereka tidak bermaksud memerangi ayah sama sekali. Akhirnya karena menyesalnya mereka dengan batu yang menyasar itu, maka dengan mudah mereka menerima usul perdamaian ayah dan membagi air untuk sawah-sawah mereka dengan berdamai.

Ketika opas penjaga rumah berteriak-teriak memanggili ayah, hari hampir jam sembilan malam. Di bawah, beberapa orang polisi dengan komandannya berdiri, dan tidak terdengar olehku mula-mula apa katanya pada ayah. Kami segera juga disuruh masuk, oleh ayah, kembali.

Ayah masuk sebentar dan dengan cepat berpakaian. Dia mengenakan sepatu kulitnya yang panjang, mengenakan pistolnya di pinggangnya, topi helmnya, dan kemudian segera ke luar.

Tiada lama kemudian ibu masuk, dan berkata, “Nah, kini anak-anak semua, tidurlah. Ayah mesti pergi. Ada kuli kontrak lari.” Kelihatan ibu merasa cemas di hatinya.

Esok pagi kami dengar dari Abdullah, opas penjaga rumah bahwa ada lima kuli kontrak yang melarikan diri dari onderneming Kayu Aro, setelah menikam opzichter Belanda.

***

Ketika kami pulang sekolah jam 12 siang, ayah belum kembali juga. Ketika dekat magrib, ayah belum juga pulang. Ibu mulai cemas dan sebentar-sebentar dia ke depan melihat ke jalan. Beberapa  kali aku dengar ibu bercakap-cakap  dengan opas Abdullah, yang berkata supaya ibu jangan khawatir.

Ayah tiba ketika hari telah malam dan kami semua telah disuruh tidur. Aku dengar ayah bercakap-cakap dengan ibu sampai jauh malam dan kemudian rumah pun sunyilah.

Esoknya kami dengar bahwa kuli-kuli kontrak itu telah tertangkap semuanya dan telah dibawa ke penjara. Penjara terletak di bawah bukit kecil di belakang rumah kami. Dari kebun buah-buahan dan sayur di belakang rumah, jika kami naik pohon jeruk  yang  besar,  dapatlah  dilihat  lapangan  belakang  penjara,  tempat  orang hukuman dibariskan tiap hari atau diberi hukuman.

Dari kebun itulah terdengar suara orang gila yang ditahan dalam penjara, menyanyi-nyanyi atau memaki-maki. Mengapa di masa itu orang gila dimasukkan penjara dan tidak ke rumah sakit tidak jadi pertanyaan bagiku, waktu itu. Kadang- kadang asyik juga aku mendengarkan nyanyiannya yang beriba-iba, kemudian lantang mengeras, dan lebih hebat lagi jika telah mulai memaki-maki, amat sangat kotornya kata-katanya. Sungguh sedap selagi kecil itu dapat mendengar perkataan-perkataan yang terlarang demikian.

Kemudian ibu bercerita bahwa ayah dan polisi dapat menangkap tiga orang kuli kontrak yang melawan opzichter Belanda itu. Hanya tiga orang, tidak lima orang seperti diceritakannya semula. Mereka tertangkap dalam hutan tidak jauh dari onderneming, separuh kelaparan dan kedinginan dan penuh ketakutan. Mereka tiada melawan sama sekali. Dan ketika melihat ayah maka mereka segera datang menyerah dan berkata, “Pada kanjeng kami menyerahkan nasib dan memohon keadilan.”

Menurut ibu, yang didengarnya dari ayah, sebabnya terjadi penikaman terhadap opzichter Belanda itu karena opzichter itu selalu mengganggu istri mereka. Dan rupa-rupanya kuli-kuli kontrak itu sudah mata gelap dan tak dapat lagi menahan hati melihat opzichter itu mengganggu istri-istri mereka. Itulah maka mereka memutuskan ramai-ramai menyerang si opzichter.

“Tidak salah, mereka itu,” kata ibu yang rupanya merasa gusar sekali melihat kuli-kuli kontrak yang ditangkap itu. “Mestinya opzichter jahat itulah yang ditangkap,” tambah ibu.

“Mengapa tidak ditangkap, dia?” tanya kami anak-anak.

Ibu memandangi kami, dan berkata dengan suara yang lunak, “Karena yang berkuasa Belanda! Belanda tidak pernah salah.”

“Tetapi dia yang jahat,” kata kami mendesak ibu.

“Ibu tidak mengerti,” sahut ibu, “tapi jangan kamu tanya-tanya pada ayah tentang ini. Dia sudah marah-marah saja, sejak pulang dari onderneming.”

Ketika ayah pulang kantor dan setelah dia makan, maka kami semua dipanggil ke kamar kerjanya. Kelihatan muka ayah agak suram. Sesuatu yang berat menekan pikirannya. Setelah kami berkumpul, maka ayah berkata, “Tidak seorang yang boleh ke sana. Ayah larang anak-anak pergi ke kebun belakang. Ayah akan marah sekali pada siapa saja yang melanggar larangan ini.”

“Mengapa, ayah?” tanya kami.

“Turut saja perintah ayah!” sahut ayah dengan pendek.

Kami pun  mengerti. Jika ayah telah bersikap demikian tak ada gunanya membantah-bantah.  Tapi hati kami penuh macam-macam pertanyaan, Mengapa dilarang? Ada apa?

Segera juga ibu kami serbu, hingga akhimya untuk mendiamkan  kami ibu pun berkata bahwa esok hari ketiga kuli kontrak itu akan diberi hukuman. Sebelum perkaranya dibawa ke depan hakim maka mereka akan dilecuti, karena telah menyerang opzichter Belanda.

Kecut  hatiku  mendengar cerita  ibu. Rasanya badanku dingin menggigil. Dan setelah masuk kamar tidur, amat lama baru aku bisa tidur. Pikiranku terganggu mendengar kuli-kuli kontrak yang akan dilecuti esok pagi di penjara. Ketakutan berganti-ganti dengan nafsu hendak melihat betapa manusia melecut manusia dengan cemeti.

Pagi-pagi saudara-saudaraku yang harus ke sekolah telah berangkat. Dan kami yang belum bersekolah diberi tahu lagi oleh ayah dan ibu supaya jangan pergi ke kebun di belakang rumah kami.

Dari opas Abdullah kudengar mereka akan dilecut mulai jam sembilan pagi. Semakin dekat jam sembilan semakin resah dan gelisah rasa hatiku. Hasrat hatiku melihat mereka dilecut bertambah besar saja.

Ketika hari telah hampir lima menit menjelang jam sembilan hatiku tak dapat lagi kutahan, dan  sambil berteriak pada ibu bahwa aku pergi bermain ke rumah sebelah maka aku lari ke luar pekarangan di depan rumah, ke jalan besar, berlari terus memutar jalan ke jalan besar di belakang rumah, masuk pekarangan rumah sakit, terus berlari ke belakang rumah sakit yang berbatasan  dengan kebun di belakang rumah  kami, memanjat pagar kawat, meloncat ke dalam kebun, dan dengan napas terengah-engah memanjat pohon jeruk, hingga sampai ke dahan di atasnya tempat aku biasa duduk dan melihat-lihat ke bawah, ke pekarangan belakang rumah penjara.

Pekarangan itu ditutupi batu kerikil. Di tengah-tengahnya telah terpasang tiga buah bangku kayu. Sepasukan kecil polisi bersenjata senapan berdiri berbaris di sisi sebelah  kiri. Kemudian kulihat ayah  keluar dari gang menuju pekarangan di belakang penjara, di sebelahnya kontrolir orang Belanda, asisten wedana, polisi, dokter rumah sakit. Dan kemudian dari gang lain keluarlah tiga orang yang akan dilecuti itu. Mereka hanya memakai celana pendek dan tangan mereka diikat ke belakang, diiringi oleh kepala rumah penjara dan dua orang polisi.

Hatiku berdebar-debar, dan takut kembali meremasi perutku. Akan tetapi aku tak hendak  meninggalkan tempat persembunyianku. Aku hendak melihat juga apa yang akan terjadi.

Ketika kuli kontrak itu dibariskan dekat bangku-bangku kayu yang telah tersedia, mereka disuruh jongkok. Kepala rumah penjara kemudian membacakan sehelai surat. Dan aku lihat kontrolir mengangguk-angguk. Ayah berdiri tegang tidak bergerak-gerak. Kemudian ketiga kuli kontrak itu dibuka ikatan tangan mereka di belakang, ditidurkan telungkup di  atas perut  mereka di bangku, dan  kaki  dan tangan mereka diikatkan ke bangku.

Tiga orang mandor penjara kemudian maju ke depan, kira-kira 2 meter dari setiap bangku, di tangan mereka sehelai cemeti panjang yang hitam warnanya. Kemudian kepala penjara berseru, “Satu!”

Suaranya keras dan lantang. Tiga orang mandor penjara mulai mengayunkan tangan mereka ke belakang. Cemeti panjang berhelak ke udara seperti ular hitam yang hendak menyambar, mengerikan. Dan terdengarlah bunyi membelah udara, mendengung tajam; lalu bunyi cemeti melanggar daging manusia, yang segera disusuli jeritan kuli kontrak yang di tengah melonjakkan kepalanya ke belakang. Dari mulutnya yang ternganga itu keluarlah suara jeritan yang belum pernah aku dengar dijeritkan manusia: melengking tajam membelah udara, menusuk seluruh hatiku, dan membuat tubuhku seketika lemah-lunglai.

Karena amat sangat terpengaruh dengan apa yang kulihat, maka ketika hendak turun dan pohon aku salah meletakkan kakiku ke bawah dan menjerit terkejut, jatuh ke bawah amat sakitnya. Beberapa saat aku terhentak diam di tanah, dan kemudian aku menangis kesakitan. Opas Abdullah yang sedang berada di dapur datang ke belakang, melihat aku terbaring lalu cepat menggendongku ke rumah.

Sikuku amat sakitnya. Ibu memeriksanya dan berkata, “Sikumu  terkilir. Dan lalu ditambahnya,  “Ayah  akan  marah  sekali,  engkau melanggar perintahnya. Mengapa kau di kebun?”

Aku hanya menangis. Aku segera dibawa ke rumah sakit dan setelah manteri rumah sakit menarik tanganku, yang rasanya menambah sakit sikuku saja, dan kemudian tanganku diperban, aku disuruhnya tidur dan tidak boleh bermain-main.

Petangnya ayah pulang dari kantor. Aku ketakutan saja menunggunya. Setelah dia makan kudengar ibu bercakap-cakap dengan ayah. Tentu mengadukan aku, pikirku dengan takut.

Tak lama kemudian ayah datang melihat aku. Dia duduk di pinggir tempat tidur. Ditatapnya mukaku diam-diam, hingga aku pun terpaksa menundukkan mata.

“Engkau melihat semuanya?” tanya ayah.

“Ya. Aku salah. Ayah,” kataku dengan suara gemetar ketakutan.

Ayah pegang tanganku dan kemudian berkata dengan suara yang halus sekali, akan tetapi yang amat sungguh-sungguhnya,

“Jika engkau besar, jangan sekali-kali kau jadi pegawai negeri. Jadi pamong praja! Mengerti?”

“Ya, Ayah!” jawabku.

“Kau masih terlalu kecil untuk mengerti,” kata ayahku. “Sebab sebagai pegawai negeri orang harus banyak menjalankan pekerjaan yang sama sekali tak disetujuinya. Bahkan yang bertentangan dengan jiwanya. Untuk kepentingan orang yang berkuasa, maka sering pula yang haram menjadi halal, dan sebaliknya.”

Kelihatannya ayah hendak meneruskan pembicaraannya. Tetapi dia lalu berhenti dan cuma berkata, “Ah, tidurlah engkau!”

***

 

 

The Contract Coolies

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si KuncungBobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

The Contract Coolies

 

The lights on the porch and in the front room were turned off. Ayah, Father, was writing in his study. And we children were gathered in our parents’ bedroom, listening to Ibu, Mother, tell us a bedtime story. Ibu told us about a pelesit, man-eater, who could transform from a human into a tiger.

To recognize a pelesit, Ibu said, look for a shallow groove at the center of his clean-shaven, upper lip; and when he walks, his heels point forward.

Ibu’s story was very frightening yet thrilling, and we, wrapped in a blanket, huddled around her, slightly scared, enormously enthralled.

All of a sudden, there was a noise outside the house, followed by our opas, gatekeeper, calling for Ayah. “Sir! Master!”

We were all startled.

Ibu stopped telling her story.

We heard Ayah open his office door and hurry to the porch.

“Oh, dear, perhaps there’s war again in one of the villages,” Ibu exclaimed.

And we followed her to the porch.

In those days, my father worked as a demang, district head, for the Kerinci Regency, in Jambi Province, Sumatra; and in the 1920s and 1930s, conditions there were like those in the Middle Ages. Simple issues, such as the distribution of irrigation water for rice fields, problems regarding buffaloes, etc., could cause villages to declare war on one another.

The weapons most commonly used in these wars were slings made with special ropes to hold stones as big as chicken eggs. The sling was swung in an arc, releasing the stone with high-velocity force at the enemy.

Just a week ago, when my father went to the Deras River to stop a war there, a stray stone hit his helmet. Luckily, it was just a scrape. But, it still gave Ayah a headache for several days.

The war at Deras River ended only after police fired their rifles many times into the air, and the two leaders from the warring villages were brought together. After hearing that one of their stones had hit Ayah’s helmet, the village heads apologized, saying that they did not intend to hurt Ayah at all, and they asked his forgiveness. Because they were deeply sorry about the errant stone, both village heads quickly accepted Ayah’s proposed solution and peacefully divided the water for their fields.

When Abdullah the gatekeeper called out for my father that night, it was almost nine o’clock. Several police officers and their commander stood in the yard outside the house. I couldn’t hear what the commander told my father, because Ayah immediately sent Ibu and us children back inside.

When Ayah came back in, he quickly dressed. He pulled on his leather boots, strapped his gun to his waist, put on his helmet, and then left.

Not long after, Ibu came into our bedroom, looking worried. “Well, all of you go to sleep now. Your father left. Some contract coolies, laborers, ran away.”

The next morning, Abdullah the gatekeeper told us that five contract coolies had fled from the Kayu Aro onderneming, plantation, after stabbing a Dutch opzichter, supervisor.

***

When we came home from school at noon that day, my father had still not returned. By twilight, he had still not come home.

Ibu began to worry, and she kept going outside to look down the street. Several times, I heard Ibu talking to Abdullah, who kept telling her not to worry.

Ayah arrived late that night, after we children had been told to go to sleep. I heard him and my mother talking deep into the night, and then the house was quiet.

The next day, we heard that all the contract coolies had been caught and jailed.

The prison was located at the foot of a small hill behind our house. If we climbed up the large orange tree in the fruit and vegetable garden behind our house, we could see the prison yard, where, every day, prisoners were punished.

From our garden, we could hear the singing and cursing of imprisoned lunatics. At that time, I didn’t question why insane people were put in prison instead of an asylum. Sometimes I eagerly listened to their soulful singing, which became louder when they started cursing. For me, as a young child, hearing such forbidden words was delightful.

Ibu said that Ayah and the police had arrested the three contract coolies who had taken a stand against the Dutch supervisor. There were only three contract coolies, not five, as we had been told earlier. They were caught in a forest, not far from the plantation, hungry, cold, and filled with fear. They did not put up any fight. When they saw Ayah, they immediately surrendered and said, “To you, kanjeng, sir, we surrender our fate and beg for justice.”

Ibu said that Ayah told her that the coolies had stabbed the Dutch opzichter because he was always harassing their wives. Apparently, the contract coolies had gone berserk when they could no longer bear to watch the opzichter torment their wives.

“The contract coolies are not wrong,” Ibu fumed. “Instead, they should have arrested that evil opzichter.” Ibu was furious about the coolies’ arrest.

“Why was the Dutch opzichter not arrested?” we asked.

Ibu looked at us and said softly, “The Netherlands has the power. The Dutch are never wrong.”

“But he is the evil one,” we insisted.

“I don’t understand,” said Ibu, “but don’t ask your father about this. He has been in a bad mood since he came home from the plantation.”

After Ayah finished his dinner, he called all of us to his office. Ayah looked gloomy. Something heavy weighed on him, making him depressed. After we gathered, Ayah said, “No one is allowed to go into the backyard. I forbid all of you to go there. I will be very angry with anyone who violates this prohibition.”

“Why, Ayah?” we asked.

“Just follow my orders!” Ayah said shortly.

We understood. When Ayah behaved like that, there was no point in arguing. But our heads were full of questions: Why was it prohibited? What was wrong?

We immediately pestered Ibu with our questions.

She finally silenced us by saying that the three contract coolies would be punished the next morning. Even before the case was brought before a judge, they would be whipped for attacking the Dutch opzichter.

I was saddened to hear this. Shivering, I went to my bedroom. For quite some time, I couldn’t sleep. Hearing that the contract coolies would be flogged the next morning made me toss and turn. Fear alternated with an intense curiosity to see how humans lashed other humans with whips.

The next morning, my older brothers left early for school. The rest of us, who were not yet old enough to attend school, were reminded not to go to the garden behind our house.

I heard from Opas Abdullah that the whipping would start at nine o’clock. The closer the time came, the more restless and uneasy I became. I anxiously waited to watch the lashing.

At five minutes to nine, I could no longer restrain myself. I yelled to Ibu that I was going to play next door, then I ran through the front yard and onto a big road. I continued to run on the big road as it wound behind my house. There, I entered the prison’s hospital grounds.

The hospital backed up to the garden behind our house.

I climbed the wire fence that separated the hospital grounds from our garden and jumped into our backyard. Panting, I climbed the orange tree until I reached the branch where I always sat to look down into the prison yard.

The prison yard was covered with gravel. Three wooden benches had been placed in the center.

A small group of police, armed with rifles, was lined up on the left side of the yard.

I saw Ayah walk out of the alley that ran behind the prison toward the prison yard.

A Dutch controller, the district chief assistant, a police officer, and a physician from the hospital were with him.

Then the three contract coolies appeared from another alley. They only wore shorts and had their hands tied behind them. They were accompanied by the warden and three prison guards.

My heart was pounding and fear squeezed my stomach. But I did not want to leave my hiding place. I was too eager to see what would happen.

The contract coolies were told to line up near the wooden benches. The warden then read a document.

I watched the controller nod.

Ayah stood silently, straight and rigid.

The hands of the three contract coolies were untied. The men were each placed on a bench, lying on their stomachs face down, then tied to the bench by their legs and arms.

Three prison guards, each holding a black whip, then came forward. They halted about six feet from each bench.

The warden bellowed, “One!”

The prison guards swung their arms backward. The long whip snapped into the air like a black snake about to grab its prey. It was terrifying. A sound split the air, buzzing sharply; then came the sound of the whip ripping human flesh, immediately followed by the coolies’ screams as they jerked their heads back. From their open mouths came screams that I had never heard before: the sharp, shrill screams filled the air, penetrated my whole heart, and instantly weakened me.

I was so much affected by what I saw that I missed my step as I climbed down the tree. Startled, I yelled and fell down very hard. For a moment, I lay gasping on the ground, then cried out in pain.

Opas Abdullah, who was in the kitchen, came to the backyard and found me lying on the ground.  He quickly carried me to the house.

My elbow hurt badly.

Ibu examined it and said, “Your elbow is dislocated.” She added, “Ayah will be very angry; you violated his orders. Why were you in the garden?”

I just cried. Ibu took me to the hospital.

The hospital’s doctor pulled my hand to relocate my elbow, which only added to my pain. After he bandaged my arm, he told me to rest and not to play.

My father came home from work in the afternoon.

Afraid, I just waited for him. After he ate, I heard Ibu talking to him. I feared she was telling him about what had happened.

Shortly afterwards, Ayah came to see me. He sat down on the edge of the bed. He quietly looked at me, so I was forced to lower my eyes.

“Did you see everything?” Ayah asked.

“Yes. I did wrong, Ayah.” My voice trembled with fear.

Father took my hand and then softly but firmly said, “When you grow up, don’t ever become a civil servant. No civil service! Understand?”

“Yes, Yah!” I replied.

“You’re still too young to understand,” my father said. “People who are civil servants are forced to do many things they don’t approve of at all. Even if it goes against all their personal morals. For the benefit of those in power, what is otherwise sinful becomes lawful and vice versa.”

Ayah paused. It seemed he still had something to say. But finally, he only said, “Ah, nevermind. Go to sleep.”

***

Tukang Cukur

Budi Dharma adalah seorang penulis novel, esay, dan penulis cerpen. Beliau kerap dijuluki penulis yang memiliki pikiran diluar nalar. Novelnya yang bejudul Olenka (Balai Pustaka, 1980) memenangkan penghargaan dari Dewan Kesenian Jakarta 1980. Novel lainnya Rafilus (Balai Pustaka,1988) dan Ny. Talis: Kisah mengenai Madras (PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 1996). Harmonium (Pustaka Pelajar, 1995) adalah buku mengenai kritik sastra. “Mata yang Indah (Beautiful Eyes)” adalah judul yang menjadi bagian dari kumpulan cerita pendeknya, Kritikus Adinan (Bentang Budaya, 2002). Saat ini Budi Darma menjabat sebagai guru besar sastra Inggris di Universitas Nasional Surabaya, Indonesia.

Terbit bulan Oktober 2020. Hak cipta ©2020 ada pada Budi Darma. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2020 ada pada Novita Dewi. 

 

Tukang Cukur

 

Gito, anak Getas Pejaten, kawasan pinggiran kota Kudus, setiap hari, kecuali Minggu dan hari libur, berjalan kaki pergi pulang hampir empat belas kilo, ke sekolahnya, sekolah dasar di Jalan Daendels. Karena banyak jalan menuju ke sekolahnya, Gito bisa memilih jalan mana yang paling disukainya. Kalau perlu, dia juga lewat jalan-jalan kecil yang lebih jauh, untuk menyenangkan hatinya.

Seperti anak-anak lain, Gito sehari hanya makan satu kali, setelah pulang sekolah. Juga seperti anak-anak lain, Gito tidak mempunyai sandal, apa lagi sepatu. Guru-guru pun bertelanjang kaki. Kalau ada guru memakai sepatu, atau sandal, pasti sepatu atau sandalnya sudah reyot.

Pakaian Gito, demikian juga pakaian teman-temannya, serba compang-camping, penuh tambalan, demikian pula pakaian para guru. Semua pakaian sudah luntur warnanya, dan kalau diwenter warnanya bisa tampak agak cerah, tapi dalam waktu singkat luntur lagi.

Gito tahu cara menangkal kelaparan. Kalau mau, dia bisa menangkap ikan di sungai tidak jauh dari rumahnya.  Pada waktu pulang dari sekolah, kadang-kadang Gito lewat Pasar Johar, tidak jauh dari setasiun jurusan Pati, Juana, Rembang, dan jurusan Pecangakan, Jepara. Di pasar itu dia bisa memunguti remah-remah gula jawa, gula yang bermanfaat untuk melawan rasa lapar.

Tidak jauh dari rumahnya ada pabrik bungkil kacang tanah, untuk pakan ternak. Kadang-kadang Gito juga memunguti remah-remah bungkil kacang tanah, meskipun dia tahu bungkil kacang tanah bisa menyebabkan sakit perut dan gondongen, leher bisa membengkak sampai besar.

Di rumah, kalau beras padi habis, ayah, ibu, dan Gito, satu-satunya anak ayah dan ibunya, makan beras jagung, dan kalau beras jagung habis, mereka makan ketela pohung.

Pada suatu hari, ketika  pulang dan melewati kedai gulai kambing kakek Leman, seorang laki-laki tua yang selalu memakai udeng Jawa di kepalanya, Gito dipanggil oleh kakek Leman. Gito diberi makan, lalu, seperti biasa, disuruh membersihkan rumput di pekarangan belakang kedai.

Kakek Leman bertanya: “’t tukang cukur di bawah pohon cemara?”

Kakek Leman membuka udengnya, lalu memutar tubuhnya, kemudian berkata: “Lihat ini,” sambil meminggirkan rambutnya.

Tampak bekas luka, bukan luka biasa, tapi agak dalam.

Kakek Leman bercerita, tanpa diketahui dari mana asal-usulnya, tiba-tiba pada suatu hari ada tukang cukur di bawah pohon cemara dekat simpang tiga jalan yang menghubungkan jalan Setasiun dengan jalan Bitingan. Beberapa langganan kakek Leman, kata kakek Leman, juga heran mengapa tiba-tiba ada tukang cukur di situ.

Di antara lima pelanggan kakek Leman yang pernah dicukur di situ, tiga orang telah dilukai kepalanya. Tukang cukur selalu meminta maaf, katanya tanpa sengaja, tapi semua korban yakin, tukang cukur itu memang sengaja melukai mereka.

Tukang cukur berkata, kata langganan kakek Leman, tukang cukur adalah pekerjaan yang paling mulia. Hanya tukang cukurlah yang berhak memegang-megang kepala orang lain. Kalau bukan tukang cukur, pasti orang yang dipegang kepalanya merasa dihina, dan marah.

Keesokan harinya ada sesuatu yang baru, yaitu kedatangan seorang guru baru bernama Dasuki, kabarnya datang dari sebuah kota besar, entah mana. Sekolah Gito mempunyai enam klas, mulai dari klas satu sampai dengan klas enam. Jumlah guru ada delapan, terdiri atas enam guru klas, satu wakil kepala sekolah, dan satu kepala sekolah.  Kalau ada guru berhalangan, mereka menggantikan guru yang berhalangan datang. Karena semua guru datang, Dasuki masuk ke semua klas, dan guru klas yang dimasuki klasnya harus ikut pelajaran Dasuki.

Dasuki terus menekankan, negara yang paling hebat di dunia adalah Rusia. Semua kota dan desa di Rusia serba bersih, semua penduduknya bahagia, makan enak-enak sampai kenyang.

“Lihat dokar itu,” kata Dasuki sambil mengacungkan tangannya ke arah jalan Daendels. “Lha, itu dia, kudanya kencing dan  berak sambil lari. Kotor. Di Rusia, semuanya sudah diatur dengan cermat. Tidak mungkin ada kuda kencing dan berak seperti di sini.”

Lalu, Dasuki menyambung ceritanya dengan kehebatan-kehebatan lain Rusia.

Banyak murid yang terkagum-kagum, mulutnya agak menganga. Ada juga guru yang kagum, ada juga guru yang tersenyum-senyum tidak enak.

Hanya beberapa minggu saja Dasuki mengajar, sesudah itu dia pergi dan tidak pernah kembali.

Pada suatu hari, dalam perjalanan pulang, Gito sengaja melewati jalan yang banyak pohon cemaranya. Dari kejauhan tampak tukang cukur itu sedang berbicara sendiri, nadanya memaki-maki. Begitu melihat Gito, tukang cukur memanggil Gito.

“Sini kamu,” kata tukang cukur. “Saya cukur.”

Tukang cukur berjalan mendekati, Gito berhenti seperti patung, tapi begitu tukang cukur sudah dekat, Gito lari kencang dengan kekuatan penuh.

Tukang cukur mula-mula ingin mengejar, tapi kemudian berhenti, sambil memaki-maki.

Akhir bulan September 1948 datang, dan di mana-mana terasa suasana panas dan serba mengancam. Banyak tentara memakai duk merah berdatangan, entah dari mana. Kata orang, itulah tentara PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia). Mereka berkeliaran, masuk keluar kampung, dan kebanyakan bergerombol di daerah sandulok (=pelacur), di pinggir kota sebelah timur. Kemudian, beberapa kali, selama dua puluh empat jam, terdengar tembakan-tembakan.

Makin hari makin banyak cerita mengenai orang hilang, orang dibunuh, dan macam-macam lagi yang kurang jelas.

Mata uang Republik Indonesia dinyatakan tidak berlaku, diganti dengan mata uang Pemerintah Komunis, mirip kupon. Harga semua barang makin melompat-lompat.

Pada suatu siang, ada pemandangan yang menakjubkan: tukang cukur berpakaian tentara, memakai duk merah, menenteng senjata, beserta dengan beberapa tentara lain masuk ke daerah di belakang rumah sakit, didahului oleh beberapa orang yang tangannya diikat.

Diam-diam Gito mengikuti mereka. Ketika sampai lapangan terbuka, mereka berhenti, dan Gito bersembunyi di balik semak-semak. Gito menyaksikan, orang-orang yang diikat tangannya digertak-gertak oleh tukang cukur dan teman-temannya, disuruh berdiri rapi, kemudian diberondong dengan serangkaian tembakan.

Keadaan makin gawat. Listrik tidak pernah menyala lagi. Tembakan-tembakan kadang-kadang terdengar, selama dua puluh empat jam sehari.

Keadaan menjadi lebih gawat, ketika pasukan Siliwangi yang khusus didatangkan dari Jawa Barat, masuk ke kota Kudus, untuk membersihkan pasukan PKI. Dalam berbagai pertempuran kecil-kecilan, beberapa tentara PKI berhasil melarikan diri. Sebagian lain ditangkap, dan beberapa tokohnya diarak ke alun-alun, dibawa ke bawah pohon beringin, kemudian ditembak. Gito datang dan melihat pemandangan yang sukar dipercaya: tukang cukur, berpakain preman, tidak lagi memakai pakaian tentara PKI, memberi perintah kepada orang-orang yang akan dihukum mati untuk berdiri dengan tegap dan rapi, kemudian melilitkan kain ke wajah-wajah mereka supaya mereka tidak bisa melihat regu penembak.

Beberapa kali hukuman tembak mati oleh pasukan Siliwangi dilakukan di alun-alun, dan semua orang boleh menyaksikan. Gito tahu, tentara PKI membunuh dengan diam-diam dan serba rahasia, tidak seperti pasukan Siliwangi. Dalam beberapa peristiwa hukuman mati itu tukang cukur tampak mondar-mandir dengan sikap gagah.

Kabar tidak jelas beredar, pada suatu hari tukang cukur itu dihajar oleh tentara Siliwangi, dengan tuduhan, dia membuat daftar orang-orang yang dibencinya untuk dihukum mati, tanpa bukti.

Hari demi hari berjalan terus, makin lama suasana makin mencekam, dan akhirnya, bulan Desember 1948 tiba. Pasukan Siliwangi telah meninggalkan Kudus, mengejar tentara-tentara PKI yang terus terdesak ke timur sampai Pati, Juana, Rembang, melebar ke Cepu, dan Blora.

Setelah Kudus ditinggal oleh pasukan Siliwangi, pada suatu hari, ketika fajar hampir tiba, seluruh kota Kudus terasa bergetar-getar, langit dilalui pesawat cocor merah yang terbang sangat rendah, datang dan pergi, datang dan pergi lagi. Pesawat cocor merah, itulah pesaswat kebanggaan Belanda. Begitu matahari terbit, pesawat-pesawat cocor merah mulai menyapu kota Kudus dengan tembakan-tembakan dahsyat. Peluru-peluru berat mendesing di sana sini. Jenasah bergelimpangan di sana sini pula. Beberapa bagian Getas Pejaten juga dihujani peluru, tapi hanya tempat-tempat tertentu. Kemudian, rumah Gito juga terhantam beberapa peluru.

Ayah Gito segera mengajak Gito dan ibunya lari dari pintu belakang, menyeberang jalan, masuk ke sebuah gang yang berliku-liku, mengungsi ke rumah pak Ruslan, sahabat ayah Gito.

Keluarga Ruslan menyambut mereka dengan baik, memberi mereka karet tebal untuk digigit kalau ada bom meledak, dan juga penutup kuping.

Mereka bertahan di tempat perlindungan bawah tanah hampir dua hari, tanpa makan. Ruslan membagikan pil untuk membuat perut kenyang.

Akhirnya, sekitar jam tiga siang, tank-tank Belanda, diikuti banyak panser, dan tentara-berlari-lari kecil, memasuki kota Kudus dari arah kota Demak. Kota Kudus dan seluruh daerah di pinggirannya resmi diduduki pasukan Belanda.

Selama hampir satu minggu Kudus bagaikan kota mati. Keluarga Ruslan meninggalkan rumahnya, entah pergi ke mana. Tentara-tentara Belanda masuk ke kampung-kampung, menangkap semua pemuda yang dicurigai, lalu dibawa entah ke mana.

Setelah keadaan tenang, Gito mulai sekolah, dan seperti biasa, dia berjalan kaki, makan hanya sekali sehari, dan kadang-kadang, waktu pulang, memilih jalan dan gang-gang yang berbeda-beda.

Pada suatu hari, ketika Gito pulang, ada sebuah jeep berjalan perlahan-lahan di jalan Bitingan, lalu dengan sigap Gito meloncat ke selokan, bersembunyi. Di dalam jeep ada dua orang berpakaian tentara Belanda, yaitu tukang cukur bertindak sebagai sopir, dan Ruslan duduk di sebelahnya.

Hampir setiap malam ada tembak-menembak: gerilyawan pejuang Indonesia masuk kota.

Hari demi hari berjalan terus, sampai akhirnya, Gito masuk ke SMP tidak jauh dari alun-alun.

Pada bulan Desember 1949, semua tentara Belanda ditarik, dan masuklah tentara Indonesia dari sekian banyak markas daruratnya, kebanyakan di daerah Gunung Muria. Gito mendengar, penarikan tentara Belanda adalah hasil Konferensi Meja Bundar di Belanda, antara wakil Indonesia dan wakil Belanda. Pasukan Belanda harus meninggalkan Indonesia, kecuali Irian Barat (sekarang Papua).

Tukang cukur dan Ruslan hilang tanpa jejak.

Ketika Gito sudah naik ke klas dua, suasana Kudus tegang lagi. Sekian banyak tentara yang tidak dikenal, semua mengenakan duk hijau  dan membawa senapan, berkeliaran di seluruh bagian kota. Seperti dulu, banyak di antara mereka menggerombol di kawasan sandulok.

Suasana makin hari makin muram, sampai akhirnya, sekitar jam satu malam, Gito terbangun mendengar tembakan tanpa henti tidak jauh dari rumah. Sekitar jam enam pagi suasana menjadi betul-betul senyap.

Tersebarlah berita, pertempuran hebat di bekas pabrik rokok Nitisemito, tidak jauh dari rumah Gito, telah berakhir. Sebagian tentara liar terjebak di bekas pabrik, dan sebagian melarikan diri, kemungkinan menuju ke arah gunung Merapi dan Merbabu. Gito baru tahu, tentara liar itu dikenal sebagai tentara NII (Negara Islam Indonesia), dan akan menjatuhkan pemerintah Indonesia, menjadikan Indonesia sebagai Negara Islam.

Ketika Gito tiba di bekas pabrik rokok, sudah banyak orang berkerumun di sana. Semua mayat tentara yang terjebak di pabrik sudah diangkut keluar, dibaringkan di pinggir jalan. Salah satu mayat itu tidak lain dan tidak bukan adalah tukang cukur.

***

 

 

 

The Barber

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si KuncungBobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

 

The Barber

 

Every day, except Sundays and holidays, Gito, a child from Getas Pejaten, a suburb of Kudus, walked almost nine miles to an elementary school on Daendels Street. There were many footpaths leading to the school, so Gito could choose the route he liked most. If he felt like it, he could even choose alleys that were farther away.

Like every other child, Gito only ate one meal a day, after school. Also, like other children, Gito did not have any sandals, let alone shoes. Even the teachers were barefooted. If any of them wore shoes or sandals, their footwear was worn.

Gito’s clothes, as well as those of his friends, were shabby and covered with patches. The same was true for the teachers’ clothes. The colors were faded. Even the dyed colors — though slightly bright at first — faded away in a short time.

Gito knew how to ward off hunger. He could go fishing in the river near his house. And sometimes, when walking home from school, Gito passed the Johar market, which was not far from the train stations going to Pati, Juana, Rembang, Pecangakan, and Jepara. In that market, he could scavenge bits of brown sugar, the kind of sugar useful to fight his hunger.

Not far from his house was a peanut meal factory that produced animal feed. Sometimes Gito picked up the peanut meal crumbs, even though he’d been told that peanut meal could cause stomachaches and the mumps, which caused big swellings in the neck.

At home, after they finished the rice, Father, Mother, and Gito, who was an only child,  ate corn rice, and when they ran out of the corn rice, they ate cassava.

One day, on his way home, Gito passed Grandpa Leman’s goat curry stall. The old man, who always wore a Javanese udeng, headdress, called out to him. He gave Gito some food, then, as usual, told him to cut the grass in the plot behind the stall.

Grandpa Leman asked, “Gito, did you see a barber under a pine tree?”

Turning around, Grandpa Leman took off his udeng and, parting his hair, said, “Look at this!”

There were deep scars on his scalp.

According to Grandpa Leman’s story, one day, out of the blue, a barber appeared under one of the pine trees near the three-way intersection that connected Station Road with Bitingan Road. No one knew where he came from. Some of his customers, Grandpa Leman said, also wondered why there was suddenly a barber there.

Five of Grandpa Leman’s customers had their hair cut there; three of them came away with head injuries. The barber always apologized, saying it was an accident, but all the harmed patrons were convinced that the barber had deliberately injured them.

According to Grandpa Leman, the barber claimed that his profession was the noblest job. Only a barber had the right to touch the head of another person. Anyone whose head was touched by someone other than a barber would surely feel insulted and angry.

The next day at Gito’s school, something new happened: A new teacher named Dasuki arrived. He reportedly came from a big city. Gito’s school was comprised of six grades. There were eight teachers total: six classroom teachers, one vice principal, and one principal.  The principal substituted when a teacher was unable to come to work. But on that day, because all the teachers were present, Dasuki visited each classroom, and the teacher had to allow Dasuki to teach his lesson.

Dasuki emphasized that Russia was the most powerful country in the world. All cities and villages in Russia were clean, and all the inhabitants were happy and ate until they had their fill.

“Look at that buggy,” said Dasuki, pointing toward the Daendels Road. “Look! The horse is urinating and defecating while moving along. How dirty. In Russia, everything is carefully managed. There won’t be any horses urinating and defecating like you see here.”

Then, Dasuki continued talking about the other greatnesses of Russia.

Many students dropped their jaws in amazement. Some teachers were perplexed, others smiled uneasily.

Dasuki only taught for a week. He left thereafter and never returned.

One day, on his way home, Gito purposefully passed the road lined with pine trees. From a distance, he heard the barber loudly talking to himself. As soon as the barber saw Gito, he called to him.

“Come here,” said the barber. “I’ll give you a shave.”

As the barber approached him, Gito froze, but as soon as the barber got near, Gito sprinted away in full force.

The barber chased Gito, but then halted, cursing.

By the end of September 1948, it was hot everywhere and the atmosphere felt threatening. Many soldiers, wearing red headbands, appeared out of nowhere. People said they were the PKI — Indonesian Communist Party — army. They wandered around the village and mostly clustered in the sandulok, prostitutes’ red-light district, at the edge of the eastern part of the city.

Then, shots were heard. The shooting lasted twenty-four hours.

The number of stories about people gone missing, being killed, and other obscure incidents, escalated daily.

The currency of the Republic of Indonesia was declared worthless. It was replaced with a currency, issued by the Communist Government, that looked like a coupon. The prices of all goods were fluctuating.

One afternoon, there was a mystifying sight. Dressed in an army uniform and wearing his red headband, the barber, along with several other armed soldiers, entered the area behind the hospital. They were herding several people whose hands were tied like prisoners.

Gito secretly followed them. When they arrived at the open field, they stopped, and Gito hid behind the bushes. He watched, as the people whose hands were tied were tormented by the barber and his friends. The people were told to line up, then were gunned down.

The situation worsened. Electricity had gone out. Sometimes, shots were heard for twenty-four hours a day.

Tensions became even more serious when the Siliwangi troops, who were specially brought in from West Java, entered Kudus to clear PKI forces.

Several PKI soldiers managed to flee during the skirmishes.

Others were arrested. Some PKI leaders were paraded to the town square and shot under the banyan tree.

When Gito arrived at the town square, he could not believe his eyes. The barber no longer wore a PKI army uniform. Dressed in plain clothes, the barber ordered the PKI leaders to straighten up. Then the barber blindfolded them.

Again and again, the Siliwangi forces carried out the death penalty in the square. Everyone was allowed to watch.

Gito knew that, unlike the Siliwangi forces, the PKI army had done its killing in secret. During several executions, the barber was seen walking arrogantly back and forth.

According to rumors, the barber was beaten by the Siliwangi army, one day. He was accused of having made a list of people he disliked and having those people sentenced to death without proof.

Day after day, the killings continued, the atmosphere becoming more and more tense. Finally, in December 1948, the Siliwangi troops left Kudus to chase after the PKI soldiers, who were continuing to advance eastward to Pati, Juana, and Rembang, before moving on to Cepu, and Blora.

One day, after the Siliwangi forces had left Kudus, the entire city trembled. Just before the dawn, red-nosed P-51D Mustang fighter planes filled the sky. They flew very low, repeatedly flying back and forth. The red-nosed planes were the pride of the Netherlands. As soon as the sun rose, the planes bombed Kudus heavily. The whistle of hand grenades and artillery fire could be heard far and wide. Dead bodies lay scattered here and there. Parts of Getas Pejaten were also bombed. Gito’s house was hit by several bullets.

Gito’s father immediately told him and his mother to run out the back door. They crossed the road and, running through a winding alley, fled to Ruslan’s house. Ruslan was Gito’s father’s best friend.

Ruslan’s family welcomed them. They gave them earplugs and a thick piece of rubber to bite on should a bomb explode nearby.

They stayed in the underground shelter for almost two days without food. Ruslan handed out pills that stilled their hunger.

Finally, around three o’clock in the afternoon on the second day, Dutch tanks, followed by many armored vehicles and foot soldiers, entered Kudus from the direction of Demak. Kudus and the entire surrounding area was now officially occupied by Dutch forces.

For almost a week, Kudus was like a dead city. Ruslan’s family left their house; no one knew where they went.

The Dutch soldiers entered the villages and arrested all the young men who they suspected of being members of the Siliwangi army. The soldiers took their prisoners somewhere unknown.

After the situation had calmed down, Gito went back to school. As usual, he walked to school, ate only once a day, and sometimes chose different paths and alleys for his walk home.

One day, when Gito was on his way home, a jeep turned slowly onto Bitingan Road. Gito swiftly jumped into the ditch to hide. The two men in the jeep, dressed in Dutch army uniforms, were the barber, who drove, and Ruslan.

Skirmishes began occurring almost every night when the Indonesian guerrilla fighters entered the city. These conflicts continued day after day until Gito entered middle school, not far from the town square.

In December 1949, all Dutch troops withdrew, and Indonesian soldiers emerged from their many emergency headquarters, which were mostly in the Muria Mountain area.

Gito heard that the withdrawal of the Dutch army was the result of the Round Table Conference, held between Indonesian and Dutch representatives, in the Netherlands. Except for West Irian — now Papua — Dutch troops had to leave Indonesia.

The barber and Ruslan disappeared without a trace.

When Gito graduated to the second year of middle school, the atmosphere in Kudus tensed again. Many unidentifiable soldiers, all wearing a green headband and carrying guns, roamed through the city. Like before, many of them congregated in the red-light district.

The atmosphere grew increasingly gloomy. Then, very early one morning, around one o’clock, continuous artillery fire awakened Gito. Around six o’clock that morning, a deep silence fell over the city.

News spread that the heavy fighting in the former Nitisemito cigarette factory, not far from Gito’s house, was over. Some of the militia were trapped in the former factory, and some fled, possibly heading towards Mount Merapi and Merbabu. Gito found out that the militia was known as the NII (Indonesian Islamic State) army.  They intended to overthrow the Indonesian government and turn Indonesia into an Islamic State.

When Gito arrived at the former cigarette factory, many people were already gathered there. The bodies of the soldiers trapped in the factory had been carried out of the building and laid on the side of the road. One of the bodies was none other than that of the barber.

                                                                           ***

 

Bupati di Tengah Kemelut

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

Terbit bulan Agustus 2020. Hak cipta ©2020 ada pada Oni Suryaman. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2020 ada pada Dalang Publishing. 

 

 

Bupati di Tengah Kemelut

 

Purwodadi, Oktober 1901

Waktu mendekati tengah malam, langit tidak berbulan. Soeroto berjongkok di antara batang-batang tebu mengawasi rumah penjaga perkebunan tebu di pinggir ladang. Tiba-tiba tak jauh dari tempatnya terlihat sosok belasan orang mengendap-ngendap mendekat dari arah utara, yang bersebelahan dengan hutan. Gerombolan ini membawa parang dan kapak.

Soeroto sudah mengikuti gerak-gerak kawanan ini sejak beberapa hari yang lalu. Dia mendapatkan kabar burung bahwa akan ada perampokan uang gaji perkebunan tebu. Dia mendekat dengan hati-hati.

Kawanan perampok ini mendekati rumah tersebut, lalu menyebar mengitari rumah, menjagai jalan keluar lewat pintu maupun jendela. Tidak lama kemudian, seorang bertubuh gempal yang sepertinya adalah pemimpin gerombolan ini, mengetuk pintu depan rumah.

Soeroto menggeser tempat sembunyinya supaya bisa melihat lebih jelas.

Ketukan yang makin lama terdengar semakin keras bahkan kasar dan sepertinya membangunkan penghuni rumah.

Kabar burung tentang perampokan rumah orang-orang kaya dan pabrik gula ternyata benar. Masalah seperti ini bisa memperburuk kemelut antara Raden Mas Adipati Brotodiningrat, tuannya, dengan Residen Donner. Residen Donner pasti menuduh tuannya ada dibalik semua kejadian ini.

“Siapa di luar? Ada apa mengetuk pintu malam-malam?” terdengar suara Sarmin, penjaga kebun.

“Ada uang 400 gulden di dalam rumah ini. Menyerahlah, sebelum pintu rumah saya dobrak!” teriak kepala para perampok itu.

“Kau sendirian, berani-beraninya merampok rumahku. Aku Sarmin, penjaga kebun tebu, jago daerah ini!”

Sementara itu Soeroto menimbang semua kejadian dalam jarak aman. Sarmin mungkin bisa mengalahkan kepala rampok ini bila bertarung satu lawan satu, tetapi tidak mungkin menang melawan belasan orang sekaligus. Soeroto menghitung jumlah kawanan perampok ini, lalu memutuskan lebih baik untuk tidak campur tangan.

Sarmin mendorong pintunya terbuka dengan kuat dan hampir saja menjungkirkan sang perampok itu.

Namun dengan cepat dia berdiri tegap dan tertawa dan melangkah masuk, tetapi dengan satu gerakan cepat Sarmin langsung menempelkan parang pada lehernya sambil tersenyum penuh kemenangan.

Kepala rampok tidak terlihat gelisah. Dia menoleh ke arah pintu belakang dan dengan santai berkata, “Coba kau lihat istrimu di sana.”

Ternyata para perampok telah berhasil menyelinap masuk dari belakang pada saat Sarmin berada di depan bersiap menghadapi kepala rampok. Istrinya telah disandera. Sarmin tidak punya pilihan kecuali menyerah.

Soeroto pun tidak bisa berbuat apa-apa lagi selain meninggalkan tempat ini diam-diam, dan tidak menunda waktu lagi untuk melaporkan peristiwa ini kepada junjungannya, Raden Brotodiningrat.

***

Madiun, Desember 1901

Suasana di Karesidenan Madiun terlihat tidak biasa, wajah-wajah tegang tampak pada orang yang sedang berada di sana. Penjagaan di pintu masuk kantor karesidenan terlihat lebih ketat dari biasanya. Di ruangan kerja, Residen Madiun, J. J. Donner sedang rapat dengan Patih Madiun, Mangoen Atmodjo, dan Kepala Jaksa Madiun, Adipoetro.

“Residen Donner, kita harus menangkap para kepala jago di daerah Madiun dan sekitarnya. Tanpa mereka, para penjahat lain tidak akan berani melakukan perampokan lagi,” ujar Jaksa Adipoetro.

“Benar Residen, begitu pula dengan kepala pengairan Kartoredjo. Dia punya hubungan dekat dengan para kepala rampok dan jago. Kartoredjo juga menjadi tangan kanan dari bupati lama Brotodiningrat. Brotodiningrat pasti diam-diam masih memegang kendali dunia hitam melalui Kartoredjo,” imbuh Patih Atmodjo.”

Donner mondar-mandir di ruang rapat. Dengan dahi berkerut, dia berkata, “Soeradi, pencuri tirai dan taplak milik karesidenan, memang sudah tertangkap di Ponorogo. Namun, pencurian dan perampokan terus terjadi. Saya yakin, bahwa Brotodiningrat berada di balik semua perampokan ini.”

Jaksa Adipoetro berusaha memberikan jalan keluar, “Kita bisa meningkatkan jaga malam.”

Namun Donner mengabaikannya. Dia berkata dengan pelan, “Menurut saya, kejadian ini lebih dari sekadar tindak kejahatan. Brotodiningrat pasti sedang mengincar melakukan sesuatu yang lebih besar. Dia memang ingin membuat Jawa bergolak kembali, seperti yang dilakukan oleh Diponegoro.”

Donner berjalan menuju tempat duduk Patih Atmodjo dan meneruskan, “Dengan menimbulkan kekacauan seperti ini, dia mau melemahkan kedudukan pemerintah Hindia Belanda. Saya juga menduga dia memanfaatkan para kiai-kiai Islam untuk memperkuat kedudukannya. Patih Atmodjo, bagaimana pengamatanmu dengan Kiai Kasan Ngalwi?”

Patih Atmodjo membuka kertas laporan yang ada di hadapannya. “Kiai Kasan Ngalwi sering memimpin arak-arakan sambil berdoa di sepanjang jalan-jalan kampung. Dia pasti sedang menarik dukungan dari rakyat untuk mendukung pemberontakan Brotodiningrat.”

Wajah Donner tampak cemas dan gelisah. Dia duduk, lalu berdiri lagi. “Pemberontakan sudah berada di depan mata. Saya tidak ingin kita kecolongan. Saya akan memerintahkan supaya senjata api dibagikan kepada orang Eropa untuk membela diri. Saya juga akan memerintahkan penjagaan bersenjata di sekitar stasiun Paron untuk mengamankan kereta tebu. Kalian berdua tetap amati gerak-gerik para pengikut Brotodiningrat. Keadaan sudah gawat. Kita harus waspada.”

“Siap Residen,” jawab patih dan kepala jaksa bersamaan.

***

Yogyakarta, Januari 1902

Soeroto, telik sandi Brotodiningrat, berkuda memasuki kawasan Pakualaman Yogyakarta. Dia baru saja tiba dari Madiun untuk menghadap.

Penjaga kawasan Pakualaman sudah mengenal Soeroto dan langsung mengizinkannya masuk.

Brotodiningrat sedang di kamar peristirahatannya saat mendengar derap kuda mendekat. Melewati sela-sela jendela dia cari tahu siapa pendatang itu. Brotodiningrat sudah lama menunggu kabar dari Madiun, kedatangan Soeroto sudah dia nanti-nantikan. Dia melangkah cepat menuju pendopo penerima tamu.

“Salam hormat, Raden,” Soeroto langsung memberi hormat saat Brotodiningrat masuk pendopo.

“Soeroto! Sudah lama saya menunggu kedatanganmu. Duduklah, dulu. Kabar apa yang kau bawa dari Madiun?”

Soeroto menunggu Brotodiningrat duduk terlebih dahulu, lalu menyusul duduk. “Keadaan di Madiun semakin gawat, Raden,” kata Soeroto.

Brotodiningrat berusaha menangkap arah berita ini. “Coba ceritakan dengan jelas apa yang sedang terjadi di Madiun.”

“Baiklah. Raden. Masih ingat pencurian tirai dan taplak meja di rumah Residen Donner pada bulan Oktober tiga tahun yang lalu? Kabar ini masih berkaitan dengan peristiwa itu.”

“Bagaimana mungkin saya lupa dengan kasus itu. Kasus itulah yang membuat saya diasingkan dari Madiun dan tinggal di kota ini,” jawab Brotodiningrat dengan nada kesal.

“Sekarang pencurian seperti itu semakin meluas. Bukan hanya pencurian, tapi yang ada juga dilakukan adalah pembakaran kebun tebu di sekitar Madiun. Baru-baru saja terjadi perampokan di rumah penjaga kebun tebu dekat pabrik gula di Purwodadi. Mereka berhasil merampok uang gaji perkebunan tebu sebesar 400 gulden. Perampok juga menyasar orang-orang kaya di Ngawi dan Magetan.” Nada suara Soeroto terdengar semakin gawat.

Brotodiningrat masih terlihat tenang menerima kabar berita ini. “Sudah kukatakan dulu kepada residen bagaimana cara menanganinya. Tapi residen baru ini memang keras kepala dan tidak mau mendengarkan orang yang sudah berpengalaman menangani kasus seperti ini. Residen Donner ini tidak seperti Residen Mullemeister pendahulunya. Mullemeister mengerti cara orang Jawa menangani masalah seperti ini. Dia akan menyerahkannya sepenuhnya kepada bupati setempat lalu memberikan dukungan dana untuk itu. Bupati sekarang terlalu lemah, dia hanya piaraan Belanda. Mana kenal dia dengan dunia hitam. Dan kalau dia tidak kenal dunia hitam, bagaimana dia bisa mengendalikan mereka.”

Mata Soeroto menyorotkan kegelisahan, sepertinya ada yang ingin dia sampaikan.

“Kau terlihat gelisah, Soeroto. Apakah ada kejadian lain yang ingin kau sampaikan? Kalau hanya masalah meluasnya pencurian, saya pun sudah bisa menebaknya sejak diangkatnya bupati baru.”

Soeroto seperti masih ragu untuk untuk berbicara. Setelah menguatkan dirinya, dia berkata, “Raden dituduh sebagai kepala kraman.”

“Apa?” nada suara Brotodiningrat langsung meninggi.

“Berani sekali Donner menuduhku memberontak!”

Soeroto meneruskan, “Bukan hanya itu, dia juga banyak menangkap orang-orang dekat Raden. Asisten wedana, para polisi desa, bahkan Kiai Kasan Ngalwi, guru Raden, dan juga Kartoredjo, kepala pengairan dan pimpinan telik sandi Raden.”

Muka Brotodiningrat benar-benar memerah. “Kupikir dia sudah puas bisa menyingkirkan saya dari jabatan bupati. Sepertinya dia belum akan puas jika saya belum diasingkan keluar dari Jawa sebagai seorang penjahat.”

Soeroto melanjutkan, “Donner panik membabi buta, Raden. Dia membagikan senjata api kepada warga Eropa dan melapor ke Batavia bahwa akan ada peperangan baru di Jawa.”

“Donner sudah benar-benar gila. Perang baru di Jawa? Saya hanya ingin menjadi seorang bupati baik-baik yang bisa menjaga ketertiban dan ketenteraman di Madiun,” nada Brotodiningrat semakin meninggi.

“Hati-hati, Raden. Mereka bisa menangkap dan mengadili Raden. Guru Raden, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi sudah ditangkap,” kata Soeroto penuh kekhawatiran.

“Kau memang abdi yang setia, Soeroto. Beristirahatlah dulu. Kau pasti sudah lelah menempuh perjalanan panjang dari Madiun. Tinggal di sini satu dua hari sebelum kembali ke Madiun.”

“Baik, Raden,” jawab Soeroto seraya memberi hormat dan mengundurkan diri.

***

Malam itu Brotodiningrat sulit untuk tidur. Dia berpikir kemelut ini sudah selesai saat dia diasingkan ke Yogyakarta. Ternyata Donner masih mendendam. Sepertinya dia ingin membuktikan bahwa seorang residen Belanda memang lebih berkuasa daripada bupati pribumi. Putusan hakim atas penurunan dirinya dari jabatan bupati Madiun gara-gara kasus pencurian itu belum memuaskan Donner.

Pikiran Brotodiningrat melayang ke masa dia masih remaja. Dia masih ingat saat dia bersekolah di Surakarta dan tinggal di lingkup Kasunanan. Dia bisa melihat betapa agungnya Susuhunan Pakubuwono yang mampu berdiri tegak dan dihormati oleh para pejabat Belanda. Kejadian itu membekas dalam ingatannya sehingga dia bercita-cita menjadi seorang bupati yang bisa sejajar dengan seorang residen Belanda.

Dia belajar bahasa Belanda dengan rajin supaya bisa berbicara dengan orang Belanda sebagai rekan yang sejajar. Dia juga menyerap semua ilmu pemerintahan yang dia pelajari selama di sekolah calon pejabat.

Dia lalu dengan tekun menjalani masa magang sebagai seorang pejabat rendah, seorang juri tulis di Madiun. Dia sadar bahwa semuanya ini harus dijalani untuk mencapai cita-citanya, setara dengan orang Belanda.

Cita-citanya terlihat seperti menjadi kenyataan saat dia diangkat menjadi Bupati Sumoroto.  Semua orang, baik pribumi maupun Belanda menaruh hormat padanya.

Namun dia baru merasa benar-benar mampu mengejar impiannya saat bertemu Residen Madiun, Mullemeister, orang yang dianggapnya sebagai pembimbingnya. Mullemeisterlah yang mengusulkannya supaya diangkat menjadi Bupati Madiun. Mereka berdua bisa bekerja sama dengan baik. Sang Residen memberikan kebebasan baginya untuk mengurusi masalah pengairan, keamanan, dan sebagainya. Semua teladan sempurna yang dia pelajari selama duduk di sekolah pejabat bisa dia jalankan di sini, bersama dengan Residen Mullemeister.

Sayang, dia harus berpisah dengan guru dan sahabatnya, yang naik pangkat diangkat menjadi Residen Yogyakarta, berdampingan dengan Sultan Hamengkubuwono, Raja Yogyakarta. Jabatan itu sungguh pantas bagi seorang residen selihai Mullemeister. Namun kepindahan Mullemeister sungguh membawa malapetaka karena penggantinya Residen Donner adalah seorang gila kuasa yang tidak percaya pada pribumi.

Urusannya pun menjadi panjang. Dia harus diadili di Batavia. Untung Mullemeister mati-matian membelanya. Sayang, para pejabat di Batavia lebih ingin menyelamatkan muka mereka, atau lebih tepatnya muka Residen Donner. Bila tuduhan Donner ternyata tidak terbukti, pemerintah kolonial Hindia Belanda akan kehilangan muka.

Selama dia diadili dia diasingkan di Padang selama satu tahun. Dia beruntung sebab surat pembelaan diri yang dia kirimkan ke Ratu Belanda Wilhelmina dan Gubernur Jenderal Rooseboom diterima. Walaupun dia harus dicopot dari jabatan Bupati Madiun, dia diperbolehkan kembali ke Jawa dan hanya diberhentikan secara hormat serta diberi uang pensiun yang cukup tinggi. Dia pun dapat menempati rumah di Pakualaman, Yogyakarta, sampai saat ini.

Namun sekarang dia dituduh memberontak. Para pejabat Hindia Belanda tentu masih dihantui ketakutan Perang Jawa yang dikobarkan oleh Diponegoro. Tuduhan dirinya sebagai Diponegoro kedua adalah sebuah tuduhan yang tidak main-main. Bahkan mereka sudah berani menangkap gurunya, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi. Dia sadar dia perlu berhati-hati dalam melangkah dan memutuskan untuk bertukar pikiran dengan Mullemeister, sahabatnya.

***

Sejak diasingkan di Pakualaman, Yogyakarta, hubungan Brotodiningrat dengan dunia luar memang sebatas surat-menyurat dan surat kabar. Dia memang telah kehilangan kuasa. Namun bagaimanapun, kedatangan sepucuk surat dari Mullemeister bisa menghibur hatinya.

Di amplop surat tertulis,  penting dan rahasia. Brotodiningrat membawa surat itu ke ruang pribadinya. Dengan hati berdebar dia mengambil pembuka surat dan cepat-cepat membuka surat ini.

Beste Brotodiningrat,

Kiranya engkau telah mengetahui bahwa pemerintah kolonial telah mengutus Snouck Hurgronje untuk menyelidiki perkara yang terkait dengan tuduhan Donner terhadap dirimu. Hasil penyelidikannya sudah selesai, dan aku akan membocorkannya terlebih dahulu kepada dirimu.

Snouck memang seorang penyelidik yang handal. Dia fasih berbahasa Arab dan Jawa, sehingga bisa melakukan penyelidikan dengan mendalam. Dia juga mampu bertanya kepada banyak orang di Madiun untuk mendalami kasus ini. Dari penyelidikannya, bisa disimpulkan bahwa yang membuat kejahatan meningkat di Madiun justru adalah perbuatan Donner sendiri. Dia dengan gegabah menangkapi orang-orang kepercayaanmu yang selama ini memegang kendali dunia hitam. Setelah mereka semua ditangkapi, tidak ada yang mengendalikan para penjahat, dan mereka merajalela.

Tapi jangan takut, Snouck tidak menemukan bukti apapun yang memberatkan dirimu. Dia bahkan mengatakan bahwa Donner “sudah terlalu lelah” dan mengusulkan supaya Donner dipensiunkan dan beristirahat saja.

Namun mengenai kasus gurumu, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi, dia harus dikorbankan. Pemerintah kolonial tetap harus menjaga muka. Dia harus diasingkan, kalau tidak masyarakat bisa mengira bahwa pemerintah Hindia Belanda kalah kuat dengan Kiai Kasan Ngalwi. Tapi jangan khawatir, hak-haknya termasuk hak tanah, akan tetap dipertahankan, walaupun dia harus tetap diasingkan.

Semoga kemelut ini cepat berlalu. Snouck sepertinya sudah punya calon residen baru untuk menggantikan Donner. Pemerintah kolonial pun tidak ingin mengulangi kesalahan yang sama dengan mengangkat orang keras kepala seperti Donner  untuk menggantikannya. Kita semua sudah cukup pusing dengan semua urusan ini.

Salam hangat untuk keluargamu.

Met hartelijke groeten, Salam hangat,

Mullemeister.

 

Surat ini membawa sedikit kelegaan baginya. Mullemeister memang seorang sahabat yang bisa diandalkan.

***

Pakualaman, Yogyakarta, Pertengahan 1903

Soeroto kembali menghadap Raden Mas Adipati Brotodiningrat, junjungannya. Kali ini dia membawa kudanya dengan lebih santai sambil perlahan memasuki kawasan rumah Brotodiningrat. Raut mukanya juga terlihat lebih tenang dibandingkan dengan saat pertemuan dengan Brotodiningrat sebelumnya.

Penjaga pintu langsung menyilakan dirinya menunggu di pendopo. Tak lama kemudian, Raden Mas Adipati Brotodiningrat keluar menemuinya.

“Raden,” Soeroto memberi salam hormat.

“Silakan duduk, Soeroto. Kabar apa yang kau bawa kali ini?”

“Raden tentu sudah mendengar desas-desus terakhir mengenai Donner.”

“Apa yang kau ketahui tentang Donner?”

“Donner sudah putus urat di otaknya. Dia makin gila. Dia bahkan berani menuduh Susuhanan mau memberontak hanya karena Kanjeng Sunan mendapat sambutan meriah sewaktu berkunjung ke Semarang,” kata Soeroto separuh mencibir.

Brotodiningrat tidak bisa menyembunyikan kemenangan di wajahnya. “Dia memang benar-benar sudah gila. Untung pemerintah di Batavia cukup tanggap dan langsung memberhentikan orang tidak waras ini. Dia telah dihantui pikirannya sendiri, bahwa akan ada Diponegoro kedua. Dia benar-benar terlalu banyak berkhayal, sampai mengatakan bahwa aku adalah Diponegoro kedua ini.”

“Sepertinya begitu Raden,” tanggap Soeroto.

“Bagaimana kabar penggantinya di Madiun?” tanya Brotodiningrat penasaran.

Soeroto dengan semangat mencerita, “Residen Boissevain ternyata cukup cakap. Dia telah memecat jaksa kepala yang dulu bertanggung jawab menangkapi bawahan Raden. Semua pengikut Raden sepertinya cukup puas dengan tindakan residen baru ini. Mereka yang dulu dipecat karena tersangkut kasus ini pun sudah diberi jabatan baru, walaupun hanya jabatan kecil di Pacitan dan Ponorogo. Keamanan dan ketertiban tampaknya sudah pulih.”

Brotodiningrat terlihat sedikit termenung, melihat ke arah timur seolah mencoba menerawang ke arah Madiun.

“Sepertinya begitu. Tapi masih ada satu hal yang mengganjal pikiranku, Soeroto.”

“Apa itu, Raden? Apakah Raden masih berniat untuk kembali ke Madiun?” Soeroto seolah bisa membaca keinginan tuannya.

“Itu juga. Namun sepertinya sekarang masih terlalu dini. Kita masih harus melihat dulu perkembangan keadaan.”

“Apa gerangan yang menjadi ganjalan dalam pikiran Raden?” tanya Soeroto kembali.

“Kau sudah cukup lama menjadi abdi saya, Soeroto. Kau sudah mendampingi saya sejak dituduh mendalangi pencurian tirai di rumah residen.

Inggih, Raden.” Soeroto mengiakan.

“Aku ingin bertanya kepadamu sekarang. Menurutmu, bagaimana kedudukan kita sebagai orang Jawa di hadapan orang Belanda?” Brotodiningrat menatap Soeroto dengan tajam.

“Saya tidak berani menjawab, Raden. Biarlah orang-orang pintar seperti Raden yang memikirkan pertanyaan seperti itu.” Soeroto seperti kebingungan untuk bersikap, takut mengatakan hal yang salah sebagai seorang rakyat kecil.

“Kau harus mulai memikirkannya, Soeroto. Saya mencium akan ada angin perubahan. Mungkin bukan seperti munculnya seorang Diponegoro. Tapi dunia akan berubah.”

“Maksud Raden?”

“Merdeka, Soeroto. Merdeka. Merdeka untuk menentukan nasib sendiri, bebas dari pemerintahan kolonial Hindia Belanda.” Ada senyum tersungging di wajah Brotodiningrat, pada saat dia menerawang seperti menatap masa depan.

“Terlalu sulit bagi saya untuk membayangkan itu, Raden. Bagi saya, bila saya bisa mendapatkan sandang dan pangan, lalu atap untuk tidur, itu sudah cukup, Raden.”

“Tidak salah kau masih berpikir seperti itu, Soeroto. Saya pun baru belakangan ini terpikir hal demikian, setelah melalui prahara tak kunjung usai dengan Donner. Sejak itu, saya baru mulai merenungkan bagaimana kedudukan saya sebenarnya di hadapan pemerintah Hindia Belanda. Apakah saya benar-benar setara dengan residen? Atau saya sebenarnya sampai kapan pun akan tetap menjadi seorang kacung Belanda?” Brotodiningrat berdiri dari tempat duduknya lalu menyambung, “Residen Donner itu pikir saya adalah bawahannya, bukan pejabat yang setara. Padahal sudah ada pembagian tugas yang jelas. Dia mengurus perkara dengan Batavia dan urusan luar negeri Madiun, saya yang mengurusi perkara di dalam Madiun.” Nada suara Brotodiningrat kembali mendidih setiap kali memperbincangkan Donner.

“Apakah dia mendendam pada Raden sejak peristiwa itu?” Soeroto bertanya lembut.

“Mungkin juga. Tapi aku memang sering menjelek-jelekkannya dan membandingkannya dengan Mullemeister yang menurutku memang jauh lebih lihai. Mullemeister bisa berbaur dengan para pejabat setempat dan mengerti sopan santun Jawa.” Brotodiningrat berhenti sejenak lalu meneruskan dengan nada mengejek, “Donner tampaknya tersinggung.”

“Raden beruntung bisa kenal dengan Mullemeister.”

“Ya, saya memang beruntung. Mullemeister telah banyak membantu kasus saya sehingga bisa lolos dari dakwaan, walaupun aku tetap kehilangan jabatan. Ini justru makin menguatkan keyakinanku bahwa kedudukan kita, orang Jawa, tidak sejajar dengan Belanda.”

“Raden masih ingat dengan tulisan sepupu Raden, Raden Mas Tirto Adhi Soerjo, di Pembrita Betawi yang membela Raden dan mengatakan itu sebagai sebuah ketidakadilan? Banyak sekali orang memperbincangkan tentang tulisannya.”

“Bagaimana mungkin saya lupa? Sungguh hebat sepupu saya itu. Dia berani menulis di surat kabar kolom Dreyfusiana bulan lalu dengan huruf-huruf besar: SKANDAL DONNER. Dia mewawancarai banyak pejabat Belanda mengenai kasus ini. Harus saya akui pemberitaannya memberi pengaruh pada pendapat umum mengenai kasus ini, bahkan pendapat orang Eropa. Orang jadi tahu bahwa Donner itu memang gila!”

Brotodiningrat mengambil napas sebentar lalu melanjutkan dengan penuh semangat, “Dia juga dengan berani mengatakan bahwa saya harus diadili seperti halnya seorang Belanda, sama di hadapan hukum, berdasarkan bukti, bukan kabar burung.”

“Benar, Raden. Begitu pula yang dikatakan banyak orang,” Soeroto ikut bersemangat.

“Soeroto, tidak hanya dalam hal hukum kita harus setara dengan orang Belanda, tapi juga dalam pendidikan. Aku beruntung bisa sekolah di sekolah Belanda karena aku adalah seorang keturunan bupati. Tapi kamu, seorang biasa, tidak akan pernah punya kesempatan untuk bersekolah. Kamu hanya bisa menjadi kacung, atau telik sandi, seperti pekerjaanmu saat ini.”

Inggih, Raden.” Soeroto memberi hormat dan menunduk.

“Kulihat kau cukup cerdas. Andaikan kau bisa sekolah, kau mungkin bisa belajar bahasa Belanda, lalu menjadi seorang juru tulis atau bahkan seorang pengawas perkebunan tebu. Namun kau tidak bisa punya kesempatan seperti itu.”

“Saya tidak berani mimpi setinggi itu, Raden.” Soeroto masih menunduk.

“Harus, kau harus berani bermimpi. Soeroto, zaman akan berubah. Tirto sudah menerawangnya lebih jauh, dan saya membenarkan pikirannya. Kita harus memperjuangkan kesetaraan kita dengan Belanda,” lanjut Brotodiningrat dengan berapi-api.

“Apakah artinya kita harus bebas dari pemerintah kolonial Belanda, Raden?” tanya Soeroto.

“Kita harus memperjuangkan kesetaraan kita dengan Belanda!” tegas Brotodiningrat.

“Apa artinya itu, Raden?”

“Artinya harus ada Dewan Rakyat, yang berisikan orang-orang pribumi. Kita harus diberi kesempatan untuk menentukan nasib sendiri. Dewan Rakyat yang bisa memberi usul kepada Gubernur Jenderal.” Brotodiningrat semakin bersemangat.

“Pemikiran Raden terlalu maju, saya sulit untuk mengikutinya.”

“Tidak apa-apa, Soeroto. Saya malah mungkin menderita karena pemikiran yang terlalu maju ini. Mungkin pemerintah di Batavia diam-diam telah membaca pemikiran saya untuk memperjuangkan hak yang lebih setara bagi kita, orang pribumi.”

“Maksud Raden, bahwa Raden sebenarnya diberhentikan dari jabatan bupati karena terlalu berani menantang Belanda?” Ada nada tidak percaya dalam suara Soeroto.

“Pintar kau, Soeroto. Saya terlalu berani menantang Belanda. Mungkin memang belum saatnya buah kemerdekaan ini matang dan jatuh dari pohonnya. Sekarang bunga-bunga kecil baru bersemi malu-malu. Beberapa nantinya akan menjadi buah, dan beberapa di antaranya akan menjadi matang. Aku melihat itu di diri sepupuku, Tirto.”

Inggih, Raden.”

“Perjuangan masih panjang, Soeroto. Ingat kata-kataku ini, kemelut rakyat kita dengan Belanda seperti kasus Donner bukanlah yang terakhir. Kali ini kita menang, sebagian, tapi akan ada kemelut yang lebih besar nanti. Kau adalah abdi saya, bawalah semangat saya di masa depan, supaya bangsa kita tetap bisa menang bila berhadapan dengan Belanda.” Mata Brotodiningrat terlihat berapi-api penuh semangat, walaupun dia kehilangan jabatannya sebagai bupati dalam kemelut.

***

The Regent’s Turmoil

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si KuncungBobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

The Regent’s Turmoil

 

Purwodadi, Central Java, Indonesia, October 1901

The moonless night crept toward midnight. Soeroto crouched among the sugarcane stalks and watched the house of the sugarcane plantation guard at the edge of the field. Suddenly, not far from him, he saw dozens of people approaching from the north side, next to the forest. The mob carried machetes and axes.

Soeroto had spied on this mob’s actions over the previous days. He had heard a rumor that they planned to burglarize the plantation and steal the workers’ wages. He moved stealthily closer to the house.

The band of bandits spread around the house, positioning themselves by the doors and windows. After a while, a stocky man, who appeared to be the leader, knocked on the front door.

Soeroto shifted in his hiding place to see better.

The knocks became louder and louder, trying to awaken the occupants of the house.

Apparently, the rumors Soeroto had heard about planned burglaries of the houses of the rich and the sugar factory were true. Conflicts like this could exacerbate the tension between Mas Adipati Brotodiningrat, Soeroto’s master, and Resident Donner. Resident Donner for sure was going to accuse his master of being behind this trouble.

“Who’s there?” a voice shouted from within. “Why are you knocking on the door at night?”

“You’ve 400 guilders in this house,” shouted the ring leader. “Surrender, before I break the door down!”

“You are alone! How dare you rob my house? I’m Sarmin, the plantation guard and the master of this area!”

Among the sugarcane stalks, Soeroto weighed the situation from a safe distance. Sarmin might be able to defeat this burglar if he fought one on one, but it would be impossible to win a fight against dozens of these thugs. Soeroto decided not to intervene.

Sarmin shoved the door open and almost made the burglar fall.

The man quickly straightened and laughed.

But with one swift movement, Sarmin put a machete to the robber’s neck and smiled triumphantly.

The burglar didn’t seem agitated. He looked toward the back door of the house and nonchalantly said, “Take a look at your wife over there.”

Sarmin turned and saw a group of burglars surrounding his wife. The burglars had entered the back door while Sarmin was dealing with their leader at the front door. Now, they had taken his wife hostage. Sarmin had no choice but to give up.

Soeroto could do nothing except leave quietly. He would report this incident to his master, Mas Adipati Brotodiningrat, immediately.

 

***

Madiun, East Java, Indonesia, December 1901

The atmosphere at the Dutch-ruled Madiun Residency felt unusual. People looked tense, and security at the resident’s office entrance was tighter than usual. In the office, the Resident of Madiun, J. J. Donner, was in a meeting with Judge Adipoetro, the chief prosecutor of Madiun, and Patih Mangoen Atmodjo, the vice regent of Madiun.

“Resident Donner, we have to arrest the indigenous gang leaders in Madiun and its surroundings,” said Judge Adipoetro. “Without these leaders, other criminals will not dare carry out another burglary.”

“It’s true, Resident,” added Patih Atmodjo. “Kartoredjo, the head of the irrigation department, also needs to be arrested. He not only has close ties to the gang leaders, but he was also the right-hand man of Brotodiningrat, the former Javanese regent of Madiun. Brotodiningrat must still be secretly in control of the criminals through Kartoredjo.”

Resident Donner paced the meeting room. Frowning, he said, “Soeradi, who stole curtains and tablecloths belonging to the residency, was caught in Ponorogo, but the stealing and burglaries continued. I believe Brotodiningrat is behind all of this unrest.”

“We could increase the night watch,” Adipoetro suggested.

Donner ignored him. “I think this theft of curtains and tablecloths was more than just a random crime,” he said quietly. “Brotodiningrat must be aiming for something bigger. He may want to create the same unrest on Java as the Javanese Prince Diponegoro did in 1825 with the Java War.”

Donner walked over to Patih Atmodjo’s seat and continued, “By prompting chaos like this, Brotodiningrat wants to weaken the position of our Dutch East Indies government. I also suspect that he used Islamic clerics to strengthen his position. Patih Atmodjo, what do you think of the teacher, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi?”

Patih Atmodjo opened the report in front of him. “Kiai Kasan Ngalwi often leads processions while praying along the village streets. He must be gathering support from the people to back the Brotodiningrat rebellion.”

Donner looked worried. He sat down, then stood up again. “Rebellion is in sight. I don’t want us to be caught by surprise. I will order firearms to be distributed to the Dutch Europeans for self-defense. I will also order the presence of armed guards around Paron station to protect the sugarcane train. The two of you continue to observe the movements of Brotodiningrat’s followers. This is a dire situation. We must be vigilant.”

“At your service, Resident,” replied the vice regent and the chief prosecutor in unison.

 

***

Pakualaman, Yogyakarta, January 1902

Soeroto, Brotodiningrat’s spy, rode on horseback into the Pakualaman area of Yogyakarta, a neighborhood where only aristocrats lived. He had just arrived from Madiun.

Recognizing Soeroto, the guard hurriedly allowed him to enter.

Brotodiningrat was resting in his private quarters when he heard galloping hoofbeats. He peered through the slats of his window to see who the visitor was. Seeing Soeroto, he walked quickly towards the pendopo, a large, covered terrace for receiving guests. Brotodiningrat had been waiting for news from Madiun and was expecting Soeroto’s arrival.

“Greetings, Raden,” Soeroto called out, using the Javanese term to address a nobleman. Soeroto saluted Brotodiningrat when he entered the pendopo.

“Soeroto! I have been waiting for you for a long time. Please, sit down. What news do you bring from Madiun?”

Soeroto waited for Brotodiningrat to be seated first. Then, after seating himself, Soeroto said, “The situation in Madiun is getting worse, Raden.”

Brotodiningrat considered Soeroto’s words and said, “Tell me specifically what is going on in Madiun.”

“Of course, Raden. Remember the theft of curtains and tablecloths from Resident Donner’s house in October three years ago? My news is still connected to that incident.”

“How could I forget it! It is what forced me to leave Madiun to live in this city,” Brotodiningrat grumbled, annoyed.

“Such incidents have increased,” Soeroto continued. “Not only burglaries, but burning sugarcane plantations around Madiun is also rampant. This past October, a burglary took place at the house of a plantation guard near the sugar factory in Purwodadi. The thieves stole the plantation workers’ wages of 400 guilders. The thugs are also targeting the homes of wealthy people in Ngawi and Magetan.” Soeroto’s voice had risen.

Brotodiningrat listened calmly, then said, “I told the former Resident of Madiun how to handle it. But this new resident, Donner, is stubborn and doesn’t want to listen to people who are experienced in handling such incidents.” Brotodiningrat paused before he continued. “Resident Donner is not like his predecessor, Resident Mullemeister. Mullemeister understands the Javanese way of dealing with problems like this. He would have left it entirely to the local regent and provided financial support for it.” Brotodiningrat sighed. “The current regent, Mangoen Atmodjo, is too weak. He is just a Dutch puppet. What does he know about the criminal world? How can he curb crime if he does not know anything about the underworld?”

Soeroto’s eyes darted anxiously. He seemed to have something more to say.

“You look restless, Soeroto. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about? If it’s about widespread burglaries, I have already expected those to happen with the appointment of the new regent.”

Soeroto hesitated. Drawing himself upright, he said, “Resident Donner is accusing you of being the instigator of the kraman, rebellion.”

“What?” Brotodiningrat roared. “How dare Donner accuse me of causing these uprisings!”

“Not only that,” Soeroto continued, “he has also detained a number of people who are close to you, such as the assistant resident, village policemen, even your teacher, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi, and Kartoredjo, head of the irrigation sector and your secret agent.”

Brotodiningrat’s face flushed with anger. “I thought Donner would be content after having me removed from my position as a regent. I guess he will not be satisfied until I am exiled from Java as a criminal.”

“Donner is utterly blind and unscrupulous, Raden,” Soeroto said. “He distributed firearms to the Dutch Europeans and reported to Batavia that there would be a new war on Java.”

“Donner has gone completely insane! New war on Java?” Brotodiningrat scoffed. “I just wanted to be a good regent who could maintain order and peace in Madiun.”

“Be careful, Raden,” Soeroto’s voice was filled with concern. “They are capable of arresting and prosecuting you. As I said earlier, your teacher, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi, has been arrested.”

“You are a loyal servant, Soeroto. You must be tired after the long journey from Madiun. Stay here for a day or two before returning.”

“Thank you, I will, Raden,” Soeroto replied and excused himself.

 

***

That night, Brotodiningrat couldn’t sleep. He thought this crisis had ended when he was exiled to Yogyakarta. But apparently, Donner still held a grudge against him. He seemed to want to prove that a Dutch resident was indeed more powerful than a native Javanese regent. The judge’s decision to remove him from the position of regent of Madiun on account of the robbery case obviously had not satisfied Donner.

Brotodiningrat thought back to when he was a teenager. He had gone to school in Surakarta and lived in the Kasunanan area. He could see how great Susuhunan Pakubuwono, the ruler of Solo, was. Brotodiningrat had stood tall as a Javanese native and had gained respect from the Dutch officials. The experience made an imprint on Brotodiningrat’s memory, inspiring him to become a Javanese regent who could be equal to a Dutch resident.

He studied the Dutch language diligently so that he could speak to the Dutch as an equal. He also absorbed all his lessons concerning government affairs while studying to become a public administrator. He then assiduously underwent an apprenticeship as a scribe in Madiun. He understood that all of this had to be done to achieve his goal of being considered on par with the Dutch.

His dream came true when he was appointed Regent of Sumoroto, a province in East Java. Everyone, both native and Dutch, looked up to him.

But he felt that he was truly capable of achieving his dream when he met Mullemeister, then the Resident of Madiun, the person he had ever since considered his mentor. It was Mullemeister who proposed that Brotodiningrat be appointed Regent of Madiun. They worked well together. Resident Mullemeister gave him the freedom to take care of irrigation, security, and many other responsibilities. Working alongside Mullemeister, Brotodiningrat applied everything he had learned while studying for this governmental position.

Sadly, Brotodiningrat had to part with his teacher and best friend when Mullemeister was promoted to Resident of Yogyakarta, to work side by side with Sultan Hamengkubuwono, King of Yogyakarta. Such was truly a proper position for a resident as smart as Mullemeister. But unfortunately, Mullemeister’s promotion caused a disaster, because his Dutch successor, Resident Donner, was power hungry and didn’t trust the Javanese.

The trial accusing Brotodiningrat of orchestrating the theft of curtains and tablecloths from Resident Donner’s house was a long affair. Brotodiningrat had to be tried in Batavia. The good thing for Brotodiningrat was that Mullemeister worked desperately to defend him. The bad thing for Brotodiningrat was that the officials in Batavia wanted to save face and back Resident Donner, because if Donner’s accusations were found to be ungrounded, the Dutch East Indies colonial government would lose face.

During his one-year trial, Brotodiningrat was exiled to Padang. He was fortunate that his letters of self-defense, sent to Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands and Governor-General Rooseboom of the Dutch East Indies, were well received. Although he was removed from his position as Regent of Madiun, he was allowed to return to Java. Having been honorably discharged, he received a fairly high pension and could live in a house in Pakualaman, Yogyakarta.

But now he was being accused of rebellion. The Dutch East Indies officials must still be haunted by the Java War waged against the Dutch colonial rule by Javanese Prince Diponegoro. But accusing him of being the second Diponegoro was unsubstantiated. And to think that the Dutch authorities had even dared to arrest his teacher, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi! Brotodiningrat realized the precarious, dangerous situation he was in and decided to consult with Mullemeister, his best friend.

 

***

Since his exile in Pakualaman, Yogyakarta, Brotodiningrat’s connection to the outside world had been limited to correspondence and newspapers. He had indeed lost power. But the arrival of a letter from Mullemeister cheered him up.

The envelope was marked: Important and Confidential.

Brotodiningrat took the letter to his private room. Using a letter opener, he quickly slit the envelope and, his heart pounding, began reading.

Dear Brotodiningrat,

I hope you have heard that the colonial government sent Snouck Hurgronje to investigate the case related to Donners accusations against you. The results of the investigation have been completed, and I want to be the first to reveal them to you.

Snouck is indeed a reliable investigator. He is fluent in Arabic and Javanese, so he could carry out in-depth investigations. He was also able to ask many people in Madiun to explore this case. From Snouck’s investigation, it can be concluded that it was Donner himself who caused crime to increase in Madiun. He impulsively arrested your trusted people who had important connections in the underworld. After they were all arrested, there was no one to control the criminals, and they ran rampant.

But fear not, Snouck found no evidence against you. He even said that Donner was too tired and suggested that Donner retire and rest.

However, regarding the case of your teacher, Kiai Kasan Ngalwi, he must be sacrificed. The colonial government still has to keep up a good front. Your teacher was exiled because, otherwise, the public would think that the Dutch East Indies government has less power than Kiai Kasan Ngalwi. But dont worry, his rights, including land rights, will be maintained, even though he must remain in exile.

I hope this crisis will pass quickly. Snouck seems to already have a new candidate to replace Donner. The colonial government does not want to repeat the same mistake by appointing another stubborn person like Donner to replace him. We all have had enough of this debacle.

Warm regards to your family.

Mullemeister.

 

This letter brought Brotodiningrat some relief. Mullemeister was indeed a reliable friend.

 

***

Pakualaman, Yogyakarta, mid-1903

Soeroto returned to meet Raden Mas Adipati Brotodiningrat, his master. This time, he rode his horse more casually as he slowly entered Brotodiningrat’s neighborhood. He was also much calmer than during his previous meeting with Brotodiningrat.

The guard immediately asked him to wait in the pendopo. Not long after, Raden Mas Adipati Brotodiningrat came out to meet him.

“Raden.” Soeroto saluted respectfully.

“Please have a seat, Soeroto. What news do you have this time?”

“You must have heard the latest rumors regarding Donner.”

“What do you know about Donner?”

“Donner must have lost his mind. He is going totally crazy!” Soeroto sneered. “Donner even dared to accuse the Susuhanan of wanting to rebel because he had received a warm welcome when he visited Semarang.”

Brotodiningrat couldn’t hide his smile of victory. “Donner really has gone mad. Fortunately, the government in Batavia was quite responsive and immediately dismissed the accusations of this insane person. Donner’s own thoughts were his undoing. He was convinced that there would be a second Diponegoro. He fantasized to the point of believing that I was the second Diponegoro!”

“It seems so, Raden,” replied Soeroto.

“What do you think of his successor in Madiun?” Brotodiningrat probed.

Soeroto, excited, said, “Resident Boissevain is quite capable. He fired the chief prosecutor, who was responsible for arresting your subordinates. All of your followers appear to be quite happy with the new resident’s actions. Those who were fired for their involvement in this incident have also been given new, albeit small, positions in Pacitan and Ponorogo. Security and order seem to have been restored.”

Brotodiningrat looked pensively eastward, as if trying to gaze at Madiun. “It seems so. But there is still one thing that bothers me, Soeroto.”

“What is it, Raden?” asked Soeroto, trying to read his master’s wishes. “Do you still intend to return to Madiun?”

“There’s that, too, but it seems too early to say. We still have to see how things develop.”

“Then what is troubling you, Raden?”

“You have served me for a long time, Soeroto. You’ve been with me since I was accused of masterminding the curtain and tablecloth burglary at Resident Donner’s house.”

Inggih, yes, I have, Raden.”

Brotodiningrat gave Soeroto a sharp look. “What do you think of our position as Javanese natives versus the Dutch colonial rule?”

“I dare not answer, Raden. I let smart people like you think about such questions.” Soeroto acted awkwardly, as if afraid to say the wrong thing as an ordinary citizen.

“You have to start thinking about it, Soeroto. I sense a wind of change — maybe not like the emergence of a Diponegoro. But the world will change.”

“What do you mean Raden?”

“Freedom, Soeroto. Independence. Freedom to determine our own destiny, freedom from the colonial rule of the Dutch East Indies.” Brotodiningrat smiled as he imagined that future.

“It’s too hard for me to imagine that, Raden. For me, it is enough if I have clothing, food, and a roof to sleep under.”

“It’s not wrong to continue thinking that way, Soeroto. I, too, only recently thought about this. After going through the never-ending tempest with Donner, I started to contemplate what my real position had been in the Dutch East Indies government. Was I really equal to the resident? Or would I forever remain a Dutch lackey?” Brotodiningrat stood. “Resident Donner thought I was his subordinate, not an equal official. However, there was a clear division of labor. He supposedly took care of matters with Batavia’s and Madiun’s external affairs, while I took care of Madiun’s internal affairs.” Brotodiningrat’s tone rose every time he talked about Donner.

“Has he held a grudge against you since that incident?” Soeroto asked softly.

“Yes, I believe so. But I also often badmouthed him and compared him unfavorably to Mullemeister, who is much more shrewd than Donner. Mullemeister can mingle with the local officials and understands Javanese manners.” Brotodiningrat paused for a moment then grumbled, “Donner must have been offended.”

“You are lucky to have met Mullemeister.”

“Yes, indeed. Mullemeister has helped me so much. I was able to escape prosecution, although I still lost my job. This has strengthened my belief that we, the Javanese, are not on the same level as the Dutch.”

“Do you remember the writings of your cousin, Raden Mas Tirto Adhi Soerjo, in Pembrita Betawi?” Soeroto asked suddenly. “He defended you and said that it was an injustice! Lots of people talk about his writings.”

“How could I forget? That cousin of mine is great! Last month, he dared to write a newspaper article in the column Dreyfusiana. The article’s title is written in capital letters: THE DONNER SCANDAL. He interviewed many Dutch officials about this case. I have to admit that the news influenced public opinion including that of the Dutch Europeans regarding this case. People now know that Donner is a lunatic!”

Brotodiningrat took a deep breath and then continued, enthusiastically, “Tirto was also so bold as to said that I should be tried like a Dutchman, based on evidence, not hearsay.”

“That’s right, Raden,” Soeroto agreed, excited. “That’s what many people say.”

“Soeroto, we must be equal to the Dutch, not only in terms of the law, but we must also receive the same education. I was lucky to study in a Dutch school because I am a descendant of the regent. But you, a commoner, will never have the chance to go to school. You can only be a servant or a spy, like you are now.”

“Inggih, Raden.” Soeroto bowed his head.

“I see you’re quite smart. If you could go to school, you might learn Dutch and then become a clerk or even a sugarcane plantation supervisor. But you won’t have such an opportunity unless things change.”

“I dare not to have such lofty dreams, Raden.” Soeroto’s head was still bowed.

“You must! You must dare to dream!” Brotodiningrat nodded vehemently. “Soeroto, times will change. Tirto already had that vision, and I confirmed his thoughts. We have to fight for our equality with the Dutch.”

“Does that mean we have to be free from the Dutch colonial government, Raden?” Soeroto asked.

“We must fight for our equality with the Dutch!” Brotodiningrat repeated.

“What does that mean exactly, Raden?”

“That means that there must be a People’s Council, consisting of indigenous people, who can make recommendations to the Governor-General.” Brotodiningrat grew even more excited. “We must be given the opportunity to determine our own destiny.”

“You have such complicated thoughts. I find it difficult to follow you.”

“That’s fine, Soeroto. I may even suffer from this overly advanced thinking. Maybe the government in Batavia has secretly read my desire to fight for more equal rights for us, the indigenous Javanese people.”

“Do you mean to say that you were dismissed from the position of regent because you have been too brave and challenged the Dutch?” Soeroto asked in disbelief.

“You’re smart, Soeroto. I was too daring and challenged the Dutch. Maybe it’s not the time yet for this fruit of independence to ripen and fall from the tree. Now, new little flowers are blooming timidly. Some will later become fruit, and some of that fruit will ripen. I saw that in my cousin, Tirto.”

“Of course, Raden.”

“The end of our struggle is still a long way off, Soeroto. But mark my words, this nation’s conflict with the Netherlands, like the Donner case, will not be the last. This time we won, partly, but there will be bigger conflicts later. You are my servant; take my spirit into the future, so our nation can still win when dealing with the Netherlands.” Brotodiningrat’s eyes were fiery with enthusiasm, even though his position of power had been extinguished.

 

 *****

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

Mata di Bibir Subuh

Artie Ahmad, lahir di Salatiga 21 November 1994. Saat ini tinggal di Yogyakarta. Selain menulis cerita pendek, dia juga menulis novel. Beberapa bukunya seperti, novel ‘Sunyi di Dada Sumirahterbit di Penerbit Buku Mojok, cetakan pertama 2018 dan cetakan kedua terbit 2020, kumpulan cerita pendek ‘Cinta yang Bodoh Harus Diakhiri’ diterbitkan Penerbit Buku Mojok, cetakan pertama tahun 2019 dan cetakan kedua tahun 2020, novela terbarunya berjudul ‘Manusia-Manusia Teluk’ terbit 2020 di Penerbit Buku Mojok. Cerita-cerita pendeknya dimuat media massa seperti koran Tempo, Jawa Pos, Republika, Solopos, Kedaulatan Rakyat, Tribun Jabar, Minggu Pagi, Haluan, Detik.com dan beberapa media massa lainnya.

Artie bisa dihubungi di adekartie@gmail.com.

Terbit bulan Juni 2020. Hak cipta ©2020 ada pada Artie Ahmad. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2020 ada pada Oni Suryaman.

 

 

Mata di Bibir Subuh

 

Suara azan Subuh terdengar, merambat dari corong pelantang suara di masjid. Bergetar masuk ke dalam gendang telinga orang-orang yang masih terlelap. Suara Pak Modin yang terdengar lantang itu juga ditangkap telinga Muzaini. Azan masih terdengar, menggelitik telinga Muzaini. Tapi, meski azan itu masuk ke telinga dan mengetuk-ketuk gendang telinganya, Muzaini seakan tak berdaya. Matanya seolah terkena getah nangka. Lengket, sulit untuk dibuka. Muzaini berusaha membuka mata, namun rasa kantuk yang dirasakannya sangat keterlaluan. Muzaini tak kuasa melawan, dia kembali bergelung di tilam.

Suara azan Pak Modin telah lesap, Subuh telah lama lewat. Dalam mimpi di kepalanya, Muzaini menangkap bayang Wak Rohim. Dulu saat dia masih anak-anak, Wak Rohim gurunya mengaji di surau desa. Dalam gambar di mimpinya itu, Wak Rohim berdiri membawa rotan yang dipergunakan untuk memukul pantat para muridnya yang hanya main-main saat mengaji. Muzaini tergagap, ketika melihat Wak Rohim berjalan ke arahnya. Rotan di tangannya diayun-ayunkan. Bibirnya tersenyum simpul. Tapi begitulah wajah Wak Rohim ketika hendak menghukum muridnya.

“Muz! Kau tak menjalankan perintah Allah dengan baik ya? Kau meleng ya?” Suara Wak Rohim terdengar lantang.

Muzaini tak kuasa menjawab. Dia hanya menggeleng-geleng. Wajahnya pucat pasi, keringat dinginnya mengalir.

“Kau, Muzaini Samsyudin! Berani tak menjalankan perintah Gusti Allah? Muridku yang dulu berjanji akan menjadi manusia baik. Kau bohong denganku?” Wak Rohim semakin dekat. Kumisnya yang melintang dengan jambang lebat itu semakin menambah kesan angker di wajahnya.

“Bukan begitu, Wak Guru. Saya sudah berusaha bangun. Tapi tak kuasa. Mata saya lengket seperti kena getah nangka,” Muzaini menggigil.

“Alasan saja kau, Muz. Menyesal aku dulu tak memukulmu lebih keras dengan rotan ini. Kini kau jadi seorang pembangkang.” Wak Rohim mengangkat rotannya tinggi-tinggi.

Muzaini ingin berlari menghindar, tapi tak bisa. Tangan kiri Wak Rohim menggamit lengannya. Tangan itu mencengkeram Muzaini erat-erat. Napas Muzaini tersengal, tapi dia seolah tak memiliki tenaga untuk lari dari Wak Rohim.

“Oh, Muz. Betapa berubahnya engkau sekarang ini? Aku tak menduga kau akan berubah seperti sekarang,” Wak Rohim menurunkan tangannya yang memegang rotan, cengkeraman di lengan Muzaini mengendur, lalu dihempaskan begitu saja.

“Tak ada yang berubah di diri saya, Wak Guru. Tak ada yang lain saya rasa. Saya hanya sering kelelahan setelah bekerja di kota,” Muzaini menatap Wak Rohim dengan getar suara yang tak bisa ditahan.

Wak Rohim mengangkat wajahnya, ditatapnya Muzaini lekat-lekat. Seringai di bibirnya terlihat.

“Tak ada yang berubah dengan dirimu? Kau bercanda! Kini kau lalai akan semuanya. Sembahyangmu tak lagi sebaik dulu. Dan, kau lupa akan janjimu,” Wak Rohim berdiri di depan Muzaini dengan gagah. Sarungnya yang putih bersih dengan corak bunga-bunga kecil berwarna hitam berkibar-kibar ditiup angin. “Dulu, kau bilang jika sudah banyak uang dan dapat pekerjaan bagus, kau akan membantu merawat gubuk kecil tempat anak-anak desa mengaji. Tapi seolah kau lupa dengan janjimu itu. Jangankan membantu merawatnya, bahkan kau pun tak lagi mau menengoknya.”

***

Muzaini terbangun dari tidurnya. Matanya sudah leluasa dibuka meski agak berat. Muzaini tak mengerti, mengapa Wak Rohim datang di mimpinya hari ini, dengan keadaan yang membuatnya bergidik pula. Sudah lama sejak dia bekerja di luar kota, orang-orang di desanya teramat jarang berkunjung ke mimpinya. Muzaini saban malam memang bermimpi di saat tidur, tapi itu bukan memimpikan orangorang di desanya yang telah lama dia kenal. Di mimpi Muzaini selepas kerja di kota besar ini, yang sering bertandang adalah kawan-kawan kenalannya, atasan di kantor yang sering mengejar-ngejar tenggat waktu pekerjaan, pemilik kamar sewa yang suka menagih padahal belum waktunya, atau yang kerap datang di mimpinya seorang Manisa. Manisa, kawan sekantornya yang berwajah manis dengan perangai lembut itu. Wajah yang menjadi kembang tidur Muzaini bahkan selepas pertama kali mereka berjumpa.

Tertegun Muzaini mendengar ucapan Wak Rohim. Dia tepekur beberapa saat. Matanya nyalang menatap lantai. Bibirnya bergetar. Dia ingat sekarang, memanglah dulu dia sempat bernazar apabila telah mendapat pekerjaan dengan gaji yang baik, dia akan membantu merawat surau kecil untuk mengaji yang sering disebut gubuk oleh Wak Rohim. Tapi, sudah lebih lima tahun bekerja dengan gaji yang baik, belum pernah dia membagi rezekinya untuk surau kecil tua tempatnya mengaji dulu. Entah hari baik apa yang didapatkannya, hari ini Wak Rohim datang ke mimpinya, dan seolah menagih janji yang telah sekian lama tak juga dia tepati.

***

Sepanjang hari, mimpi itu lekat di ingatannya. Di kantor, di warteg tempat dia makan siang, ingatan tentang mimpi bertemu Wak Rohim selalu bertandang. Bahkan ketika dia bertemu dengan Manisa pun, untuk kali pertama Muzaini tak tertarik untuk menanggapi perempuan muda itu. Muzaini merasa lesu. Bahkan ketika pulang bekerja, dia langsung mengurung diri di kamar sewa. Muzaini berdiam diri di tilam kamarnya. Sampai akhirnya dia lelap. Tertidur sampai azan Subuh berkumandang.

Kali ini Muzaini begitu leluasa membuka mata. Tak lama setelah terjaga dia menyeret kakinya masuk ke dalam kamar mandi, dia menunaikan wudu lalu bersembahyang Subuh. Selepas sembahyang itulah, pikiran jernih itu muncul. Tiga pekan lagi dia akan libur panjang selama satu pekan, saat itu kesempatan baik untuknya pulang guna menemui Wak Rohim untuk membayar tunai janjinya dulu.

***

Mata Muzaini terbuka. Subuh menjalar masuk ke bus yang dia tumpangi. Suara azan dari masjid-masjid di pinggir jalan terdengar. Muzaini mengejap-ejapkan kedua matanya. Sebentar lagi bus antar kota yang dia naiki akan sampai ke pemberhentian terakhir, terminal yang paling dekat dengan desanya.

Sesampai di terminal, dengan semangat Muzaini memanggil ojek yang mangkal di sekitar terminal. Meski masih sedikit merasa kantuk lantaran kelelahan setelah menempuh perjalanan selama 12 jam perjalanan, Muzaini sangat bersemangat untuk pulang ke desanya kali ini.

Di dalam ranselnya, Muzaini telah menyiapkan sebuah amplop berisi uang yang akan disampaikannya untuk Wak Rohim guna memperbaiki suraunya. Surau yang mungkin kini sudah bertambah reyot lantaran aus dimakan usia. Muzaini pun tahu, bagaimana keuangan guru mengajinya itu. Anak-anak yang diajar mengaji tak ditarik bayaran, apabila ada yang memberikan uang, banyak kesempatan Wak Rohim menolaknya. Baginya, menerima uang dari orangtua muridnya yang memiliki nasib keuangan seperti dirinya hanya akan menambah sengsara kedua belah pihak. Orangtua murid akan sengsara lantaran anggaran untuk hidup berkurang, dan Wak Rohim akan sengsara lantaran batinnya tak tenang menerima uang dari orangtua muridnya yang juga kesusahan.

Muzaini berjalan ke rumahnya. Dia mengurungkan diri untuk terus ke rumah Wak Rohim yang rumahnya di batas desa tetangga. Turun dari ojek, dia merasakan sangat letih meski semangatnya untuk bersua dengan Wak Rohim masih berkobarkobar. Pintu belakang tak terkunci. Muzaini mencari-cari ibunya, tapi yang dicari tak ada. Mungkin ibunya sedang ke pasar. Pesan kepulangannya telah disampaikan ke ibunya sejak beberapa hari yang lalu, namun Muzaini tak mengatakan bahwa dia perlu juga bertemu Wak Rohim.

Lepas siang Muzaini baru berkesempatan untuk pergi keluar rumah. Ibu sedang ada tamu untuk membicarakan pekerjaan. Mungkin itu pembeli yang akan membeli beras hasil panen milik ibu. Diam-diam Muzaini pergi ke rumah Wak Rohim. Tapi di tengah jalan dia bertemu beberapa orang. Mereka berduyun-duyun berjalan ke arah rumah Wak Rohim. Muzaini melihat mereka dengan tatapan bingung. Seorang anak muda berusia belasan tahun juga turut berjalan ke arah rumah Wak Rohim, dengan cepat Muzaini bertanya.

“Adik, mau ke mana kalian ini? Kenapa beramai-ramai?” Muzaini bertanya sembari tersenyum ramah.

“Oh, Bang Muz. iya, kami akan melaksanakan kenduri,” sahut pemuda itu sembari menyalami Muzaini.

“Kenduri? Kenduri di mana?” Muzaini bertanya lagi.

“Kenduri ke rumah Wak Guru Rohim.”

“Kenduri untuk apa?” Muzaini semakin kebingungan. Ada acara apakah sampai dilaksanakan kenduri di rumah Wak Rohim.

“Kenduri untuk memeringati empat puluh hari kepergian Wak Guru Rohim menghadap Gusti Allah.” Sahut pemuda itu sembari menatap Muzaini dengan tatapan terheran-heran. Dia menatap Muzaini dengan keheranan, sepertinya dia tak menyangka, kalau Muzaini belum tahu bahwa Wak Guru Rohim sudah meninggal.

Muzaini tak bisa berkata-kata. Kepalanya mendadak terasa pening. Kabar yang dia terima seolah menggetarkan hatinya. Dengan langkah yang seakan limbung, Muzaini berjalan ke arah rumah Wak Rohim. Di sana orang-orang sudah banyak yang datang. Doa dihantarkan untuk Wak Rohim. Tangis Muzaini tak bisa ditahan. Penyesalannya semakin menjadi, ketika melihat surau kecil tempat Wak Rohim mengajar mengaji telah rubuh.

“Muzaini, kau juga ke sini ternyata?”

Muzaini menoleh, ibunya sudah berdiri di belakang tubuhnya.

“Ibu kenapa tak berbagi kabar jika Wak Rohim meninggal?” tanya Muzaini masih terisak.

“Ibu lupa mau berkabar denganmu. Tiap kali ibu telepon, kau selalu cepatcepat menutup lantaran sibuk. Setelahnya ibu selalu lupa mengabarimu.” Ibunya mengamati Muzaini dengan iba.

Mata Muzaini menyapu rumah Wak Rohim dan surau tempatnya mengaji dulu. Surau itu kini hanya tinggal puing-puing yang menyisakan kayu-kayu tua yang sudah lapuk. Tangis Muzaini tak bisa berhenti, dengan erat tangan kanannya mencengkeram amplop berisi uang untuk membantu mengurus surau kecil tempat Wak Rohim mengajar.

“Maafkan saya, Wak Guru. Maafkan saya karena sangat terlambat menemuimu.” Isak Muzaini sembari memandang surau kecil tempatnya belajar mengaji dulu yang kini hanya menyisakan puing-puing.

***

A Revelation at Dawn

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

A Revelation at Dawn

 

Pak Modin’s call to the dawn prayer blared from the mosque’s loudspeaker. The sound vibrated in the eardrums of people still asleep. The muezzin’s call to prayer also reached Muzaini. But although the call entered Muzaini’s ears and knocked at his eardrums, Muzaini couldn’t move. His eyelids felt as if they had jackfruit sap on them. They were sticky, difficult to open. Muzaini tried very hard to open his eyes, but he was overcome by extreme drowsiness. Unable to fight the feeling, Muzaini curled up again. Pak Modin’s call to prayer faded away and the dawn prayer time passed.

In his dream, Muzaini caught a glimpse of Wak Rohim’s shadow. Wak Rohim had been his religious teacher at the village mosque when he was a child. Wak Rohim carried the rattan swish he used to spank students who didn’t pay attention during the Quran recital lesson.

Muzaini cringed when Wak Rohim walked toward him, waving the swish in his hand.

Wak Rohim smiled. He always smiled when he was about to punish his students. “Muz!” Wak Rohim called loudly. “You’re not obeying God’s commands, are you? Are you not paying attention?”

Muzaini turned pale and could not answer. Sweating, he just shook his head.

“You, Muzaini Samsyudin! My student, the one who promised to become a good person. How dare you disobey God’s commands! Did you lie to me?” Wak Rohim came closer. His curly moustache and bushy beard made him even scarier.

“It’s not like that, Wak Guru, teacher,” said Muzaini, trembling. “I tried to wake up. But I could not open my eyes. It was as if they were glued shut by the sap of a jackfruit.”

“That’s just an excuse, Muz. I’m sorry that I didn’t hit you harder with my rattan swish in the past. Now you have abandoned your faith.” Wak Rohim raised his swish high in the air.

Muzaini wanted to flee but couldn’t.

Wak Rohim grabbed Muzaini’s arm and held him tightly.

Muzaini gasped, but he lacked the energy to run away.

“Oh, Muz. How you have changed! I didn’t expect you to become like this.” Wak Rohim lowered the swish and relaxed his grip on Muzaini’s arm. Then, he simply let Muzaini go.

“I have not changed, Wak Guru. I am still the same.” Muzaini could not stop his voice from shaking as he looked at Wak Rohim. “It is just that I always feel tired after working in the city.”

Wak Rohim smirked and looked closely at Muzaini. “You have not changed? You must be kidding! You neglect everything. You miss your daily prayer. And you forgot your promise.” Wak Rohim stood tall in front of Muzaini. His plain white sarong, with a small black flower motif, fluttered in the wind. “You promised that when you had a decent job and a lot of money, you would help take care of the small hut I use for the children’s religious study. But you seem to have forgotten about it. You don’t even visit it, let alone help take care of it.”

***

 Muzaini woke up. He opened his heavy eyelids. Why had Wak Rohim appeared in his dream in such a way? He shuddered.

Muzaini had been working in the city for a long time and people from his village rarely visited his dreams. Although Muzaini dreamed almost every night, it wasn’t about the people from his village — the folks he had known all of his life. No, the people who visited his dreams most often were his city colleagues, his boss—who chased after him to meet a deadline for work—his landlord, trying to collect the rent before it was due; or Manisa. Ah, Manisa, his gentle and sweet-faced coworker. Her face started entering his dreams from the moment they met.

Muzaini was stunned by the words Wak Rohim spoke in his dream. He stared at the floor and thought deeply for a while with wide-open eyes. His lips trembled. Yes, he remembered now; he had promised that when he had a job with a good salary, he would help take care of the small mosque that Wak Rohim often referred to as a “hut,” where he taught religion.  Although Muzaini had earned a good salary for more than five years now, he had never shared his good fortune or sent money to the small old mosque where, as a child, he studied religion. He wondered how he deserved the blessing of Wak Rohim appearing in his dream and reminding him of his unfulfilled promise.

All day long, the dream lingered in his mind. In his office and in the food stall where he ate his lunch, Muzaini kept thinking about his dream and meeting with Wak Rohim. And for the first time, he wasn’t interested in speaking with Manisa,

Muzaini felt weary. When he came home to his rented room from work, he immediately shut himself in and stayed in his room until he fell asleep and, at dawn, heard the call for the morning prayers.

This time, his eyes opened easily. He left his room, entered the bathroom, performed wudu, ritual ablution, and prayed. Only after praying was he able to see things clearly. In three weeks, he would take a full week of vacation, meet with Wak Rohim, and fulfill his promise.

***

Muzaini’s eyes were wide open. The light of dawn entered the intercity bus he rode. He heard the azan, the call to prayer, from the mosque on the roadside. He blinked. The bus would soon arrive at the last terminal, the one closest to his village.

At the terminal, Muzaini excitedly hailed an ojek, motor bike taxi, circling the terminal. Even though he was still a bit sleepy and tired after the twelve-hour busride, Muzaini looked forward very much to returning to his village.

In his backpack, he carried an envelope of money for Wak Rohim to repair the mosque.  Surely by now the small mosque was worn out by age. Muzaini knew his teacher’s financial situation. Wak Rohim didn’t charge any tuition, and when a student’s parent offered him money, he usually rejected it. To Wak Rohim, receiving money from someone in the same financial situation as himself would only make them both suffer: The parent would suffer from lack of money to support the family, and Wak Rohim’s conscience would suffer after taking money from a needy parent.

Muzaini walked to his childhood home. He had changed his plans and decided to go home first instead of going directly to Wak Rohim’s house at the border of the neighboring village. Even though Muzaini was still very eager to meet Wak Rohim, he felt really tired from his long trip. .

The backdoor of his house was open. Muzaini looked for his mother, but he could not find her. Maybe she had gone to the market. He had told his mother, several days ago, that he was coming home , but he hadn’t told  her that he also wanted to see Wak Rohim.

In the early afternoon, Muzaini finally had a chance to leave his house. His mother had a visitor, and they were talking about business.  Perhaps the visitor wanted to buy rice from his mother’s harvest.

Muzaini quietly left for Wak Rohim’s house. He met several people on his way. They were all walking in the direction of Wak Rohim’s house. Muzaini looked at them, confused. He saw a teenage boy also heading for Wak Rohim’s house, and Muzaini quickly approached him. “Why are there so many people?” Muzaini asked with a friendly smile. “Where is everyone going?”

“Oh, hi.” The young boy took Muzaini’s hand and, in accordance with Indonesian custom, slightly bowed to him while saying, “We’re going to have a celebration.”

“A celebration? Where?”

“At Wak Guru Rohim’s house.”

“What is the occasion?” Muzaini was even more confused. What was going on at Wak Rohim’s house?

“We are commemorating Wak Guru Rohim’s forty-day departure to Almighty God.” The teenage boy looked at Muzaini with surprise. He obviously didn’t expect that Muzaini didn’t know that Wak Guru Rohim had died.

Muzaini was speechless. Shaken by the news and suddenly dizzy, he staggered the rest of the way to Wak Rohim’s house. Many people had already arrived. They prayed for Wak Rohim’s soul. Muzaini could not hold back his tears. His regret deepened when he saw that Wak Rohim’s teaching mosque had already fallen into ruin.

“Muzaini, you are here, too.”

Muzaini turned; his mother stood behind him.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Wak Rohim had passed away?” Muzaini asked, sobbing.

“Every time I called to tell you the news, you always hung up quickly because you said you were busy. After a while, I just forgot to tell you.” His mother looked at him with concern.

Muzaini looked at Wak Rohim’s house and the small, collapsed mosque where he used to study religion. There was only debris and rotten wood at the building site. Muzaini burst into tears again, his right hand clasping the envelope filled with money to help Wak Rohim repair the small mosque.

“Forgive me, Wak Guru. Forgive me because I am way too late to see you.” Muzaini wept, looking at what was left of the small mosque where he used to study religion.

***

Hikayat Emak

Guntur Alam, lahir di Desa Tanah Abang Selatan, Kabupaten Penukal Abab Lematang Ilir, Sumatera Selatan, 20 November 1986. Alumnus Teknik Sipil Universitas Islam 45 Bekasi ini mulai tekun menulis cerita pendek di koran pada tahun 2010. Cerita pendeknya telah dimuat di berbagai media, di antaranya Kompas, Jawa Pos, Tempo, Media Indonesia, dan Majas. Beberapa kali cerpennya terpilih dalam buku cerpen pilihan Kompas.

Cerita pendeknya lebih banyak mengusung nuansa kelam, horor dan misteri. Pada tahun 2015, dia menerbitkan kumpulan cerita pendek dengan tema gotik berjudul Magi Perempuan dan Malam Kunang-kunang, Gramedia Pustaka Utama. Dia pernah diundang oleh Ubud Writers and Reader Festival, 2012 dan pada tahun 2016 menjadi peserta residensi ASEAN Literary Festival. Guntur bisa dihubungi di email guntur486@gmail.com atau di akun Twitter @AlamGuntur dan Instagram @gunturalam_

Terbit bulan April 2020. Hak cipta ©2020 ada pada Guntur Alam. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2020 ada pada Oni Suryaman.

 

Perihal Sebatang Kayu di Belakang Limas Kami yang Ada dalam Hikayat Emak

 

Jangan sesekali kau dekati batang kayu itu. Selalu itu yang Emak katakan bila mata bocahku mulai berbinar-binar menatap batang kayu yang tumbuh rindang di belakang limas kami itu. Lalu, aku akan melempar tanya yang sama lewat retina mata yang seketika meredup mendengar larangan Emak itu. “Mengapa?”

“Di dahan yang paling dekat dengan pokok batangnya, ada seekor ular coklat besar bersarang. Ular itu akan menggigit siapa saja yang mengusiknya.”

Mendengar jawaban Emak itu, aku pasti akan berjinjit ngeri. Terburu membunuh keinginan yang meluap-luap untuk bergumul di dahan-dahannya. Dan sejak saat itu, aku selalu menikam luapan rasa yang sama.

Namun, semakin gigih aku meredam keinginan mendekati batang kayu itu, semakin gencar pula Emak mengulang-ulang hikayatnya. Cerita yang aku pun mulai hafal tiap bagiannya. Entah, Emak seolah-olah tengah menggodaku, serupa seseorang yang hendak menguji; seberapa patuh aku akan larangannya itu? Sementara itu, sifat kanak-kanakku yang penasaran akan kebenaran hikayat Emak, menggebu-gebu: Apa benar? Atau ini hanyalah dongeng Emak semata agar aku tak jadi anak gadis bengal yang bergumul dengan dahan-dahan kayu, macam bujang-bujang ingusan itu.

Di batang kayu itu ada seekor ular coklat besar yang siap mematuk siapapun yang mendekatinya. Dulu, ada seorang gadis muda dengan wajah bulat telur, leher jenjang, kulit sawo matang dengan ikal mayang yang bergelombang sebatas pinggulnya, mata belok, hidung bangir, dan bibirnya sangat tipis. Dia gadis yang cantik.

Selalu itu yang jadi pembuka hikayat Emak. Lambat laut, aku seperti merasa: Tidakkah tokoh gadis yang ada dalam hikayat Emak itu diriku? Sejak menduga-duga serupa itu, aku kerap mematut wajahku di cermin dalam bilik. Rambut hitam yang legam serupa ombak bergelombang sampai pinggang, mata belok, hidung bangir, kulit sawo matang. Persis. Emak seolah-olah tengah menghikayat cerita tentang diriku.

Gadis muda itu tinggal bersama emaknya di limas mereka. Seorang perempuan tua yang mulai terdengar begitu cerewet baginya. Selalu saja melarangnya mendekati batang kayu yang tumbuh rindang di belakang limas mereka. Padahal, di bawah batang kayu itu, saban hari menjelang siang sampai malam merayap datang, ada seorang bujang yang duduk dengan kambing-kambingnya.

Bujang berahang keras dengan sorotan mata elang, tangannya besar dengan bidang dada yang begitu luas untuk bersandar. Sebelum emaknya memergoki dia kerap datang dan bercerita bersama bujang itu tentang kambing, batang kayu tempat mereka berteduh, sampai kain tenun (setelah itu emaknya selalu melarangnya mendekati batang kayu itu), gadis itu merasa telah menemukan hidupnya. Diam-diam, ada yang tumbuh di dadanya, sekuntum mawar liar yang menggeliat-geliat.

Di bagian hikayat itu, aku selalu menemukan raut muka Emak berubah. Ada binar-binar yang tak dapat Emak sembunyikan, serupa sipu gadis pemalu yang jatuh cinta. Jarang sekali, aku menemukan riak-riak bahagia di gurat muka Emak yang keras.

Gadis itu tak dapat meredam geliat mawarnya. Lebih-lebih bila mata beloknya tengah menerawang di langit-langit kamar. Bayangan dia yang menyandarkan kepala di dada bujang itu selalu saja mengantar-kantar matanya. Genggaman jemari besar dengan telapak kapalan terasa begitu lembut saat memegang tangannya. Dia tak tahan. Dia tak dapat menahan rindu yang menyekap.

Lalu, raut muka Emak akan kembali berubah. Setelah binar-binar yang demikian jarang aku temui itu, aku akan menemukan wajah Emak yang nelangsa. Penuh beban, penuh derita, seperti seseorang yang menahan rindu begitu besar, hingga rindu itu terasa tengah meremas-remas hatinya tanpa belas.

Setelah tak sanggup menahan rindu yang mengantar-kantarnya, gadis itu melarang pantang emaknya. Pada pagi menjelang siang yang kelak gadis itu catat sebagai hari paling pekat dalam hidupnya, dia menemui bujang itu.

Mereka melepas rindu yang sudah tak tertakar, hingga meluapkan segala rasa sampai tak sadar kain tenun telah tersingkap dan seekor ular coklat besar yang mengintai mematuk si gadis yang lengah. Bisa telah tersembur, taring telah tertanam. Si gadis membiru dalam ketakutan, si bujang cemas hingga lari ditelan rimba, meninggalkan gadis bermata belok menampung bisa yang merenggut nyawanya.

***

Sesungguhnya, aku tak suka bila Emak telah berhikayat. Selain cerita Emak yang selalu sama: Tentang seorang gadis cantik dan batang kayu yang tumbuh rindang di belakang limas kami itu, cerita Emak diam-diam telah menakutiku. Aku kerap bermimpi buruk. Telah berkali-kali aku ceritakan itu kepada Emak. Tentang aku yang ketakutan dalam tidurku. Seolah aku tengah melanggar pantang Emak, diam-diam menyelinap, dan pergi ke bawah batang kayu itu. Di sana, aku menemukan seekor ular coklat yang demikian besar, bermulut lebar dengan kedua taring yang mengerikan.

Itu artinya, jangan sesekali kau pantang Emak. Bila kau lakukan, ular coklat besar itu akan mematukmu, menyemburkan bisanya yang beracun, hingga kau meregang nyawa sendiri dan terlempar ke alam orang-orang mati. Terkuncil. Sendiri. Dan sunyi.

Pasti. Pasti kata-kata itu yang Emak lontarkan bila aku bercerita tentang mimpi-mimpi burukku. Bila telah demikian, Emak akan kembali mengulang hikayatnya, perihal sebatang kayu di belakang limas kami itu dan seorang gadis cantik yang dipatuk ular coklat karena melanggar pantang emaknya.

Setelah aku merasa Emak tak akan pernah berhenti menceritakan hikayatnya yang menakutkan itu, aku memilih untuk tak menceritakan lagi mimpi-mimpi burukku. Sebab, ceritaku tentang mimpi-mimpi yang mengerikan itu tak akan membuat Emak iba dan menyudahi kisah membosankannya.

Sama hal dengan keinginanku untuk pergi bersama bujang-gadis sebayaku yang saban pagi kutatap dari jauh. Mereka tertawa-tawa, berloncat-loncatan, kejar-kejaran dengan baju yang seragam. Putih-merah. Warna yang menggoda mataku. Selalu saja, saban malam sebelum pejam menjemputku pelan berlahan, doaku sama: Hendak rasanya aku bermimpi di antara mereka, dengan seragam yang sama, menderaikan tawa bersama.

Namun, mimpi itu tak kunjung datang, saban malam hanyalah mimpi tentang ular yang bersarang di batang kayu itu yang menemani tidurku. Mimpi mengerikan.

Sejatinya, aku hendak bercerita kepada Emak, mengapa aku ingin sekali mendekati batang kayu itu. Batang kayu yang tumbuh di belakang limas kami, batang kayu yang berdiri kokoh di tengah padang rumput. Di sana, aku kerap menemukan bujang-gadis seumurku berkejaran, berlari menangkapi capung, bersorak-sorak, lalu mereka berguling-guling di atas rumput. Menderai tawa yang rincak di cupingku.

Tapi, aku tak kunjung mampu untuk mengutarakannya. Tersebab, Emak seolah telah mampu membaca pikiran yang ada di batok kepala kanak-kanakku.

Percayalah, mereka tak akan suka padamu. Ebak-emak mereka akan gegas menyeru mereka pulang, bila kau ada di antara mereka. Setelah itu, kau pasti menangis. Dan Emak tak hendak melihat airmata ada di wajahmu, sebab airmata itu tak akan membuat mereka iba. Menyakitkan, bukan?

Entah, apa yang Emak katakan? Hanya saja, air muka Emak terasa sangat mengerikan. Serupa seringai hantu perempuan yang mati penasaran, nelangsa, penuh beban, penuh dendam. Dan, aku memilih mengubur keinginanku bersama hantu perempuan yang menakutkan itu.

***

Ada hikayat yang sesungguhnya sangat ingin kudengar dari Emak. Tentunya, bukan hikayat tentang sebatang kayu yang tumbuh di belakang limas kami dan seorang gadis cantik yang dipatuk ular coklat besar lantaran melanggar pantang emaknya. Hikayat ini tentang Ebak yang tak sekalipun dapat kubayangkan rupanya. Tak ada selembar foto atau apapun yang berhubungan dengan lelaki itu di limas kami. Hingga, aku pun tak tahu, harus membayangkan rupanya seperti apa.

Ebak-mu telah mati dan kau yatim bersamaku di limas ini.

Selalu. Selalu itu yang Emak katakan bila aku mulai memancing Emak untuk bercerita tentang Ebak. Dan aku pun akan menemukan air muka Emak berubah keruh. Seperti seseorang yang menahan marah, nelangsa, cinta, kesumat, dan semua rasa yang berbalur dalam hatinya. Rasa yang bergumul-gumul hingga melahirkan raut muka Emak yang terlihat begitu mengerikan juga menumbuhkan iba bila kau pandang lamat-lamat.

Bisakah kita ziarah ke kuburnya?

Dan aku pun mengikuti kebiasaan Emak. Mengulang permintaan yang sama. Berulang-ulang. Walau aku pun tahu, jawaban Emak pasti akan sama pula.

Anak gadis tak elok berziarah ke kubur. Kau mulai lupa apa yang Emak ajarkan? Nabi melarang anak gadis ziarah, tersebab pasti akan menangis meraung-raung di sana.

Lalu, aku mulai memutar otak kanak-kanakku agar dapat meminta Emak menceritakan hikayat tentang Ebak. Selain, aku ingin membuat Emak lupa mengulang-ulang hikayat sebatang kayunya itu, aku kian penasaran dengan sosok laki-laki yang telah membuatku ada di limas ini.

Tak ada yang luar biasa untuk Emak ceritakan tentang Ebak-mu. Dia lelaki berahang keras dengan sorot mata elang, bertelapak tangan besar yang kapalan. Rambut legam dan dadanya serupa padang rumput yang bidang.

Hanya itu. Dan cuma itu. Tak ada yang lainnya, hingga aku hanya dapat mereka-reka wajah Ebak dalam benakku. Dalam benak kanak-kanak. Aku pun tak punya pembanding, seperti apa rupa lelaki itu. Di limas ini, cuma ada aku dan Emak. Dua perempuan yang terasa begitu kaku dalam bercerita.

Apa musabab kematian Ebak?

Aku masih setia mengejar Emak dengan hikayat yang sepertinya tak hendak dia terakan. Bila telah demikian, Emak akan memasang wajah merengut. Mendelikkan mata tak suka padaku. Dan aku pun akan menutup mulut.

Ebak-mu mati di tengah rimba, usai berlari lantaran melihat seekor ular mematuk seseorang. Kematian yang mengerikan, kematian yang membuatnya terlempar ke alam yang tak bisa kau raba. Sudah, tak usah kau tanya tentang itu lagi.

***

Begitulah, Emak selalu saja menghikayatkan tentang sebatang kayu di belakang limas kami itu. Tentang seorang gadis cantik yang dipatuk ular coklat besar lantaran melanggar pantang dari emaknya. Kebiasaan Emak menceritakan hikayatnya itu kian menjadi-jadi saja seiring usiaku yang menampak. Dan aku mulai terbiasa dengan ceritanya, kuanggap dongeng semata, tak perlu dicemaskan. Aku pun tak hendak lagi memaksa Emak menceritakan hikayat tentang Ebak, karena aku tahu Emak pasti tak akan menceritakannya. Dan, aku pun tak perlu bercerita kepada Emak, kalau aku diam-diam telah dua kali ke bawah batang kayu itu. Mengintip seorang bujang yang mulai berjakun, bersorot mata elang dengan rahang keras yang tersenyum padaku.

***

 

Seductive Tree

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

The Seductive Tree

 

Don’t you ever go near that tree. That was what Mom said every time when, as a child, my eyes lit up when I looked at the shady tree growing behind our house. Listening to her command, my eyes would dim as I asked, “Why?”

“At the lowest branch of the tree, there is a big brown snake’s nest. The snake will strike at anyone who disturbs it.”

Mom’s answer always made me flinch, killing my burning desire to linger near the tree, and suppressing my longing for a while.

But the more I subdued the desire to play near that tree, the more frequently Mom repeated the entire story about the tree and the big brown snake. I began to memorize each part of it. Who knew, perhaps Mom was tempting me. Perhaps she wanted to test how obedient I was.

Meanwhile, the child inside me was curious about the truth of her story, and I asked myself fervently, “Is it true? Or did Mom just make it up so that I wouldn’t become a naughty girl who fooled around near that tree, like the teenaged boys?”

“There was a big brown snake on the branch, ready to bite anyone who went near it.” Mom always used that line to start her tale. “Once there was a young girl with an oval face, long neck, brown skin, and long curly hair to her hips. She had big eyes, a fine nose, and thin lips. She was a beautiful girl.”

In time, I began to wonder if the girl in the story was me. Once I started to think that way, I often looked at my face in the mirror in my room. Dark curly hair to my waist, big eyes, a fine nose, and brown skin. I looked exactly like the girl in the story. It was as if Mom was telling a tale about me.

“The young girl lived with her mother in their wooden house,” my mother’s tale continued. “The old woman started sounding too preachy to the young girl. The mother always forbade the girl to go near the shady tree behind their wooden house, where every day, from midmorning until nightfall, a young man sat with his goats.

“He had a square jaw with sharp eyes like an eagle, big arms, and a broad chest to lean against.

“Before her mother caught her, the girl often went there and talked to the young man about his goats, the tree that shaded them, and her cloth of innocence. The girl felt that she had found her life. But then her mother forbade her to go to the tree. Secretly, something grew in the girl’s chest — a wild rose that twisted and turned.”

At this part of the story, I always saw Mom’s expression change. There was a sparkle that she could not hide, she looked like a girl falling in love. I rarely found any shred of happiness in my mother’s hard face.

“The girl could not control the growth of the rose,” Mom continued. “Especially when her big eyes looked at the ceiling of her room, daydreaming. The image of her head leaning against the young man’s chest filled her mind. The grasp of his big hands and calloused palms felt very soft as he held her hands. She could not bear it. She could no longer hold her yearning captive.”

At this part in the story, Mom’s face changed again. The joy she rarely showed turned to sorrow on her face, a face filled with sad burdens, like that of someone whose yearnings tortured her heart without mercy.

“Unable to hold back her longing, the girl disobeyed her mother’s orders,” Mom continued. “Around noon, on a day that she would remember as the darkest day of her life, she went to see the young man.

“They satisfied their deep longing until it overwhelmed their senses, and suddenly her cloth of innocence was unveiled; and a big brown snake bit the unaware girl. The snake’s fangs sank into her skin, and the venom was injected. The girl’s face turned blue in terror. It scared the young man so much that he ran away and vanished into the jungle, leaving the girl with the big eyes full of the venom that might take her life.”

***

To be honest, I didn’t like it when Mom told the story. Not only was it always the same story — about a beautiful girl and the shady tree growing behind a wooden house — but her story frightened me. I often had nightmares, and I told Mom about the horrors in my sleep. In my dream, I violated my mother’s forbiddance, and I would sneak to the tree and find the big brown snake, its wide-open mouth showing two scary fangs.

“The dream means, don’t you ever dare to violate my prohibition,” explained my mom. “If you do, the big brown snake will bite you, injecting deadly venom, and you will die alone and be cast into hell. Banished. Deserted. Alone.”

Mom always spoke the same words every time I told her about my nightmares. She would repeat her tale, about the tree behind the wooden house and the beautiful girl who was bitten by a big brown snake because she violated her mother’s prohibition.

Realizing that Mom would never stop telling me her frightening tale, I quit telling her about my nightmares hoping to stop her from telling her same old tale.

I wanted to join the teenagers I watched every day from afar. They were at the tree, laughing, jumping up and down, playing catch in their uniforms. White and red uniforms. The colors enticed me. Every night before I closed my eyes, I prayed for the same wish: That my dream would take me to them, wearing the same uniform, laughing together.

But that never happened. Instead, I always dreamed about the snake nesting in the tree. A horrible dream.

In truth, I longed to tell Mom why I wanted to go to that tree — the tree behind our wooden house, whose trunk and boughs stood proudly in the middle of the meadow. I wanted to tell her that there, I often found teenagers playing catch, running to catch dragonflies, and rolling on the grass. Their laughter buzzed in my ears. But I could never explain that to her.

It was as if Mom could read my young mind. “Believe me, they will never like you,” she told me. “Their parents will quickly call them home, if they see you are with them. After that, you will cry. Mom doesn’t want to see tears on your face, because your tears will not make them pity you. Now, that hurts, right?”

I didn’t understand what she said. I only noticed that her face looked dreadful, like a grimacing ghost who died in rage, sorrowful under burdens and filled with vengeance. I decided to bury my wish together with the frightening ghost.

***

There was, however, a story that I would have liked to hear from Mom. It was not, of course, the story about the tree behind the wooden house and the beautiful girl who was bitten by a big brown snake because she violated her mother’s prohibition. No, it was the story about my father, whose face I could not even imagine. There was no picture or anything related to him in our house. I therefore never knew what kind of a person he was.  

“Your father died, and now you live with just me in this house,” Mom always said when I pleaded with her to tell me about my father. Her expression would become gloomy. She’d look like someone suppressing anger, loneliness, love, vengeance, and other feelings in her heart. The mixed emotions made her face look scary, but also evoked pity when I looked at her closely.

“Can we visit his grave?” I would do what she did and kept repeating the same request even though I knew her answer would always be the same.

“It is not good for a young girl to visit a graveyard,” she’d say. “Did you forget what I taught you? The prophet forbids young girls to visit the grave because they will wail out there.”

So I used my young wit to make Mom tell the story about my father. Besides, I wanted her to stop repeating the same tale about the tree over and over again, as I became more and more curious about the man who caused me to live this house.

“There is nothing special that I can tell you about your father,” said Mom. “He had a square jaw and eyes like an eagle; his hands were big, and his palms were calloused. He had dark hair, and his chest was as broad as the meadow.”

And that was it. Nothing that could help me form a complete picture of him in my mind.

I also had no one to compare him to. I lived alone with my mom in this wooden house — two women who were not good at telling stories.

“How did he die?” I persisted in asking Mom about the story she didn’t want to tell. At such times, Mom frowned and glared at me with dislike. And I would shut my mouth.

“Your father died in the jungle, where he ran because he saw a snake strike at someone,” she finally told me.  “A horrible death, the kind of death that would cast one into an untouchable world. That’s it. Don’t you ask about that again.”

***

So, that’s the story that Mom kept telling me about the tree behind a wooden house. About a beautiful girl bitten by a big brown snake because she violated her mother’s rules.

She told the story even more frequently after I came of age, and I started getting used to her story, which I considered to be a fairy tale, nothing to be worried about. I didn’t even ask her to tell the story about my father anymore, knowing she would never tell me anything more. And I didn’t tell her that, secretly, I had been to the tree twice, peeking at a young man whose Adam’s apple started to show, whose eyes stared like an eagle, who had a square jaw and smiled at me.

***

Kopi dan Cinta yang Tak Pernah Mati

Agus Noor adalah penulis prosa, cerpen, naskah lakon (monolog dan teater), dan skenario sinetron. Lahir di Tegal, Jawa Tengah dan menyelesaikan pendidikan teater di ISI (Institut Seni Indonesia) Yogyakarta. Karya-karya berupa cerpen terhimpun dalam beberapa buku, antara lain Kitab Cerpen Horison Sastra Indonesia (Majalah Horison dan The Ford Foundation, 2002), Jl. Asmaradana (Cerpen Pilihan Kompas, 2005), Ripin (Cerpen Kompas Pilihan, 2007), Pembisik (Cerpen-cerpen terbaik Republika), dan 20 Cerpen Indonesia Terbaik 2008 (Pena Kencana). Cerpennya Kunang-Kunang di Langit Jakarta dinobatkan sebagai cerpen terbaik Kompas tahun 2011.

Agus Noor bisa dihubungi di agus2noor@yahoo.co.id

Terbit bulan Februari 2020. Hak cipta ©2020 ada pada Agus Noor. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2020 ada pada Oni Suryaman.

 

Kopi dan Cinta yang Tak Pernah Mati

 

Kebebasan selalu layak dirayakan. Maka selepas keluar penjara, yang diinginkan ialah mengunjungi kedai kopi ini. Kebahagiaan akan semakin lengkap bila dinikmati dengan secangkir kopi. Hanya di kedai kopi ini dia bisa menikmati kopi terbaik yang disajikan dengan cara paling baik.

Ada orang-orang yang bersikeras mempertahankan kenangan, dan kedai kopi ini seolah diperuntukkan bagi orang-orang seperti itu. Nyaris tak ada yang berubah. Meja kursi kayu hanya terlihat makin gelap dan tua.

Yang dulu tak ada hanya pengumuman bergambar bayangan wajah lelaki berkumis tebal, yang terpasang dekat jendela.

Ada tulisan di bawah pengumuman itu, seperti larik puisi. Pada kopi ada revolusi, juga cinta yang tak pernah mati. Dia tersenyum. Sejarah memang aneh: dulu lelaki itu pembangkang, kini dianggap pejuang.

Beberapa orang di kedai kopi langsung menatap tajam saat dia masuk. Dia mengenali beberapa dari mereka, para pembangkang yang sejak dulu memang selalu berkumpul di kedai kopi ini. Dia tetap tenang. Apa pun bisa terjadi. Mungkin seseorang akan menyerangnya. Sepuluh tahun dalam penjara membuat kewaspadaannya makin terasah.

Dia meraba pistol di balik jaket. Sekadar berjaga. Kita harus selalu berhati-hati menghadapi kebencian, batinnya, saat menatap anak muda penyaji kopi yang terus memandanginya.

Mata itu mengingatkan pada mata laki-laki yang dulu dibunuhnya. Umur anak muda itu baru sebelas tahun saat bapaknya mati. Kini terlihat seperti banteng muda yang siap meluapkan dendamnya. Pemuda itu mengangguk pelan saat dia memesan.

Panas udara siang membuat wangi kopi terasa semakin kental. Tak akan pernah dilupakannya harum kopi yang menenteramkan ini, seolah wangi itu dicuri dari surga.

Ketika ditugaskan ke kota ini, komandannya memberi tahu, agar tak melewatkan kedai kopi ini dari daftar yang harus dikunjungi. Kedai kopi yang menyediakan kopi terbaik. Kedai kopi yang bukan saja istimewa, tetapi juga berbahaya.

Bertahun lalu, dia dikirim ke kota ini untuk menghabisi seorang pembangkang yang dianggap berbahaya bagi negara. Saat itu unjuk rasa nyaris meledak setiap hari. Kota ini menjadi kota yang selalu rusuh oleh gagasan gila perihal kemerdekaan.

Para perusuh itu, begitu tentara menyebut, tak hanya bergerak di hutan-hutan, tetapi juga menyusup ke kota, menyerang pos keamanan atau menyergap pasukan patroli keamanan.

Tentara melakukan pembersihan. Puluhan orang ditangkap, diculik dan tak pernah kembali. Ada peristiwa yang tak akan pernah dilupakan oleh penduduk kota ini, ketika suatu hari tentara menghajar delapan anak muda di perempatan pusat kota. Mereka diseret, dibariskan satu per satu, kemudian ditembak tepat di kepala. Kekejian seperti itu terkadang diperlukan untuk menciptakan ketakutan. Tapi siapa yang bisa membunuh gagasan? Kepala bisa ditembak sampai pecah, tetapi gagasan akan terus hidup dalam kepala banyak orang. Peristiwa itu mendapat protes keras, dan makin memicu perlawanan.

Amnesty International menekan pemerintah pusat untuk menghentikan kekerasan. Saat operasi militer dianggap tak lagi berdaya guna, dia pun dikirim.

Sebagai seorang mata-mata yang terlatih dia pun dengan cepat mengetahui, bagi orang-orang di kota ini kedai kopi bukan sekadar tempat untuk menikmati kopi. Hampir di setiap jalan di kota ini selalu ada kedai kopi. Rasanya tak ada penduduk kota ini yang tak menyukai kopi. Di kedai kopi waktu seperti berhenti. Orang bisa sepanjang hari duduk di kedai kopi untuk berkumpul, berbual atau menyendiri, mempercakapkan hal-hal rahasia, kasak-kusuk perlawanan, juga tempat paling tepat untuk menyelesaikan masalah. Pertengkaran bisa diselesaikan dengan secangkir kopi. Semua keterangan di kota ini akan dengan mudah didapatkan di kedai kopi.

Dari keterangan yang dimiliki dia mengenali lelaki yang mesti dihabisi. Yang dianggap musuh negara paling berbahaya ternyata bukan seorang berperawakan kekar, yang hidup berpindah-pindah dalam hutan memimpin gerilyawan, dan karena itu tentara tak pernah berhasil menangkapnya. Orang yang dicarinya itu hanya bertubuh kecil, nyaris kurus, berkulit gelap, rambut agak ikal. Dia terlihat keras, tetapi selalu berbicara dengan nada santun. Jadi inilah orang yang selalu menghasut anak-anak muda untuk melakukan perlawanan dan menuntut kemerdekaan. Dia hanya penyaji kopi.

***

Anak muda penyaji kopi itu telah berdiri di dekatnya, menyodorkan secangkir kopi yang sedikit bergetar ketika diletakkan di meja. Dia tahu anak muda itu gugup, tetapi berusaha mengendalikan perasaannya.

“Ini kopi terbaik yang kusajikan untukmu yang di dalamnya tersimpan rahasia, yang hanya bisa kau ketahui setelah kau meminumnya.” Anak muda itu menatapnya. “Tapi aku tak yakin, apakah kamu berani meminumnya habis.”

Di luar, jalanan ramai lalu lalang kendaraan. Klakson angkot, knalpot sepeda motor meraung kencang. Lagu dangdut terdengar dari kedai kopi seberang jalan. Tapi dia merasakan suasana begitu sunyi di kedai ini. Semua orang dalam kedai terdiam dan memandang ke arahnya, seolah berharap terjadi perkelahian seru.

“Duduklah,” akhirnya dia berkata. “Seperti yang selalu dikatakan orang-orang di kota ini, mari kita selesaikan semuanya dengan secangkir kopi.

Terdengar kursi kayu digeser, dan anak muda itu duduk. “Seperti ketika kamu menghabisi ayah aku!”

Lagu dangdut masih terdengar dari kedai seberang: Tuduhlah aku, sepuas hatiiimuuuu, atau bila kau perlu bunuhlah akuuuu…

“Kau pasti membenciku.” Dia mengisap rokok dalam-dalam.

“Untuk apa membenci seorang pengecut. Pengecut lebih pantas dikasihani.”

“Kalau kukatakan aku bukan pembunuh ayahmu, pasti kau tak percaya. Tapi baiklah, bila aku memang kau anggap pembunuh ayahmu, kau pasti tahu kenapa ayahmu harus dibunuh.”

“Selalu tersedia cukup banyak alasan untuk menjadi pembunuh. Hanya pengecut yang membunuh dengan cara-cara licik.”

“Jangan terlalu percaya pada apa yang diberitakan koran-koran. Asal kau tahu, aku mengagumi ayahmu. Kematian ayahmu bukan tanggung jawabku. Itu tanggung jawab negara.”

“Yang pertama-tama dilakukan para pengecut memang selalu mencari pembenaran. Itu sebabnya para pengecut selalu selamat.”

Dia kembali menyalakan sebatang rokok. Padahal rokok di asbak masih panjang. Dia ingin meminum kopi di cangkir itu pelan, tapi seperti ada yang menahannya, naluri yang mengharuskannya bersikap hati-hati dalam keadaan seperti ini. Jari-jarinya berkedut, hal yang selalu terjadi bila dia merasa cemas, hingga rokok di jarinya nyaris lepas. “Aku telah menghabiskan sepuluh tahun dalam penjara untuk sesuatu yang dituduhkan padaku yang sebenarnya tak pernah kulakukan.”

“Pengecut tak akan pernah berani mengakui kejahatan yang dilakukan!”

“Aku sendiri hanya orang yang dikorbankan untuk menutupi kesalahan orang lain. Salah alamat bila kau mendendam kepadaku.”

“Ini bukan soal dendam. Ini soal keadilan,” tatapan anak muda itu makin tajam. “Kamu memang sudah dihukum. Dan aku yakin, sepanjang hidupmu, kamu akan terus dihukum oleh kepengecutan dan ketakutanmu. Tapi itu bukan alasan bagiku untuk berhenti menuntut keadilan.”

“Apa yang kamu tuntut dari keadilan? Keadilan tak pernah membuat yang mati hidup kembali.”

“Yang mati memang tak akan pernah hidup kembali…”

“Kecuali Tuhan,” dia menimpali ucapan anak muda itu, mencoba berkelakar mencairkan suasana tegang.

“Keadilan bukan perkara orang per orang. Ini bukan persoalan antara aku dan kamu. Juga bukan persoalan kamu dan ayahku. Jika kamu menganggap ini hanya persoalan pribadi, semestinya kamu menantang ayahku untuk berkelahi satu lawan satu, sampai salah satu di antara kalian mati. Itu jauh lebih jantan dan terhormat. Tapi aku tahu, pengecut semacammu tak akan pernah berani bersikap jantan seperti itu. Menyedihkan memang, pengecut selalu selamat oleh kepengecutannya.”

“Aku bukan pengecut!” Suaranya terdengar mengambang di udara.

“Kalau begitu, minum kopi itu, dan kita tunggu apa yang terjadi.”

Ketika dia hanya terdiam gamang memandangi cangkir kopi, anak muda itu tertawa masam. “Apa kamu pikir dengan berani datang ke kedai ayahku ini kamu sudah membuktikan keberanianmu? Tidak! Aku yakin kamu datang kemari bukan untuk meminta maaf. Kamu datang kemari justru karena ingin membuktikan bahwa kamu tidak bersalah telah membunuh ayahku. Kamu merasa, dengan dipenjara sepuluh tahun, sudah cukup untuk menganggap selesai persoalan.

Bagiku, tak ada kata lupa untuk kejahatan. Pembunuh selalu bersikeras melupakan korbannya. Bahkan, aku yakin, kamu sudah lupa seperti apa ayahku.”

Dia diam-diam melirik pada pengumuman di tembok kayu itu; wajah lelaki berkumis tebal itu tak akan pernah mungkin dilupakannya. Wajah itu selalu muncul dalam mimpi buruknya. Dia tak akan pernah lupa pada saat-saat dia mulai mendekati lelaki itu.

Masuklah ke dalam hati musuhmu melalui apa yang disukainya. Ketika dia selalu mengajaknya bicara tentang kopi, lelaki itu dengan cepat menyukainya. Saat menikmati kopi di sore bergerimis, dari lelaki itu dia tahu rahasia menyajikan kopi. Sentuhan tangan penyaji kopilah yang membedakan rasa kopi. Biji kopi terbaik tetap saja tak akan enak bila tangan penyaji kopi itu tak mengenali jiwa kopi. Dia pun mengerti kenapa di kedai ini tak ada mesin penggiling kopi. Lelaki itu mengolah sendiri biji-biji kopi dengan tangannya.

Sentuhlah biji-biji kopi itu dengan seluruh perasaanmu, kamu akan merasakan sesuatu yang lembut. Dan kamu akan tahu mana biji kopi terbaik yang pantas disajikan untuk pelanggan.

Sebenarnya dia tak hendak percaya. Namun pada kenyataannya kopi di kedai kopi ini memang terasa paling nikmat di lidahnya. Dia sudah sering menikmati kopi di banyak kedai kopi, tetapi tak ada yang bisa membuatnya merasa begitu nikmat senikmat setiap kali dia menikmati kopi di kedai ini. Seakan dalam secangkir kopi itu ada kebahagiaan yang dikekalkan. Bahkan ketika dalam penjara, diam-diam dia sering minta tolong pada sipir untuk membelikan kopi dari kedai ini. Dengan sogokan tentu saja.

“Tak pernah ada sebelumnya yang membiarkan kopi di kedai ini menjadi dingin tanpa menyentuhnya,” suara anak muda itu membuyarkan ingatannya. “Itu sudah cukup membuktikan bahwa kamu bukan saja pengecut karena tidak berani meminum kopi yang aku sajikan, tetapi juga meyakinkanku kalau kamu memang pengecut yang dihantui ketakutanmu sendiri.”

Anak muda itu bangkit meninggalkannya sendirian.

***

Langit gelap dan kosong ketika dia keluar dari kedai itu. Tapi perasaan kosong dalam hatinya menghamparkan kehampaan melebihi luas langit yang dipandanginya. Rasanya dia merasa lebih terhormat bila anak muda itu menghajarnya hingga babak belur ketimbang membuatnya merasa terhina seperti ini.

Tak akan pernah berani lagi dia kembali ke kedai kopi itu. Kopi yang disajikan anak muda itu benar-benar telah membuatnya diluapi perasaan takut; mengingatkannya pada peristiwa saat dia menuangkan arsenik ke dalam cangkir kopi lelaki berkumis itu.

Dia melihat seorang gadis berjalan bergegas menyeberang jalan. Gadis itu memakai kaos bergambar sablon wajah lelaki berkumis itu. Kematian seorang pengecut seperti dirinya tak akan pernah mendapat kehormatan seperti kematian lelaki yang dibunuhnya.

Saat melintas di depan toko kelontong berkaca lebar dia berhenti, memandangi bayangan muram tubuhnya; kulit coklat gelapnya tersamar warna jaket yang telah pudar, mata cekung dan alis matanya yang semurung sayap burung sedikit tertutup rambut yang mulai gondrong. Bayangan di kaca itu seperti hantu masa lalu yang tak ingin dilihatnya.

Kemudian dia berjalan menuju kelokan, dan untuk terakhir kali memandang kedai kopi itu dari kejauhan, sebelum akhirnya menghilang ke dalam cahaya kota yang remang. Bila pada akhirnya dia benar-benar menghilang dari dunia ini, adakah seseorang yang masih mengingat dan mengenangnya?

***

Coffee Noir

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

 

Coffee Noir

 

Freedom is always worth celebrating. That’s why, after he was released from prison, he wanted to visit this coffee shop. His joy would be completed with a cup of coffee. Only in this coffee shop could he enjoy the best coffee served in the best way.

Some people insisted on preserving memories, and it was as if this coffee shop especially existed for such people. Almost nothing had changed. Only the color of the wooden chairs had grown darker and older. The only thing that wasn’t there before was a sketch of a man’s face with a thick mustache on a poster next to the window.

A line was written at the bottom of the poster, like a verse of poetry: In coffee, there is revolution; there is also everlasting love. He smiled. History has its own humor: the man who used to be considered a rebel was now hailed as a hero.

Several people had glared at him when he entered. He recognized some of them; this coffee shop had always been a hotspot for rebels. He stayed calm. Anything could happen. Someone might challenge him. The ten years he served in prison had honed his sense of awareness to perfection.

He touched the gun under his jacket, just in case. Be careful when facing hatred, he thought, as he looked at a young server who would kept staring at him.

The young server’s eyes reminded him of the man he had killed. The young server was only eleven years old when his father died. Now he looked like a young bull ready to exact revenge. The server nodded slowly when he ordered his coffee.

The hot air at noon made the coffee aroma in the shop stronger. He would never forget the soothing smell of coffee; it was as if the scent was stolen from heaven.

When he had been assigned to this town, many years ago, his commanding officer had told him not to miss this coffee shop on the list of places you must visit. It serves the best coffee, his commanding officer told him. This coffee shop is not only special, but also dangerous.

He had been sent to this town to kill a rebel deemed dangerous to the national security. At that time, demonstrations took place almost every day. This town had always been riotous with crazy ideas about independence.

The rebels, as they were labelled by the national army, didn’t just roam the jungle, but also infiltrated towns, attacked military posts, and ambushed military patrols.

The national army conducted a sweep. Dozens of people were captured, abducted, and never returned. The people of the town would never forget the day the army beat up eight young men in an intersection downtown. The youths were dragged, lined up, and then shot in the head. Such atrocity was sometimes used to create fear. But who can kill ideas? One can shoot a head and explode the brain, but ideas stay alive inside the heads of many people. This atrocious was vehemently protested and triggered more retaliations.

Amnesty International pressured the central government to cease the brutality. When military operations were considered powerless, he was assigned to the town.

As a trained spy, he knew right away that this coffee shop was not just a place for the town’s people to gather and drink coffee. There were coffee shops on almost every street in this town. It seemed no one in this town didn’t enjoy coffee. At the coffee shop, time almost stood still. People could sit there all day long to gossip, tell secrets, plot for resistance, or just be alone. It was also a good place to settle disputes. Any dispute could be settled over a cup of coffee. Any information about this town could be easily obtained in the coffee shop.

And from the information he had collected, he identified the man he had been sent to kill. This man, considered the most dangerous rebel, turned out to be neither a big man nor someone who roved in the jungle leading guerillas; that’s why the national army never succeeded in capturing him. The man he was looking for was a man of small stature, almost skinny, with dark skin and slightly wavy hair. The man looked tough, but always spoke in a polite tone. This rebel, who continuously incited young men to join the resistance and demand independence, was just a server in a coffee shop.

***

The young man serving his coffee now stood next to him; the cup shook a little when he put it on the table.

He could tell that the young man was nervous but was trying to control his emotions.

“In this cup of the best coffee I can serve you lies a secret, which you can only find after you drink it.” The young server said, staring at him. “But I am not sure if you dare to empty your cup.”

Outside, the road was crowded with traffic. The air was filled with horns honking from mini-buses and exhaust pipes rumbling from motorcycles. A dangdut song blared from the coffee shop across the street. But he felt the silence that reigned in this coffee shop. Everyone was quiet and had their eyes fixed on him, as if expecting a fight would break out.

“Sit down,” he finally said to the young server. “As the people in this town would say, let’s settle everything with a cup of coffee.”

The wooden chair scraped as the young man dragged it from the table and sat down. The young man said, “Just like when you murdered my father!”

The dangdut song still blared from across the street. “Accuse me to your heart’s content, and if you feel it necessary, just kill me …” “You must hate me.” He sucked hard on his cigarette.

“Why should I hate a coward? You should be pitied.”

“If I told you that I didn’t kill your father, you would not believe me. But that’s fine. Let’s say you believe that I am indeed your father’s killer; if so, then you must know why he had to die.”

“There are always excuses to be a murderer. Only a coward kills using devious ways.”

“You cannot trust what is written in the newspapers. You have to know that I admired your father. I am not responsible for his death; this country is.”

“The first thing a coward always does is to find justification. That’s why a coward always survives.”

He lit another cigarette, even though the cigarette he left in the ashtray was still long. He wanted to sip his coffee, but something was keeping him from doing it; his instinct forced him to be careful in this kind of situation. His fingers twitched, something that always happened when he was nervous, and he almost dropped his cigarette. “I have served ten years in prison for something that I didn’t do.”

“A coward would never dare admit the crime he committed!”

“I’m just the fall guy for someone else’s crime. You picked the wrong guy if you hold a grudge against me.”

“This is not about a grudge. This is about justice.” The young man’s stare became more intense. “You served your time, indeed. I’m sure that for your entire life, you are going to be punished for your cowardice and fear. But that is not a reason for me to stop pursuing justice.”

“What do you want to pursue justice for? Justice could never raise someone from the dead. The dead can never be raised again …”

“Except by God,” the young man interrupted, trying to lighten the conversation with a joke. “Justice is not catered to one’s individual business. This is not about you and me. This is not even about you and my father. If you think this is personal, you should have challenged my father to a one-on-one duel to the death. That would be braver and more honorable. But I know, a coward like you would never act bravely like that. Sadly, indeed, a coward is always saved by his cowardice.”

“I am not a coward!” His voice hung in the air.

“Drink the coffee then,” said the server, “and let’s see what happens.”

When he looked at the cup of coffee in silence, the young server laughed wryly. “You think that you come here to my father’s coffee shop to prove your courage? No! I’m sure that you did not come here to apologize. You came here precisely because you want to prove that you’re innocent of killing my father. You think that your ten-year prison sentence is enough to close the matter. For me, a crime should never be forgotten. A murderer will always insist that he has forgotten his victim. I’m sure that you have forgotten what my father looks like.”

He stole a covert glance at the poster on the wooden wall; he would never be able to forget the face of the man with a thick mustache. That face always showed up in his nightmares. He would never forget the moment he approached that man.

Gain your enemy’s trust by knowing what he likes. When he started his conversations with the mustached man about coffee, the man liked him immediately. While enjoying the coffee during that rainy afternoon, he learned the secret of coffee-making from that man. “It is the hand that makes the coffee that makes the difference,” he was told. “Even the best coffee beans would taste bad if the coffeemaker is not in touch with the soul of the coffee.”

He suddenly understood why there was no coffee grinder in this shop. The man always crushed the coffee beans with his hands.

“Touch the beans with all of your soul, and you will feel something tender inside. You will know which beans are the best, worthy of being served to the customers.”

He wasn’t sure he believed that, but it was a fact that the coffee from this coffee shop was indeed the best according to his palate. He had enjoyed coffee in many coffee shops, but none tasted as good as the coffee in this shop. It was as if eternal bliss was captured in every cup of coffee. Even when he was in prison, he secretly asked the warden to get him coffee from this shop. For a price, of course.

“In this shop, no one ever dares to let the coffee get cold without touching it.” The young server’s voice interrupted his reminiscence. “This is enough to prove that you’re not just a coward who doesn’t dare to drink my coffee, but that you’re indeed a coward who is haunted by his own fear.”

The young server rose and left him by himself.

***

The sky was dark and empty when he came out of the coffee shop. But the emptiness in his heart was hollower than that of the sky above him. It would have been more respectful if the young man had beaten him to a pulp than made him feel insulted like this.

He would never dare to return to that coffee shop. The coffee served by the young man overwhelmed him with fear, reminding him when he had put arsenic in the cup of the man with the thick mustache.

He saw a girl hurriedly cross the street. She wore a T-shirt with the face of the man with a thick mustache. The death of a coward like him would never earn an honor like the death of the man he killed.

When he passed a general store with a wide glass window, he stopped. He looked at the somber shadow of his body, his dark-brown skin concealed by his faded jacket. His sunken eyes below arched eyebrows, partly covered by hair that had started to grow long. The reflection in the glass window was like a ghost from the past he didn’t want to see.

He walked toward the intersection and turned, looking back at the coffee shop for the last time, before disappearing in the dim light of the town. When, in the end, he really disappeared from this world, would anyone out there still remember him?

***

 

 

 

Dengan gembira dan bangga kami di Dalang merayakan akhir tahun 2019 dengan sukacita atas keberhasilan para penulis dan penerjemah muda Indonesia dan memulai tahun 2020 dengan harapan yang besar pada mereka.

Berikut kami tampilkan karya dari murid kelas enam SD, yang tahun ini memenangkan dua kali lomba penulisan, yang kemudian diterjemahkan oleh murid kelas dua SMP. Dua karya berikutnya adalah dari mahasiswa Universitas Sanata Dharma yang diterjemahkan dengan baik hati oleh Ibu Novi, dosen Fakultas Inggris USD. Penampilan istimewa ini diakhiri dengan tampilan karya Irene Wibowo, lulusan Universitas Petra, yang juga menjadi bahan lokakarya penerjemahan yang diselenggarakan oleh Universitas Petra bersama Dalang pada bulan Oktober 2019 yang lalu.

Seperti salah satu peserta lokakarya mengatakan, "Saya lalu menyadari juga bahwa, walaupun menerjemahkan karya sastra itu tidak mudah, ada kepuasan tersendiri pada hasil akhirnya." dan pernyataan Ibu Stefanny Irawan dari Universitas Petra, "...bahwa dengan kerja keras dan upaya bersama, kami, para penulis dan penerjemah Indonesia, mampu berkarya dengan mandiri. Ayo Maju!" kami akan maju memasuki tahun 2020 dengan semangat yang berkobar. Kami mohon dukungan dari para pengajar, penulis, penerjemah, dan penerbit. Semoga tahun 2020 membuahkan keberhasilan yang berlimpah bagi kita semua.

Kehampaan di Pantai Tanjung Lesung

Maryam Mufidah lahir pada 22 Desember 2007 di Purworejo. Pada saat ini dia tercatat sebagai siswa SD Muhammadiyah Kutoarjo kelas enam.

Hasil penulisan yang pernah diraihnya adalah juara 2 lomba cipta cerpen Festival dan Literasi Nasional tingkat kecamatan Kutoarjo tahun 2019 dan juara 1 lomba cipta cerpen Tsamuha Smart Competition wilayah Jateng tahun 2019. Sekarang dia tinggal di Pangenjurutengah, Purworejo, Jawa Tengah bersama keluarganya.

Dia dapat dihubungi melalui WA/sms ibunya, Sari Wahyuni: 085743637002

 

Kehampaan di Pantai Tanjung Lesung

Sore itu, pada 22 Desember 2018, kabut tebal dan suara gemuruh yang tak kunjung reda menghantam seluruh pantai Tanjung Lesung, Pandeglang.

“Gempa! Gempa! Gunung Krakatau meletus!” Teriakan penduduk di sekitar pantai Tanjung Lesung terdengar di seantero desa.

Isak tangis terdengar di mana-mana. Korban pun banyak terlihat di reruntuhan rumah. Banyak jasad tak terurus. Desa sunyi menahan sedu dan pilu.

Seorang anak berparas cantik duduk bersandar di bebatuan purba yang berada di tepi pantai. Mata anak itu disembunyikan di antara kedua lututnya. Wajahnya tertunduk.

“Nak, mengapa kamu di sini?” tanya seorang polisi yang sedang berkeliling di tepi pantai yang masuk dalam provinsi Banten itu. Dia ditugaskan untuk mencari korban-korban gempa bumi yang kemudian disusul tsunami.

Anak itu memandang polisi itu sebelum berkata lirih, “Saya sudah tidak memiliki apa pun.”

Polisi itu lalu mencari keterangan mengenai anak perempuan itu pada penduduk setempat.

Anak itu bernama Fenita. Kecuali kakaknya yang sedang meneruskan pendidikan di luar Pulau Jawa, semua keluarganya memang sudah habis ditelan gempa dan digulung tsunami.

“Fenita, kakakmu akan kuberitahu mengenai keadaanmu dan orangtuamu yang telah meninggal. Kamu dapat tinggal di rumahku sampai kakakmu datang menjumpaimu. Kamu dapat memanggilku Om Rian,” polisi itu tersenyum sambil menatap Fenita.

“Pak Polisi eh Om Rian tidak keberatan?” tanya Fenita ragu.

“Om di rumah sendirian. Jadi…,”

Om Rian belum menyelesaikan kata-katanya, Fenita langsung memeluknya dengan erat. Dia memang masih membutuhkan kasih sayang orangtua.

***

Fenita didaftarkan oleh Om Rian ke sebuah sekolah dasar di Kota Tegal. Pada hari pertama memasuki sekolah, Fenita masih gugup. Namun, atas dukungan Om Rian dia akhirnya dengan percaya diri belajar di sekolah itu. Fenita tidak malu-malu berkenalan dengan teman-teman barunya.

Di sekolah itu ada seorang anak bernama Winda yang sama-sama tak memiliki orangtua.

“Kita harus tetap tegar menghadapi berbagai ujian. Hidup bukanlah untuk berpangku tangan,” kata Winda pada saat jam istirahat.

“Kau benar,” Fenita tersenyum dan berharap dapat berkawan akrab dengan Winda.

“Kamu perlu tahu aturan kelas kita. Siapa yang paling sedikit kekurangannyalah yang menjadi pemimpin. Semua murid akan menjulukinya si orang pertama,” jelas Winda.

“Ada anak yang seperti itu?”

“Ada. Anak itu bernama Malik. Itu dia,” Winda mengarahkan pandangannya pada Malik yang sedang bersandar di pintu kelas tak terlalu jauh dari tempat Fenita dan Winda bercakap-cakap.

“Menurutku, anak yang memiliki apa yang kau sebutkan tadi tidaklah berarti apabila dia hanya peduli pada dirinya sendiri,” kata Fenita.

“Ssst! Malik datang,” bisik Winda.

Malik mendatangi mereka dan menghardik Fenita, “Anak baru sudah berani menantang aku!” kata Malik gusar. Dia berpaling dari pandangan Fenita, dan langsung pergi.

Kembali Fenita dan Winda berdua bercakap-cakap.

Menurut Winda, sebenarnya teman sekelas tidak setuju aturan yang dibuat Malik, tetapi mereka tidak berani menentangnya,
“Semoga aku bisa membantunya untuk berubah melalui doaku,” kata Fenita sambil tersenyum.

Sepulang sekolah Fenita langsung mencuci kaki, berganti baju, berwudhu, dan melaksanakan salat. Seusai salat, Fenita berdoa supaya Malik mendapat hidayah. Fenita membaca Alquran dan berharap doanya dikabulkan.

***

Pada saat liburan sekolah, Om Rian mengajak Fenita berlibur ke pantai Tegal.

Fenita tidak menjawab. Dia berlari ke kamar, dan menangis. Dia beranggapan bahwa pantailah yang membuatnya menjadi yatim piatu.

Tak lama kemudian, Om Rian masuk ke kamar Fenita. Dia duduk di pinggiran tempat tidur Fenita sambil mengelus-elus kepalanya dengan lembut.

Ajakan Om Rian berlibur ke pantai menjadikannya gundah. Untuk menenangkan diri, Fenita bermain ke rumah Winda yang jaraknya tak begitu jauh dari rumah Om Rian.

Fenita bercerita pada Winda tentang gempa dan tsunami yang melanda desanya.

“Saat itu aku dan ayahku berencana menangkap ikan di laut dengan menggunakan perahu.

Ibu yang tahu mengenai rencana itu langsung menyiapkan makanan ringan. Ibu telah membeli buah melon yang akan dibawa ke pantai. Lalu gempa datang mengguncang desa.

Ayah langsung membawaku ke tepi pantai dengan menggunakan perahu miliknya agar aku dapat selamat. Namun, di pantai tsunami datang.

Aku diminta lari ke arah daratan.

Ayah bukannya menyelamatkan diri, dia malah menolong seseorang yang tenggelam digulung ombang. Ayah pun terombang-ambing di antara gelombang yang menggunung,” cerita Fenita. Matanya berkaca-kaca.
“Bagaimana dengan ibumu? Apa yang terjadi dengannya?”

“Sewaktu gempa, kaki ibu tersandung melon yang menghambatnya lari keluar. Ibu tertimpa kayu penyangga rumah,” lanjut Fenita. “Itulah yang membuatku benci pantai dan buah melon. Keganasan alam itulah yang membuatku hidup seperti sekarang ini,” lanjut Fenita. Air matanya menetes.

“Jangan khawatir, semua yang kita punya di dunia ini hanyalah sementara. Semua yang kita miliki pasti kembali pada Yang Kuasa. Hidup di dunia bukanlah satu-satunya cara kita bahagia. Dengan membahagiakan orang lain pun kita dapat berbahagia. Bukan hanya berbahagia di dunia, namun juga di akhirat,” ucap Winda menyemangati.

“Terimakasih, Winda. Kata-katamu menyemangatiku,” kata Fenita

“Jangan pernah membenci sesuatu yang Allah ciptakan untuk kita,” jawab Winda.

***

Keesokan harinya, Fenita didekati Winda yang mengabarkan tentang lomba membuat rangkaian bunga dan menghias bingkai foto dari bahan-bahan yang mudah dijumpai di lingkungan pantai.

“Dengan mengikuti lomba ini kamu dapat membahagiakan orangtuamu,” ucap Winda. “Hayo, lebih besar yang mana? Keinginan untuk membahagiakan orangtuamu atau keinginan untuk menghindari pantai? Sampai kapan kamu akan seperti ini?” tantang Winda yang akhirnya membuat Fenita bersedia ikut.

Sesampainya di gelanggang lomba, Fenita terkesima dengan keindahan pantai Kota Tegal. Sudah lama dia tak melihat pantai.

Winda menunggu di teras bangunan yang didirikan di tepi pantai, sedangkan Fenita bersiap mengikuti lomba.

“Hei, kamu lagi, kamu lagi. Bosan aku!”

“Malik?” Fenita terkejut, tapi cuma sebentar.

Fenita tak menghiraukan Malik. Dia berharap Malik tak mengganggunya. Setelah acara dimulai, Fenita mendengarkan pewara yang sedang menjelaskan tata cara lomba. Pewara tersebut memberitahukan bagaimana membuat bunga dengan menggunakan sabun. Hanya dengan mengukir memakai pisau kecil, peserta diharapkan dapat menghasilkan bunga istimewa.

Saat lomba dimulai, Fenita bingung. Kain flannel dan manik-maniknya hilang. Dia mencoba mencarinya, namun tanpa hasil. Ternyata kain flannel dan manik-maniknya berada dalam genggaman Malik. Fenita menghela napas. Dia tidak mau berurusan dengan Malik.

Fenita memutar otaknya untuk mencari bahan lain. Fenita berjalan mendekati pedagang di seputar pantai. Semula Fenita enggan untuk membeli buah melon karena buah melon selalu mengingatkannya pada cerita tentang kematian ibunya. Fenita pun membeli buah melon yang nantinya akan diukir membentuk bunga mawar dengan pisau kecil yang diberikan pada setiap peserta lomba. Namun, Fenita masih bingung bagaimana cara menghias bingkai foto. Tiba-tiba terlintas di benaknya untuk memanfaatkan kerang di tepi pantai sebagai bahan utamanya. Fenita lekas-lekas mengambil kerang-kerang bercorak indah.

Fenita beranjak ke gelanggang lomba dan langsung membuat bunga dengan mengukir bagian dalam melon dan menyusun kerang-kerang menjadi sebuah hiasan bingkai foto. Beruntung Fenita telah diberitahu cara mengukir bunga dengan menggunakan pisau sehingga ia dapat membuat bunga yang indah. Seusai Fenita berkarya, dia menyerahkan karyanya dan menemui Winda. Fenita memberitahukan apa yang baru saja dilakukannya. Dia berjanji tidak akan membenci melon dan pantai jika dia menang.

Waktu pengumuman tiba. Fenita meraih juara satu dan Malik juara dua.

Fenita sangat bahagia. Dia naik ke atas panggung. Namun, anehnya, Malik tak berada di sampingnya ketika penilai menyerahkan penghargaan dan piagam untuk Fenita.

Setelah ditunggu beberapa saat, pewara memberitahukan bahwa Malik tak ada di panggung karena dia sedang mendaftar di sebuah asrama pondok. Penghargaan dan piagam milik Malik akan diantar panitia ke pondok pesantren barunya.

Fenita bergembira karena doanya telah dikabulkan.

Setelah turun dari panggung Fenita segera menemui Winda. Fenita melihat Om Rian dan seorang gadis berada di samping Winda. Gadis itu adalah kakak Fenita yang dia nantikan kedatangannya. Fenita memeluk kakaknya erat-erat.

Winda memberi tahu kalau doa Fenita juga dikabulkan oleh Allah: Malik masuk pondok pesantren. “Allah Maha Penyayang pada semua makhluk-Nya. Bagian-bagian alam yang ada di dunia ini pastilah dapat membahagiakan manusia dengan membuahkan manfaat. Namun, kita saja yang sering melihat kemurahan Allah itu secara sempit,” jelas Winda.

*****

Tanjung Lesung Beach Wrapped In Desolation

Nurina Sanputeri Halim berusia 13 tahun dan tinggal bersama keluarganya di Semarang, Indonesia. DIa adalah siswi kelas 2 SMP di Sekolah Nasional Karangturi di Semarang, Indonesia.

Nurina gemar sekali membaca. Dia adalah anak bungsu dari tiga bersaudara. Hal ini memberi dia kesempatan untuk membaca buku-buku dengan tingkat kesulitan yang lebih tinggi daripada usianya. Dia telah membaca Hamilton’s America berulang-ulang hingga dia hafal seluruh skenario, baik dialog maupun lagu-lagunya. Salah satu cita-citanya adalah menonton drama Hamilton di panggung Broadway di New York.

Ayah Nurina adalah seorang penulis kolom untuk koran lokal di Jawa Tengah. Hal ini menyemangati Nurina untuk menulis di waktu senggangnya. Nurina dapat dihubungi melalui alamat surel: nurina.hlim@gmail.com.

 

Tanjung Lesung Beach Wrapped In Desolation

On the afternoon of December 22, 2018, thick fog and continuous thunder hit the entire Tanjung Lesung Beach, near Pandeglang, West Java, Indonesia.

“Earthquake! Earthquake! Mount Krakatau is erupting!” The villagers’ shouts and cries were heard throughout the area. Some injured villagers were tended to insithe ruins of what used to be houses. After the earthquake subsided, the village quietly restrained its sadness.

A beautiful young girl sat on a boulder on the edge of the beach with her head between her knees.

“Why are you here, child?” asked a police officer, who was making rounds at the Banten Province beach. He was assigned to find victims from the tsunami that followed the earthquake.

The girl glanced at the police officer before saying softly, “I don’t have anything anymore.”

The police officer asked the villagers for information about the girl.

The girl’s name was Fenita, he was told. Other than Fenita’s sister, who was continuing her education on another island, all of Fenita’s family members had been killed during the earthquake and tsunami.

“Fenita,” the police officer said, I’ll tell your sister what has happened. Until your sister can return, you can stay in my house. You can call me Uncle Rian,” The policeman smiled at Fenita.
“Officer — I mean, Uncle Rian, you don’t mind?” asked Fenita doubtfully.

“I live alone. So…”

Before Uncle Rian could finish his sentence, Fenita hugged him tightly. She still needed a parent’s love.

***

Uncle Rian enrolled Fenita into an elementary school in Tegal.

On her first day of school, Fenita felt nervous. But thanks to Uncle Rian’s support, she felt confident enough to study at the school. Fenita wasn’t shy when she met her new friends.

At school, Fenita met another girl named Winda, who had lost her parents too.

“We have to stay tough, to face all kinds of challenges,” Winda told Fenita during a school break. “Life isn’t to be wasted doing nothing.”

“You’re right.” Fenita smiled, hoping to become close friends with Winda.

“You must know our class rules,” Winda continued. “Whoever is the strongest becomes a leader. All the students will refer to that person as The Leader.”

“Is there anyone like that?”

“There is.” Winda glanced at a boy leaning against a classroom door not far from where Fenita and Winda were talking. “His name is Malik.”

“I think,” said Fenita, “that being The Leader means nothing if that person only cares about himself.”

“Sssh!” whispered Winda. “Malik is coming.”

Malik came up to them and rebuked Fenita, “This kid is a newcomer, but already brave enough to challenge me!” Malik said, upset. He looked away from Fenita and left immediately.
Fenita and Winda continued talking.

According to Winda, her classmates didn’t agree with the rules Malik made, but they didn’t dare challenge him.

“I hope I can help him change through my prayers,” said Fenita with a smile.

After school, Fenita went to wash her feet, change clothes, perform ablution, and her prayer rituals. As soon as she finished, Fenita prayed for Malik to receive guidance. Fenita read the Koran and hoped her prayer would be answered.

***

During the school holiday, Uncle Rian invited Fenita to join him for an outing at the beach in Tegal.

Fenita didn’t answer. She ran to her room and cried. She believed that the beach had made her an orphan.

Soon after, Uncle Rian entered Fenita’s room and sat on the edge of her bed while softly stroking her head.

Uncle Rian’s invitation had made Fenita sad. To calm herself, Fenita visited Winda, who lived nearby.

Fenita told Winda about the earthquake and the tsunami that had struck her village.

“At the time it happened, my father and I had planned to go fishing in the sea in our boat,” Fenita told Winda. “My mother quickly prepared some light snacks and bought a melon for us to take.
Then the earthquake came and shook the village. My dad immediately turned the boat back to the beach to make sure I was safe. But, the tsunami pounded the beach.

“I was told to run inland,” Fenita continued tearfully. “Instead of saving himself, my dad helped someone who was drowning in the waves. For a while, my dad was adrift between mounting waves.”

“What about your mom?” asked Winda. “What happened to her?”

“During the earthquake, my mother tripped over a melon that blocked her way as she tried to run outside. She was struck by a wooden beam.” Fenita answered. “That’s what made me hate beaches and melons. The power of nature is what made my life like this.” Fenita’s tears started dropping.

“Don’t worry,” Winda said encouragingly. “Everything we have in this world is temporary. Everything we have will go back to the Almighty. Life in this world isn’t the only way we can be happy. By making other people happy, we can be happy too. Not only will we be happy in this world, but also in the hereafter.”

“Thank you, Winda,” said Fenita, “Your words reassure me.”

“Don’t ever hate something God has created for us,” answered Winda.

***

The next day, Winda told Fenita about a flower-arranging competition and a photo-frame decorating competition that used materials found on the beach.

“By entering this competition, you can make your parents happy,” Winda challenged Fenita. “Hey, which is stronger? Your desire to make your parents happy or your desire to avoid the beach? For how long will you be like this?” Winda’s challenge made Fenita agree to join.

When Fenita reached the competition arena, she was amazed at how beautiful Tegal’s beach was. It had been so long since she had seen a beach.

While Fenita prepared herself for the competition, Winda waited on a patio that had been constructed at the edge of the beach.

“Hey, you again, you again. I’m tired of seeing you!”

“Malik?” Fenita was surprised, but only for a moment.

Fenita ignored Malik. She hoped Malik wouldn’t bother her. After the competition started, Fenita focused on the host who explained the rules of the competition.

The host told them how to make a flower using soap. By only using a small knife to carve, contestants were expected to create a special flower.

After the competition began, Fenita was confused. Her flannel and beads had disappeared. She tried to look for them, but didn’t find anything. It turned out her flannel and beads were with Malik. Fenita sighed. She didn’t want to deal with Malik.

Fenita racked her brain for other materials. She walked near the merchants around the beach. At first Fenita was reluctant to buy a melon because melons always reminded her of her mother’s death. Fenita finally bought a melon so later, she could carve it into a rose using the small knife given to all contestants. However, Fenita was still confused on how to decorate her photo frame. Suddenly, it crossed her mind to use the shells on the beach as the main element. She quickly grabbed a few shells with beautiful patterns.

Fenita entered the competition arena and soon started to carve the inside of the melon into a flower and arranged the seashells to decorate her photo frame.

Luckily Fenita had been told how to carve a flower using a knife so she could create a beautiful flower. Once she finished, she compiled her work and went to meet up with Winda. Fenita told Winda what she had just done. She promised she would not hate melons and beaches anymore if she won.

It was time for the announcement. Fenita won first place and Malik second place.

Fenita felt elated. She went onto the stage. However, oddly enough, Malik wasn’t next to her when the judge presented Fenita with the award and certificate.

After waiting a while, the host announced that Malik wasn’t on stage because he was in the middle of registering himself at a boarding house. The committee would take Malik’s award and certificate directly to his new boarding school.

Fenita felt happy because her prayer had come true.

After coming down from the stage Fenita immediately went to meet Winda.

Fenita saw Uncle Rian and a girl standing next to Winda. The girl was Fenita’s sister whom she had been waiting for. Fenita hugged her tightly.

Winda told her how Fenita’s prayer was also granted by God: Malik was accepted at a boarding school. “God Almighty loves all his creations. Humans can certainly happily benefit of some parts of nature. However, we are often only aware of a small part of God’s generosity,” explained Winda.

***

Aku Akan Pulang Ke Wamena

Friska Sibarani berdarah asli Batak yang lahir di Wamena, Jayawijaya, pada 13 juli 1998. Dia tumbuh besar di kota Wamena hingga usia 18 tahun, kemudian memutuskan untuk melanjutkan pendidikan di luar kota.

Saat ini Friska adalah seorang mahasiswi Sastra Indonesia Unversitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta. Ketertarikannya membaca dan menulis karya sastra membuatnya memiliki cita-cita menjadi seorang penulis di kemudian hari. Friska mulai menulis sejak pertengahan tahun 2016. Cerpen Aku Akan Pulang ke Wamena adalah cerpen pertamanya.

Friska dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: friska1307.siba@gmail.com.

 

Aku Akan Pulang Ke Wamena

Kuletakan surat penempatanku menjadi guru di Wamena di atas meja coklat tua di kamarku dan meneguk air minum untuk mencoba menenangkan pikiran. Kupandangi sebuah bingkai foto di atas meja. Fotonya sudah memudar Aku tak ingat kapan terakhir aku memandangi foto itu.

“Ibu, Ayah, aku rindu! Masih bisakah kita bertemu?” bisikku dengan suara yang bergetar sambil mengambil foto tersebut.

Untuk beberapa waktu ingatan masa kecilku pun kembali. Aku lahir pada tahun 1996 di sebuah kota kecil di Kabupaten Jayawijaya. Kota tersebut bernama Wamena, yang berarti anak babi. Di Wamena aku menjalani masa-masa kecilku bersama kedua orang tuaku. Meski kami bukanlah penduduk asli di kota Wamena, kedua orang tuaku selalu mengajarkan aku untuk mencintai tanah kelahiranku tersebut. Masa kanak-kanakku tak berbeda dengan orang lain.

Kota kecil tersebut memiliki penduduk yang beragam dari berbagai daerah. Aku sendiri memiliki teman bermain yang berasal dari Padang, Madura, Sunda, Toraja dan Wamena. Orang tuaku selalu berpesan padaku untuk tidak membeda-bedakan teman-temanku dari manapun mereka berasal.

Ayahku adalah seorang perantau yang berasal dari Jawa dan ibuku berasal dari Sumatera. Ayah merantau ke Wamena setelah dia baru lulus Sekolah Menengah Atas. Awalnya ayahku bekerja sebagai karyawan toko perabotan. Lalu akhirnya memutuskan untuk membuka usahanya sendiri dan kemudian menjadi seorang pedagang kelontongan di Wamena.

Ibuku adalah seorang pegawai pegawai negeri sipil yang ditugaskan di Wamena. Ibuku bekerja di Dinas Sosial. Keduanya bertemu di tempat ini kemudian memutuskan menikah dan melanjutkan hidup di tanah yang indah ini. Dahulu masa kecilku terbilang sangat menyenangkan, hingga hari itu tiba.

Tanggal 6 Oktober 2000 terpaku dalam ingatan penduduk kota Wamena sebagai peristiwa Wamena Berdarah. Peristiwa itu terjadi akibat peristiwa penurunan paksa Bendera Bintang Kejora oleh TNI dan Polri sebagai tindakkan pemerintah Indonesia terhadap gerakan kemerdekan yang disuarakan oleh penduduk asli Papua. Saat itu aku baru berusia empat tahun.

Sore itu senja baru saja menghilang di balik gunung-gunung yang mengelilingi kota. Aku berlari ke sana ke mari bermain bola biru kesayanganku. Aku terkejut melihat sebuah gumpalan asap hitam tebal di atas gunung-gunung yang tadinya indah. Bunyi tembakan mulai terdegar dari sudut-sudut kota yang jauh. Beberapa orang mulai berlarian di depan rumah kami.

Seorang tetanggaku yang juga adalah penduduk asli menyuruh kami segera masuk dan berlindung di bawah tempat tidur.
Dengan cepat kami mengikuti perintahnya. Bunyi tembakan terus terjadi berjam-jam.

Ayah mendekapku dalam rangkulan. Dia berusaha menutup telingaku agar aku tak mendegar apapun. Namun, jeritan yang sangat menakutkan di luar sana tetap terdengar olehku dan hingga kini masih terekam dalam pikirku.

Beberapa kali rumahku diobrak-abrik oleh beberapa orang Dani yakni penduduk asli Wamena yang mencari para pendatang. Terdengar beberapa orang dari mereka berteriak “Ou… ou… ou…

“Kenapa mereka?” Ibu rupanya gugup dan prihatin. “Kenapa mereka kesakitan?”

“Memang tidak kesakitan.” Ayah merangkul aku lebih erat sambil berbisik, “Teriakan ou, ou, adalah ciri khas orang Dani untuk berperang.”

Dekap Ayah menempelkan kupingku pada dadanya. Terdengar detak jantungnya yang cepat.

“Rupanya, mereka ingin kita segera meninggalkan kota Wamena.” Ayah menghela nafas.

Dengan mencuri pandangan dari lengan ayah yang merangkulku, kulihat sebuah parang tajam berlumuran darah segar yang dipegang oleh salah satu orang Dani yang telah berhasil masuk ke dalam rumah kami.

Semalaman penuh Ibu terus-menerus menghitung rosario sambil berdoa agar ada orang yang menolong kami keluar dari keadaan ini. Kami masih berlindung di kolong tempat tidur.

Aku merasa malam itu adalah malam yang paling mengerikan dalam hidupku. Dadaku merasa sesak untuk bernafas di kolong tempat tidur yang sempit. Tempat itu yang juga gelap dan berdebu. Beberapa kali aku merengek untuk segera keluar. Tetapi Ayah hanya memelukku agar aku mau bersabar menunggu pertolongan.

Pagi harinya doa ibuku terkabul. Beberapa anggota TNI dengan persenjataan lengkap datang ke rumah kami.

Ayah segera keluar dan meminta bantuan.

Kami sekeluarga segera dibawa menggunakan truk milik TNI.

Sementara, kerusuhan terus terjadi. Pembantaian terjadi di mana-mana. Anggota Polri dan masyarakat asli Wamena saling membunuh. Seolah-olah tak akan ada lagi damai di antara mereka.

Sepanjang jalan Ibu menghalangi pandanganku dengan tangannya.

Dari celah-celah jari-jarinya kulihat mayat-mayat bergelimpangan di sepanjang jalan. Beberapa di antaranya tak memiliki badan yang utuh lagi.

Semua orang menjerit ketakutan dan berlari-lari menyelamatkan diri. Banyak yang terpisah dari keluarganya. Bahkan banyak juga yang melihat anggota keluarganya terpenggal dan terpanah di depan mata sebelum akhirnya juga ikut terbunuh. Anak-anak kecil menjerit ketakutan. Sambil menangis mereka mencari ibunya. Suara tangisan terdengar memilukan di mana-mana
Kami diungsikan ke Polsek. Di sana, kami segera bergabung dengan pengungsi lain yang juga bernasib sama dengan kami. Saat itu, kami bersyukur masih dapat lolos dari peristiwa 6 oktober 2000 kemarin. Semuanya saling bantu-membantu mengobati luka-luka. Para wanita membantu ibu-ibu menjaga anak-anaknya yang terus menangis ketakutan. Sementara para pria membantu TNI untuk menyediakan makanan. Para pria memasak menggunakan sekop dan drum sebagai alat masak. Tak ada pilihan lain. Saat itu bertahan hidup adalah hal terpenting.

Kami diberi tempat untuk beristirahat di dalam ruang berjeruji bersama pengungsi lain.

Ibuku memelukku agar mau memejamkan mata setelah berhari-hari tak bisa tidur.

Di sudut ruang berjeruji itu aku melihat ayah mencoret-coret kertas kusam. Wajahnya, seperti sedang gelisah.

Aku segera duduk di pangkuannya sambil memeluknya dengan erat.

Ayah memasukan kertas yang dia tuliskan sebelumnya ke dalam saku jaketku. Dia mengelus-ngelus rambutku dan berkata, “Beristirahatlah, Sayang! Sebentar lagi kita harus pergi dari sini, kita sudah terlalu lama menunggu.”

Untuk pertama kalinya kulihat mata Ayah berkaca-kaca. Belum sempat air matanya membasahi pipi, aku memeluknya erat.

Esok paginya kami diangkut bersama rombongan besar ke bandara karena keadaan kota yang masih sangat rawan.

Para petugas TNI mengawal kami untuk keluar dari kota Wamena. Langit masih saja menampakkan kabut yang gelap. Beberapa kali pesawat jet milik angkataan udara RI melintas dengan cepat.

Saat itu kulihat kanan dan kiriku hampir semua orang menahan takut.

Ayah berbisik padaku, “Tenanglah Lin, setelah ini kita akan pergi jauh,” dan seperti biasa, aku selalu percaya pada kata-kata Ayah.

Sesampainya di bandara, keadaan tak seperti yang diharapkan. Bandara telah ditutup oleh beberapa orang Dani bersenjatahan panah. Pesawat terus berputar di atas kota dan tak dapat mendarat. Kelompok orang Dani semakin banyak.

Terjadi perlawanan dari anggota TNI menyerang balik orang Dani. Beberapa anggota TNI dan orang Dani tewas di tempat karena terpanah atau tertembak senjata api. Muncratan darah membanjiri tiap sudut lapangan udara. Akhirnya TNI berhasil mengatasi serangan orang Dani.

Dengan cepat pesawat mendarat begitu keadaan aman.

Ayah segera menggendongku. Sambil ditariknya tangan Ibu, Ayah terus berlari ke arah pesawat yang jaraknya cukup jauh.

Orang-orang semakin berdesakan. Dorong-mendorong terjadi untuk saling mendahului sampai di pesawat secepatnya.

Dengan lengan dan tangannya, ayah berusaha melindungi kepalaku agar tak terbentur oleh desakan orang yang semakin ganas. Badanku bergetar ketakutan. Jemari-jemariku mencengkram Ayah.

Sambil berdesak-desak ke pintu pesawat, dia mengangkatku pada pundaknya. Terdengar Ayah terus meminta tolong pada beberapa orang yang berada di pintu pesawat agar mau menerimaku.

Begitu kami berada persis di bawah pintu pesawat, seorang pria paruh baya di sebelah kami menarik badanku dengan kencang.

Lenganku seperti hampir lepas rasanya. Aku menangis kesakitan.

Pria paruh baya tersebut memelukku dengan kuat. Kami berhasil menaiki beberapa anak tangga pesawat, sedangkan kedua orang tuaku semakin terhimpit oleh orang-orang yang berusaha saling mendahului.

Aku tidak ingin terpisah dari Ayah dan Ibu dan merontak dalam pelukannya. Pria tesebut berusaha menahan rontakkanku dan terus mencoba menaiki anak tangga yang dipenuhi oleh orang-orang yang saling mendorong. Langkahnya mulai terpincang-pincang terinjak beberapa orang.

Aku sama sekali tak memperdulikannya. Aku hanya terus beteriak melihat ayahku yang semakin terpojok oleh segerombolan orang. Beberapa saat kemudian pria paru baya tersebut berhasil membawaku masuk ke dalam pesawat.

Aku terus menangis terisak-isak memangil Ayah dan Ibu namun mereka tak juga terlihat di manapun. Pintu pesawat telah tertutup dan aku masih belum menemukan mereka. Aku tidak mengenal seorangpun yang berada di dalam pesawat.

Tubuhku masih bergetar ketakutan. Aku menjerit sambil berlari-lari di antara orang-orang mencari Ayah dan Ibu.

Pria paruh baya tersebut kembali menarikku ke dalam pelukannya dan berusaha membuatku berhenti menagis. Namun aku masih tidak memperdulikannya. Aku sangat ketakutan melihat orang tuaku tidak berada di sisiku. Dalam pelukan pria tersebut aku terus terisak-isak hingga mulai merasa sangat lelah. Aku tertidur dalam pelukannya selama penerbangan berlangsung dari Wamena ke Jayapura.

Sesampainya di Jayapura, pria paruh baya yang menolongku dengan gelisah terus menerus melihat ke segala arah seperti mecari orang di antara para pengungsi. Dia kemudian menitipkan aku pada para perawat di bandara.

Para perawat berusaha menghiburku sambil mengobati luka-luka di tubuhku. Mereka akhirnya menemukan kertas yang ditaruh ayah di saku jaketku. Ternyata kertas itu berisi nama dan alamat budheku yang berada di Jakarta. Merekapun akhirnya mengirimkanku kepadanya. Sejak saat itu Budhe menjadi wali yang membesarkanku.

***

Air mataku telah mengalir membasahi foto kedua orang tuaku. Setelah semua yang telah terjadi pada masa lampau, aku tak pernah berharap untuk kembali lagi ke Wamena. Bagiku kenangan masa kecilku adalah hal yang kubenci karena membangkitkan kesedihan dan rasa takut dalam lubuk hatiku. Namun, tugas pekerjaan yang baru kuterima menghadapkanku dengan pilihan yang sulit.

Dengan perlahan kubaca lagi daerah penugasanku: Wamena, Kabupaten Jayawijaya. Hatiku mulai merasakan perih. Kupejamkam mataku kuat-kuat. Ingin rasanya aku berteriak hingga langit pecah, “Mengapa semesta membalikkan keadaan semaunya?”

Kurenungkan dalam-dalam wajah Ayah, Ibu dan masa kecilku. Aku dibesarkan dengan rasa cinta yang besar pada tanah kelahiranku. Ibuku juga selalu mengajariku untuk tidak membedakan orang lain hanya berdasar atas tampilan ragawinya.

Kini berkali-kali ku tepuk permukaan meja tulisku dengan penuh rasa penyesalan bercampur amarah. Bagaimana bisa selama ini aku tumbuh sambil menyimpan dendam. Aku tahu bukan ini yang diinginkan ayah ibuku. Bukan sikap ini yang mereka inginkan dari putrinya. Tapi bagaimanapun kehilangan kedua orang terkasih adalah kepedihan yang masih membekas pada hatiku.

Satu kesalahanku yang aku sadari saat ini adalah seharusnya aku tidak boleh menilai buruk sebuah kelompok masyarakat hanya berdasarkan sudut pandangku saja. Apa yang kualami pada masa kecilku seharusnya tidak membuatku membangun benteng perbedaan. Segala hal yang terjadi pada kedua orang tuaku tidak sepenuhnya kesalahan sebuah kelompok masyarakat. Aku, orang tuaku, dan semua orang lain adalah korban dari murka dan perbedaan yang mencerminkan saat itu. Aku coba menenangkan diriku kembali dalam diam.

Sekarang aku mengerti apa yang diharapkan kedua orang tuaku. Kuambil sebuah kertas dan aku luapkan segala isi hati terdalamku dengan coretan yang dengan cepat memenuhi kertas tersebut.

Peristiwa tanggal 6 Oktober sebetulnya tidak perlu terjadi jika musyawarah damai digunakan sebagai jembatan yang tepat untuk menyelesaikan masalah. Malah kedua pihak, yaitu aparat gabungan TNI, Polri dan Masyarakat Papua di Wamena saling mempertahankan pendapat masing-masing.

Pemerintah bersikeras, meminta masyarakat menurunkan bendera Bintang Kejora yang berkibar di beberapa titik di Kota Wamena.

-Sementara masyarakat menolak dan melawan.

Hal inilah yang mengakibatkan sedikitnya 30 orang tewas dan 40 lainnya luka berat. Luka dari peristiwa ini membuat aku mengerti persoalan itu bukan soal perbedaan, bukan soal pandangan. Bukan persoalan kebudayaan tapi ini adalah subuah kepercayaan. Kepercayaan antara dua pihak yang sama-sama merasa sebagai korban. Korban kekerasan, korban ketidakadilan terkait perbedaan terhadap kelompok masyarakat. Keduanya merasa terancam dengan kehadiran satu sama lain.

Kita bukan dibentengi sebuah perbedaan karena pada hakikatnya kita tak pernah berbeda. Tetapi sebuah pembatas terbesar di antara kita adalah kecurigaan pada satu sama lain. Inilah yang menjadi penghalang agar kita dapat hidup berdampingan dalam damai.

Saat peristiwa itu terjadi tak ada satu mayatpun yang kulihat mengeluarkan warna darah yang berbeda dari satu sama lain. Hanya saja saat tertutup oleh warna kulit berbeda ketidakpercayaan antara masyarakat asli Papua dan pendatang muncul dan membuat satu sama lain semakin menjauh. Seharusnya aparat militer, petugas pemerintah dan masyarakat sipil yang tinggal di wilayah Papua maupun penduduk asli, mampu memahami luka sejarah ini. Dengan memahami luka sejarah dan tabiat orang Papua, kita dapat hidup berdampingan dengan damai di tanah Papua.

Usai menulis catatan singkat tersebut, hatiku terasa ringan. Pikiranku memusat pada surat penempatanku menjadi guru di Wamena. Aku teringat perkataan Budhe yang pernah berkata padaku, “Menjadi guru adalah pekerjaan yang mulia!”

Menurutku pekerjaan yang mulia seharusnya dilakukan secara tulus. Dan kini aku bertekat untuk siap berdamai dengan kenangan pahitku di masa kecil. Aku semakin mantap pada keputusanku. Aku akan segera meminta doa restu Budhe agar mengijinkanku menjadi seorang guru di Wamena. Semoga Budhe juga mau mengerti dan menerima keputusan yang telah kubuat. Kuambil surat perjanjian kerjaku dengan perlahan. Sejenak aku membacanya kembali. Jemari-jemariku mulai menggenggam pena menandatanganinya. Aku siap. Kuhelahkan nafas panjang sambil berkata, “Aku akan pulang ke Wamena!”

***

Going Home to Wamena

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si Kuncung, Bobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

Going Home to Wamena

I placed my teaching job assignment to Wamena on the dark brown table in my room and sipped some water, trying to calm myself. A framed, faded picture of my parents caught my eye. I could not remember the last time I had last looked closely at the photo.

I picked up the picture and sighed. “Ibu, Mother, Ayah, Father, I miss you! Will we ever meet again?”

My childhood memories swiftly returned. I was born in 1996, in Wamena, a small town in the Jayawijaya Regency of Indonesia’s Papua’s highlands. “Wamena” meant piglet in the vernacular language. I spent my childhood there. Although my parents were not natives of Wamena, they always taught me to love my place of birth. My childhood was no different from that of other Wamena children.

The small town had a diverse population that came from various regions. I had playmates from Padang, Madura, Sunda, Toraja, and Wamena. My parents taught me to not discriminate against my friends regardless of where they came from.

My father was a migrant from Java, and my mother came from Sumatra. My father drifted to Wamena right after graduating from high school. At first, he worked as a shopkeeper in a furniture store. Later, he decided to start his own business and opened a convenience store in Wamena.

My mother was a civil servant in the Social Services Department who had been assigned to a clerical position in Wamena.

The two met, married, and decided to continue living in beautiful Wamena. My childhood had been fairly pleasant until that dreadful day came.

The incident began when the TNI (the Indonesian military) and Polri (the Indonesian National Police) forcibly removed the Bintang Kejora (Morning Star) flag of the native Papuans, as a government measure to repress the Papuans’ independence movement.

I was only four years old.

That afternoon of October 6, the sun had just disappeared behind the mountains that surrounded the town. I was running around, playing with my favorite blue ball, and became scared when suddenly a column of thick black smoke appeared over the mountains that had been so beautiful just a moment ago. The rattling of gunshots filled the far corners of town. In front of our house, some people started running.

A neighbor, who was a local Dani tribe member, told us to go immediately inside and take shelter under the bed.

We quickly followed his orders. The gunfire continued for hours.

Ayah held me in his arms. He covered my ears to keep me from hearing anything. But I could still hear the frightened screams outside, and to this day, those sounds are recorded in my mind.
The Danis, the indigenous Papua tribe who lived in the Wamena area, raided our house several times looking for Javanese migrants. Some of them shouted, “Ou! Ou! Ou!”

“What happened to them?” My mother asked nervously. “Why are they in pain?”

“They’re not in pain.” Ayah tightened his arms around me and whispered, “Ou, ou, is the Dani tribe’s war cry.”

My father’s embrace pressed my ears against his chest, and I could hear his heart racing. “Apparently, they believe that all Javanese are the oppressors, and they want us to leave Wamena immediately.” Ayah sighed heavily.

From under the bed, I peeked between my father’s arms and saw one of the Dani men holding a sharp machete covered with fresh blood.

All through the night, we hid under the bed. Ibu counted rosary beads, praying that someone would rescue us.

That night was the most terrible night of my life. I felt suffocated in the narrow, dark, dusty space under the bed. From time to time, I whined, pleading to get out of the place soon. But Ayah could only give me a hug to make me wait patiently for help.

In the morning, my mother’s prayers were answered. Several armed members of the TNI came to our house. Ayah immediately went outside and asked for help. They loaded our family into a military truck.

Around us, the riots continued. Massacres were rampant. Members of the Indonesian National Police and the indigenous Dani Papuans of Wamena killed each other. So much blood was shed, it seemed that peace could no longer be possible between them.

As we rode along, Ibu covered my eyes with her hands. Peeping through her fingers, I saw corpses lying along the road. Some of the bodies were mutilated.

People screamed in fear and ran to save themselves. Many became separated from their families; many witnessed family members being decapitated before getting killed themselves. Children cried, desperately looking for their mothers. The sound of crying everywhere was heartbreaking.

We were taken to the police station in Wamena and put into a room with barred windows. There, we joined other refugees who shared our fate. At that point, we were thankful we had managed to escape the October 6 incident.

The refugees all helped each other out, treating wounds, and helping mothers look after their children, who cried incessantly in fear. The men helped the Indonesian army prepare food. They used shovels and drums as cooking equipment because there was no other choice. At that moment, survival was the most important thing.

After several sleepless days and nights, my mother held me and encouraged me to close my eyes. But in the corner of the room, I saw my father scribbling on a crumpled piece of paper.
He looked nervous.

I immediately went over to him, crawled onto his lap, and hugged him tightly.

Ayah put the crumpled piece of paper into my jacket pocket. He stroked my hair and said, “Get some sleep, sweetheart. We will be leaving here soon; we’ve already waited a long time.”

That was the first time I saw tears well up in Ayah’s eyes. Before the tears rolled down his cheeks, I held him tight.

The next morning, because the town was still unsafe, the military transported a large group of us to the airport. As the military escorted us by truck out of Wamena, dark smoke still covered the sky. An Indonesian Air Force plane made several quick passes over us.

I saw almost everyone try to control their fear.

Ayah whispered, “Don’t be afraid, Lin; after this, we’ll go far away.” And, as usual, I believed him.

But when we arrived at the airport, things did not turn out as expected. Several Dani tribesmen, armed with bows and arrows, had closed the airport. Unable to land, the Indonesian Air Force plane continued to make passes above the town.

The number of Dani militia at the airport increased.

The TNI and the Dani militia clashed. Members of both parties died on the spot, either pierced by arrows or shot. The airfield was splattered by blood. Eventually, the army overpowered the Danis.
Quickly, the Air Force plane landed.

Ayah immediately picked me up, grabbed my mother’s hand, and ran toward the plane. As we got closer to the plane, the crowd’s jostling intensified. People elbowed each other, trying to board the plane as quickly as possible.

Ayah shielded my head, protecting me from being hit by the crowd pushing onto the aircraft with increasing aggressiveness.

Trembling with fear, I clung to Ayah.

He lifted me up onto his shoulder and managed to bring us very close to the plane. I heard him asking several people near the plane’s door for help to take me.

A middle-aged man next to us yanked me off my father’s shoulders. It felt as if I’d lost my arm, and I cried out in pain.

The man, with me in his arms, managed to climb several steps up to the aircraft.

Meanwhile, as people tried to overtake each other to board the plane, my parents were pushed farther back in the crowd.

I did not want to be separated from my parents, and I struggled in the man’s arms.

He held on to me while continuing to climb the steps crowded with people muscling each other. Several people trampled him, and he began to limp.

I did not care at all what happened to him. I just kept shouting as I watched my father and mother being pushed farther and farther away by the crowd.

A few moments later, the middle-aged man got us both into the plane.

Sobbing, I called for Ayah and Ibu, but they were nowhere to be seen.

The plane’s door closed and, I still did not see them. I didn’t know anyone on the plane.

Terrified, I ran screaming down the plane’s aisle, looking for my parents.

The middle-aged man quickly caught me and pulled me back into his arms. He tried to make me stop crying, but I ignored him. I was so very scared knowing that my parents were not with me. I kept sobbing until I started to feel very tired. During the flight from Wamena to Jayapura, I fell asleep in the man’s arms.

When we landed in Jayapura, the middle-aged man looked nervously in every direction, as if he were looking for someone among the refugees. He then entrusted me to the care of the nurses at the airport.

The nurses tried to comfort me as they treated my injuries. They found the crumpled piece of paper that my father had put in my jacket pocket. It was a note with the name and address of my aunt in Jakarta.

I was sent to her, and Budhe, my aunt, became my guardian and raised me.

***

My tears wet the photo of my parents. Because of all that had happened, I never wanted to return to Wamena. I hated my childhood memories; they always stirred up sadness and fear. My new job assignment, however, presented me with a difficult choice.

I slowly reread my job assignment post: Wamena, Jayawijaya Regency. I began to feel the pain. I closed my eyes tightly. I wanted to scream loud enough to penetrate the sky. “Why does the universe turn things around at will?”

I sunk deep into the memories of my parents and my childhood. I remembered how I was raised with a great love for the land of my birth. I also remembered how my mother taught me not to differentiate others based solely on their physical appearance.

I repeatedly pounded the table with mixed feelings of regret and anger. How could I have possibly grown up while holding a grudge? This was not the attitude my parents would have wanted to see in their daughter. Still, the loss of my beloved parents remained so painful.

But I now realized my mistake. I had misjudged a group of people based solely on my own prejudices. What I had experienced in my childhood shouldn’t cause me to discriminate now. Everything that happened to my parents and me was not entirely the fault of one segment of society. My parents and I, like everyone else, were victims of the anger and differences that were reflected at that time.
I tried to calm myself and return to silence.

I now understood what my parents had hoped for. I took a piece of paper and poured my innermost feelings into the writing that quickly filled the paper. I wrote:

The incident on October 6, 2000, would not have happened had peaceful deliberations been used to resolve the problem. Instead, both parties — the joint network of the TNI military and Polri police force on one side, and the Papuan community in Wamena on the other — stood unwavering in their respective opinions.

The Indonesian government insisted that the Morning Star flag, flying at several points in Wamena, be taken down, while the Papuan population refused to obey and opposed the order.

This incident resulted in at least thirty people being killed and forty others seriously injured. The wound from this event makes me understand that the actual problem was not caused by differences. It was not about different perspectives. It was not about cultural differences. It was about trust. There was no trust between the two parties, who both saw themselves as victims: victims of violence and victims of injustice related to differences between communities. Both entities felt threatened by the presence of the other.

We are not fortified by differences because, in essence, we are never different. The biggest barrier between us is our suspicion of each other. This is the element that prevents us from living peacefully side by side.

During the incident, not one single corpse I saw had a different color of blood than another. Only when covered by different skin colors did indigenous Papuans and Javanese migrants start to distrust each other, and this widened the gap between them. The military apparatus, government officials, and civilians — including the indigenous Papuan people who live in the region — should understand this historical wound. By understanding history and the character of the Papuan people, we can coexist peacefully in the land of Papua.

After writing the short note, I felt greatly relieved. I focused on my job assignment to teach in Wamena, and I remembered Budhe once said to me, “Teaching is a noble profession.”

In my opinion, noble work should be done sincerely. Determined and ready to make peace with my bitter childhood memories, I was convinced I had made the best decision. I would soon ask Budhe’s blessing for my teaching career in Wamena.

Hopefully, Budhe would not only accept, but also understand the decision I had made. I slowly picked up my employment agreement. For a moment, I re-read it. My grip around the pen tightened, then I signed the document. I am ready. Taking a deep breath, I said, “Wamena, I’m coming home.”

***

Alloy Bintang Kampung

Radixa Meta Utami lahir di Denpasar, Bali, 25 Februari 1995. Sewaktu di sekolah dasar mengikuti orangtuanya pindah ke Semarang, Jawa Tengah.

Meta menyelesaikan sekolah menengah atas di SMAN 1 Kota Mungkid. Tahun 2015, masuk kuliah di Program Studi Matematika Fakultas Sains dan Teknologi Unversitas Sanata Dharma. Tetapi kemudian tahun 2016 pindah ke Program Studi Sastra Indonesia Fakultas Sastra Universitas Sanata Dharma.

Meta dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: n1w4y4nt0m130y@gmail.com

 

Alloy Bintang Kampung

Aku mulai suka lagu dangdut saat usiaku sepuluh tahun. Dangdut mampu menenangkan hatiku yang kacau ketika aku diganggu oleh teman-teman sekolahku. Mereka sering iseng seperti melempar gumpalan kertas secara diam-diam saat pelajaran berlangsung. Mereka sering mendesis olokan seperti, “Anak bangsawan kok berangkat-pulang sekolah dengan sepeda? Kenapa nggak dengan mobil aja? Hahahahaha…” Sering mereka menyenggolku hingga jatuh.

Pada saat aku berumur 15 tahun, setiap pulang sekolah aku mulai mengamen lagu dangdut keliling Jalan Paingan. Aku melakukan ini selama sekolah SMA. Lalu aku berpikir mengapa aku tidak menjadi penyanyi dangdut saja. Dan itu menjadi cita-citaku.

Suatu Jumat siang sepulang sekolah aku langsung masuk ke kamar tidurku untuk berganti baju. Kemudian, aku berjalan ke ruang tamu untuk bernyanyi karaoke. Sambil menunggu makan siang dari ibuku di ruang tamu, aku menyalakan alat pemutar kaset dan pasang lagu Yang Kurindu dari Denny Malik. Dengan lincah aku mengikuti suara Denny dan irama dangdut itu, “Jangan kau katakan… Ku sudah tak sayang… Sedangkan dirimu… Masih kurindukan…” Suaraku rupanya melayang ke telinga ibuku yang sangat muak dengan lagu dangdut.

Tiba-tiba Ibu berdiri di depanku dan melayangkan telapak tangannya ke wajahku.

Plakk…

“Waduh Ada apa, Bu?” tanyaku sambil mengelus sisi wajahku yang ditampar tadi.

“Alloy! Aku tidak suka kalau kamu menyanyi dangdut!”

“Ibu, mengapa tidak suka? Aku ‘kan ingin menjadi penyanyi dangdut!”

“Alloy! Kita ini orang Katolik. Mana ada orang Katolik yang suka dengan lagu dangdut? Mana ada orang Katolik yang bisa menjadi penyanyi dangdut? Apakah kamu pernah melihat orang Katolik yang berhasil menjadi penyanyi dangdut bahkan sampai tingkat dunia sekalipun? Tidak ada, ‘kan?”

Tak lama kemudian Ayah pulang dari mengajar. Ayah langsung melerai kami.

“Aduh! Ada apa ini?”

“Mas, anakmu ini ingin menjadi penyanyi dangdut. Aku tidak setuju, Mas!” jawab Ibu dengan kesal sambil meninggalkan kami berdua.

“Le, apa benar kamu ingin menjadi penyanyi dangdut?” Ayah, yang selalu menyapaku dengan panggilan Jawa untuk anak laki-laki, memelukku dengan erat.

“Benar, Ayah. Aku ingin menjadi penyanyi dangdut.” Aku menjawab Ayah dengan mulai terisak.

“Ya sudah, Nak. Kamu tidak usah khawatir. Nanti Ayah bantu,” kata Ayah sambil menenangkanku.

***

Atas persetujuan ayah, aku bergabung di Paduan Suara Mahasiswa Cantus Firmus (PSMCF) saat aku mulai kuliah di Universitas Sanata Darma, sebuah universitas swasta terkemuka di Yogyakarta. Di sana, aku tidak hanya mempelajari semua jenis lagu maupun cara mengolah suara, tetapi juga belajar bertanggung jawab dengan sesama anak PSMCF. Aku berlatih olah suara dari Senin hingga Jumat mulai dari pukul lima sore sampai dengan pukul sepuluh malam. Beginilah akibat yang kurang menyenangkan sebagai calon penyanyi dangdut. Harus pulang malam-malam dan menerima bentakan dari ibu setiap hari.
Setiap Sabtu sore, kami mengikuti misa di salah satu gereja Katolik di Sleman. Di situlah aku dan sesama anggota paduan suara yang lain menyanyikan lagu-lagu rohani Katolik dengan jenis lagu dangdut untuk pertama kalinya. Begitu kami menyanyi, para jemaat yang hadir justru merasa tersentuh dengan lagunya ketimbang syairnya, kecuali ibuku. Begitu juga dengan pastor dan para suster yang mulai penasaran dengan jenis lagu dangdut yang kami bawakan.

Usai misa, salah seorang suster datang menghampiri kami. “Puji Tuhan. Ini pertama kalinya kalian menyanyikan lagu-lagu rohani dengan lagu dangdut. Padahal, lagu dangdut ini sangat jarang didengar di semua gereja, terutama gereja kita.”

“Puji Tuhan. Terima kasih atas pujiannya, Suster. Kebetulan, ini atas prakarsa saya. Semoga jenis lagu ini mampu menghangatkan suasana umat di gereja kita ini,” ucapku untuk mewakili seluruh anggota paduan suara itu.

“Amin, Alloy. Amin.”

Setelah bertemu dengan suster, aku dan kedua orangtuaku langsung berangkat dengan Kijang meninggalkan gereja menuju Rumah Makan Gadjah Wong, rumah makan ternama di Sleman. Aku akan mengamen di sana. Naas, di tengah perjalanan, jalanan mulai macet. Astaga! Jangan-jangan, aku akan datang terlambat. Kulantunkan do’a Rosario di dalam hati. Puji Tuhan. Do’aku terjawab dan jalanan itu akhirnya mulai berjalan lancar.

Setibanya di rumah makan, Ayah tidak segan membantuku untuk mencari pakaian yang akan kupakai maupun lagu-lagu yang akan kubawakan nanti baik itu lagu-lagu dangdut maupun campursari. Beruntung aku sangat hafal dengan semua lagu dangdut maupun campursari, terutama lagu-lagu yang sering kubawakan saat bernyanyi karaoke di rumah.

Ibu hanya diam membatu sembari melihat kami bersiap-siap untuk tampil.

“Dik, mengapa kamu diam saja? Lebih baik kamu membantuku,” pinta ayah.

“Tidak mau. Aku malu, Mas,” sahut ibu yang cuek.

“Tidak apa-apa, Pak. Mungkin Ibu sedang marah,” ungkapku sambil menyelesaikan riasanku.

Tepat pukul delapan malam, aku tampil di panggung untuk bernyanyi. Seluruh pengunjung rumah makan yang hadir mulai heboh saat menyaksikan penampilanku. Aku biasanya menyanyikan sepuluh lagu selama dua jam berturut-turut. Bahkan, pihak rumah makan sering membayarku Rp 50.000 per lagu setiap malam Minggu. Lumayan, penghasilanku ini cukup untuk kebutuhan pribadiku setelah menyisakan uang tabungan untuk keperluan mengamen, liburan, maupun keperluan tugas kuliah.

Tiba-tiba, ketika aku menyanyikan lima lagu terakhir, sebagian pengunjung mulai iseng mengolok-olokku dari tempat duduk paling belakang.

“Aneh ya? Ada orang Katolik yang bisa menyanyi dangdut.”

“Lho? Kok kamu tahu kalau dia itu Katolik? Aku aja iri melihatnya.”

“Ya tahulah. Namanya saja Raden Mas Ralph Alloysius Bambang Sejati, adik tingkat kita sekaligus putra dari dosen kita tercinta yaitu bapak Raden Mas Agustinus Bambang Praptomo. Ibunya aja, guru matematika kita waktu SMP. Setahuku, mana mungkin penyanyi macam dia laku di kelompok lagu dangdut?”

“Maksudmu Ibu Raden Ayu Maria Sejati Yuniarti? Owalah… Tapi anehnya, suara merdunya itu melebihi suara merdu penyanyi dangdut Thomas Djorghi.”

“Ah, tidak mungkin! Suaranya saja mirip penyanyi dangdut Denny Malik.”

“Ah, mana mungkin itu? Memangnya dia terilhami dari penyanyi dangdut Denny Malik?”

Akibat ocehan mereka, suasana di rumah makan menjadi ribut. Namun, beruntung penampilanku berakhir dengan sempurna.

Selesai lagu terakhirku, hampir semua pengunjung berdiri dan bertepuk tangan. Mereka lalu berdesak-desakan untuk memberikan bunga maupun meminta tanda tangan kepadaku. Ada juga pengunjung lain mengajakku berswafoto bersama.

Aku menerima bayaran dari pihak rumah makan itu. Uang yang kuterima terlihat cukup banyak malam ini. Aku sangat bersyukur. Aku langsung menyilangkan tanganku ke kening, dada, dan kedua bahuku sambil tersenyum. Terima kasih Tuhan Yesus. Setelah aku menerima bayaran itu, aku langsung berlari menghampiri orangtuaku yang sudah menungguku di mobil untuk bergegas pulang.

Di tengah perjalanan pulang, Ibu dengan tiba-tiba mengecam pedas kepadaku. “Alloy, kamu dengar sendiri ‘kan omongan mereka? Semua pengunjung di rumah makan tadi bergunjing ria terhadap penampilanmu. Kamu dengar, nggak?”

“Lho? Bu, aku ‘kan tadi lagi nyanyi. Jadi, aku tidak sempat mendengar ocehan mereka.” Aku berusaha membela diri dengan berbohong kepada Ibu bahwa aku tidak mendengar ocehan mereka.

“Ibu sudah muak, Nak, Ibu ‘kan sudah pernah bilang sama kamu bahwa kita ini orang Katolik. Malu sama tetangga, apalagi jemaat gereja. Kamu kok malah nekat?” Ibu yang duduk di samping Ayah, membalikan badannya ke kanan dengan memutar sedikit kepalanya ke belakang. Lalu dengan geram, Ibu membentakku, “Pokoknya mulai detik ini, kamu harus berhenti menyanyi dangdut. Titik!”

Hatiku sungguh miris mendengarnya. Mengapa Ibu begitu terpengaruh atas ocehan mereka tadi? Aku bingung harus berbuat apa. Tuhan, ampunilah mereka yang telah mengolok-olokku. Ampunilah juga ibuku yang bersikap keras kepadaku.

Akhirnya kami tiba di rumah. Aku bergegas keluar dari mobil dan langsung berlari ke kamar tidur. Aku langsung membanting pintu dan menguncinya. Air mataku tak mampu terbendung lagi. Aku menurunkan tubuhku perlahan-lahan ke lantai. Aku lemas. Mengapa ini harus terjadi? Apa yang harus kulakukan?

TOK… TOK… TOK…

“Alloy, buka pintunya! Bapak ingin bicara empat mata denganmu,” pinta Ayah.

Yesus! Rupanya itu suara ayah yang mengetuk pintu kamarku. Aku pun langsung bangkit berdiri. Aku mengusap air mataku dan membuka pintu.

Ayah langsung merangkulku.

Aku terisak-isak sembari memeluk Ayah erat-erat.

“Nak, jangan dengarkan perkataan Ibumu! Sebenarnya, Ibumu tidak tahu tentang bakatmu yang sebenarnya.”

“Ayah, mungkin apa yang dikatakan Ibu tadi adalah benar. Mustahil orang Katolik sepertiku mampu mewujudkan impianku untuk menjadi penyanyi dangdut.”

“Jangan putus asa dulu, Nak. Ayah ‘kan pernah berjanji kepadamu untuk membantu mewujudkan impianmu menjadi penyanyi dangdut. Kamu harus semangat, Nak.”

Aku hanya bisa mengangguk pelan untuk mengiyakan perkataan Ayah. Aku percaya bahwa Ayah tidak akan ingkar janji kepadaku. Dia pasti akan membantu mewujudkan impianku menjadi penyanyi dangdut. Mungkin tangan Tuhan sudah mulai bekerja sekarang.

***

Sekarang aku sudah semester enam dan pada usia dua puluh tahun mendapatkan penghargaan sebagai mahasiswa yang berhasil dengan nilai dengan pujian tingkat fakultas. Tak hanya itu saja. Aku juga diutus universitasku untuk mengikuti ajang pemilihan Pekan Seni Mahasiswa Daerah (Peksimida) cabang menyanyi dangdut putra tingkat perguruan tinggi.

Di hari-H, aku diantar oleh ayahku dengan Kijang. Aku berdandan bak penyanyi dangdut Denny Malik.

Sambil jalan, Ayah memutarkan lagu dangdut untukku sambil mengingat lagu-lagu dangdut yang akan kubawakan ketika lomba nanti. Akhirnya kami tiba di Kampus Mrican, tempat aku mengikuti lomba itu.

Saat aku memasuki gelanggang lomba itu, aku berpapasan dengan Angella, teman sekelas, yang juga mengikuti lomba itu. Angella berdandan cantik bak penyanyi dangdut Selfi Nafilah.

“Selamat pagi Angella! Piye kabare? — Apa kabar?”

“Selamat pagi Alloy! Puji Tuhan. Aku baik, Loy. Kamu mengikuti ajang pemilihan Peksimida, ‘kan?”

“Ya. Aku mengikuti ajang pemilihan Peksimida cabang menyanyi dangdut putra. Kamu?”

“Sama. Aku juga mengikuti ajang pemilihan itu. Tapi, cabang menyanyi dangdut putri,” jawab Angella sambil tertawa manis.

Owalah… Kamu suka lagu dangdut juga?”

“Ya, Loy. Aku juga suka dengan seni nada itu.”

“Sejak kapan?”

“Waktu aku berusia delapan tahun. Tepatnya dua belas tahun yang lalu.”

“Wah! Sudah lama sekali,” kejutku sambil mengelus dada.

Kami melakukan pendaftaran ulang di ruang K18. Lalu, kami menunggu nama kami dipanggil sembari berdo’a, menghafal lagu, dan meminum setengah botol air putih. Tak lama kemudian, nama kami dipanggil.

Dengan mantap aku menyanyikan lagu Yang Kurindu oleh Denny Malik. Aku berusaha menjiwai lagu itu agar para juri tidak kecewa. Usai aku bernyanyi, para juri langsung bertepuk tangan dengan semangat.

Aku meninggalkan ruang itu dengan gembira. Hore! Rupanya penampilanku berjalan dengan sempurna.

Begitu juga dengan Angella. Dia juga tampak gembira hari ini. Kami berjalan berbarengan sambil bercakap-cakap.

“Bagaimana, Loy? Berhasil?”

“Puji Tuhan, penampilanku berjalan dengan sempurna. Kamu?”

“Aku juga, Loy. Awalnya aku gugup. Tapi puji Tuhan gugupku mendadak hilang ketika aku bernyanyi. Mungkin, ini karena berkat do’a Rosario yang kulantunkan tadi malam.”

Tak lama kemudian, kami berpapasan dengan orang tua kami.

“Piye, Le? — Bagaimana, Nak? Berhasil?”

“Puji Tuhan, Ayah. Semuanya berjalan dengan sempurna.”

***

Sambil menunggu pengumuman hasil ajang pemilihan Peksimida, selama sebulan ini aku tetap melanjutkan kuliah seperti biasa. Begitu juga dengan kegiatan lain seperti mengikuti misa setiap Sabtu sore, mengamen, dan berkunjung ke rumah teman. Semoga Tuhan Yesus menjawab penantianku. Amin.

Waktu di jam tanganku menunjukkan pukul setengah lima pagi. Aku berlari mengelilingi Kampus Paingan sebanyak sepuluh kali putaran. Sambil berlari, aku mendengar suara burung-burung yang sedang bernyanyi bak paduan suara. Terlihat pula para petani yang mulai menginjakkan kakinya ke sawah untuk bercocok tanam. Perlahan aku menghirup udara segar. Ah, betapa bersihnya udara ini! Aku sangat bersyukur dengan lingkunganku yang Dia ciptakan. Aku bangga menjadi anak Kampus Paingan. Sembari menyanyikan lagu Didi Kempot, Stasiun Balapan, aku menuju pulang. Setibanya di rumah, aku langsung berpapasan dengan ibu.

“Alloy, tadi telepon genggam pintarmu berbunyi. Mungkin ada pesan singkat dari seseorang. Bacalah!” Ibu menyodorkan telepon genggamku kepadaku.

Astaga! Ternyata pesan singkat itu dari panitia ajang pemilihan Peksimida. Aku langsung membuka pesan singkat itu.

Dari : Panitia Ajang Pemilihan Pekan Seni Mahasiswa Daerah
Universitas Sanata Dharma Yogyakarta
Tanggal: 24 Mei 2010
Waktu : 06.10 WIB
Selamat pagi saudara Alloy! Kami dari panitia ajang pemilihan Pekan Seni Mahasiswa Daerah Universitas Sanata Dharma Yogyakarta menyatakan bahwa yang bersangkutan :
Nama : Raden Mas Ralph Alloysius Bambang Sejati
Jurusan : Perekonomian
Fakultas : Ekonomi
Angkatan : 2007
Dinyatakan LOLOS ajang pemilihan Pekan Seni Mahasiswa Daerah cabang lomba menyanyi dangdut putra. Saudara diharapkan hadir untuk melakukan pendaftaran sekaligus mengikuti pertemuan teknis jelang Pekan Seni Mahasiswa Daerah Provinsi Daerah Istimewa Yogyakarta yang akan dilaksanakan pada hari Kamis, tanggal 27 Mei 2010 jam 16.00-18.00 WIB, bertempat di Ruang Koendjono Gedung Pusat Kampus 2 Mrican Universitas Sanata Dharma Yogyakarta.

Demikian pesan singkat ini kami sampaikan. Atas perhatian saudara, kami mengucapkan terima kasih.

“Puji Tuhan. Hore!” Aku bersorak dengan melompat girang. “Terima kasih Tuhan Yesus.” Aku menekan tilpon genggamku ke dadaku.

Ibu mulai menatapku dengan heran. “Ada apa? Tentang apa pesan itu?” Ibu bertanya menyelidiki.

“Tentang hasil ajang pemilihan Peksimida kemarin.” Aku berusaha mengendalikan suaraku yang sepertinya tersedak.

“Oh ya? ” tanya Ibu datar.

“Aku lolos ajang pemilihan Peksimida,” jawabku sambil menunjukkan pesan singkat dari telepon genggam pintarku kepadanya. Sebelum Ibu mampu berkata apa-apa, aku bergegas mandi cepat dan berdandan serapi mungkin.

Di ruang makan Ayah dan Ibu sudah menungguku untuk sarapan bersama. Kebetulan pagi ini Ibu baru saja memasak nasi goreng kampung Yogyakarta dengan lauk telur mata sapi. Selain itu, tersedia juga ayam goreng Kalasan, peyek tumpuk, dan wedang uwuh di meja makan. Terlihat juga beberapa jajan pasar seperti klepon, cenil, sawut, tiwul, dan kue apem yang tersedia di meja makan sebagai kudapan. Ah, enak sekali masakan Ibu!

Sembari menikmati sarapan, aku memberitahukan ayah tentang pesan singkat tadi. “Ayah, tadi aku mendapatkan pesan singkat dari panitia ajang pemilihan Peksimida di kampusku. Aku lolos!” Aku tersenyum lebar sambil menunjukkan pesan singkat dari telepon genggam pintarku di depan ayah.

“Puji Tuhan. Selamat ya, Nak. Semoga di ajang Peksimida nanti kamu juga berhasil,” ucap ayah dan mencium keningku.

“Amin, Ayah. Terima kasih atas doa dan dukungannya. Semoga Tuhan Yesus membalas kebaikan Ayah.”

“Sama-sama, Loy dan selamat berjuang.”

Pada pertengahan Juni, aku mengikuti ajang Peksimida cabang lomba menyanyi dangdut putra di Universitas Sarjanawiyata Tamansiswa di Yogyakarta yang juga merupakan tempat untuk mengikuti ajang Pekan Seni Mahasiswa Nasional (Peksiminas) yang akan kami ikuti nanti. Ternyata Angella juga lolos untuk mengikuti ajang ini untuk cabang lomba menyanyi dangdut putri. Aku tak menyangka bahwa dia memiliki cita-cita yang sama denganku yaitu menjadi penyanyi dangdut.

Di Peksiminas, aku masih menyanyikan lagu yang sama ketika aku mengikuti ajang pemilihan Peksimida untuk lagu wajib dan lagu Darah Muda oleh Bang Haji Rhoma Irama sebagai lagu pilihan. Sementara Angella menyanyikan lagu Dua Kursi oleh Rita Sugiarto sebagai lagu wajib dan lagu Perahu Kaca oleh Selfi Nafilah sebagai lagu pilihan. Penampilan kami disaksikan oleh para hadirin, termasuk kedua orang tuaku maupun kedua orang tua Angella.

Puji Tuhan. Do’a kami, akhirnya terjawab juga. Dengan bekerja keras, kami terpilih sebagai juara. Kami pun menangis bahagia.

Ibu yang dulu bersikap keras terhadap cita-citaku akhirnya luluh juga dan dia mengakui bakatku yang sebenarnya.

Aku akhirnya berhasil membuktikan bahwa orang Katolik sepertiku bisa menjadi penyanyi dangdut. Usai lulus kuliah, aku bekerja sebagai ahli keuangan di sebuah perusahaan asuransi sekaligus sebagai penyanyi dangdut. Kini, aku menerima perjanjian kerja untuk meluncurkan album dangdut rohani Katolik. Sebagai rasa syukurku, aku memanfaatkan bakatku ini bukan hanya sekedar bidang pekerjaan yang dilandasi oleh pendidikan, tetapi juga sebagai bentuk pelayananku kepada Tuhan yang memberikan banyak berkat dalam hidupku.

***

Village Celebrity

Novita Dewi menulis puisi dan cerpen ketika SD dan SMP. Karya-karyanya dimuat di majalah Si Kuncung, Bobo, dan lembar anak-anak yang dulu tersedia di harian Kompas dan Sinar Harapan (sekarang Suara Pembaruan). Kecintaannya pada sastra dialihkan dengan menulis artikel jurnal ilmiah tentang sastra dan penerjemahan yang telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpen yang diterjemahkan dan dimuat di laman Dalang Publishing ini adalah hasil terjemahan sastranya yang pertama.

Saat ini dia mengajar mata kuliah sastra Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta, Indonesia. Dia dapat dihubungi di alamat surel: novitadewi@usd.ac.id atau novitadewi9@gmail.com.

 

Village Celebrity

I began to like dangdut music when I was ten years old.

The music comforted me when I became upset after my classmates teased me. In class, they often threw spitballs at me. “Why does a rich kid ride to school on a bicycle?” they taunted, laughing. “Why not ride in a car?” Every recess, they’d bump into me and make me fall.

When I was fifteen, I started singing dangdut songs as a street busker along the business district of Jalan Paingan. I did this all through high school. I would sing after school to earn extra money, and I began to toy with the idea of becoming a professional dangdut singer.

One Friday afternoon after school, while I waited for Ibu, Mother, to prepare lunch, I went into the living room to practice my dangdut singing. I turned on the cassette player and put on the song Yang Kurindu — “The One I’m Longing For” — by Denny Malik. I sang along with Denny’s voice and the dangdut rhythm, “Please don’t say … I care no more … when … I still miss you …”
Suddenly, Ibu appeared in front of me and slapped me across the face. Whap!

“What’s wrong, Mom? — I asked, rubbing the side of my face.

“Alloy, my son! I don’t want you singing dangdut songs.”

“Why don’t you like it, Mom? I want to be a professional dangdut singer.”

“Alloy! We are Catholics. Are there any Catholics who like dangdut songs? How would it be possible for a Catholic to be a dangdut singer? Do you know of any Catholic who is a successful world-class dangdut singer? There aren’t any, are there?”

Just then, Ayah, Father, came home from his teaching job. He immediately intervened. “For Heaven’s sake! What’s going on?”

“Your son wants to be a dangdut singer,” Ibu said angrily. “Just so you know, I hate it.” Ibu left us in a huff.

Le, Son, is it true that you want to be a dangdut singer?” My father, who always used the Javanese term of endearment for boys when he talked to me, gave me a big hug.
“Yes, I want to be a dangdut singer,” I replied and started to cry.

“Okay, don’t worry,” Ayah said, calming me. “I’ll help you.”

***

With my father’s approval, I joined the PSMCF, Cantus Firmus Student Choir during my freshman year at Sanata Dharma University, a well-known private college in Yogya. Not only did I learn different kinds of scales and how to control my voice, I also learned to be accountable to my fellow PSMCF members. I practiced singing from 5 p.m. to 10 p.m., every Monday through Friday. The price I paid to be an aspiring dangdut singer was coming home late at night and enduring my mother’s scolding every day.

Every Saturday, our family attended Vigil Mass at one of the Catholic churches in Sleman. During one of those services, together with other members of PSMCF, we sang Catholic hymns with a dangdut beat for the first time in that church. As soon as we started to sing, the congregation, except for my mother, seemed captivated by the song’s rhythm. The priest and the nuns were curious about this new genre of music we presented.

After mass, one of the sisters approached us. “Praise the Lord,” she said. “Is this your first time to sing hymns with a dangdut rhythm? We rarely hear that kind of music in church, especially our church.”

“Thank you for the compliment, Sister,” I answered for all the choir members. “This was my suggestion. Hopefully all our parishioners will enjoy this music.”

“Amen, Le. Amen.”

My parents and I then immediately drove in our family van, a Toyota Kijang, to the Gadjah Wong Restaurant, a well-known restaurant in Sleman. I often sang there and was scheduled to perform that evening. But halfway there, we ran into a traffic jam. Gee! I’ll be late! I silently recited the rosary. to Lord Jesus Praise the Lord. He answered my prayer, and the traffic started to flow again.
When we arrived at the restaurant, my father quickly helped me dress for the performance and organized the songs — both dangdut and campursari, a Javanese pop variety — to perform later.

Fortunately, I was very familiar with all the songs, especially the ones I often practiced with karaoke at home.

Ibu silently watched me getting ready for the performance.

“Darling, why are you so quiet?” my father asked my mother. “You’d better help me.”

“No way,” my mother answered indifferently. “I’m embarrassed, Mas.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” I quipped while finishing my makeup. “Mom is still upset.”

At exactly eight o’clock, I walked onstage to sing. Watching my performance, the audience became excited.

I usually sang up to twenty songs for two consecutive hours. On Saturday nights, the restaurant manager often paid me 20,000 rupiah for each song I performed. Not bad at all. I earned enough to take care of my personal needs, after setting money aside for savings, busking costumes, vacation, and college supplies.

That night, during my last five songs, some patrons in the back row started heckling me.

“Isn’t that strange?” I heard one say. “A Catholic singing dangdut songs.”

“Why? How do you know he is Catholic? I actually envy him,” said another.

“I know. His name is Raden Mas Ralph Alloysius Bambang Sejati. He is a freshman in our college and the son of our favorite lecturer, Mr. Raden Mas Agustinus Bambang Praptomo. His mother is no other than our math teacher in middle school. I doubt that a singer like him can make it in the dangdut music world.”

“Do you mean Mrs. Raden Ayu Maria Sejati Yuniarti? Gosh! How weird! His voice is even better than that of the dangdut singer Thomas Djorghi.”

“Ah, no way! He sounds like the dangdut singer Denny Malik.”

“What? How could that be? You think Denny Malik inspired him?”

Their back-and-forth remarks soon created a boisterous atmosphere in the restaurant. Fortunately, I was able to complete my performance just fine.

After the last song, almost everyone in the audience rose and gave me a round of applause. They jostled to hand me flowers and asked for my autograph. Others asked me to take pictures with them.

The restaurant manager paid me. I received a lot of money that night. Thank you, Jesus, thank you, Lord. Smiling, I gratefully crossed myself and then ran outside to my parents, who were waiting in the car, in a hurry to get home.

On the way home, Ibu suddenly lashed out at me. “Alloy, you heard it yourself, didn’t you? The entire audience ridiculed your performance. Didn’t you hear them?”

“How could I?” I tried to pretend, “I was singing, so I couldn’t hear their babble.”

From the front seat, Ibu, sitting next to Ayah, turned slightly, leaned her head back, and snapped, “I am fed up, Le. I have told you that we are Catholics. We can’t even face our neighbors, let alone the church members. Where do you get the nerve, Le? From now on, no more singing dangdut songs. That’s it!”

It really hurt to listen to my mother. Why did their blabbering bother her so much? I did not know what to do. God, forgive those who made fun of me. Forgive also my mother, who was harsh with me.

When we finally arrived at home, I rushed out of the van, ran straight into my bedroom, slammed the door behind me, and locked it. I could no longer hold back my tears. Weakened, I slowly sank to the floor. Why should this happen? What should I do?

There was a knock on my door. “Le, open the door, I want to talk to you privately,” my father coaxed.

Oh my God! That’s Ayah knocking on my door. I immediately rose, wiped my tears, and opened the door.

Ayah quickly embraced me.

Sobbing, I clung to my father.

“Le, don’t mind your mother! She actually doesn’t realize how talented you are.”

“Dad, maybe there is truth in what Mom said. Maybe she’s right that it is impossible for a Catholic like me to make my dream of becoming a dangdut singer come true.”

“Don’t give up, Le. I promised to help you become a dangdut singer. Keep your spirits up.”

I nodded. I knew that Ayah would not break his promises. He would definitely help me realize my dream of becoming a dangdut singer. Maybe God’s plan had begun to work.

***

In my sixth semester at college, when I was twenty years old, I earned the best student award at the faculty level. Praise the Lord. Adding to my happiness, my father encouraged me to audition in a dangdut singing contest held by Peksimida, the Regional University Student Art Week.

When the audition day arrived, Ayah drove the Kijang to take me to the Mrican Campus, where the competition was taking place. I had dressed up like Denny Malik.

On the way, Ayah played dangdut instrumentals from the car stereo to help me practice the songs I was to sing. Finally, we arrived.

Upon entering the site, I ran into a classmate who was also a contestant. Angella looked pretty, dressed up like the dangdut singer Selfi Nafilah.

“Good morning Angella! Piye kabare?” — How are you? — I asked in Javanese.

“Good morning. I’m fine, Loy. You’re joining the competition, right?”

“Yes. I’m competing for the men’s dangdut singer award. What about you?”

“I’m competing for the women’s dangdut singer prize.” Angella smiled sweetly.

“Gee, I didn’t know you liked dangdut.”

“Oh, yes, I do like this kind of music.”

“When did you first learn about dangdut?”

“When I was eight, some twelve years ago.”

“Wow! That’s a long time ago!” I said, surprised.

We registered in Room K18 of the building, then waited for our turn, while praying, practicing the songs, and sharing a bottle of water. It wasn’t long before our names were called.
I confidently sang Yang Kurindu by Denny Malik. To impress the judges, I tried to put feeling into my performance. As soon as I finished singing, they gave me a big round of enthusiastic applause.

Happily, I left the room. Great! It seemed my performance went well.

The same was true for Angella. She also looked happy after her audition that day. We walked together, while chatting along the way.

“What do you think, Loy? Did you do it?”

“Thank God, my performance went well. What about you?”

“I did okay, Loy. At first, I was nervous. But thankfully, my nervousness suddenly disappeared when I started to sing. I bet it’s the power of the rosary prayer I recited last night.”
Shortly afterwards, we ran into our parents.

Piye, Le?” — How did you do, Son? “You made it, didn’t you?”

“Praise the Lord, Dad. Everything went well.”

***

While waiting for the results of the singing competition, I continued my college studies as usual. I also continued attending Vigil Mass on Saturdays, busking, and visiting friends.. Hopefully God will answer my prayers.

One morning, about a month after the competition I jogged ten rounds around the university grounds on Paingan, while listening to the birds sing like a choir. It was about five-thirty and I noticed farmers heading for the fields to tend their crops. I slowly inhaled the fresh air. Ah, how clean and refreshing! I was deeply grateful for the beautiful surroundings God had created for me. I was proud to be a child of Paingan. Singing along with Stasiun Balapan — “The Balapan Train Station”, the signature song of Didi Kempot — I headed home, where I immediately ran into my mother.

“Alloy, someone texted you.” Ibu handed me the smartphone. “Check to see if there’s a message.”

Oh, my God, it’s from the Peksimida singing competition committee. I immediately opened the text message.

From: Regional Student Art Week Competition Committee
Sanata Dharma University, Yogyakarta
Date: May 24, 2010
Time: 06.10

Good morning, Alloy,
The Peksimida Committee of Sanata Dharma University, Yogyakarta, is pleased to announce that
Name: Raden Mas Ralph Alloysius Bambang Sejati
Major: Mathematics
Faculty: Science and Technology
Class: 2007
has qualified to enter the next round of the men’s dangdut singing competition. We invite you to register and join the preparation for the upcoming Peksimida on Thursday, May 27, 2010, from 4 p.m. to 6 p.m. in the Koendjono Room, Central Building of Campus 2, Mrican, Sanata Dharma University, Yogyakarta.

We thank you in advance for your attention to the matter.

“Praise the Lord! Yes!” I cheered, jumping up and down. “Thank you, Lord Jesus.” I pressed my smartphone against my chest.

Ibu looked at me curiously. “What’s going on? What’s the message about?” she probed.

“The results of the Peksimida singing competition!” I tried to control my voice — I felt like I was about to choke!

“Oh, really.” Ibu was uninterested.

“I passed the first round of the Peksimida competition,” I continued and showed her the text message on my smartphone. Before Ibu could say anything, I hurried away to take a quick shower and dress as neatly as possible.

When I entered the dining room, my parents were already waiting to have breakfast together. Ibu had just prepared Yogyakarta home-style fried rice with sunny-side-up eggs, in addition to Kalasan fried chicken, peyek tumpuk — crispy peanut fritters — and wedang uwuh, a traditional herb drink. Ibu had also prepared a variety of mouth-watering, traditional sweet snacks. Ibu was really a great cook.

While enjoying breakfast, I told Ayah about the text message I had received earlier. “Dad, I have good news! I passed the first round of the singing contest!” Grinning from ear to ear, I showed Ayah my smartphone.

“Thank God. Congratulations, Le. Hopefully you will also succeed in the next Peksimida,” said Ayah and kissed me on the forehead.

“Yes, Dad. Thanks for your prayers and support.”

“You’re welcome, Le. Good luck!”

***

In mid-June, I took part in another Peksimida dangdut singing competition at the Sarjana Wiyata University in Sleman, where the National Student Art Week — Peksiminas — would be held later. It turned out that Angella had also qualified to participate in the female dangdut singing contest. I didn’t know that she shared my aspiration to become a professional dangdut singer.

For the national Peksiminas competition, I sang the same compulsory song I sang during the regional competition: the classic dangdut song Darah Muda — “Youthful Zest” — by Bang Haji Rhoma Irama.
As for Angella, she sang Dua Kursi — “Two Chairs” — by Rita Sugiarto as her compulsory song, and Perahu Kaca — “Glass Boat” — by Selfi Nafilah as her song of choice.

Both of our parents watched our performances.

Thank God. He answered our prayers. Our hard work was rewarded by winning the championship in our separate categories. We both shed happy tears.

My mother, who had opposed my dreams all this time, finally acknowledged my talent.

In the end, I proved that a Catholic, like me, could become a dangdut singer. After graduating from college, I went to work as a controller in an insurance company, but I also continued being a dangdut singer. I recently signed a contract to record a dangdut Catholic-worship music album. As a token of gratitude, I not only use my talent to make a living, but also as a means to serve God.

***

Senja Di Batavia / The Sun Sets Over Batavia

Irene WibowoIrene yang lahir pada tahun 1996 merupakan alumni UK Petra jurusan English for Creative Industry.

Irene mulai tertarik terhadap novel sejarah setelah membaca novel Pulang oleh Leila S. Chudori, salah satu penulis kesukaannya.

Dewasa ini, Irene menghabiskan waktunya dengan belajar bahasa Korea dan berusaha mencari nafkah dengan menggunakan keterampilan bahasa yang dimiliki.

Irene dapat dihubungi di: ip103096@gmail.com

***

Dari Stefanny Irawan:

Stefanny IrawanSelaku dosen Sastra Inggris dan seorang penerjemah lepas untuk karya sastra, saya ingin para mahasiswa saya diperkenalkan ke penerjemahan karya sastra dengan layak. Berhubung saya mengenal Ibu Lian Gouw dari Penerbit Dalang dan para mahasiswa saya dengan baik, saya percaya pelatihan penerjemahan sehari penuh akan membuahkan hasil yang baik. Saya yakin dua belas mahasiswa saya tidak hanya akan dibekali dengan keterampilan seputar penerjemahan, tetapi juga tuntunan kesusilaan terkait bidang tersebut.

The Sun Sets over Batavia, terjemahan Bahasa Inggris dari cerpen Senja di Batavia karya Irene Wibowo, merupakan upaya bersama dari tiga orang peserta pelatihan di bawah bimbingan Ibu Lian. Dengan memperhitungkan masukan-masukan dari para mahasiswa, cerpen terjemahan ini merupakan bukti keberhasilan pelatihan ini.

Selain itu, saya senang bisa kembali mempertemukan Ibu Lian dengan Irene Priscilla Wibowo yang merupakan peserta pelatihan tahun 2017. Saya bangga bisa memakai Senja di Batavia, karya asli dari seorang Irene yang adalah lulusan program English for Creative Industry, Sastra Inggris - Universitas Kristen Petra, untuk pelatihan penerjemahan ini. Semua ini menunjukkan bahwa dengan kerja keras dan upaya bersama, kami, para penulis dan penerjemah Indonesia, mampu berkarya dengan mandiri. Ayo maju!

***

Dari para penerjemah mahasiswa:

Dari Erick Setiawan:

Erick Setiawan

Apa sebabnya Anda menghadiri lokakarya ini? Apakah harapan-harapan Anda terpenuhi?

Saya ingin bisa menerjemahkan karya sastra dengan lebih mangkus; saya telah mengerjakan sebuah tugas penerjemahan karya sastra sebelum mengikuti lokakarya ini. Pengalaman yang saya dapatkan dari lokakarya ini sangat bermanfaat dan lokakarya ini sangat menyenangkan. Saya tidak kecewa; dalam menerjemahkan ke Bahasa Inggris, saya diajari cara untuk menangkap intisari cerita yang akan saya terjemahkan dan menjaganya agar tidak hilang. Bantu-membantu dengan teman-teman selama berlangsungnya lokakarya ini juga sangat menarik dan menyenangkan!

Secara umum, apa yang berhasil Anda pelajari dalam lokakarya ini? Apa yang secara khusus berhasil Anda pelajari berkaitan dengan keprigelan dan kesantunan dalam menerjemahkan?

Saya belajar cara menerjemahkan sebuah cerita dengan teliti tanpa mengubah intisarinya. Saya juga belajar cara memaknai cerita tersebut. Sebagai penerjemah karya sastra, kecintaan saya pada intisari cerita harus seimbang dengan kecintaan sang penulis. Saya mempelajari betapa pentingnya hubungan antara pihak-pihak terkait dalam penerjemahan selama berlangsungnya pekerjaan penerjemahan. Saya lalu menyadari juga bahwa, walaupun menerjemahkan karya sastra itu tidak mudah, ada kepuasan tersendiri pada hasil akhirnya. Lokakarya ini telah membuat saya terkesan dan menambah pengetahuan saya mengenai penerjemahan karya sastra. Saya sangat senang apabila diberi kesempatan untuk belajar penerjemahan dengan lebih mendalam lagi.

Dari Emily Abigail:

Emily Abigail

Apa sebabnya Anda menghadiri lokakarya ini? Apakah harapan-harapan Anda terpenuhi?

Saya ingin belajar bagaimana menyampaikan pesan dalam dua bahasa yang berbeda. Dan, saya kira lokakarya ini dapat menjadi sarana untuk mengenal lebih baik lagi lapangan pekerjaan yang mengutamakan daya cipta. Lokakarya yang dipandu Bu Lian ini mengajarkan pada saya semua yang ingin saya kuasai. Selain itu, sekarang saya menyadari pentingnya mengembangkan kemampuan memilih kata dengan tepat dalam menerjemahkan; tidak hanya berdasarkan arti, namun juga latar waktu ceritanya.

Secara umum, apa yang berhasil Anda pelajari dalam lokakarya ini? Apa yang secara khusus berhasil Anda pelajari berkaitan dengan keprigelan dan kesantunan dalam menerjemahkan?

Saya jadi mengerti bahwa bahasa memiliki keindahan bentuk kalimatnya sendiri. Penerjemah tidak hanya harus mampu menerjemahkan makna kalimat namun juga iramanya. Saya jadi mengerti betapa pentingnya menghormati sang penulis dengan menerjemahkan seteliti mungkin tulisannya. Kata-kata yang dipilih dengan begitu teliti oleh sang penulis harus diterjemahkan dengan teliti juga. Saya ingin punya kesempatan lebih banyak lagi untuk memahami bahwa setiap bahasa memiliki gaya penulisannya sendiri. Dalam bahasa Indonesia, kita bisa menggunakan banyak kata untuk melukiskan suatu keadaan. Namun dalam bahasa Inggris, kita harus menyampaikan intisari cerita secara lugas. Saya belajar memilih kata yang tepat dari khaazanaa dengan tujuan pertahankan suasana batin sebuah cerita. Saya juga belajar mengatur waktu untuk meneliti dan membaca ulang hasil terjemahan saya sebelum mengajukannya ke penerbit. Saya merencanakan untuk mengikuti lokakarya serupa di kemudian hari.

Dari Ivania Tanoko:

Ivania Tanoko

Apa sebabnya Anda menghadiri lokakarya ini? Apakah harapan-harapan Anda terpenuhi?

Saya ingin meningkatkan kemampuan menerjemahkan karya sastra dari bahasa Indonesia ke bahasa Inggris, dan ingin mengetahui bagaimana menjadi seorang penerjemah yang ahli. Ketika saya mendengar kabar tentang diadakannya lokakarya ini, saya langsung mendaftar karena lokakarya semacam ini sangatlah langka di kampus saya. Saya berharap saya dapat mempelajari keahlian baru dari pengalaman ini. Harapan saya terpenuhi. Saya sekarang mengerti apa yang diperlukan untuk menjadi penerjemah yang ahli. Tunjukkan, jangan hanya katakan. Gunakan daya bayang untuk melukiskan keadaan yang kurang dikenal.

Secara umum, apa yang berhasil Anda pelajari dalam lokakarya ini? Apa yang secara khusus berhasil Anda pelajari berkaitan dengan keprigelan dan kesantunan dalam menerjemahkan?

Saya jadi mengerti bahwa setiap bahasa memiliki gaya penulisannya sendiri. Dalam bahasa Indonesia, kita bisa menggunakan banyak kata untuk melukiskan suatu keadaan. Namun dalam bahasa Inggris, kita harus menyampaikan intisari cerita secara langsung. Saya belajar memilih kata yang tepat dari perbendaharaan kata dengan tujuan mempertahankan suasana batin sebuah cerita. Saya juga belajar mengatur waktu untuk meneliti dan membaca ulang hasil terjemahan saya sebelum mengajukannya ke penerbit. Saya merencanakan untuk mengikuti lokakarya serupa di kemudian hari.

Senja Di Batavia

Batavia, 12 Oktober 1740.

Dari jendela kamarnya, Sari melihat burung-burung bangau melayang berputar tinggi di angkasa. Lengkingan mereka mengiringi nyaringnya pekik-pekik ketakutan di bawahnya. Hamburan warna merah bersemu jingga di langit seakan menggambarkan api yang tidak berhenti berkobar.

Lima hari setelah Nyonya Carolien, majikannya, menitahkannya untuk pulang ke rumah sampai waktu yang tidak ditentukan, Sari melewatkan waktunya berdiam diri di rumah berkawan dengan kebisingan-kebisingan yang mulai memekakkan telinganya.

Teriakan amarah yang dilontarkan dalam bahasa Melayu dan bahasa Belanda, serta teriakan ketakutan yang dilontarkan dalam bahasa Cina saling bersahutan memenuhi udara. Suara pedang yang mengayun membelah angin serta suara bubuk mesiu yang melontarkan peluru tidak henti-hentinya mengalun bersama teriakan-teriakan itu.

Seperti kata Nyonya Carolien, orang Cina sedang dibantai habis-habisan di luar sana. Dia juga menceritakan kalau mereka membuat rusuh dengan membunuh lima puluh orang Belanda.
Sekarang pikiran Sari melayang pada Xiao Li, sahabat baiknya. “Ah, Xiao Li. Di mana kamu sekarang?” gumamnya.

***

Sari baru beberapa minggu bekerja untuk Nyonya Carolien saat dia bertemu dengan Xiao Li tahun lalu. Gadis limabelas tahun seperti Sari seharusnya sudah dipinang. Tapi, tidak ada yang mau dengan seorang gadis berbibir sumbing. Dia pun tidak bisa mendapatkan pekerjaan sampai pada suatu hari tetangganya, yang bekerja sebagai pembantu rumah tangga di tangsi Belanda, menawarinya pekerjaan di rumah Tuan Willem, seorang perwira tinggi militer Belanda, untuk melayani Nyonya Carolien, istrinya.

Nyonya Carolien suka mengumpulkan kain-kain sutera. Menurutnya, kain-kain sutera membuat kecantikannya makin menonjol.

Setiap hari Sabtu, setelah Nyonya Carolien menghabiskan sarapan paginya, Sari menemani Nyonya Carolien ke Pasar Tanah Abang.

Toko kain yang dimiliki keluarga Xiao Li terletak di bagian timur pasar, dekat toko-toko kelontong. Tokonya agak sepi hari itu. Selain Sari, hanya ada seorang perempuan Cina bertubuh tambun, dan Nyonya Carolien bersama temannya.

Sari melihat-lihat potongan sisa kain di sebelah pintu masuk dekat tempat membayar, sambil menunggu majikan dan temannya berbelanja. Pemilik toko sedang mengembalikan uang kepada seorang perempuan Cina yang menggendong anak bayi. Dilihatnya juga seorang anak laki-laki yang dengan sigapnya mengangkat segulung kain yang dibeli perempuan itu ke kereta kuda yang menunggu di depan toko.
Mereka sedang berjalan menuju pintu toko saat Sari mendengar suara ‘tuk’ pelan. Dilihatnya satu mata uang perak menggelinding di ubin keramik yang mengkilap. Jika uang itu tidak berada di dalam dompet yang punya, siapa pun dapat memungutnya, bukan? begitu pikir Sari. Maka dia beranjak untuk mengambil uang itu sembari berpikir akan ditukarkan dengan barang apa nantinya.
Baru saja dia mendekatinya, anak laki-laki yang mengangkut kain tadi sudah memungut uang perak yang tak bertuan itu. Namun, anak itu tidak memasukkan uang logam itu ke dalam saku celana pendek putihnya. Dari ambang pintu Sari melihat dia berlari kecil menuju dan memberikannya kepada perempuan itu.

Sari kembali masuk ke dalam toko. Dia bersandar pada salah satu lemari kaca di bagian belakang toko dan memperhatikan anak itu kembali berjalan masuk lalu duduk di atas kursi tinggi dekat tempat membayar. Anak laki-laki itu mengusap peluh yang mengalir dari dahinya dengan selembar handuk yang dikalungkan di lehernya. Pipinya merah seperti buah tomat yang diiris-iris Sari saat membuat roti berlapis untuk Nyonya Carolien.

Sari mengalihkan pandangannya dengan cepat pada kain merah di depannya saat mata sipit anak laki-laki itu bertemu matanya. Hawa panas menjalar ke sekujur tubuhnya ketika dari sudut matanya dia melihat anak itu turun dari kursi tinggi dan berjalan mendekatinya.

“Hai,” ujar anak laki-laki itu.

Sari mengerjapkan matanya dan memandang anak itu dengan aneh dan takjub. Tidak banyak orang yang mau berbicara dengannya. Sari tahu ada orang yang percaya bahwa wajahnya yang cacat bisa mendatangkan petaka kalau dipandang terlalu lama. Anak laki-laki Cina itu adalah lelaki pertama di luar keluarganya yang mengajaknya bicara.

“Xiao Li,” ujarnya lagi, memperkenalkan diri. Lalu melanjutkan, “Namamu siapa?”

“Sari,” jawabnya dengan malu-malu.

“Sali,” katanya sambil menganggukkan kepalanya.

Sari tersenyum. Orang Cina memang tidak bisa mengucapkan ‘r’.

***

Setelah hari perkenalan itu, Sari dan Xiao Li sering menghabiskan waktu bersama. Sore hari saat Nyonya Carolien menghabiskan waktunya untuk minum teh bersama dengan teman-temannya dan saat Xiao Li bebas dari tugas membantu ayahnya, Sari dan Xiao Li berjalan bersama ke tepi Kali Besar untuk melihat senja.

Xiao Li bercerita bahwa orang Cina di Batavia tidak enak-enak amat hidupnya. Ada pemberlakuan wajib lapor bagi setiap orang Cina yang berdiam di Batavia. Orang Cina yang banyak uang sering diperas oleh orang Belanda. Beberapa teman Xiao Li yang hanya memiliki dua potong baju, hitam dan biru, dipindah paksa ke Ceylon. Apakah mereka selamat tiba di Ceylon tidak ada yang tahu. Ada desas-desus mereka dibuang ke laut.

Kata Xiao Li, banyak orang Cina yang tidak mampu dan masih tinggal di Batavia sekarang menjadi buruh di pabrik gula Belanda. Namun, belakangan ini banyak dari mereka yang diberhentikan secara paksa karena harga gula yang terus turun. Nampaknya banyak orang Cina yang geram dengan sikap semena-mena orang Belanda dan berniat memberontak.

Sari teringat bahwa pada pertemuan terakhir mereka, Xiao Li bercerita kalau orang Cina akan menyerang orang Belanda dalam waktu dekat. Dia mencuri dengar dari teman ayahnya yang datang malam-malam untuk mengajaknya ikut serta. Ayahnya tentu menolak mentah-mentah ajakan itu karena dia tidak memiliki masalah dengan orang Belanda. Sejak saat itu Xiao Li tahu bahwa Batavia mulai tidak aman.

Pada penghujung hari itu, Xiao Li mengambil selembar kain sutra merah dari saku celananya. Kain tipis dan licin itu dengan lembut dibalutkannya melingkari bahu Sari. “Simpanlah kain ini sebagai cendera mata persahabatan kita. Sebagai tanda perasaanku padamu.” Kecupannya, yang ringan dan cepat, ditempatkan di dahi Sari. Lalu dia melangkah pergi, menjauh. Hilang.

***

Kenangan Sari buyar saat Emak memanggilnya untuk membantu menyeduh kopi buat Bapak dan Mas Ario, kakaknya. Di ruang tamu, Bapak dan Mas Ario sedang menggerutu. Mereka tidak mendapat upah karena pengawas ladang gula melarang mereka menggarap ladang dalam beberapa hari ini.

“Kawan-kawanku pergi ke kota untuk mengambil harta orang-orang Cina serakah itu. Aku mau ikut besok daripada berdiam di rumah,” ujar Mas Ario.

“Ah, kaki Bapak sakit. Kamu saja yang pergi. Bawa pulang barang yang banyak. Katanya mereka punya guci bagus. Semoga tidak rusak kena tembakan meriam, agar kita bisa jual lagi. Enak saja mereka bisa kaya sementara kita terus-terusan miskin,” omel Bapak.

“Ambil yang banyak ya, Nak,” sambung Emak. “Emak dengar kemarin kalau orang-orang Cina mau menjadikan kita budak. Kalau tidak mau, kita yang akan dibunuh seperti yang mereka alami sekarang. Nah, tahu rasa mereka kini yang dibantai.”

Sari mengantarkan kopi ke ruang tamu dan meletakkannya di atas meja. Dengan takut-takut dia duduk di sebelah Emak sembari memandang Bapak dan Mas Ario yang menyeruput kopi. Dengan suara gemetar Sari berkata, “Kenapa kalian begitu benci dengan orang Cina?” Bukankah mereka tidak pernah bikin ribut dengan kita?” Tiga pasang mata seketika melihat ke arah Sari, mata-mata yang menghakimi.

“Kamu ini perempuan tahu apa,” bentak Bapak. “Mereka menguasai pusat kota. Merampas milik kita. Kamu lupa dulu kita pengusaha pabrik gula? Meskipun kecil, itu milik kita. Mereka punya banyak uang, melibas kita hingga tertinggal di pinggiran. Kurang serakah apa mereka?”

“Tapi kan—”

“Hus. Kamu sekarang berani membantah bapakmu?” potong Emak, nadanya meninggi.

Sari tidak ada maksud untuk membantah Bapak. Dia memahami perasaan ayahnya yang terluka karena perusahaannya dicaplok orang Cina sehingga dia bersama Mas Ario sekarang terpaksa menjadi buruh di lahan tebu. Sari hanya ingin bilang bahwa orang Cina itu juga ada yang baik dan tidak bisa semuanya disalahkan sebagai penyebab keadaan keluarga mereka sekarang ini. Belum sempat dia kembali berusaha menyampaikan maksudnya, pintu rumah diketuk.

Emak bergegas membuka pintu dan mendapati pengawas kebun tebu dan dua tentara Belanda berdiri di depan rumah.

“Selamat sore, Bapak-Ibu sekalian,” ujar pengawas kebun tebu berbasa-basi. “Saya membawa pengumuman bahwa Belanda menawarkan dua dukat untuk setiap kepala orang Cina.”

Bapak dan Mas Ario segera bangkit dari tempat duduk untuk mendengarkan lebih lanjut pengumuman itu.

Sari terdiam mendengar pengumuman itu.

“Ini tidak benar,” gumam Sari dengan kesal setelah pengawas kebun tebu dan dua tentara Belanda itu pergi. Belum pernah dia melihat mata Bapak, Emak, dan Mas Ario begitu berbinar-binar.

Bapak mengambil golok sedangkan Mas Ario membawa cangkul.

Sari mencengkeram tangan Mas Ario dan berusaha menahannya keluar dari rumah.

Emak menariknya.

“Kamu ini perempuan banyak tingkah. Duduk diam sana,” bentak Bapak.

Emak memaksa Sari duduk di kursi walaupun dia terus meronta.

Malam itu Bapak dan Mas Ario tidak pulang.

***

Setiap langkah kaki Sari lengket berkecipak karena genangan-genangan darah yang membasahi tanah. Warnanya lebih merah dari senja. Merah pekat. Lebih pekat dari dinding merah di rumah Nyonya Carolien. Kali Besar yang mengalir di antara jalan setapak dan sawah berubah warna – memerah. Tubuh Sari bergetar hebat sembari melangkahi mayat orang-orang itu. Air matanya mengalir semakin deras ketika dia melihat bayi yang sudah tidak bernapas dalam dekapan mayat emaknya.

Serdadu-serdadu Belanda menusukkan bayonet pada siapa pun yang tergeletak di tanah. Tidak ada erangan. Tidak ada jerit kesakitan. Anak-anak kecil itu bukannya terbunuh, namun sengaja dibunuh. Membayangkan anak-anak itu berlarian ke tengah jalan kemudian ditembak dikepalanya dan mereka yang ditemukan bersembunyi di dekat semak-semak dan ditusuk tepat di jantungnya, membuat Sari mual. Dia membungkuk dan muntah.

Langit menyisakan sedikit sinar terangnya. Di perkampungan seberang, tempat Xiao Li dan keluarganya tinggal, lebih banyak lagi orang-orang Cina yang bergelimpangan di tanah tanpa nyawa. Beberapa orang setempat, kenalan Bapak dan Mas Ario, serta serdadu-serdadu Belanda memandang Sari dengan tatapan penuh selidik. Sebagian dari mereka keluar-masuk rumah membawa barang-barang yang ada di rumah itu. Sebagian lagi membakar rumah dan yang lainnya menusuki setiap orang yang tergeletak di tanah.

“Heh! Sedang apa kamu di sini?”

Sari terkejut mendengar suara Mas Ario memanggilnya di depan teras rumah seseorang sembari membawa piring keramik dan sendok perak. Baju dan tubuhnya dipenuhi bercak darah.

“A… aku mencarimu dan Bapak. Kami di rumah khawatir,” sahut Sari agak gemetar. Dia berharap kebohongannya tidak diketahui kakaknya.

Mas Ario memandang adiknya dengan sorot mata marah. Dia kembali masuk ke dalam rumah itu lalu keluar dengan mengusung barang-barang lainnya.

Petang itu, pada saat Sari kembali ke rumah bersama Bapak dan Mas Ario yang membawa barang-barang untuk Emak, perkampungan itu telah hangus tidak berbekas oleh lautan api.

Sembari mengekor Bapak dan Mas Ario, Sari akhirnya tak tahan dan berteriak, “Mengapa semuanya harus dibunuh, Mas? Mengapa?” Air mata mengalir membasahi pipinya
“Mereka punya salah apa sama Mas? Kenapa anak-anak juga dibunuh? Anak-anak, Mas. Anak-anak,” Sari tersedu.

“Membersihkan hama akan lebih bagus bila hingga akar-akarnya karena mereka tidak akan pernah tumbuh lagi. Biarkan ini menjadi pelajaran bagi mereka agar tidak lagi macam-macam sama kita,” bentak Ario tanpa menoleh. Dia mempercepat langkahnya dan meninggalkan Sari di tengah-tengah segala kekacauan itu.

Pada malam itu, Sari sama sekali tidak bisa memejamkan mata.

***

Pada Sabtu, 22 Oktober 1740, Gubernur Jendral Belanda Adriaan Valckenier mengeluarkan perintah untuk menghentikan pembunuhan terhadap orang Cina.

Seminggu setelahnya, seorang tentara Belanda mengetuk pintu rumah Sari. Katanya, dia diutus Nyonya Carolien menjemput Sari untuk kembali bekerja.

Dengan baju yang dibungkus selembar sarung, Sari berjalan di belakang tentara itu menuju rumah Nyonya Carolien.

Bau tajam besi di udara telah hilang. Tanah tidak lagi basah oleh darah. Tidak ada lagi mayat bergelimpangan di jalan.

Nyonya Carolien menyapa Sari dengan ramah. Dengan lembut dia meminta Sari mengerjakan tugas sehari-harinya namun dia tidak pernah lagi mengajak Sari belanja di Pasar Tanah Abang.

Pada sore hari, di waktu istirahat sebelum dia harus menyajikan makan malam untuk Tuan Willem dan Nyonya Carolien, Sari pergi menatap senja di bawah pohon waru di tepi Kali Besar. Di situ dia biasanya menatap senja bersama Xiao Li. Sari memejamkan mata menahan perih. Merahnya matahari yang sedang terbenam itu mengingatkannya pada api yang berkobar, darah yang mengalir, teriakan-teriakan ketakutan, dan Xiao Li. Sejak Minggu, 9 Oktober 1740 itu, waktu kejadian Geger Pecinan dimulai, sejak dia kehilangan Xiao Li, senja tidak lagi sama. Senja hanya suatu luka yang menghampakan jiwa.

Sari bersandar di batang pohon waru. Dia mengeluarkan kain sutra merah dari balik angkinnya. Pelan-pelan kain itu dia balutkan di bahunya. Xiao Li. Sari mengusap bahu dan lengannya. Dia yakin, suatu hari nanti, entah kapan, dia akan berada kembali dekat di samping Xiao Li.

*****

The Sun Sets Over Batavia

Batavia, Friday, October 14 1740

Five Days After the Chinese Massacre

From her bedroom window, Sari saw the herons circling high up in the sky. Their squeaks echoed the terrified screams below them. Their red and orange streaks in the sky emulated the steadily burning fires around her.

It had been five days since Mrs. Carolien, her mistress, had sent her home, without specifying how long she was to stay there. Sari had spent the time at home listening to the ear-piercing noises that filled the air: a cacophony of angry shouts in Malay and Dutch, anguished screaming in Chinese, clashing swords, and rattling gunfire.

Mrs. Carolien had told Sari that the Chinese were being butchered — during a riot the Chinese had killed fifty Dutch people.

Now, Sari thought of Xiao Li, her best friend. “Oh, Xiao Li, where are you now?” she whispered.

***

Sari had only worked a few weeks for Mrs. Carolien when she met Xiao Li last year. Usually, fifteen-year-old girls were already married, but no one wanted to marry Sari because of her cleft lip. Even worse, no one would hire her, until one day, her neighbor, who worked as a maid in the Dutch barracks, offered her a job in Mr. Willem’s household. Mr. Willem was a high-ranking Dutch officer, and Sari was assigned to serve his wife, Mrs. Carolien.

Mrs. Carolien loved to collect silk cloths. According to her, silk enhanced her beauty.

Every Saturday, after Mrs. Carolien finished her breakfast, Sari accompanied her to the Tanah Abang Market.

Xiao Li’s family owned a fabric shop in the eastern part of the market, near the grocers. On the day that Sari met Xiao Li, the store was not crowded. Other than a plump Chinese woman, there were only Sari, Mrs. Carolien, and her friend.

Sari rummaged through the remnants bin near the cash register while waiting for her employer and her friend to finish their shopping. After the shopkeeper gave the plump Chinese woman her change, the shop boy, who had been standing next to him at the cash register, quickly picked up the roll of cloth the lady had purchased and started to carry it to a waiting carriage in front of the shop.
As they were leaving the shop, Sari heard a soft clink — a silver coin rolled across the shiny ceramic floor tile. If that coin is not inside the owner’s purse, anyone can pick it up, right? Sari spontaneously walked toward the coin while thinking of things she could buy with it later on.

She was just about to pick up the coin, when the shop boy, who had finished carrying the lady’s purchase, beat her to it. But the boy didn’t put the coin in his white shorts’ pocket. Standing in the store’s door opening, Sari saw him run after the carriage and return the coin to the plump Chinese woman.

Sari turned and walked to the back of the shop. Leaning against one of the showcases, she watched the boy take a seat on a tall stool near the cash register. He used the tip of the towel he wore around his neck to wipe the perspiration off his face. His cheeks were as red as the sliced tomatoes Sari put on Mrs. Carolien’s sandwich.

When their eyes met, Sari quickly looked away to a bolt of red cloth in front of her. Hot flashes ran through her when she saw, from the corner of her eye, that that the boy had climbed off his stool and was approaching her.

“Hi,” he said.

Sari blinked and looked at the boy in disbelief. There weren’t many people who wanted to talk to her. She knew that some people believed that looking at her disfigured face for too long could bring them misfortune. Outside of her family, this Chinese boy was the first person who had ever started a conversation with her.

“I’m Xiao Li,” he introduced himself. “What’s your name?”

“Sari,” she answered shyly.

“Sali,” the boy nodded.

Sari smiled; she knew that Chinese people could not properly pronounce the “r” sound.

***

After that day, Sari and Xiao Li spent a lot of time together. In the late afternoon, when Mrs. Carolien had tea with her friends and Xiao Li was done helping his father, Sari and Xiao Li walked to the riverbank of Kali Besar to watch the sunset.

Xiao Li told Sari that life was not easy for the Chinese in Batavia. The law mandated that all Chinese who lived in Batavia had to register themselves. The wealthy Chinese were coerced into giving their money to the Dutch. Some of Xiao Li’s friends, who were so poor they only had only two pieces of clothing, were forcefully shipped to Ceylon. No one knew whether they arrived safely. There were rumors that they were being dumped into the sea.

Xiao Li said that most of the poor Chinese who still lived in Batavia had become laborers in the Dutch sugar mills. But recently, a lot of them were let go because of the declining price of sugar. It seemed many Chinese were disgruntled with the Dutch’s arbitrary attitude and decided to rebel.

Sari remembered that during their last meeting, Xiao Li said that the Chinese were going to attack the Dutch in the near future. He had eavesdropped on an invitation from his father’s friend, who had come in the middle of the night to ask his father to join the uprising. His father blatantly refused the invitation; he never had problems with the Dutch. But from that moment on, Xiao Li knew that Batavia was no longer safe.

At the end of that day, Xiao Li took a piece of red silk cloth out of his pocket. He draped the thin, smooth fabric around Sari’s shoulders. “Keep this as a token of our friendship; as a symbol of my feelings for you.” He quickly placed a light kiss on Sari’s forehead, then walked away and disappeared.

***

Sari’s reverie was broken when Emak, her mother, called her to help brew coffee for Bapak and Mas Ario, her brother.

In the living room, her father and Mas Ario were complaining. They hadn’t received any wages because the supervisors of the sugar cane fields had not allowed them to work for the past few days.
“My friends are going to town to plunder those greedy Chinese,” Mas Ario said. “Tomorrow, I want to join them. It’s better than staying home.”

“Ah, my leg hurts,” Bapak grumbled. “You go. Bring home lots of valuables. People say they have nice urns. Hopefully they were not broken by explosives, so we can sell them. It is unfair that the Chinese are rich while we continue to be poor.”

“Take as much as you can, Son,” Emak added. “Yesterday, I heard that the Chinese want to make us their slaves. If we refuse, we will be killed, like they are being killed today. They know now what it means to be slaughtered.”

Sari brought the coffee to the living room and placed the tray on the table. She timidly sat down next to Emak and looked at Bapak and Mas Ario, who sipped their coffee. Her voice trembled when she asked, “Why do you hate the Chinese so much? Have they ever disturbed us?”

Three pairs of eyes filled with judgment shifted to her.

“You’re a girl. What do you know?” Bapak snapped. “The Chinese dominate the city center, taking what’s ours. Did you forget that we used to own a sugar mill? Even if it was small, it was ours. They have a lot of money, but still, they pushed us to the outskirts. How much greedier can they get?”

“But—”

“Hush! How dare you talk back to your father?” Emak interrupted shrilly.

Sari had no intention of talking back to Bapak. She knew that he was hurt because the Chinese had taken over his business, and, consequently, he and Mas Ario now had to be field hands at the sugar cane plantation. Sari only wanted to point out that not all Chinese were bad, and that the family should not blame all Chinese for their current situation. But, before she could speak her mind, someone knocked on the door.

Emak rushed to open it.

The cane plantation supervisor and two Dutch soldiers stood in the doorway.

“Good evening, ma’am, sir,” the supervisor said. “I’m here to inform you that the Dutch government is offering two ducats for every Chinese head.”

Bapak and Mas Ario quickly rose from their seats, eager to find out more about the offer.

Sari froze as she listened to the announcement.

“This is not right,” Sari muttered after the supervisor and the Dutch soldiers left. She had never seen Bapak, Emak and Mas Ario’s eyes glitter like that before.

Bapak grabbed a machete while Mas Ario took a hoe. Sari grabbed Mas Ario’s hand and tried to keep him from going out of the house. Emak pulled her back.

“You’re a girl!” Bapak yelled. “Don’t act up! Sit down and be quiet!”

Emak forced Sari to sit in the chair, even though she continued to struggle.

That night, Bapak and Mas Ario did not come home.

***

The next day, Sari went into town. Every step she took was sticky and splashed blood that was pooled on the ground. The blood was redder than the sunset. It was redder than the brick walls of Mrs. Carolien’s house. The Kali Besar that flowed between the footpath and rice field had changed color — it, too, was now red. Sari trembled as she stepped over dead bodies. Her tears flowed faster when she saw a lifeless baby in the embrace of his mother’s corpse.

Dutch soldiers jabbed bayonets into every body lying on the ground. There were no groans — no shrieks. The dead children she saw were not killed by accident; they were murdered. She pictured those children running around on the streets and getting shot in the head, and those who hid in the bushes getting stabbed in the heart. Nauseated, Sari bent and vomited.

There was just a little bit of daylight left. In the neighboring village, where Xiao Li and his family lived, many more Chinese corpses lay scattered on the ground.

Village locals, friends of Bapak and Mas Ario, and Dutch soldiers watched Sari suspiciously. Some of them looted houses. Others set houses on fire. Still others stabbed the corpses on the ground.
“Hey! What are you doing here?”

Sari jumped when she heard Mas Ario’s voice calling out to her. He was standing on a porch, his arms filled with ceramic plates and silver spoons. His clothes and skin were splattered with blood.
“I … I was looking for you and Bapak. We were worried about you.” Sari trembled. She hoped that her brother would not catch her lie.

Mas Ario shot his sister an infuriated look. He went back into the house and came out carrying more loot.

That evening, as Sari walked home behind Bapak and Mas Ario, who carried valuables for Emak, the village was completely consumed by fire. Sari finally couldn’t take it anymore and screamed, “Why? Why did everyone need to be killed, Mas? Why?” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “What did they do wrong? Why were those children murdered too? Children, Mas. Children!” Sari sobbed.

“It’s better to eradicate pests at their roots, “Ario shouted without looking back at her.” That way, they can’t grow anymore. Let this teach them not to mess with us.” He hurried away leaving Sari in the middle of the chaos.

That night, Sari couldn’t sleep at all.

***

On Saturday, October 22, 1740, Adriaan Valckenier, Governor-General of the Netherlands, issued an order to stop the Chinese massacre.

One week later a Dutch soldier knocked on Sari’s door. He said that Mrs. Carolien had sent him to pick Sari up to return to her house.

Carrying some clothes wrapped in a sarong, Sari followed the man to Mrs. Carolien’s house.

The metallic odor of blood was gone. The soil was no longer drenched by blood. There were no more dead bodies lying on the ground.

Mrs. Carolien greeted Sari. Gently, she asked Sari to do her usual chores, but she never again asked Sari to go shopping with her at Tanah Abang Market.

During her break time in the early evening, before she had to serve Mr. Willem and Mrs. Carolien their dinner, Sari went to watch the sunset from under the cottonwood tree on the bank of Kali Besar, where she had so often watched the sunset with Xiao Li.

Holding back her grief Sari closed her eyes. The red sunset reminded her of blazing fires, flowing blood, screams of fear, and Xiao Li. Since Sunday, October 9, 1740, when the Chinese Massacre happened, since she lost Xiao Li, sunsets were no longer the same. The sunset now was just a wound that drained her soul.

Sari leaned against the trunk of the cottonwood tree. She pulled out a red silk cloth from the folds of her cummerbund. She slowly wrapped the cloth around her shoulders. Xiao Li. Sari stroked her shoulders and her arms. She was sure, one day, even if she did not know when, she would stand beside Xiao Li again.

*****

Laut Lepas Kita Pergi

Kurnia Effendi dilahirkan di Tegal, 20 Oktober 1960. Menulis pertama kali di media massa tahun 1978 melalui majalah Gadis, Aktuil, dan koran Sinar Harapan. Pada era 80-an gemar mengikuti sayembara menulis fiksi dan berhasil meraih sekitar 30 penghargaan, 8 di antaranya juara pertama.

Sampai kini telah menerbitkan 25 buku terdiri dari antologi puisi, kumpulan cerpen, himpunan esai, novel, dan memoar. Buku Kincir Api (GPU, 2005) masuk dalam 5 besar Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2006; buku Anak Arloji (Serambi, 2011) meraih Penghargaan Sastra Badan Bahasa 2013; buku Percakapan Interior (Kosa Kata Kita, 2018) masuk dalam 14 buku terpuji Hari Puisi Indonesia 2018; buku Mencari Raden Saleh (Diva Press, 2019) mendapat penghargaan buku terbaik bidang puisi dari Perpusnas 2019.

Kurnia Effendi dapat dihubungi di kurnia_ef@yahoo.com.

Terbit bulan Oktober 2019. Hak cipta ©2019 ada pada Kurnia Effendi. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2019 ada pada Oni Suryaman.

 

 

Laut Lepas Kita Pergi

Sebelum meninggalkan tempat permukiman korban tsunami 26 Desember 2004 di Jantho, Aceh Besar, kurang lebih sepuluh menit yang lalu, Ayah mengatakan, “Aku percaya, kamu bukan pemuda cengeng. Hampir sebulan kita telah menangis bersama-sama. Itu cukup. Tidak perlu diperpanjang lagi. Kita sudah saling berusaha untuk menemukan ibumu. Juga kedua adikmu. Percayakan itu kepada Tuhan. Mungkin kini tempat mereka lebih lapang dibanding kita saat ini. Mungkin tidak ada lagi pikiran yang membebani mereka. Tinggal kita, mau hidup terus atau perlahan-lahan mati.”

Mata Ayah memandangku tidak lagi senyalang elang. Tidak ada kemarahan dalam kata-katanya. Aku merasakan ucapan Ayah begitu sungguh-sungguh, tetapi tidak mengandung tekanan.

Dia bicara seperti sedang menceritakan tentang kegiatan sehari-hari. Begitu datar. Tetapi, hatiku terkesiap mendengarnya. “Aku akan berangkat pagi ini juga, sebelum orang ramai ke jalan-jalan. Sebelum banyak ibu-ibu antri di kamar mandi umum. Sebelum tampak asap di dapur terbuka itu. Aku percaya, kamu akan sanggup menghadapi hari depanmu sendiri. Aku melihat ototmu yang kuat, badanmu yang sehat, dan terutama perasaanmu yang tabah. Ingat! Jangan pernah menangis lagi.”

Bibirku mendadak gemetar. Seperti ada ribuan kata-kata berkerumun di ujung lidah. Berdesakan ingin meletup, mendorong dinding gigi. Membuat rahangku keras seperti terbuat dari logam. Tetapi, tak ada suara yang sanggup keluar dari mulutku.

“Aku menulis surat untukmu, karena kukira kamu tak akan bangun saat subuh. Bacalah setelah matamu tak mampu memandang bayanganku. Sampai suara panggilanmu tak mungkin kudengar lagi.” Ditepuk-tepuknya bahuku, seolah-olah aku sendiri yang berduka dan dia berperan sebagai sang bijak yang berusaha menghiburku. “Maafkan aku jika selama menjadi ayahmu tak pernah membuatmu bahagia.”

Tidak ada pelukan dari Ayah. Tangannya mengusap pipiku, terasa kasar. Keriput yang terbentuk dari serangkaian kerja keras itu berusaha melekat di paras mukaku. Aku mencium bau khas yang barangkali tak terhapus dalam sewindu.

Dan kini Ayah telah melangkah memunggungiku. Ke arah selatan ─ menuju pedalaman, menjauh dari laut.

Begitu sadar Ayah telah semakin jauh — hanya kulihat punggungnya yang setengah bungkuk dan segerumbul pohon yang miring di ujung pandangan siap mengaburkannya — aku segera berlari ke dalam tenda. Jika benar Ayah menulis surat untukku, tentu disimpan tak jauh dari alas tidurku. Memang kutemukan selipat kertas lembap yang tampak baru saja disisipkan ke bawah timbunan sarung.

Aku berdebar membuka lipatan surat itu seakan-akan hendak membaca isi surat wasiat. Ternyata hanya beberapa baris kalimat yang mudah dihapal setelah membaca dua kali.

Mustafa, anakku. Aku terlampau sedih dalam peristiwa kehilangan ini, dan mungkin sebentar lagi menjadi gila. Aku akan pergi. Mudah-mudahan kamu tetap kuat untuk tinggal. Aku ternyata seorang pengecut. Selamat tinggal.

Aku melompat bagai tersengat kalajengking. Tanpa sadar aku telah melanggar permintaannya untuk tidak memanggilnya. Aku berlari sekencang-kencangnya menuju arah Ayah berjalan. Tapi sampai aku terengah-engah, tak kutemui lagi bayangan Ayah. Mungkin tikungan, atau bekas tikungan, telah menyembunyikan arah langkahnya. Sandalku telah lepas entah ke mana. Tanah becek dan kerikil yang menghunjam telapak kakiku tak benar-benar kurasakan sakitnya. Lebih sakit perasaan dalam relung dadaku. Pisau sepi menoreh begitu dalam. Baru saja Ayah pergi, tapi kesepian begitu lekas menyergap. Aku seperti menjadi seorang diri di dunia. Dari seorang piatu menjadi sekaligus yatim dan sebatang kara. Terasa hidup sendiri di bawah langit yang selalu mendung. Jauh dari laut tapi gemuruh itu tak pernah mau hilang dari rongga telingaku.

Kini aku berjalan lunglai kembali ke permukiman sementara. Kata sementara itu mulai terasa tak terbatas. Terutama bagiku yang kini sudah tidak memiliki siapa-siapa lagi. Satu-satunya tumpuan harapan telah meninggalkanku. Pergi begitu saja. Hanya meninggalkan kata-kata yang justru membuatku semakin terpuruk.

Memang sekarang bukan lagi saatnya untuk terus menangis. Setiap hari kuhabiskan waktuku untuk menanyakan kabar dari timur, barat, selatan, dan utara. Dari seluruh penjuru mata angin. Adakah yang menemukan Meutia? Adakah yang mendapatkan sosok Hasan? Adakah yang sempat bersimpang jalan dengan Siti Salamah?

Bahkan andai kata telah berbentuk jenazah!

Atau mungkin tinggal serangkai belulang dari tubuhnya yang terhimpit rangka bangunan. Bekas perjalanan yang tak lazim: terseret sekian kilometer bersama puing dan ombak berwarna coklat. Terhempas dan hanyut berkali-kali.

Atau sekadar sobekan pakaian terakhir yang dikenakannya menjelang gelombang tsunami datang. Mungkin aku masih sanggup mencium wangi sisa tubuhnya, di antara lumpur dan segala yang hancur. Aku akan memeluknya untuk penghabisan kali sebelum kurelakan masuk ke dalam lubang bersama mayat lain yang baru ditemukan. Tanpa nama, kecuali jika aku menandainya dengan setulus hati, lalu berusaha mengingat letaknya.

“Ayah, mungkinkah kita akan sanggup menziarahi mereka?”

Namun, aku tidak lagi bersama Ayah. Dia sudah pergi dan kini mungkin telah tiba di wilayah lain yang juga tidak dikenalnya karena suasananya sudah berubah. Sementara aku akan tetap tinggal di sini, bersama beberapa penduduk yang masih bertahan dengan keadaan seperti ini. Bersama beberapa tentara yang kulihat juga mulai bosan dan kusut mukanya.

***

Ketika Ayah memberiku sepucuk rencong, aku baru saja selesai menunaikan SMP. Umurku menjelang lima belas tahun.

Usai menerima pengumuman kelulusan, aku bersama teman- teman merayakan dengan cara membakar baju seragam di tengah ladang. Anak seorang juragan kambing menyumbangkan seekor kambing untuk pesta syukuran. Aku pulang menjelang magrib dengan perasaan mekar sumringah. Setelah libur panjang aku akan memasuki dunia sekolah yang lain. Seolah- olah ada selembar kertas harapan untuk ditulisi segala keinginan. Dicoret-coret dengan gambar impian sekehendak hati. Aku pun berjalan sambil bersiul-siul.

Di pintu pagar rumah aku mendapatkan mata Ayah yang nyalang seperti elang. Aku serentak menduga ada hal yang sangat penting dan mungkin akan disampaikan dengan nada marah. Firasat itu begitu kuat, membuat dadaku berdegup kencang. Rasa takut menjalar. Semua ingar-bingar yang tadi mengepung api unggun perayaan pesta lulus sekolah, langsung sirna.

“Mustafa!” panggil Ayah.

“Ya, Ayah.” Aku mempercepat langkah. Dengan dada terbuka seperti ini, tentu tampak bagai menantang. Tapi, ya, bajuku sudah sempurna menjadi abu di persawahan kering dua jam yang lalu.

“Ayah mau amanatkan sesuatu kepadamu! Duduklah!”

Perasaanku mengkerut. Serambi rumah tampak sepi. Langit redup. Sebentar lagi akan terdengar suara azan dari surau di belakang rumah. Aku segera duduk di bangku kayu yang terletak setengah miring di teras.

“Ayah, hari ini aku lulus sekolah.” Aku mencoba meredakan gejolak dengan cara menyampaikan berita gembira. Siapa tahu akan menurunkan kemarahan Ayah. Tapi ternyata tak mengubah apa pun.

“Aku tahu! Karena itulah aku memanggilmu. Sudah saatnya kamu menerima ini,” Ayah mengangsurkan sebuah benda yang masih tertutup oleh kain putih, “Bukalah!”

Dengan agak gentar, aku melolos kain kafan yang sudah tidak baru lagi. Serta merta terkejut, meski sudah menduga dari bentuknya, ketika mendapatkan sebuah rencong yang masih mengkilat meskipun gagangnya berupa kayu yang sudah berumur panjang.

Mendadak tanganku gemetar. Apa maksud Ayah memberiku sebuah benda tajam yang berbahaya ini? Setiap menghadapi logam tajam, apalagi dengan beberapa lengkung yang mirip ukiran, aku merasa sedang berhadapan dengan masalah besar.

“Ayah… ini sebuah rencong….”

“Syukurlah kamu tahu. Aku tak bisa menunda waktu lagi. Sudah saatnya kamu memahami arti bahaya di luar sana.”

Aku memandang sekitar. Kukira Ayah keliru dalam menilai keadaan. Desa kami daerah yang paling aman. Bahkan, jarang menjadi lintasan anggota Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, secara terang-terangan maupun menyamar.

“Kamu mulai bertanggung jawab melindungi keluargamu. Bahu-membahu dengan Ayah. Jaga keselamatan Meutia dan Hasan. Sementara aku akan menjaga Salamah, ibumu.”

Tanganku semakin gemetar mendengar penjelasan Ayah. Seperti sebentar lagi akan meletus perang. Sementara angin senja kala bertiup lebih dingin dari biasa. Kemudian terdengar azan magrib berkumandang. Entah siapa yang menjadi muadzin sore ini, meskipun suaranya terdengar mendayu-dayu, terasa mengiris liang telinga seperti pipih sembilu.

“Ayo lekas simpan rencong itu! Kini menjadi milikmu. Jangan dibiarkan telanjang, salah-salah disambar iblis.” Ayah mengingatkan.

Setelah aku kembali dari menyimpan senjata yang baru saja kudapatkan, Ayah bangkit dan berkata, “Sekarang kita ke surau.”

Sehabis sembahyang aku merenung di dalam bilik. Rupanya hari ini berlangsung dihiasi berbagai peristiwa yang mendebarkan. Sejak pagi aku sudah berdebar-debar menunggu pengumuman ujian akhir. Aku tidak terlampau bodoh. Tetapi, bukan berarti pasti lulus.

Ketika membuat api unggun dan membakar baju-baju, angin bertiup cukup kencang. Kemarau telah berhasil membuat setiap petak ladang menjadi kering, tumpukan jerami bertebaran di mana-mana. Tentu kami berdebar-debar dan selalu terkesiap setiap kali melihat api meliuk ke arah gubuk.

Dan, senja ini, sebuah rencong diwariskan kepadaku! Begitu mendadak, seakan-akan musuh sudah berada di balik dinding rumah. Telinga kami menduga, ada semacam keresek langkah kaki orang jahat yang mendekat. Ya. Aku telah menjadi pemuda!

Ketika Ayah memintaku untuk khitan, Hasan belum lahir. Dia masih berada dalam perut Ibu yang membuncit seperti mendekap ember di balik kain sarungnya. Sedangkan Meutia mulai sekolah seminggu tiga kali di madrasah terdekat.

“Sudah waktunya kamu memotong ujung kulupmu. Itu sumber penyakit! Mau berangkat sendiri atau kuantar?”

Aku terkesima. Mengapa Ayah tidak menunggu aku benar-benar khatam Al Quran dengan tartil dan lafal yang benar? Atau membiarkan aku mengalami mimpi basah yang pertama?

“Tidak!” Seolah Ayah mendengar keragu-raguanku. “Sunat sekarang atau tidak usah masuk ke dalam rumah.”

“Ambillah kain sarung yang baru, Mustafa.” Ucapan Ibu lebih lembut. “Sudah kusiapkan di ranjangmu.”

Aku pun mengangguk. Aku tak pernah tega menolak permintaan Ibu. Sesulit apa pun. Setakut apa pun.

Aku belum menjumpai petualangan yang seru, selain lomba berenang di arus sungai yang deras. Tapi pengalaman dipotong ujung pelirku tentu merupakan salah satu keberanian seorang anak laki-laki. Jangan menangis! Ya, jangan menangis Mustafa!

“Aku percaya, kamu bukan anak cengeng, Mustafa!” ujar Ayah membekali perjalananku.

Maka, berangkatlah aku ke seorang dukun sunat. Menyerahkan kelaminku yang gemetar untuk dipotong, dijahit, dan diperban, setelah sebelumnya dibius dengan suntikan di sekitar “burung”-ku itu. Aku meringis saat perih menjalar, menembus tabir pembiusan.

Akan tetapi, aku berhasil mempertahankan agar mataku tetap nyalang, tanpa setitik air menggenang di sudutnya. Aku berhasil dan begitu bangga. Aku seorang anak yang berani. Tidak cengeng! Aku hanya malu kepada Ibu yang tak pernah takut untuk melahirkan. Sebentar lagi akan ada bayi ketiga yang melewati pintu rahimnya. Pasti sakit luar biasa, karena ukuran bayi tidak sebanding dengan diameter lubang yang hendak dilaluinya. Itu menurut akalku, yang masih duduk di kelas empat sekolah dasar.

“Inilah anak Ayah yang pemberani.” Ayah menepuk bahuku, ketika sedang kunikmati seekor ayam panggang yang khusus dimasak oleh Ibu. “Aku percaya, kamu bukan anak cengeng!”

***

Akan tetapi, lihatlah hari ini, di ambang waktu dhuha, ternyata akhirnya aku menangis.

Dadaku seperti mau meledak oleh himpitan kesepian. Padahal, aku tahu, di sekitarku masih ada orang-orang lain yang setengah gila akibat perasaan kehilangan. Ibu-ibu yang putus asa. Anak-anak kecil yang bermain tapi tidak tahu meski mencari pelukan siapa ketika lapar datang. Dan, beberapa tentara yang rindu keluarganya. Juga para relawan yang sudah nyaris mabuk oleh bau busuk yang melayang-layang sepanjang pekan.

Ketika Ayah meninggalkan tempat permukiman, yang terdiri atas tenda-tenda militer dan sebagian lagi berupa bangunan kayu yang berdiri tanpa fondasi, hanya kulihat punggungnya yang setengah bungkuk. Kemejanya yang lusuh mengandung banyak lipatan di sana-sini, warnanya buram, diperoleh dari kardus yang dilempar oleh sebuah helikopter yang gemuruh di suatu siang bermega pekat. Dia tadi berjalan tidak terlampau cepat, tapi jarak antara kami demikian pasti menjadi semakin jauh. Semakin terasa bahwa telah terbentang ruang yang memisahkan kami. Mungkin satu, dua, atau bahkan ratusan kilometer.

Apakah aku masih perlu mencari Meutia? Hasan? Atau ibuku? Yang entah berkubur di mana. Tsunami yang perkasa telah merebutnya dari kami tanpa memberi kesempatan untuk belajar cemburu lebih dulu. Maafkan aku.

***

Catatan :

Judul “Laut Lepas Kita Pergi” dipetik dari judul lagu Leo Kristi di album “Nyanyian Malam”, 1977

To The Sea We Surrender

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To The Sea We Surrender

Some ten minutes before he left the shelter for the Jantho tsunami victims in Aceh Besar, Sumatra, Ayah, father, said to me, “You’re not a crybaby, but we’ve been crying together for almost a month. It’s enough. We’ve tried to find your mother, your younger brother, and older sister. There’s no need to continue. Let God take care of them. Maybe they’re now in a happier place than we are. Perhaps they have been released from all burdens. Now, you and I are the only ones left. It’s up to us to decide to keep on living or slowly die.”

Ayah’s eyes were no longer sharp like an eagle’s. There was no anger in his words. He spoke without emotion, as if he was talking about normal activities.

Listening to him with a tightening chest, I felt his sincerity, even though he spoke in a monotone.

“I’m leaving this morning,” he said. “Before the road is too crowded, before the women line up in front of the public bathroom, before the smoke rises from the soup kitchen. I’m certain you can face your own future. I can see that you are strong, healthy, and, above all, determined. Remember! Never cry again.”

My lips quivered. Thousands of words crowded onto the tip of my tongue, wanting to escape, pushing against my teeth. But my jaws locked as if made of metal. No sound could escape my mouth.

“I wrote you a letter, because I thought you would not yet be up this early,” Ayah continued. “Read it when you can no longer see my shadow, when your voice can no longer reach me.” He patted my shoulder, as if I was the one mourning and he was the wise man comforting me. “Forgive me if I’ve never made you happy.”

Ayah didn’t embrace me. He stroked my cheek. His hand felt rough, and the callouses from his life of hard labor scraped against my face. I smelled a distinct scent that I would not forget for many years to come.

And then, Ayah walked away from the only home we’d known since the Dec. 26, 2004, tsunami. His back turned toward me, he headed south ─  inland, away from the sea.

When I could just barely see Ayah’s bent back disappearing into a grove of leaning trees, I ran to our tent. If he did write me a letter, he must have left it near my sleeping mat. Indeed, I found a damp piece of paper tucked under the pile of sarongs on my mat.

My heart pounding, I unfolded the paper as if I were about to read a will. The note contained only a few sentences, which I easily memorized after reading them twice.

Mustafa, my son. This loss has made me so sad, I may soon go mad. I must leave. Hopefully, you are strong enough to stay. I am just a weakling. Goodbye.

I jumped up as though a scorpion had stung me. Unintentionally, I violated Ayah’s instructions, and I ran after him as fast as I could. Even after I ran out of breath, I could still not find his shadow. His footsteps were lost in the bend of the road or what must have been a bend in the road. And I had lost my sandals somewhere along the way.

I ignored the mud and painful pebbles that hurt the soles of my feet. The pain deep in my heart hurt much more.

Ayah had only just left, but loneliness had already struck me. It was as if I were the only person in this world. I had gone from losing a mother to losing both parents. I was left all by myself under the forever-cloudy sky. Though the sea was far away, I still kept hearing the roaring waves.

I limped back to the temporary shelter. The word “temporary” started to feel like “forever,” especially to me, who no longer had anyone. The only person I could rely on had just left me. He simply left ─ only leaving behind words that made me feel even more dejected.

Indeed, this was not the time to continue crying. Every day, I spent my time searching for news from the east, the west, the south, and the north — from all cardinal directions. “Did you find my sister, Meutia?” “Did you see my brother, Hasan?” “Have you come across my mother, Siti Salamah?”

“Tell me,” I would plead, “even if all you saw was their dead bodies, even if all you saw was what was left of their bodies, stuck in the ruins, after being dragged and tossed along with debris for several kilometers by brown waves, repeatedly flung away and sucked back in.”

Or, I begged, “Tell me if you found even a piece of clothing they were wearing before the tsunami hit. Perhaps I can still smell their scent between the stench of mud and debris. At least I could hold them one last time before releasing them for the mass-grave burial with all the other dead bodies.”

The mass grave would be unmarked, unless I marked it in my heart and made an effort to remember the location.

“Ayah,” I cried, “will we ever be able to visit their graves?”

But I was no longer with Ayah. He was gone now. He might have reached another location ─ unrecognizable because the tsunami had changed everything. For now, I would stay here at the shelter with other residents who were still trying to survive ─ along with a few soldiers who were weary and depressed.

***

When I was almost fifteen years old and had just graduated from middle school, Ayah gave me a rencong, a traditional dagger from Aceh.

My friends and I celebrated our graduation by burning our school uniforms in the middle of a rice field. A goat farmer’s son provided us with a goat for the celebration. Around dusk, I went home, feeling elated. After the long break, I would enter a new school environment. My future was a blank piece of paper that I could write all my hopes and dreams on. I walked home, whistling.

As I approached the gate of our yard, I saw Ayah. His eyes were as sharp as an eagle’s. I knew immediately that he had something very important to say and that he might deliver it harshly. The feeling was so strong, my heart started to race. Fear ran through me. All the excitement from the graduation celebration vanished.

“Mustafa!”

“Yes, Ayah.” I quickened my steps. I was bare-chested; my shirt had turned into ash in the rice field two hours ago.

“I have something important to tell you. Sit down.”

My heart sank. It was quiet as we walked to the porch. The sky was now dark. Soon we would hear the call to prayer from the surau, mosque behind the house. I quickly took a seat on the wooden porch bench.

“Ayah, I graduated today,” I said, trying to ease the tension with my good news. But it didn’t change anything.

“I know!” Ayah said. “That’s why I called you. It is time for you to have this.” Ayah thrusted something wrapped in a white cloth toward me. “Open it!”

Shaking, I loosened the old cloth. Even though I could have guessed what it was from the shape, I was still surprised when I held a rencong in my hand. The blade was shiny, even though the wood of the hilt was aged.

My hand trembled. Why did my father give me such a dangerous weapon? Every time I looked at the sharp metal blade, especially its serrated edge, I felt that I was in deep trouble.

“Ayah, this is a rencong …”

“It is good that you know that,” Ayah said. “I can no longer delay this. It is time you understand the dangers of the world out there.”

I looked around. I thought that my father’s evaluation of the situation was mistaken.  Despite the uprising and the growing tensions between rebels and authorities our village was in the safest area. Even the members of Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, the Free Aceh Movement, never passed through this area.

“You, along with me, are now responsible for protecting our family. You have to protect Meutia and Hasan, while I protect your mother, Salamah.”

Listening to my father scared me. It was as though soon, the war would explode. The evening breeze felt cooler than usual. The call for the maghrib, evening prayer, filled the air. I didn’t know who the muadzin, prayer caller, was, but his lilting voice pierced my ears like a sharp blade.

“Now, hurry ─ put it away,” Ayah warned. “It is yours now. Never leave it unsheathed, or the devil might possess it.”

When I returned from putting away my suddenly acquired weapon, Ayah rose and said, “Now let’s go to the surau.”

After the prayer, back in my room, I reflected on the day that had just passed. The day had been filled with many exciting events.

That morning, I had anxiously waited for the result of my final middle school exams. I was not stupid, but that didn’t mean I was guaranteed to pass. The wind had been blowing hard when we burned our uniform shirts that afternoon. The dry season had parched every patch of the field; piles of dry straw were everywhere. Of course, we had worried and gasped every time the flames veered toward the shanties in the field.

And then, this evening, I had inherited a rencong­! It was all too sudden, as if enemies were already lurking behind the walls of the house. We were always alert and treated every rustle as the sound of approaching danger. Yes! I now had become a man!

***

I was in fourth grade when Ayah told me to get circumcised. Hasan had not yet been born. Mother’s bulging belly looked as if she hid a bucket in the folds of her sarong.

Meutia had started attending the madrasah, the Islamic elementary school nearby, three times a week.

“It is time to cut your foreskin,” my father said. “It is the source of disease. Will you go by yourself or should I accompany you?”

Why didn’t Ayah wait until I had mastered my Quran recitation with the correct rhythm and tone? Or until I had experienced my first wet dream?

“No!” he exclaimed, as though sensing my hesitation. “You get circumcised now or don’t ever set foot in this house again.”

“Mustafa, take the new sarong I placed on your bed,” my mother said gently.

I nodded. I never had the heart to refuse my mother’s requests — no matter how hard, no matter how frightful.

I had never had an exciting adventure, other than a swim race in the fast-flowing river. Having my foreskin removed would definitely prove I was a courageous boy. Don’t cry! Don’t you ever cry, Mustafa!

“I trust you not to be a crybaby, Mustafa,” Ayah said, handing me money as I left.

So, I went to the circumciser and presented him my shivering penis, to be anesthetized, cut, stitched, and bandaged. I cringed as the pain penetrated the anesthetic.

During the process, I kept my eyes open, with no tears welling at the corners. I had succeeded and was bursting with pride! I had proven I was courageous and not a crybaby.

I only felt shame in front of my mother, who was never afraid to give birth. The third baby would soon pass through her womb. It must hurt terribly, because a baby was much larger than the opening it had to pass through. At least, that was my reasoning as a fourth-grader.

“Here is my brave boy.” Ayah patted my shoulder, while I enjoyed the roasted chicken my mother had made especially for me. “I know you’re not a crybaby!”

***

But now, today, early in the morning at the temporary shelter, before dhuha prayer time, I did cry.

Even though I knew I was surrounded by people who were half-mad with suffering from their loss, my chest felt as if it might explode under the pressure of loneliness. I was surrounded by desperate mothers, by children playing without knowing where to turn for a hug when they were hungry, by soldiers who missed their family, and by volunteers who almost passed out, overwhelmed by the stench that had hung in the air for the whole week.

When Ayah left the shelter, which consisted of military tents and some wooden structures without a foundation, I only saw his bent back. I knew, his shabby, faded, and crumpled shirt came from a box thrown out of a roaring helicopter on a cloudy afternoon.

Ayah didn’t walk fast, but the distance between us increased steadily. I could feel the space separating us realizing in maybe one, two, or even hundreds of kilometers.

Do I still need to look for my sister Meutia? And Hasan, my brother? And my mother, who might all be buried God knows where? The mighty tsunami took them from me without giving me a chance to say goodbye. Please, forgive me.

***

Para Penjual Rumah Ustazah Nung

Ben Sohib menulis cerita pendek, esai, novel, dan skenario film. Dwilogi novelnya, The Da Peci Code (Rahat Books, 2006) dan Rosid & Delia (Bentang, 2008) diangkat ke layar lebar dengan judul 3 Hati 2 Dunia 1 Cinta dan menjadi film terbaik pada Festival Film Indonesia (FFI) 2010. Ben juga diunggulkan sebagai penulis skenario terbaik pada FFI 2017 untuk film Bid’ah Cinta.

Kumpulan cerita pendeknya Haji Syiah diterjemahkan ke dalam bahasa Inggris oleh George Fowler berjudul Haji Syiah & Other Stories.  Cerpen ini juga diterjemahkan ke dalam bahasa Jerman berjudul, Hadschi Schia oleh Jorn Holger Sprode. Kedua terjemahan itu bersama dengan karya aslinya diterbitkan dalam satu buku (Lontar 2015)

Ben bisa dihubungi di bensohib2@yahoo.co.id

Terbit bulan Agustus 2019. Hak cipta ©2019 ada pada Ben Sohib. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2019 ada pada Oni Suryaman.

 

 

Para Penjual Rumah Ustazah Nung

 

Kau harus melihat sendiri bagaimana si bungsu itu memainkan drama di hadapan ibunya. Dia tahu ibunya selalu merasa iba kepadanya dan lekas terharu pada apa pun yang dikeluhkannya. Lelaki itu memang bebal dalam banyak hal, tapi tidak untuk urusan yang satu ini. Ketiga kakaknya, dua perempuan dan satu laki-laki, dibuat tak berkutik dan hanya bisa pasrah saat sang ibu akhirnya menuruti keinginannya: menjual rumah pusaka.

“Dulah tsudah tak tahan hidup tsendiri. Dulah ingin menikah lagi tsecepatnya,” itu yang dia katakan sambil tangannya mengusap sepasang pipi tembam yang basah oleh air mata.

Lihat, dia selalu berbicara dengan memanggil namanya sendiri, menegaskan bahwa dia memang anak bontot yang manja. Memang benar dia anak bungsu dari empat bersaudara. Tapi usianya 38 tahun, berperut buncit, berkepala botak, dan tak fasih melafalkan “s” karena dua gigi depannya sudah rompal (soal kenapa dua gigi depannya rompal akan kuceritakan nanti).

Aku tak tahu apa yang ada di pikiranmu jika kau berada di sana menyaksikan rapat keluarga sore itu, melihat seorang lelaki dewasa berbicara dengan memanggil namanya sendiri, sesuatu yang hanya pantas dilakukan anak balita atau paling tidak gadis remaja. Mungkin kau ingin menamparnya. Ketiga kakaknya ingin sekali membunuhnya.

“Kau tak memikirkan Umi?” tanya salah seorang kakak perempuanya.

“Umi bitsa membeli rumah kecil di kampung dekat-dekat tsini. Buat apa rumah tsebesar ini jika penghuninya cuma Umi dan Dulah? Lagipula, kalau nanti menikah Dulah kan juga ingin punya rumah tsendiri, punya mobil, punya utsaha, tseperti kalian semua!”

Namanya memang Abdulah, dan dia memang dipanggil Dulah, tapi percayalah, kau akan merasa jengah melihat seorang lelaki dewasa, dengan potongan seperti yang sudah kugambarkan tadi, berbicara dengan gaya memangggil namanya sendiri. Dan kejengahanmu akan menjadi-jadi setiap kali ada kata yang mengandung huruf “s” di tengah-tengah pembicaraannya.

“Tapi Umi belum tentu betah di rumah baru,” sergah kakak perempuan yang lainnya.

“Betul, selain banyak kenangan dengan almarhum Abah, Umi kan ada majelis taklim di rumah ini. Itu hiburan tersendiri buat masa tua Umi,” kali ini kakak laki-lakinya yang angkat bicara.

Si bungsu berdiri. “Hiburan? Hiburan buat kalian karena kalian tsudah punya tsegalanya! Kalian egoits! Kalian….” Dia tak mampu melanjutkan kalimatnya. Dia kembali duduk dan menutup wajah dengan kedua telapak tangannya. Sekarang dia tersedu. Kakak-kakaknya yang duduk di depannya terdiam, sementara sang ibu yang duduk di sampingnya tampak seperti orang linglung. Mungkin dia bingung menghadapi suasana seperti ini, apalagi pikirannya masih terganggu dengan kata-kata Abdulah seminggu yang lalu. Saat menyampaikan niatnya hendak menikah lagi setelah delapan tahun menduda, anak bungsunya itu mengawali dengan keluh-kesah bahwa dia tak pernah merasa bahagia sepanjang hidupnya, dan bahwa sekarang dia ingin menikmati hidup selagi usianya belum terlanjur tua. Pikiran Ustazah Nung—demikian perempuan itu dipanggil oleh warga kampung—makin ruwet ketika dia tahu dengan siapa sang anak hendak menikah (soal dengan siapa Abdulah hendak menikah juga akan kuceritakan nanti).

Setelah tangisnya mereda, si bungsu melanjutkan bicaranya, “Kalian tak pernah memikirkan hidup Dulah yang hancur, yang ketsepian, yang tak punya rumah tangga, yang tak punya apa-apa!”

“Kami semua memikirkan hidupmu, dan kau bebas mengawini setan mana pun yang kau suka, tapi jelas kami tak setuju dengan usulmu menjual rumah ini, kita juga harus memikirkan kehidupan Umi!“ kata kakak perempuannya yang pertama.

“Umi akan baik-baik tsaja, kalian berlebihan! Ini mumpung tsekarang harga tsedang tinggi, mau menunggu apa lagi? Kalian tega melihat Dulah hidup merana tseperti ini bertahun-tahun? Kalau begini tserus, Dulah bitsa-bitsa duduk dan jalan-jalan telanjang di depan rumah!”

“Akan kujual rumah ini, dan kubagikan uangnya sesuai hak waris masing-masing!” akhirnya Ustazah Nung ambil keputusan. Perempuan tua itu berbicara tegas dan lantang, dengan suara bergetar.

***

Kini tiba saatnya aku bercerita tentang bagaimana dua gigi depan Abdulah rompal, dan beberapa hal lainnya. Giginya masih utuh seandainya dia tak berbuat bodoh. Bahkan rumah tangganya mustinya juga masih utuh. Tapi dia terlalu bodoh untuk mempertahankan keutuhan gigi depan maupun rumah-tangganya.

Itu bermula dari petualangannya dengan seorang perempuan bernama Lola. Saat itu Abdulah sudah beristri. Tapi, dua tahun usia pernikahan tampaknya masih terlalu singkat untuk bisa memadamkan api cinta pertamanya kepada Lola. Dia memang sudah tergila-gila kepada perempuan itu sejak dia masih murid SLTA. Mereka belajar di sekolah yang sama. Abdulah murid kelas 3, Lola duduk di bangku kelas 1. Tapi mereka lulus dalam waktu yang bersamaan lantaran dua kali Abdulah tak naik kelas (Abdulah juga pernah tak naik kelas sebelumnya, dua kali saat di SD, sekali di SLTP).

Selama tiga tahun menjadi teman satu sekolahan, Abdulah tak berhasil menjadikan Lola sebagai pacarnya, tapi dia cukup senang telah berhasil membuat Lola bersedia menerima apa saja yang dia berikan, baik berupa barang maupun uang. Tak sekali pun pemberiannya pernah ditolak Lola. Rasa bahagia Abdulah berlipat-ganda saat Lola mulai berani meminta uang jajan seminggu sekali, yang langsung dia terjemahkan sebagai kesediaan gadis itu untuk menjadi istrinya.

“Lola memang cantik, tapi sepertinya dia bukan gadis baik-baik, aku sering melihat dia merokok di warung Bu Mameh,” kata Ustazah Nung saat Abdulah memintanya untuk meminang Lola, enam bulan setelah mereka berdua lulus SLTA.

“Lola cinta pertama Dulah, tak ada yang bisa menggantikannya,” jawab Abdulah.

Dengan berat hati Ustazah Nung akhirnya melangkah ke rumah Lola menemui ibunya, menyampaikan niat Abdullah. Dan dia pulang dengan membawa kabar buruk untuk anak laki-laki terkasihnya. : Lola “sudah ada yang punya,” seorang pengusaha biro perjalanan. Mereka akan menikah tahun depan.

Sejak saat itu Abdullah menjadi pemurung dan sering melamun. Keadaan yang membuat Ustazah Nung risau ini berlangsung selama hampir dua tahun, sampai salah seorang kakak perempuannya datang bersama seorang perempuan bernama Hilda.

“Ini adik temanku. Dia dari Tasikmalaya, ke Jakarta mau mencari pekerjaan,” katanya saat memperkenalkan kepada Abdulah.

Mereka menikah enam bulan kemudian. Ustazah Nung menjual sebidang tanah di Kebon Baru untuk biaya perkawinan, dan sebagian sisanya diberikan kepada Abdulah untuk modal usaha membuka warung sate kambing di Jalan Otista.

Di luar dugaan banyak orang yang mengenalnya, Abdulah berhasil mengelola warung itu dengan baik. Kian hari Warung Sate Kambing “Bang Dulah” kian banyak mendapatkan pelanggan. Dalam waktu dua tahun, Abdulah sudah berani mengambil kredit mobil. Saat itulah Lola kembali muncul dalam kehidupannya. Lola yang tak kunjung menikah, baik dengan pengusaha biro perjalanan atau biro apa pun juga, datang ke warung itu.

“Satemu enak,” katanya saat akan membayar di meja kasir.

“Kau tak perlu membayar,” jawab Abdulah dengan gemetar.

Lola mengulurkan dua lembar kertas, selembar uang kertas pecahan lima puluh ribu dan selembar lainnya kertas putih bertuliskan nomer telepon genggamnya. Abdulah menerimanya dengan tangan bergetar seperti orang sakit buyutan. Dan Lola sengaja menyentuhkan jemari tangannya ke telapak tangan Abdulah yang berkeringat dingin. Abdullah buru-buru memasukkan kedua lembar kertas itu ke laci, dan lupa memberikan uang kembalian.

Tak sampai dua minggu setelah kunjungan itu, kabar bahwa Abdulah sering pergi berdua dengan Lola sudah santer terdengar di seantero kampung. Menurut sas-sus yang beredar di antara warga, Abdulah memberi Lola uang bulanan. Sepeda motor bebek baru yang dikendarai Lola konon juga merupakan pemberian Abdulah. Kabar-kabar burung itu akhirnya hinggap di telinga Hilda. Saat Abdulah ke dapur hendak mengambil segelas air pada satu sore di hari Minggu, Hilda yang sedang mencuci wajan bertanya, “Benarkah semua yang aku dengar dari orang tentang hubunganmu dengan Lola?”

Entah apa yang saat itu ada di benak Abdulah. Awalnya dia diam saja, matanya sebentar memandang Hilda, sebentar memandang ke jendela. Lalu mendadak dia lancar berbicara setelah si istri berkata, “Ceritakan saja yang sebenarnya, aku lebih senang mendengar dari mulutmu sendiri.”

Abdulah membenarkan semua yang diceritakan orang dan didengar istrinya. Dia menutup pengakuannya dengan “Mungkin Dulah masih mencintai Lola” yang dia ucapkan sambil tersenyum.

Hantaman punggung wajan di mulutnya itu begitu keras, dua gigi depannya langsung rompal. Mendengar suara ribut-ribut, Ustazah Nung yang sedang rebahan di kamar bergegas menghampiri sumber suara. Dia menjerit melihat mulut Abdulah penuh darah. Malam itu juga Hilda pulang ke Tasikmalaya dan tak pernah kembali ke Jakarta. Sementara Lola memilih hengkang dari kampungnya. Dia tinggal bersama salah seorang sepupunya di daerah Kota. Konon di sana dia bekerja di sebuah restoran yang juga menyediakan karaoke. Sebulan sekali dia pulang ke rumahnya.

***

Abdulah kembali menjadi pemurung dan sering melamun. Entah karena sebab yang mana. Warung satenya dibiarkan tak terurus dan tutup tiga bulan kemudian, mobilnya dibawa pergi oleh dua orang debt collector yang datang ke rumahnya tak lama setelah itu. Pada tahun pertama setelah kejadian itu, juga pada tahun-tahun selanjutnya, Abdulah lebih banyak menghabiskan waktunya dengan duduk sambil merokok, berpindah- pindah dari satu kursi di ruang tamu, ke kursi lainnya di teras belakang atau teras depan. Setiap kali ibunya menganjurkan menikah lagi, selalu dia tanggapi dengan gelengan kepala.

Hingga pada satu malam di tahun yang kedelapan, setelah beberapa minggu sebelumnya sering terlihat berdiri di depan cermin memegang sisir, berusaha sedemikian rupa menyisir ke kanan sejumput rambut panjang yang tumbuh di sisi kiri kepalanya agar bagian atas kepalanya yang botak licin itu tampak seolah-olah masih ditumbuhi rambut tipis, Abdulah tiba-tiba menghampiri ibunya dan mengatakan hendak menikah dengan Lola.

Abdulah bercerita bahwa Lola sudah beberapa kali menemuinya dalam sebulan terakhir ini. Dia berkata bahwa Lola yang sekarang berstatus janda itu mencinta dirinya, bahwa Lola ingin dia menjadi ayah baru yang bertanggungjawab bagi anak satu-satunya. Mata Abdullah berkaca-kaca saat menceritakan bagaimana anak lelaki berusia tiga tahun itu, dalam waktu demikian singkat sudah terbiasa memanggilnya “Papa.”

***

“Tak ada cacatnya” adalah istilah yang digunakan para calo tanah dan rumah yang banyak berkeliaran di daerah ini ketika mereka mengomentari rumah Ustazah Nung. Ukurannya pas, surat-suratnya “bersih”. Rumah tua itu berada tepat di pinggir Jalan Raya Kampung Melayu Besar. Lebar depannya 30 meter, sementara panjangnya mencapai 50 meter, sangat bagus untuk gedung berlantai empat. Di kanan dan kiri rumah Ustazah Nung itu memang sudah banyak berdiri gedung berlantai empat.

Bukan sekali dua kali para pengembang menanyakan rumah Ustazah Nung kepada Bang Sanip, makelar bangkotan yang menguasi seluk beluk pertanahan di daerah ini. Bang Sanip hapal hampir seluruh riwayat rumah dan tanah di wilayah yang—sejak dibangunnya jalan layang ke pusat kota—menjadi incaran para pengembang itu.

Sejak jalan layang mulai dibangun sekitar tiga tahun lalu, harga rumah dan tanah yang terletak di pinggir jalan raya itu melambung. Kebanyakan warga memilih menjual rumahnya dan pindah ke daerah pinggiran yang harga tanahnya jauh lebih murah. Hanya tersisa beberapa gelintir warga yang memilih mempertahankan rumah dan tanah warisan leluhurnya, dan Ustazah Nung termasuk salah seorang dari mereka.

“Ini kesempatan emas, harganya bagus. Ustazah bisa membeli rumah baru, naik haji lagi atau umroh. Sisa uang Ustazah bisa disimpan di bank syariah, tujuh turunan tidak bakal habis,” bujuk Bang Sanip pada suatu sore. Sudah tiga kali dia bersama dua temannya datang menemui Ustazah Nung dalam setahun ini.

“Aku masih betah di sini,” jawab Ustazah Nung.

Bang Sanip dan kedua rekannya meninggalkan Ustazah Nung setelah menenggak habis air putih yang disuguhkan, tapi tenggorokannya masih terasa kering. Air liurnya nyaris habis setelah hampir satu jam dia merayu Ustazah Nung dengan berbagai jurus agar mau melepas rumahnya. Tapi perempuan berkerudung itu seperti tidak mengenal kalimat lain kecuali, “Aku masih betah di sini”.

Entah sudah berapa kali Ustazah Nung mengucapkan kata-kata ini. Dan setiap kali kalimat itu terucap, Bang Sanip dan kedua temannya merasa seperti dicekik.

Jawaban singkat yang diberikan Ustazah Nung setiap kali Bang Sanip menyelesaikan kalimatnya yang panjang lebar, benar-benar membuat pemimpin makelar itu putus asa. Kedua temannya yang bertugas membenarkan semua yang diucapkan Bang Sanip ikut putus asa. Mereka merasa kalimat-kalimat pendek seperti “itu benar,” “tepat sekali,” dan “betul sekali,” yang mereka sisipkan di tengah-tengah pembicaraan Bang Sanip, terbukti tak berpengaruh apa-apa.

Begitu sampai di luar pagar rumah Ustazah Nung, sebelum melanjutkan langkahnya, Bang Sanip menoleh dan menatap rumah tua itu beberapa waktu. Aih, rumah yang sangat cantik seandainya si pemilik tak suka mengulang-ngulang kalimat, “Aku masih betah di sini.”

Saat itulah Bang Sanip melihat Abdulah muncul dari dalam rumah, berjalan sambil membetulkan gulungan sarungnya menuju sofa tua yang diletakkan di pojok teras. Abdulah duduk mengangkat kedua kakinya sebelum menyalakan rokok. Wajahnya kusut seperti orang yang tak tidur berhari-hari.

Tiba-tiba Bang Sanip mengusap mulut, menyembunyikan senyumnya. Lalu dia berjalan dengan cepat, bergegas menyusul kedua temannya. Benaknya dipenuhi wajah Lola. Ingatannya dengan cepat menyusun kembali riwayat percintaan dan perselingkuhan yang melibatkan Abdulah dan Lola. Bang Sanip tahu di mana Lola bisa ditemui, dan dia juga tahu apa yang sedang dibutuhkan perempuan itu saat ini.

Malamnya, para makelar itu menggelar rapat hingga menjelang dinihari.

***

The Sale of Ustazah Nung’s House

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

The Sale of Ustazah Nung’s House

 

You’d have to see for yourself how the youngest son acted out for his mother’s benefit. He knew that his mother felt sorry for him and that she was quickly affected by whatever he complained about. He was dim-witted regarding many issues, but not this one. He stifled his three older siblings: two sisters and one brother. They could only yield when their mother finally decided to grant Dulah’s wish: sell the family legacy.

“Dulah can no longer live alone. Dulah wanth to get married ath thoon ath pothible,” Dulah said, wiping tears off his chubby cheeks.

Despite being a thirty-eight-year-old man, Dulah always referred to himself by name. He had a distended belly and bald head and couldn’t pronounce the letter “s” because he had lost two front teeth. Dulah was, indeed, the spoiled youngest of the siblings.

I don’t know what would have gone through your mind if you had been present that afternoon of the family meeting to witness a grown man refer to himself by his own name, something only acceptable from a toddler or young girl. Maybe you’d want to slap him. His three siblings felt like killing him.

“Don’t you ever think about Umi?” asked one of his sisters.

“Mother can buy a thmall houth in the nearby village. Why do we need a houth thith big when only Umi and Dulah live in it? Moreover, after getting married, Dulah altho wanth to get hith own houth, hith own car, hith own buthineth, juth like you all!”

His name, indeed, was Abdulah, and he was called Dulah. But believe me, it was embarrassing to see a grown-up man, with the appearance I described before, refer to himself by name. It was even worse when hearing him lisp in the middle of a sentence.

“But Umi might not be comfortable in a new house,” snapped his other sister.

“It’s true, in addition to the many memories of Father in this house, Umi also holds religious study groups here, which provide her with entertainment at her old age.” Now, the brother started talking.

Dulah rose. “Entertain? It might be entertainment for you all, becauth you already have everything! All of you are thelfith! You…” Unable to finish his sentence, he sat down. Sobbing, he covered his face with his hands.

His siblings, who sat across from him, remained silent, while his mother, who sat next to him, seemed confused. Maybe she was at odds about dealing with a situation like this, especially because her mind was still troubled by Dulah’s statement a week ago.

After being single for eight years, her youngest son made the announcement that he wanted to remarry, with complaints. He had never been happy, he said, and now, he wanted to enjoy life before he was too old. Ustazah Nung — that’s what the neighbors called Dulah’s mother — had become even more worried when she found out who her son wanted to remarry.

Once he stopped crying, Dulah continued. “You never think about Dulath wretched life, hith lonelineth, hith not having a family, not having anything!”

“We all think about your life, and you are free to marry any bitch you desire,” his oldest sister said. “But we absolutely do not agree with your proposal to sell this house. We also need to think about Umi’s life!”

“Umi will be fine!” Dulah cried. “You all are exaggerating! Right now, real estate priceth are high; what are you waiting for? Do you have the heart to thee Dulah thuffering like thith for many yearth to come? If thith continueth, Dulah will walk naked in front of the houth!”

In the end, Ustazah Nung made a decision. Firmly, she said, “I will sell this house and divide the proceeds according to your rightful share of inheritance.” The old woman’s voice cracked with emotion.

***

Let me tell you now how Abdulah lost his two front teeth — and a few other things.

If Dulah were not so stupid, his front teeth and marriage might still be intact. But he was too stupid to keep either.

It all started with a young woman named Lola, Dulah’s first love. He had been head-over-heels in love with Lola since high school. Abdulah was a senior, and Lola was a tenth-grader, but they graduated at the same time because Abdulah had to repeat two years of school. (Abdulah had repeated school years before; two times in elementary school and once in junior high.)

During the three years that Abdulah and Lola were schoolmates, he didn’t succeed in making Lola his girlfriend. Lola’s willingness to always accept anything he gave her, be it money or presents, was enough to make him happy. Abdulah was jubilant when Lola asked him every week for spending money. He considered this a sign that she was willing to be his wife.

“I agree, Lola is a beautiful girl,” said Ustazah Nung when Abdulah asked her to ask Lola’s mother for Lola’s hand, six months after they graduated from high school. “But I don’t think she’s a good girl. I’ve often seen her smoking in Bu Maneh’s stall.”

“Lola is Dulah’s first love, no one can replace her,” Abdulah replied.

With great reluctance, Ustazah Nung finally went to Lola’s house to convey Dulah’s marriage proposal to Lola’s mother. But Ustazah Nung went home with bad news for her beloved son. Lola was already betrothed to a businessman who owned a travel agency. They were to be married the following year.

Abdulah became depressed and often brooded. Ustazah Nung worried about his condition for almost two years, until one day, one of her sisters came to visit and brought along a woman named Hilda.

“She is my friend’s daughter,” said Ustazah Nung’s sister, as she introduced Hilda to Abdulah. “She is from Tasikmalaya and came to Jakarta to find a job.”

Six months later, Abdulah and Hilda married.

Ustazah Nung sold a piece of land to finance the wedding and gave the remainder of the money to Abdulah to use as capital to open a goat meat satay stall on Otista Street.

Contrary to the expectations of many people who knew him, Abdulah succeeded in managing his stall. Day by day, the number of customers to his Warung Sate Kambing Bang Dulang goat meat satay stall increased. In two years, Abdulah had the confidence to purchase a car on credit.

And at that time, Lola showed up again in his life. Two years of marriage were apparently not enough to douse Dulah’s flame for Lola, his first love.

Lola, who had not married the travel agency owner or anyone else, came to Dulah’s stall. “Your satay is delicious,” she said when she paid for the satay.

“You don’t need to pay,” said Abdulah, shaking.

Lola handed him two pieces of paper: one, a 50,000 rupiah bill; the other, a note with her cell phone number.

Abdulah trembled like someone suffering from Parkinson’s disease when Lola deliberately brushed her finger across his hand, which was soaked with cold sweat. Abdulah quickly put the two pieces of paper into the drawer and forgot to give Lola the change.

Less than two weeks after that encounter, village rumors ran rampant that Abdulah and Lola had been seen together. According to hearsay, Abdulah had given Lola spending money. Supposedly, Abdulah had also purchased Lola’s new scooter.

The rumors finally reached Hilda’s ears.

One Sunday afternoon, Abdulah went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Hilda, who was washing a wok, asked, “Is it true what people are saying about your relationship with Lola?”

It is hard to know what was going on inside Abdulah’s head. Initially, he didn’t say anything. He merely glanced at Hilda and looked out of the window for a while. But after his wife said, “Just tell me the truth. I would rather hear it from you,” Abdulah blurted out everything.

Abdulah confirmed all the rumors people were spreading. He ended his confession, smiling. “Maybe Dulah still loves Lola.”

The back of the wok hit Abdulah’s mouth with such force that it broke his two front teeth.

Hearing the uproar, Ustazah Nung, who was resting in her bedroom, hurried to the kitchen. Seeing Abdulah’s bloody mouth, she screamed.

That night, Hilda returned to Tasikmalaya and never returned.

Meanwhile, Lola chose to leave the village.

People said she stayed with one of her cousins in the city. Supposedly, she worked at a restaurant that had karaoke entertainment, and she came home, once a month.

***

Once again, Abdulah became depressed and often fretted. He neglected his satay stall, and it closed three months later. Not long afterwards, two debt collectors visited his house and confiscated his car.

During the following years, Abdulah mostly wasted his time by smoking, wandering through the house, and moving from one chair to another. Every time his mother suggested that he remarry, he responded by shaking his head.

Until one night, eight years later, after several weeks of primping in front of the mirror trying to hide his baldness with a comb-over, Abdulah approached his mother and said that he wanted to marry Lola.

Abdulah said that he had seen Lola several times during the past month. Lola, who was now a widow, had told him that she loved him and wanted him to be the new father for her only son. Abdulah’s eyes filled with tears when he told his mother that the three-year-old boy, after only a short time of knowing him, already called him “Papa.”

***

“It is perfect!” exclaimed the real estate agents familiar with the properties in the surrounding area of Ustazah Nung’s house. The size was perfect, the deed “clean.” The old house was located right on Jalan Raya Kampung Melayu Besar, an arterial thoroughfare. The property frontage was 98 feet, while the depth was 164 feet — excellent for the site of a four-story building. Many four-story buildings had already been built to the left and right of Ustazah Nung’s house.

The land developers had repeatedly asked Bang Sanip, the old real estate broker who controlled the market in that area, about Ustazah Nung’s house.

Bang Sanip knew the history of almost every property in the area. After the construction of the flyover to downtown three years ago, the properties had become the target of every land developer and speculator. Their value had skyrocketed. Most of the property owners chose to sell their land and move to the suburbs, where land value was much lower. Ustazah Nung was one of the few inhabitants who had chosen to remain and keep her inherited property.

“This is a golden opportunity; the price is attractive,” Bank Sanip had urged Ustazah many times. “You could buy a new house, go on a hajj, a pilgrimage. The rest of the money could be deposited in a shariah, an Islamic bank, and would last for more than seven generations.” Bank Sanip and two of his brokers were now on their third visit to Ustazah’s house.

“I still like to live here,” answered Ustazah Nung.

Bang Sanip and the brokers left Ustazah Nung’s house. They had finished drinking the water she served them, but their mouths were still dry. They had spent almost an hour trying to persuade Ustazah Nung to sell her house, but the veiled woman didn’t seem to know anything else to say than, “I still like to live here.”

Ustazah Nung’s brief response to his long-winded persuasions frustrated Bang Sanip. Both of his brokers, who had been tasked to confirm everything he said, were also frustrated. They felt that all of their short affirmations — such as, “that’s true,” “exactly,” and “precisely” — that they had interspersed in Bang Sanip’s speech had not influenced the outcome of the situation at all.

Once outside the fence of Ustazah Nung’s house, Bang Sanip turned around and glanced at the old house. Ahh, such, such valuable real estate, if only the owner were not repeating the same sentence over and over again, “I still like to live here.”

It was then that Bang Sanip saw Abdulah walk out of the house.

While adjusting his sarong, Abdulah headed to the old couch in the corner of the porch. He sat down and pulled up his legs before lighting a cigarette. He looked disheveled, like someone who had not slept for days.

Suddenly, Bang Sanip wiped his mouth, hiding a smile. An image of Lola filled his head. Scurrying, he caught up with his two brokers. He quickly told them about the treacherous love affair of Abdulah and Lola.

Bang Sanip knew where to find Lola, and he also knew what the woman needed right now.

That night, the real estate brokers held a meeting that lasted till the break of dawn.

***

Kisah Cinta Perempuan

Ranang Aji SP menulis fiksi pertama kali di majalah berbahasa Jawa, berjudul Unjuk Rasa (Mekarsari, 1992). Sejak itu cerpennya telah diterbitkan oleh Media Indonesia, Pikiran Rakyat, Kompas, Jawa Pos, Kedaulatan Rakyat, DetikHot, BPP Balairung UGM, Sastra Banua, Banjarmasin, dan Minggu Pagi. Sejumlah puisinya diterbitkan Minggu Pagi dan Kompas[dot]Com. Menerbitkan buku kumpulan cerpen Serigala yang Berzikir Di Akhir Waktu (Penerbit Nyala, 2018).

Tahun 2011 bersama sosiolog Universitas Airlangga, Novri Susan, mendirikan media digital KoranOpini[dot]Com. Tahun 2018, bersama seniman Ugo Untoro, Topan dan Adi mendirikan jurnal seni budaya Jurnal Lembar terbit triwulan di bawah Yayasan Museum dan Tanah Liat Yogyakarta (2018).

Ranang bisa dihubungi di ranangajisuryaputra@gmail.com

Terbit bulan Juni 2019. Hak cipta ©2019 ada pada Ranang Aji SP. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2019 ada pada Oni Suryaman.

 

 

Kisah Cinta Perempuan yang Diberkati Kiai Kambali

 

Di sebuah kota kecil, Pati, di pesisir utara Jawa, ada seorang perempuan muda nan cantik dan kaya, selalu menjadi perbincangan hangat dalam masyarakat. Baik itu di rumah-rumah, saat para ibu tengah berkumpul untuk arisan, kondangan, atau hanya sekedar ngobrol tentang kutu rambut Yu Giman –atau juga di jalanan,  tempat para pengangguran berkumpul di malam hari, mengutuki nasib sembari menikmati sebotol ciu oplosan. Semua itu berkat Kiai Kambali yang budiman dan sakti setengah mati. Kisahnya seperti ini.

Menurut cerita, Kiai Kambali yang berdiam di wilayah utara Jawa, adalah guru dari para guru di dunia jin dan manusia. Jika dia berjalan di antara jalan atau pematang sawah menuju gedung utama di daerah pondoknya yang luas, dapat dipastikan dia diiringi oleh seribu jin yang siap melayaninya sebagai tuan guru yang dimuliakan. Hal itu bisa disaksikan oleh semua mahluk di dunia, kecuali manusia.

Meskipun usianya masih tergolong muda, sekitar empat puluhan tahun, tapi karena keberhasilannya mendapatkan sesobek dari ribuan halaman kitab Ratamalsya, milik Nabi Sulaiman (yang semoga damai bersamanya), tiba-tiba dia menjadi menguasai pengetahuan alam jin dan alam manusia. Kemampuannya ini jelas dinilai sangat luar biasa karena banyak orang suci dari seluruh dunia memburu kitab tersebut tanpa hasil.

Hasil jerih payahnya itu diperoleh di sebuah gua di tepi Sungai Silugonggo–setelah mengalahkan jin penguasa setempat dalam sebuah pertarungan maut yang disaksikan oleh para jin dan arwah-arwah suci para guru. Dengan hasil itu, dia kemudian mendapatkan ijazah atas penasbihan gurunya, seorang kiai yang memiliki ijazah dari guru lain dari Kalimantan yang berguru pada guru-gurunya sampai pada Syekh Hussein bin Hussein dari Iran yang langsung berguru pada budak  Sulaiman (yang semoga damai bersamanya), dari sebangsa jin. Berkat ilmu ilmu kesaktian, dan kitab yang dimilikinya itu, Kiai Kambali menolong banyak orang.

Ketika seorang perempuan muda nan cantik datang padanya, untuk meminta petunjuknya agar kehidupannya berubah dari ketiadaan menjadi melimpah ruah, Kiai Kambali yang memiliki sifat kasih sayang, pada perempuan itu memerintahkan muridnya Jafar, mahluk dari kalangan jin, untuk melihat kemungkinan di dunia ini yang mampu mengubah nasib perempuan itu.

Maka, Jafar segera pergi dan kembali secepat kilat dengan membawa berita yang diinginkan.

Perempuan muda nan cantik itu, kemudian diperintahkan untuk menanam tanaman hias. Tapi ada syarat-syarat yang harus dipenuhi oleh perempuan cantik itu.

“Kamu harus menyiapkan ruangan khusus yang terkunci dan tak boleh dibuka lagi,” ujar Kiai Kambali dengan suara yang tegas.

“Untuk apa, Kiai?” Perempuan muda itu bertanya polos.

“Tidak bertanya tentang syarat adalah bagian dari syarat.” Kiai Kambali berkata sembari tersenyum.

Perempuan itu mengangguk mengerti, dan menerima syarat itu dengan rasa patuh disertai dada penuh gemuruh.

Beberapa bulan kemudian, perempuan muda nan cantik itu, datang kembali dan membawa kabar gembira. Dia menceritakan dengan rasa suka cita bahwa semua tanamannnya dibeli orang dengan harga yang tinggi –bahkan melebihi harapan harga lukisan para seniman di pasar. Kehidupannya sekarang berubah tajam. Dia mampu membeli tanah yang luas, rumah dan mobil yang bagus dan mengembangkan usahanya. Tapi masalahnya, katanya, saat ini ia dia tak memiliki suami.

Mendengar itu, kiai yang penuh kasih sayang pada perempuan itu tersenyum. Dia meminta perempuan muda nan cantik itu menunggu. Kali ini, sang maha guru memerintahkan muridnya  yang lain, juga dari kalangan jin, bernama Bendro, untuk membantu perempuan itu.

Bendro, murid pilihan itu pun segera pergi dan kembali secepat kedipan mata manusia serta mengatakan sesuatu yang hanya bisa dipahami semua mahluk di dunia, kecuali manusia.

Setelah itu, Kiai Kambali meminta perempuan muda nan cantik itu mendekat padanya. “Semua ketetapan hanya ada pada Allah Sang Maha Kuasa. Hanya Allah Yang Maha Pengasih yang akan memberimu jodoh. Apakah kamu siap diberi jodoh oleh Tuhan sendiri?” Kiai Kambali bertanya dengan nada bijak.

Perempuan muda nan cantik itu dengan kepasrahan yang penuh, mengatakan sungguh bahagia bila bisa mendapatkan jodoh atas pilihan Tuhan Yang Maha Bijaksana.

Mendengar suara perempuan itu, Kiai Kambali tersenyum. Perempuan itu dipersilakan pulang dan melakukan upacara di depan kamar khusus sembari puasa mutih, yaitu tidak makan semua yang berasa kecuali nasi dan air putih selama tujuh hari tujuh malam.

Ketika upacaranya selesai, di pagi hari setelah itu, perempuan itu menemukan seorang pemuda tengah duduk bersimpuh di depan teras rumahnya. Tubuhnya kotor dan berbau seperti sampah yang menumpuk tahunan. Dia segera memerintahkan pembantunya memberikan pemuda yang dia sangka sebagai pengemis itu uang seribu rupiah.

Namun pemuda itu tak mau menerimanya. Katanya, dia hanya ingin bekerja di rumah perempuan muda nan cantik itu.

Pembantunya menyampaikan keinginan itu pada majikannya.

Perempuan muda nan cantik yang tengah menikmati makanan buka puasanya, tak begitu menanggapi, dan hanya mengatakan silakan kapan-kapan saja kembali lagi. “Saat ini kita belum butuh,” ujarnya pendek.

Pembantunya menemui pemuda itu dan memintanya pergi setelah menyampaikan pesan majikannya. “Kembali saja kapan-kapan, siapa tahu, mungkin kamu beruntung,” katanya.

Seminggu kemudian pemuda itu datang lagi dan mengatakan meminta pekerjaan.

Kali ini, perempuan muda itu yang langsung menemuinya. Tetapi, karena setengah jijik melihat penampilan pemuda itu, dia langsung menolaknya dengan halus.

“Saya bisa mengurus tanaman,” pemuda itu mencoba menyakinkan.

Tapi, sekali lagi perempuan muda nan cantik itu menolak.

Pemuda itu lantas pergi, tapi kemudian dia kembali lagi –bahkan bolak-balik tanpa jera hingga beberapa minggu kemudian. Kunjugannya yang terakhir, tepat di saat pembantu perempuan muda nan cantik itu menyatakan berhenti bekerja.

Karena perempuan itu sedang membutuhkan tenaga, terpaksa dia memutuskan untuk menerima pemuda itu bekerja di tempatnya. Dia memberikan tugas mengurusi semua tanaman hiasnya.

Menyadari keputusannya ini, perempuan muda nan cantik itu menjadi berpikir dan mulai kuatir, jangan-jangan pemuda inilah yang diberikan Tuhan Yang Maha Pengasih kepadanya. “Ya Allah, apa dosaku,” keluhnya. Dalam hatinya dia marah dan menolak tegas pemuda dekil itu sebagai jodohnya. Maka, dia menjaga jarak agar tak selalu bertemu.

Suatu malam, tanpa bisa ditahan karena kegelisahan dan rasa muak, dia memutuskan mendatangi Kiai Kambali untuk meminta nasihat.  Namun, sebelum sampai di pelataran pondok, tiba-tiba matanya seperti melihat pemuda dekil itu di sebuah gubuk tengah sawah bersama seorang perempuan. Hatinya menjadi semakin kaget bukan kepalang karena ternyata perempuan itu sama persis dengan dirinya. Di sana, dia melihat mereka tengah berbincang mesra selayaknya kekasih. Jantungnya berdebar kencang. Dengan perasaan yang diliputi ketakutan, tapi juga rasa penasarannya, dia memaksakan diri untuk mencoba melihat lebih dekat. Namun, ketika kakinya hendak melangkah, tiba-tiba bayangan itu menghilang.

Karena semakin takut, akhirnya dia memutuskan kembali ke rumah.

Pikirannya kacau.

Hatinya dibingungkan oleh apa yang ia lihat.

Mengapa pemuda itu ada bersama perempuan yang mirip dengan dirinya di gubuk sawah Kiai Kambali? Apakah dirinya tengah mengalami penampakan?

Semakin lama merenungkan, semakin dia merasa kuatir. Bila benar bahwa pemuda dekil itu adalah orang yang dikirim Kiai Kambali, maka seharusnya dia mau menerima. Jika tidak pasti akan membuatnya mendapatkan bencana, pikirnya.

Setelah lelah memikirkannya, perempuan muda nan cantik itu akhirnya membuat kesimpulan, bahwa pemuda dekil yang bekerja untuknya itu mungkin orang yang dikirim oleh Kiai Kambali. Untuk itu, dia seharusnya menemui dan memperlakukannya dengan baik.

Esok harinya dia ingin bicara pada pemuda itu untuk memastikan kemungkinannya, tapi sebelum sempat bertemu,  pintu rumahnya diketuk oleh seseorang. Masih dengan perasaan yang tumpang tindih, dia membukakan pintu untuk melihat siapa yang datang berkunjung. Agak terperangah, karena tamunya kali ini adalah seorang pemuda yang bersih lagi tampan, dengan wajah mirip Kiai Kambali.

“Jafar, Bu… Saya Jafar,” kata tamunya memperkenalkan diri. Pemuda itu mengaku ingin membeli beberapa bunga untuk kebutuhan pernikahan.

Tanpa bertanya siapa yang akan menikah, segera saja dia memanggil si pemuda, untuk mengurus itu semua.

Dalam beberapa hari Jafar kembali datang untuk keperluan yang sama.

Ketika Jafar datang suatu malam untuk ketiga kalinya, mereka menjadi semakin akrab dan perasaannya tiba-tiba merasa terpikat.

Perempuan muda nan cantik itu mulai berpikir bahwa pemuda bernama Jafar ini adalah jodohnya, bukan pemuda dekil yang bekerja padanya. Hari-hari berikutnya kepalanya dipenuhi dengan lamunan asmara. Dia bahkan telah bertekad untuk menikahi Jafar. Keputusannya ini akan dia sampaikan pada Kiai Kambali, sekaligus memohon agar diberi doa mantra asmara sebagai cara memudahkan jalannya.

Perempuan muda nan cantik itu kemudian menemui pembantunya, si pemuda dekil, sebelum berkunjung ke pondok Kiai Kambali.

Namun, saat dia berbicara, tiba-tiba dia merasakan perasaan yang aneh, semacam perasaan yang sama seperti rasanya terhadap Jafar. Bahkan, dia juga melihat wajah pemuda itu nyaris sama dengan muka Jafar, sekaligus mirip Kai Kambali. Diliputi perasaan yang aneh,  bergegas dia datang untuk menemui Kiai Kambali di pondoknya.

Ketika bertemu Kiai Kambali, gurunya itu memandangnya dengan penuh kelembutan.

Sinar matanya yang teduh itu membuat hati perempuan muda itu seperti berada dalam dekapan kedamaian yang penuh cinta di musim bunga. Keadaan itu membuatnya lupa apa yang mesti dia sampaikan. Tersesat dalam perasaan yang aneh seolah masuk dalam sebuah lilitan tanpa ujung, perempuan muda nan cantik itu akhirnya hanya mengatakan bahwa dirinya siap menikah.

Pernyataannya itu membuat Kiai Kambali tersenyum penuh arti. “Bagus kalau seperti itu,” ujar Kiai Kambali lembut. “Kau boleh masuk di dalam kamar yang terkunci sekarang,” tambah Kiai itu.

“Kapan, Kiai?”

“Kapan saja.”

Saat pamit, perempuan muda nan cantik itu ingat apa yang hendak disampaikannya, tetapi kemudian dia urungkan niatnya itu,  karena hatinya tiba-tiba dibebani oleh keinginan yang sama terhadap Kiai Kambali. Seperti hasratnya terhadap Jafar dan pemuda dekil itu. Sepanjang perjalanan pulang, batinnya terasa tumpang tindih, pikirannya tak tentu arah. Tetapi ia mencoba membuat keputusan.

Ketika malam tiba, perempuan muda itu ingat pesan gurunya, bahwa dia bisa membuka pintu kamar khusus yang selama ini terkunci. Maka, didorong oleh rasa penasaran, dibukanya pintu kamar yang selama ini terkunci rapat.

Begitu masuk ke dalam kamar, tiba-tiba seluruh kesadarannya adalah semua jenis kebahagiaan seorang perempuan yang memimpikan pernikahan. Dia melihat dirinya bersanding berjajar di tengah-tengah diapit bersama Jafar, pemuda dekil dan Kiai Kambali. Dalam sebuah pelaminan yang indah itu, matanya seolah-olah melihat bunga-bunga yang berasal dari kebun bunganya. Di dalam pesta itu tampak pula dayang-dayang yang berdiri berjajar di depan pelaminan. Tubuhnya bergetar, sulit sekali rasanya benaknya memahami itu semua. Dengan perasaan yang seperti diayun-ayun, dia mencoba bertanya mengapa bisa menikahi tiga pria sekaligus dalam seketika. Tapi seluruh pertanyaannya itu tiba-tiba lenyap begitu saja ketika dirinyaerasakan betapa seluruh hasrat, rasa senang dan bahagianya telah mencapai puncaknya tanpa bisa dipungkiri. Ketiga pria itu baginya sama saja.

Tak ada yang bercerita bagaimana perempuan muda nan cantik itu berbagi ranjang.

 Cerita yang ada adalah, dia hidup bahagia berlimpah kekayaan bersama tiga suami yang tak pernah disaksikan secara nyata oleh masyarakat sekitarnya.

Demikianlah, kisah perempuan muda nan cantik itu terus diceritakan, dengan tambahan bumbu-bumbu yang setiap waktu bisa berubah rasa dan ceritanya, oleh para ibu yang terpesona dan cemburu dengan keberuntungan perempuan muda nan cantik itu. Juga oleh para pemuda pengangguran yang nestapa dan tak bahagia karena ditolak cintanya, dan juga karena kemiskinan yang mendera. Kisah itu terus diucapkan, setiap saat, setiap waktu dan ketika mereka sempat.

Sebagian dari mereka yang memiliki nyali, kemudian datang untuk melihat kebenarannya di kebun bunga yang diurus oleh pemuda cakap mirip Kiai Kambali dan mengaku bernama Bendro. Terkadang Jafar.

Sebagian masyarakat yang lain, berbondong-bondong mendatangi pondok Kiai Kambali untuk meminta mantra-mantra tertentu agar bernasib sama seperti perempuan muda nan cantik itu. Sebagian yang lain, bahkan  nekad pergi ke gua di tepi Sungai Silugonggo untuk bertirakat, meniru laku Kiai Kambali, dengan harapan mendapatkan kesaktian yang mampu menaklukkan dunia yang keras ini. Semua itu berkat kisah cinta perempuan yang diberkati Kiai Kambali. Seorang kiai, yang bila berjalan, selalu diringi seribu jin –yang semua itu, bisa dilihat oleh semua mahluk di dunia ini kecuali manusia.

***

 

 

 

 

 

The Lovesick Lady

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lovesick Lady

 

In Pati, a small town on the northern coast of Java, lived a beautiful, rich, young lady.

She was often the talk of the neighborhood in people’s homes, when women gathered for an arisan — a gossipy social gathering that included a money game –, wedding, or just small talk, such as the lice in Yu Giman’s hair. She was also the talk on the street, when the unemployed men gathered at night, cursing their fate while enjoying a bottle of diluted alcohol. Kiai Kambali, a powerful and kindhearted holy man was the cause of it all. The story goes like this.

Kiai Kambali, who also lived in the northern part of Java, was the master of masters in the realm of jinn and human beings. When he walked on the road or across the rice field to the main building of his vast estate, he was always accompanied by a thousand jinns ready to serve him as their revered master. These jinns were visible to all beings in the world — except humans.

Although he was still relatively young, around the age of forty, Kiai Kambali had succeeded in obtaining a fragment from one of the thousands of pages of The Book of Ratamalsya, which belonged to the Prophet Sulaiman (Peace be upon Him). Kiai Kambali’s achievement received high acclaim, because holy men from around the world had failed in their search to find this book.

Kambali received his divinity in a deadly duel, after he defeated the jinn that lived in a cave by the Silugonggo River. Their battle was witnessed by all the jinns and spirits of the masters. After his victory, Kambali was ordained by a master who had been ordained by another master from Kalimantan, who had learned from his masters, who, in succession, led all the way back to Sheikh Hussein ibn Hussein from Iran, who had received instructions directly from the slave of Prophet Sulaiman (Peace be upon Him), a jinn. Blessed by a supernatural power and the possession of a torn page from The Book, Kiai Kambali helped many people.

When a beautiful young lady came to him and asked for guidance on how to change her destitute life into one of wealth, the merciful Kiai Kambali asked his disciple Jafar, a jinn, to look for ways to change the lady’s fate.

Jafar departed immediately and quickly returned with the answer.

Kiai Kambali then ordered the beautiful young lady to return home and grow decorative plants and flowers. But there were rules she had to obey.

“You must prepare a special room, which should then be locked and not opened again,” said Kiai Kambali firmly.

“What for, Kiai?” the young lady asked, innocently.

“Not questioning the rules is part of the rules,” Kiai Kambali said with a smile.

The lady nodded. She obediently carried out the instructions with a pounding heart.

Several months later, the beautiful young lady came again to Kiai Kambali with great news. She had sold all of her plants for a high price — even higher than some of the paintings at the marketplace. Her life had changed dramatically. She now could afford to buy a large piece of land, a beautiful house, and a nice car.  She also could expand her business. But, she said, her current problem was that she didn’t have a husband.

After listening, Kiai Kambali, who was filled with love for the beautiful lady, smiled. He asked her to wait. This time, he ordered Bendro, another of his jinn disciples, to help.

Bendro departed immediately and returned in a flash. He spoke to Kiai Kambali in a way that every being in the world could comprehend — every being except humans.

After Bendro finished, Kiai Kambali asked the beautiful young lady to come closer. “All has been destined by God Almighty. Only God the Merciful can grant you a husband,” Kiai Kambali said knowingly. “Are you ready to receive a husband from God Himself?”

The beautiful young lady, with total acceptance, said she would be happy to receive a husband who was chosen by the All-Wise God.

After hearing the lady’s response, Kiai Kambali smiled again. He told her to go home and observe a mutih fast, a ritual that meant she could not eat anything but white rice and water for seven days and seven nights, in front of the special room she had locked and not opened again.

The morning after the ritual was finished, the beautiful young lady found a young man sitting cross-legged on the porch of her house. He was unwashed and reeked like a pile of rotted garbage. Thinking he was a beggar, the lady immediately ordered her servant to give the man one thousand rupiahs.

But the man would not accept the money. He said he only wished to work as a house servant for the beautiful young lady.

The servant delivered the man’s message to the lady.

The beautiful young lady, who was enjoying breaking her fast with a meal, did not pay any attention and said to tell the man that he could return another time. “We do not need any help right now,” she said tersely.

The servant went back to the man. After he delivered the lady’s message, the servant asked the man to leave. “Come back some other time,” he said. “Who knows, you might have better luck.”

A week later, the man came again and said that he was looking for a job.

This time, the young lady met him herself. Disgusted by his appearance, she politely refused him.

“I could help you take care of the plants,” the young man said, trying to convince her.

But once again, the beautiful young lady denied him.

The man left, but for several weeks, he kept coming back, again and again. His last visit happened to coincide with the same day that the lady’s gardener quit.

Because she now needed help, she had no choice but to hire the man. She tasked him with taking care of all of her decorative plants.

After her decision to hire him, the beautiful young lady started to worry that this dirty man might be the husband who God the Merciful had chosen for her. She sighed. “Oh, God, what sin have I committed?” Deep in her heart, she was angry and vehemently rejected the notion that this dirty man was her match. To avoid any contact with him, she kept a distance.

One night, her unbearable restlessness and repulsion of the dirty man drove her to visit Kiai Kambali again for advice. But as she crossed the rice field, before reaching Kiai Kambali’s courtyard, she suddenly saw the dirty man with a woman in a shanty that stood in the middle of the rice field. She became even more surprised when she noticed that the woman looked exactly like her. The dirty man and the woman in the shanty were engaged in a seemingly intimate conversation and looked just like lovers.

Her heart racing, overcome by fear, and driven by curiosity, the beautiful young lady forced herself to take a closer look. But before she could take another step, they vanished.

Growing more fearful, the beautiful young woman decided to go home.

Her mind was in turmoil. She was confused by what she had seen. Why were the dirty man and a woman who looked exactly like her, in a shanty in Kiai Kambali’s rice field? Was she hallucinating?

The longer she thought about it, the more worried she became. If the dirty man had indeed been sent by Kiai Kambali, she should receive him. Failing to do so would be disastrous.

Troubled by her thoughts, the beautiful young lady came to the conclusion that Kiai Kambali had possibly sent the dirty man to her. Therefore, she should receive him and treat him well.

The following day, she went to talk to the dirty man to ascertain the possibility. But before she had a chance to meet him, there was a knock on the door. She opened the door with mixed feelings and was dumbfounded. This time, her guest was a clean and handsome man, who looked like Kiai Kambali.

“Jafar, my lady … My name is Jafar.” After the young man introduced himself, he said he wanted to buy some flowers for a wedding ceremony.

Without asking who was getting married, the lady called for the dirty man to take care of Jafar’s request.

Several days later, Jafar came again for the same purpose.

One night, Jafar came for the third time. He and the beautiful young lady became closer, and she suddenly felt attracted to him.

The beautiful young lady started to think that Jafar might be her match, not the dirty man who worked for her. During the following days, she was preoccupied with thoughts of love. She even decided to marry Jafar. She wanted to tell Kiai Kambali about her decision and, at the same time, ask for a love spell to smooth her way.

Before visiting Kiai Kambali again, the beautiful young lady went to see her helper, the dirty man.

But this time when she spoke to the dirty man, something strange happened. She noticed that she had the same feelings toward the man as she had for Jafar. She also noticed that the man not only looked like Jafar, but also like Kiai Kambali. Overcome by this strange feeling, she rushed to Kiai Kambali’s house.

When she saw Kiai Kambali, he looked at her tenderly.

His gentle gaze made the young lady feel as if she were being held in a loving, peaceful embrace during the flowering season. It made her forget why she came. Feeling lost in a seemingly never-ending spiral, the beautiful young woman finally said that she was ready to marry.

Kiai Kambali smiled meaningfully. “That is wonderful,” he said gently, then added, “Now you can enter the locked room.”

“When, Kiai?”

“Any time.”

As she said goodbye, she remembered her reason for coming, but her heart had suddenly filled with a desire for Kiai Kambali — the same desire she felt for Jafar and the dirty man. All the way home, her heart was in turmoil and her thoughts were scattered. Still, she tried to make a decision.

When night came, the young lady remembered that Kiai Kambali had said she could now open the locked room. Driven by a great curiosity, she unlocked the room.

Once inside the room, her mind filled with the happiness of a woman dreaming of her marriage. She saw herself sitting with Jafar, the dirty man, and Kiai Kambali. On the beautiful bridal platform, she saw all the flowers from her own garden. Many handmaids also stood around the platform. Confused and unable to comprehend what was happening, she shuddered. How could she have married all three men at the same time? But when her desire, joy, and happiness, reached an undeniable intensity, all of her questions vanished. For her, the three men were the same as one.

There are no stories about the young beautiful lady sharing her marital bed. The story only tells us that she lived happily, in great wealth, with three husbands who were never seen by her neighbors.

Thus, the townspeople of Pati told the story of the beautiful young lady again and again.

Sometimes, women who were impressed by but jealous of this lucky young lady told the story and spiced it up with details that changed some of the tale.

Sometimes, idle young men who were poverty-ridden and miserable because of unrequited love told this story, whenever they could.

Some, who were brave enough, went looking for the truth in the flower garden that was tended by a dirty young man who looked like Kiai Kambali. The man sometimes said his name was Bendro, and at other times claimed to be Jafar.

Others flocked to Kiai Kambali’s estate to ask for spells so they could have the same luck as the beautiful young lady. Some even dared to visit the cave by the Silugonggo River to meditate. They hoped to gain supernatural powers to overcome the hardship of their world.

All of this happened because of a love story about a lady blessed by Kiai Kambali, who always walked in the company of a thousand jinns — which are visible to all creatures in the world except humans.

***

Ketuk Lumpang

Muna Masyari, lahir di Pamekasan, Madura, Jawa Timur, pada 26 Desember 1985. Dinobatkan sebagai penulis Cerpen Terbaik Kompas 2017, atas cerpennya yang berjudul ‘Kasur Tanah’. Tulisan-tulisannya termaktub dalam antologi “Munajat Sesayat Doa”, 2011, “Rumah Air”, 2011, “Lafaz Cinta di Ambang Gerhana”, 2011,Tanah Air”, 2016, “Kasur tanah”, 2017. Cerpen-cerpen lainnya juga tersiar di Harian Kompas, Jawa Pos, Tempo, Media Indonesia, Horison, Republika, Suara Mendeka, Jurnal Nasional, Femina, Nova, Pikiran Rakyat, Sinar Harapan, dan media-media lainnya. Baru saja menerbitkan buku kumpulan cerpen “Martabat Kematian” (Sulur Pustaka, 2019).

Muna bisa dihubungi melalui masyarimuna@gmail.com.

Hak cipta ©2019 ada pada Muna Masyari. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2021 ada pada Junaedi Setiyono.

 

 

Ketuk Lumpang

Bibir Arsap menyungging seolah mengejek. Matanya tak lepas menatap orang-orang yang menyaksikan Marinten mengetukkan alu ke bibir lumpang. Sakit hati Arsap terobati sudah. Bara di dadanya padam tersiram.

Bulan alis mengintip dari balik pelepah janur. Petromaks mendesis-desis di langit beranda rumah, dikerubungi serangga. Sepasang paha sapi yang sudah dikuliti digantung sungsang di beranda dapur. Bau dupa tertindih bau satai bakar yang meruap terbawa angin.

Semula, irama ketuk lumpang yang berseiring dengan gemerincing tutup tempolong kuningan terdengar sumbang. Antara ketukan Marinten dengan lainnya tidak selaras. Bukan irama yang biasa dimainkan saat pembuatan dodol, penyembelihan sapi, panen raya maupun pada saat mengabarkan duka ketika ada yang meninggal dunia.

Ada rasa berbeda yang tercipta. Semakin didengar, menyerupai irama kabar duka, namun ketukan alu lebih halus dan patah-patah. Lain waktu, iramanya menghentak cepat. Tutup menangan bergemerincing nyaring serasa dalam semarak panen raya. Lalu melirih perlahan seperti terpagut angin.

Arsap tahu, itu bukan kesalahan semata. Pemainnya merupakan kesatuan kelompok yang diketuai Marinten, yang dikenal mahir dalam memainkan macam-macam irama ketuk lumpang. Sudah dikenal di penjuru kampung. Jika ada hajatan, orang-orang biasa mengundang mereka. Tidak mungkin Marinten keliru memimpin kawan-kawannya memainkan irama.

Marinten, selain mahir memainkan irama, perempuan itu memiliki daya pikat melebihi kawan-kawannya, dan membuat orang selalu tertarik mengundang. Dengan mengenakan sampir batik bercorak kembang cengkeh, kebaya bunga-bunga, rambut disanggul miring berhias untaian kembang melati, Marinten berhasil mencuri perhatian di setiap acara. Meskipun berdandan seadanya, Marinten tetap terlihat cantik. Sederhana namun memesona. Ada yang bilang, Marinten memiliki daya pikat yang diwariskan ibunya.

Menurut cerita orang-orang, dulu ibu Marinten juga pandai memainkan ketuk lumpang. Irama yang dimainkan mampu melepas lelah saat panen raya, menyemarakkan suasana dalam acara perkawinan maupun khitanan, dan bisa membuat orang terhanyut kesedihan saat dimainkan untuk mengabarkan duka.

Bila ada acara hajatan yang mengundang dirinya, para undangan segera datang berduyun-duyun. Bunyi ketukan alu yang beradu dengan gemerincing tempolong kuningan seolah menyihir mereka untuk segera hadir. Yang semula berhalangan, tetap mengusahakan hadir demi melihat ibu Marinten mengetukkan alu bersama kawan-kawan dalam memainkan irama ketuk lumpang.

Sama dengan Marinten, ibunya juga menjadi pusat perhatian para undangan maupun orang-orang yang hadir sekadar menonton. Banyak pemuda kampung terpikat dan terkagum-kagum pada kecantikan serta kemahiran ibu Marinten dalam memainkan ketuk lumpang. Kemampuan itulah yang ditularkan pada Marinten.

Setiap panen raya maupun musim perkawinan, Marinten dan kelompoknya tak pernah sepi undangan. Bahkan ada yang terpaksa ditolak karena waktunya berbenturan.

Akan tetapi, irama yang dimainkan Marinten sekawan malam ini sungguh berbeda. Iramanya kadang terdengar sedih, marah, lalu tiba-tiba berirama kacau sebagaimana orang yang tengah dilanda putus asa.

Sebagaimana perhatian para undangan, mata Arsap tak lepas dari sosok Marinten di halaman. Dia menikmati kacaunya irama ketuk lumpang yang dimainkan perempuan itu sebagai irama kemenangan, membayar kekalahan.

***

Malam merangkak perlahan. Ketukan alu dan gemerincing tutup tempolong kuningan semakin jelas terdengar. Bau satai bakar kian meruap. Undangan dan penonton tidak ada yang beranjak meskipun irama yang dimainkan Marinten sekawan tidak sesuai dengan acara, dan cenderung kacau. Bayi-bayi lelap dalam gendongan ibunya.

Arsap menghisap batang rokoknya dalam-dalam, lalu mengembuskan perlahan. Asap bergulung-gulung, melayang ke udara. Puntung rokok menumpuk di pinggir tatakan cangkir. Wajik dan dodol masih tersisa empat kerat di piring.

Pantang bagi lelaki direndahkan oleh perempuan! Arsap tersenyum pongah dalam hati.

Penolakan lamaran oleh ibu Marinten telah membakar hati Arsap. Ditolak tanpa alasan sungguh suatu penghinaan! Padahal dia dan Marinten sudah mengikat hati sejak keduanya menginjak remaja.

Maka, dengan darah mendidih, Arsap pun meminta pada ayahnya agar dicarikan seorang perempuan yang bersedia dinikahi secepatnya. Maksar, yang semula sudah keberatan Arsap melamar Marinten, mencari calon menantu dengan segera.

Begitu Maksar menemukan perempuan yang dirasa cocok dinikahi Arsap, mereka pun melamarnya. Sesuai kemauan Arsap, tanggal pernikahan dimusyawarahkan secepat mungkin.

Tidak lebih dari dua pekan sejak ibu Marinten menolak lamaran Arsap, tanggal baik pun ditetapkan. Arsap sengaja mengundang Marinten memainkan ketuk lumpang pada malam menjelang pernikahannya. Tentu untuk menyirami bara di hati. Untuk menunaikan penghinaan yang ditanggungkan oleh ibu Marinten.

Bunyi ketuk lumpang terus bertalu. Bau dupa yang baru dibakar sebagai ganti yang sudah mati datang menyerbu. Sebagian para ibu yang bertugas menyiapkan ragam masakan untuk undangan besok pagi masih sibuk di dapur.

Malam merangkak semakin lamban. Arsap dan ayahnya masih menemani para kerabat dan undangan di beranda. Maksar tampak bergembira dengan tawa yang kadang membahak di sela-sela obrolannya. Dodol dan wajik tinggal dua kerat. Cangkir-cangkir sudah menyisakan ampas.

Tiba-tiba Arsap melihat kemunculan Kakek Samulla di halaman dengan sebatang rokok mengepul terjepit di sela jarinya. Jalannya melambat memerhatikan Marinten dan kawan-kawan.

Mau apa lelaki tua itu, pikir Arsap. Dia menyikut lengan ayahnya. Tawa Maksar terhenti seketika, mengikuti arah pandangan Arsap. Maksar menatap Kakek Samulla dengan mata tak suka.

Langkah Kakek Samulla terhenti sebentar, mengamati Marinten yang tengah memainkan ketuk lumpang dari jarak yang cukup dekat. Tak segera naik ke beranda untuk menemui tuan rumah. Tatapannya aneh. Cara menghembuskan asap rokok perlahan dari mulutnya memberi kesan ada suatu kepahaman yang berhasil diraba.

Dada Arsap rusuh menggemuruh. Dia pernah diceritai ayahnya tentang sosok tua itu.

***

“Memalukan!” Ibu Marinten marah-marah menyambut kedatangan anaknya.

Daun pintu ditutup lagi dengan kasar. Dari tadi ibu Marinten tidak bisa memejamkan mata mendengarkan bunyi ketuk lumpang yang dimainkan Marinten di rumah Arsap.

Marinten diam. Perempuan itu nyelonong masuk, mengempaskan pantat pada kursi kayu dengan wajah layu. Dia melepas untaian kembang melati di sanggulnya.

“Bagaimana kamu bisa memainkan irama sekacau itu? Bukankah kau sudah mahir memainkan irama untuk acara perkawinan?” pertanyaan Ibu Marinten masih bernada gusar meskipun suaranya sedikit kurang jelas.

Sambil mengunyah sirih-pinang, Ibu Marinten mondar-mandir di depan anaknya. Sesekali membuang ludah pada kaleng bekas berisi abu tungku di dekat kaki lincak. Wajahnya mengeras. Bibirnya basah dan merah. Lalu mencecar Marinten lagi dengan pertanyaan-pertanyaan yang tak tuntas dia pikir sejak tadi. Kemarahan dimuntahkan.

“Kenapa pula teman-temanmu ikut bermain tak karuan? Seharusnya kalian menyelaraskan irama satu sama lain!”

Marinten tidak menyahut.

“Itu pasti gara-gara kamu! Pikiranmu ke mana-mana!”

“Bukankah Ibu yang mengajariku memainkan ketuk lumpang dengan menyatukan jiwa dan pikiran? Menghayati penuh perasaan. Dalam acara gembira, kita harus bermain dengan jiwa riang. Begitupun sebaliknya. Dengan begitu, irama yang kita mainkan akan mampu menyentuh hati siapa saja yang mendengar. Menggiring mereka pada kedalaman jiwa dan rasa yang sedang kita hayati. Bukankah begitu?”

“Betul. Lalu kenapa yang kaumainkan tadi iramanya jadi seperti itu? Seharusnya kau memainkan dengan jiwa bahagia.”

“Aku sudah memainkan ketuk lumpang dengan jiwaku. Jadi tidak ada yang perlu kusesali.”

“Kamu diundang untuk acara pernikahan, bukan kematian!” suara ibu Marinten meninggi.

Geraham Marinten bergesekan. “Apa aku harus bahagia dengan perkawinan Kak Arsap?” dia bangkit, menatap ibunya lekat-lekat, lalu menggeleng keras. “Tidak, Bu!”

“Dasar bodoh! Kau menyesal karena aku menolak lamaran Arsap?”

“Beri aku alasan, kenapa Ibu menolak lamarannya?”

“Dia tidak baik untukmu. Kau boleh menikah dengan siapa pun asal bukan dengannya!”

“Dengan siapa pun?” Senyum Marinten menyeringai mengejek, belum yakin ibunya tidak akan menjilat ludah sendiri.

“Ya! Dengan siapa pun!” ibu Marinten menegaskan.

Dagu Marinten sedikit terangkat, “Baik, kalau begitu, besok pagi aku akan ke rumah Kakek Samulla, menerima lamarannya untuk menikahiku!” Marinten meninggalkan ibunya begitu saja.

Ibu Marinten tercekat di tempat. Kunyahan pinang-sirih di mulutnya terhenti. Sekian detik matanya tak berkedip meskipun punggung Marinten sudah lenyap di balik pintu.

Sementara Marinten merebahkan tubuhnya ke lincak. Mengempaskan napas. Pikirannya mengawang. Marinten sudah tahu dengan alasan apa ibunya menolak lamaran Arsap. Antara Kakek Samulla, Maksar dan ibunya, ternyata pernah terlibat suatu persoalan.

Dulu, Maksar dan Kakek Samulla sama-sama menyukai ibu Marinten. Keduanya sering mencegat ibu Marinten di jalan ketika pulang dari undangan. Dua lelaki yang beda usia itu berebut akan melamar ibu Marinten. Namun ibu Marinten menjatuhkan hatinya pada Maksar. Selain lebih muda, lebih gagah dan tampan, Maksar juga pintar meramu kata-kata manis. Kakek Samulla yang saat itu sudah hampir berkepala empat, tidak berdaya atas pilihan ibu Marinten.

Maksar merasa memeroleh kemenangan tanpa harus berperang. Dia berniat melamar ibu Marinten secepatnya. Namun orangtua Maksar justru tidak setuju karena ibu Marinten dikabarkan memiliki susuk pemikat, dan mencarikan perempuan lain.

Kakek Samulla berang. Dia tidak terima Maksar menyia-nyiakan ibu Marinten begitu saja dengan tuduhan yang belum tentu benar adanya. Terjadi pertengkaran sengit antara mereka berdua. Hampir saja terjadi carok, adu celurit.

Marinten yakin, menolak lamaran Arsap merupakan suatu cara ibunya untuk membalik cerita masa lalu. Membayar sakit hati pada keluarga Maksar yang selama ini dipendamnya. Kalaupun dia menyuruh Marinten memenuhi undangan mereka memainkan ketuk lumpang, biar kesannya seolah tidak pernah terjadi apa-apa.

Marinten meringis. Begitu manis ibunya bersandiwara. Geraham Marinten kembali bergesekan. Tatapannya menggantung ke langit-langit kamar.

Sepulang dari undangan tadi, Kakek Samulla mencegat Marinten di jalan. Dari lelaki tua  yang belum pernah menikah hingga sekarang itulah Marinten mendengar kisah masa lalu ibunya, dan mendapatkan kesimpulan, mengapa ibunya menolak lamaran Arsap.

***

Dahi Marinten mengerut begitu membuka pintu, dia mendapatkan alu yang digunakan semalam telah patah jadi tiga dan berserakan di beranda. Buru-buru Marinten berlari ke dapur. Sepi. Mulut tungku masih dingin membisu. Marinten juga tidak melihat parang yang biasanya disandarkan pada palang kaki lincak.

Dada Marinten berdegup kencang. Kembali dia berlari ke beranda. Memungut dua patahan alu dengan hati cemas.

Kabut tipis masih bergelayut di dahan-dahan pohon kelapa. Marinten menatap jauh ke jalan.

***

Requiem for a Wedding

Penulis pemenang penghargaan Junaedi Setiyono, lahir di Kebumen pada 16 Desember 1965, menyelesaikan pendidikannya dari sekolah dasar sampai sarjana di Purworejo. Pada 2013 dia memperoleh beasiswa untuk bimbingan disertasinya di Ohio State University Amerika Serikat selama empat bulan. Dia menyelesaikan doktornya dalam bidang Pendidikan Bahasa di Universitas Negeri Semarang pada 2016.

Pada 2006 naskah novelnya berjudul Glonggong memenangi Sayembara Menulis Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, dan setelah diterbitkan Serambi, 2007, novel tersebut menjadi Finalis Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2008. Novelnya yang kedua, Arumdalu, (Serambi, 2010) masuk sepuluh besar Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2010. Pada 2012, naskah novelnya yang ketiga, Dasamuka, kembali memenangi Sayembara Menulis Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta, dan kemudian diterbitkan oleh Penerbit Ombak pada 2017. Pada tahun yang sama, novel tersebut diterjemahkan ke dalam Bahasa Inggris oleh Maya Denisa Saputra dan diterbitkan oleh Dalang Publishing di California, USA. Novel ini pemenang Penghargaan Sastra 2020 dari KEMDIKBUD.

Setiyono dapat dihubungi lewat alamat surelnya: junaedi.setiyono@yahoo.co.id

 ***

 

 Requiem for a Wedding

 

Arsap sneered as he watched the people gathered around Marinten, tapping the lip of her bowl-shaped vessel with her alu, wooden pestle, making music with her band outside in his yard. He had recovered from his heartache, and the fury inside him had subsided.

A waning moon peeked out from behind the fronds of a coconut palm. A hissing kerosene lamp on the veranda attracted insects. Two steer hindquarters hung upside down from the rafters of the kitchen porch, curing. The fragrance of incense and roasting satay wafted in the wind.

At the beginning of Marinten’s performance, the rhythm of the large wooden pestles hitting their vessels, along with the clanking brass lids, seemed off. Marinten and the other performers were not in sync. The tune they were supposed to play tonight was different from the music they played when making dodol, a sweet toffy-like confection, or the music they played when livestock was slaughtered for a special occasion or the music they played to celebrate a harvest of crops or to express sympathy.

This music created a different atmosphere. The arrangement seemed to convey a condolence, but the tap of the alu was softer and irregular. At other times, the tapping was quick and punctuated. Then, accompanied by a loud crashing of the cymbals, the music sounded like a piece played during a harvest celebration. But next, the music tapered off, becoming softer and softer, as if it were carried by a breeze.

Arsap knew that the peculiarity in the rhythm was not caused by human error. The players constituted a music group led by Marinten. She was known in her village as a skilled musician capable of playing various rhythms of ketuk lumpang, a Madurase way of making music using brass spittoon lids along with wooden mortars and pestles. Marinten’s band was usually asked to perform at all the gatherings in the village. It was impossible that Marinten had made a mistake in directing her fellow musicians.

Aside from being a competent musician, Marinten was charming, which made people want to invite her to play. Although Marinten dressed plainly, she still looked beautiful. Wearing a clove-flower patterned batik shawl and a flowered kebaya, an Indonesian long-sleeved blouse, with her hair put up in a slanted chignon and decorated with strands of jasmine, Marinten caught people’s attention during every occasion. Her appearance was simple, but attractive. Some people said that she had inherited her mother’s charisma.

According to hearsay, Marinten’s mother had once been known as a skilled ketuk lumpang musician too. It was said that her tapping could relax tired muscles after a big harvest, liven up the atmosphere during a wedding celebration or circumcision ceremony, and console mourners drowning in their sadness at a funeral.

When Marinten’s mother was invited to play at a circumcision ceremony, the invited guests thronged to the event, as if the music of tapping pestles and clanking brass lids enticed them to rush to the occasion. Even those who already had other obligations made arrangements so they could come for the sake of watching Marinten’s mother when she and her friends performed the ketuk lumpang music.

Like Marinten, her mother had been the center of attention, not only from the invited guests, but also from people who came without an invitation. Many young men in the village were attracted to her beauty and amazed at her competence in playing ketuk lumpang. Marinten had inherited all of these attributes.

During every harvest and wedding season, Marinten and her musicians never lacked for invitations to play. They even had to turn down some invitations when dates overlapped one another.

But this night, the music that Marinten and her group played was quite different. The music sounded sad, then angry, then suddenly chaotic, like a cadence played by someone in despair.

Like the other guests, Arsap could not take his eyes off Marinten’s figure in the middle of his yard. He enjoyed listening to the incongruous rhythm of the ketuk lumpang music, and he considered Marinten’s off-beat performance as retribution for his defeat.

***

The night moved on slowly. The tapping and the clanging of the brass tops became more apparent. The aroma of satay roasting on the hot grills filled the air. Even though the music Marinten and her group played was not in accordance with the occasion and tended to be off-key, people still stayed to listen. Babies slept soundly in the warm safety of their mothers’ slings.

Arsap took a deep drag on his cigarette and then exhaled slowly. The smoke rose coiling into the air. His cigarette butts were piled up on the edge of his saucer. Four pieces of wajik, an Indonesian sweet made of glutinous rice, and dodol remained on a serving platter.

A woman is not supposed to underestimate a man! Arsap thought arrogantly.

Marinten’s mother’s refusal of Arsap’s wedding proposal to Marinten had made him very angry. To be refused without any reason was quite a humiliation. In fact, he and Marinten had been in love since they were teenagers. Consequently, Arsap asked his father, Maksar, to find him a girl who was willing to be married immediately.

Maksar, who had also objected to his son proposing to Marinten, immediately started looking for a prospective daughter-in-law. As soon as Maksar found a girl he considered an appropriate wife for Arsap, Maksar proposed to her for his son.

They set the date for Arsap’s wedding less than two weeks after Marinten’s mother had refused Arsap’s proposal.

Arsap intentionally invited Marinten to perform ketuk lumpang on the night before his wedding. The invitation was meant to snuff the hot humiliation, anger, and heartache that had fueled his heart and to retaliate against Marinten’s mother.

While the sounds of the ketuk lumpang continued, the scent of a new block of incense that had replaced the burned one drifted through the house. In the kitchen, women remained busy preparing various kinds of food for the wedding guests.

The night dragged on. Arsap and his father mingled with their relatives and guests on the veranda. Maksar seemed happy, his laughter interspersing the conversations. Now, there were only two pieces of dodol and wajik left and only coffee dregs remaining in the cups.

Suddenly, Arsap noticed the arrival of old man Samulla in the yard. Holding a burning cigarette between his fingers, the old man walked slowly while watching Marinten and her group play.

What is the old man doing here? Arsap wondered. He nudged his father’s arm with his elbow.

Maksar followed Arsap’s gaze, and abruptly stopped laughing. He frowned, looking at old man Samulla.

Samulla stood still for a while, watching Marinten from a near distance as she played the ketuk lumpang. He didn’t walk to the veranda to see the host. He had a strange look in his eyes. The way he slowly exhaled the cigarette smoke from his mouth gave the impression that he had gained some kind of truth.

Arsap’s heart pounded in his chest. Some time ago, his father had told him about that old man.

After the performance was over, Marinten walked home. She saw Samulla waiting for her at the roadside. The old man, who had never married, told Marinten her mother’s story. Now Marinten understood why her mother had refused Arsap’s proposal.

***

That night, Marinten’s mother could not fall asleep. Sitting by a window, she kept hearing the discordant sounds of ketuk lumpang music that her daughter was playing at Arsap’s wedding celebration.

Suddenly, she heard the door being pushed open and then slamming shut. Without any greeting, Marinten stomped into the house and dropped herself on one of the wooden chairs. Sulking, she removed the strands of jasmine from her hair and loosened her chignon.

“Shame on you!” Marinten’s mother approached her daughter angrily. “How could you mess up that badly? Don’t you know how to play wedding music?”

Chewing on a wad of betel leaves, Marinten’s mother paced in front of her daughter. Every so often, she spat betel juice into a can that contained ashes from the earthen stove, sitting near the leg of a bamboo bench. Her face hardened as she bombarded Marinten with questions that had been bothering her for some time.

“Why did your musician friends follow your lead? Everyone knows you should harmonize the rhythm with one another!”

Marinten didn’t respond.

“I am sure that you caused the performance to fail. Your thoughts were everywhere except on what you were invited to do!”

“Was it not you, my mother, who taught me to unite my soul and thoughts when I play ketuk lumpang? You said that we have to instill all our feelings in our music. For a happy occasion, we must play with gladness in our soul, and the other way around. Thus, the music we play can touch the hearts of our audience. The music will enable them to reach the depths of their souls and experience the feelings we are instilling. Right?”

“You are right. So, then, why didn’t the music you play convey that? You should have played happy tunes!”

“My soul was in the music I played; there is nothing I regret.”

“You were invited to play at a wedding, not a funeral!”

Marinten gritted her teeth. “Am I supposed to be happy at Arsap’s wedding?” She rose from her seat, glared at her mother, then shook her head hard. “No, Mother!”

“How stupid you are! You are upset that I refused Arsap’s proposal to marry you?”

“Give me a reason why you refused his proposal.”

“He is not good enough for you. You may marry whoever you want except him!”

“Marry whoever I want?” Marinten grimaced.

“Yes! You may marry whoever you want to marry!”

Marinten threw her head back and laughed. “All right! Then, tomorrow I will go to old man Samulla’s home and accept his proposal to marry me!”

Marinten’s mother was struck speechless. She stopped chewing the wad of betel leaves in her mouth. She stared at Marinten’s back as her daughter vanished through the door.    

***

Marinten lay down on a bamboo bench. She slowly exhaled while her thoughts drifted to what Samulla had told her earlier that night ⸺ why her mother had refused Arsap’s proposal. It was a problem that involved Samulla, Maksar, and her mother.

A long time ago, according to the story, both Maksar and old man Samulla had courted her mother. Both of them often waited for her when she walked home from an engagement. The two men — one old, one young — competed for her mother’s hand.

Marinten’s mother had chosen Maksar. Not only was Maksar younger, brawnier, and more handsome than Samulla, but he was also a slick sweet-talker.

Samulla, who was almost forty then, did nothing to change her mother’s choice.

Maksar felt he had gained a victory without having to go to war. He made plans to propose to Marinten’s mother as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, Maksar’s parents didn’t agree. Going by a rumor that Marinten’s mother owned a susuk pemikat — a magic gold pin that could supposedly bewitch a man — Maksar’s parents made him marry another girl.

Samulla was furious when he heard what happened. He could not accept that Maksar had abandoned Marinten’s mother because of a rumor. The two men quarreled bitterly and almost fought each other with sickles.

Marinten was sure that refusing Arsap’s proposal was her mother’s way to settle her score with the past. It was her way to compensate for the hurt Maksar’s family had inflicted on her and that she had kept buried all this time. She had intentionally told Marinten to accept Maksar’s invitation to play the ketuk lumpang at Arsap’s wedding celebration in order to show his family that there were no hard feelings.

Marinten grimaced. Her mother had put on a big show. Marinten clenched her teeth and stared at the ceiling.

***

The next morning, Marinten frowned as soon as opened the doors to the veranda. The alu she had used the night before lay broken into three pieces on the floor. Marinten ran to the kitchen. It was quiet there. The hearth was still cold. The cleaver that was usually propped up against one of the legs of the bamboo bench was gone.

Her heart racing, she ran back to the veranda and anxiously picked up two pieces of the broken pestle.

The light fog still hung on the branches of the coconut tree. Marinten gazed down the road.

***

Rahasia Pak Dwija

G. Budi Subanar lahir di Yogyakarta tanggal 2 Maret 1963. Ditahbiskan imam dalam Serikat Yesus, 29 Juli 1994. Menempuh pendidikan Filsafat Sosial (S1) di Sekolah Tinggi Filsafat Driyarkara di Jakarta 1988, dan Misiologi – Ilmu Religi dan Budaya (S2 dan S3) di Pontifica Universita Gregoriana, Roma 2002. Saat ini menjabat Direktur Pascasarjana Universitas Sanata Dharma Yogyakarta. Sebelumnya, pernah menjabat Ketua Program Studi Magister Ilmu Religi dan Budaya. Dia juga mengajar di tempat yang sama. Romo Banar adalah seorang penulis fiksi maupun non-fiksi. Karya-karyanya antara lain: The Local Church in the Light of Magisterium Teaching on Mission. A Case in Point: The Archdiocese of Semarang Indonesia 1940–1981 (Casa Editrice L’Universita Gregoriana, Roma, 2001); Bayang-bayang Kota Pendidikan. Yogyakarta: Learning Society (Penerbit Universitas Sanata Dharma, 2007); Menari di Terra Incognita (Penerbit Kanisius, 2009); Soegija. Catatan Harian Seorang Pejuang Kemanusiaan (Penerbit Galang Press, 2012). Karya ini dibuat film oleh Studio Audio Visual PUSKAT (producer) dengan Garin Nugroho sebagai director; Kilasan Kisah Soegijapranata (Penerbit KPG Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia, 2012); Hilangnya Halaman Rumahku (Penerbit Universitas Sanata Dharma, 2013); Soegija A Child of Bethlehem van Java (Penerbit Universitas Sanata Dharma, 2015).

Hak cipta ©2019 ada pada G. Budi Subanar. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2019 ada pada Laura Harsoyo.

 

Rahasia Pak Dwija

 

Walaupun kami bertetangga telah cukup lama, Pak Dwija dan aku baru bersahabat setelah melayat bersama pada suatu hari pertengahan Agustus 1985. Pak Dwija pulang kantor lebih awal. Adi Malela, seorang mantan pejuang meninggal karena usia tua. Menurut desas desus, dia salah seorang teman Supriyadi, tokoh tersohor pejuang Pembela Tanah Air (PETA) yang melawan Jepang dalam pemberontakan 14 Februari, 1945. Kehadiran Pak Dwija di tempat melayat, membuka tabir hubungan antara dirinya dengan almarhum Adi Malela. Ternyata, keduanya selama ini punya sikap memegang rahasia sekuat baja. Dalam sambutan sebelum pemberangkatan jenasah, Pak Dwija menyingkapkan yang selama ini hanya diketahui sebagai desas-desus.

“Mari kita menundukkan kepala untuk kepergian Bapak Adi Malela. Jaman pendudukan Jepang, kami dipertemukan saat pelatihan di sekolah perwira di Bogor. Kami ditugaskan bersama di Blitar sampai dipercaya memimpin pasukan, memegang komando dengan katana, pedang Jepang. Itu tanggung jawab tidak mudah. Almarhum bersama saya memang pernah bersama-sama menjadi teman seperjuangan Supriyadi. Ini beban pengalaman yang kami tanggung berdua. Bahkan, gara-gara itu kami sama-sama diadili dan dihukum di Jakarta oleh tentara Jepang.” Pak Dwija tersedak. Dia membuang pandangangannya ke kejauhan sebelum melanjutkan kata-katanya, “Sekarang, Bapak Adi Malela sudah menyelesaikan hidup dan perjuangannya. Semoga beroleh istirahat abadi di hadapan Sang Khalik pemilik kehidupan.” Demikian sambutan Pak Dwija yang diungkapkan dengan suara berat dan terbata-bata.

Semenjak kematian tokoh pejuang itu, perangai Pak Dwija berubah seratus delapan puluh derajat. Dia tidak lagi hadir sebagai seorang bapak yang ramah dan riang. Wajahnya menjadi lebih banyak murung dan perangainya menjadi mudah gelisah.

Sering kali, sekitar tengah malam dari rumah Pak Dwija kerap terdengar teriakan-teriakan tidak jelas. Rumah kami bersebelahan dan kami terpaksa mendengarkannya. Beberapa tetanggapun berkata mendengar sangat jelas teriakan-teriakan itu.

Waktu-waktu berikutnya, saat sore hari, aku sering melihat Pak Dwija melamun di teras rumahnya pada saat aku melewati rumahnya dalam perjalanan pulang dari sekolah.

Salah satu sore seperti itu, sekitar sebulan setelah meninggalnya Adi Malela,  kudengar suara serak Pak Dwija memanggil pada saat kulewati rumahnya. “Nak Mas, mampir! Masih kuliah sejarah ya?” Pak Dwija agak berteriak.

“Ya, Pak,” jawabku dari luar pagar sambil turun dari sepeda. Pada saat itu, sedang pulang dari kampus. Semester akhir ini, aku  memang sedang disibukkan dengan penulisan skripsi tugas akhir bidang sejarah setempat  dengan berbagai usaha bertukar pikiran dengan dosen pembimbing. Pengolahan lapangan dan berbagai buku-buku bacaan yang ada sedang membutuhkan perhatian mendalam.

“Sini-sini, saya sedang butuh beberapa keterangan sejarah. Saya pengin mendengarkan kisah-kisah dari Masa Kerajaan Singhasari dan Majapahit. Siapa tahu bisa membantu saya.” Demikian kata Pak Dwija berharap padaku.

Demi rasa hormat padanya, kuikuti undangannya. Lama kami terlibat pembicaraan di teras rumahnya.

Sejak saat itu, Pak Dwija beberapa kali mengundangku untuk bercerita tentang sejarah kerajaan-kerajaan di wilayah Jawa Timur dan wilayah-wilayah Nusantara lainnya. Termasuk para penguasa dan beragam kisah di seputar masa-masa itu. Kebiasaan ini menjadi kesempatan bagiku untuk mengulang dan mengembangkan kuliah yang kuikuti dan mendalam pengertianku dari buku-buku yang sudah kubaca.

***

“Berkali-kali anak-anak di rumah serta putri sulungku dan suaminya memberi saran padaku untuk menuliskan pengalaman masa laluku. Setiap kali mereka membicarakannya,  aku diam. Aku menolak yang diminta oleh anak-anak dan menantuku untuk menuliskan pengalaman masa muda jaman itu.” Pak Dwija membuka percakapan. Dia seperti agak gelisah menempatkan diri pada kursi tempat duduknya. Sementara, aku duduk dengan kepala agak tertunduk sambil menunggu kalimat selanjutnya.

“Nak Mas tahu riwayat hidup Pak Adi Malela yang meninggal bulan lalu?” tanya Pak Dwija. Dia seperti  memeriksa lagi pengetahuanku tentang almarhum temannya.

“Saya tidak begitu mengenalinya, Pak. Kata beberapa tetangga dekatnya, beliau orang agak samar-samar, Pak,” jawabku berhati-hati.

“Apakah setelah kubeberkan pada saat pemakamannya semua menjadi jelas?” tanya Pak Dwija mencari tahu.

“Saya tidak banyak tahu. Katanya, Pak Adi itu menyimpan sebuah katana di rumahnya. Itu barang mahal, Pak. Ada orang yang membuat tiruannya dan memperdagangkannya. Benda pusaka yang dijadikan barang dagangan,” kataku sekenanya.

“Hush, jangan menyebut pedang samurai itu barang mahal.” Pak Dwija memalingkan pandangannya. Matanya yang keruh melayang seperti mencari sesuatu di kejauhan. Dia meremas-remas tangannya sambil bergumam, “Karena barang itu aku sekarang sering berteriak-teriak kalau malam.”

Ucapannya membingungkanku dan dengan tidak tahu bagaimana menanggapinya, aku hanya diam.

Pak Dwija berdehem beberapa kali lalu berkata, “Jadi, begini. Aku dan Pak Adi Malela itu dulu pernah menjalani pelatihan di rensetai, sekolah perwira untuk tentara PETA, Pembela Tanah air. Kami pernah menjabat sebagai seorang komandan kompi, chudanco istilahnya. Kami disapa Chudanco Adi Malela dan Chudanco Dwija. Kami bersama-sama di Batalyon Pendidikan Pembela Tanah Air di Daidan Markas Komando Blitar. Umur kami belum tigapuluh tahun saat itu.” Pak Dwija mulai bercerita. “Supriyadi pada saat itu menjabat komandan peleton, Shodanco. Sebenarnya kami atasannya…,” suara Pak Dwija pelan mendatar.  

“Oh, begitu ya Pak. Saya sama sekali tidak pernah mendengar sebelumnya,” kataku terus terang.

“Sstt, memang ini rahasia kami. Lebih dari empatpuluh tahun lamanya, kami hidup dengan rahasia kami. Kami bersikap memegang rahasia sekeras baja.” Pak Dwija mengungkapkannya dengan tegas, matanya memandangiku dalam-dalam.

“Semenjak sahabatku Chudanco Adi Malela meninggal, pertahananku jebol.  Seperti ada sebuah lubang yang menganga pada hidupku. Aku jadi banyak bermimpi buruk setelah kepergiannya. Pengalaman-pengalaman pahit yang selama ini kami simpan. Dihajar tentara Jepang habis-habisan. Ini gara-gara peleton Shodanco Supriyadi yang memberontak. Kami yang ada di tingkat kompi dan batalyon kena getahnya….” Suaranya Pak Dwija putus-putus. Badannya mulai gemetar. Dia meremas-remas tangannya seolah menenangkan dirinya sebelum memandangiku dengan tatapan putus asa.

“Ya, Pak,” jawabku. “Terima kasih saya boleh mendengarkan kisah sejarah Bapak di masa itu,” kataku lagi.

Setelah berdiam sesaat, Pak Dwija meneruskan percakapan. “Nak Mas lebih mendalami sejarah abad delapanbelas dan sembilanbelas ya?” Pak Dwija bertanya seperti mengalihkan pembicaraan. Dia sepertinya tertarik dengan tema skripsi tugas akhirku.

“Iya, Pak. Ini satu pokok besar baru yang sedang diperkenalkan. Ada beberapa pengajar kami yang punya keahlian di bidang tersebut.” Jawabku terus terang.

“Pantesan. Kalau aku tanya lebih mendalam dari masa Singhasari dan Majapahit, selalu mengatakan itu wilayah arkeologi karena terkait dengan peninggalan candi-candi. Atau, kemungkinan lain, menyebut sastra Jawa Kuna karena terkait dengan naskah-naskah sastra jaman itu. Mungkin, Nak Mas perlu tahu. Aku waktu sekolah guru dulu malah sempat mendapat pelajaran Jawa Kuna. Guru-guru kami masa itu masih senang mengajak murid-muridnya membuka tulisan-tulisan Adi Parwa bagian awal kisah Mahabarata dan sejenisnya. Sekarang malah Nak Mas sudah tidak mendapatkan kuliahnya.”

“Saya tidak tahu kalau dulu Pak Dwija jadi guru sekolah,” kataku menyela.

“Ya, memang tidak banyak orang tahu aku dulu guru sekolah. Itu sudah masa lalu,” katanya.

“Tapi, Pak Dwija  beruntung bisa membaca dan diajak mendalami sumber-sumber yang penuh ajaran budi pekerti dari warisan sastra Jawa Kuna. Sekaligus dengan sejarah-sejarah yang ada di sekitarnya. Sekarang, kami sudah dikotak-kotakkan, Pak. Arkeologi sendiri, Sastra Jawa Kuna sendiri, Ilmu sejarah juga dipelajari sendiri. Sepertinya tidak terkait satu sama lain. Perangkat bahasanya juga harus khusus. Untuk bidang sejarah menguasai Bahasa Belanda saja, saya perlu usaha setengah mati. Karena bacaan buku-buku dan dokumen laporannya sebagian besar berbahasa Belanda, belum lama saya baru bisa membaca sumber-sumber yang saya butuhkan.”

“Ya, Bapak sempat jadi guru beberapa tahun. Seorang guru muda sesuai namaku, Dwija Taruna. Tapi terputus dengan kedatangan tentara Jepang. Semua jadi kacau. Sekolah-sekolah diambil alih. Guru-guru ada yang dicalonkan jadi pelatih bela negara katanya. Jepang butuh orang yang mampu memimpin orang lain untuk mengurusi dan melatih para pemuda yang dikumpulkan dari berbagai daerah. Bapak bersama Pak Adi termasuk di antaranya. Kami dipaksa untuk membentuk pasukan rakyat yang menjadi mesin perang melawan Sekutu—dipaksa ikut menindas tenaga romusha, tenaga kerja paksa yang menderita untuk membangun jalan dan berbagai sarana tentara yang lain. Kami harus menutup mata terhadap kumiai, pemerasan dan perampasan harta rakyat dengan bermacam-macam pajak sehingga mereka semakin sengsara. Jaman serba sulit. Betul-betul serba sulit.” Pak Dwija menghentikan ceritanya sambil menerawang.

“Aku belum bisa melanjutkan ceritanya. Belum sanggup…. Mungkin masih butuh waktu untuk mencernanya kembali. Kenangan-kenangan pahit yang berseliweran. Dan, ah, siksaan-siksaan itu terlalu berat. Sungguh-sungguh di luar peri kemanusiaan.” Pak Dwija menghela nafas dalam-dalam.

Aku duduk diam, tidak berani menanggapi ungkapannya.

“Kapan-kapan akan kuceritakan lagi,” katanya menyudahi percakapannya.

Aku mohon pamit dari pertemuan sore itu.

Malam hari, aku mendengar teriakan-teriakan dari rumah Pak Dwija. Teriakan-teriakan yang tidak jelas. Aku tidak bermaksud untuk mencari tahu apa yang diteriakkannya. Tidak ada sepatah kata yang dapat kupahami. Entah, apakah Ibu Dwija atau putra-putrinya paham dengan teriakan-teriakan yang keluar dari mulut Pak Dwija.

Aku tidak bisa membayangkan kegelisahan Pak Dwija. Aku tidak bisa merasakan kecemasan Ibu Dwija dan putra-putrinya menghadapi malam-malam seperti itu.

Pagi harinya, seperti tidak terjadi apa-apa. Pak Dwija ke kantor hampir bersamaan dengan anak-anak yang berangkat ke sekolah atau kuliah. Dan Ibu Dwija juga berangkat ke pekerjaannya di rumah sakit.

Pembantu rumah tangga yang bertugas membersihkan rumah, mencuci pakaian, dan memasak, juga tidak merasa ada sesuatu yang perlu dikuatirkan. Dia mengerjakan segala sesuatunya seolah tidak terjadi apa-apa. Toh, dia sudah puluhan tahun mengabdi di keluarga Bapak Dwija Taruna.

Semua berjalan tanpa ada gejolak apa pun. Teriakan-teriakan Pak Dwija yang mengingau saat tidur malam, tentu akan lewat dan tidak perlu dikuatirkan.

***

 Seperti biasa, Pak Dwija telah menghadangku sepulang dari kampus. Kami duduk di teras berdua. Di tengah percakapan, lalu Pak Dwija mulai membeberkan lagi kenangan pahitnya. “Aku duluiadili tentara Jepang dalam Gunritsu Kaigi, mahkamah pengadilan militer di Jakarta. Termasuk almarhum Chudanco Adi Malela,” kata Pak Dwija menyela di tengah pembicaraan.

“Dari Blitar kami dibawa ke Jakarta. Bertruk-truk jumlahnya. Katanya dijanjikan tidak akan dilakukan tindakan apa pun. Ternyata kami dimasukkan di penjara. Pakaian kami dilucuti, sampai hampir telanjang. Beberapa komandan, termasuk almarhum Adi Malela dan aku ditempatkan secara terpisah. Kami dianggap sebagai tokoh-tokoh kunci yang merancang pemberontakan Februari itu. Anggota lainnya dikumpulkan di satu ruangan.

Iya, caranya tentara Jepang memaksa para pelatih PETA yang dikira terlibat dalam pemberontakan terlalu kejam. Aku dihajar dengan senjata sinai, batang bambu yang dibelah dan di dalamnya diisi per besi,” katanya lagi.

“Berat rasanya kehilangan Chudanco Adi Malela yang mengalami nasib sama. Selama ini dia menjadi sinar indah yang menerangiku. Dia menjadi sahabat yang hadir saat berbagai kesulitan melanda. Bahkan, saat beban keluarga akibat dari banyak anak yang harus kutanggung sehingga hampir menghancurkan diriku, dia membantu dan menguatkanku. Sekarang sepeninggalnya, terpaksa aku mengais-ngais lagi dan mengingatnya. Butuh usaha keras untuk bisa menuliskannya.”

Pak Dwija meninggalkanku di teras. Dia masuk ke dalam. Keluar lagi membawa satu amplop dan sebuah pedang katana.

“Dalam catatan ini,  kutulis hampir semua peristiwa yang bisa kuingat dan menghantuiku sepeninggal Chudanco Adi Malela. Memang belum bisa semuanya. Selama ini kami bisa menyimpannya, karena kami masing-masing bertindak tahu sama tahu. Sepeninggal dia, duh, rasanya peristiwa-peristiwa itu muncul tanpa kendali. Kata orang serumah, setiap kali di tengah tidur, aku berteriak-teriak tidak keruan. Putra sulungku pernah secara sembrono menyarankanku. ‘Pak, guncang-guncangan itu ditulis saja.’ Guncangan apa! Tahu apa dia dengan pengalaman-pengalamanku!”

“Ah, sudahlah,” katanya sambil seperti menepiskan sesuatu. “Ini ada beberapa catatan di sini. Ada juga beberapa gambar peta. Dan lukisan wajah Supriyadi. Silahkan, Nak Mas toh akan menjadi ahli sejarah. Jadi, pada Nak Mas catatan ini kuserahkan,” katanya sambil menyerahkan satu sampul berisi kertas-kertas.

Aku menerimanya  tanpa bisa berkata apa-apa. Hanya berkaca-kaca.

“Sstt, Nak Mas. Ini katana yang pernah kuceritakan dulu.” Pak Dwija memegangi sebuah katana yang sudah berkarat, sambil menunjukkannya padaku. Gagangnya masih kokoh, tak ada pelindung tangan di bagian pegangannya. Lalu Pak Dwija meletakkannya di atas meja. Pandangannya kemudian menerawang.

“Boleh saya melihat dan memegangnya?” tanyaku meminta ijin.

“Jangan. Kamu tidak paham. Itu bukan barang mainan,” kata Pak Dwija seperti bersalin tekanan suara daripada biasanya. Duduknya tegak. Tatapan matanya tidak mengarah kepadaku seperti kalau dia bicara dalam keadaan biasa.

“Kami sama-sama dihukum oleh pengadilan militer Jepang. Shodanco Supriyadi berhasil melarikan diri, menghilang dan memang tidak pernah kembali. Kami jajaran anggota batalyon yang menjadi atasannya, dan anggota PETA yang lain di bawahnya, harus menjalani pengadilan militer Jepang di Jakarta. Tentara Jepang itu terus menerus bertanya pada kami tentang keberadaan Shodanco Supriyadi. Siksaan-siksaan panjang yang mengiringi pelaksanaan  pengadilan itu, membuatku berteriak-teriak setiap malam. Aku tidak mampu menahannya sepeninggal Chudanco Adi Malelo.” Pak Dwija bercerita.

Aku diam tanpa menanggapi sepatah katapun. Aku juga tak berani memandangi Pak Dwija yang tetap duduk tegap di tempatnya.

“Maaf, Nak Mas. Mungkin aku masih harus menuliskannya lagi. Iya, anak-anak dan menantuku  telah menyarankannya. Silahkan, Nak Mas pulang.

“Ya, Pak. Terima kasih,” jawabku singkat.

“Saya menunggu cerita rahasia katana,” kataku sebelum pamit.

“Terima kasih,” kata Pak Dwija sambil berdiri. Dia berdiri tegap di sebelahku, seakan mengiringkanku segera beranjak dari tempat dudukku.

Aku beranjak dan  berdiri menghadap Pak Dwija. Menundukkan kepala dalam-dalam ke arahnya lalu pamit.

“Ya, silahkan,” jawabnya singkat.

***

Beberapa hari berlalu, aku lewat halaman rumah Pak Dwija tanpa dihadang oleh Pak Dwija. Biasanya dia memintaku singgah dan mengajaknya berbincang-bincang. Menanyai tugas skripsiku atau dia bercerita tentang pengalamannya. Aku merasa seperti ada sesuatu yang kurang.

Kisah katana sepertinya belum selesai diceritakannya. Masih ada yang kutunggu kelanjutan ceritanya. Ah, suatu ketika Pak Dwija pasti menceritakannya.

Suatu sore, Bu Dwija yang menghadangku. Dia mempersilahkan aku singgah.

“Nak Mas, tolong mampir sebentar,” katanya ramah.

Aku duduk di tempat biasanya. Bu Dwija masuk ke rumah dan keluar lagi dengan beberapa lembar kertas di tangan.

“Beberapa hari ini Bapak sakit, Nak. Sekarang juga sedang tidur. Beliau pesan untuk menyerahkan kertas ini pada Nak Mas. Bapak meminta Nak Mas membacanya di sini saja. Silahkan.” Katanya sambil menyerahkan kertas itu padaku.

Bu Dwija masuk rumah lalu kembali dengan membawa teh untukku.

Aku mulai membaca tulisan tangan Pak Dwija, Tulisan seorang guru pendidik sebelum kedatangan Jepang. Dengan bentuk-bentuk hurufnya yang berirama.

“Akhirnya, setelah hampir sebulan menjalani pemeriksaan, hukuman pengadilan militer Jepang dijatuhkan. Kami masuk penjara. Chudanco Adi Malela dan aku dihukum limabelas tahun. Lain-lain hukumannya beragam. Badan penuh bilur-bilur bekas siksaan. Bahkan dua gigiku tanggal. Kami tidak tahu akan seperti apa nasib kami selanjutnya.

Beberapa bulan setelah kemerdekaan, kami dibebaskan dari penjara. Chudanco Adi Malela dan aku bersepakat bersama-sama kembali ke Blitar. Beberapa orang di Blitar masih mengenali kami. Dua katana komando yang ada di bekas Batalyon Pendidikan Pembela Tanah Air di Daidan Markas Komando Blitar diserahkan kepada kami berdua. Mereka anak buah yang lolos dari pengadilan Jepang yang masih mengenali kami. Sungguh terharu kami dibuatnya.

Kami berdua sempat jadi Tentara Rakyat Indonesia berpangkat Letnan Kolonel. Ah, apakah pantas penghargaan itu. Jadi, kami bersepakat meninggalkan tugas pekerjaan militer. Masak, tentara Indonesia di sebuah negara merdeka punya anggota yang menyandang luka bekas siksaan tentara Jepang. Ah, hanya akan menjadi aib. Kami memilih kerja di jalur sipil. Masing-masing berpisah. Ternyata dipertemukan lagi di kampung ini. Sekarang, Chudanco Adi Malela telah mendahuluiku. Entah kapan giliranku.”

Sampai di situ tulisan Pak Dwija selesai.

Kupandangi kursi kosong di depanku. Di situ, Pak Dwija biasanya duduk. Meja di depanku juga kosong. Di meja itu Pak Dwija pernah menempatkan katananya.

Aku meletakkan kertas yang selesai kubaca. Perlahan-lahan, aku menyandarkan diri di kursi yang kududuki.

***

 

Mr. Dwija’s Secret

Laura Harsoyo dilahirkan di Makassar dan dibesarkan di Palembang dan Surabaya. Laura menyelesaikan kuliah S-1 pada tahun 1994 dari jurusan Sastra Inggris, Universitas Airlangga.

Laura suka membaca karya sastra dan tertarik untuk menulis fiksi. Sewaktu bekerja di dunia perhotelan selama 21 tahun, dia sempat menulis artikel kuliner untuk majalah kuliner Chef! di Jakarta. Dia juga bekerja sambilan sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk berbagai lsm yang harus memberi laporan kepada yayasan pendana.  Sekarang Laura khusus bekerja sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk nonfiksi maupun fiksi.

Laura dapat dihubungi di: harsoyolaura@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. Dwija’s Secret

 

Even though we had been neighbors for a long time, Mr. Dwija and I only became friends after we both attended the wake of another villager on a hot mid-August afternoon in 1985. Adi Malela, a war veteran, had died of old age. According to rumors, the departed was a friend of Supriyadi, a famous figure of the Defenders of the Fatherland (PETA) warriors who had fought Japan in the uprising on February 14, 1945. The presence of Mr. Dwija at the wake revealed the relationship between himself and the late Adi Malela. Apparently, both of them had vowed to keep their friendship a deep secret. In his eulogy at the wake, before departing for the burial, Mr. Dwija confirmed what had only been a rumor all this time.

“Let us bow our heads in honor of Adi Malela. We met during the Japanese occupation, in the military academy in Bogor. Together, we were assigned to Blitar, where we were trusted to lead the troops and enforce discipline with katanas, Japanese swords. It was not an easy responsibility. The deceased and I had indeed become Supriyadi’s sympathizers. This was an experience we shared. In fact, this was the reason we were both tried and convicted in Jakarta by the Japanese military.” Mr. Dwija cleared his throat and gazed into the distance before he continued in a heavy, shaky voice. “Now, Adi Malela has completed his life and struggles. May he receive eternal rest with the Creator of Life.”

After the death of the revolutionist Adi Malela, Mr. Dwija’s temperament changed one hundred and eighty degrees. He was no longer a kind and cheerful father. Most of the time, he looked depressed and was easily agitated.

Often, around midnight, shouts came from Mr. Dwija’s house. Because our house was next door, we were forced to listen. Some of the other neighbors said that they heard the shouts, too.

I often saw Mr. Dwija sitting on his porch when I passed by his house on my way home from school in the afternoon. He always seemed deep in thought.

One such afternoon, about a month after the death of Adi Malela, Mr. Dwija’s hoarse voice called out as I passed by his house. “Son, come by! You study history, right?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered from outside his fence while getting off my bicycle. I was returning from campus. Aside from exchanging and discussing ideas with my academic advisor during this final semester, I was also preoccupied with preparing my final thesis in the field of local history. Field work and a lot of reading material required my attention.

“Come, come, I need some historical information,” Mr. Dwija beckoned. “I want to hear stories from the era of the Singhasari and Majapahit kingdoms. Who knows, maybe that will help me.”

Out of respect, I accepted his invitation, and we engaged in a long conversation on the porch of his house.

After that day, Mr. Dwija invited me often to tell him about the history of the kingdoms in the East Java region and other regions of the archipelago, as well as give him information about the rulers and other various stories around those times. These visits became an opportunity for me to revisit and further develop the lectures I had attended and to deepen my understanding of the books I had read.

***

One day, Mr. Dwija started our conversation in an unexpected way. “Many times, my children tell me that I should write about my past experiences. I remain silent every time they bring up the idea. I refused their request to write down the experiences of my youth during that time.” Mr. Dwija seemed nervous about sharing this information with me.

I waited, with my head slightly bowed, for his next sentence.

“Do you know the life story of Mr. Adi Malela?” Mr. Dwija asked, as if checking how much I knew about his deceased friend.

“I didn’t really know him, sir,” I responded cautiously. “According to some of the closest neighbors, he was a rather peculiar person.”

“His story did not become clearer after all I revealed during the funeral?” Mr. Dwija asked.

“I don’t know much. Rumors have it that Mr. Adi kept a katana in his house. That is an expensive item, sir. There are people who duplicate and trade them. Heirlooms that are treated as merchandise,” I said abruptly.

“Hush! Don’t refer to a samurai sword as an expensive item.” Mr. Dwija’s cloudy eyes looked into the distance. Squeezing his hands together, he muttered, “It’s what often makes me scream at night.”

His statement confused me, and because I didn’t know how to respond, I kept quiet.

Mr. Dwija cleared his throat several times and then began his story. “So, here it is. Mr. Adi Malela and I once underwent training at Rensei-tai, a platoon commander school for PETA soldiers, Defenders of the Fatherland. We once served as chudanco, company commanders. We were addressed as Chudanco Adi Malela and Chudanco Dwija. We were assigned together at the Educational Battalion of the PETA at the Command Headquarters in Blitar. We were barely thirty years old then. At that time, Supriyadi was a platoon commander, a shodanco. We were actually his superiors …” Mr. Dwija’s voice trailed away.

“I’ve never heard that before,” I said truthfully.

“Shhh, this indeed was our secret,” Mr. Dwija said, holding my eyes firmly with his own. “For more than forty years, we lived with our secrets and kept things under wraps.

“My defense broke when Chudanco Adi Malela passed away,” Dwija continued. “He was my best friend. It seems that there is a gaping hole in my life. After his death, I have many nightmares about our bitter experiences, such as being beaten by the Japanese soldiers. Those of us at the company and battalion levels bore the consequences …”

Mr. Dwija began to tremble and his voice faltered. He squeezed his hands together as if trying to calm himself before sending me a sad look.

“Thank you for allowing me to hear your stories in of the past,” I said.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Dwija abruptly switched the subject. “You’re studying the history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, aren’t you?” He seemed interested in the theme of my thesis.

“Yes, sir. It is a new subject, and several of our lecturers have expertise in this field,” I answered candidly.

“No wonder. When I research deeper about the Singhasari and Majapahit eras, it is always said that they are an archeological site, due to the temple ruins. Or, Ancient Javanese literature is mentioned, as it is related to literary manuscripts of the era. Perhaps, son, you should know that when I was studying to become a teacher, I studied the Ancient Javanese language. Our teachers back then were happy to invite students to read the writings of Adi Parwa, the beginning part of the Mahabharata story, and the likes. It seems that now this course is no longer taught.”

“I didn’t know that you used to be a school teacher,” I interrupted.

“Yes, there are not many people who know that I was a school teacher. That was in the past.”

“But you were fortunate to read and be invited to explore the sources that are full of characteristic teachings from the Ancient Javanese literary heritage as well as the history around them,” I said. “Nowadays, the disciplines are separated, sir. Archeology is a separate subject; Ancient Javanese literature is another subject; and history is a subject of its own. It is as if they are not interrelated with each other. Being familiar with the language most information of each discipline can be found in is yet another requirement. For history, I had to make a great effort to master the Dutch language, as most of the books and documents are in Dutch. It was only recently that I was able to read the resource material I need.”

“Yes, I was a teacher for several years,” Mr. Dwija continued. “A young teacher, according to the meaning of my name. My teaching career was interrupted by the arrival of the Japanese troops. Everything got messed up. Schools were taken over. The Japanese needed people who could lead the others to take care of and train the young people gathered from various regions. Adi and I were among them. We were forced to form a people’s army to fight against the Allied forces – forced to join in suppressing the romusha, forced laborers, who suffered to build roads and army facilities. We had to turn a blind eye to kumiai, an extortion and deprivation of people’s properties through various taxes which made them even more miserable. It was a difficult time. It was really very difficult.”

Mr. Dwija halted while reminiscing, then said, “I can’t continue the story. I can’t. Perhaps I need more time to digest the bitter memories that are still haunting me. And, oh, those excruciating tortures were really beyond humanity.” Mr. Dwija took a deep breath.

I sat quietly, not daring to comment.

“I’ll tell you again, some other time,” he said, ending the conversation.

I asked to be excused and left.

That night, I heard screams from Mr. Dwija’s house. I couldn’t understand a single word, and I did not intend to find out. I wondered if Mrs. Dwija or their children understood what Mr. Dwija’s was screaming about. I couldn’t imagine Mr. Dwija’s anxiety, nor the anxiety that Mrs. Dwija and their children faced on such nights.

In the morning, it was as if nothing had happened. Mr. Dwija went to work, his children went to school, and Mrs. Dwija went to her job at the hospital.

The family’s housemaid, who was in charge of cleaning the house, washing clothes, and cooking, also did not seem worried about anything. She did her chores as if nothing had happened. After all, she had served Mr. Dwija’s family for decades. Everything continued as normal, as if Mr. Dwija’s delirious screaming during the night would certainly pass and did not need to be worried about.

***

As usual, Mr. Dwija was waiting for me when I rode my bike home from campus. We took a seat on the porch together. In the middle of our conversation, Mr. Dwija started to reveal his horrific memories. “I was tried in the Gunritsu Kaigi, the Japanese military court in Jakarta. So was the late Chudanco Adi Malela. From Blitar, we were transported by truck to Jakarta,” he paused; then continued, “They promised that nothing would happen to us, but we were put in prison. We were stripped of our clothes except for our underwear. Several commanders, including Adi Malela and me, were held separately. Other members were placed in one room. We were considered to be the key figures who had designed the February uprising.

“Yes, the Japanese soldiers were very cruel to the PETA trainers and instructors who were suspected of being involved in the rebellion. I was beaten with a sinai, a club made from a piece of bamboo that was split and filled with iron springs.”

Mr. Dwija paused, then continued. “It was hard to lose Chudanco Adi Malela, who suffered the same fate. All this time, he was like a beacon for me. He became a friend who was present when various difficulties struck. In fact, when the burden of raising so many children almost destroyed me, he helped and encouraged me. Now that he is gone, I have to dig up all those hardships and remember them. It takes a lot of effort to write them down.”

Mr. Dwija went inside the house, leaving me on the porch. When he returned, he held an envelope and a katana.

“In these notes, I have recorded almost all the incidents I can remember that have haunted me after the death of Chudanco Adi Malela. I still haven’t written down all of them. All this time, we kept these experiences to ourselves because each of us knew what we shared. But after he died, those terrible events appeared in my mind and dreams without warning. My family says that I always scream wildly in the middle of my sleep. My eldest son once casually advised me, ‘Dad, you should write down all those shocking memories.’ What shocks! What does he know about my experiences!”

“Ah, never mind.” Mr. Dwija brushed the memory aside. “Here are some notes. There are also several maps and a painting of Supriyadi’s face. Please, son, let me give you this since you will be a historian.” Mr. Dwija handed me the envelope filled with papers.

At a loss of words, I accepted them with glistening eyes.

“Shhh, son. This is the katana I told you about before.” Mr. Dwija showed me a rusty katana. The handle was still sturdy, although there was no hand guard. Mr. Dwija laid it on the table. His gaze wandered.

“Can I hold it?” I asked.

“Don’t!” Mr. Dwija said sternly. “Don’t you understand it is not a toy?” Mr. Dwija’s tone of voice was harsher than the way he usually talked to me. He sat up straight and did not look at me as he normally did when we spoke. He swallowed before continuing his story.

“We were both convicted by the Japanese military court. Shodanco Supriyadi had managed to escape. He simply disappeared and never returned. We battalion members, who were his superiors, and other PETA members, who served under him were all tried at the Japanese military court in Jakarta. The Japanese kept asking us about Shodanco Supriyadi’s whereabouts. The memory of the long tortures that accompanied the trial is what makes me scream at night. I am unable to bear the burden after the passing of Chudanco Adi Malela.”

I remained silent and did not dare look at Mr. Dwija, who remained seated rigidly in his chair.

“I am sorry, son. Maybe I should write more. Yes, my children and my son-in-law have suggested it. Please, son, go home now.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.” I said and added, “I’ll be waiting for the story of the katana.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Dwija rose and stood silently next to me, as if wanting me to move from my seat.

I too rose and, facing Mr. Dwija, bowed my head deeply towards him before saying goodbye.

“Yes, please,” he answered, briefly.

***

A few days passed, and I didn’t see Mr. Dwija on his porch when I biked by on my way home from school. Usually, he would ask me to stop for some conversation. He’d ask me about my thesis assignment or tell me about his experiences. I missed our talks.

And the story of the katana was unfinished. I was still waiting for the story to continue. Ah, one day Mr. Dwija would tell me the rest of it.

Then, one afternoon, Mrs. Dwija hailed me.

“Son, please stop by for a while,” she said kindly.

I sat at my usual seat on the porch.

Mrs. Dwija went into the house and returned with several pieces of paper in her hand.

“For the past few days, Mr. Dwija has been ill,” she said. “In fact, he is sleeping right now. He asked me to give you these papers, son. He asked that you read them here. Please.” She handed me the papers.

Mrs. Dwija went into the house, then returned with a cup of tea for me.

I began reading Mr. Dwija’s handwriting. Being a teacher before the arrival of the Japanese, the letters of his handwriting flowed with a certain rhythm across the page.

I read: “Finally, after a month of interrogations, a Japanese military court passed our sentence. Chudanco Adi Malela and I were sentenced to fifteen years in prison. Other penalties varied. Our bodies were bloody and scarred from lashings. Two of my teeth were broken. We didn’t know what our fate was going to be.

“A few months after the independence, we were released from prison. Chudanco Adi Malela and I agreed to return to Blitar. We hoped that someone in Blitar would still remember us. Two katanas, left in the former Defenders of the Fatherland Educational Battalion at the Daidan Blitar Command Headquarters, were handed to us. Those who had escaped the Japanese court still recognized us. We were truly moved.

“Both of us were offered the chance to be members of the Indonesian People’s Army with the rank of Lieutenant Colonel. We wondered if we were worthy of the position and decided to leave the military. How could the Indonesian army have members like us who were still traumatized by the torture of the Japanese soldiers? Ah, it would only be a disgrace. We chose to work in the private sector and went our separate ways, only to be reunited again in this village. Now that Chudanco Adi Malela has passed, I wonder when it’s my turn.”

There, Mr. Dwija’s writing ended.

I looked at the empty chair in front of me, where Mr. Dwija usually sat. I looked at the empty table, where Mr. Dwija had once placed his katana.

I put down the papers I had read and slowly leaned back in my chair.

***

Cerita di Balik Tenun Ikat

Fanny J. Poyk adalah lulusan Institut Ilmu Sosial dan Ilmu Politik Jakarta (IISIP), mulai menulis sejak tahun 1980an di berbagai majalah  dan suratkabar. Tahun 1994-2004 menjadi wartawan dan memimpin peliputan di Tabloid Fantasi, sebagai penasihat media di Kementerian Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan Direktorat Pembinaan SMA, menjadi Pemimpin Redaksi Majalah Sastra Komodo Courier dan Pemimpin Redaksi Majalah Orchid Magazine.  Fanny juga menulis cerpen untuk antara lain, suratkabar Jurnal nasional, Sinar Harapan, Suara Pembaruan, Pikiran Rakyat, Surabaya Post, Suara Karya, Timor Expres, dan Kompas. Cerpennya terpilih menjadi 20 cerpen terbaik pilihan Kompas 2016.

Fanny bisa dihubungi di poykfanny10@gmail.com,

Hak cipta ©2018 ada pada Fanny J. Poyk. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2018 ada pada Laura Harsoyo

 

 

Cerita Di Balik Tenun Ikat

Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh duduk termenung di depan rumah bebaknya yang terbuat dari anyaman bambu. Di depannya lima ekor babi dan ayam bergerak bebas ke sana-kemari. Beberapa ekor babi sudah dijualnya di rumah makan Bambu Kuning untuk dibuat menjadi daging se’i. Ya, daging asap khas kota Kupang, Nusa Tenggara Timur (NTT) itu, sangat laris dan disukai masyarakat sekitarnya. Beberapa ekor ayam kampung peliharaannya mati, konon ayam-ayam itu diracun orang karena Bapa Tua terlalu pelit untuk membagikan telur-telurnya ke penduduk sekitar.

“Eeee Bapa eee…itu ayam su batalor, kasih beta satu telur sa untuk sarapan ini pagi,” pinta Pinto Mauk, tetangga pengangguran yang doyan minum sofi, minuman berasal dari pohon lontar yang sudah diragi.

Bapa Tua marah sekali.  Hardiknya, “Lu pi sana, kerja cuma mabok mau makan enak terus!”

Pinto diam, namun di hatinya ia agak tersinggung. Dengan langkah limbung ia keluar dari rumah bebak Bapa Tua, berjalan ke kebun lontar milik David Taka. Dia hendak meminta satu buah gula lempeng yang dimasak isteri David, Mini. Lalu, keesokkan harinya, ayam-ayam Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh beberapa mati. Dan sasaran utama yang menjadi tertuduh, Pinto. Lelaki pemabuk sofi itu terbengong-bengong tatkala Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh menuduh dia yang membuat mati ayam-ayamnya.

Lu mangaku sudah, kamu yang membuat ayamku mati,” tuduh Bapa Tua.

Pinto berdiri, tapi masih terlihat limbung, pengaruh minuman keras sofi masih menghiasi otaknya. Matanya menatap Bapa Tua dengan kuyu. “Sambarang sabeta tidak membuat ayam-ayam Bapa mati. Beta cuma mau minta telor satu sa, tapi Bapa sonde kasih, jangan salahkan beta kalau ayam-ayam itu mati, beta sonde tau itu binatang makan apa,” ujar Pinto dengan kesadaran yang masih berada di angka lima puluh persen.

Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh hanya diam, mungkin dia berpikir tak ada gunanya bertengkar dengan orang yang sedang mabuk. Dia berkata dalam hati, esok dia akan membawa beberapa ayam-ayamnya yang masih sehat ke pasar untuk dijual. Semua uang yang terkumpul nanti, akan dia belikan tenun ikat di toko Enci Yulia yang terletak di tepian Pantai Tode Kisar dekat Kota Tua Kupang.

***

“Untuk apa Bapa Tua beli kain tenun ikat?” tanya keponakannya Eben Messkah.

Lebe baek kumpul tenun ikat dari pada piara ayam, kain-kain itu akan beta jual di depan Hotel Yulia, dekat Pasar Koenino sana. Banyak orang bule menginap di sana, nanti beta bisa dapat untung lebih banyak dari pada piara ayam,” ujar Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh masih dengan nada geram.

Kini, di ruang tamu rumahnya, sudah terkumpul dua puluh tenun ikat dari beragam kabupaten yang ada di NTT. Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh membelinya di kampung Oesao dan desa Kefa dan Soe. Di kedua desa itu dia mencari penenun kampung yang mahir mencampur bahan-bahan pewarna alami agar tenunan terlihat kuno. Kata Bapa Tua Hermanus pada sang keponakan, Eben Messakh, “Ini tenun paling bagus di Soe, harganya mahal karena dibuat dari bahan-bahan alami yang ada di hutan-hutan di sana. Lu lihat, dia sonde luntur pas dicuci, warnanya juga tahan lama. Nanti, beta mau beli lebe banyak lagi, biar dapat untung lebe besar.”

***

Dalam beberapa bulan, Bapa Tua semakin tergila-gila pada tenun ikat ketika seorang nyonya Cina kaya asal Jakarta memborong seluruh jualannya. Bapa Tua lalu menjalin persahabatan dagang dengannya. Ia mengantar sang nyonya ke perajin tenun yang ada di seluruh Kupang, Oesao, Kefa, Soe, Timor Tengah Selatan hingga Belu yang berbatasan dengan Timor Leste. Setiap dagangannya habis, dengan mata berbinar ia tunjukkan uang hasil berdagang itu pada sang keponakan.

Si Bapa Tua mengutarakan niatnya untuk membeli tenun ikat Timor Tengah Selatan dan juga desa Belu lebih banyak lagi. Tenun-tenun dari dua desa itu terkenal dengan warna-warninya. Ia benar-benar tidak sempat lagi pada kegiatannya semula, berdagang minuman tuak dari pohon lontar, ayam kampung dan ternak babi. Semua peliharaannya itu diserahkan pada Eben Messakh sang kemenakan dengan perjanjian bagi hasil, 60 buat Eben, 40 untuk dirinya.

Beta adil kan? Lu dapat hasil yang lebe banyak,” katanya sembari memamah sirih, seluruh bibir juga giginya berwarna jingga karena sirih. Dengan menyirih Bapa Tua senang, sebab ia tak perlu menyikat gigi dengan odol lagi. “Irit toh? Menyirih itu sehat, gosok gigi dengan odol buat gigi keropos,” katanya selalu.

Eben Messakh, sang keponakan yang pengangguran namun telah memiliki dua anak, menganggukkan kepala tanpa membantah. Lelaki bertubuh gempal berusia sekitar tiga puluh tahun ini, mungkin otaknya telah berkarat karena meminum sofi. Sudah sejak memasuki usia akil balik, ia melakukan itu. Tanpa sofi hidupnya merana. Ia juga harus rela isterinya menjadi tenaga kerja Indonesia (TKI) ke Malaysia.

Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh selalu berpesan padanya untuk rajin-rajin membaca koran. Katanya, “Hee… kamu jangan pasang muka bodoh terus, pergi ke pasar Koenino, jadi tukang parkir di jalan biar dapat duit. Minum sofi terus otakmu akan berkarat. Bagaimana mau kasih makan kau punya anak-anak? Tiap hari lu juga harus baca koran, lu lihat pengumuman di koran, jangan sampai ada pengumuman binimu mati dengan isi perut kosong baru dibawa pulang. Lu jangan enak-enak saja, jadi TKI itu berat. Lu harus malu jadi laki-laki, jangan cuma bisa piara itu burung dan minum sofi saja.”

Eben Messakh menggerutu dalam hati. Anting di telinga kirinya berpendar kala tertimpa cahaya rembulan, tatto bergambar rajawali dan naga di kedua pangkal lengannya bertengger gagah, perkasa dan kekar. Kala dia berjalan lengkap dengan topi baseball yang bertulis freedom, Eben kian merasa dia mahluk kota besar yang sangat bergaya seperti yang dia lihat di layar televisi kala menonton Bruno Mars menyanyi. Sang Paman kerap dibuatnya kesal.

Lu pikir, lu su jadi penyanyi kah? Tiap hari minum sofi, lu kira lu sudah yang paling gagah di seantero Kupang. Sana, pergi ke pasar, lu jual telur-telur ayam ini!”

Tetapi tenun ikat kemudian menemukan jalannya yang cukup memilukan. Tatkala Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh kembali ke tempat para perajin tenun, dia terkejut melihat nyonya Cina asal Jakarta sudah memborong seluruh tenun yang menjadi langganannya. Bapa Tua melalui tatap mata tuanya memandang nanar ketika semua tenun sudah tidak ada lagi.

Tenun ikat terbaik yang dibuat dari bahan-bahan alami bermutu tinggi, sudah dibawa ke Jakarta, di sana kain-kain itu akan dijadikan pakaian adibusana oleh para perancang papan atas. Selanjutnya perjalanan sang tenun yang telah berubah wujud menjadi pakaian kelas atas itu, akan diusung pada pameran pakaian adibusana musim semi dan panas di Paris, Milan, New York hingga Hongkong. Andai saja Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh tahu harganya, dia akan pingsan sebelum kembali ke rumahnya.

Lalu, sambil berjalan pulang, Bapa Tua Hermanus menggerutu sendirian, “Eeee…tahu begitu beta sonde kasih tahu itu rumah-rumah penenun ke Aci Jakarta, beta manyasal.”

Sejak itu, Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh, tak pernah mau tahu lagi tentang kisahnya bersama tenun ikat.

Eben Messakh sang keponakan, kali ini bisa berpikir lurus sedikit, ia melihat pamannya yang sedang murung lalu berkata, “Bapa eee…beta su bilang kalau Bapa jangan tarlalu percaya deng orang-orang Jakarta. Mereka suka baku tipu. Lebe baek kita bikin sofi, kita jual ke warung-warung kopi di Pantai Tode Kisar, untungnya lebe besar, kalau mereka mabok, itu sudah biasa. Biarkan saja.”

Bapa Tua Hermanus Messakh membisu.

Esoknya, kampung Oesao gempar. Mereka melihat Bapa Tua dan keponakannya jalan-jalan di tengah desa dengan tubuh telanjang bulat sambil memegang botol sofi; mereka mabuk berat setelah seharian meminum minuman itu.

Bapa Tua sambil berjalan dengan langkah terhuyung-huyung, terus-menerus mengoceh, “Itu Aci orang Jakarta, dia su ambil beta pung rejeki. Dia su ambil…”

***

.

 

The Tale Behind The Ikat

Laura Harsoyo dilahirkan di Makassar dan dibesarkan di Palembang dan Surabaya. Laura menyelesaikan kuliah S-1 pada tahun 1994 dari jurusan Sastra Inggris, Universitas Airlangga.

Laura suka membaca karya sastra dan tertarik untuk menulis fiksi. Sewaktu bekerja di dunia perhotelan selama 21 tahun, dia sempat menulis artikel kuliner untuk majalah kuliner Chef! di Jakarta. Dia juga bekerja sambilan sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk berbagai lsm yang harus memberi laporan kepada yayasan pendana.  Sekarang Laura khusus bekerja sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk nonfiksi maupun fiksi.

Laura dapat dihubungi di: harsoyolaura@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

The Tale Behind the Ikat

Hermanus Messakh sat pensively in front of his bebak, a hut with walls of woven bamboo. Five pigs and several chickens roamed in the old man’s front yard. He had sold several of his pigs to Bambu Kuning, the restaurant that made se’i, the smoked meat that Kupang, the capital of Indonesian province Eastern Nusa Tenggara, was noted for. Several of his chickens had recently died. Rumors had it that they were poisoned by people who wanted to get even with the old man, who was too stingy to share his eggs with his neighbors.

“Hey, Bapa.” Pinto Mauk, an unemployed neighbor who was fond of drinking sofi, an alcoholic beverage made out of fermented lontar, approached him. “Since your chickens have been laying, may I have just one egg for breakfast this morning?”

“Get lost,” the old man snapped. “All you do is get drunk, yet you still expect to eat well.”

Pinto did not say a word, but deep down, he was offended. Staggering, he left the old man’s bebak and headed for David Taka’s lontar orchard. He was going to ask for a piece of sugar disc that Mini, David’s wife, made.

The next day, Hermanus Messakh discovered that more of his chickens had died. Pinto was the main suspect. Pinto listened, bewildered, as the old man accused him.

“Just admit it, you killed my chickens!”

Still groggy from his sofi hangover, Pinto wearily stared at the old man and said, “I didn’t kill your chickens. All I asked for was one egg and you refused to give it to me. Don’t blame me for the death of your chickens. I have no idea what they’ve been eating.”

Hermanus Messakh said nothing more. Perhaps he thought it was pointless to argue with a drunk. He planned to sell some of the remaining healthy chickens at the market the next day and use the money to purchase the ikat cloths at Enci Yulia’s shop at Tode Kisar Beach, near the Old Town of Kupang.

***

“What are you buying those ikats for?” Eben Messakh, Hermanus’s nephew, asked.

“It is better to collect these ikats than to raise chickens. I will sell the ikats on the sidewalk in front of the Yulia Hotel, near the Koenino Market. Many foreigners stay there and will want to buy our traditionally dyed and woven cloth. It is much more profitable than raising chickens.” Hermanus Messakh was still annoyed.

Soon, the old man had gathered twenty pieces of ikat from various districts in Nusa Tenggara Timur. He bought them in the villages of Oesao, Kefa and Soe, where he had traveled in search of weavers skilled in mixing the natural colorings that gave the ikat textiles their antique look. Hermanus said, “This is the best ikat in Soe. The ikats are expensive, as they are made from natural material that comes from the local forests. The colors won’t fade when washed. I will purchase more, so I can make more money.”

***

Within several months, the old man had become infatuated with ikat, especially after a rich Chinese lady from Jakarta purchased all of his supply. Hermanus and the lady established a business relationship, and Hermanus took her to weavers all over Kupang, Oesao, Kefa, Soe, South Central Timor, and even to Belu, located near the border of Timor Leste. Every time he sold out of ikats, Hermanus showed the money to his nephew, with sparkling eyes.

Hermanus expressed his intention to buy even more ikats from South Central Timor, as well as Belu village.

He was so immersed in the ikat business,that he no longer had time to make lontar wine and tend to his chickens and pigs.

Hermanus handed over his old business to his nephew, with an agreement to share the profits in parts of sixty percent for Eben and forty for him.

“I’m fair, aren’t I? You get the bigger share,” Hermanus said, chewing a wad of betel leaves. He liked chewing betel leaves so much that his lips and teeth were stained orange. Hermanus claimed that chewing betel leaves eliminated the necessity to brush his teeth with toothpaste. “I’m not only saving money,” he stated happily, “but chewing betel leaves is healthy, whereas brushing your teeth with toothpaste will cause your teeth to rot.”

Eben Messakh simply nodded. He had been drinking sofi since he was a teenager, and the alcohol had corroded his brain. He could not make it through the day without drinking. Unemployed at thirty and with two children to care for, Eben had to let his wife work as a migrant worker in Malaysia.

In the beginning, Hermanus would reprimand his nephew. “Hey, wipe that stupid look off your face. Go to the Koenino market. Be a parking attendant there and earn some money. Drinking sofi all the time will only dull your brain. How are you going to feed your children? Make sure you read the paper every day. Make sure there’s no announcement about your wife being brought home already dead. The life of a migrant worker is hard. You should be ashamed for taking it easy and only caring about keeping your glass filled with sofi and Mr. Happy’s well-being.”

Eben Messakh grumbled. His left earring glowed in the moonlight; tattoos of a mighty eagle and a fearsome dragon covered his forearms. Whenever he walked down the street wearing a baseball cap with the word “Freedom” embroidered on it, Eben felt like he was the most fashionable person in the city, just like Bruno Mars, who he watched singing on TV.

Eben’s attitude often disgruntled his uncle. “Do you really think you’re a singer?” the old man grumbled. “You think that drinking sofi every day will turn you into the most dashing man in all of Kupang? Go on! Sell these eggs in the market!”

But soon, the story of the ikat took a tragic turn. When Hermanus Messakh visited the weavers, he was surprised to learn that all the ikat was gone.

The Chinese woman from Jakarta had bought them all.

Hermanus gawked in disbelief.

The best ikat, made out of natural ingredients, were all taken to Jakarta, where they would be turned into haute couture dresses by top fashion designers. They then would continue their journey to Paris, Milan, New York, and Hong Kong to be displayed at exclusive fashion exhibitions. If Hermanus could see the price tags on those dresses, he would have fainted right there.

Walking home later, he muttered, “Had I known that this would happen, I would not have taken that lady to those weavers. I really regret that.”

After that, Hermanus no longer wanted to be reminded of his association with the ikat.

When he saw his uncle looking so sad, Eben Messakh, who happened to be sober, said, “Bapa, I’ve told you not to trust those people from Jakarta. They only want to deceive us. Let’s just make sofi. We can sell the liquor to the cafes and coffee shops at Tode Kisar Beach. We’ll be able to make a bigger profit there. Ignore the people when they get drunk like they usually do.”

Hermanus remained quiet.

The next day, Oesao village was in an uproar. Hermanus and his nephew were staggering naked through the village while guzzling a bottle of sofi. They were heavily intoxicated after drinking all day. Staggering, the old man slurred, “That Aci from Jakarta has taken away my fortune. That sister took it all away…”

***

Lolong Anjing di Bulan

Arafat Nur lahir di Medan, 22 Desember 1974. Sejak usia SD pindah ke Aceh dan hidup dalam kecamuk perang saudara hingga dia dewasa. Sejumlah peristiwa di Aceh dituliskannya dalam puisi, cerita pendek, dan novel. Di sela-sela kesibukannya sebagai petani dan pekerja serabutan, dia gemar membaca buku-buku sejarah, filsafat, dan sastra.

Lampuki (Serambi, 2009) merupakan novelnya yang memenangkan Sayembara Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta (DKJ) 2010 dan meraih Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2011. Novelnya, Burung Terbang di Kelam Malam (Bentang Pustaka, 2014) telah diterjemahkan ke bahasa Inggris dengan judul A Bird Flies in the Dark of Night. Novel terbarunya Tanah Surga Merah (Gramedia, 2016) kembali memenangkan Sayembara Novel DKJ 2016. Arafat bisa dihubungi di arafatnur@yahoo.com

Hak cipta ©2018 ada pada Arafat Nur. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2018 ada pada Maya Denisa Saputra.

 

 

Bab 1

Kehadiran Orang-Orang Pejuang

Suatu petang di bulan Juli 1989, kedai kopi Leman di Tamoun tiba-tiba sesak oleh kerumunan manusia. Terdengar keriuhan orang-orang yang bersorak-sorai. Keriuhan itu tiba-tiba senyap ketika Arkam membuka suara. Suaranya yang lantang menembus keluar kedai itu.

Satu dua lelaki dan perempuan, dengan pakaian kerja mereka yang kotor, masih terus berdatangan menghampiri kedai. Sementara matahari sudah condong ke barat. Bentuknya seperti sebuah lingkaran cahaya yang tersangkut di jajaran pucuk pohon kemiri. Setengah sinarnya tercurah terang ke pasar Tamoun membentuk bayangan panjang pada setiap benda dan juga pada satu dua orang yang sedang berlalu di jalan menuju kedai Leman.

Arkam menunjukkan secarik kain merah bergambar bulan bintang yang dikatakannya bendera. Bendera semacam itu tidak pernah dikibarkan di Alue Rambe. Aku dengar bahwa Panglima Perang Wilayah Pereulak, Ishak Daud, adalah orang pertama yang mengibarkan bendera itu di salah satu SMA di Aceh Timur.

Semua orang senyap terdiam. Mereka menatap penuh perhatian ke wajah Arkam yang keras.

Sambil melangkah hilir-mudik di depan orang-orang, Arkam terus berbicara dengan penuh semangat hingga wajahnya menegang. Tonjolan urat-urat pada lengannya tampak ketika jari-jarinya menggenggam kuat membentuk kepalan tinju. Saat berbicara, berkali-kali dia menyentuh topi pet merahnya. Dia seperti ingin membukanya, tetapi selalu batal.

“Kita sudah lama hidup ditekan, ditindas, dan dilalimi. Kita tidak bisa terus-terusan begini. Selamanya kita akan menjadi budak. Kita adalah orang-orang bermartabat. Nenek moyang kita pejuang hebat. Kita tidak boleh takut. Kita harus berani melawan semua kelaliman ini. Apakah kalian semua berani melawan pemerintahan keji ini?” teriaknya mengacungkan tinju ke udara.

“Berani,” sambut orang-orang penuh semangat.

Gelegar suara yang membahana itu memekakkan kupingku.

Arkam terus saja berbicara. Dia mengulang inti tujuan perjuangan yang dibangkitkan Hasan Tiro tiga belas tahun lalu di kaki gunung di Pidie. Namun, perlawanan-perlawanan kecil itu berhasil dipatahkan serdadu pemerintah. Banyak pengikut Hasan Tiro yang mati di ujung bedil lawan. Sebagian yang tersisa terendus oleh mata-mata, dan akhirnya diringkus, diculik, dan dibunuh oleh tentara. Sementara Hasan Tiro dan beberapa pengikutnya sudah terlebih dulu menyingkir ke luar negeri untuk mencari suaka politik dan dukungan dunia internasional.

Selama masa itu, pejuang terus menghimpun kekuatan di luar negeri. Sebagian mengikuti pelatihan rahasia di Libya dan menyelundupkan senjata ke Aceh.

Mereka adalah anak-anak muda yang yakin mampu melawan pemerintahan Jakarta di bawah pimpinan Soeharto yang telah menyengsarakan banyak rakyat. Tidak saja rakyat Aceh tetapi rakyat Indonesia lainnya juga hidup dalam penindasan dan ketidakadilan. Bagaimana mungkin di negeri yang hijau dengan hasil alamnya yang melimpah—belum lagi minyak dan gas bumi—rakyatnya hidup dalam kemiskinan? Begitu sebagian isi ceramah Arkam.

“Sekarang tibalah saatnya kita bangkit untuk berjuang mengambil apa yang menjadi milik dan hak kita. Kita bisa hidup makmur dan lebih bermartabat dengan mengurus tanah kita sendiri. Hidup pejuang,” seru Arkam dengan wajah padam menegang.

“Hidup pejuang,” sambut orang-orang mengacungkan tinjunya ke udara. “Hidup Aceh! Allahu akbar!”

Arkam adalah adik Ibu. Usianya sekitar tiga puluhan waktu itu. Selama enam tahun dia menghilang ke Malaysia. Kemudian dia hengkang ke Libya dan tinggal di sana selama setahun untuk mengikuti pelatihan keprajuritan. Kini dia kembali dengan tubuh lebih tinggi dan wajah terkesan keras dengan tulang pipi menonjol. Kumisnya tetap tipis. Sepertinya kini dia punya kegemaran memakai topi pet merah.

Arkam dan tujuh temannya sering berkeliaran ke kampung-kampung untuk mencari dukungan penduduk dan untuk mendapatkan pengikut baru. Di antara mereka berdelapan, hanya tiga orang yang memiliki senjata, termasuk Arkam. Dua orang memegang radio genggam dan yang tiga lainnya bertangan hampa.

Mereka berkeliaran di kampung-kampung dalam wilayah kekuasaannya sebagai Panglima Sagoe, jabatan prajurit pejuang tingkat kecamatan.

Alue Rambe, kampungku ini, adalah kampung terpencil di pegunungan Aceh Utara sebelah selatan kota Lhokseumawe. Kampung kami termasuk dalam kekuasaan Arkam.

Jalan utama kampung berupa jalan tanah berkerikil. Ketika dilalui sepeda motor atau truk angkutan barang, debu-debu pun terbang berhamburan. Namun, di musim hujan bagian-bagian tertentu badan jalan dipenuhi genangan air yang membuatnya becek dan sangat licin.

Aku berada di dalam kerumunan orang-orang di luar kedai Leman, membaur dengan lelaki, perempuan, dan anak-anak. Aku menyandarkan dada pada dinding papan terbuka sehingga aku bisa leluasa memandang ke dalam kedai.

Para lelaki duduk pada setiap bangku. Yang tak mendapatkan bangku bersandar pada tiang; beberapa lainnya berjongkok di lantai tanah. Di satu-satunya meja yang lapang dijajarkan sepucuk senjata laras panjang dan sepucuk pistol. Senjata-senjata itu seperti sengaja dipamerkan untuk membangkitkan semangat orang-orang dalam berjuang melawan pemerintahan Jakarta yang sudah berlaku tidak adil terhadap Aceh.

Arkam memungut sepucuk AK-47 dan mengacungkannya ke orang-orang. Dia memastikan pada orang-orang bahwa benda itu berbahan logam, bukan kayu ataupun plastik. Temannya yang berwajah angkuh mengacungkan AK-47 menegakkan, lalu melipatnya. Seorang lagi, menimang-nimang sepucuk pistol Baretta buatan Italia, menggenggamnya, kemudian memutar-mutarkan pistol itu dengan jari telunjuk yang dimasukkan dalam lingkaran pelatuk. Pistol itu tidak berputar dengan baik dan hampir saja jatuh, yang membuat Arkam membelalakkan mata ke arahnya. Pemuda itu membuang muka, berpura-pura tidak tahu dan tidak peduli pada mulut Arkam yang menyeringai.

Aku tahu semua jenis senjata itu karena Arkam menjelaskannya berulang-ulang seraya mengacung-acungkannya ke hadapan orang-orang yang mengitarinya. Sementara seorang pemuda yang bertubuh agak kekar berdiri tegap di sisi meja berjaga-jaga. Para pemuda, yang masih tetap bertahan dan belum beranjak dari kerumunan, tak lepas-lepas memandangi tiga pucuk senjata itu dengan takjub, seolah-olah itu adalah benda paling ajaib di dunia. Benda semacam itu memang belum pernah ada di kampung ini.

Yasin, seorang pemuda yang sejak tadi diam, memandangi dengan saksama senjata-senjata itu tanpa mempedulikan penjelasan-penjelasan Arkam. Tiba-tiba dia menyentuh AK-47 yang baru saja diletakkan di meja.

Seketika itu juga Arkam menepis tangannya.

Yasin sangat terkejut.

“Ini senjata berbahaya. Kau tidak boleh menyentuhnya,” hardik Arkam. Kejadian itu membuat tiga temannya menegakkan badan dan menajamkan mata.

Salah satu temannya yang lebih tegap mendorong Yasin agak jauh dari meja. Beberapa pemuda berwajah bengal lainnya bergeser ke belakang.

Arkam melanjutkan hardikannya, “Kalau kau sudah bergabung dengan kami dan sudah memadai latihan menembaknya baru kau boleh memegangnya. Kaukira ini senjata mainan?”

Sejumlah orang tertawa. Mereka mengangguk-anggukkan kepala pertanda dukungan pada ketegasan Arkam.

Wajah Yasin merona, agaknya dia malu telah melakukan kecerobohan.

Arkam pun sesumbar tentang kehebatannya menembak dari jarak jauh. Latihan keprajuritan yang diajarkan oleh para pejuang lebih hebat dibandingkan latihan serdadu pemerintah yang hanya dibekali senjata bekas perang dunia kedua dengan peluru yang sering macet dan bidikan yang tidak tepat.

Leman, sang pemilik kedai kopi, diam saja. Senyumnya tampak dibuat-buat. Kegembiraannya juga seperti dipaksakan. Lebih setengah penduduk kampung datang. Sebagian dari mereka menyesaki kedai kopi, sebagiannya lagi berada di jalan. Aku yakin mereka datang bukan untuk minum kopi, tetapi semata ingin melihat lebih dekat senjata-senjata api mematikan yang dibawa Arkam dan temannya. Sebelumnya keberadaan senjata-senjata itu hanyalah merupakan bualan orang-orang yang bermimpi tentang kekayaan Aceh. Di negeri ini, tidak ada orang sipil yang berani menyentuh barang semacam itu, apalagi sampai menyimpannya di rumah. Hukuman bagi pemilik senjata tidak sah adalah hukuman mati, atau setidaknya akan mendekam belasan tahun dalam penjara.

Sebagian orang di kedai kopi, terutama mereka yang masih muda-muda, tampak begitu berapi-api. Mereka menyambut gerakan “pengusiran hama dan penyakit” ini dengan begitu yakin. Mereka akan melawan ketidakadilan pemerintah Jakarta. Aku menangkap kecemasan di wajah beberapa orang tua di sana. Kecemasan akan bahaya yang sedang mengintai kampung-kampung.

Perang memang seakan tidak pernah berakhir di tanah ini. Perang sudah ada semenjak kehadiran Portugis, Belanda, dan Jepang. Dan perang berlanjut dengan pemberontakan partai komunis dan Darul Islam. Dan sekarang, perjuangan Aceh yang melemah mulai bertunas kembali. Tidak akan ada kata akhir untuk peperangan di tanah ini.

Sementara itu, teman-teman Arkam dan para pemuda bersorak. Bersemburan cercaan dan makian terhadap tentara pemerintah seakan musuh-musuh mereka itu sudah berada di depan mata. Kegilaan anak-anak muda itu membuat sebagian lainnya kesal. Diam-diam mereka menyingkir dari sana mengikuti perempuan-perempuan yang sedari tadi kulihat sudah menyingkir duluan.

“Percayalah,” teriakan Arkam membuat orang-orang di dalam kedai senyap.

Tangan kanan Leman yang sedang menyaring kopi menggantung di udara sambil memegang gayung kaleng kopi, sedangkan tangan satunya lagi memegang saringan. Dia, seperti yang lainnya, diam mendengarkan.

“Percayalah,” ulang Arkam yang tampak begitu percaya diri, “Kita akan sanggup mengusir serdadu-serdadu itu dari sini. Senjata-senjata yang kita miliki lebih hebat daripada senjata mereka. Senjata yang mereka miliki cuma M-16 yang usang, bekas dipakai tentara Amerika di perang Vietnam. Sering macet. Hahaha….” Tawa Arkam disambut anak muda lainnya dengan sorak-sorai. Sepertinya mereka tidak ingin beranjak dari sana.

Tangan Leman bergetaran memegang gayung kopi saat ledakan tawa terjadi. Wajahnya pucat. Sepertinya dia ingin selekasnya mengusir tamu-tamu yang bersikap kurang beradab itu. Mereka menggelar pertunjukan senjata di kedainya tanpa izin.

Aku bersama belasan anak lain menunggu di luar kedai dengan menyandarkan perut di dinding dan dengan leluasa memandang ke dalam. Aku menjadi begitu kesal karena Leman tidak kunjung menyalakan televisinya. Setiap petang, tepatnya sehabis Asr, aku dan anak-anak akan menonton sebentar, sebelum Leman menghardik dan mengusir kami pulang  untuk mandi dan pergi mengaji. Menonton televisi saat petang adalah kesenangan tiada tara bagi anak-anak. Mungkin juga kesenangan bagi orang dewasa yang bebas menyaksikannya sampai larut malam.

Televisi 14 inci milik Leman adalah satu-satunya televisi yang ada di kampungku. Kedai ini selalu ramai dikunjungi orang-orang selepas Asr, ketika siaran televisi dimulai.

Petang itu, kami betul-betul kecewa dengan pameran senjata Arkam yang menyebabkan kami tidak bisa menonton televisi. Ada dua puluhan pemuda yang terus mengerumuni meja tempat dipamerkannya tiga pucuk senjata api berserta pelurunya itu. Saat itu Arkam seolah seorang pemimpin perjuangan paling hebat dan paling berkuasa di Aceh.

Tiga pemuda yang bertangan hampa itu adalah pengikut baru Arkam yang katanya kelak juga diberi senjata.

Seorang penduduk bertanya kepada pemuda yang tidak bersenjata itu saat Arkam selesai bicara, “Kenapa kau tidak memiliki senjata?”

Dengan rikuh pemuda ramping itu menjawab, “Sedang dikirim dari luar negeri.”

Untuk meyakinkan penduduk, Arkam yang mendengarkan perkataan itu, mengangguk tanpa senyum. Wajah Arkam tampak lelah, tetapi masih menegang. Dia menyesap kopi yang telah dingin, yang sedari tadi tidak sempat diminumnya. Hanya sekali sesap dan dia segera meminta Leman menyingkirkan dan menggantinya dengan kopi baru yang panas.

Leman cepat-cepat menyeduh kopi dan menghidangkannya. Sementara orang-orang masih memandang Arkam. Hanya sebagian kecil saja yang menyingkir meninggalkan kedai Leman.

“Sekarang pulanglah kalian ke rumah masing-masing!” perintah Arkam kepada orang-orang yang ada di dalam dan luar kedai.

***

Blood Moon over Aceh

Maya Denisa Saputra lahir pada tanggal 30 Juli 1990 di Denpasar, Bali, dan dibesarkan di pulau yang dijuluki Pulau Dewata tersebut. Maya melanjutkan pendidikan, dan meraih gelar Sarjana Akuntansi & Keuangan dari University of Bradford di Singapura, sebuah universitas yang memiliki kampus utama di Inggris. Maya kini bergabung di bagian keuangan perusahaan keluarganya.. Selain itu, Maya juga tetap meluangkan waktu untuk melakukan berbagai kegiatan yang disukainya, seperti menulis, menerjemahkan karya sastra dan fotografi.

Maya dapat dihubungi melalui alamat surel: maya.saputra@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

The Presence of Fighters

One evening in July of 1989, Leman’s coffee stall at Tamoun quickly filled with cheering villagers. The crowd suddenly fell quiet when my uncle, Arkam, started speaking. Arkam’s loud voice could be heard outside of Leman’s stall.

Drawn by the unusual activity, men and women, dressed in their dirty work clothes, kept coming to the stall. Meanwhile, the sun moved towards the western horizon. Its shape resembled a circle of light stuck between the buds of the candlenut trees. Half of the light poured onto the Tamoun market, casting long shadows on every object and a few people walking to Leman’s stall.

Arkam showed a piece of red cloth with a star-and-moon motif, which he referred to as a flag. That kind of flag had never been flown in Alue Rambe. I had heard that the Commander of the Pereulak Region, Ishak Daud, was the first person who raised that flag in one of the high schools in East Aceh.

Everyone silently paid attention to Arkam’s stern face.

Pacing in front of the crowd, Arkam continued his speech with fervor. His face tensed, and his arm showed bulging veins when he folded his fingers into a fist. He repeatedly touched his red cap — as if he wanted to take it off, but never did.

“We’ve been living under oppression for too long. We are being repressed and tyrannized. We can’t live like this any longer or we’ll be slaves forever. Where’s our dignity? All of us are dignified people. Our grandfathers were great fighters. We shall not fear. We must be brave and fight against this injustice and tyranny. Are you brave enough to fight against this cruel regime?” he shouted and shook his fist in the air.

“We are,” the crowd answered passionately.

The thundering voices were deafening.

Arkam kept talking. He reiterated the original reason for the uprising Hasan Tiro initiated thirteen years ago at the foot of the Pidie mountain. However, the army had destroyed these initial small attempts to rise against the unjust government. A lot of Hasan Tiro’s followers were shot, while the rest were detected by government agents and finally captured, kidnapped, and killed. Meanwhile, Hasan Tiro and a few of his followers fled overseas, seeking political asylum and international support.

During that period, the rebels were amassing power overseas. Some went underground for training in Libya. Others smuggled weapons to Aceh and buried them in the jungles or farmland.

They were the youths who believed they could rebel against the central government in Jakarta under the regime of Soeharto, who had already brought much suffering to his people. His oppression and injustice not only targeted the people of Aceh, it was also inflicted on many segments of our society.

How could it be possible for a nation rich in natural resources — including crude oil and natural gas — to be forced to live in poverty?

“Now it’s time for us to rise and fight. Take what is rightfully ours. We can live prosperously and in dignity by taking charge of our own land. Long live the fighters,” shouted Arkam. His face was tense and red.

“Long live the fighters,” the crowd answered, shaking their fists in the air. “Long live Aceh. Allahu Akbar. God is The Greatest.”

Arkam was Ibu‘s brother. At that time, my mother’s brother was in his thirties. After he stayed in Malaysia for six years, he joined a military training camp in Libya for another year. Now he was back, looking taller, his raised cheekbones accentuating his taut expression. His mustache was still thin. Apparently, he had developed a habit of wearing a red cap.

Arkam and his seven friends often wandered around the villages to solicit the villagers’ support and recruit new followers. Aside from Arkam, only two of these men were armed.  Two operated a handheld radio, and the other three were empty-handed.

They mostly wandered around the villages that were under Arkam’s command as Panglima Sagoe, a rank of an insurgency fighter in a sub-district. Alue Rambe, my village, was located in a remote mountain area of North Aceh, south of Lhokseumawe. Our village fell under Arkam’s jurisdiction.

The main road in the village was a gravel road. Passing motorcycles and delivery trucks created large dust clouds. However, in the rainy season, some parts of the road were flooded and became very slippery.

I was among those who congregated outside Leman’s stall. Mingling among the men, women, and children, I leaned on an open clapboard so I could see what was going on inside.

Men filled every seat on the benches. Those who did not get a seat leaned against the poles; others squatted on the bare ground. Two long-barreled guns and a revolver lay on the only empty table. It seemed those weapons were purposely put on display to fuel the crowd’s rebellion against the central government in Jakarta that mistreated the people of Aceh.

Arkam picked up an AK-47. Waving the gun at the crowd, he assured them that the weapon was made from metal, not wood or plastic. His friend held up another AK-47 and arrogantly loaded and unloaded it. Someone else held an Italian-made pistol and tried twirling the Beretta by placing his index finger inside the trigger loop. The gun did not rotate properly and almost fell. When Arkam glared at him, the man looked away.

I knew what the different kinds of weapons were because Arkam repeatedly explained each of their functions to the people surrounding him.

All that time, a muscular man stood guard beside the table. The young men among the crowd seemed reluctant to leave. They continued to stare at the weapons as if they were the world’s most magical objects. It was true that such objects had never been seen in this village.

Yasin had been looking silently at the guns. Without paying attention to Arkam’s explanations, he suddenly touched the AK-47 that had just been laid on the table.

Arkam immediately slapped Yasin’s hand, shocking him.

“This is a dangerous weapon. You can’t touch it,” Arkam snapped, alerting his three friends.

One of them pushed Yasin away from the table. Some rowdy youths moved towards the back of the stall.

Arkam continued his scolding. “Do you think this is a toy? Only after you join us and are trained to shoot, then you can hold it.”

Some people laughed and supported Arkam’s firm statement by nodding their heads.

Yasin’s face reddened. He seemed to be ashamed of his carelessness.

Arkam also boasted about his skill in long-range shooting. The rebels’ military training was better than that of the government’s army. Those soldiers were outfitted with used World War II weapons, which often had jammed barrels and an inaccurate sight mechanism.

Leman, the coffee stall owner, was mostly silent while faking a smile. More than half of the villagers had gathered around his coffee stall. Some of them crowded the shop; others loitered around it.

I was certain they did not come to drink coffee, but merely to take a closer look at the deadly firearms that Arkam and his friends had brought. Before this afternoon, the existence of weapons was only mentioned as a boast by people who dreamed about reaping the benefits of Aceh’s rich natural resources. In this country, there was no civilian who dared to touch such a thing, let alone have one at home. The punishment for illegal gun possession was the death penalty, or at least decades behind prison bars.

Some people in the coffee stall, especially the youth, were impassioned and seemed convinced that the resistance movement would be able to fight against the injustices of the central government. I saw a glint of worry on the faces of some older people who were present. They must have been worried about the dangers that currently lurked in the villages.

War never seemed to end in this land. There had been war ever since the arrival of the Portuguese, followed by the Dutch, the Japanese, and then the Communist Party and Darul Islam rebellions, and now the once-weakened Aceh resistance movement was on the rise again.

Meanwhile, Arkam’s friends and the young men in the crowd yelled curses about the government military, as if their enemy stood in front of them. Their frenzy irritated others, causing them to leave the scene and follow the women who had already left Leman’s stall to return home.

“Trust me!” Arkam’s roar silenced the stall.

Leman, who was filtering coffee, was caught holding a coffee can by its handle with one hand, while his other hand held the filter.

“Trust me.” Arkam repeated his words with great confidence. “We’ll be able to chase away those soldiers. Our weapons are far more powerful than theirs. They only use worn-out M16s that belonged to the American soldiers in the Vietnam War. The triggers are often jammed and won’t fire the bullets.” Arkam’s laughter was met by cheers of other passionate youth who didn’t seem to want to leave.

Leman turned pale and his hand holding the coffee can shook when the boisterous laughter broke out. He looked as if he wanted to drive out his rowdy visitors, who displayed guns in his stall without his permission.

Other kids and I were anxiously waiting for Leman to turn on his television. Leaning against the open clapboard, we stood outside the stall while looking inside the room. Every evening, after performing the Asr afternoon prayer, the other kids and I would watch television for a while, before Leman chased us away with shouts ordering us to take a shower and go to the Quran’s recitation class. Watching television in the evening was such a pleasure. It was an unmatched enjoyment for us children, and perhaps even for the adults who were free to watch it until late at night.

Leman’s fourteen-inch television was the only television in my village; hence, his stall was always crowded after the Asr prayer time, when the television broadcast began.

That evening, we were really disappointed. Arkam’s gun show had prevented us from watching television. About twenty young men remained seated around the table where the three firearms and their bullets were laid down. It was as if Arkam were the greatest and most powerful rebel leader in Aceh.

Three of Arkam’s new followers were unarmed. He said they’d be given weapons at a later time.

After Arkam finished talking, a villager asked one of the unarmed men, “Why don’t you carry a gun?”

The slim man answered awkwardly, “It’s on its way from abroad.”

In order to convince the villagers, Arkam, who apparently had overheard the conversation, nodded his head. He seemed tired and looked tense. He sipped the cooled coffee that he hadn’t had a chance to drink earlier. After just one sip, he quickly ordered Leman to take it away and replace it with a fresh, hot cup.

Leman quickly poured the coffee and served it.

Only a few people had left Leman’s stall. Most of them still hung around Arkam, who ordered everyone to go home.

***

Aku Tidak Ingin Tubuh Ranummu

Ouda Teda Ena lahir di Sleman, 17 Oktober 1970. Menyelesaikan sarjana dan magister di Pendidikan Bahasa Inggris, Universitas Sanata Dharma, sedangkan gelar doktor pendidikan diperolehnya dari Loyola University Chicago, Amerika Serikat. Sekarang Ouda adalah dosen di almamaternya, Pendidikan Bahasa Inggris, Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta. Senang menulis di waktu luangnya, terutama menulis puisi dan cerita kilat. Tulisannya telah dibukukan dalam novelet  Arok Berkaca Dedes: Sebuah Novelet Intrik Politik Berdarah, Perempuan dalam Almari: Kumpulan Puisi, dan Hampir Chairil: Kumpulan Kisah Kilat.

Ouda bisa dihubungi di ouda.art@gmail.com

Hak cipta ©2018 ada pada Ouda Teda Ena. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2018 ada pada Laura Harsoyo.

 

 

Aku Tak Ingin Tubuh Ranummu

 

Lelaki itu sudah mengawasinya semenjak belia. Mulai dari ia masih kuncup, lalu ketika mekar. Dia seperti terbius baunya yang semerbak segar. Tiap pagi dia mengintip dari jendela sambil menghisap rokok kreteknya. Asap dikepulkan perlahan keluar dari mulutnya bersama baris-baris mantra. Matanya jalang dan nanar, ingin segera memetiknya jika saatnya tiba.

***

Sejak semalam tidurnya telah tak nyenyak. Bantalnya yang hangat, sarung tenunnya yang lembut tak mampu melelapkan tidurnya. Ayam masih berkokok bersahutan sesekali. Langit di timur mulai berwarna biru cerah. Embun di daunan mulai menjatuhkan diri ke tanah. Lelaki itu tak sabar menunggu matahari. Dia kalungkan sarungnya ke leher dan bergegas ke sumur. Ditimbanya seember air, dibasuhnya wajahnya untuk mengusir sisa-sisa kantuk.

Diambilnya keranjang bambu. Tangga bambu ditentengnya. Dia pandangi perdu kopinya, rimbun dan subur, buahnya yang ranum memerah menyembul di ranting-ranting di antara dedaunan yang hijau tua atau menguning. Segera dipasangnya tangga bambu menyeruak ke dalam kerimbunan pokok kopi. Perlahan-lahan dia naiki tangganya, setapak demi setapak. Setiap naik satu langkah, nafasnya menghirup dalam-dalam segar udara pagi yang dipenuhi wangi daun dan buah kopi.

Pada sebuah ranting yang besar dia mendadak berhenti. Sepasang mata hitam coklat sebesar kelereng melotot menatapnya. Tatapan yang penuh kebencian, penuh kemarahan, bercampur sedikit ketakutan. Gigi tajam dan runcing dia pamerkan penuh ancaman.

Lelaki itu terkesiap, darahnya mendidih memanaskan kepala. Dia tahan marahnya dalam kemeretuk giginya.

Mata mereka beradu.

Degup jantung lelaki itu menggetarkan ranting-ranting pohon kopi. Cemburunya memuncak, memompa seluruh darahnya ke kepala. Sejenak hilang akal sehatnya. Didih darah di nadi-nadinya menggetarkan tubuhnya. Hampir saja tangannya yang kokoh menghantam remukan kepala binatang jalang yang mendahuluinya memetiki buah kopinya.

Kesadaran kemanusiaan dan kasihnya kepada alam mengekang gerakan tangannya, yang didorong oleh sebuah naluri kebinatangan. Lalu rasa cintanya menyunggingkan senyum.

“Aku manusia dan kau adalah binatang.” Bisiknya kepada si luwak yang mencuri buah kopinya.

Mata luwak itu masih melotot, giginya masih menyeringai. Wajah marah penuh kebencian. Dia mendesis seakan ingin menerkam leher si lelaki dan membunuhnya. Luwak itu merasa terdesak dan akan melakukan apa saja untuk tetap dapat menikmati ranum merah buah-buah kopi itu.

“Aku dikarunia hati untuk mencinta dan kau hanya dikarunia naluri untuk bernafsu.” Berbisik lagi lelaki itu pada si luwak.

Luwak itu tetap pada marahnya. Matanya semakin melotot, seringainya semakin penuh nafsu membunuh.

“Kau tak paham kawan. Kau hanya tergiur pada kemolekan ranum merah daging buah kopi. Kau tak paham sejatinya kopi.” Suara lelaki itu tetap berbisik.

Ia tak mau mengusik luwak yang marah. Ia tak mau membahayakan diri sendiri.

“Kau hanya suka daging buahnya yang merah ranum manis segar berair. Ambilah kawan… ambilah. Makanlah sepuasmu, aku tak butuh itu.” Lelaki itu tersenyum pada binatang yang marah itu.

“Aku rela menunggu kau membuangnya dari ususmu. Kau hanya mengunyah dagingnya, lalu membiarkannya bercampur kotoran dilorong-lorong ususmu yang menjijikan. Tapi disitulah hatinya ditempa. Ketika kau membuangnya, ketika kau tak telah menikmati daging dari tubuhnya, yang tersisa hanyalah hatinya. Hati semulia mutiara hitam.” Lelaki itu mulai menuruni tangga perlahan. Merelakan buah-buah kopinya dilalap rakus sang luwak.

“Kalau kau paham bahasaku, kuberitahukan padamu, sejatinya kopi ada di bijinya, di hatinya.” Bisiknya pada si luwak sebelum dia meninggalkannya.

“Dan hati sebutir kopi pun harus rela hancur dan diseduh supaya ia mengeluarkan wangi, memberikan rasa sehingga hati seorang manusia tertambat padanya,” guman lelaki itu sambil menimang sebutir kopi di tangannya.

***

Brewed Love

Laura Harsoyo dilahirkan di Makassar dan dibesarkan di Palembang dan Surabaya. Laura menyelesaikan kuliah S-1 pada tahun 1994 dari jurusan Sastra Inggris, Universitas Airlangga.

Laura suka membaca karya sastra dan tertarik untuk menulis fiksi. Sewaktu bekerja di dunia perhotelan selama 21 tahun, dia sempat menulis artikel kuliner untuk majalah kuliner Chef! di Jakarta. Dia juga bekerja sambilan sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk berbagai lsm yang harus memberi laporan kepada yayasan pendana.  Sekarang Laura khusus bekerja sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk nonfiksi maupun fiksi.

Laura dapat dihubungi di: harsoyolaura@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Brewed Love

 

The man had watched her since she was a bud and as she blossomed. He was intoxicated by her fresh fragrance. Every morning, he peeked at her out of the window while smoking his kretek cigarette. The smoke spiraled out of the sides of his mouth as he chanted his mantra. His eyes were wild and filled with an eagerness to pick her when the time came.

***

That night, he had not been able to fall asleep. Neither his warm pillow nor his soft cotton sarong had been able to soothe him. The chickens kept clucking until daylight broke through the eastern sky and dew rolled off the leaves to the ground.

The man had no patience to wait for the sun to rise. He wrapped his sarong around his neck and hurried to the well. He drew a bucket of water and washed his face to drive away his drowsiness.

Carrying a bamboo basket in one hand and a ladder in the other, he went to check on his coffee tree. Clusters of ripening red berries dotted the branches of the tree, lush with dark green foliage and some yellowing leaves.

He quickly poked his ladder into the tree’s canopy, leaned the ladder against the trunk, and then carefully climbed the rungs. With each step, he inhaled the fresh morning air, scented with the aroma of coffee leaves and berries. 

When he reached a big branch, he suddenly stopped.

A pair of dark brown eyes glared at him. The large, marble-size eyes were filled with anger and fear. Threatened, the animal bared a row of sharp, pointed teeth.

The man gasped; blood rushed to his head. He clenched his teeth, restraining his anger.

Their eyes met.

The man’s jealousy made his heart beat so violently that he almost shook the branches of the coffee tree. He seemed to have lost his sensibilities. Fury propelled his hand and he almost struck the head of the wild animal that had beaten him to picking the coffee berries.

But his sense of humanity and love of nature prevailed, and he restrained the movement of his hand.

“I’m human and you’re an animal,” he whispered to the luwak stealing his coffee.

The civet held its ground. It continued to stare at the man with bared teeth. Hissing, the luwak seemed ready to pounce. The cornered luwak would do anything to keep enjoying the red, ripe coffee berries.

“I’m blessed with a heart and the ability to love, while all you have is desire,” the man said softly to the luwak.

The luwak still didn’t move. It glared at the man with a menacing grimace.

“You don’t understand, my friend. You’re just tempted by the beauty of the red, ripe flesh of the coffee berries. You don’t know the essence of coffee.”

The man spoke gently. He did not want to disturb the angry luwak, nor did he want to put himself in danger.

“If the red, ripe, sweet, and juicy berries are all you want, then take them, my friend. Please, help yourself. Eat as many as you want, I don’t need them.” The man smiled at the angry animal.

“I’m willing to wait for you to discard them from your gut. You only chew her flesh, then leave it to break down in your intestinal tract. But that is where the heart is forged. After you have enjoyed the flesh of her body and you discard her, all that remains is her heart. A heart that is as precious as a black pearl.”

The man slowly descended from the ladder. He left the coffee berries for the luwak to feast on.

“If you understood my language,” the man said before leaving, “I’d tell you that the essence of the coffee is in her heart.”

The man rolled a single dark coffee bean in the palm of his hand. “And the heart of a coffee berry, the bean, should be willing to be crushed and brewed in order to release the aroma and taste that captivate the human heart.”

***

Penyusup Larut Malam

S. Prasetyo Utomo, lahir di Yogyakarta, 7 Januari 1961, doktor Ilmu Pendidikan Bahasa Unnes. Menulis di Horison, Kompas, Suara Pembaruan, Republika, Koran Tempo, Media Indonesia, Jawa Pos, Bisnis Indonesia, Nova, Seputar Indonesia, Suara Karya, Majalah Noor, Majalah Esquire. Menerima Anugerah Kebudayaan 2007 dari Departemen Kebudayaan dan Pariwisata untuk cerpen “Cermin Jiwa”, Acarya Sastra 2015 dari Badan Pembinaan dan Pengembangan Bahasa. Cerpen “Sakri Terangkat ke Langit” dimuat dalam Smokol (2008). Cerpen “Penyusup Larut Malam” dimuat dalam Pada Suatu Hari, Ada Ibu dan Radian (2009).  Cerpen “Pengunyah Sirih” dimuat dalam Dodolitdodolitdodolibret (2010). Novelnya Tarian Dua Wajah (Pustaka Alvabet, 2016), Cermin Jiwa (Pustaka Alvabet, 2017).

Prasetyo dapat dihubungi di: s.prasetyoutomo@yahoo.co.id

Hak cipta ©2018 ada pada S. Prasetyo Utomo. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2018 ada pada Indra B. Hurip.

 

 

 

Penyusup Larut Malam

 

Sunyi wajah lelaki tua, lusuh, bersarung dan berpeci. Langkahnya pincang memasuki pelataran rumah Aryo. Lepas asar, dalam gerimis, wajah lelaki tua lusuh itu seperti susut. Menahan kegugupan. Dia menemukan pencariannya pada Aryo — meski mereka belum saling kenal. Matanya juling. Tak tepat membidik wajah Aryo. Aneh, rekah bibirnya kian menakik senyum, “Nah, kaulah yang kucari!” Tangan kanannya terjulur. Menyalami Aryo, erat dan akrab.

Menolak duduk di kursi. Lelaki tua bermata juling itu memilih bersila di lantai. Aryo menduga-duga kenapa lelaki tua itu datang ke rumahnya, begitu rupa rendah hati.

“Belilah ladang saya, Nak,” pinta lelaki tua juling itu.

“Saya tidak berminat beli ladang” tukas Aryo, lunak, lembut, sambil memandangi sisa gerimis tipis yang membasahi peci lelaki tua lusuh itu.

Lelaki tua berpeci itu memohon dengan mata juling yang membersitkan cahaya harapan, sepasang mata yang penuh ketulusan. Tubuh lelaki tua itu kurus berkeriput. Mencari gairah dari luar dirinya. Rupanya Aryolah yang menjadi harapannya.

“Coba pikir lagi, Nak. Barangkali kau berminat. Kujual ladangku dengan harga sangat murah. Mungkin kau punya sejumlah uang yang saya perlukan.” lelaki tua lusuh itu menyebut sejumlah harga.

Aryo tercengang. Alangkah murah.

Wajah lelaki itu menyiratkan permohonan. “Uang ini untuk biaya berobat istri saya”

Tertegun. Aryo surut, merasa diri kerdil. Ditahannya tubuh yang menggigil. Ia tak lagi berani membalas tatapan juling lelaki tua lusuh itu. Liang sunyi sangat legam di dalamnya. “Besok siang. datanglah kembali ke sini. Akan saya bayar lunas ladang itu”

Gugup, lelaki tua berpeci itu menyalami Aryo. Menembus rintik genimis tiada henti membasahi pecinya. Langkahnya terpincang-pincang. Tertatih-tatih menjauh.

***

Menuruni jalan setapak tak jauh dari rumahnya, menjelang senja, Aryo mencapai ladang yang dibelinya dari lelaki tua berpeci. Ladang itu terletak di lembah yang dikitari pegunungan. Berpagar bambu berkeliling, dan didalamnya berdiri surau kayu. Dalam gerimis, surau itu mengekalkan sunyi, tak jauh dari rumah-rumah kampung yang dirobohkan buldoser. Pepohonan bergelimpangan ditebas gergaji mesin. Ladang-ladang diratakan sebagai dataran luas—coklat kemerahan—dengan kupu-kupu senja berpasangan, senyap dan rapuh. Tinggal rumah lelaki tua berpeci, ladang yang dibeli Aryo, dan surau kayu beratus tahun yang masih utuh berdiri.

Terdengar parau azan magrib, dikumandangkan lelaki tua berpeci. Ia sendirian di surau. Ketika mengumandangkan azan, lelaki tua berpeci berdiri dengan kaki kanan mengecil di bawah sarungnya. Tumit kaki kanannya sedikit diangkat, agar ia bisa kokoh berdiri. Menoleh sesaat ia, tatkala mendengar langkah kaki Aryo. Tapi segera tersenyum tulus.

Usai shalat dan berdoa, lelaki tua itu menyalami Aryo. Bertanya, “Kini kau tahu, mengapa kujual ladang ini padamu?”

“Belum sepenuhnya paham.”

“Lihat, seluruh warga kampung ini meninggalkan rumahnya. Tanah dan rumah mereka dijual. Di sini akan didirikan perumahan. Tinggal saya yang rnasih bertahan. Ladang ini kujual padamu, karena berdiri surau leluhur kami. Aku percaya, kau akan mempertahankannya.”

“Bagaimana Bapak bisa mengenaliku?”

“Anakmu, gadis kecil, Salsa, suka bermain di ladangku. Bersama teman-temannya, dia sering menungguiku membakar ketela atau jagung di ladang dan memakannya panas-panas. Aku pernah mengantarkannya pulang, ketika hujan, dan bersua denganmu.”

“Lalu, kenapa Bapak serahkan ladang ini padaku?”

Lelaki tua itu tersenyum, seperti ingin menertawakan Aryo. Dari senyumnya, lelaki tua itu menampakkan kepasrahan yang tenang.

“Aku ingin surau ini kaupertahankan. Jangun dijual.” Lelaki itu terdiam. Memandang tajam Aryo. “Ini surau leluhur.”

***

Seorang lelaki setengah baya berdasi mendatangi rumah Aryo menjelang senja. Sopan. Menunggu lama di ruang tamu. Menunggu Aryo yang baru saja pulang dari luar kota. Ia menampakkan kesegaran senyum. Saat bersua Aryo, lelaki asing itu menampakkan keakraban.“Kami datang untuk menawar ladang di tengah perumahan yang sedang kami bangun,” kata lelaki setengah baya berdasi itu.

“Saya tak berniat menjualnya pada siapa pun. Ada surau yang mesti kupertahankan.”

“Surau itu sudah ditinggalkan. Semua orang di kampung itu menjual tanahnya.”

“Termasuk rumah lelaki tua itu?”

“Dia telah menjual lahan dan rumahnya. Pindah di desa lain,” kata tamu setengah baya berdasi itu, penuh kemenangan. “Tinggal lahan Bapak yang belum dijual. Kami berani menawar dengan harga tinggi. Mungkin ini harga tertinggi yang pernah kami tawarkan.”

Tercengang Aryo mendengar harga sangat tinggi yang ditawarkan lelaki setengah baya berdasi itu. Baru beberapa saat dia beli ladang dari lelaki tua pincang itu, kini harganya sudah melambung berlipat kali. Dia merasa berdosa, telah membeli tanah dengan harga yang sangat murah. Kini dia tak bisa mempertahankan surau dan lahan itu.

***

Usai shalat magrib. Kiai Najib memimpin doa di surau yang sepi, hampir-hampir tanpa pengunjung. Hanya empat orang yang mengikuti shalat magrib di surau itu. Kiai Najib yang mulai rapuh tubuhnya, menyalami tiga orang yang mengikuti doanya.

Aryo memahami kecemasan dalam cahaya mata kiai.

“Jangan pulang dulu,” kata Kiai Najib, “ada hal yang perlu kubicarakan. Surau ini sudah sangat tua. Perlu dibangun kembali surau yang lebih baik, agar orang-orang mau shalat berjamaah ke sini.”

“Kiai jangan cemas. Aku akan membangun surau ini dengan uang penjualan ladangku.”

Kiai Najib terbelalak. Aryo mengangguk. Meyakinkan kiai.

***

Meradang pandangan lelaki tua pincang itu. Tajam. Kemarahan membakar sepasang mata juling itu. Kemurkaan memperkeruh wajahnya.

Aryo tak menyangka, lelaki tua juling itu datang ke rumahnya sore hari.

Aryo tersenyum. Terus tersenyum. Dia tak ingin mengimbangi perangai murka lelaki tua bermata juling. Dia seperti sudah menebak akan ketakrelaan itu.

“Kuserahkan ladang itu bukan untuk kaujual pada pengembang perumahan!” kata lelaki tua bermata juling.

“Aku tak bisa mempertahankan lahan itu. Ketika seluruh kampung menjual rumah, tak ada lagi yang menghalangi pengembang perumahan untuk membeli lahan itu,” tukas Aryo. “Saya memang sudah menjual ladang itu, tapi semua uang yang kuterima, kuserahkan untuk membangun surau di permukiman ini.”

Sepasang mata lelaki juling itu meredup. Dada tipis yang menahan sesak napas itu menguncup. Kedua bahunya jatuh. Wajahnva luruh. Ia menyalami Aryo. Berpamitan.

Aryo mengikutinya. Langkah mereka terhenti di tanah lapang yang dibangun surau baru. Lama lelaki tua juling itu memandanginya. Tersenyum. Mengangguk-angguk. Tubuhnya kian rapuh tertatih-tatih menjauh.

Aryo lupa bertanya, di mana rumah lelaki tua juling itu kini.

***

Gerimis tengah malam memperpekat surau kecil yang baru selesai dibangun. Gelap seluruh ruangan tatkala seorang lelaki pincang menyusup ke pelataran surau. Mengucurkan air wudu dari keran. Desis air memancar lebih keras dari rintik gerimis di dedaunan jambu. Lelaki tua itu memasuki surau. Tahajud. Duduk bersila. Zikir. Lama. Hingga menjelang dini hari lelaki tua pincang itu masih berzikir.

Kiai Najib yang memasuki surau untuk sembahyang Subuh terperanjat. Dalam gelap surau, dia melihat lelaki asing di suraunya.“Apa yang kaulakukan di sini?” tegur Kiai Najib, keras, tajam.

Lelaki pincang tua itu terdiam. Tenggelam dalam zikirnya.

Kecurigaan Kiai Najib pada lelaki asing itu klan memuncak. Tak pernah sebelumnya, dalam suraunya datang seseorang lewat tengah malam, shalat tahajud dan berzikir.“Kau tak bisa semaumu saja di surau ini!”

Masih duduk bersila, zikir, lelaki tua lusuh berpeci itu tak menyahut hardikan Kiai Najib. Tersenyum. Tenang sekali. Menyalami kiai. Mencium tangannya. Terpincang-pincang meninggalkan surau. Menghambur dalam rintik gerimis. Tak menoleh.

***

Usai shalat subuh. Kiai Najib mendekati Aryo, dan membisik. “Semalam aku menemukan seorang lelaki degil berzikir di surau ini. Aku tak mengenalnya. Kuusir dia. Jalannya terpincang-pincang.”

“Atas nama dialah kusumbang seluruh uang penjualan ladang untuk mendirikan surau kita”

“Oh, aku telah keliru mengusir orang,” tukas Kiai Najib masygul.

***

Tak lagi kelihatan Kiai Najib menjadi imam shalat di surau. Kiai terbaring sakit.

Aryo tak pernah menduga, kiai akan jatuh sakit, justru ketika pengunjung surau tak sesunyi dulu lagi. Menjenguk kiai di kamarnya, Aryo menemui lelaki tua itu terbaring lunglai, namun suaranya jernih saat berpesan, “Sampaikan maafku pada lelaki tua berpeci itu. Aku berdosa telah berkata kasar padanya.”

“Akan saya sampaikan permintaan maaf Kiai,” balas Aryo.

***

Tiap tengah malam lelaki tua pincang itu terlihat memasuki surau dengan wajah yang jernih, pandangan mata juling yang teduh. Berzikir larut dalam sunyi. Tapi Aryo, yang ingin sekali bersua dengannya, tak pernah mendapat kesempatan itu.

***

The Midnight Intruder

Indra Blanquita Hurip lahir di Mexico City saat ayahnya ditugaskan di kota tersebut sebagai diplomat. Ia besar di Islamabad dan Karachi dan terpakasa bersekolah di sekolah berbahasa pengantar Inggris. Sejak kecil, ia sangat gemar membaca buku dan buku-buku tersebut menumbuhkan kecintaannya pada bahasa. Ia mengambil jurusan Bahasa Perancis saat kuliah untuk beberapa tahun dan akhirnya bekerja pada perusahaan penerbangan perancis. Sebelumnya ia bekerja di berbagai bidang seperti pariwisata dan kewartawanan sebelum akhirnya meninggalkan Jakarta selama 16 tahun mendampingi suaminya yang ditugaskan di Batam, Lhokseumawe dan Dumai. Setelah suaminya pensiun dan anak-anaknya sudah dewasa, ia memikirkan kegiatan apa yang bisa dilakukan untuk mengisi waktu luang dan mendapat penghasilan. Ia mengikuti pelatihan penerjemahan dan menjadi penerjemah bersumpah, kemudian ikut pelatihan kejurubahasaan dan sejak itu menjadi penerjemah dan juru bahasa lepas waktu.

Indra bisa dihubungi di: indabhurip@gmail.com

 

 

The Midnight Intruder

 

The gaunt old man wore a sarong and a peci, headdress. He entered Aryo’s front yard in the late afternoon rain, limping. It was just past afternoon prayer, and the old man seemed anxious, as if he were trying to hide his nervousness. Even though they were not acquainted with each other, he expected Aryo to have the solution to his problem. The man was cross-eyed and could not focus on Aryo’s face. He extended his right hand, and they shook hands in a warm and friendly manner.

The old man smiled, and said, “It is you who I’ve been looking for.” Refusing to sit in a chair, the old man chose to sit cross-legged on the floor.

Aryo tried to guess why the man had come to his house, and why he had such a humble demeanor.

“Please buy my land, son,” the cross-eyed old man pleaded.

“I have no intention to buy any land,” Aryo replied gently, looking at the raindrops still visible on the old man’s shabby peci.

The old man had placed his hope in Aryo, seeking strength from outside himself. His eyes filled with emotion, he pleaded sincerely.

“Please reconsider, my son. You might be interested. I will sell you my land at a very cheap price. You have the money I need.” The frail old man mentioned a sum.

Aryo was startled by how cheap it was.

“The money is to pay for my wife’s medical expenses,” the old man explained.

Aryo was taken aback, feeling very small indeed. Trying to control his trembling body, he did not dare return the old man’s look. The man’s eyes were a dark pool of bleakness.

“Come back at noon, tomorrow,” Aryo said. “I will pay you the price for your plot in full.”

The old man shook Aryo’s hand, nervously. He then walked away. The drizzle continued to wet his peci as he limped away from the house.

***

As dusk approached, Aryo walked down a dirt path not far from his home and arrived at the plot of land he had purchased from the old man wearing the peci. The lot was located in a valley surrounded by hills. It was enclosed by a bamboo fence, and on it stood a wooden surau, a prayer hut.

Located not far from a row of village houses that had been leveled by bulldozers, the surau, standing in the light rain, seemed to perpetuate silence. The terrain there had been leveled and was now a vast expanse of brownish-red earth, where trunks of trees, felled by chainsaws, lay in disarray, and night moths swarmed the desolate and fragile land. All that was left standing on the parcel was the old man’s house and the centuries-old wooden surau that Aryo had bought.

The old man’s raspy voice called out the azan, the call to evening prayer. He was alone in the surau. Under his sarong, he raised the heel of his right foot and shifted his weight onto the toes of his clubfoot for balance.

He turned when he heard footsteps and gave Aryo a sincere smile.

After the prayer, the old man shook Aryo’s hand and asked, “Now do you know why I sold you this land?”

“No, not really.”

“Look around. All the villagers have left their homes. They sold their land and houses. I’m the only one left. They are going to build a housing complex here. I sold the land to you, because this surau was built by my ancestors. I know that you will preserve it.”

“How do you know me?”

“Your daughter, the little girl, Salsa, likes to play in my field. She and her friends often wait for me to roast some yam or corn and eat them hot. I once took her to your home when it was raining and saw you.”

“So why are you handing this land over to me?”

The old man smiled as if he were laughing at Aryo. There was a calm acceptance in his smile. “I want you to preserve this surau. Don’t sell it,” he said quietly and gave Aryo a penetrating look. “This is the surau of my ancestors.”

***

At dusk-aged, well-dressed man came to Aryo’s house. He waited in the living room for Aryo to come home. When Aryo arrived, the stranger greeted him politely and approached him in a friendly manner. He said, “I came with an offer to buy the field in the center of the housing complex we are building.”

“I have no intention of selling it to anyone. There’s a surau there that I want to preserve.”

“That prayer hut has been abandoned. All the villagers have sold their land.”

“Did the old man do the same?”

“He has sold his land and house and moved to another village.” The middle-aged guest straightened his tie, smugly. “Yours is the only parcel that hasn’t been sold. We’re willing to offer a high price for it. This may be the highest price we’ve ever offered.”

Aryo was astounded at the very high price the well-dressed man was offering. He had just bought the land from the old man and now the price had multiplied many times. He felt guilty—the land had been so cheap. And now, he could no longer hold on to it.

***

Evening prayer was over. Kiai Najib had led the prayer in his almost-deserted surau. There were only four people who had joined Kiai Najib for the evening prayers. Kiai Najib, whose body was beginning to weaken, shook hands with three of the people who had participated in his prayers.

Aryo understood the anxiety in the kiai’s eyes.

“Don’t go home yet,” Kiai Najib said. “There’s something I need to talk to you about. This is a very old surau. We need to build a better one so people will want to worship here.”

“Kiai, don’t worry. I will build a better one with the money I received from selling my new land.”

Kiai Najib’s eyes widened.

Aryo nodded to convince the kiai.

***

The old man’s eyes gleamed with anger. Intense anger. Fury emanated from his crossed eyes.

Aryo had not expected the old man to come to his house that afternoon.

Aryo forced a smile. He had no desire to fight the anger of the cross-eyed old man. He was not surprised by the man’s discontent.

“I didn’t give you the land so you could sell it to the developer!” said the cross-eyed old man.

“I could not hold on to it after all the villagers had sold their homes,” responded Aryo. “Yes, I have sold the land, but all the money I received from the sale, I donated to build a surau in this housing complex.”

The fire in the old man’s eyes was extinguished. His thin chest no longer heaved. His shoulders dropped, his face fell. He shook Aryo’s hand and took his leave.

Aryo followed him as he walked away. They halted at the parcel where the new surau was being built.

The cross-eyed old man looked at the construction site for a long time. Smiling, he kept nodding his head. Finally, the frail old man limped away.

Aryo had forgotten to ask where the old crossed-eyed man now lived.

***

Midnight blanketed the newly-constructed surau in darkness. All the rooms were pitch black when a man limped to the front of the surau. He turned on the tap for the ablution water. The water flowed more strongly than the drizzle falling on the guava leaves. Sitting cross-legged, he performed the ritual of midnight prayer. He recited zikr, the short prayers, for a very long time. He was still at it at the break of dawn.

When Kiai Najib entered the dark surau to perform the ritual of his morning prayer, he was shocked to find a stranger. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a sharp tone of voice.

The old man remained quietly engrossed in his zikr.

The kiai’s suspicion of the stranger mounted. No one had ever come into the surau after midnight to worship. “You can’t just do as you please in this surau!”

Remaining seated, cross-legged, the old man did not respond to the kiai’s reprimand; he simply continued his zikr. When he rose, he took the kiai’s hand, smiling. He kissed it, then very calmly limped out of the surau and disappeared into the drizzle. He never looked back.

 After the dawn prayer, Kiai Najib approached Aryo and whispered, “Earlier this morning, I found a stubborn man praying in this surau. Since I didn’t know him, I sent him away. He walked with a limp.”

“It was in his name that I donated all the money from the sale of my land to build our surau!” Aryo exclaimed.

“Oh, no. I sent away the wrong person,” Kiai Najib said with remorse.

***

After that, Kiai Najib no longer officiated the prayers in the surau. He was laid up with an illness.

Aryo never imagined that the kiai would fall ill, just when there were more people coming to the previously quiet surau. When Aryo went to visit Kiai Najib in his room, he found the priest lying exhausted on his bed. Yet his voice was clear, “Please convey my apology to that old man,” he said. “I sinned by speaking so roughly to him.”

“I will convey your apology to him, Kiai,” replied Aryo.

***

Every midnight, the limping old man entered the surau with an expression of peace on his face and a serene look in his crossed eyes. Immersed in the silence of his solitude he recited his zikr.

But Aryo, who very much wanted to meet him, never saw him.

***

Pohon Pu Tao Tua

Teguh Afandi senang menulis cerpen, esai, dan ulasan buku. Tulisannya mendapatkan penghargaan Pena Emas dari Program Pemberdayaan Sumber Daya Manusia Strategis (PPSDMS), Juara 1 sayembara cerpen Femina, dan Juara 3 sayembara Green Pen Award dari Perhutani. Cerita pendeknya diterbitkan surat kabar seperti Harian Pikiran Rakyat, Tribun Jabar, dan majalah wanita Femina. Ulasan bukunya dimuat antara lain di Koran Tempo, Jawa Pos, dan media daring Jurnal Ruang.

Teguh sekarang bekerja sebagai penyunting di salah satu penerbit di Jakarta.

Dia dapat dihubungi di teguhafandi@gmail.com.

Hak cipta ©2018 ada pada Teguh Afandi. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2018 ada pada Laura Harsoyo.

 

Pohon Pu Tao Tua

 

Di halaman rumah Boneo, sebatang pohon pu tao yang lebih sering disebut pohon jamblang, tampak payah menopang tubuhnya yang semakin tua. Tinggi batangnya tak melebihi genting rumah. Cecabangan menyeruak membuat tajuk mendompol, tetapi kering karena banyak daun rebah ke tanah oleh kelelahan. Pohon pu tao itu berdiri sama tua dengan rumah si empunya. Hanya, rumah yang dulu berlantai tegel hitam dan berdinding papan kayu nangka kini sudah berubah dengan lantai keramik warna metalik dan dinding bata dan jendela kaca.

Sudah lama pula pohon pu tao itu tak pernah berbuah. Memang, ketika musim berbuah datang, akan tumbuh bunga dan bakal buah yang merimbuni tajuk. Namun, pohon pu tao terlalu lemah untuk mempertahankan sebiji buah pun. Walau pu tao berbuah lebat sekalipun, tidak akan ada yang berniat memakannya. Buah dari pohon tua itu sudah disingkirkan dari meja makan. Buahnya masam tidak menimbulkan minat.

Meski pohon pu tao itu sudah sedemikian tua, Boneo belum berniat menebangnya. Dia masih takut akan nasihat ibunya.

Kata Harmunik, jangan sampai ditebang pohon pu tao itu sebelum Boneo menikah dan punya keluarga baru. Bagaimanapun, pohon itu kenangan hidup atas almarhum ayah dan hari kelahiran Boneo.

Ayahnya menanam pohon pu tao ketika tahu anak pertamanya adalah lelaki. Anak lelaki kelak membawa tanggung jawab untuk mikul dhuwur mendhem jero. Mengangkat derajat orangtuanya dan mewarisi nama keluarga.

Harmunik terus marah-marah. Akhir-akhir ini, banyak hal kecil yang mengusik kemarahan Harmunik. Seolah-olah segala sesuatunya tidak berada di tempat semestinya dan membangkitkan kekesalan. Dedaunan pu tao yang luruh karena angin membuatnya mengomel. Suara anak-anak yang riuh sepulang sekolah membuatnya gerah. Semua dirasakannya salah. Penyebab utamanya ialah Boneo yang belum juga menikah. Seperti pohon yang masuk musimnya, tapi enggan menumbuhkan buah.

“Kamu ini kenapa, Boneo? Pekerjaan sudah mapan, harta juga sudah cukup, tapi masih belum juga mau menikah,” Harmunik berbicara dengan nada yang cukup tinggi. Anak satu-satunya itu seperti menutup telinga dari semua omongan Harmunik dan para tetangga.

“Belum ada yang cocok,” Boneo menjawab santai. “Meski menikah adalah hukum alam, tidak mungkin bila dipaksakan.”

Kesendirian Boneo sempat menimbulkan desas-desus kurang baik, bahwa dia adalah keturunan Luth yang ditenggelamkan hujan batu karena suka sesama jenis. Bagaimana mungkin seorang lelaki bereperawakan kekar, wajah tak terlalu buruk, pendidikan tinggi (yang membawanya ke kedudukan yang baik di kantor), tapi terus melajang hingga umur kepala empat. Pastilah ada sesuatu di benak Boneo yang tidak beres.

Akan tetapi, desas-desus itu terbantahkan ketika suatu kali Boneo pulang bersama seorang wanita berpipi kuning mentega. Para tetangga –yang selalu tidak sabar bila melihat berita baru– tersenyum bangga.

Perjaka mapan yang tidak lekas kawin penanda dua hal, sakit jiwa atau tenggelam dalam kemaksiatan. Nyatanya hubungan dengan wanita berpipi mentega itu tak lebih dari selembar almanak bulanan. Boneo kembali berjalan sendirian sambil mengulum senyum tanpa penyesalan.

“Ayahmu pasti menangis di kuburnya, Boneo!”

“Mengapa?”

“Keturunannya putus di kamu,” Harmunik terhenti sampai di situ. “Percuma ayahnya menanam pohon pu tao ini, penanda kebusukanmu.” Ada keputusasaan dalam nada bicara Harmonik.

“Apa tidak menikah itu tanda busuk, Bu?”

“Apa yang hendak kamu cari setelah semuanya kamu dapatkan? Pendidikan, pekerjaan? Apa tidak hendak kamu mencari pasangan?” Pertanyaan Boneo dijawab dengan pertanyaan kembali.

“Belum ada yang cocok,” selalu itu yang dikatakan Boneo sebagai alasan penutup percakapan.

Seolah aneka alasan lain akan dibantah Harmunik, kecuali yang satu ini.

Kerutan yang telah berdiam di wajah Boneo semakin dalam ketika dia tersenyum dan melaju meninggalkan Harmunik. Air mata membasahi pipi Harmunik. Dia meraung seperti koak sepasang gagak yang mewartakan kematian bagi keturunan Boneo.

***

Harmunik mulai sering melamun. Mata sayu menatap dahan putau yang semakin sepuh. Kulit kayu mengelupas dierami sarang semut. Beberapa klarapsejenis kadal yang mampu terbang, beranak-pinak di rongga pokok pu tao. Rasanya, ada bagian di hatinya yang mulai keropos. Saban hari, sindiran dan gunjingan tetangga seperti jarum kasur yang dilesatkan tepat ke dada Harmunik.

“Silsilah keluarga seperti pohon semakin ke tua semakin rimbun. Banyak keturunan,” kata suami Harmunik ketika menanam pu tao tepat pada hari menanam ari-ari Boneo. Pohon pu tao adalah tanda keberlanjutan keturunan. Selama keturunannya masih hidup, pu tao harus tetap dijaga. Sebaliknya, selama pu tao masih berdiri tegak, selama itu pula keturunannya harus dilanjutkan.

Darah yang tumpah di dipan saat melahirkan Boneo tidak boleh sekejap menguap. Terlebih, dulu, pernikahan Harmunik ditentang semua orang. Bagaimana mungkin, Harmunik yang sekadar putri penjual serabi kuah minggah bale dengan menikahi lelaki bergaris biru di pembuluh nadinya. Meski tidak beroleh restu keluarga mertua, Harmunik menikah dengan dampak tak diperkenankan menggunakan nama keluarga. Sudah dilepas menjadi sebatang pohon baru yang tidak ada kaitannya dengan dahan induk.

“Makanya aku pilih pu tao,” Harmunik mengingat perkataan suaminya. “Pu tao tidak berharga, tapi selalu ada buah yang memaniskan lidah.”

***

Semakin lama, pohon pu tao semakin tidak menunjukkan daya. Sebagaimana Harmunik yang tak kuasa menahan kuasa tua. Angin kencang mematahkan beberapa dahan. Dedaunan rontok ke tanah. Halaman rumah Harmunik dipenuhi rerontokan daun dan cabang-cabang pu tao yang saling silang. Hingga selesai masa duha, Harmunik tak berniat membersihkannya. Dia hanya menunggu kepulangan Boneo dari perjalanan dinas luar kota. Harmunik memendam gejolak perasaan yang beriak laiknya air di buluh yang digoyang lindu.

“Bu, kutebang saja ya pohon pu tao itu?” tanya Boneo sore itu, selepas perjalanan dinas.

Harmunik masih diam.

“Bu, Boneo janji, tahun depan akan menikah. Hanya, Boneo belum menemukan calon yang sesuai.”

“Apa saja, terserah kamu,” Harmunik tidak berselera menjawab.

“Sekarang, Boneo mau menebang pohon pu tao tua itu,” Boneo gegas berdiri.

Dia kemudian memanggul kapak lalu mendekati pokok pu tao. Dengan beberapa tebas saja, pohon pu tao sudah rebah ke tanah. Dengan kapak juga, Boneo merampasi dahan-dahan lalu memotong-motongnya menjadi beberapa bagian dengan ukuran sepadan. Dia menumpuk potongan dahan itu di tepian teras. Bisa dijadikan kayu bakar atau arang untuk membakar jagung, pikirnya. Boneo mengelap peluh di dahi dan bahu. Lalu, dia masuk ke dalam rumah, ingin mendinginkan suhu badan.

Harmunik masih terdiam di kursi. Sebingkai foto pernikahannya tergeletak di pangkuan. Matanya terpejam. Beberapa jenak sebelumnya, ketika pertama kali terdengar suara berdebam, saat pokok pu tao tua membentur tanah pekarangan, Harmunik menyebut-nyebut nama Allah, mewiridkannya dengan suara begitu lemah.

Cahaya senja menerobos lewat kisi-kisi jendela, membentuk pola di kulit Harmunik. Pohon pu tao yang biasa menghalau cahaya kini sudah tiada.

“Bu, sekarang rumah kita lebih cerah. Tidak ada penghalang sinar matahari lagi.” sambil meraih segelas air dingin, Boneo melanjutkan, “Bu, kemarin Boneo bertemu dengan Amhar, kawan kuliah dulu, yang sama-sama belum punya pasangan. Besok, Boneo kenalkan sama ibu.” Senyum Boneo mengembang.

“Bu, kalau tidur di kamar,” kata Boneo. Dia mendekati tubuh Harmunik yang sudah lemas.

Pohon pu tao itu sudah ditebang. Harmunik tak lagi merisaukannya.

***

 

Old Pu Tao Tree

Laura Harsoyo dilahirkan di Makassar dan dibesarkan di Palembang dan Surabaya. Laura menyelesaikan kuliah S-1 pada tahun 1994 dari jurusan Sastra Inggris, Universitas Airlangga.

Laura suka membaca karya sastra dan tertarik untuk menulis fiksi. Sewaktu bekerja di dunia perhotelan selama 21 tahun, dia sempat menulis artikel kuliner untuk majalah kuliner Chef! di Jakarta. Dia juga bekerja sambilan sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk berbagai lsm yang harus memberi laporan kepada yayasan pendana.  Sekarang Laura khusus bekerja sebagai penerjemah lepas untuk nonfiksi maupun fiksi.

Laura dapat dihubungi di: harsoyolaura@gmail.com

 

 

The Old Pu Tao Tree

 

In Boneo’s front yard, a pu tao tree—better known as a jamblang or Java plum tree—seemed to have trouble holding up its aging frame. The height of the trunk did not break the roofline of the house. Its branches created a thick canopy, but the foliage was dry; many leaves had fallen to the ground.

The pu tao tree was as old as its owner’s house. The house had originally been built with black tile flooring and walls made of jackfruit wood boards, but now had a ceramic tile floor in a metallic color, brick walls, and glass windows.

It had been a long time since the pu tao tree had borne any fruit. After the tree flowered, young fruits would fill the leafy canopy. However, the pu tao tree was too weak to mature even a single fruit. And even if the tree had borne fruits, no one would be interested in eating them. The fruit of the pu tao tree was no longer served at the table; its sourness made it undesirable.

Even though the pu tao tree was old, Boneo had no intention of cutting it down. He still respected his mother’s advice.

Harmunik had said not to cut the pu tao tree down before Boneo married and had his own family. After all, the tree was a living memory of his late father, as well as of Boneo’s birth.

His father had planted the pu tao tree when he found out that his firstborn was a boy. A son would carry the responsibility of upholding his parents’ reputation while covering up their shortcomings. He would raise his parents’ stature and inherit the family’s royal surname.

Lately, many little things incited Harmunik’s anger. It was as if everything was not where it should be, and that provoked her resentment. The pu tao leaves that the wind had blown to the ground bothered her. The loud voices of children returning from school annoyed her. Everything felt wrong. The main cause was Boneo, who had no plans to marry. He was like a mature tree that was reluctant to bear fruit.

“What’s wrong with you, Boneo? You have a steady job, you have enough money, and still you don’t want to marry.” Harmunik spoke in an agitated voice. It seemed her only child had no ears for her words or the neighbors’ gossip.

“I haven’t found the right one yet,” Boneo answered casually. “Even though marriage is a law of nature, it’s impossible to enforce.”

Boneo’s extended bachelorhood had provoked an unfavorable rumor that he was like the people in the story of Lot, who were struck by a meteor shower for being attracted to the same sex. How was it possible that an athletic, handsome man, with a good education (which had landed him a good position in his office), stayed single until he was in his forties? Something must have gone wrong in Boneo’s mind.

The rumor became disputable, however, when Boneo came home with a woman who had a smooth, creamy complexion. The neighbors—who were always eager to check out good news—smiled proudly.

If a well-established bachelor didn’t marry, it could only point to two facts: either he was mentally ill or steeped in immorality. It turned out that Boneo’s relationship with the fair-skinned woman did not last longer than a month. After that, Boneo walked alone again, smiling and without regrets.

“Your father must be crying in his grave, Boneo.”

“Why?”

“His lineage will end with you.” Harmunik stopped. “It’s pointless that your father planted this pu tao tree; now it’s a sign of your corruptness.” There was despair in her voice.

“Is being single a sign of corruptness, Mom?”

“What are you looking for, after all that you’ve acquired? Education? More money? Don’t you want to find a partner?” Harmunik answered Boneo’s question with questions.

“I haven’t found the right one yet,” Boneo said to end the conversation.

Harmunik disputed all other reasons except for this one.

Boneo’s smile deepened the wrinkles around his eyes; he started to leave.

Tears ran down Harmunik’s cheeks. Her howling sounded like a pair of crows proclaiming the demise of Boneo’s descendants.

***

Harmunik began to daydream frequently. She often rested her glazed eyes on the old pu tao tree. Ants had nested in the bark, and klarap— flying lizards—had bred in the tree’s hollow. She felt that a part of her heart had started to become hollow. The neighbors’ daily innuendos and gossip were large needles that pierced into her chest.

“A family is like a tree. The older it gets, the denser its foliage becomes. More descendants,” Harmunik’s husband had said when planting the pu tao on the day Boneo’s placenta was buried. The pu tao tree was a symbol of the continuity of the family’s lineage. As long as the descendants were still alive, the pu tao tree must be kept. Conversely, as long as the pu tao tree was still standing, the procreation must continue.

The blood that had been spilled while giving birth to Boneo could not be removed. From the onset, Harmunik’s marriage was opposed by everyone. Harmunik, daughter of a serabi kuah vendor—a Javanese rice pancake vendor—was fortunate to marry a man with royal bloodlines. Harmunik’s marriage went forward without her in-laws’ blessings, and, as a result, she was not allowed to use the family’s royal surname. She was an offshoot that had been deemed incompatible with the parent tree.

“That’s why I chose the pu tao,” Harmunik remembered her husband saying. “The pu tao might be worthless, but it is a prolific producer and will always provide a snack.”

***

Just like Harmunik, who couldn’t hold back the aging process, the pu tao tree was getting older and losing its vigor. A strong wind broke some of its branches, and Harmunik’s yard was filled with broken, tangled branches and rotting leaves. Even though it was past the Duha praying time—around nine in the morning—Harmunik had no intention of cleaning up. She was waiting for Boneo to return from an out-of-town business trip. Harmunik was filled with turmoil; she felt as if she was pounding water in a mortar. After he returned from his business trip that afternoon, Boneo asked, “Mom, should I just cut down the pu tao tree?”

Harmunik remained silent.

“Mom, I promise I will get married next year. It’s just that I haven’t found the right one yet.”

“I don’t care; it’s up to you.” Harmunik did not feel like responding.

“All right, then I’ll cut down that old pu tao tree.” Boneo sprung to his feet and went to fetch an ax. With a few strikes, he felled the pu tao. Boneo stripped the branches and cut them into pieces of equal size. He piled the wood on the edge of the porch. It could be used as firewood or charcoal to roast corn. Boneo wiped the sweat off his forehead and shoulders, then went inside to cool off.

Harmunik was still sitting silently in her chair. Her wedding photo lay on her lap. Her eyes were closed. A few moments earlier, when she heard the thud that the old tree made as it hit the ground, Harmunik had called the name of Allah repeatedly, in a weak voice.

The light of dusk broke through the window lattice and formed a pattern on Harmunik’s skin. The pu tao tree that used to shade the room was gone now.

“Mom, our house is brighter now. Nothing is blocking the sunlight.” Reaching for a glass of cold water, Boneo continued, “Mom, yesterday I met with Amhar, a college friend, who’s also still single.” Boneo’s smile widened. “Tomorrow, I will introduce Amhar to you,” he said. “Mom, you better take a nap in the bedroom.” Boneo approached Harmunik’s limp body.

The pu tao tree had been cut down, and Harmunik no longer worried about him.

***

Selendang Bersulam Putih / The Shawl With White Embroidery

Terjemahan cerita pendek Selendang Bersulam Putih ke dalam bahasa Inggris adalah hasil kerja sama antara tujuh mahasiswa yang ikut serta dalam lokakarya yang diselenggarakan oleh The English for Creative Industry (ECI) Program dari Universitas Petra di Surabaya dan Dalang Publishing, 27 October 2017. Kelompok mahasiswa tersebut yang diketuai oleh Gaby Tiara Utomo menerjemahkan cerpen Rintani tersebut menjadi The Shawl With White Embroidery hingga mencapai bentuk yang layak diterbitkan. Karya asli pada saat ini tidak lagi tersedia.

Panitia Pelaksana Lokakarya, yang diketuai oleh Stefanny Irawan, secara teliti memilih peserta lokakarya penerjemahan dari mahasiswa ECI angkatan 2014 dan 2015.

Stefanny Irawan, pengajar kelas Creative Writing dan Theater, adalah penerjemah Dalang untuk novel: Daughters of Papua /Tanah Tabu oleh Anindita Thayf dan Love, Death and Revolution /Maut dan Cinta oleh Mochtar Lubis.

***

Dari Panitia Pelaksana Lokakarya, Stefanny Irawan, ketua:

Lokakarya penerjemahan yang dilakukan atas kerja sama ECI dan Ibu Lian Gouw, pendiri Dalang Publishing, berdasarkan atas pemikiran bahwa kegiatan ini akan memberikan manfaat kepada mahasiswa untuk meningkatkan kemampuan dan mempelajari seni penerjemahan langsung dari seseorang yang setiap hari bergelut dengan penerjemahan maupun berhubungan dengan para penerjemah. Meski mahasiswa telah memperoleh bekal dasar dalam penerjemahan di kelas, namun belajar dari penerbit yang khusus menerbitkan terjemahan bahasa Inggris dari novel sejarah dan kebudayaan Indonesia tentu akan memberikan tambahan wawasan yang lebih luas dari yang diperoleh di kelas.

Sangat menyenangkan ketika tujuh mahasiswa setuju untuk bekerjasama dalam mengerjakan penerjemahan yang layak terbit. Sebagai pengajar dan ketua pelaksana, pertama-tama, saya senang bahwa kami telah memilih mahasiswa yang tepat untuk lokakarya ini. Kedua, selain memberikan pengetahuan dasar, lokakarya ini juga telah menggugah kesukaan atas penerjemahan yang dibuktikan dengan semangat mahasiswa untuk menyunting hasil terjemahannya. Dari dua hal tersebut, bersama dengan panduan dari pembimbing yang tepat anak-anak muda ini suatu saat bisa menjadi penerjemah-penerjemah yang andal.

Sebagai penerjemah, saya berpendapat bahwa lokakarya seperti ini adalah kawah candradimuka untuk penerjemah Indonesia masa depan. Lokakarya ini membukakan mata peserta pada pentingnya serta tantangan dari penerjemahan di lingkungan kampus yang nyaman bagi mereka dan kemudian mempersiapkan mereka untuk terjun ke dunia penerjemahan dengan percaya diri.

***

Dari para penerjemah mahasiswa ECI Lokakarya Penerjemahan tahun 2017:

Edlyn Soewarsono

TANTANGAN: Sangat sulit untuk membedakan passive voice dan active voice serta selalu gunakan active voice sebisa mungkin. Meski sulit untuk menemukan kata yang cocok, namun berusaha mempertahankan suara penulis adalah sangat menarik.

TATA CARA: Bekerja dengan batas waktu yang ketat sangat sulit. Saya belajar banyak tentang pentingnya untuk mengikuti tata cara yang disyaratkan.

KENAPA: Saya menikmati pekerjaan penerjemahan. Sangat menyenangkan ketika orang-orang mampu mengerti apa yang saya terjemahkan.

Febyanti Soetrisno:

TANTANGAN: Memilih kata yang tepat tidak selamanya mudah dan saya mengalami kesulitan menerjemahkan dari passive menjadi active voice.

TATA CARA: Mematuhi tenggat di antara kesibukan lain.

KENAPA: Saya merasakan kepuasan tersendiri ketika diberikan ucapan terima kasih dari orang yang membutuhkan terjemahan saya.

Gaby Tiara Utomo:

TANTANGAN: Kegiatan ini menyadarkan saya atas pentingnya untuk menguasai bahasa ibu saya.

TATA CARA: Kegiatan ini membuka mata saya, tidak hanya dalam membangun kosakata, tetapi juga bagaimana bekerja dengan batas waktu dan aturan penulisan yang ketat.

KENAPA: Saya selalu tertarik dengan penerjemahan dan bidang inilah yang saya ingin pelajari lebih jauh di masa depan.

Immanuel Setia Wijaya:

TANTANGAN: Memilih kata yang tepat cukup sulit. Saya belajar bagaimana memahami makna tersirat dan tidak hanya menerjemahkan tuturan yang ada.

TATA CARA: Sangat menantang bekerja dengan batas waktu yang ketat di antara kesibukan lain.

KENAPA: Saya ikut lokakarya untuk menguji kemampuan kosakata saya dan ingin mempelajari aturan-aturan penerjemahan. Belajar aturan-aturan penerjemahan lainnya tentu saja suatu nilai tambah yang berarti.

Irene Wibowo:

TANTANGAN: Kilas balik yang sering timbul dalam cerita memerlukan pemilihan tenses dengan hati-hati. Membedakan antara passive dan active voice juga sulit. Memilih kata yang sesuai dengan suara penulis membutuhkan waktu yang tidak singkat.

TATA CARA: Bekerja dengan batas waktu yang ketat memerlukan keteguhan hati yang besar. Setelah beberapa tahap penyuntingan, saya baru menyadari pentingnya mengikuti aturan penulisan.

KENAPA: Saya menginginkan cerita Indonesia, yang menggambarkan kekayaan budaya, dapat dibaca oleh orang asing.

Synthia Santoso:

TANTANGAN: Pengetahuan baru bahwa pemahaman terhadap cerita berperan besar dalam penerjemahan, menarik sekali dan hal ini menjadi alat uji untuk kemampuan kosakata saya. Juga menantang adalah mengubah passive voice menjadi active voice dengan tetap mempertahankan suara penulis.

TATA CARA: Bekerja dengan batas waktu yang ketat memerlukan keteguhan dan kerja keras. Penyuntingan sangat penting dan bisa terjadi tanpa batas.

KENAPA: Adalah tantangan bagi saya untuk menerjemahkan bahasa ibu saya ke dalam bahasa lain secara benar.

Gracia Veva:

TANTANGAN: Adalah tantangan menarik ketika memilih kata yang pas untuk menggambarkan perasaan dan memberikan nuansa yang sama dengan aslinya. Juga mengubah passive menjadi active voice.

TATA CARA: Saya belajar membagi waktu dan pentingnya mematuhi batas waktu dan sekaligus menghasilkan terjemahan yang baik.

KENAPA: Kegiatan ini menantang keahlian bahasa Inggris saya dan memberikan saya pengalaman untuk mempersiapkan terjemahan yang layak terbit.

The Shawl With White Embroidery

“There it is.” Zubaedah reached for a shawl buried among the folded clothes in her wardrobe. When she unfolded it under the lamp of her room, she noticed the material was faded and stained in several places.

A letter she had received from her nephew in Bukittinggi yesterday afternoon weighed on her mind. Usually, her nephew’s letters only told her about the condition of the house in Bukittinggi that she had entrusted him with when she moved to live with her son, Syahrul, in Jakarta. However, yesterday’s letter also contained news about the death of Mande Siti Manggopoh, three weeks ago, on August 20, 1965. Innalillahiwainnailaihirajiun—we belong to Allah and to Him we shall return. The news had stunned Zubaedah.

For over fifty years, Zubaedah had neither heard nor spoken the name Mande Siti. Zubaedah’s last memory of Mande Siti was when she left in the middle of the night in 1908. However, Mande Siti had always remained in her heart and prayers.

Now, Zubaedah could no longer hold back her tears. She gazed at the white shawl she held; time had yellowed the material, but the border of simple white embroidery was still bright. Zubaedah took a seat on the edge of her bed. Draping the shawl around her shoulders, she started to remember the time when the shawl had become hers—or more accurately, when she had taken it. Mande Siti’s shawl: Zubaedah never had the opportunity to return it to its rightful owner.

Mak, Mom.” A knock on the door snapped Zubaedah out of her musings.

Yuni, her daughter-in-law, stood smiling in the doorway. “I found the fiddlehead ferns in the market,” she said.

Before Yuni could say anything about her swollen eyes, Zubaedah quickly rose, wiping her tears with the shawl. “Hopefully you also bought the spices and the coconut, Yun.”

“Yes, I bought all we need: chili pepper, shallots, garlic, galangal, ginger, turmeric, lemongrass, and bay leaves. I also had the coconut grated at the market.”

“I am so glad someone is selling paku in Jakarta.” Following Yuni to the kitchen, Zubaedah stopped to drape the shawl over the back of a dining room chair.

It always amused Yuni whenever her mother-in-law used a Minang word like paku for ferns; in Java, paku are nails. She thought of her mother, who lived in Surabaya. She would have undoubtedly joked, “Since you married your Sumatran husband, you have turned into a mystic! Now you can even eat nails!”

In the kitchen, Zubaedah immediately washed the ferns. She rinsed each frond thoroughly. As her fingers worked the curled fern tips and touched the small thorns, her memories went back more than fifty years, when, as a teenager, she washed ferns under a water spout near a shack in the forest. At that time, they simply boiled the ferns and ate them with rice or yams from the fields.

“Mak, how much galangal do we use?” Yuni handed Zubaedah some galangal and brought Zubaedah’s attention back from the past.

“Wait a moment. Let me strain this first.” Zubaedah placed the cleaned ferns in the colander. She picked up a knife and sliced the galangal. “A joint of each: galangal, ginger, and turmeric.”

“A joint of whose fingers, Mak?” Yuni smiled.

“The cook’s, Yuni,” Zubaedah replied.

“So, if the cook is tall and thin, the flavor will be different than if the cook is short and fat, because their joints are different.” Yuni was never good at following Zubaedah’s rough measurements.

Zubaedah laughed. “Ah, it’s just like you to say that, Yuni.” She explained, “A joint is just a rough measurement; use your heart and feelings for the rest, and I’m sure that whatever you cook will be delicious. Now, peel the shallots and garlic and slice the chili pepper.”

As Yuni followed Zubaedah’s instructions, she took the chance to ask, “Why were you crying in the bedroom?”

Zubaedah fell silent as she gazed at Yuni. She was truly grateful that her only son, Syahrul, had married Yuni. She was kind-hearted and thoughtful, not only toward her husband and children, but also toward her mother-in-law. After Zubaedah’s husband passed away and her health started declining, Syahrul had invited her to live with his family in Jakarta. Despite her reluctance to leave her husband’s home in Bukittinggi, Syahrul insisted, using the excuse that he would be more at ease knowing his mother was nearby.

“I was reminded of Mande Siti. You know, when I lived with Mande Siti in the woods near Manggopoh, we would always look for these ferns in the fields around the woods for our meals; these ferns were all that was available.”

“Why did you live in the woods, and who was this Mande Siti?” Yuni was surprised. She never knew that her mother-in-law had lived in the woods; her husband had never told her anything about it either.

Zubaedah then began her story. “Mande Siti was a distant cousin of my parents. Even though she was still young—back in 1908 she had yet to turn thirty—everyone called her Mande—Mother. Bagindo Rasyid was her husband; their daughter, Dalima, was still at the breast.

“Mande Siti was a clever and tough woman. She was skilled in bapasambahan, which is the art of conversing beautifully in pantoum, reciting from the Koran, and even performed martial arts. Back in those days, there were not many Minang women who were as brave and clever as she was.

“Bagindo Rasyid was a warrior, and Mande Siti was always by his side. One night in June of 1908, Mande Siti, Bagindo Rasyid, and others from Manggopoh attacked the Dutch fort. I remember the night clearly because it happened not long after my mother’s death. Many Dutch perished that night, but two people fled and reported the raid to Bukittinggi. I heard Mande Siti was injured during the attack. She, along with Bagindo Rasyid and his men, hid in the woods outside Manggopoh.” Zubaedah sighed as she gazed into the distance.

“This should be enough, right Mak?” Yuni showed the peeled shallots, garlic, and sliced chili pepper.

“Yes. Put it over there.” Zubaedah returned to her cooking. “I will grind the chili pepper and the spices. You can squeeze the liquid out of the grated coconut. Can you get me the batu lado, Yun?”

Yuni fetched the stone mortar and pestle Zubaedah had asked for and placed it on top of a short table within reach. Her mother-in-law had insisted on bringing her batu lado from the village when she moved in with Yuni and Syahrul in Jakarta. She said she wasn’t used to Yuni’s earthenware grindstone. Zubaedah said that spices crushed on a batu lado were tastier and more fragrant, and that’s why she would use no other than her own batu lado.

“And how did you come to live in the woods with Mande Siti?” Yuni returned to her mother-in-law’s story.

“After my parents passed away, I stayed with Mamak Maran, my mother’s brother. Mande Siti often visited his house to comfort me,” Zubaedah said. “At that time, around mid-1908, there was turmoil in Manggopoh. People were talking about the belasting that had recently been levied by the Dutch. Can you imagine, they had the nerve to levy taxes on lands that belonged to the villagers for generations. No wonder the villagers were in an uproar. That land did not belong to the Dutch. It belonged to the Minang people.” Zubaedah shook her head.

“Is this enough coconut milk, Mak?” Yuni showed Zubaedah the coconut milk she had extracted.

“Yes. The chili and spices are also ground up enough. Now, boil the coconut milk with the spices, lemongrass, and bay leaves,” Zubaedah instructed and added, “Don’t forget to stir while it is boiling so the coconut milk won’t curdle. Once the bubbles appear, just add these ferns.”

Yuni immediately took out a cooking pot from the kitchen cabinet and turned on the stove.

Meanwhile, Zubaedah continued her story. “Then, around mid-June of 1908, I heard from the villagers that there was an argument between the ninik mamak, the village elders, and the Dutch in Kamang. The villagers of Kamang raided the Dutch fortress and, of course, the Dutch were angry. I also heard that Bagindo Rasyid, who was very close to the ninik mamak and often exchanged ideas with them, had joined the raid. Sure enough, a few days later, Bagindo Rasyid returned to Manggopoh secretly. He never went out during daylight. He said he was trying to prevent the Dutch from coming after him.”

“Mak, the coconut milk is boiling. Can I add the ferns now?” Yuni interrupted while stirring the pot on the stove. The steam of the seasoned coconut milk filled the kitchen.

Zubaedah came closer. She looked into the pot and said, “Yes, it’s ready; let me get the ferns for you.” The aroma made her hungry.

After the ferns were added, Zubaedah warned Yuni, “Don’t stir too hard or you’ll mush the ferns. Once everything is cooked, turn off the stove, close the pot, and let it steep for a while so the spices settle, and it cools off a bit.”

Zubaedah prepared to set the table.

Not long after, Yuni came in with the fern curry, a plate of rice, jangek, beef cracklings, and two pieces of fried chicken.

“Let’s eat, Mak. The fern stew is ready,” Yuni said to Zubaedah.

“Are we not waiting for Syahrul?” Zubaedah asked.

Uda Syahrul will have lunch at the office. He has another meeting today.” Yuni used the Minang term to refer to her husband, then added, “I’ve made fried chicken for the children, for when they come home from school. This is just for us, Mak.”

When Zubaedah sat at the table, Yuni immediately served her some rice. Zubaedah took a helping of fern curry with plenty of sauce. The blend of the perfectly measured spices—not too salty and not too spicy—and the addition of jangek cracklings that sizzled before shrinking when dipped into the sauce, made Zubaedah’s mouth water. For a moment, her craving for a bowl of fern curry was completely satisfied.

In Bukittinggi, fern curry is usually eaten for breakfast with ketupat, rice packed inside a diamond-shaped, woven palm-leaf pouch. It is served with various traditional crackers, such as jangek, cassava, or yam crackers, and accompanied by a glass of hot tea.

“This is delicious, isn’t it, Mak?” Smiling, Yuni took a big bite.

“Yes, Yun. It’s delicious. Thank you very much.”

“So what happened to Bagindo Rasyid after he ran away from Kamang, Mak?”

“After returning home to Manggopoh, Bagindo Rasyid—along with the ninik mamak—secretly rallied forces to fight again against the Dutch in Manggopoh. Mande Siti was either asked to join, or wanted to come along herself. That’s how she became involved in the attack on the Dutch fort.” Zubaedah carried on with her story.

“When did you go with Mande Siti to the woods?” Yuni asked.

Zubaedah looked at Mande Siti’s shawl that she had purposefully draped across the backrest of the chair next to her own. She briefly caressed the shawl and continued, “I still remember how surprised Mande Siti was when I first managed to find her at the shack.” For a moment, Zubaedah was lost in her memories before moving on with her story.

“Mande Siti was pacing back and forth in the shade of a cempedak tree, carrying Dalima in a sling. As soon as she saw me, she shouted, ‘Edah?! What are you doing here?’ She reached for my arm and continued repeatedly, ‘How did you get here?’ while Dalima whined.

“Mande looked exhausted, and her head shawl had been put on haphazardly. Dalima looked uncomfortable, too. She was crying, and her face was flushed.

“I tried to coax Dalima to stop crying. When she suddenly extended both of her arms to me, Mande Siti let her go.

“Mande then invited me inside the house and, after offering me a drink that was a true thirst quencher, I told her what had happened. Mamak, Uncle, Maran had introduced me to Burhan, his nephew, a distant relative of Tek Banun, his wife. If I agreed to marry Burhan, then the land that I inherited from my mother would safely remain in the family.

“‘It’s only been a month since your mother died,’ Mande said, ‘and Maran already has his mind on the land business? Even if the land is safely in the hands of the extended family, with the Dutch acting like relentless leeches, do you think you will be able to pay the belasting?’

“‘I don’t know, Mande,’ I told her. ‘I haven’t thought that far. What I’m fussing about is that Burhan man. I don’t want to get married yet, Mande. But I realize that I don’t have a choice. I owe Mamak Maran. After my mother died, he and his family were the ones who supported me.’

“‘Yes, you’ve come of age; you’re seventeen, aren’t you? You ought to be married by now,’ said Mande Siti.

“‘But I don’t want to, Mande. To avoid Burhan and Mamak Maran, I planned to go to Bukittinggi. But before I had a chance to leave, the Dutch burned our village, Mande. I didn’t know where to go. There were too many Dutch soldiers. According to rumors, all of the troops from Agam and Pariaman joined the attack on Manggopoh as well. So did those from Kamang.’

“‘How did you run away from Manggopoh, and how did you know I was here?’ Mande Siti interrupted.

“‘I was walking home from the field at that time. The story about you and Bagindo Rasyid at the Dutch fort that night had been the talk of the villagers since morning. The news spread from the village store, and everyone predicted that retaliation from the Dutch would be coming to Manggopoh. The villagers prepared themselves and carried their knives strapped to the hip.

“‘As I was nearing the village, I heard screaming and saw thick smoke rising. People were running in different directions. Shocked, I tried to run home. But it looked like the village was engulfed in fire. The Dutch had burned Manggopoh, Mande. I ended up joining the largest crowd.’

“Deep concern showed on Mande’s face as she listened to the story of the Dutch’s rage. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked.

“‘I ran to the outskirts of the woods. The crowd I was following began to scatter. They said that they wanted to confuse the Dutch, who were not familiar with this part of the woods.

“‘I had heard that you and Bagindo Rasyid had disappeared into the woods, although it wasn’t very clear where you’d gone. So I joined Mak Munah and two others. I knew that you were related to Mak Munah, so I figured she’d know where you were. After two days in the woods, we arrived here. Please let me stay with you for a while. I can help take care of Dalima.’

“‘Finding me was dangerous, Edah! But what’s done is done; you’re here now. There is no other option for you but to stay. But it’s not always safe here, either. We need to be on our toes—the Dutch can show up at any time. I’ve also heard that they’ve deployed troops from all the districts.'”

Zubaedah paused. Sighing, she stroked the white shawl on the backrest. She always thought she would see Mande Siti again and return it. It never crossed her mind that the shawl would ultimately replace Mande Siti’s presence in her life.

Zubaedah looked at Yuni and continued, “So, that was how I came to live in the shack with Mande Siti. There were several women around my age, and brawny, warrior-type men who also lived with us at that time. They said that they were people who supported the revolt of Mande Siti and Bagindo Rasyid.

“During the day, Bagindo Rasyid and a couple of men with short swords stood guard around the outskirts of the woods, while Mande Siti and I, along with several women, guarded the place where we stayed: a shack that had been abandoned by its previous occupants for some unknown reasons. For cooking, we collected firewood around the house; there was a wood stove inside. Since we hadn’t brought many supplies, we just looked for anything that was edible in the woods surrounding us.

“We were lucky to find a cempedak tree with ripening fruit near the house, and a little farther into the woods, there were plenty of ferns that we could cook. We made do with what we had since we weren’t able to find many ingredients or spices. We drank from a spring near the river not far from home.

“At night, we gathered inside the house. We kept our lights low to prevent attracting attention to our hideout. Bagindo Rasyid heard that when the Dutch burned Manggopoh and failed to find him and Siti, they deployed fully equipped troops and traced every location while closing in on the edge of the woods.

“Every day, I helped Mande Siti cook and take care of Dalima, who, at that time, had just begun learning to walk. Poor Dalima, at such a young age, she was forced to experience the difficulties of life.

During her time in the woods, Mande Siti still ardently recited and taught us the Koran. Once in a while, she taught us simple, basic silat moves for self-defense. Mande Siti had been known for her silat skills since she was a teenager.

“On the tenth day I spent in the woods with Mande, two of Bagindo’s men rushed to him in the middle of the night. They informed us that a group of Dutch soldiers had been sighted entering the woods.

“Bagindo Rasyid instantly ordered everyone in the house and those outside standing guard to pack up. I carried and soothed Dalima, who started crying when everyone bustled about, while Mande packed some essentials that she could bring with her. Bagindo Rasyid and the other men gathered in a circle outside the house and whispered amongst themselves.

“Mande Siti forbade me to come with her. She took Dalima from my arms and said, ‘You, Edah, follow the river downstream, then cross it and get out of here immediately. Don’t argue with me. Follow Mak Munah and the others.’

“That night, I watched as Mande joined Bagindo Rasyid and the others to leave the house. Bagindo Rasyid had Dalima in his arms, and Mande was by his side. Some men with torches followed them. That’s when I noticed that Mande Siti’s white shawl had been left in the house, and I took it.

“That was the last time I saw Mande Siti. I did as she had ordered me to. Soon after I left the woods, I headed to Bukittinggi and stayed with my father’s sibling. Shortly afterwards, I met Syahrul’s father. We married and lived together in Bukittinggi after that.”

Zubaedah took the white embroidered shawl off the chair and used a tip to wipe her tears.

“Have a drink, Mak.” Yuni pushed a glass of water toward her.

Zubaedah took a sip, then said, “Those ferns were our everyday meal.” Rising, she draped the shawl over her shoulders. “I am going to pray now,” she said. “Pray for Mande Siti.”

***

Selendang Bersulam Putih

“Nah ini dia!” seru Zubaedah sambil menjangkau dan mengeluarkan sebuah selendang yang tersuruk di antara lipatan-lipatan kain dalam lemari pakaian. Selendang tersebut tampak kusam dan terlihat beberapa noda di berbagai tempat ketika Zubaedah membentangkannya di bawah lampu kamarnya.

Kemarin siang, surat kemenakannya dari Bukittinggi mengusik hatinya. Biasanya kemenakannya hanya menyampaikan kabar keadaan rumah di Bukittinggi yang dipercayakan kepadanya sejak Zubaedah pindah ke Jakarta ini untuk tinggal bersama Syahrul, anaknya. Tetapi, surat kemarin itu juga mengabarkan tentang berpulangnya ke rahmatullah Mande Siti Manggopoh tanggal 20 Agustus 1965, tiga minggu yang lalu.  Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi rajiun. Terkesiap Zubaedah membacanya.

Sudah lebih limapuluh tahun nama Mande Siti tidak pernah lagi terdengar dan tersebut oleh Zubaedah. Dalam ingatannya, sosok Mande Siti adalah saat terakhir beliau meninggalkan Zubaedah di suatu malam gelap di tahun 1908. Walaupun demikian beliau selalu ada dalam hati dan doa Zubaedah.

Sekarang, air mata tak terbendung lagi mengalir di pipinya. Diamatinya selendang putih yang telah menguning termakan usia ditangannya, sulaman benang putih dengan corak sederhana masih terlihat jelas di sekelilingnya. Disampirkannya selendang tersebut di pundaknya dan sambil terduduk di pinggiran tempat tidur, Zubaedah teringat kembali bagaimana selendang itu diperolehnya atau lebih tepatnya diambilnya. Selendang Mande Siti yang tidak pernah sempat dikembalikannya kepada si empunya.

“Mak, Mak,” ketukan di pintu kamar mengalihkan lamunan Zubaedah. Yuni, menantunya, muncul di pintu dengan wajah tersenyum dan berkata, “Batang pakisnya ketemu di pasar nih.”

Sebelum Yuni sempat bertanya tentang mata sembab ibu mertuanya, Zubaedah buru-buru bangkit. Sambil menyusut air mata di pipi dengan ujung selendang ia berkata,”Mudah-mudahan bumbu dan kelapa kau beli juga Yun.”

“Iya, lengkap, Mak, cabai merah, bawang merah, bawang putih, lengkuas, jahe, kunyit, sereh, juga daun salam. Kelapa, saya minta langsung diparutkan di pasar.”

“Senang sekali hati Amak ada yang menjual batang paku di Jakarta ini,” sambung Zubaedah. Sambil mengikuti Yuni ke dapur, ia meletakkan selendang di sandaran kursi di meja makan.

Yuni selalu tertawa geli setiap mendengar ibu mertuanya tetap menggunakan istilah bahasa Minang, paku, untuk pakis yang baru dibelinya. Dia teringat guyonan ibunya sendiri yang tinggal di Surabaya, yang pasti akan berkata, “Sejak menikah dengan orang seberang, kamu menjadi sakti ya, karena pakupun sekarang bisa dimakan.”

Di dapur, Zubaedah langsung membersihkan daun pakis. Satu per satu batang pakis diusap dan dibersihkan dan dialiri air keran yang mengucur.

Ketika jari-jarinya membersihkan pucuk pakis yang berpilin dan duri-duri lunak pucuk itu menyentuh kulitnya, ingatan membawanya kembali pada saat lebih dari limapuluh tahun yang lalu ketika Zubaedah remaja membersihkan batang paku di pancuran di dekat rumah ladang di tengah hutan. Batang paku itu hanya direbus dan dimakan dengan nasi seadanya atau ubi yang diambil dari ladang.

“Mak, berapa banyak lengkuasnya?” tanya Yuni sambil menyodorkan lengkuas dan menyentakkan Zubaedah untuk kembali ke batang paku yang dibersihkannya.

“Ya sebentar, biar Amak tiriskan paku ini dulu,” jawab Zubaedah sambil meletakkan batang paku yang sudah bersih ke dalam tirisan. Kemudian dia mengambil pisau dan memotong lengkuas sambil berkata,”Seruas jari lengkuas, seruas jahe, seruas kunyit.”

“Seruas jari siapa, Mak?” tanya Yuni sambil tersenyum.

“Seruas jari yang memasaknya, Yuni,” jawab Zubaedah.

“Kalau begitu, kalau orang yang masaknya tinggi langsing rasa masakannya beda ya Mak dengan yang pendek gemuk, kan ukuran jarinya berbeda,” Yuni memang tidak pernah mahir kalau mengikuti takaran kira-kira Zubaedah.

“Ah, kau ada-ada saja Yuni,” Zubaedah tertawa. “Ukuran seruas jari itu kan hanya perkiraan kasar, selebihnya gunakanlah hati dan perasaanmu, dijamin apapun yang kau masak akan lezat,” jelas Zubaedah.

“Nah, sekarang kau kupaslah bawang merah dan bawang putih dan potong-potonglah cabai merah ini,” lanjut Zubaedah.

Sementara Yuni melakukan yang diminta Zubaedah, dia menyempatkan bertanya,”Kenapa Amak tadi menangis di kamar?”

Zubaedah terdiam dan memandang Yuni. Alangkah bersyukurnya bahwa Syahrul, anak tunggalnya, menikahi Yuni. Anak yang baik dan penuh perhatian, tidak saja terhadap suami dan anak-anaknya, tetapi juga terhadap ibu mertuanya. Setelah suaminya meninggal tiga tahun yang lalu, dan kesehatannya juga sudah menurun, Syahrul mengajaknya tinggal bersamanya di Jakarta. Meski awalnya Zubaedah berkeberatan meninggalkan rumah peninggalan suaminya di Bukittinggi, tetapi Syahrul memaksa dengan alasan biar dia juga tenang kalau ibunya berada di dekat dia dan keluarga.

“Amak teringat Mande Siti. Kau tahu, waktu Amak bersama Mande Siti di hutan dekat Manggopoh, batang paku inilah yang selalu Amak cari di sekitar ladang di hutan untuk jadi makanan sehari-hari, cuma inilah yang dapat kami peroleh.”

“Kenapa Amak tinggal di hutan dan siapa Mande Siti itu?” Yuni terkejut karena tidak mengira ibu mertuanya pernah tinggal di hutan dan Yuni juga tidak ingat suaminya pernah bercerita tentang itu.

Zubaedah kemudian bercerita, “Mande Siti itu sepupu jauh dari orangtua Amak. Meskipun umurnya masih muda, di tahun 1908 itu beliau belum berumur tigapuluh tahun, tapi dipanggil Mande oleh semua orang. Suaminya Bagindo Rasyid, dan anak perempuannya Dalima masih menyusu waktu itu.

“Mande Siti adalah perempuan pintar dan tangguh. Sejak kecil sudah pandai bapasambahan, yaitu bicara berpantun yang indah sekali, mengaji dan bahkan jago bersilat. Tidak banyak perempuan Minang yang pintar dan seberani beliau waktu itu.

“Bagindo Rasyid adalah pendekar juga dan Mande Siti juga ikut membantu kegiatan Bagindo. Suatu malam di bulan Juni tahun 1908, Mande Siti, Bagindo Rasyid dan beberapa orang di kampung Manggopoh menyerang Belanda di bentengnya.

“Amak ingat benar karena itu tidak lama setelah orangtua perempuan Amak meninggal. Banyak Belanda mati malam itu. Tapi ternyata ada dua orang Belanda yang sempat lolos dan mereka lari menyelamatkan diri dan melapor ke Bukittinggi. Kabarnya Mande Siti terluka dari serbuan itu. Dan mereka, Mande Siti, Bagindo Rasyid dan orang-orangnya lari dan sembunyi ke hutan di luar Manggopoh.”  Zubaedah menarik nafas. Sementara matanya mengawang jauh.

“Segini cukup ya, Mak,” Yuni memperlihatkan potongan bawang merah, bawang putih, dan cabai.

“Ya, cukup, letakkan di sini.” Zubaedah kembali dengan masakannya dan meneruskan, “Amak akan menggiling cabai dan bumbu ini, sementara itu kau peraslah santan. Tolong ambilkan Amak batu lado ya Yun.”

Yuni mengambil cobek dan ulekan yang dimaksud Zubaedah dan meletakkannya di atas meja pendek yang mudah dijangkau. Ibu mertuanya sengaja bersusah payah memboyong batu lado itu dari kampung ketika pindah untuk ikut tinggal dengan Yuni dan Syahrul di Jakarta. Katanya beliau tidak biasa menggunakan cobek dan ulekan Yuni. Kata Zubaedah bumbu yang digiling dan digerus di batu lado ini akan mengeluarkan rasa dan wangi yang lebih lezat. Makanya ibu mertuanya tidak mau menggunakan yang lain selain batu lado itu.

“Kemudian, bagaimana Amak bisa tinggal di hutan dengan Mande Siti,” Yuni teringat kembali akan cerita ibu mertuanya.

“Sejak orangtua Amak meninggal, Amak tinggal di tempat Mamak Maran, kakak laki-laki dari orangtua perempuan Amak. Mande Siti sering datang berkunjung ke rumah Mamak Maran menghibur Amak waktu itu.” cerita Zubaedah. “Waktu itu, pertengahan tahun 1908 itu, di Manggopoh keadaan juga bergolak. Orang-orang sedang ramai membicarakan belasting yang baru diterapkan Belanda. Masa si Belanda meminta pajak untuk tanah-tanah pusaka di kampung. Hebohlah orang kampung waktu itu. Tanah itu bukan tanahnya orang Belanda, tapi tanah turun temurun kaum orang Minang.” Zubaedah menggelengkan kepalanya.

“Apakah santannya sudah cukup, Mak?” Yuni memperlihatkan hasil perasannya ke Zubaedah.

“Oh ya, sudah, sudah cukup. Ini juga bumbu cabainya sudah halus. Nah, sekarang kau jerangkanlah santan ini dan rebus dengan bumbu, daun serai dan daun salam ini,” kata Zubaedah. “Selama santan dijerang, jangan lupa mengaduk-ngaduknya supaya tidak pecah santan nanti. Setelah santan bergolak, baru kau masukan batang paku yang sudah ditiriskan ini,” lanjut Zubaedah lagi.

Yuni segera mengeluarkan panci dari lemari dapur dan menghidupkan kompor.

Sementara Zubaedah melanjutkan ceritanya. “Hingga suatu hari, di pertengahan bulan Juni tahun 1908, Amak mendengar dari orang-orang kampung, ada pertentangan antara ninik mamak, tetua kampung, dengan orang Belanda di Kamang. Kemudian juga orang kampung di Kamang menyerbu benteng Belanda, tentu saja Belanda marah. Dan kemudian Amak dengar pula Bagindo Rasyid, yang dekat dan sering bertukar pikiran dengan ninik mamak, ikut dalam penyerbuan itu. Memang beberapa hari kemudian, Bagindo Rasyid pulang ke Manggopoh sembunyi-sembunyi dan tidak pernah keluar siang hari, menghindari kejaran Belanda katanya.”

“Mak, sudah mendidih santannya. Pakisnya boleh dimasukkan ya,” sela Yuni sambil mengaduk-aduk panci di atas kompor. Uap dari panci yang berisi santan berbumbu memenuhi dapur. Bau harumnya menerbitkan selera.

Zubaedah mendekat dan melihat ke dalam panci dan berkata,”Ya, sudah siap ini, biar Amak yang ambilkan pakunya.” Setelah batang paku dimasukkan ke panci, Zubaedah memperingatkan Yuni, “Jangan aduk terlalu keras supaya pakunya tidak hancur. Dan kalau sudah matang semuanya, matikan kompor, tutup panci, dan diamkan sebentar supaya bumbunya meresap dan tidak terlalu panas untuk dimakan.”

Zubaedah kemudian bersiap membereskan dan menata meja makan.

Tidak lama kemudian, Yuni datang dengan membawa semangkok gulai paku, secambung nasi hangat, kerupuk jangek, kerupuk dari kulit sapi yang dikirim dari kampung untuk Zubaedah, dan dua potong ayam goreng.

“Marilah kita makan dulu, Mak. Gulai pakisnya sudah siap,” ajak Yuni ke Zubaedah.

“Tidak menunggu si Syahrul dulu?” tanya Zubaedah.

Uda Syahrul makan siang di kantor, ada rapat lagi hari ini katanya,” jelas Yuni menggunakan kata Minang untuk menyebut suaminya dan menyambung, “Anak-anak sudah dibuatkan ayam goreng juga untuk mereka pulang sekolah nanti. Biar ini untuk kita saja Mak.”

Ketika Zubaedah duduk di meja, Yuni segera menyendokkan nasi ke piringnya. Untuk lauknya Zubaedah hanya memilih gulai paku dengan banyak kuah. Gurih santan yang dipadu dengan bumbu yang pas takarannya, tidak terlalu asin dan tidak terlalu pedas, membuat lidah Zubaedah bergoyang. Ditambah dengan kerupuk jangek yang ketika dicampurkan ke dalam kuah mengeluarkan bunyi mendesis sebelum menyusut bentuk dan ukurannya. Untuk sesaat Zubaedah merasakan kerinduannya terhadap gulai paku terbayar sudah.

Di Bukittinggi, gulai paku biasanya dimakan dengan ketupat sebagai sarapan pagi. Disajikan dengan berbagai macam kerupuk, kerupuk jangek, kerupuk singkong atau kerupuk merah biasanya. Kerupuk kampung. Biasanya teh tawar hangat sebagai minumnya.

“Enak ya, Mak,” kata Yuni sambil tersenyum dan menyuap nasinya.

“Iya, Yun, enak sekali. Terima kasih sekali Amak ke Yuni.”

“Jadi bagaimana cerita Bagindo Rasyid yang katanya lari dari Kamang tadi, Mak?” tanya Yuni setelah mereka selesai makan dan Zubaedah membantu Yuni memindahkan piring bekas makan ke dapur.

“Setelah pulang ke Manggopoh, Bagindo Rasyid sepertinya diam-diam bersama ninik mamak kampung menggalang kekuatan lainnya untuk melawan belasting Belanda itu di Manggopoh. Mande Siti diajak serta atau lebih mungkin Mande yang ingin ikut sendiri. Itulah kejadian Mande Siti ikut serta di penyerbuan benteng Belanda itu,” Zubaedah melanjutkan ceritanya ketika mereka kembali duduk di meja makan.

“Kapan Amak jadinya ikut Mande Siti di hutan?” tanya Yuni.

Zubaedah memandang selendang Mande Siti yang sengaja diletakkannya di sandaran kursi di sebelah kursinya sendiri. Sekilas Zubaedah mengusap selendang dan melanjutkan, “Amak masih teringat bagaimana terkejutnya Mande Siti ketika Amak berhasil menemukannya di rumah ladang di hutan pertama kali” Zubaedah tenggelam dalam ingatan sejenak sebelum meneruskan ceritanya.

“Mande Siti sedang mondar mandir di teduhan pohon cempedak. Dalima terlihat dibawanya di dalam kain gendongan. Begitu beliau melihat Amak, beliau berteriak, ‘Edah?! Apa yang kau kerjakan di sini?’ Sambil meraih lengan Amak, Mande lanjut bertubi-tubi, ‘Bagaimana kau sampai ke sini?’ Sementara itu Dalima merengek-rengek dalam gendongannya.

“Mande terlihat lelah dengan mata yang sayu dan selendang di kepalanya tidak beraturan seperti asal menutup kepala saja, kusut masai. Dalima juga seperti tidak nyaman, merengek-rengek dan mukanya memerah karena menangis.

“Amak berusaha membujuk Dalima menenangkan tangisnya. Tiba-tiba Dalima mengulurkan kedua tangannya minta digendong Amak, dan Mande Siti melepaskannya.

“Mande kemudian mengajak Amak masuk ke dalam rumah dan setelah menyediakan segelas minum yang buat Amak benar-benar menjadi pelepas haus, Amak menceritakan apa yang terjadi ke Mande Siti.

“‘Mak Maran mengenalkan ambo dengan si Burhan, kemenakannya yang masih saudara jauh Tek Banun, istrinya. Kalau ambo mau menikah dengan si Burhan, maka tanah warisan amak ambo akan aman di tangan keluarga.’ Amak langsung menceritakan apa yang ada di kepala waktu itu.

“‘Baru sebulan Amak kau meninggal, si Maran sudah panjang pikirannya ke urusan tanah segala ya,’ kata Mande. ‘Biarpun tanah masih di tangan keluarga besar, tapi dengan si Belanda yang seperti tukang palak, siapa yang akan membayar belastingnya. Sanggup kau?’

“‘Tidak taulah, Mande, kalau urusan itu. Ambo belum berpikir sejauh itu. Yang ambo rusuhkan adalah si Burhan itu. Ambo belum mau kawin, Mande. Tapi ambo sadar tidak punya pilihan. Ambo berutang budi ke Mak Maran. Sepeninggal amak ambo, beliau sekeluargalah yang membantu ambo.’

“‘Ya, kau sudah gadis, umur sudah tujuh belas kan? Sudah pantaslah dikawinkan,’ kata Mande Siti.

“‘Tapi tidaklah Mande. Untuk menghindari si Burhan dan Mak Maran, ambo sudah berencana mau ke Bukittinggi saja. Tapi sebelum sempat berangkat, kampung kita keburu di bakar Belanda, Mande. Tidak tahu mau kemana ambo. Banyak sekali tentara Belanda waktu itu. Katanya semua pasukan dari Agam dan Pariaman juga datang menyerbu Manggopoh waktu itu. Juga mereka yang dari Kamang.’

“‘Bagaimana cara kau lari dari Manggopoh waktu itu dan bagaimana kau tau Mande di sini?’ sela Mande Siti.

“‘Ambo sedang di jalan pulang dari parak waktu itu. Cerita tentang Mande dan Bagindo Rasyid malam itu di benteng Belanda sudah jadi cerita orang kampung sejak pagi. Ramai cerita di lapau dan setiap orang sudah berwanti-wanti bahwa pasti akan ada balasan dari Belanda ke Manggopoh. Mereka sudah siap dengan belati dan pisau masing-masing di pinggang.

“‘Sewaktu sudah dekat kampung, ambo mendengar teriakan-teriakan dan melihat asap pekat mengebul, kemudian orang-orang berlarian ke segala arah. Ambo terkejut. Ambo mencoba lari ke rumah. Tapi kampung seperti sudah terkepung api. Belanda membakar Manggopoh, Mande. Akhirnya ambo ikut lari mengikuti orang yang paling banyak.’

“Muka Mande berubah menjadi sangat prihatin sewaktu mendengar cerita amukan Belanda.

“‘Bagaimana kau sampai ke sini?’ tanya Mande.

“‘Ambo lari sampai ke tepi hutan. Orang-orang yang ambo ikuti mulai berpencar. Katanya supaya Belanda bingung, lagipula Belanda tidak tau daerah hutan ini. Ambo juga mendengar Mande dan Bagindo Rasyid menghilang ke hutan, meski ambo tidak terlalu jelas ke bagian mana. Jadi waktu itu ambo bergabung dengan Mak Munah dan dua orang lain. Ambo tau Mande bersaudara dengan Mak Munah, jadi ambo kira Mak Munah tau dimana Mande berada. Begitulah, setelah dua hari di hutan, ambo sampai di sini dengan Mak Munah. Ijinkanlah ambo sementara ikut Mande. Ambo bisa bantu menjaga Dalima.’

“‘Kerjaan bahaya yang kau lakukan mencariku, Edah! Tapi apa boleh buat, kau sudah di sini. Tidak ada jalan lain selain kau tinggal di sini. Tapi di sini juga tidak selalu aman, kita harus selalu waspada. Sewaktu-waktu Belanda bisa muncul, aku juga mendengar mereka sudah mengerahkan pasukan dari seluruh nagari.’”

Zubaedah berhenti sejenak dan sambil menghela napas kembali mengusap-usap selendang putih di sandaran kursi. Selendang itu yang selalu disimpannya baik-baik. Dia mengira masih akan bertemu dengan Mande Siti dan bisa mengembalikannya. Tidak pernah terbayangkan olehnya selendang itulah yang akhirnya menjadi pengganti Mande Siti di hidupnya.

Zubaedah kemudian melanjutkan, “Begitulah, Amak tinggal di rumah ladang dengan Mande Siti. Ada beberapa perempuan kira-kira seumuran Mande dan laki-laki berbadan tegap seperti pendekar yang juga ikut tinggal waktu itu. Katanya mereka adalah orang-orang yang membantu perjuangan Mande Siti dan Bagindo Rasyid.

“Kalau siang hari Bagindo Rasyid dan beberapa orang pria berkelewang berjaga-jaga di sekitar pinggiran hutan. Sementara Mande Siti dan Amak dengan beberapa wanita lainnya berjaga-jaga di tempat kami tinggal, rumah ladang yang ditinggalkan penghuninya entah kenapa. Untuk memasak kami mengumpulkan kayu bakar di sekitar rumah, ada tungku di rumah itu. Karena tidak membawa banyak perbekalan, kami mencari apa saja yang bisa dimakan di sekitar hutan.

“Beruntung ada pohon cempedak yang buahnya mulai ranum di dekat rumah dan agak jauh ke dalam hutan, banyak tumbuhan paku yang bisa dimasak. Kami memasak apa adanya karena tidak banyak bahan dan bumbu yang bisa diperoleh. Untuk minum, ada mata air di sungai yang tidak jauh dari rumah.

“Malam hari kami berkumpul di dalam rumah dengan api penerangan sekedarnya untuk menjaga rumah dan tempat persembunyian tidak terlalu menarik perhatian dari luar. Bagindo Rasyid mendengar bahwa setelah kampung Manggopoh dibakar dan karena Belanda tidak menemukan dirinya dan Siti, mereka kemudian mengerahkan pasukan lengkap dan menyusuri setiap tempat dan mulai merapatkan pencarian ke daerah pinggiran hutan.

“Amak sehari-hari membantu Mande Siti memasak dan menjaga Dalima yang waktu itu baru belajar berjalan. Kasihan si Dalima terpaksa ikut merasakan susahnya hidup di pelarian dan di tengah hutan umur segitu.

“Selama di hutan Mande Siti masih rajin mengaji dan mengajarkan Al Quran ke kami. Sesekali beliau juga mengajarkan jurus-jurus silat sederhana dan mendasar untuk pertahanan diri. Memang Mande Siti terkenal sebagai jago silat sejak gadisnya.

“Waktu hari kesepuluh Amak di hutan dengan Mande, tiba-tiba malam-malam dua orang Bagindo Rasyid tergesa-gesa mendatangi Bagindo. Mereka mengabarkan telah melihat sekelompok Belanda mulai memasuki hutan.

“Segera setelah itu, Bagindo Rasyid memerintahkan semua yang berada di rumah dan yang berjaga di luar untuk berkemas. Amak menggendong dan menenangkan Dalima yang mulai menangis melihat orang-orang yang sibuk berlalu lalang, sementara Mande mengumpulkan barang-barang penting yang bisa dibawa. Bagindo Rasyid dan para pria berkumpul dalam lingkaran di luar rumah dan bergumam sesama mereka.

“Mande Siti melarang Amak ikut dengannya. Dalima diambilnya dari gendongan Amak lalu beliau berkata, ‘Kau, Edah, kau pergi ke hilir sungai, menyebranglah dan langsung keluar dari sini. Jangan membantah. Kau ikuti Mak Munah dan lainnya.’

“Malam itu Amak melihat Mande bergabung dengan Bagindo Rasyid dan lainnya meninggalkan rumah ladang. Dalima digendong Bagindo Rasyid, Mande di sampingnya.  Mereka diikuti beberapa pria yang membawa obor. Saat itulah Amak melihat selendang putih Mande Siti tercecer di dalam rumah. Amak kemudian mengambilnya.

“Itulah terakhir kali Amak melihat Mande Siti. Amak mengikuti perintah Mande. Setelah keluar dari hutan, Amak pergi ke Bukittinggi dan kemudian tinggal dengan adik dari Apak dan keluarganya. Tidak lama kemudian, Amak bertemu dan menikah dengan ayahnya Syahrul. Kami menetap di Bukittinggi seterusnya.”

Zubaedah mengambil selendang bersulam putih dari sandaran kursi dan menghapus air matanya dengan sudutnya.

“Minumlah dulu, Mak,” kata Yuni sambil menyodorkan segelas air putih.

Zubaedah meneguk air putih. “Batang paku itulah yang menjadi makanan sehari-hari waktu itu,” katanya seperti bergumam. Zubaedah bangkit. Sambil menyampirkan selendang putih yang sudah menguning itu ke pundaknya ia berkata, “Amak mau sembahyang dulu. Sembahyang untuk Mande Siti.”

***

The Shawl With White Embroidery

“There it is.” Zubaedah reached for a shawl buried among the folded clothes in her wardrobe. When she unfolded it under the lamp of her room, she noticed the material was faded and stained in several places.

A letter she had received from her nephew in Bukittinggi yesterday afternoon weighed on her mind. Usually, her nephew’s letters only told her about the condition of the house in Bukittinggi that she had entrusted him with when she moved to live with her son, Syahrul, in Jakarta. However, yesterday’s letter also contained news about the death of Mande Siti Manggopoh, three weeks ago, on August 20, 1965. Innalillahiwainnailaihirajiun—we belong to Allah and to Him we shall return. The news had stunned Zubaedah.

For over fifty years, Zubaedah had neither heard nor spoken the name Mande Siti. Zubaedah’s last memory of Mande Siti was when she left in the middle of the night in 1908. However, Mande Siti had always remained in her heart and prayers.

Now, Zubaedah could no longer hold back her tears. She gazed at the white shawl she held; time had yellowed the material, but the border of simple white embroidery was still bright. Zubaedah took a seat on the edge of her bed. Draping the shawl around her shoulders, she started to remember the time when the shawl had become hers—or more accurately, when she had taken it. Mande Siti’s shawl: Zubaedah never had the opportunity to return it to its rightful owner.

Mak, Mom.” A knock on the door snapped Zubaedah out of her musings.

Yuni, her daughter-in-law, stood smiling in the doorway. “I found the fiddlehead ferns in the market,” she said.

Before Yuni could say anything about her swollen eyes, Zubaedah quickly rose, wiping her tears with the shawl. “Hopefully you also bought the spices and the coconut, Yun.”

“Yes, I bought all we need: chili pepper, shallots, garlic, galangal, ginger, turmeric, lemongrass, and bay leaves. I also had the coconut grated at the market.”

“I am so glad someone is selling paku in Jakarta.” Following Yuni to the kitchen, Zubaedah stopped to drape the shawl over the back of a dining room chair.

It always amused Yuni whenever her mother-in-law used a Minang word like paku for ferns; in Java, paku are nails. She thought of her mother, who lived in Surabaya. She would have undoubtedly joked, “Since you married your Sumatran husband, you have turned into a mystic! Now you can even eat nails!”

In the kitchen, Zubaedah immediately washed the ferns. She rinsed each frond thoroughly. As her fingers worked the curled fern tips and touched the small thorns, her memories went back more than fifty years, when, as a teenager, she washed ferns under a water spout near a shack in the forest. At that time, they simply boiled the ferns and ate them with rice or yams from the fields.

“Mak, how much galangal do we use?” Yuni handed Zubaedah some galangal and brought Zubaedah’s attention back from the past.

“Wait a moment. Let me strain this first.” Zubaedah placed the cleaned ferns in the colander. She picked up a knife and sliced the galangal. “A joint of each: galangal, ginger, and turmeric.”

“A joint of whose fingers, Mak?” Yuni smiled.

“The cook’s, Yuni,” Zubaedah replied.

“So, if the cook is tall and thin, the flavor will be different than if the cook is short and fat, because their joints are different.” Yuni was never good at following Zubaedah’s rough measurements.

Zubaedah laughed. “Ah, it’s just like you to say that, Yuni.” She explained, “A joint is just a rough measurement; use your heart and feelings for the rest, and I’m sure that whatever you cook will be delicious. Now, peel the shallots and garlic and slice the chili pepper.”

As Yuni followed Zubaedah’s instructions, she took the chance to ask, “Why were you crying in the bedroom?”

Zubaedah fell silent as she gazed at Yuni. She was truly grateful that her only son, Syahrul, had married Yuni. She was kind-hearted and thoughtful, not only toward her husband and children, but also toward her mother-in-law. After Zubaedah’s husband passed away and her health started declining, Syahrul had invited her to live with his family in Jakarta. Despite her reluctance to leave her husband’s home in Bukittinggi, Syahrul insisted, using the excuse that he would be more at ease knowing his mother was nearby.

“I was reminded of Mande Siti. You know, when I lived with Mande Siti in the woods near Manggopoh, we would always look for these ferns in the fields around the woods for our meals; these ferns were all that was available.”

“Why did you live in the woods, and who was this Mande Siti?” Yuni was surprised. She never knew that her mother-in-law had lived in the woods; her husband had never told her anything about it either.

Zubaedah then began her story. “Mande Siti was a distant cousin of my parents. Even though she was still young—back in 1908 she had yet to turn thirty—everyone called her Mande—Mother. Bagindo Rasyid was her husband; their daughter, Dalima, was still at the breast.

“Mande Siti was a clever and tough woman. She was skilled in bapasambahan, which is the art of conversing beautifully in pantoum, reciting from the Koran, and even performed martial arts. Back in those days, there were not many Minang women who were as brave and clever as she was.

“Bagindo Rasyid was a warrior, and Mande Siti was always by his side. One night in June of 1908, Mande Siti, Bagindo Rasyid, and others from Manggopoh attacked the Dutch fort. I remember the night clearly because it happened not long after my mother’s death. Many Dutch perished that night, but two people fled and reported the raid to Bukittinggi. I heard Mande Siti was injured during the attack. She, along with Bagindo Rasyid and his men, hid in the woods outside Manggopoh.” Zubaedah sighed as she gazed into the distance.

“This should be enough, right Mak?” Yuni showed the peeled shallots, garlic, and sliced chili pepper.

“Yes. Put it over there.” Zubaedah returned to her cooking. “I will grind the chili pepper and the spices. You can squeeze the liquid out of the grated coconut. Can you get me the batu lado, Yun?”

Yuni fetched the stone mortar and pestle Zubaedah had asked for and placed it on top of a short table within reach. Her mother-in-law had insisted on bringing her batu lado from the village when she moved in with Yuni and Syahrul in Jakarta. She said she wasn’t used to Yuni’s earthenware grindstone. Zubaedah said that spices crushed on a batu lado were tastier and more fragrant, and that’s why she would use no other than her own batu lado.

“And how did you come to live in the woods with Mande Siti?” Yuni returned to her mother-in-law’s story.

“After my parents passed away, I stayed with Mamak Maran, my mother’s brother. Mande Siti often visited his house to comfort me,” Zubaedah said. “At that time, around mid-1908, there was turmoil in Manggopoh. People were talking about the belasting that had recently been levied by the Dutch. Can you imagine, they had the nerve to levy taxes on lands that belonged to the villagers for generations. No wonder the villagers were in an uproar. That land did not belong to the Dutch. It belonged to the Minang people.” Zubaedah shook her head.

“Is this enough coconut milk, Mak?” Yuni showed Zubaedah the coconut milk she had extracted.

“Yes. The chili and spices are also ground up enough. Now, boil the coconut milk with the spices, lemongrass, and bay leaves,” Zubaedah instructed and added, “Don’t forget to stir while it is boiling so the coconut milk won’t curdle. Once the bubbles appear, just add these ferns.”

Yuni immediately took out a cooking pot from the kitchen cabinet and turned on the stove.

Meanwhile, Zubaedah continued her story. “Then, around mid-June of 1908, I heard from the villagers that there was an argument between the ninik mamak, the village elders, and the Dutch in Kamang. The villagers of Kamang raided the Dutch fortress and, of course, the Dutch were angry. I also heard that Bagindo Rasyid, who was very close to the ninik mamak and often exchanged ideas with them, had joined the raid. Sure enough, a few days later, Bagindo Rasyid returned to Manggopoh secretly. He never went out during daylight. He said he was trying to prevent the Dutch from coming after him.”

“Mak, the coconut milk is boiling. Can I add the ferns now?” Yuni interrupted while stirring the pot on the stove. The steam of the seasoned coconut milk filled the kitchen.

Zubaedah came closer. She looked into the pot and said, “Yes, it’s ready; let me get the ferns for you.” The aroma made her hungry.

After the ferns were added, Zubaedah warned Yuni, “Don’t stir too hard or you’ll mush the ferns. Once everything is cooked, turn off the stove, close the pot, and let it steep for a while so the spices settle, and it cools off a bit.”

Zubaedah prepared to set the table.

Not long after, Yuni came in with the fern curry, a plate of rice, jangek, beef cracklings, and two pieces of fried chicken.

“Let’s eat, Mak. The fern stew is ready,” Yuni said to Zubaedah.

“Are we not waiting for Syahrul?” Zubaedah asked.

Uda Syahrul will have lunch at the office. He has another meeting today.” Yuni used the Minang term to refer to her husband, then added, “I’ve made fried chicken for the children, for when they come home from school. This is just for us, Mak.”

When Zubaedah sat at the table, Yuni immediately served her some rice. Zubaedah took a helping of fern curry with plenty of sauce. The blend of the perfectly measured spices—not too salty and not too spicy—and the addition of jangek cracklings that sizzled before shrinking when dipped into the sauce, made Zubaedah’s mouth water. For a moment, her craving for a bowl of fern curry was completely satisfied.

In Bukittinggi, fern curry is usually eaten for breakfast with ketupat, rice packed inside a diamond-shaped, woven palm-leaf pouch. It is served with various traditional crackers, such as jangek, cassava, or yam crackers, and accompanied by a glass of hot tea.

“This is delicious, isn’t it, Mak?” Smiling, Yuni took a big bite.

“Yes, Yun. It’s delicious. Thank you very much.”

“So what happened to Bagindo Rasyid after he ran away from Kamang, Mak?”

“After returning home to Manggopoh, Bagindo Rasyid—along with the ninik mamak—secretly rallied forces to fight again against the Dutch in Manggopoh. Mande Siti was either asked to join, or wanted to come along herself. That’s how she became involved in the attack on the Dutch fort.” Zubaedah carried on with her story.

“When did you go with Mande Siti to the woods?” Yuni asked.

Zubaedah looked at Mande Siti’s shawl that she had purposefully draped across the backrest of the chair next to her own. She briefly caressed the shawl and continued, “I still remember how surprised Mande Siti was when I first managed to find her at the shack.” For a moment, Zubaedah was lost in her memories before moving on with her story.

“Mande Siti was pacing back and forth in the shade of a cempedak tree, carrying Dalima in a sling. As soon as she saw me, she shouted, ‘Edah?! What are you doing here?’ She reached for my arm and continued repeatedly, ‘How did you get here?’ while Dalima whined.

“Mande looked exhausted, and her head shawl had been put on haphazardly. Dalima looked uncomfortable, too. She was crying, and her face was flushed.

“I tried to coax Dalima to stop crying. When she suddenly extended both of her arms to me, Mande Siti let her go.

“Mande then invited me inside the house and, after offering me a drink that was a true thirst quencher, I told her what had happened. Mamak, Uncle, Maran had introduced me to Burhan, his nephew, a distant relative of Tek Banun, his wife. If I agreed to marry Burhan, then the land that I inherited from my mother would safely remain in the family.

“‘It’s only been a month since your mother died,’ Mande said, ‘and Maran already has his mind on the land business? Even if the land is safely in the hands of the extended family, with the Dutch acting like relentless leeches, do you think you will be able to pay the belasting?’

“‘I don’t know, Mande,’ I told her. ‘I haven’t thought that far. What I’m fussing about is that Burhan man. I don’t want to get married yet, Mande. But I realize that I don’t have a choice. I owe Mamak Maran. After my mother died, he and his family were the ones who supported me.’

“‘Yes, you’ve come of age; you’re seventeen, aren’t you? You ought to be married by now,’ said Mande Siti.

“‘But I don’t want to, Mande. To avoid Burhan and Mamak Maran, I planned to go to Bukittinggi. But before I had a chance to leave, the Dutch burned our village, Mande. I didn’t know where to go. There were too many Dutch soldiers. According to rumors, all of the troops from Agam and Pariaman joined the attack on Manggopoh as well. So did those from Kamang.’

“‘How did you run away from Manggopoh, and how did you know I was here?’ Mande Siti interrupted.

“‘I was walking home from the field at that time. The story about you and Bagindo Rasyid at the Dutch fort that night had been the talk of the villagers since morning. The news spread from the village store, and everyone predicted that retaliation from the Dutch would be coming to Manggopoh. The villagers prepared themselves and carried their knives strapped to the hip.

“‘As I was nearing the village, I heard screaming and saw thick smoke rising. People were running in different directions. Shocked, I tried to run home. But it looked like the village was engulfed in fire. The Dutch had burned Manggopoh, Mande. I ended up joining the largest crowd.’

“Deep concern showed on Mande’s face as she listened to the story of the Dutch’s rage. ‘How did you get here?’ she asked.

“‘I ran to the outskirts of the woods. The crowd I was following began to scatter. They said that they wanted to confuse the Dutch, who were not familiar with this part of the woods.

“‘I had heard that you and Bagindo Rasyid had disappeared into the woods, although it wasn’t very clear where you’d gone. So I joined Mak Munah and two others. I knew that you were related to Mak Munah, so I figured she’d know where you were. After two days in the woods, we arrived here. Please let me stay with you for a while. I can help take care of Dalima.’

“‘Finding me was dangerous, Edah! But what’s done is done; you’re here now. There is no other option for you but to stay. But it’s not always safe here, either. We need to be on our toes—the Dutch can show up at any time. I’ve also heard that they’ve deployed troops from all the districts.'”

Zubaedah paused. Sighing, she stroked the white shawl on the backrest. She always thought she would see Mande Siti again and return it. It never crossed her mind that the shawl would ultimately replace Mande Siti’s presence in her life.

Zubaedah looked at Yuni and continued, “So, that was how I came to live in the shack with Mande Siti. There were several women around my age, and brawny, warrior-type men who also lived with us at that time. They said that they were people who supported the revolt of Mande Siti and Bagindo Rasyid.

“During the day, Bagindo Rasyid and a couple of men with short swords stood guard around the outskirts of the woods, while Mande Siti and I, along with several women, guarded the place where we stayed: a shack that had been abandoned by its previous occupants for some unknown reasons. For cooking, we collected firewood around the house; there was a wood stove inside. Since we hadn’t brought many supplies, we just looked for anything that was edible in the woods surrounding us.

“We were lucky to find a cempedak tree with ripening fruit near the house, and a little farther into the woods, there were plenty of ferns that we could cook. We made do with what we had since we weren’t able to find many ingredients or spices. We drank from a spring near the river not far from home.

“At night, we gathered inside the house. We kept our lights low to prevent attracting attention to our hideout. Bagindo Rasyid heard that when the Dutch burned Manggopoh and failed to find him and Siti, they deployed fully equipped troops and traced every location while closing in on the edge of the woods.

“Every day, I helped Mande Siti cook and take care of Dalima, who, at that time, had just begun learning to walk. Poor Dalima, at such a young age, she was forced to experience the difficulties of life.

During her time in the woods, Mande Siti still ardently recited and taught us the Koran. Once in a while, she taught us simple, basic silat moves for self-defense. Mande Siti had been known for her silat skills since she was a teenager.

“On the tenth day I spent in the woods with Mande, two of Bagindo’s men rushed to him in the middle of the night. They informed us that a group of Dutch soldiers had been sighted entering the woods.

“Bagindo Rasyid instantly ordered everyone in the house and those outside standing guard to pack up. I carried and soothed Dalima, who started crying when everyone bustled about, while Mande packed some essentials that she could bring with her. Bagindo Rasyid and the other men gathered in a circle outside the house and whispered amongst themselves.

“Mande Siti forbade me to come with her. She took Dalima from my arms and said, ‘You, Edah, follow the river downstream, then cross it and get out of here immediately. Don’t argue with me. Follow Mak Munah and the others.’

“That night, I watched as Mande joined Bagindo Rasyid and the others to leave the house. Bagindo Rasyid had Dalima in his arms, and Mande was by his side. Some men with torches followed them. That’s when I noticed that Mande Siti’s white shawl had been left in the house, and I took it.

“That was the last time I saw Mande Siti. I did as she had ordered me to. Soon after I left the woods, I headed to Bukittinggi and stayed with my father’s sibling. Shortly afterwards, I met Syahrul’s father. We married and lived together in Bukittinggi after that.”

Zubaedah took the white embroidered shawl off the chair and used a tip to wipe her tears.

“Have a drink, Mak.” Yuni pushed a glass of water toward her.

Zubaedah took a sip, then said, “Those ferns were our everyday meal.” Rising, she draped the shawl over her shoulders. “I am going to pray now,” she said. “Pray for Mande Siti.”

***

Robodoi, Bajak Laut dari Tobelo

Yudhi Herwibowo, Lahir di Palembang (Sumatra Selatan), namun tumbuh di Tegal (Jawa Tengah) dan Kupang (Nusa Tenggara Timur). Kini menetap di Solo (Jawa Tengah), mengolah percetakan dan homepublishing-nya, bukuKatta. Walau merupakan lulusan Arsitektur, lebih memilih terjun sebagai penulis cerita pendek dan novel. Cerita-cerita pendeknya tersebar di Koran Tempo, The Jakarta Post, Jawa Post, Media Indonesia, Suara Merdeka, Horison, Femina, Esquire. Beberapa novelnya: Pandaya Sriwijaya , Untung Surapati, Halaman Terakhir, , Miracle Journey , Lama Fa, Enigma, Cameo Revenge.

Yudhi juga mengumpulkan tulisannya di yudhiherwibowo.wordpress.com, dan bisa dihubungi melalui surel: hikozza@yahoo.com.

Hak cipta ©2017 ada pada Yudhi Herwibowo. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2017 ada pada Oni Suryaman.

 

 

Robodoi, Bajak Laut dari Tobelo

 

Apakah ini hari-hari terakhirku?

Robodoi termenung sambil mengeja kata-kata itu dalam hati. Malam ini di kesendiriannya di tepi pantai, ia merasakan semua pertanda seakan mengarahkan ke hari-hari terakhir itu. Kerlip bintang-bintang di angkasa yang makin meredup, bisik angin yang makin tak terdengar di telinga, dan udara yang makin terasa terbatas dihirupnya. Semuanya seperti mengarah ke titik penghabisan. Tubuhnya pun bahkan terasa menggigil karena tamparan-tamparan angin malam yang seperti mampu menusuk ulu hatinya. Sesuatu yang tak pernah dirasakan sebelumnya. Walau ikarena semua tahu, sejak dulu pertanda-pertandalah yang mengantar jalan hidupnya hingga sampai seperti sekarang.

Robodoi, berasal dari Tobelo, sebuah daerah di Pulau Halmahera Utara. Ia laki-laki yang lahir saat langit tanpa bintang. Waktu itu tahun 1785, hanya ada bulan sabit yang nampak di atas sana, bersama angin dingin yang seperti berniat membekukan semua yang ada, dan kesenyapan terasa paling sempurna. Orang-orang desa kemudian berbisik-bisik, “Malam seperti ini adalah waktu yang tak diinginkan bagi sebuah kelahiran. Bayi-bayi akan mudah mati. Namun bila ia bertahan, ia akan menjadi sangat kuat.”

Ucapan itulah juga yang selalu diucapkan Papa Tatto – begitu Robodoi memanggil ayahnya – bertahun-tahun kemudian. Awalnya, Robodoi tak pernah benar-benar mengerti arti ucapan itu. Namun semakin dewasa, ia mulai mengamini ucapan itu, hingga hari ini, saat usianya telah begitu menua.

Lalaba, salah satu kawan seperjuangan Robodoi selama ini, yang sejak tadi duduk di sudut yang lain, melangkah perlahan mendekat. Sejenak ia duduk dalam diam, sengaja tak ingin menganggu kediaman Robodoi. Ia hanya menoleh sejenak memandang wajah orang yang hampir sepanjang hidup diikutinya. Membiarkan angin memainkan anak-anak rambutnya yang panjang, sambil sesekali menampar-nampar tubuhnya yang makin menua. Entahlah, di suasana seperti ini, ia seperti bisa merasakan apa yang sedang dipikirkan Robodoi. Kesendirian ini seperti telah mengikis semua semangat yang dulu membuncah. Mungkin itu karena tak ada lagi Yoppi, dan Pilatu, kawan-kawannya yang dulu selalu bersama.

Lalaba akhirnya menyentuh pundak Robodoi. Membuat laki-laki itu menoleh perlahan. Di bawah sinar bulan, kerut-kerut keriput wajah di depannya itu seperti tak lagi bisa di sembunyikan oleh malam. Lalaba sendiri sebenarnya sudah setua Robodoi, namun wajah pimpinannya ini nampak jauh lebih tua darinya.

“Semua sudah usai,” ucapan Lalaba  terdengar pelan.

Robodoi merasakan suara itu begitu jauh. Namun walau begitu, ngiangnya seperti tak pernah selesai terdengar di telinganya.

***

Semua sudah usai…

Itu ucapan yang tak pernah terbayangkan oleh Robodoi. Sejak bocah, garis hidupnya seakan sudah diarahkan pada satu titik. Robodoi ingat, saat ia berusia tujuh tahun, Papa Tatto membawanya ke tepi pantai. Didudukkan tubuh kecilnya di rakit bambu. Lalu Papa Tatto menarik rakit itu ke tengah lautan dengan perahu. Setelah dirasa cukup jauh, Papa Tatto kemudian melepaskan ikatan rakit itu.

Itu adalah pertama kalinya Robodoi merasakan ketakutan yang begitu menulang. Ombak terus menghempas rakit berulang kali. Membuat tubuh seakan tertampar berkali-kali. Beberapa kali ia nyaris jatuh, namun masih bisa memegang tepian rakitnya. Inilah yang membuat tenaganya habis. Pada akhirnya, ia tak lagi bisa menahan tubuhnya saat ombak besar kembali datang. Tubuhnya terpelanting dari rakit. Air asin tak henti masuk ke mulutnya, membuat rasa perih di tenggorokannya. Ombak semakin bersemangat, kali ini diikuti pusaran air yang seperti menarik-narik kakinya. Ia hanya bisa terus meggapai dengan sisa-sisa tenaganya. Di saat-saat terakhir itulah, ia berhasil meraih kembali rakitnya.

Ketika pada akhirnya Robodoi tiba di pantai dengan tubuh lunglai, Papa Tatto hanya berujar pelan, “Kalau kau selamat kali ini, itu bukan karena kau hebat. Kau hanya beruntung. Karena lautan tak akan pernah bisa kau kalahkan!”

Robodoi terdiam memandang wajah Papa Tatto yang mendekat.

“Maka itu… jadikan laut sebagai sahabatmu,” ujar Papa Tatto sambil menepuk pundaknya. “Dengan begitu, ia tak akan pernah menenggelamkanmu!”

Sekarang, Robodoi ingat bagaimana Papa Tatto mengajaknya pertama kali dalam perahu. Ia tak banyak bertanya kala itu, namun ketika Papa Tatto menyerahkan sebatang tombak padanya, ia sadar kalau ini tentu bukan sesuatu yang biasa.

Robodoi telah tahu sejak lama bila Papa Tatto menjadi anak buah Sultan Nuku. Itu adalah sebutan bagi pemimpin Kesultanan Tidore, Muhammad Amiruddin. Sejak lama, kesultanan itu memang tengah berperang melawan VOC, kongsi dagang milik Kerajaan Belanda yang sejak lama berdagang di kepulauan itu. Maka itulah, darah Robodoi segera mendesir ketika Papa Tatto menyuruhnya bersama beberapa pemuda lainnya menuju lautan.

Masih benar-benar diingatnya saat itu. Sebuah kapal pedagang budak Iranun membawa puluhan budak-budaknya menuju Sape, sebuah daerah di kepulauan Nusa Tenggara.

Awalnya Papa Tatto memerintah Robodoi dan pemuda-pemuda lainnya untuk menunggu. Papa Tatto sepertinya ingin menunjukkan ia dirinya dan perahu-perahu lainnya menghancurkan kapal pedagang budak itu dan merebut budak-budak yang ada.

Tapi ternyata suasana saat itu benar-benar tak bisa dikendalikan. Teriakan-teriakan penuh semangat, panah-panah yang mulai mengisi langit, membuat dada Robodoi dan pemuda-pemuda yang ada di atas perahu ikut bergejolak. Apalagi saat sebuah tembakan meriam mulai mengarah pada perahu mereka.

Mau tak mau Robodoi dan pemuda-pemuda lainnya meluncur ke tengah peperangan. Itu adalah peperangan pertama Robodoi. Napasnya seakan terhenti saat perahu yang ditumpanginya mulai meluncur. Teriakan pemuda-pemuda lainnya mengalahkan debur ombak, bagai teriakan burung-burung bangkai di kala menemukan mayat. Seiring itu panah-panah menyebar ke langit, bersamaan desingan senapan-senapan yang memekakkan. Lalu tak lama berselang, orang-orang dari perahu berhasil melompat ke atas kapal musuh yang jauh lebih tinggi. Teriakan-teriakan kematian kemudian memecah tak lagi bisa dibedakan, diakhiri pekikan-pekikan kemenangan.

Ini adalah hari yang menentukan. Tombak yang selama ini dikenal Robodoi hanya untuk berburu binatang hutan dan ikan, kini merasakan tubuh-tubuh musuh yang hangat. Darah yang sempat mengalir nampak mengering dan hitam. Sungguh, kematian seakan telah diciptakan untuknya.

Dan kemenangan selalu menjadi candu. Kemudian Sultan Nuku semakin terdesak oleh orang-orang berkulit pucat itu. Setelah Papa Tatto tewas di sebuah pertempuran, Robodoi memutuskan pergi bersama orang-orang yang tersisa, yang dulu megikuti ayahnya. Mereka kemudian berpindah-pindah tempat selayaknya orang buruan; mencoba membaur dengan penduduk desa yang ada di beberapa tepian pantai, lalu pindah lagi ke Raja Ampat.

Tapi lautan selalu memanggil Robodoi. Ya, sejak ucapan Papa Tatto padanya semasa kanak-kanak dulu, diam-diam Robodoi sudah menjadikan laut sebagai sahabat terbaiknya. Secara teratur ia manaiki sampan kecil untuk sekadar menikmati angin dan ombak laut. Ia juga tetap menghabiskan waktunya berenang ke kedalaman laut, untuk sekadar melihat aneka ikan-ikan dan gua-gua yang belum didatangi sebelumnya. Lebih dari itu, ia mulai memberi persembahan kepada laut, entah itu berbentuk kepala kerbau atau pun kepala sapi yang masih segar. Maka itulah, Robodoi merasakan bila dirinya dan laut seperti memiliki ikatan yang tak bisa dipahami orang lain.

Robodoi benar-benar tak pernah bisa meninggalkan lautan. Ia mungkin bisa menjauhinya beberapa bulan saat bersembunyi dari kejaran musuh, terutama kapal-kapal Belanda. Tapi itu seperti menahan kerinduan pada seorang kekasih. Ia rindu saat-saat mendorong perahunya ke pantai. Ia rindu dayungannya yang membelah lautan. Percikan-percikan air laut di wajahnya, seperti mampu membuat semangatnya membuncah. Juga teriakannya yang memecah langit, yang akan segera diikuti oleh semua anak buahnya. Sungguh, itu adalah hidupnya. Dan tak ada satu pun yang bisa mengekangnya, walau dirinya sendiri.

Maka di waktu-waktu tertentu, Robodoi bersama beberapa orang yang ia pikir sejalan dengannya, mulai mengendap-ngendap mengeluarkan perahu yang selama ini disembunyikan ke hamparan lautan.

Itu adalah cara Robodoi dan kawan-kawannya bertahan hidup. Awalnya, tak ada orang-orang desa yang mengetahui rahasia itu. Namun semua berubah saat Robodoi berhasil mendapatkan harta karun dalam rampokannya yang jumlahnya tak sedikit. Beberapa guci berisi emas dan perhiasan mahal.

Dari situ Robodoi mampu membeli duabelas perahu dan juga perlengkapan yang lebih lengkap. Ia bahkan mampu membeli beberapa meriam dan mulai berani mengajak pemuda-pemuda pengangguran untuk bergabung bersamanya.

Maka beberapa bulan berselang saja, Robodoi sudah merampok beberapa kapal milik pedagang Gujarat dan China. Ia bahkan berani menghancurkan beberapa kapal Belanda yang sedang melakukan patroli. Tak heran, bila hanya beberapa bulan saja namanya sudah menjadi momok menakutkan.

Ia berdiri di atas perahunya, memandang sepuluh kapal besar di hadapannya. Itu adalah kapal-kapal Belanda yang nampaknya baru datang di lautan ini. Mereka nampak tak peduli melihat kehadiran puluhan perahunya. Barulah saat ia memerintahkan serangan, dan ratusan panah meluncur ke langit, nampak kegelisahan di atas kapal. Meriam-meriam segera dipasang, dan serdadu-serdadu mulai mengeluarkan senapan untuk mulai balas menembak.

Tapi mereka terlambat. Yoppi dan Pilatu yang memimpin perahu-perahu dari arah belakang kapal-kapal itu, sudah menyusul serangan. Hanya butuh beberapa saat saja, lautan dipenuhi mayat-mayat yang mengambang hampir di semua penjurunya. Itu adalah mayat-mayat musuh-musuhnya dan anak buahnya.

Gara-gara perang itulah, namanya semakin berkibar. Orang-orang datang, dan meminta bergabung dengannya. Tak heran, sebulan sejak perang besar itu sudah ada 400 orang lebih yang mengikuti perintahnya. Orang-orang yang diyakininya, siap mati untuknya.

Kini, bukan lagi kapal-kapal kecil yang menjadi incaran Robodoi. Semua kapal tak lagi membuat mereka takut. Ia pernah mengalahkan kapal-kapal Gujarat dan kapal-kapal China, bahkan kapal-kapal Belanda yang dikenal memiliki banyak meriam. Perang sudah menjadi makanan sehari-hari bagi mereka semua.

Tapi tentu saja, sepanjang tindakan itu, Robodoi tak selalu beruntung.

Pernah dalam sekali, pasukan dari  Kesultanan Ternate berhasil menangkapnya. Namanya sebagai perusuh, nampaknya sudah membuat pihak kesultanan gerah, hingga mengirim pasukan khusus untuk menangkapnya.

Untungnya saat pihak Kesultanan Ternate akan membawanya ke daratan, anak buahnya berhasil menghadang kapal mereka. Pilatu, Yoppi dan Lalaba yang memimpin perahu-perahu itu.

Maka tak bisa dihindari lagi, peperangan di dekat pantai pun terjadi. Beberapa tembakan meriam sempat saling dilepaskan. Namun karena jumlah perahu-perahu Robodoi lebih banyak, pasukan Kesultanan Ternate kemudian memilih menyerah.

Robodoi dapat bebas saat itu. Namun ia yakin, pihak Kesultanan Ternate pastilah akan sesegera mungkin membuat rencana lain yang lebih besar untuk menangkap dan menghancurkannya. Maka Robodoi memutuskan untuk menepi sejenak. Ia membawa semua pengikutnya ke daerah di tepi SulawesiTimur. Ia mencoba pergi sejauh mungkin dari jangkauan Kesultanan Ternate. Namun tentu saja, sepanjang perjalanan itu, Robodoi sama sekali tak menghentikan upaya untuk menaklukkan kapal-kapal lain di lautan.

Robodoi memandang Lalaba. Teman akrabnya tetap duduk di sampingnya. Lalaba adalah orang yang paling berhati-hati di antara semua pengikutnya. Dia terlalu banyak berpikir, hingga kadang terlihat seperti penakut. Saat kawan-kawan yang lain penuh semangat untuk mengangkat senjata, ia selalu berucap berbeda dari lainnya.

Pernah suatu kali, Lalaba berkata dengan suaranya yang terdengar lembut seperti suara perempuan, “Sekarang kita semua harus memahami. Kini, semua sudah berubah. Apa kalian tak menyadari kalau kita sudah terlalu besar? Penduduk mulai menjauhi kita. Kita tak lagi bisa membaur bersama mereka.”

“Kita akan hidup dimana pun tempatnya, Lalaba!” Yoppi memotong cepat.

“Dengar,” ujar Lalaba lagi. “Kita sudah berkali-kali mengacaukan kapal-kapal orang-orang berkulit pucat itu. Mereka memang nampaknya tak terlalu menanggapi tindakan kita. Tapi aku yakin mereka pastilah sedang melakukan sesuatu yang besar untuk membalas itu semua. Sudah kudengar kapal-kapal mereka mulai berdatangan menuju perairan ini.”

Pilatu dan Yoppi tertawa berbarengan.

“Bukankah mereka selalu datang?” ujar Pilatu. “Dan bukankah kita pun selalu bisa menghancurkan mereka?”

Lalaba terdiam, ia mengalihkan padangannya pada Robodoi seperti meminta dukungan.

Tapi Robodoi rupanya lebih setuju dengan pendapat Pilatu dan Yoppi. Sudah berkali-kali mereka mengalahkan orang-orang bermuka pucat itu. Beberapa kapal yang kini digunakan bahkan merupakan kapal yang direbut dari mereka.

Robodoi memang tak pernah takut dengan kapal-kapal milik orang-orang berkulit pucat itu. Walau kapal mereka besar dan diisi dengan banyak meriam di sisi-sisinya, gerakannya sangat lambat. Hanya dengan satu kali perintah penyerangan saja, Robodoi bisa menaklukkan kapal-kapal mereka.

Tapi dugaan Lalaba ternyata tak keliru. Kedatangan kapal-kapal orang berkulit pucat itu kali ini bukan seperti sebelumnya. Ada beberapa kapal yang datang sekaligus dengan bendera Angkatan Laut Kerajaan Belanda. Dan kapal-kapal itu ternyata dapat bergerak dengan lebih cepat.

Hanya dengan satu penyergapan saja, mereka berhasil menghancurkan duabelas perahu milik Robodoi. Tak terhitung lagi banyaknya anak buah Robodoi yang tewas dalam pertempuran itu.

Kemarahan Robodoi memuncak.  Ini adalah kekalahan paling memalukan.

Robodoi kemudian memerintahkan untuk membeli beberapa perahu lagi. Ia kembali menyusun serangan balasan. Saat seorang pengikut melaporkan sebuah kapal berbendera Angkatan Laut Kerajaan Belanda nampak terpisah di daerah Raja Ampat, Robodoi tak menyia-nyiakan kesempatan ini.

Malam itu juga, di bawah perintahnya secara langsung, Robodoi segera memerintahkan menyerang kapal itu. Yoppi dan Pilatu memimpin perahu-perahu lainnya untuk menyebar membentuk setengah lingkaran. Sedang perahu Robodoi dan Lalaba mengarah lurus ke depan.

Anehnya, kapal Belanda di depan nampak tak berupaya melarikan diri. Padahal jelas keadaanya telah terkepung. Mereka bahkan nampak tak terlalu kebingungan. Saat Robodoi mulai mengangkat tangannya sambil berteriak,“Sera-a-a-ngg!” ratusan panah lepas memenuhi langit. Hanya satu-dua kali saja terdengar dentuman  meriam sebagai balasannya. Robodoi langsung menebak, kalau tak banyak orang dalam kapal itu. Hanya beberapa saat saja, Robodoi sudah menaklukkan kapal itu. Namun saat mereka akan menaiki kapal untuk mengangkat meriam-meriam dan mesiu-mesiu dari kapal itu, tiba-tiba saja muncul kapal-kapal Belanda lainnya, yang entah datang dari mana, sudah mengepung mereka dalam sebuah lingkaran besar.

“Perangka-a-a-p!” Pilatu berteriak lantang. Mereka segera mencoba kembali ke perahu masing-masing. Tanpa menunggu perintah mereka mencoba menyebar ke segala arah, membuat musuh kebingungan memilih sasaran.

Namun meriam kapal-kapal Belanda itu dengan mudah menghancurkan beberapa perahu terdekat.

Malam tiba-tiba saja menjadi sangat mengerikan. Dalam pelariannya, Robodoi masih bisa melihat beberapa mayat pengikutnya yang hancur mengambang di lautan yang mulai memerah karena darah.

***

Robodoi terdiam dikesendiriannya di tepi pantai. Dibiarkannya angin berhempus pelan pada keriput di wajahnya.

“Semua sudah usai,” ucapan Lalaba terdengar pelan seperti menelisip di telinganya.

Lalu lanjutnya, “Semuanya sudah menyerah. Kita tak lagi bisa melakukan perlawanan. Pelarian ini sudah begitu melelahkan.”

Robodoi tak menyahut. Lalaba ada di sebelahnya, tapi suaranya terasa begitu jauh. Ini karena ia sudah merasa sangat lelah. Ia tak lagi ingat sudah berapa tahun melarikan diri. Orang-orang berkulit pucat itu seperti tak pernah merasa lelah memburunya. Padahal sudah beberapa tahun ini, ia tak lagi membajak seperti dulu.

Robodoi memejamkan mata. Akhirnya, semua yang diucapkan Lalaba memang benar adanya. Sedikit ia menyesal, kenapa beberapa tahun lalu tak menanggapi ucapannya saat ia meminta dukungannya.

Kini, Robodoi hanya bisa menarik napas panjang. Sepertinya ia memang tak punya pilihan lain. Semua sudah berubah. Laut memang masih menjadi sahabatnya yang terbaik, tapi ketuaan ini tak lagi bisa ditolaknya.

***

Maka akhirnya, dengan ditemani oleh Lalaba, Robodoi memutuskan pergi menuju Tobungku, salah satu daerah di Kesultanan Ternate. Waktu itu tahun 1852, beberapa anak buahnya masih mengawal dirinya, walau ia sudah berkali-kali menyuruh mereka pergi. Ia tahu, mereka sebenarnya sudah begitu lelah, namun mereka masih mencoba tetap setia padanya.

Namun saat tiba di Tobungku, orang-orang Kesultanan Ternate mengirimkan empatbelas buah kora-kora, perahu perang khusus Namun anehnya, di tengah perjalanan mereka memisahkan Robodoi dari semuanya. Mereka bahkan kemudian menutup mata Robodoi dengan kain hitam dan mengikat erat kedua tangannya ke belakang badannya.

Robodoi mulai merasa tak enak. Namun tak ada lagi yang bisa dilakukannya. Tanpa banyak bicara, orang-orang Kesultanan Ternate itu menggiringnya. Ia rasakan bila mereka membawanya ke atas sebuah kapal yang besar.

Lalu setelah beberapa lama tak terjadi apa-apa, seseorang akhirnya membuka kain penutup mata Robodoi dengan kasar.

“Jadi ini orang yang menyusahkan kita selama ini?” seorang berkulit pucat menatapnya dengan seringai yang tak hilang-hilang dari bibirnya.

Robodoi memandang ke sekelilingnya. Hanya ada beberapa laki-laki berkulit pucat dengan seragam biru putih yang tengah tersenyum mengejek padanya. Beberapa dari mereka bahkan menyorongkan senapan ke arah kepalanya. Ia kemudian sadar kalau Kesultanan Ternate ternyata bersekongkol dengan orang-orang Belanda untuk menangkapnya. Ini membuat amarahnya meluap. Kepalan tangannya mengencang. Walau ia tahu ada hubungan Ternate dengan Belanda, namun ia benar-benar tak pernah berpikir mereka menyerahkan dirinya pada Belanda.

“Kau tahu kenapa kami membawamu ke sini?” Lelaki pucat yang nampaknya pemimpin di kapal ini kembali menyeringai padanya. “Karena kau hanya pantas mati di lautan!” Sambil mengucapkan kalimat itu, ia mengangkat senapan pendeknya dan menembakkannya di paha Robodoi.

Seketika saja tubuh Robodoi terjengkang dari sisi kapal, dan jatuh ke dalam lautan, diiringi tawa dari atas kapal.

Sejenak, tubuh Robodoi tenggelam. Rasa perih dari titik di mana peluru bersarang di pahanya dengan mudah menyebar ke seluruh tubuhnya. Air di sekelilingnya mulai memerah.

Ombak kembali menghempaskannya berulang-kali. Seketika air laut menyapu wajahnya, Robodoi menarik nafas dan menyerahkan tubuhnya pada ayunan ombak. Dalam keadaan seperti ini, kilasan-kilasan  masa lalunya seakan hadir dengan cepat. Bagaimana saat pertama kalinya ia mengayun rakit dengan tangannya menuju lautan, lalu petualangannya yang menyenangkan saat menyelam di antara ikan-ikan yang indah dan gua-gua yang gaib. Juga teringat peperangan-peperangan yang dilakoninya hampir sepanjang hidupnya. Robodoi yakin, lautan adalah sahabat terbaiknya sejak lama. Bila hari ini laut ingin menelannya, ia akan membiarkannya dengan ikhlas. Maka ketika sekali lagi ombak menerpanya dan menghantam tubuhnya kembali ke dalam lautan, Robodoi memejamkan matanya. Ia yakin, laut tak akan mencelakakannya.

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Robodoi, The Pirate from Tobelo

Oni Suryaman berlatar belakang pendidikan teknik, tetapi jiwa sastra mengalir di dalam tubuhnya. Di sela-sela waktu luang mengajarnya, ia menulis esai, resensi buku, dan fiksi. Ia juga menjadi penerjemah lepas untuk penerbit Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia dan Kanisius. Baru-baru ini ia menerbitkan buku anak berjudul I Belog, sebuah penceritaan kembali cerita rakyat Bali, yang sadurannya dipertunjukkan dalam AFCC Singapura 2017.

Beberapa risalah dan ulasan bukunya dapat dibaca di: http://onisur.wordpress.com dan http://semuareview.wordpress.com

Ia bisa dihubungi lewat surel oni.suryaman@gmail.com.

 

 

 

 

 

Robodoi, The Pirate from Tobelo

 

Are these my last days?

Robodoi contemplated the words that filled his heart. Tonight, on the beach, he felt that’s where the signs were pointing. The sparkle of the stars in the sky was dimmer, the whisper of the wind seemed softer, and the air felt stuffy—all ominous signs to herald the final moment. He shivered as the evening breeze picked up and chilled his bones. He had never felt like this before. Though he liked to deny it, he knew—as did everyone else—that his life had been directed by the signs.

Robodoi had been born on a dark, starless night in 1785, in Tobelo, a region of North Halmahera, one of the larger Moluccan islands. The sky had been lit by only a crescent moon, and a chilly wind seemed to freeze all beings; the silence felt complete. “This is a bad night for the birth of a baby,” the villagers whispered. “The child is doomed to die young. But if it survives, it will be very strong.”

Papa Tatto—that is what Robodoi called his father—often repeated that saying, even years later. At first, Robodoi did not understand what it meant, but as he grew older, he started to appreciate the words. Especially tonight, shivering on the beach.

Lalaba, had been sitting some distance down the beach. Now, he sauntered towards Robodoi. Not wanting to disturb his leader, Lalaba remained silent and took in the features of the man he had accompanied for most of a lifetime. The wind whipped his aging body and played with Robodoi’s long hair. Lalaba felt he knew what Robodoi was thinking. Their recent isolation seemed to have killed off his strong spirit. It also could be because Yoppi, Pilatu, and their other comrades, were no longer with them.

When at last Lalaba gently touched Robodoi’s shoulder, Robodoi turned his head slowly. The moonlight lit the wrinkles in his face. Lalaba was as old as Robodoi, but his leader looked much older. “It is all over.” Lalaba’s voice was barely audible.

To Robodoi, the words seemed to come from afar, but they echoed endlessly in his ears.

***

It is all over….

This was something Robodoi had never imagined. Ever since he was a boy, his life had been pointed in one direction. Robodoi remembered how, when he was seven years old, Papa Tatto had taken him to the beach.

Papa Tatto seated Robodoi on a bamboo raft, then towed the raft by boat out to of the open sea. When they were out far enough, Papa Tatto released the raft.

The waves pounded and slapped Robodoi around. He nearly fell off the raft several times, but managed to hang on to the side, until a big wave rolled the raft and tossed him into the sea. Salt water filled his mouth and hurt his throat. It was the first time Robodoi had been scared of dying. The waves became more violent and pushed him into a vortex. He used his final bit of strength to swim toward the raft.

When Robodoi finally reached the beach, he was exhausted.

Papa Tatto only said gently, “You survived this time, not because you’re great. You were just lucky. You can never defeat the sea!”

Robodoi stared at Papa Tatto’s face as his father bent toward him.

“Therefore, befriend the sea.” Papa Tatto tapped Robodoi on his shoulder. “So she will never drown you.”

Papa Tatto’s counsel was wise, and Robodoi wanted to please him, so he tried to take his advice. He remembered what happened when Papa Tatto took him out on a boat for the first time. He was fourteen. He hadn’t thought much of it at that time, but when Papa Tatto handed him a spear, Robodoi realized this was not a regular outing.

Robodoi knew that Papa Tatto always had been Sultan Muhammad Amiruddin’s henchman. The Sultan of Tidore, who was also known as Sultan Nuku, had been fighting the VOC, a Dutch trading company, since the company arrived in the islands. Robodoi was excited when Papa Tatto asked him to join him on the boat along with several other young men. An Iranun slave ship was on its way to Sape, a region in Nusa Tenggara, with dozens of slaves on board.

At first, Papa Tatto ordered Robodoi and the other young men to wait. It seemed that he wanted to show Robodoi how he could destroy the slave ship and capture the slaves.

But the situation soon got out of control. Robodoi and the other mates became excited when war cries and flying arrows filled the sky. When a cannon shot was directed at their boat, he had no other option but to join the battle.

It was Robodoi’s first battle. His breath almost stopped as his boat gained speed. The yelling from the other young men beat the sound of the waves. They sounded like vultures that found carrion. At the same time, arrows whizzed through the deafening artillery fire. It didn’t take long before men from Papa Tatto’s fleet succeeded in boarding the much taller enemy ship. Soon, the air filled with death cries, followed by yells of victory.

It was a decisive day. The spear Robodoi had used to hunt game and fish had now been aimed at humans. Blood that had so recently flowed now dried and blackened on the blade and he realized his weapon had been designed to kill.

The feeling of victory was addictive. The Dutch continued to pressure Sultan Nuku and, after Papa Tatto was killed in one of the battles, Robodoi decided to join the survivors, the men who used to follow his father. They moved from place to place and tried to mingle with the locals of coastal villages before finally moving to Raja Ampat, a small cluster of islands in northeastern Maluku.

But the sea always called to Robodoi. Ever since Papa Tatto had introduced him to the sea, Robodoi quietly regarded it as his best friend. He regularly got on his boat just to listen to the winds and the waves and spent time diving to the bottom of the sea, to look at the fish and explore previously uncharted caves. He began to make offerings to the sea in the form of a freshly slaughtered cow head or water buffalo. Robodoi felt he and the sea had a bond no one could understand.

Robodoi could never really leave the sea. Perhaps he could stay away from her for a few months while hiding from his enemies—the Dutch ships, in particular. But just like someone pining for a lover, he missed her the moment he pushed his boat onto the beach. He missed paddling across the waves. Seawater splashing on his face never failed to revive his spirit. And he missed calling out to the sky, a cry that was quickly taken up by his men. Thus was his life, and no one could keep him from it, not even himself.

At times, Robodoi and some of his mates silently took the boat they kept hidden in the mangrove forest to sea.

That was how Robodoi and his men survived. Initially, no one from the village knew they were pirating. But everything changed when Robodoi discovered a treasure chest filled with gold and jewelry among the loot.

Using the gold, Robodoi managed to buy twelve completely outfitted boats. He bought several cannons and asked some vagrants to join him.

Within a short time, Robodoi had attacked several Gujarati and Chinese merchant vessels. He also dared to destroy a few Dutch patrol ships. His name was feared by the traders, but soon there was a battle that spread his fame even further.

Standing on his boat the day of the battle, Robodoi looked at ten big ships in front of him. They were Dutch ships that had just arrived in these waters. They did not seem to be bothered by the large number of his boats. Only after he ordered an attack, and hundreds of flying arrows were cutting through the sky, did the crew on the Dutch ship become agitated. They loaded their cannons and the crew readied to return fire.

Alas, they were too late. Yoppi and Pilatu, who led the boats at the rear of the ship, had begun to attack. It did not take long before Robodoi could see the floating dead bodies of his enemies as well as his men everywhere.

The battle made him famous. People came to see him and asked to join him. It was no surprise that only one month after the bloody battle, he had more than 400 men under his command. Men, who, he believed, were ready to die for him.

After that, he no longer only targeted the small ships. No ship could deter him. He defeated Gujarati and Chinese ships, he also conquered Dutch ships equipped with many cannons. Doing battle became a daily routine for Robodoi and his men.

Robodoi was, of course, not always that lucky.

Once he was caught by the navy of the Ternate Sultanate. Worried about his reputation as a pirate, the Sultanate dispatched a special convoy to capture him.

Luckily, Pilatu, Yoppi, and Lalaba successfully ambushed the ship that was bringing him to shore. A battle was inevitable. Several cannons exchanged fire. But because he had more ships, the sultanate’s convoy chose to surrender in the end.

Though he had managed to flee, Robodoi was certain that the Ternate Sultanate would make another plan to apprehend and destroy him. So he decided to lie low for a while. To position himself as far as possible from the Sultanate’s reach, he took all of his followers to the east coast of Sulawesi. Of course, he continued to pirate while at sea.

Lalaba did not agree with this decision. Robodoi knew that his friend was cautious and at times appeared like a coward. While the other men were eager to raise arms, Lalaba disagreed with them. “Everything has changed,” Lalaba told him gently. “Don’t you realize that we have become too big? The villagers are avoiding us. We can no longer mingle with them.”

“We can live wherever we want, Lalaba!” Yoppi interrupted him.

“Listen,” Lalaba said, “We have wreaked havoc on those white men’s ships. While they did not respond to our act, I’m sure they’re planning to retaliate. I heard that their ships are headed for these waters.”

Pilatu and Yoppi laughed.

“Don’t they always come?” Pilatu said. “And don’t we always succeed in destroying them?”

Lalaba looked silently at Robodoi, as if asking for support.

But Robodoi tended to agree with Pilatu and Yoppi. They had defeated the white men several times. They now sailed ships he had seized from them.

Robodoi had never really feared the white men’s ships. Even though those ships were large and armed with many cannons, they moved slowly. Robodoi had been able to defeat them with a single attack.

However, Lalaba was not entirely wrong. The new ships ships sailing under the Royal Dutch Navy’s flag were unlike those they had seen before. These ships moved much faster. With just one attack, they had destroyed twelve of Robodoi’s boats. Numerous men died in that battle.

Robodoi was enraged. This was his most humiliating defeat. He ordered the purchase of several more boats and planned a counter attack. When one of his followers reported a single ship flying the Royal Dutch Navy’s flag alone in the Raja Ampat waters, Robodoi saw his opportunity.

That night, Robodoi ordered an attack on the Dutch ship. Yoppi and Pilatu lead the other boats to form a half circle around the ship while Robodoi and Lalaba attacked it directly from the front.

Strangely, the Dutch ship neither panicked nor tried to escape. While it was obvious she was surrounded, no one seemed to be bothered. When Robodoi raised his hand and yelled, “Att-taa-aa-ack!” hundreds of arrows swished into the air. Their attack was met with a few canon shots. Robodoi assumed that there were not enough men on board to put up a fight. But when they boarded the ship to steal its cannons and gun powder, other Dutch ships appeared out of nowhere and encircled them.

“It’s a trap!” Pilatu shouted. He and his men hurried back to their own boat. Without waiting for further orders they dispersed in all directions, trying to confuse their enemies. The Dutch cannons easily destroyed several boats that came too close.

It was a horrible night. During his escape, Robodoi saw many of his men’s bodies floating in a sea red with blood.

***

On the beach, Robodoi sunk silently into his loneliness. The wind caressed his wrinkled face.

“It is all over,” Lalaba’s whispers slipped into his ears. “All the others have surrendered. We can no longer continue the fight; this running has become tiresome.”

Robodoi did not answer. Lalaba was sitting next to him, but his voice seemed to come from afar. He could not remember how long he had been on the run. He too was very tired. Despite the fact he had stopped pirating, it seemed the white men never gave up hunting him.

Everything Lalaba had predicted had come to fruition. Robodoi closed his eyes. He regretted having ignored Lalaba’s advice.

Now, Robodoi could only draw a deep breath. It seemed he didn’t have another option. Everything had changed. The sea was still his best friend, but he could not escape old age.

***

Finally, Robodoi decided to go to Tobungku, a region within the Ternate Sultanate. Lalaba accompanied him. It was 1852. Several of his followers escorted him, even though he had told them repeatedly to leave. He knew that, while weary, they still wanted to prove their loyalty.

When he arrived at Tobungku, the Ternate Sultanate sent fourteen kora-koras, Moluccan war boats. Robodoi was separated from the others. He was blindfolded with a black cloth and his hands were tied securely behind his back.

Robodoi knew something was wrong, but there was nothing he could do. Without saying a word, the guards from the Sultanate guided him. He could tell that they were boarding a big ship.

For a long time, nothing happened. Finally, someone ripped off the blindfold.

“So, this is the man who has caused us trouble all this time?” a white man stared at him, grimacing.

Robodoi looked around him. Several white men dressed in white-and-blue uniforms snickered. Some of them pointed a gun at his head. He realized that the Ternate Sultanate had conspired with the Dutch to catch him. Furious, he balled his fists. Even though he knew the Sultanate of Ternate and the Dutch were in cahoots, he never suspected the Sultanate would deliver him to his enemies.

“Do you know why we brought you here?” the white man who seemed to be the captain sneered. He pulled his revolver out of the holster and shot Robodoi in the thigh. “You’re only fit to die at sea,” he said.

Robodoi staggered and lost his grip on the railing. As he fell overboard, he heard laughter coming from the deck.

For a while, Robodoi felt himself sink. The pain from the wound in his thigh spread quickly to all parts of his body. The water around him started to redden.

The waves washed over him several times. When the sea water slipped off his face, Robodoi tried to breathe and surrendered himself to the waves. He recalled the first time he paddled a raft out to sea, using only his hands, and his adventures when diving among the fish and exploring magical caves. He remembered the battles he had fought during his lifetime. Robodoi was certain that the sea had been his best friend all of his life. If, today, the sea wanted to consume him, he would surrender willingly. When the waves once again folded him into a roll and slipped him back beneath the watersurface, Robodoi closed his eyes.

He was certain the sea would not harm him.

***

 

Topeng Nalar

Dewi Ria Utari lahir di Jepara, 15 Agustus 1977. Mulai menulis cerita pendek sejak tahun 2003. Karyanya telah diterbitkan di Djakarta, A+, Spice, Media Indonesia, Koran Tempo, dan Kompas selain juga dalam kumpulan cerpen seperti Ripin: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 2005-2006, Pena Kencana Literary Award 2008, and Cinta di atas Perahu Cadik: Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 2007. Novelnya, Rumah Hujan diterbitkan oleh Gramedia tahun 2016. Dewi tinggal di Jakarta dan sekarang bekerja sebagai Penyunting Utama di Majalah Seni dan Gaya Hidup Sarasvati. Dewi bisa dihubungi di dewiriautari@gmail.com.

Hak cipta ©2017 ada pada Dewi Ria Utari. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2017 ada pada Femmy Syahrani.

 

Topeng Nalar

 

Sudah tiga hari Nalar demam. Biasanya demamnya cepat hilang begitu dikompres air atau keningnya ditempeli irisan bawang merah. Kemarin neneknya sudah membawa dia ke Mak Moyong—dukun anak. Kata si dukun kena sawan. Tapi demamnya tak juga turun ketika ia dipaksa neneknya minum jamu dari Mak Moyong.

Kalau sore ini aku dapat gaji mingguan, Nalar akan langsung kubawa ke Dokter Kiki. Puskesmas sudah tutup saat aku bubaran pabrik. Tidak tega aku jika menunggu sampai besok. Demam Nalar begitu tinggi. Lagi pula penyebabnya aku sendiri. Sebagai ibu dan penyebab sakitnya, aku harus bertanggung jawab. Apalagi sudah setahun ini hubunganku dan Nalar tak begitu hangat.

Penyebabnya, ketika setahun lalu, ia melihat aku nopeng dengan Ibu di kampung, Nalar memaksaku untuk mengajarinya nopeng. Aku menolak. Sudah cukup rasanya garis keturunan penari topeng berhenti di tubuhku. Lagi pula tanggapan nopeng sudah tidak sebanyak dulu saat aku remaja. Sejak tak banyak tawaran nari, aku memutuskan jadi buruh rokok. Pemasukan sehari-hari meski sedikit ternyata lebih mampu menyambung hidup kami berempat: aku, ibu, Danu dan Nalar.

Selain soal penghasilan, aku tidak tega jika membiarkan Nalar melalui sejumlah persyaratan yang harus kujalani dulu. Puasa mutih, yang hanya makan nasi putih, dan ngrowot, yang hanya makan umbi-umbian, Senin-Kamis, belum lagi dalam waktu-waktu tertentu harus tidur di lantai tanpa alas, hingga tapa kungkum, bersemedi dengan berendam. Aku menjalaninya karena tidak ada pilihan lain. Bukannya aku tidak suka menari. Namun, aku harus tau diri.  Rumah ini sudah kehilangan para lelakinya. Baik ayahku maupun suamiku. Mereka ditakdirkan meninggal mendahului para istrinya. Sungguh tak mungkin jika menjadikan ibuku di usia larutnya harus ikut mencari uang. Cukuplah aku.

Melihat keadaan ini, wajar rasanya jika aku tak menginginkan Nalar menjadi penari topeng. Seperti anak-anak lainnya, aku ingin ia sekolah sampai semampuku membiayainya. Setelah lulus, ia bisa kerja di pabrik, penjaga toko, atau penjual barang.

Harapanku pupus ketika tiga bulan lalu, Nalar diajak ibu mengunjungi makam Mbah Buyut di Desa Gabusan. Dua jam perjalanan naik bus. Sepulang dari sana, Nalar langsung ke kamar penyimpanan topeng dan mengobrak-abrik topeng-topeng yang sudah kusimpan rapi. Di depanku, ia langsung memasang sampur yang dibelitkan di pinggang dan memasang topeng di wajahnya dengan cara digigit. Saat kutanya, ibuku membantah telah mengajarinya menari. Nalar sendiri tak mengatakan apa pun. Ia hanya menari menandak-nandak dan baru terdiam saat kucopot paksa topeng di wajahnya.

Bukannya meredam keinginan Nalar, ibuku malah semakin bersemangat mengajari Nalar menari. Dengan sisa gamelan di rumah, Ibu mengiringi Nalar menari. Bocah itu paling suka gerakan lerep, gerakan mengelus dua jumbai di kiri dan kanan topeng, sambil mengentakkan kaki ke tanah. Jika hanya menari, sebenarnya aku tak terlalu kesal. Aku hanya tak suka ketika Ibu mulai mengajari berbagai tirakat yang pernah diajarkannya kepadaku saat seusia Nalar. Anak itu sudah terlalu kurus untuk ikut-ikutan puasa dan sejenisnya. Sebagai ibunya, aku malu jika Nalar dianggap kurang gizi. Ditaruh ke mana mukaku. Seolah aku tidak cukup memberinya makan.

Inilah kenapa aku tak suka berharap. Berkali-kali aku dikhianati harapan. Aku berharap Nalar bisa kerja di pabrik, penjaga toko, atau penjual barang. Setidaknya dengan tetap menjadi buruh nglinting rokok, aku bisa membiayainya sampai SMA. Memang ia baru tujuh tahun. Masih bisa ia berubah mengikuti harapanku. Tapi sekali lagi, aku benci berharap. Sangat membencinya ketika ayahku meninggal karena malaria, dan suamiku tak pernah pulang sejak pamit melaut tiga tahun silam.

Hanya tersisa satu lelaki di keluarga kami. Danu, kakak Nalar yang sekarang sudah kelas enam SD. Seharusnya aku seperti kebanyakan keluarga lainnya di kampungku, yang menaruh harapan ke anak lelakinya. Tapi bagiku, Danu tidak bisa diharapkan. Aku tidak bisa memercayai anak yang kulahirkan tanpa kutahu siapa ayahnya.

Mungkin karena aku tak menerima kehadirannya, Danu juga tak memedulikan kehadiranku. Ia lebih peduli pada Nalar. Baginya, Nalar lebih dari sekadar adik seibu. Nalar seolah dolanan yang tak pernah kubelikan sejak ia bisa merengek. Dolanan yang bisa membalas setiap sentuhan dan perhatiannya.

Sejak Nalar belajar menari, Danu tak lagi sering menghabiskan waktu dengan bocah-bocah lelaki yang kerap nongkrong di warung kopi Pak Gatot. Dulu, ia kupergoki terbatuk-batuk saat mengisap rokok pemberian anak-anak itu. Begitu aku lewat di depan warung, ia langsung klepas klepus berlebihan sambil duduk menekuk salah satu kakinya seperti gaya sopir truk yang suka mangkal di warung itu.

Belakangan ini, Danu lebih suka menunggui Nalar belajar joget. Ia menonton sambil menatah kayu randu untuk membuat topeng. Aku tak tahu dari siapa ia belajar. Pasti hanya coba-coba. Dari yang semula hasilnya topeng peyot Danu mulai bisa menatahnya seukuran wajah Nalar.

Sebenarnya aku senang, Danu jadi tak banyak nongkrong di warung. Tapi tetap saja aku memiliki banyak celah untuk memarahinya. Apalagi jika aku pulang dari pabrik dalam keadaan lelah teramat sangat. Teras rumah penuh serpihan kayu, menjadi benda yang cocok sekali untuk kuraup dan kulemparkan ke wajahnya. Sambil kelilipan, biasanya Danu hanya menyimpan marah dan mengambil sapu lidi. Nalar hanya bisa menangis.

Kemarahanku pada Danu semakin memuncak dengan sakitnya Nalar. Gara-garanya empat hari lalu ketika aku mendapat tanggapan nari di kampung sebelah. Juragan beras desa sebelah menang jadi lurah. Aku diminta nari tayub dengan Yu Wasis. Ibu sebenarnya sudah tidak setuju aku tayuban. Lebih baik nopeng saja. Katanya, nopeng lebih terhormat ketimbang nayub. Aku sudah persetan dengan alasan itu. Yang penting ada uang beli beras.

Ternyata Nalar mencariku. Rupanya ia dengar dari Danu bahwa aku dapat tanggapan nari dan ia merajuk ingin menonton. Kemudian Danu berhasil meyakinkan mbahnya jika ia bisa menjaga Nalar. Akhirnya mereka menyusulku.

Tiba-tiba aku melihat mereka diantara penonton. Namun perhatianku lebih tersita ke berapa banyak lelaki berwajah berahi yang bisa kukalungi sampur. Mereka jelas-jelas lebih royal menyisipkan uang kertas ke dalam kembenku. Semakin malam, aku tak cukup puas dengan puluhan tangan yang merogoh dadaku. Juragan beras yang punya gawe konon penggemar rahasiaku. Dia pasti bakal nyangoni aku duit berlembar-lembar jika bisa mengajaknya tidur. Sayangnya, niatku gagal ketika menjelang tengah malam, kulihat Nalar dan Danu berdiri termangu di deretan belakang penonton. Aku baru menyadari kehadiran mereka ketika hanya tinggal puluhan lelaki dewasa. Garis genit di bibirku mendadak wagu begitu melihat wajah pasi Nalar. Ia terlihat mimbik-mimbik tepat saat Kang Jono menyusup belahan dadaku. Aku langsung berlari turun dari panggung. Kuseret kedua anakku menjauh dari tempat itu. Biarlah malam itu menjadi rezeki Yu Wasis.

Sepanjang jalan pulang, kugelandang kedua anakku dengan perasaan kisruh. Di gendonganku, Nalar terus membenamkan wajahnya di cerukan dua buah dadaku. Sementara Danu tak mengeluarkan suara apa pun. Hanya bunyi srak-sruk kedua kaki telanjangnya yang bergegas mengikuti langkah kakiku.

Begitu sampai rumah, aku langsung masuk kamar dan membaringkan Nalar yang ternyata sudah tertidur. Setelah itu, aku keluar dan menarik tangan Danu yang sedari tadi berdiri mematung di ruang tengah. Tak kupedulikan teriakan ibuku yang sibuk bertanya, “Ono opo tho iki,” sambil membenahi rambutnya yang acak-acakan selepas tidur. Aku menuju kamar penyimpanan topeng. Setengah kudorong Danu ke dalamnya. Tak kupedulikan tangisnya. Tanpa mengeluarkan sepatah kata pun, aku mengunci pintu. Masih sempat kudengar isak Danu dari dalam.

Paginya, aku terbangun oleh igauan Nalar dan panas keningnya yang menyengat ketiakku. ”Mas Danu. Mas Danu,” igaunya sambil merem. Lirih suaranya memanggil kakaknya membuatku beranjak dari kasur. Niatku untuk terus mengurung Danu kubatalkan. Setidaknya, jika merasakan kehadiran Danu, Nalar agak tenang.

Tak kutemukan Danu di kamar hukuman. Kudapati selot pintu pengunci tak lagi terpasang. Ibu pasti melepaskannya tadi pagi. Tapi saat kutanya, ia menyanggah. ”Tadi pagi saat bangun, pintunya sudah seperti itu,” ujar Ibu sambil memarut kelapa. Sejak saat itu, tak lagi kudapati Danu pulang.

Suhu badan Nalar sering naik turun sejak kepergian Danu. Sudah beberapa kali kubawa ke puskesmas dan dokter yang harganya lebih mahal, mereka tidak menemukan penyebab pastinya. Bermacam obat, baik yang resmi maupun jejamuan, telah dicoba. Namun, hasilnya tetap sama saja. Nalar hanya terlihat anteng dan membaik keadaannya setiap kali menggenggam topeng yang dibuatkan Danu untuknya.

Sejak Nalar sakit-sakitan, keuanganku makin memprihatinkan. Apalagi pabrik tutup untuk sementara. Beberapa teman mengabarkan perusahaan rokok keluarga yang sudah berdiri sejak 50 tahun ini akan dijual. Tanggapan tayub pun mulai berkurang. Untunglah Pak Saidi, penabuh gamelan yang sering mengiringi aku nari, mengabarkan ada acara pengumpulan rakyat yang menginginkan tari topeng.

”Kok bukan tayub Pak?” tanyaku.

”Tayub memang lebih ramai. Tapi pemimpinnya ini katanya pengen pengisi acaranya sopan. Terus karena acaranya soal apa sih itu namanya, kepedulian pada seni bangsa sendiri, makanya mereka ngumpulin beberapa kelompok seni di daerah ini,” kata Pak Saidi.

”Tapi yang dipilih yang sopan. Itu namanya enggak adil,” sanggahku.

”Ndak ngerti lah aku. Manut aja. Terus mereka minta topengnya dicat ijo semua, biar katanya peduli lingkungan.”

”Piye tho, katanya tadi peduli kesenian. Terus sekarang peduli lingkungan.”

“Yah, namanya juga ngumpulin orang biar kepilih. Apa saja biar ketok apik tho,” tukas Pak Saidi.

Tak kupedulikan tangisan Nalar yang tidak mau topeng-topeng di rumah menjadi hijau. Hanya satu topeng yang tak kuganti warnanya. Topeng seukuran wajahnya yang dibuatkan Danu untuknya. Aku tak mau nantinya panasnya naik lagi di saat aku menari. Setidaknya setelah aku mendapat uang bayaran pentas, ia bisa kubawa ke dokter di kota.

Sore itu kuwanti-wanti ibu untuk menjaga Nalar di rumah. Sejak demam, aku memang tak pernah berani meninggalkannya cukup lama. Nalar masih ngambek saat aku pamitan. Ia menolak kucium pipinya. Bahkan, Nalar tak mau melihatku. Diselusupkan kepalanya di antara kaki mbahnya.

Setelah pimpinan partai yang mengadakan acara itu memberikan kata sambutan, kelompok musik angklung yang menjadi hiburan pertama. Aku mendapat giliran kedua. Meski bukan acara resmi, pesta rakyat yang diadakan sebuah partai itu dipadati warga desa yang haus akan hiburan. Apalagi sebelum acara dimulai dibagi sembako secara cuma-cuma.

Dengan takzim kupasang topeng di wajahku. Perlahan aku beranjak dari duduk bersilaku. Dari membelakangi penonton, aku memutar badanku setelah yakin topeng tak goyah. Saat itulah, ketika kuedarkan pandangan dari lubang di bagian mata topengku, aku melihat Nalar dan Danu berdiri di antara para penonton di bagian belakang. Mereka bergandengan tangan. Tarianku terhenti. Tubuhku beku. Di balik topengku, kulihat Nalar tersenyum. Sebelah tangannya menggenggam topeng kesayangannya. Perlahan ia memasang topeng itu di wajahnya. Sambil tetap bergandengan, kedua anakku berbalik. Melangkah menjauh entah ke mana. Itulah kali terakhir kulihat mereka berdua.

***

 

Nalar’s Mask

Femmy Syahrani sudah menggemari cerita dan bahasa semenjak kecil. Ia selalu membawa buku ke mana saja, dan ia juga sudah tertarik pada bahasa, meski sebatas mengenal aksara Sunda atau gerakan bahasa isyarat. Semasa kuliah, ia pun diperkenalkan dengan kegiatan yang memadukan kesukaannya pada kedua hal ini, yaitu menerjemahkan. Setelah menamatkan kuliah, ia sempat bekerja sebagai editor di sebuah penerbit Islam selama lima tahun. Kemudian ia terjun penuh sebagai penerjemah lepas. Kini sudah lebih dari dua puluh tahun ia menggeluti bidang ini serta menerjemahkan puluhan buku dan banyak proyek non-buku dalam berbagai topik. Femmy dapat dihubungi di femmy.syahrani@gmail.com.

 

 

Nalar’s Mask

 

Nalar has been running a fever for three days. Usually, a wet compress or some shallot slices on her forehead quickly dispels such fevers. Yesterday, her grandmother took her to see Mak Moyong, a healer of children, who said it was a bout of epilepsy. But Nalar’s fever persisted, even after her grandmother made her drink Mak Moyong’s tonic.

When I receive my weekly paycheck later this afternoon, I will take Nalar straight to Doctor Kiki. The public clinic will be closed by the time I finish my shift at the factory, but I can’t bear to wait until tomorrow. Nalar’s fever is very high. As her mother, I need to take responsibility. We haven’t been getting along during this past year and I might have contributed to her condition by upsetting her.

It all started when Nalar saw me perform the mask dance with my mother in the village and demanded that I teach her. I refused. The hereditary line of mask dancers should end with me and go no further. Besides, mask-dancing gigs are not as plentiful as they used to be when I was a teenager. When the interest and requests dwindled, I took a job at a cigarette factory. My regular paycheck, little as it is, proved to be a more reliable source of income than the compensation I received for dancing. It supports the four of us: my mother, Danu, Nalar, and me.

In addition to a mask dancer’s unpredictable income, I didn’t have the heart to let Nalar endure the series of rites I had gone through. Rituals such as performing three kinds of fasts: puasa mutih, when one only eats rice; ngrowot, when one only eats tubers; and a full fast on Mondays and Thursdays. At certain times, I had to sleep on the floor without any mattress, or perform the tapa kungkum, which is meditating while submerged in water.

I had gone through these rituals because I had no other choice. It wasn’t that I didn’t like dancing, but this household had lost its men. Both my father and my husband were gone; they had been fated to die before their wives. I couldn’t possibly let my mother, this late in her life, share the burden of earning a living. That burden should be mine alone.

Given these circumstances, I definitely didn’t want Nalar to become a mask dancer. I wanted her to stay in school, like all the other children, for as long as I could afford it. After she finished school, she would be able to get a job as a factory worker, a shopkeeper, or a sales clerk.

My hope vanished three months ago, when my mother took Nalar to the grave of Nalar’s great-grandmother in Gabusan Village, a two-hour bus ride away. When they came home, Nalar went straight to the room where I stored the masks and rummaged through the tidy collection. Then, right in front of me, she wrapped a long sash around her waist and put on the mask, holding it with her teeth.

My mother denied having taught Nalar to dance. Nalar herself did not say anything. She just pranced about and only stopped when I ripped the mask off her face.

Instead of discouraging the child, my mother was all the more eager to teach Nalar. With what was left of the set of gamelan musical instruments at home, my mother played music to accompany her granddaughter’s dancing.

The girl loved doing the lerep movement, stroking the tassels on either side of the mask while stamping her feet.

I wouldn’t have been too upset if my mother had only taught Nalar to dance, but then she began teaching the rituals she had taught me when I was Nalar’s age. The girl was too thin to practice the fasting rituals. As her mother, I’d be embarrassed if people thought that Nalar was malnourished. I’d lose face if she looked as if I wasn’t giving her enough to eat.

This is why I don’t like to hope—I’ve been betrayed too many times. I hoped Nalar would be able to work as a factory worker or a shopkeeper or a sales clerk. By holding onto my job of rolling cigarettes, I would at least be able to put her through high school. It’s true, she’s only seven now. She still could change and turn out the way I hoped, but once again, I hate hoping. I really hated it when my father died of malaria and my husband failed to come home after he headed out to sea three years ago.

Now, only one male remained in our family: Danu, Nalar’s brother, now in sixth grade. Many other families in my village put their hopes in their sons. I should have been like them, but I could not put my hopes on Danu. I could never trust a child I’d given birth to without knowing who the father was.

Perhaps because I did not accept Danu’s existence, he did not care about mine either. He lived with us, but he cared mostly about Nalar. She was more to him than just a half-sister—she was the toy I never bought him. A toy that responded to his touch and attention.

After Nalar began her dance lessons, Danu spent less time with the boys who hung out at Pak Gatot’s coffee shop. I used to catch Danu coughing from smoking the cigarettes they gave him. As soon as I passed by the shop, he made a show of puffing away, with one leg pulled up onto his seat, just like the truck drivers who loitered there.

Lately, Danu preferred to hang around Nalar during her dance lessons. He would watch while carving a mask out of kapok wood. I don’t know where he learned how to do that. He must have experimented on his own. His work improved from producing the ill-fitting masks he had carved in the beginning to the masks he now carved to the size of Nalar’s face.

I was glad that Danu no longer spent a lot of time hanging out at the coffee shop, but I still found many reasons to scold him— especially when I came home from the factory, exhausted. The wood shavings that littered the porch were perfect to scoop up and throw in his face. Blinking, he would hold back his anger and get a broom. Nalar could do nothing but cry.

My anger at Danu peaked when Nalar became ill. It started four days ago, when I was offered a dance gig in a neighboring village. The rice merchant there had been elected as the village head. I was requested to perform the tayub dance with Yu Wasis.

My mother didn’t approve of me dancing the sexually-suggestive tayub. She thought it was better to stick to mask dancing. She said it was more respectable than the tayub. I couldn’t care less about that; what mattered was to have money to buy rice.

Nalar apparently had heard from Danu that I had a dance gig and looked for me, sulking, because she wanted to watch.

Danu managed to convince my mother that he could look after his sister, and they went after me.

I didn’t see them at first, my whole attention was focused on how many lustful men I could entice by placing my scarf around their necks. The men were certainly generous with the money they tucked into my torso wrap.

As the night progressed, I grew unsatisfied with the dozens of hands that groped at my breasts. I heard that the rice merchant, who was hosting the event, was my secret admirer. He would surely tip me a large sum of money if I could get him to bed me. Unfortunately, I was unable to act on my plan.

Just before midnight, I saw Nalar and Danu standing, stunned, in the back row of the audience. The playful, seductive smile froze on my lips the moment I saw Nalar’s ashen face. As Kang Jono, slipped his hand into my cleavage, Nalar looked like she was about to cry. I immediately ran off the stage and dragged my two children away. Let tonight’s fortune fall to Yu Wasis.

The entire way home, I herded my two children in a state of turmoil. Nalar buried her face between my breasts as I carried her in my arms. Danu didn’t make a sound. There was only the shuffle of his bare feet as he hurried to match my stride.

As soon as we got home, I went straight to the bedroom and put Nalar, who was already asleep, in bed. Then I came back out and grabbed Danu, who had been standing motionless in the living room.

My mother kept shouting, “What on earth is going on?” but I didn’t answer. I dragged Danu into the mask storage room, ignoring his crying. While I locked him in the storage room, I could hear him sobbing.

The next morning, I woke up to Nalar’s hot forehead stinging my armpit. “Mas Danu. Mas Danu,” she murmured with her eyes closed. Her soft voice calling for her brother propelled me out of bed. I changed my mind about keeping Danu locked up in the room. Nalar would be comforted when she saw him.

I couldn’t find Danu—the door to the mask room was no longer locked. My mother must have unlatched it early in the morning. But when I asked her, she denied it.

“The door was like that when I woke up,” she said, as she grated a coconut.

After that time, I never saw Danu at home anymore.

Nalar’s temperature began to fluctuate after Danu left. I took her several times to the public clinic and to the more expensive doctors, but they couldn’t figure out what was wrong. We tried all kinds of medicine — modern and traditional — but the results were all the same. Nalar seemed calm and her condition improved only when she held the mask Danu had made for her.

Since Nalar became sickly, my financial condition worsened. The cigarette factory was temporarily shut down. Friends told me that the family who built and owned the fifty-year-old cigarette company was going to sell it. There were fewer requests for tayub performances.

Fortunately, Pak Saidi, a gamelan musician who often played the accompaniment for my dances, told me about a rally that wanted to have a mask dance.

“How come they’re not asking for the tayub?” I asked.

“Tayub draws a bigger crowd,” Pak Saidi said, “but the leader wants respectable performers for the event. And because the event is about—what do you call it— concern for our national arts, they’re bringing together performers from the area.”

“But they’re only choosing the ones who perform respectable dances. That’s not fair,” I protested.

“Well, what do I know—I’m only doing what I’m told. And they ask that all masks be painted green, to show concern for the environment.”

“What’s with these people? One minute it’s about the arts, the next it’s the environment.”

“That’s how you rally people to vote for you. Candidates do anything that makes them look good,” said Pak Saidi.

I ignored tearful pleas from Nalar, who didn’t want the masks in the house to turn green. I spared only one—the mask that Danu had made for her. I didn’t want her temperature to go up again while I was dancing. At least, after I received my compensation for my performance, I would be able to take her to the doctor in the city.

On the afternoon of the dance, I asked my mother to watch over Nalar at home. Since she began having fevers, I didn’t dare be away from the girl for too long. Nalar sulked when I said good-bye and wouldn’t let me kiss her cheeks. Refusing to look at me, Nalar hid her face in her grandmother’s lap.

After the political party leader who was hosting the event delivered his opening speech, an angklung group was the first to perform. I was scheduled to come after the musicians playing the bamboo instruments finished their piece. Although it wasn’t an official government event, it was crowded with villagers who hungered for entertainment. The distribution of free packages of the nine basic  staples: rice, sugar, cooking oil, milk, egg, salt, fruits and vegetables, meat, and cooking fuel before the party started was surely an added motivation to attend.

I mindfully donned the mask and slowly rose from my cross-legged sitting position. Starting with my back to the audience, I turned around after I made sure that my mask was securely fastened. It was then, when I looked around through the eye slits of my mask, that I saw Nalar and Danu standing among the audience in the back. They were holding hands.

I stopped dancing. My body froze. From behind my mask, I saw Nalar smile. She held her favorite mask in her hand. Slowly, she put it on her face. Then, still holding hands, my two children turned around and walked away to God only knows where.

That was the last time I saw them.

***

 

 

Lelaki Ladang

Arafat Nur lahir di Medan, 22 Desember 1974. Sejak usia SD pindah ke Aceh dan hidup dalam kecamuk perang saudara hingga dia dewasa. Sejumlah peristiwa di Aceh dituliskannya dalam puisi, cerita pendek, dan novel. Di sela-sela kesibukannya sebagai petani dan pekerja serabutan, dia gemar membaca buku-buku sejarah, filsafat, dan sastra.

Lampuki (Serambi, 2009) merupakan novelnya yang memenangkan Sayembara Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta (DKJ) 2010 dan meraih Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2011. Novelnya, Burung Terbang di Kelam Malam (Bentang Pustaka, 2014) telah diterjemahkan ke bahasa Inggris dengan judul A Bird Flies in the Dark of Night. Novel terbarunya Tanah Surga Merah (Gramedia, 2016) kembali memenangkan Sayembara Novel DKJ 2016. Arafat bisa dihubungi di arafatnur@yahoo.com

Hak cipta ©2017 ada pada Arafat Nur. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2017 ada pada Minerva Soedjatmiko.

 

 

Lelaki Ladang

 

Hasan mesti bergegas memetik cabai di sepetak tanah di lembah dekat alur yang airnya hampir kering. Bagian tanah lembah yang tidak terlalu luas itu menjadi tumpuan harapan penduduk Buket Kuta di saat kemarau sedang melanda. Kampung itu tersembunyi di kedalaman sunyi rimbunan kebun kelapa terlantar yang telah berubah hutan belukar, berjarak lima belas kilometer dari jalan raya Medan-Banda sepanjang Aceh Timur. Untuk mencapai Idi, kota kecamatan yang tidak ramai, orang harus mempuh dua puluh kilometer lagi. Penduduk Buket Kuta tidak mengenal kota kabupaten, apalagi kota provinsi yang entah di mana letaknya, bahkan dengan angan-angan pun sulit mereka gapai.

Hasan bisa melihat di seberang sana, sisa Kampung Kulam, kampungnya dulu yang sudah tidak berpenghuni lagi. Pada tahun 1999, setahun setelah Soeharto terpaksa meletakkan jabatannya sebagai presiden dan Jakarta menjadi kacau, para pejuang mengambil kesempatan menyerang pos-pos tentara, sebagai pelampiasan terhadap pemerintah. Mereka mengecam karena tidak mendapat bagian hasil yang adil dari sumber daya alam Aceh yang habis dikeruk pemerintah pusat. Ketidakpuasan atas ketidakadilan ini disuarakan melalui pemberontakan yang terus menerus dilakukan.

Di Kampung Bukit Kuta cuma sekitar lima belas keluarga saja yang tersisa dari kampung mati itu, termasuk Hasan sebagai kepala keluarga, yang oleh tentara tidak ditemukan bukti keterlibatannya ikut membangkang pada pemerintah.

Hasan memang masih ingat bahwa di awal-awal perlawanan, tidak ada paksaan terhadap pajak nanggroe dan orang-orang kaya memberikan sumbangan dengan suka rela. Waktu itu perang masih seumpama api dalam sekam dan belum terlalu muncul ke permukaan. Kaki tangan pejuang bisa leluasa berkeliaran ke mana saja, menemui pengusaha dan orang-orang kaya di kota tanpa khawatir dicurigai tentara.

Serdadu yang jumlahnya masih sedikit hanya kenal satu dua dalang pemberontakan lewat foto yang mereka bawa, juga lewat selebaran-selebaran yang mereka tempelkan di dinding kedai, dan meunasah sebagai seruan kepada masyarakat agar melaporkan kepada tentara bila ada yang melihat orang-orang dalam selebaran itu.

Namun, kala perang berlangsung lama dan keadaan para pejuang makin terjepit, mereka meminta uang dengan paksa pada siapa saja sebagai biaya perjuangan. Mereka tidak bisa lagi menemui orang-orang kaya di kota. Sehingga, pajak nanggroe kemudian diwajibkan pada penduduk kampung yang masih bisa didatangi, tak peduli bahwa kaum petani itu hidup menderita dan papa.

Hasan terengah menarik karung berisi panenan diantara tanaman cabai di ladang.

Kampung Kulam yang tinggal kenangan dan telah menjadi hutan besar, tempat ular dan babi bersarang. Di kampung itu pula banyak penduduk yang mati dan telah terkubur. Hasan teringat bapak, mak, dan adik perempuannya. Seketika air mata jatuh menimpa ujung sepatu bot karet yang selalu dipakainya di luar rumah.

***

Sambil memetik cabai, Hasan mengunyah sebatang alang-alang sambil mengingat kembali saat para tentara marah besar sebab seorang pejuang nekat menghadang truk tentara dan membunuh sepasukan serdadu dengan tembakan bazoka.

Ratusan tentara datang keesokan harinya membakar rumah-rumah, dan menembaki siapa saja. Kampung tempat Hasan tinggal jadi ladang pembantaian. Tak peduli perempuan dan anak-anak, beberapa dari mereka ikut terkapar bersama laki-laki yang rubuh ke tanah bersimbah darah. Beruntung bagi Hasan dan istrinya, mereka saat itu tidak sedang di rumah. Mereka berada di ladang.

Dari ladang yang berjarak sekitar satu kilometer dari rumah, mereka bisa mengetahui kegaduhan di pemukiman, teriakan-teriakan prajurit yang menghardik dan memaki, serta letusan tembakan berkali-kali yang getarannya sampai ke dada. Setiap kali bedil meletus, napas Hasan tertahan dan jantungnya berdebar. Saat letusan senjata terjadi saling sahut, seakan ada segerombolan lain balas menyerang, Hasan dan istrinya yang sedang bunting lari menghilang ke hutan.

Ketika sejumlah tentara itu pulang ke pos mereka masing-masing, Hasan menemukan kampungnya sudah rata. Tak ada lagi rumah orang tuanya, tak ada rumah tetangga, tak ada lagi rumah yang tersisa. Semua sudah musnah dibakar. Cuma mayat-mayat terkapar di halaman rumah, dan berserakan di ladang-ladang kelapa dan palawija. Hanya mereka yang berada jauh dari pemukiman saja yang selamat. Melihat semua itu, jiwa Hasan terguncang selama berhari-hari kemudian serupa orang hilang ingatan.

Ketika sadar, dia menangis. Mengutuki perang. Kemudian hari, setelah guncangan jiwanya mereda, dia belajar untuk lupa. Hidup di sini harus bisa melupakan luka. Hidup menuntutnya bekerja. Dia bersama istrinya membangun gubuk baru di kampungnya sekarang.

***

Ratusan, mungkin juga sudah ribuan kali tentara yang mendirikan pos di pinggir kampung Buket Kuta ini memeriksanya. Hampir saban hari isi rumahnya digeledah, setiap jengkalnya diperiksa, dan mereka tak pernah menemukan senjata. Meskipun begitu, setiap kali serdadu datang memeriksa dan mengawasi kampung itu, Hasan tetap menjadi bulan-bulanan penyiksaan, sebagaimana juga setiap lelaki yang mereka temui.

Tentara sengaja memukuli penduduk, agar orang-orang membenci pejuang. Tersebab pejuanglah mereka terus-terusan dianiaya. Karena tidak sanggup melawan prajurit-prajurit garang bersenjata lengkap itu, penduduk menjadi marah dan geram dengan orang-orang yang melawan pemerintah. Ketika serdadu datang, merekalah yang harus lari menyelamatkan diri ke hutan untuk menghindari penyiksaan.

Setiap kali tentara meninggalkan kampung-kampung sehabis memburu pejuang, Mando Gapi dan anak buahnya selalu muncul bagai dari dalam bumi. Panglima Sagoe, petinggi pejuang kecamatan, itu tetap menuntut pembayaran pajak. Lelaki berahang persegi itu tidak peduli terhadap keadaan penghuni kampung yang teramat susah.

Agaknya dia begitu kesulitan mencari anggota baru yang mau diajaknya berperang melawan serdadu pemerintah. Banyak sudah orang yang mati, dan yang tersisa begitu ketakutan ketika melihat senjata.

“Hutangmu pada kami semakin menumpuk, dan akan lunas semuanya jika kau bergabung dengan kami!” sergah Mando Gapi.

“Aku punya anak, Bang,” ibanya.

“Selalu itu alasanmu!”

“Aku tidak tahu harus bagaimana.”

“Kau masih beruntung punya keluarga. Kami tak punya siapa-siapa lagi selain senjata. Apa pun alasanmu, kau harus tetap membayar pajak. Itu adalah tanggung-jawab orang yang tidak mau ikut berperang!”

“Tapi, aku tak punya uang, Bang,” kata Hasan.

“Bukankah cabaimu hampir panen?”

“Tapi, aku belum memetiknya. Hutangku pada Dullah juga banyak,” keluh Hasan.

“Kau selalu mengeluh. Berperang pun menolak. Jadi jasa apa yang bisa kau sumbangkan demi kepentingan orang banyak, dan demi martabat bangsa Aceh yang sudah habis dinjak-injak pemerintah? Mereka merampas hasil bumi kita, menguras minyak, gas, dan menebang kayu-kayu untuk kertas. Ketika menuntut untuk merdeka, mereka mengirimkan tentara, membunuh lelaki dan memperkosa perempuan-perempuan kita. Pantaskah sekarang kau berdiam diri saja?”

“Kalau aku tidak punya anak dan istri, aku juga akan ikut berperang, Bang,” balas Hasan gugup.

“Alah, kata-katamu itu sungguh tidak meyakinkan. Kau tidak menunjukkan bukti apa-apa. Untuk memberikan pajak nanggroe saja kau kerap menghindar. Lihat kami yang telah mengorbankan semua harta kami untuk membeli senjata dan rela hidup sengsara di hutan yang selalu dalam intaian dan ancaman senjata serdadu laknat!”

Hasan mendengus bingung, “Aku tidak tahu, Bang.”

Mando Gapi menepuk keningnya, menggeleng-geleng, lantas berkacak pinggang.

“Dengar,” ucap Mando Gapi. “Aku ini mau berbaik hati padamu. Kaupetik itu cabai, jual, dan sisakan uangnya untuk kami. Aku akan mengambilnya besok atau lusa!”

Hasan terpaku di beranda rumahnya, memandangi Mando Gapi yang berbalik badan, meninggalkan rumahnya.

Sepeninggalan Mando Gapi, Hasan beringsut lunglai, menjongkok, lalu bersandar pada dinding rumah. Tiba-tiba tubuhnya begitu lemah, tak bertenaga, bahkan untuk berdiri saja sulit. Kata-kata Mando Gapi yang memaksa, berikut ancaman-ancaman yang bernada lunak, ditambah perkara utang-piutang di kedai Dullah, membuat kepala Hasan pening dan telinganya berdenging-denging.

Reza, anaknya yang berumur tiga tahun, muncul dari dalam rumah, menghampirinya, mengusik ketenggelaman dirinya dalam kegamangan.

Hasan menarik tangan anaknya ke dalam pangkuan, membelai-belai kepala bocah itu, sedangkan matanya menerawang jauh dengan pikiran tidak menentu. Dia terjepit antara Mando Gapi dan tentara. Sekarang juga dia harus memetik cabenya!

***

Sudah pasti prajurit yang tinggal di pos pinggir kampung itu mencium gelagat Mando Gapi menyusup ke kampung Buket Kuta. Karenanya para lelaki di kampung terpaksa melarikan diri ke hutan jika tidak ingin jadi bulan-bulanan mereka. Pagi tadi Hasan pulang, setelah teperangkap lima hari lima malam dalam hutan, kurang tidur, gelisah tidak menentu, dan tubuhnya begitu lelah. Di gubuk ditemui Saudah, istrinya, lagi tersedu. Reza, merengek-rengek minta makan.

“Kita tak punya apa-apa lagi, Bang. Beras habis,” ucap Saudah pilu.

Hasan menjawab dengan tatapan pedih. Perutnya juga perih. Bukan hanya wajahnya yang kumuh, otaknya juga lusuh. Hasan begitu geram, tak henti-henti mengutuk perang laknat itu.

Kalau saja hutangnya tidak menumpuk di kedai Dullah, dia pasti sudah melesat ke sana. Namun, dia begitu malu menemui lelaki empat puluhan itu untuk mengutang barang tiga bambu beras dan dua ons ikan asin. Dullah belum tentu bersedia memberikannya sebab hutang lama belum juga terbayar. Hasan membayangkan dirinya tidak akan sanggup menghadapi Dullah yang akan terus-terusan mengeluh rugi pada siapa saja yang datang mengutang.

Hasan tahu, setiap kali sepasukan tentara masuk ke kampung itu, Dullah terpaksa merelakan barang-barangnya, berikut beberapa rupiah uang di laci, yang langsung dikeruk tentara, seolah itu semua milik mereka. Dullah akan menyaksikan penjarahan miliknya di depan mata, tanpa berusaha menentang. Sikap tanpa perlawanan demikian, menyelamatkannya dari siksaan pasukan beringas yang sibuk memukuli dan menendang pantat dua tiga penduduk yang kebetulan sedang berkeliaran di sekitar kedai. Sambil melayangkan tendangan, mereka menunding wajah-wajah kotor petani itu sebagai pemberontak.

***

Hasan membuka kaus kumalnya yang koyak di sana-sini, lalu memukuli kepalanya dengan tangannya yang kekar. Bau pesing, bekas kencing anaknya di lantai tanah itu semakin membuatnya pusing. Dia berpikir keras sambil berjalan mondar-mandir di ruang sempit itu, dan beberapa kali hampir menginjak kaki Reza yang menyebabkannya menjerit.

Saudah membelah dua bagian mentimun yang dibawa pulang suaminya, yang ditemui Hasan di sebuah lading terlantar saat meninggalkan tempat persembunyian. Separuh dari mentimun itu diberikan pada Reza yang membuat anak itu seketika diam. Bocah itu dengan rakusnya mengigiti potongan mentimun itu. Airnya muncrat, meleleh di sekitar mulutnya.

Ketika Hasan duduk di lantai, Saudah datang dengan sebotol minyak tanah. Kulit hitam itu bengkak-bengkak serupa bekas gigitan serangga. Saudah mengoleskan minyak tanah itu ke sekujur badan lelakinya.

Hasan tahu betapa istrinya begitu mencintainya, dan Saudah juga tahu betapa suaminya sangat mencintai dia. Namun, mereka kehilangan cara untuk menanggapi atau menerima. Di tengah kemelut dan penderitaan yang begitu menyesakkan selain dari ketakutan semua perasaan terasa asing, seolah perang tak memberikan ruang sedikit pun untuk cinta.

“Sampai hutan mana Abang lari?”

“Hutan Damar.”

“Jauh sekali?”

“Tentara terus mengejar kamiPasukan kami memancing tembakan. Mungkin ada tentara yang kena tembak. Laki-laki yang ingin selamat terpaksa melarikan diri bersama kelompok pejuang yang terus menyingkir ke tepi hutan.” Hasan memijit betisnya yang terasa pegal dan menyambung, “Serdadu pemerintah tidak akan memperbedakan lagi raut wajah petani dari wajah pemberontak, bentuk rupa mereka sama. Bau tubuh mereka juga sama, sebagaimana bau tubuh kumuh orang yang jarang mandi. Patutlah tentara mengamuk hari itu. Rupanya kami berhasil menembak salah satu dari mereka.”

Hasan berhenti sejenak dan melayangkan pandangan ke Saudah. “Apa yang mereka lakukan di sini?”

“Orang-orang termasuk anak-anak dikumpulkan di meunasahBeberapa anak laki dipukul. Menuding-nuding bapak mereka penyebab seorang prajurit terbunuh.” Saudah mendesah.

“Kau diapakan mereka?”

“Cuma dibentak.”

Hasan terdiam sejenak lalu bertanya, “Mereka tak mengambil barang-barang dalam rumah?”

“Tidak. Mungkin tidak ada lagi barang yang akan mereka ambil. Tapi, mereka begitu kesal dan mengamuk. Ternak-ternak yang mereka lihat ditembaki.” Saudah menjelaskan.

“Kambing kita?” wajah Hasan cemas.

“Juga mati.”

“Kau tak memasaknya?”

“Bangkainya mereka bawa.”

Hasan menyentak tubuhnya, melesat lewat pintu. Dia berlari-lari ke kebun belakang, melewati pohon-pohon kelapa yang setahun belakangan ini engan berbuah. Kemarau membuat kuning daun-daunnya, dan banyak pelepah tercampak ke tanah. Hasan berhenti berlari. Kedua tangannya memukul-mukul kepalanya.

“Memang jahanam!”pekiknya. Dia berjalan gontai melewati semak-semak. Di dekat pematang sawah, tumbuh beberapa batang singkong. Sepintas ditatapnya batang-batang padi yang masih menancap ke tanah seperti seikat kecil batang lidi. Daunnya kering. Tanah tempat batang padi itu menancap pecah-pecah, retak di sana-sini. Padahal dia sudah banyak menghabiskan tenaganya untuk membajak dan mengurus tanaman di sepetak sawah itu, belum lagi kerugian biji gabah sebagai bibit yang akhirnya binasa. Tumbuhan padi itu tidak akan menghasilkan apa-apa, selain kurasan tenaga dan seperempat karung gabah yang terbuang sia-sia.

Di kebun singkong Hasan mengepalkan tinjunya dengan geram melihat batang-batang umbi tercerabut. Ada bekas kekasaran terjadi di sana. Tapak-tapak babi hutan itu sebagai bukti. Hasan memaki-maki. Perutnya perih. Dia teringat perut istri dan anaknya.

Akhirnya dibawa pulang juga sisa-sisa singkong yang masih tinggal di dalam tanah, yang tidak bisa dijarah babi hutan. Hasan mengorek sisa-sisa umbi yang masih tertinggal dalam tanah seperti ayam yang mengorek tanah mencari cacing. Umbi-umbi yang masih serupa akar kayu itu memang keras karena belum berisi.

Sesampai di gubug, Hasan menyerahkan ubi hasil korekannya ke Saudah. Dia kemudian merebus akar kayu yang keras itu tanpa bersuara.

Meskipun masih tengah hari, tubuh Hasan menginginkan tidur. Tubuhnya begitu keletihan sekembalinya dari pelarian, ditambah kurang tidur karena tidak ada tempat tidur selama di hutan, ditambah pula perasaannya yang tidak nyaman. Selama lima hari terperangkap di hutan, dia bersama pemberontak dan petani lainnya hanya tidur-tidur ayam. Perasaan cemas selalu menghantui, membuat mereka terjaga sebentar-bentar.

Setelah lama dia membolak-balikkan tubuh di ranjang kamar, mata lelahnya tidak kunjung bisa terpejam. Begitu pula keinginannya bercumbu yang terkadang timbul tak tentu waktu, yang kapan saja bisa berkobar, tak peduli siang, tapi tidak ada nyala gairah sama sekali meskipun istrinya kemudian ikut merebahkan diri di sampingnya.

“Aku mau petik cabai,” Hasan meloncat dari ranjang, lalu menyambar karung kosong di sisi pintu.

***

Sekarang, dengan bersemangat Hasan mondar mandir di antara tanaman cabai mengisi karungnya. Tangan kekar itu agak gemetaran menyambar buah-buah cabai, tidak peduli merah atau hijau. Tangannya seolah begitu terampil, cepat menyambar buah itu pada tiap-tiap batang yang bergelayut. Tetapi, seringkali pula tangan itu menyambar daun, yang disangkanya buah hijau. Kadangkala buah busuk yang tangkainya masih menempel di dahan ikut terenggut dalam genggamannya. Dia berusaha memusatkan pikiran pada pekerjaannya, tapi sering gagal. Selalu saja ada bayangan menganggu yang berkitaran tak jauh darinya.

Hasan sendiri di sana, lenyap dalam kesunyian senja. Seraya memetik cabai, seringkali dia tebarkan pandangannya ke sekeling begitu dirasakan ada sosok lain yang hadir, seolah telah berdiri di belakangnya selayak hantu. Dia begitu khawatir kalau tiba-tiba sepasukan tentara sudah berdiri mengelilinginya—itu kerap terjadi karena pasukan pengintai sering mengendap di semak-semak selama berjam-jam dan muncul tiba-tiba tanpa menimbulkan suara.

Para prajurit tidak akan percaya lagi kalau dirinya cuma seorang lelaki ladang. Sekalipun petani, di petang hampir gelap semacam ini tidak ada lagi yang berkeliaran di ladang. Kecuali pemberontak kelaparan yang sedang mencuri tanaman petani.

Hasan ingin lekas-lekas menyudahi pekerjaannya. Tangganya itu begitu cepat menyambar, tanpa peduli pucuk-pucuk cabai muda yang ikut terengut. Dia tahu, harga cabai lagi mahal. Kalau buah-buah cabai itu habis dipetiknya maka dia bisa menukarkan dengan satu karung beras, cukup bagi keluarganya untuk bertahan selama sebulan, tanpa perlu mendengar keluhan istri dan rengekan anaknya yang minta makan.

Jalur pokok cabai yang sudah dipetik itu bagai dijamah binatang liar. Batang-batangnya patah, dan beberapa buah berserakan di tanah bersama daun-daunnya yang gugur dan tercerabut dari tangannya. Hasan menyadari kerusakan tanaman cabainya itu, dia tahu daun-daun pada cabang-cabang yang patah itu nantinya akan layu berguguran.

Terasa begitu lambat pekerjaan itu, dan waktu begitu cepat melesat. Kini buah masak, hijau, bahkan putik dan busuk masuk ke dalam karung. Nanti malam di rumah dia bisa memisahkannya dari buah yang bagus. Karung itu sudah penuh. Hasan segera bangkit. Dadanya berdebar-debar begitu disadari hari sudah meremang. Perasaannya bercampur aduk antara senang dan ketakutan. Terbayang pula istri dan anaknya yang menunggunya dengan cemas membawa pulang beras.

Secepatnya dia mengikat mulut karung itu dengan tali plastik bekas. Lalu menyeretnya di jalan setapak yang diapit ilalang tebal. Matanya menyebar ke segala arah. Sengaja dia tidak memikul karung itu supaya tidak kelihatan jika ada orang yang menengoknya dari jauh. Hasan berjalan mengendap-endap sambil menyeret karung cabainya.

Ketika melalui jalan setapak yang terhalang semak-semak tinggi, Hasan bisa berjalan tegak dan merasa lega. Kalaupun ada orang di kejauhan sana, mereka tidak akan melihatnya. Hutan belukar di sekeliling melindunginya dari pandangan orang-orang.

Hasan teringat istri dan anak. Dia sadar bahwa meskipun apa yang terjadi dia harus tetap ke ladang, menanam padi, singkong, dan cabai. Padi dan singkong bisa dimakan. Cabai dijualnya pada Bang Dullah. Jika kena harga, istrinya bisa belanja ke Pasar Idi, beli baju, dan barang-barang lainnya. Dia tidak mau ikut-ikutan berperang dengan hidup tidak menentu. Keinginannya cuma sederhana, hidup bahagia,seadanya, bersama istri dan anaknya.

Sekonyong-konyong, seperti bayangan hantu berkelebat, beberapa sosok berpakaian loreng menyergapnya dekat semak-semak situ. Tentara. Hasan terkesiap, karung cabai di tangannya terlepas. Sebelum suaranya sempat keluar, sesuatu yang keras telah menghantam tengkuknya dengan begitu kuat. Hasan langsung rubuh terjerembab ke tanah. Tubuhnya tidak berkutik lagi.

***

Man of The Fields

Kegemaran Minerva Soedjatmiko akan semua bentuk bacaan dimulai dari Bundanya, yang kerap membacakannya buku-buku tentang tokoh ilmuwan /seniman seperti Leonardo Da Vinci. Kemudian, di bangku SD, Minerva sering ditemukan di perpustakaan, membaca novel dalam berbagai rupa. Setelah disarankan meraih pekerjaan di bidang yang lebih menjamin penghasilan, ia mempelajari ilmu ekonomi dan hukum di jenjang universitas. Namun, Minerva tidak dapat melupakan semangatnya dan rasa bahagia pada saat berbagi kecintaan membaca dengan orang lain; pada akhirnya, Minerva memutuskan untuk beralih menjadi guru bahasa. Kini Minerva bekerja sebagai jurubahasa dan penerjemah di suatu perusahaan yang bergerak di bidang media dan komunikasi. Minerva bisa dihubungi di minerva.soedjarmiko@cdcplus.co.id

 

 

 

Man of the Fields

 

Hasan hurriedly harvested the chili peppers growing on a patch of land near the stream that was starting to run dry. The farmers of Buket Kuta placed their hopes on the harvest of this small area of the valley when the dry season hit. Their village was tucked away in the deep silence of coconut groves that, neglected, had turned into overgrown woods, some nine miles off the main road between Medan and Banda, along Eastern Aceh. Idi, the closest small city, was about thirteen miles farther. Without any available public transportation, the villagers never ventured out. They had no idea what the world beyond Buket Kuta looked like.

Hasan gazed across the valley at what remained of Kampung Kulam. The village where he had grown up was now abandoned. In 1999, a year after Indonesia’s President Soeharto was forced to step down and the government in Jakarta fell into chaos, rebels in Aceh began attacking army posts in retaliation against the government. The rebels claimed that the government had exploited the natural resources that belonged to the most northern province of Sumatra, and the Acehnese had not received their fair share of proceeds. Their discontent erupted in a series of protests.

Hasan was the breadwinner of one of fifteen families from Kampung Kulam who now lived in Buket Kuta. The soldiers had found no evidence of him being involved in revolts against the government.

Hasan still remembered the beginning of the rebellion against the government. At that time, there had been no coercion in collecting what the rebels called pajak nanggroe—contributions to support the uprising. Resentment against the government was widespread, and the rich city folks who supported the rebels’ cause gladly made donations. The war was merely a spark of discontent; something similar to an ember held in a damp chaff to keep from flaring. Rebels moved around freely to meet with businessmen and wealthy people in the city without fear of drawing the millitary’s suspicion.

The few government soldiers there were back then only recognized one or two of the rebel organizers. The army affixed posters with photographs of the rebels to the walls of shops and meunasah, the prayer house, encouraging the community to report any sightings of the people shown on these flyers to the authorities.

The war dragged on, however, and the rebels became cornered and financially pressured. They began to exhort money from everyone. When the wealthy residents fled, the rebels turned a blind eye to the peasants’ hardships and poverty and made the nanggroe dues compulsory for villagers as well.

Hasan sighed and pulled his harvesting sack across the path between the chili beds. Kampung Kulam was but a memory; it had become a dense forest that snakes and boars called home. Numerous villagers had been killed and buried there. Hasan thought of his father, mother, and younger sister. Tears fell onto the rubber boots he always wore when leaving home.

***

As he harvested, Hasan chewed a reed and recalled the army’s wrath after a rebel blocked their truck and killed a battalion of soldiers with a bazooka. Hundreds of soldiers arrived the next day to punish Kampung Kulam, burning homes and shooting everyone in sight. The village that Hasan had called home became a slaughterhouse. Blood flooded the ground as women and children were killed along with the men. Luckily, at the time, Hasan and his wife were out in the fields.

Even though the field was more than half a mile away from home, they could hear the soldiers’ shouting as gunshots reverberated through the air. Each time there was an eruption of gunfire, Hasan’s breath caught in his throat and his heart pounded. When he noticed the artillery fire being returned, Hasan and his pregnant wife ran to hide in the forest.

Once the soldiers returned to their posts, Hasan found that his village had been razed; there was not a single home left standing. Everything had been burned to the ground. Bodies littered the yards of what used to be homes; more were scattered in the fields among the coconut trees and crops. Only those who happened to be far away from the village had survived. The sight of it all shook Hasan, and he suffered from a kind of amnesia for days.

When his senses returned to him, Hasan broke into tears and cursed the war. Only over time did he learn to forget. Living here required the ability to forget pain. Life demanded him to work. Thus, he and his wife built a new hut in Buket Kuta, where they now lived.

***

The soldiers at the post on the outskirts of Buket Kuta searched the village hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of times. They searched Hasan’s home almost every day, but never found any weapons. Nevertheless, each time the troops patrolled the village, Hasan and other males were always a target of their anger.

The military abused the farmers to make them hate the rebels for causing the military persecution. Helpless to fight back against the heavily armed soldiers, the villagers could only run away and seek sanctuary in the forest.

Each time the military departed after their raids, Mando Gapi and his men appeared. The square-jawed commander of the rebels demanded the villagers pay the nanggroe dues without considering how they suffered. He was having trouble finding new members willing to join the fight against the military. So many lives had been lost; those still standing shuddered at the sight of a weapon.

“Your growing debt would be paid off if you joined us,” Mando Gapi barked.

“I have a child, sir,” Hasan pleaded.

“You always use that excuse!”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re lucky to even have a family. We have no one, just weapons. It doesn’t matter what you’re dealing with, you still have to pay up. That’s the price of not participating in the war!”

“But…I have no money, sir.”

“Aren’t your chili peppers about ready for harvesting?”

“But, I haven’t picked them. Besides, I owe Dullah, the village grocer, a lot of money.”

“You always complain. You won’t even join the war. What do you contribute to the greater good, to defend the honor of the Acehnese as the government tramples us? They’re seizing our oil and gas, destroying our forests to manufacture paper. And when we demand independence, they send their troops to kill our men and rape our women. Is it right that you remain silent in the face of all this?”

“If I didn’t have a wife and child, I would join the war, sir,” Hasan answered nervously.

“Come on, you aren’t fooling anyone. You can’t prove to have contributed anything. You even avoid paying the nanggroe dues. Look at us. We’ve sacrificed all of our possessions to buy weapons and lead a miserable existence in the forest under constant watch of those damned soldiers!”

“I don’t know, sir,” Hasan mumbled, confused.

Mando Gapi slapped his forehead, shook his head, and put his hands on his hips. “Look, I’m trying to be nice. Go, pick those peppers, sell them, and give us some of the money. I’ll come back for it tomorrow or the day after!”

Hasan, standing frozen on his porch, stared at Mando Gapi as the man turned around and walked away.

As soon as Mando Gapi left, Hasan slumped. He suddenly felt incredibly frail, powerless to the point that standing was a challenge in itself. Crouching, he leaned against a wall. Mando Gapi’s threats, on top of his debt at Dullah’s shop, made Hasan’s head spin and his ears ring.

Reza, his three-year-old son, walked toward him from inside the house.

Hasan pulled his son onto his lap. Stroking the boy’s head, he gazed into the distance, thoughts tumbling through his head. He was stuck between the army and Mando Gapi. He needed to harvest his peppers immediately.

***

The army had tracked Mando Gapi to Buket Kuta. Their search forced all adult males in the village to flee to the forest again. After hiding there for five days and five nights, Hasan had returned home that morning. He was exhausted. Sleep deprivation and an undefined restlessness had caused his entire body to be sore. His wife, Saudah, greeted him, weeping. Reza bawled for food.

“We don’t have anything anymore, dear. We finished the rice,” Saudah told him.

Hasan responded with a pained look. His stomach ached as well. Not only was his face ragged, his mind too was worn out. Hasan furiously condemned this cursed war.

If only he did not have so much debt accrued at Dullah’s shop, he would surely have rushed over there. But Hasan was overcome with shame at the thought of asking the middle-aged man for a bit of salted fish and rice on credit. Considering Hasan’s prior debts, Dullah might not be willing to provide him with these staples. The shopkeeper always complained of his losses to anyone who borrowed from him.

Hasan knew that each time troops entered the village, Dullah was forced to surrender his inventory to them, along with however many rupiah were in the drawer. The army picked everything clean and acted as if they owned it all.

Each time, Dullah watched them loot his shop without any attempt to resist. This conduct saved him from the abuse served up by the soldiers, who instead busied themselves with kicking villagers who happened to be wandering by the shop. As the kicks hit their marks, the soldiers threw accusations at the farmers’ dirty faces, alleging they were rebels.

***

Hasan took off his stained and tattered shirt and slapped his head with a burly hand. The stench of urine where his son had wet the dirt floor made his headache worse. Pacing the tight space, he barely missed stepping on Reza’s foot, causing the child to scream.

Saudah split the cucumber Hasan had found in an abandoned field as he was leaving his hiding place in the forest. She handed a piece to Reza, which immediately quieted him. As the toddler bit into the cucumber, its juices squirted and dripped from his mouth.

Hasan sat down on the floor; his dark skin was covered with little welts similar to bug bites. Saudah came to him with a bottle of kerosene and rubbed the kerosene all over her husband’s body to soothe the welts.

Hasan knew how much his wife loved him; Saudah knew how much he loved her. And yet they had lost the ability to respond to or receive such emotions. Amidst the peril and misery that smothered each day, every emotion other than fear felt strange; war left no room for love.

“How far did you go this time?”

“To the Damar Forest.”

“That far?”

“The soldiers kept coming after us. Our men opened fire and shot one of them. The soldiers were furious. Whoever wanted to stay alive was forced to join the rebels, who ran into the forest.” Hasan rubbed his calves and continued, “The soldiers made no effort to distinguish farmers from rebels—to them, we all look the same. Our filthy bodies even smell the same. But it’s no wonder the soldiers were furious; we did shoot one of them.”

Hasan paused and sent Saudah a scrutinizing look. “What did they do here?”

“They gathered people, including children, in the meunasahSeveral boys were beaten. Their fathers were accused of causing the death of a soldier.” Saudah sighed.

“What did they do to you?”

“They just scolded me.”

“They didn’t take anything from our house?”

“No. There isn’t anything left for them to take. They were really mad. They shot whatever livestock they saw.”

“Our goat?” Concern was written all over Hasan’s face.

“Dead.”

“Did you cook it?”

“They took the carcass.”

Hasan pulled away and darted out the door. He ran to the back garden, past the coconut trees that had refused to bear fruit for the past year. The drought had turned the leaves yellow and caused the ribs to drop to the ground. Hasan stopped running. He beat his head with both hands.

“Damn it all!” he screamed, stumbling through the bushes. Close to the narrow walk bordering the rice paddies, a few cassava plants had sprouted. Stalks of rice still rose from the soil like tiny bundles of thin sticks; the leaves were parched. He had plowed the land and tended to the seedlings on this plot. Yet, the ground of the rice paddies was hard and cracked. The plants had perished, the seed wasted.

At the cassava patch, Hasan clenched his fists when he saw the uprooted plants. Boar tracks explained the damage. Hasan cursed. His stomach hurt; he thought of his wife’s and child’s stomachs.

He eventually decided to take home the boars’ leftovers. Hasan dug for the remaining roots with his hands like a scavenger. The immature tubers were hard, like tree roots.

At home, Hasan handed Saudah the meager harvest.

She silently boiled the thin, tough roots.

Though it was only noon, Hasan yearned for sleep. During the five days he was trapped in the woods, he could only catnap along with the other farmers and the rebels. A ceaseless anxiety kept everyone awake.

After a while of tossing and turning on his cot, Hasan still could not fall asleep. Neither was his passion aroused when he looked at his wife. Although he had been away from home for five days, and normally his desire for her could be sparked at any time of the day or night, he remained unmoved, even after she lay down next to him.

“I’m going to pick the chili peppers,” he told her, jumping out of bed and grabbing an empty sack next to the door.

***

Now Hasan moved between the chili beds with an urgency to fill his harvest bag. His calloused hands trembled slightly as he picked the peppers, regardless of the fruit being red or green. His fingers, skilled and swift, plucked each pepper from every hanging stem. Sometimes, in his haste, he seized the rotten ones that had not fallen off the stem. He tried to stay focused on the task at hand, but failed miserably. A shadow followed him relentlessly, circling nearby.

Hasan was alone as twilight draped the field. While gathering the peppers, he could not keep himself from looking around as if there was another presence, someone standing behind him like a ghost. He worried about suddenly being surrounded by a military squad. Soldiers on surveillance often concealed themselves in the bushes for hours before unexpectedly appearing without a sound.

They would never believe that he was merely a man working the fields. No one would still be wandering in the fields when it was almost dark. Unless, of course, they were starving rebels stealing the farmers’ crops.

Hasan wanted to get the job done quickly. He knew the price of chili peppers was at a high. If he could harvest them all, he would be able to buy a sack of rice, enough for his family to live on for a month. His wife would have no need to complain, and his son would not beg to be fed.

The row of peppers he had picked looked like wild animals had foraged there. Some branches were broken, some fruit scattered on the dirt. Hasan realized the damage. He knew the broken branches would wither and drop their leaves.

He seemed to make such little progress while time passed so quickly. Now, all chili peppers—ripe, green, or still in bud, and even the rotten ones—were bagged. The sack was full. He could sort the good from the bad later that evening at home.

Hasan straightened himself. His heart pounded when he realized how late it was. Delight and fear filled him. He imagined his wife and son, anxiously waiting for him to come home with rice.

Hasan hurriedly tied the top of the sack with a used plastic strap. He looked in all directions, then dragged the bag down a path between thick weeds. He deliberately did not carry the sack on his back, to avoid being noticed from afar. Hasan crept forward, lugging the bag behind him.

When he reached a portion of the path that was blocked from view by high shrubs, Hasan was able to walk upright and felt relieved. Even if there were soldiers out there, they would not be able to spot him. The surrounding grove gave him cover.

Hasan thought of his wife and child. Come what may, he must always return to the fields to plant rice, cassava, and chili peppers. The rice and cassava could be eaten. The peppers could be sold to Dullah. If the price was right, his wife would be able to buy groceries, clothes, and other things at the Idi Market. Hasan had no wish to join the war. He merely wanted to live a happy life with his wife and child.

Suddenly, like the silhouette of a ghost passing by, several figures dressed in camouflage jumped out of the nearby bushes. Soldiers.

Hasan gasped and let go of the sack of peppers. Something hard slammed into the nape of his neck. Before he could utter a sound, Hasan collapsed.

***

Belenggu Emas

Iksaka Banu lahir di Yogyakarta, 7 Oktober 1964. Menamatkan kuliah di Jurusan Desain Grafis, Fakultas Seni Rupa dan Desain, Institut Teknologi Bandung. Iksaka mulai menulis sejak usia sepuluh tahun. Majalah Kawanku dan Rubrik Anak Kompas memuatkan tulisannya. Pada tahun 2000, cerita pendeknya dimuat di majalah Matra, Femina, Horison, dan Koran Tempo. “Mawar di Kanal Macan” dan “Semua untuk Hindia” terpilih menjadi salah satu dari 20 cerpen terbaik Indonesia versi Pena Kencana berturut-turut tahun 2008 dan 2009. Kumpulan cerpennya “Semua Untuk Hindia,” (Gramedia 2014), meraih penghargaan Kusala Sastra Khatulistiwa untuk kategori prosa.

Iksaka bisa dihubungi di iksaka@yahoo.com

Hak cipta ©2017 ada pada Iksaka Banu. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2017 ada pada Maya Denisa Saputra.

 

***

 

Belenggu Emas

 

Ruang tamu ini sangat nyaman. Mungkin karena semua jendelanya dibuka lebar sehingga udara sejuk Koto Gadang bisa leluasa masuk, membawa pergi sisa kepenatan tubuh akibat terguncang-guncang selama enam jam di dalam kereta api uap milik Soematra Staatsspoorwegen yang bertolak dari Padang kemarin siang.

Kulirik Nyonya Joanna Adriana Westenenk yang duduk di sebelahku. Kurasa ia juga merasakan keletihan yang sama meski sudah terbiasa bertandang ke wilayah-wilayah jauh semacam ini.

Tujuh tahun yang lalu, suaminya Louis Constant Westenenk, menjadi terkenal karena keberhasilannya dalam mengatasi Kerusuhan Kamang yang disebabkan penolakan penerapan pajak di Kamang pada bulan Juni 1908. Kini ia menjabat sebagai Residen Benkoelen.

Aku berteman baik dengan Nyonya Westenenk, tetapi tidak menduga bahwa ia benar-benar menepati janji, mengajakku ke tempat ini. Sebuah tempat yang menurutnya akan membuat mata sekaligus hatiku terbuka lebar. Tentu saja perjalanan ini di luar kegiatan resmi suaminya. Dan aku merasa sedikit nekat bepergian sejauh ini hanya berdua saja dengan Nyonya Westenenk. Bertiga, sebetulnya. Karena selalu ada ajudan yang menemani Nyonya Westenenk.

“Louis tak bisa menemani,” kata Nyonya Westenenk kemarin. “Ada sejumlah acara di Padang bersama Asisten Residen dan para pemuka adat setempat.”

Aku mengiyakan. Seharusnya suamiku juga diundang mengikuti acara itu, tetapi ia telanjur ditugaskan kantornya ke Solok bersama beberapa Kepala Insinyur lain. Bulan lalu ia sudah mengirim surat permintaan maaf kepada Asisten Residen.

Maka, di sinilah aku sekarang. Bebas mengikuti kata hati. Ya, sudah lama aku menginginkan petualangan liar semacam ini, meski tampaknya aku harus lebih sering melatih kesabaran, duduk berlama-lama di atas bangku kereta api yang keras. Setiba di Fort de Kock, kami beristirahat semalam, lalu pagi hari tadi berkereta kuda ke tempat ini.

Tak jauh berbeda dengan rumah-rumah Hindia lain yang biasa dimiliki pejabat bumiputera terpandang, rumah besar. Empat keping jendela gaya Prancis menjadi penyeimbang di kiri-kanannya pintu depan. Ada pula bangunan tambahan, memanjang di kedua sisi rumah utama. Mirip ruang kelas. Itulah bagian yang sesungguhnya paling penting dari bangunan ini. Ingin sekali aku segera melongok isinya, yang konon telah membuat gempar banyak pejabat Belanda di seantero Hindia. Tetapi tentu saja aku harus sabar menunggu hingga tuan rumah muncul.

“Onne biasa datang sekitar jam setengah sepuluh,” kata wanita dalam busana Minang yang tadi menyambut kami. “Dan bila tak ada keperluan lain Onne akan terus di sini hingga sore hari,” sambungnya sambil menyuguhkan dua cangkir teh hangat serta sejumlah kudapan. Ia memperkenalkan dirinya sebagai Zaiza, atau barangkali nama lain yang kurang-lebih berbunyi seperti itu. Bahasa Melayunya bercampur dengan logat setempat. Agak sulit bagi telingaku yang sudah sangat terbiasa mendengar Bahasa Melayu Batavia atau Melayu Jawa.

“Terima kasih. Kami memang datang terlalu pagi. Tak apa, kami akan menanti kedatangan beliau.” Nyonya Westenenk mengangguk.

Zaiza minta izin kembali ke belakang.

“Onne adalah nama panggilan wanita yang akan kita temui nanti,” bisik Nyonya Westenenk. “Artinya: kakak.”

Aku mengangguk, lalu memutar pandangan ke beberapa sudut ruangan. Di hadapanku, dekat jendela, berderet buku berbahasa Belanda, Arab, dan Melayu. Tersimpan rapi di dalam sebuah lemari berkaca dengan empat ambalan. Di ujung kanan ada rak pendek, sarat tumpukan koran terbitan dalam dan luar negeri. Sementara di sisi kiri tergantung sebuah potongan kain yang dikerjakan dengan kehalusan yang menakjubkan. Mungkin itu salah satu contoh tenunan yang dikerjakan di sini. Dan terakhir, di atas meja, tampak terbitan terbaru sebuah koran yang belum lama ini menjadi perbincangan hangat di antara kami. Benar-benar ruang tamu yang sarat peradaban.

Bukan hal aneh menjumpai pemandangan serupa itu di ruang tamu para pejabat Belanda. Tetapi saat ini aku tengah berada di dalam sebuah bangunan yang jauh dari keramaian kota, milik seorang pribumi. Tepatnya, seorang wanita pribumi.

Seolah mengerti yang kupikirkan, Nyonya Westenenk menyentuh pundakku sembari melempar senyum.

“Ini belum semuanya, Nellie,” bisiknya. “Tunggu sampai kau berbicara dengannya. Dengarkan pemikiran-pemikirannya.”

“Ya, Nyonya,” sahutku. “Banyak berita tentang orang ini. Seharusnya aku malu. Ia berani menyuarakan dirinya sendiri di tengah tekanan hebat lingkungannya. Sementara aku, lihatlah, betapa menyedihkan diriku di hadapan suami.”

“Berhentilah menyalahkan diri.” Nyonya Westenenk memperbaiki letak sarung tangan putih berpola renda yang dikenakannya.  “Hindia Belanda tidak sama dengan Eropa. Di sini semua berjalan lebih lambat. Bahkan orang kulit putih pun tak bisa melangkah gegas. Tetapi bukan berarti kita tak sudi merentangkan kedua tangan lebar-lebar menyambut perubahan yang sedang menggeliat. Perubahan yang sebentar lagi membuat lompatan besar di seluruh penjuru dunia ini. Di Barat, di Timur, di seluruh penjuru dunia, wanita sedang bergerak.”

“Dan suami Anda sungguh luar biasa, membiarkan Anda pergi ke sini hanya ditemani olehku dan seorang ajudan, sementara aku harus mencuri waktu selagi suami bertugas ke luar kota.”

Kulirik jendela. Tampak Joep, ajudan Tuan Westenenk sedang asyik bercakap dengan kusir kereta yang tadi mengantar kami ke sini.

“Louis sama saja dengan pria-pria lain di dunia. Pernah terlihat rapuh, tidak percaya diri, bahkan sangat tidak ramah kepadaku saat berkobar kerusuhan Kamang tujuh tahun lalu,” Nyonya Westenenk kembali memahat senyum tipis di wajahnya yang tirus. “Tetapi setelah perang berlalu, ia kembali seperti yang kukenal sebelumnya. Memberi banyak kelonggaran. Dengar, aku tak ingin mencampuri urusan rumah tanggamu. Aku lebih dahulu kenal dengan Theodor Makenbrug, suamimu, dibandingkan dirimu. Ia teman dekat Louis. Sejauh yang kutahu, tak ada yang salah dengannya. Kalau tampak keras, barangkali karena ia mengkhawatirkanmu. Belum terbiasa melihat istrinya ikut sengsara, berpindah-pindah rumah di negeri ini. Louis dulu juga begitu.”

“Saya rasa semua memang tergantung dari mana kita melihat, Nyonya. Betul, ia baik hati dan setia. Itu satu hal,” kataku sambil bangkit, berjalan mendekati dinding dekat lemari buku yang menyimpan foto keluarga. Cukup aneh melihat banyak foto manusia di rumah ini.  Biasanya, sesuai tafsir agama yang mereka anut, keluarga Muslim Minang pantang memindahkan wajah ke atas sehelai kertas foto. Aku dengar, menurut mereka haram membuat tiruan ciptaan Allah. Tetapi rupanya keluarga ini bukan hanya terbiasa berfoto, mereka tahu persis bagaimana tampil anggun di depan kamera. Anak-anak lelaki berdiri gagah dalam seragam kelasi Victoria seperti yang biasa dikenakan para sinyo Belanda, sementara anak-anak perempuan mengenakan gaun dan sepatu putih. Dari semua sosok yang terpampang di situ, harus kuakui bahwa pemilik rumah ini ternyata memang telah memiliki tatapan sangat tajam sejak masa kanak-kanak.

“Theo setia. Aku tidak mengeluhkan Theo dari sisi itu,” aku melanjutkan bicara. “Dan barangkali Anda benar. Masuk akal bila semua itu membuatnya sangat khawatir. Tetapi untuk hal lain…” aku tidak merampungkan kalimat, karena kulihat Nyonya Westenenk tidak menyimak. Ia sibuk membolak-balik koran yang ia ambil dari rak. Kuurungkan pula niat untuk mengajaknya kembali membicarakan pokok masalah awal.

Ya, aku tidak mengeluhkan Theo dari sisi kebaikan hati dan kesetiaan. Tak pernah kudengar sedikit pun berita miring tentang dirinya. Padahal setiap malam hampir semua kelab, baik di Batavia, Bandung, atau Semarang sarat kisah perselingkuhan.  Mulai dari yang menggelikan, hingga yang mengerikan.

Aku bertemu Theo pertama kali di Singapura pada suatu petang yang sejuk oleh siraman hujan tiga tahun lalu. Seorang teman ayahku berulang tahun. Kami merayakannya dengan meriah di Singapore Club, sebuah perkumpulan para pialang saham yang terletak di lantai atas Hotel Adelphi.  Sejak kematian Ibu, aku sering menemani Ayah pergi ke segala pelosok. Termasuk menghadiri acara di tempat-tempat khusus semacam ini. Dan seperti mendiang Ibu dahulu, aku juga berperan sebagai malaikat penjaga. Tak ingin melihat Ayah kelewat mabuk sehingga harus digotong pulang.

Malam itu, kubiarkan Ayah melayari kegembiraan masa lalu bersama teman-temannya di meja bilyar, sementara aku memilih menyendiri di kursi besar dekat beranda dengan sebuah buku, mengenakan kebaya putih, serta sarung panjang. Menjauh dari gerombolan lelaki yang tak putus berteriak, “Boy, lagi, setengah!” sambil mengacungkan gelas wiski kosong kepada pelayan.

Beberapa wanita berkumpul juga di ruangan ini, tetapi tak ada seorang pun yang kukenal, dan aku terlalu malas untuk berbasa-basi.  Jadi, kubenamkan saja wajahku pada halaman buku.

Maka di sudut itulah beberapa saat kemudian, seperti penyulap yang muncul secara gaib dari balik tirai, seorang pria mendadak berdiri di depanku, mengangsurkan segelas cherry brandy. Wajahnya sangat Belanda. Penuh sudut di sana sini. Di atas bibir, sepotong kumis berwarna gelap menjulur rapi. Serasi dengan jas hitam yang dikenakannya.

“Lihatlah, betapa meriah malam ini. Seorang bidadari berkulit putih dalam balutan sarung Melayu, berkelana menyusuri bait-bait Tagore,” katanya. “Tetapi kusarankan engkau mencoba dahulu sekecap dua kecap minuman ini. Dan aku menyebut diriku sendiri Makenburg. Theodor. Panggil saja Theo. Insinyur di salah satu perusahaan ayahmu.”

“Cornelia. Nellie. Terima kasih. Suka Tagore?” kujemput gelas dari tangannya seraya mengutuk dalam hati keisengan ayahku menyodorkan orang ini. Tapi tidak seperti pria-pria pilihan Ayah sebelumnya, kurasa kali ini aku bertemu orang yang bisa kupertimbangkan lebih jauh. Ya. Getaran halus itu. Aku bisa merasakannya.

“Aku sering mendengar orang membicarakan Gitanjali.” Sangat berhati-hati Theo duduk di sebelahku. “Sayang sekali, untuk lelaki yang setiap hari bergaul dengan besi, mur, dan beton, sangat langka kesempatanku membaca karya sastra dunia. Tetapi engkau boleh yakin bahwa aku tidak melewatkan Max Havelaar. Sungguh berguna untuk orang yang ingin bertandang ke negeri asal kisah itu ditulis.”

“Itu salah satu buku kesukaanku. Setelah membaca, ada semacam panggilan untuk memperbaiki keadaan di sana. Seperti yang dikatakan Rudyard Kipling dalam salah satu sajaknya…”

The White Man’s Burden?” potong Theo.

Kutinju lengannya sambil mecibirkan bibir. “Lihat, ada seorang pendusta di sini. Kau penggemar sastra pula rupanya!”

Kami tergelak.

“Engkau menyukai wanita yang gemar membaca buku sastra?” pancingku.

Theo mengangkat bahu, memanjangkan bibir sejenak sebelum menjawab sambil tersenyum, “Asakan ia juga gemar membaca buku resep makanan Eropa dan Hindia.”

“Ah, tidak suka wanita yang mandiri? Bagaimana pendapatmu tentang Aletta Jacobs?”

“Demi Tuhan, Nellie. Kita sedang berada di tengah suasana gembira. Dan kau mengajakku berkelahi!” seru Theo sambil mengangkat kedua tangan, memasang kuda-kuda bertinju.

Kami tertawa.

Itu pembicaraan awal kami yang sangat bersahaja. Setelah itu, Theo mulai kerap bertandang ke rumah kami di Singapura. Sekali-dua mengajak aku dan Ayah bersantap malam di luar. Enam bulan kemudian kami menikah. Menjelang dua tahun usia pernikahan, setelah lelah menunggu kehadiran jabang bayi yang tak kunjung tiba, memaksa agar diperbolehkan mengikuti Theo menduduki posnya yang baru di Batavia. Melalui pertengkaran sengit, akhirnya Theo bersedia membawaku serta.

Kami tinggal di kawasan Gunung Sahari. Sebuah wilayah dekat pantai. Udara di situ sangat panas dan lembab. Tiada hari tanpa keringat, sehingga aku lebih sering mengenakan kain-kebaya dibandingkan pakaian Eropa. Seperti anjuran seorang rekan wanita Ayah, aku selalu mengenakan kebaya putih. Selain memantulkan panas, putih adalah warna kebaya kelas atas yang sebaiknya dipilih oleh wanita Eropa bila ingin memakai busana gaya tropis. Aku juga semakin terampil menggulung rambut tinggi-tinggi. Kini leher dan kuduk terbebas dari rasa gatal akibat panas.

“Aduh, Nyonya. Cantiknya!” Asih, babu kami, menggoda.

“Seperti Dewi Nawangwulan,” Mang Udin, kusir bendi langganan kami ikut menimpali. Entah apa yang ada di pikiran mereka melihatku berpakaian seperti itu. Tetapi menurutku mereka tampak senang.

Setelah kami pindah ke Padang, aku tetap berpenampilan demikian. Awalnya Theo tidak memberi tanggapan apapun soal rambut dan pakaianku. Namun pada suatu sore tiba-tiba ia mengajakku duduk di tuinhuis, jauh dari penglihatan para jongos dan babu kami.

“Ada baiknya engkau tidak terlalu sering berpakaian seperti itu,” ia menunjuk kebaya dan kainku. “Terutama di tanah Sumatera ini. Barangkali akan jauh lebih baik bila engkau tidak pernah lagi mengenakan semua itu.”

“Oh, mengapa?” aku terperanjat. “Apakah aku melanggar suatu larangan yang dikeramatkan di sini?”

Theo mengisi pipa gadingnya dengan tembakau. “Memang, ada kaitannya dengan mereka, tapi ini soal lain.  Bukan perkara keramat. Coba pindahkan sebentar sudut pandangmu ke pihak kita.”

Aku terdiam. Berusaha berpikir keras, namun tetap tidak menemukan sesuatu yang keliru. Sebenarnya aku bahkan samasekali tak mengerti apa yang dikatakan oleh suamiku.

The white man’s burden. Ingat?” Theo meloloskan serangkaian asap dari mulutnya beberapa kali. “Kita ingin mengubah keadaan, mengubah mereka. Bukan berubah menjadi mereka. Bukan merendahkan diri di hadapan para babu, jongos, atau tukang bendi. Aku tak pernah suka dengan orang Inggris, tetapi aku setuju pendapat Raffles dan Kipling. Orang kulit putih harus menjadi teladan untuk segala hal. Termasuk berbusana. Coba lihat, meski Raffles sangat memahami budaya daerah, bahkan menulis buku tentang Hindia, ia melarang pejabat memakai kain atau mengunyah sirih.”

“Ah, begitu rupanya,” aku menghela napas. “Tadinya kukira aku telah melanggar aturan setempat. Ternyata persoalannya jauh lebih sederhana.”

“Ini bukan persoalan ringan,” mendadak suara Theo meninggi membuatku menarik tubuh ke belakang.

“Maaf,” kataku lirih. “Tetapi hampir semua istri pejabat Eropa di Singapura tidak risih mengenakan sarung atau cheong sam. Para suami bahkan secara berkala mengenakan baju gaya Tiongkok. Sejauh yang kuingat, hal itu tidak menurunkan wibawa mereka di depan jongos maupun babu. Di Batavia kemarin, semua warga Belanda juga memakai sarung, kebaya, dan baju takwa. Engkau tidak merasa terganggu?”

“Kita bukan di Batavia,” Theo mengetuk pipa, membuang sisa abu. “Di sini orang masih mudah menghunus parang untuk alasan yang sulit kita cerna. Kita harus tegas, sedikit keras. Harus diingatkan bahwa jarak dengan kita tetap ada. Salah satunya dengan cara saling menjaga kehormatan. Mengenakan busana masing-masing. Jarak dan ketegasan akan memunculkan rasa segan, yang pada gilirannya akan membangun kepatuhan. Setelah patuh, mereka bisa kita didik, kita bentuk menjadi lebih baik. Semua untuk kebaikan mereka juga akhirnya. Dan tentu semua ada tahapannya. Bayangkan, di belakang kita boleh jadi mereka membuat lelucon. Menganggap kita seperti badut saat mengenakan busana mereka. Bagaimana pula perasaanmu melihat seorang jongos memakai jas?”

“Jongos? Tentu saja. Tetapi para bupati kerap mengenakan jas dan baju pesiar gaya Eropa. Kita tidak keberatan, bukan? Dan Nyonya Westenenk….”

“Ah, Adriana itu. Meski istri pejabat tinggi, ia jenis wanita yang tidak bisa kau jadikan panutan. Kehadirannya di rumah sangat langka. Kasihan Louis. Adriana tidak bisa seenaknya mempergunakan dalih pekerjaan sosial untuk bepergian ke sana ke mari tanpa suami di sisinya.”

“Ia tidak plesir, Theo. Aku tahu apa yang ia lakukan dengan wanita-wanita pribumi, baik di Agam maupun di Benkoelen. Ia memberi ruang bagi mereka untuk berkembang. Dan setahuku suaminya mendukung.”

“Louis tak tahu apa-apa tentang tata krama. Itulah yang memaksaku menemuimu sore ini. Aku tak mau kau bertingkah seperti Adriana. Ia seperti penyakit menular. Siapa yang ia dekati, berubah menjadi liar. Aku tak ingin orang bergunjing tentang dirimu. Selain itu, hendak kalian apakan wanita-wanita pribumi itu? Kalian ingin mereka melompat-lompat dengan kaki terangkat ke atas menari cancan? Di Eropa, engkau mungkin bisa jungkir balik menabrak tradisi. Seperti Aletta Jacobs, pujaanmu itu. Bekerja di luar rumah atas nama sendiri. Bahkan menuntut hak memilih wakil rakyat. Tetapi sekali lagi, tidak di sini!” Theo menyimpan pipanya lalu masuk ke dalam rumah, meninggalkanku sendiri ditaman dengan sejuta kegundahan.

Hari itu senantiasa kuingat dalam hidup, karena merupakan awal pertikaian tak berkesudahan dengan suamiku. Ada saja yang ia persoalkan. Pilihan makanan, cara bicara dengan babu, jongos, atau larangan bergaul dengan seorang nyai yang tinggal di dekat kami. Celakanya, semua selalu berujung pada pengurangan hak-hak istimewaku. Semakin lama ruang gerakku semakin sempit. Belakangan, lewat sebuah keributan hebat, ia tidak lagi memperbolehkanku membeli koran walau masih boleh menikmati buku. Kubalas perlakuannya dengan pindah tidur ke kamar lain. Kukunci pintu. Lalu kuhabiskan malam-malam panjang dengan menulis sajak atau karangan lain dalam berlembar kertas.

Akhirnya kemarin, saat Theo sedang pergi ke Solok, aku nekat mengikuti ajakan Nyonya Westenenk ke Koto Gadang. Kusuap jongos dan babu agar tidak menceritakan peristiwa ini kepada Theo. Ini kesempatan langka. Aku harus bertemu dengan wanita Minang yang luar biasa ini. Wanita yang telah menjadi ilham banyak orang di Hindia. Yang telah mendirikan sekolah, memberi bekal ketrampilan menenun, menjahit, serta membordir bagi kaumnya, agar tidak semata menggantungkan nafkah dari belas kasihan suami, atau sekadar menjadi perhiasan tak bernyawa. Serta yang paling penting, agar tidak jatuh kelembah nista, menyewakan tubuh untuk bertahan hidup saat suami mereka meninggal.

Tiga tahun lalu wanita ini bahkan maju lagi selangkah, menjadi pemimpin sebuah surat kabar khusus wanita. Sungguh, semakin bulat tekadku ke sini. Aku ingin diperbolehkan sesekali mengisi ruang pendapat pembaca di dalam surat kabarnya. Membantunya membuka belenggu emas yang sering dipasang kaum pria untuk mengecoh wanita.

“Ah, Nellie. Apakah tumpukan buku itu mengganggu pendengaranmu?” suara serak Nyonya Westenenk menarik sukmaku kembali ke ruang tamu besar yang sejuk ini. “Lihat, yang kau tunggu sudah datang. Pendiri sekolah Amai Setia dan pemilik suratkabar Soenting Melajoe. Beliau sendiri. Tak lain dan tak bukan.”

Kuikuti arah pandang Nyonya Westenenk.

Seorang wanita berusia tiga puluhan berdiri di pintu masuk. Kulihat wanita yang kuimpikan itu. Berdiri dengan tas rotan tersampir di pundak. Ia lebih pendek dari yang kubayangkan. Bahkan terlihat semakin mungil dengan kain ikat berwarna kesumba di kepalanya. Tetapi aku bisa melihat jelas semangat hidup yang berkobar dari kedua belah matanya. Juga dari kuatnya genggaman saat ia menyambut uluran tanganku serta berkata dengan suara lantang dalam bahasa Belanda yang sangat fasih, “Ik ben Roehana Koeddoes. Welkom op de ambachtschool genaamd Amai Setia. Van mevrouw Westenenk heb ik vernomen dat u een interessant manuscript over vrouwen heeft voor mijn krant. Saya Roehana Koeddoes. Selamat datang di Sekolah Kerajinan Amai Setia. Saya dengar dari Nyonya Westenenk Anda punya banyak naskah menarik tentang dunia wanita untuk surat kabar saya?”

***

The Golden Shackle

Maya Denisa Saputra lahir pada tanggal 30 Juli 1990 di Denpasar, Bali, dan dibesarkan di pulau yang dijuluki Pulau Dewata tersebut. Maya melanjutkan pendidikan, dan meraih gelar Sarjana Akuntansi & Keuangan dari University of Bradford di Singapura, sebuah universitas yang memiliki kampus utama di Inggris. Maya kini bergabung di bagian keuangan perusahaan keluarganya.. Selain itu, Maya juga tetap meluangkan waktu untuk melakukan berbagai kegiatan yang disukainya, seperti menulis, menerjemahkan karya sastra dan fotografi.

Maya dapat dihubungi melalui alamat surel: maya.saputra@gmail.com

 

 

***

 

 

 

The Golden Shackle

 

The living room looked very comfortable, with wide-open windows so the cool air of Koto Gadang could freely enter the room. The breeze gently blew away the fatigue caused by sitting for six hours on the steam train owned by the Soematra Staatsspoorwegen that had departed from Padang yesterday afternoon.

I glanced at Mrs. Joanna Adriana Westenenk, who sat next to me. Even though she was accustomed to traveling all over Western Sumatra, I assumed she felt the same kind of exhaustion that I did.

Seven years ago, her husband, Louis Constant Westenenk, had made his mark in government service during the June 1908 tax rebellion known as “The Night of Kamang.” He now was the Resident of Bengkoelen.

I was a good friend of Mrs. Westenenk, but I hadn’t expected that she would keep her promise to bring me with her to this place. She had told me this visit would enlighten both my mind and soul. I felt rather adventurous for traveling this far away with only Mrs. Westenenk.

Actually, there were three of us; the Resident’s wife was always accompanied by an aide.

“Louis won’t be able to come,” Mrs. Westenenk had said yesterday. “He has to attend a government affair in Padang.”

My husband had been invited to the same event, but had received an assignment from his office to travel to Solok with all the other engineers. He sent his regrets to the new Assistant Resident last month.

Hence, here I was—free to follow what my heart wanted. I had been longing to go on an adventure like this for a long time. I just had to practice sitting on the hard bench of a train coupé to develop my endurance. We had stayed overnight at Fort de Kock before heading for this place in a horse-drawn carriage early this morning.

Just like other Indies-style houses owned by high-ranking local officers, the walls of this house were made from wood. Four French-style windows flanked the front door. There were other buildings as well, built on both sides of the main building. They looked like classrooms. I really wanted to take a look inside those rooms; they had reportedly caused an uproar among Dutch officers across the Indies. But I had to wait patiently until the owner of this house appeared.

“Onne usually arrives around half past nine.” The woman who had greeted us when we arrived was dressed in Minang clothes. “And if she isn’t required to go anywhere else, Onne will stay here until evening.” The woman had introduced herself as Zaiza, or something similar to that, and served us hot tea and snacks. Her Malay was mixed with local dialect. I was accustomed to Malay with a Batavian or Javanese accent, and I had to adjust to the way she spoke.

“Thank you. We did arrive too early. It is fine, we will wait for her.” Mrs. Westenenk said.

Zaiza excused herself.

“Onne is the Minang way of respectfully addressing a woman,” whispered Mrs. Westenenk. “It means older sister.”

I nodded and turned my attention to the room. Near the window, books in Dutch, Arabic, and Malay were neatly stacked in a glass bookcase with four shelves. In the right corner, a rack was filled with local and foreign newspapers. A skillfully woven piece of cloth—a sample of local textiles, perhaps—hung on the wall. This living room showed a high level of refinement.

It would not be uncommon to find such an ambience in the living rooms of Dutch officers, but I was now far from the city, in a home of a native. To be more exact, I was in the home of a native woman.

Mrs. Westenenk lightly tapped my shoulder and smiled, as if reading my mind.

“This is not all, Nellie,” she whispered. “Wait until you talk to her, listen to her ideas.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” I answered. “I’ve heard a lot about this woman. She bravely speaks up for herself—unlike me, who is a pathetic presence at my husband’s side.”

“Stop blaming yourself.” Mrs. Westenenk adjusted the white lace gloves she wore. “The Dutch Indies is not the same as Europe. Everything moves slower here—even the white people can’t move quickly. It doesn’t mean that we are not willing to welcome change. In the West, as well as the East, women around the world are moving.”

“Your husband is a very understanding person for letting you come,” I said. “I had to sneak out between my husband’s assignments.”

“Louis is just like any other man in this world. I’ve seen his fragile, insecure side—he was even hostile to me when the riot in Kamang broke out seven years ago.” Mrs. Westenenk forced a smile. “But he returned to his normal self after the war ended, giving me a lot of freedom. Listen, I don’t want to meddle in your personal affairs. I’ve known your husband long before you and, as far as I know, there’s nothing inherently wrong about him. If he seems to be difficult, it might be because he’s concerned about you. He’s not used to seeing his wife suffer from moving here and there. Louis was like that, too.”

“I think it’s all about our perceptions, Ma’am. It’s true that he’s good-hearted and faithful.” I stood up and walked toward the bookcase where the family portraits were displayed.

I thought it was strange to see so many photographs. I knew it was forbidden for a Muslim Minang family to immortalize themselves on film; just like it was haram—condemned by the Islamic law—to reproduce the human likeness on paper. This family, however, seemed to be accustomed to taking photographs. The boys looked dashing in their Victorian-style sailor suits, which were usually worn by the Dutch boys; the girls wore gowns and white shoes. Judging from the photographs, I conceded that the owner of this house had a sharp look ever since she was a child.

“Theo is faithful—I don’t have any complaints in that regard. And maybe you’re right, It makes sense that such unrest would make him anxious. But, for other things…” I noticed Mrs. Westenenk was no longer paying attention to me. She was busy flipping through a newspaper she had taken off the rack.

I had never doubted Theo’s faithfulness or kindness. Despite the fact that all the clubs in Batavia, Bandung, and Semarang were filled with talk of adultery, I had never heard any rumors about him. The stories varied, from foolish to scary ones.

I had met Theo for the first time in Singapore, three years prior, at a birthday party of my father’s friend. We celebrated it at the Singapore Club, on the upper floor of the Adelphi Hotel. Ever since my mother’s death, I frequently accompanied Father on his travels, including attending events in clubs like this. Just like my late mother, I acted as his guardian angel. I didn’t want to see Father get so drunk he had to be carried home.

That night, I let Father have a good time with his friends at the billiard table. Wearing a long sarong and white kebaya, the native long-sleeved blouse worn over a wrap-around skirt, I secluded myself with a book and took a seat in a large, deep, easy chair near the verandah. Thus, I was at some distance from the crowd of men who continuously yelled, “Boy, fill up!” while waving empty whiskey glasses at the waiters.

There were a few other women in this room, but I didn’t know any of them. Too lazy to engage in small talk, I hid my face by holding up the book.

A moment later, like a magician who magically appears from behind the curtain, a man stood in front of me holding out a glass of cherry brandy. His angular features made him look very Dutch. A neat, dark moustache matched the black of the suit he wore.

“Ah! What a wonderful evening it is. A fair-skinned angel clothed in Malay apparel going through the verses of Tagore,” he said. “I recommend you take a sip or two of this drink. I’m Theodor Makenburg—just call me Theo. I’m one of the engineers in your father’s company.”

“Cornelia. Nellie.” I took the glass from his hand while silently cursing my father’s silly idea to send this man. However, unlike the previous men he had introduced to me, I had now met someone I might consider further. Yes, I did feel that gentle stir.

“Do you like Tagore?” I asked.

“I often heard people talk about Gitanjali,” Theo replied, carefully taking a seat next to me. “Unfortunately, a man who spends his days befriending iron, bolts, and concrete bars, rarely has the opportunity to read the world’s literary works. But you can be assured that I didn’t miss the Max Havelaar. It’s a very useful book for those who are going to visit the Dutch East Indies.”

“It’s one of my favorite books. I felt kind of compelled to improve the situation there after I read it. Just like what Rudyard Kipling said in one of his poems—”

The White Man’s Burden?” Theo interrupted.

I gently punched his arm and pursed my lips. “Look, we have a liar here! It seems that you’re a fan of literary works!”

We laughed.

“How do you feel about women who read literature?” I fished.

Theo shrugged and pursed his lips before answering with a smile, “As long as she also likes reading European and Indies cookbooks.”

“Ah, you don’t like independent women? What do you think of Aletta Jacobs?”

“For God’s sake, Nellie—we’re at a party and you’re looking for an argument.” Theo raised his hands in a boxing stance.

We laughed again.

That was our first conversation. Things were simple, uncomplicated. Theo started to visit our house in Singapore frequently. Once or twice, he invited Father and me to dine out. Six months later, we were married.

Almost two years into the marriage and tired of waiting for a baby who never came, I demanded that Theo allow me to come with him to Batavia, his new post. After a heated argument, he finally relented.

We lived in the Gunung Sahari district, near the beach. The climate there was hot and humid; not a day went by without perspiring profusely. I preferred to wear sarong and kebaya, instead of European clothing. Following advice from Father’s female colleagues, I wore a white kebaya. In addition to its ability to reflect heat, white was the upper-class color of choice for European women opting to wear tropical clothes. I also became skilled in putting my hair up in a bun. My neck was now free, and the heat did not make me itch.

“You look very pretty, Ma’am!” Asih, our maid, teased.

“You look just like the angel Nawangwulan,” the coachman added. I had no idea what they thought when they saw me wear such clothing, but they looked pleased.

When we moved to Padang, I continued dressing this way. At first, Theo did not pay any attention to my hair or the way I dressed. One day, however, he asked me to sit with him in the gazebo, out of sight of our houseboys and maids.

Theo pointed to my sarong and kebaya. “I advise you not to dress like that too often—especially here in Sumatera. It’s probably better if you don’t wear those clothes at all.”

I was shocked. “Have I breached some local taboo?”

Theo filled his ivory pipe with tobacco. “Well, it has something to do with the people here, but it’s not about violating anything sacred. Please try looking at the situation from the Dutch viewpoint.”

I silently racked my brains but could not come up with any wrongdoings.

Theo blew out several smoke columns. “The White Man’s Burden, remember? We want to change the situation, change the people, instead of changing into one of them. We should not lower our position in front of our maids, houseboys, or coach drivers. I never liked the British, but I agree with what Lieutenant-Governor Stamford Raffles and Kipling thought. The white men have to become an example in all things, including the way we dress. Look at Raffles, even though he had an excellent understanding of local culture, he forbade his officers to wear a sarong or chew betel nut.”

“Ah, I see—I thought I had broken some local taboo. This matter is much simpler.”

“It’s not a simple matter!” Theo’s raised voice made me jerk back.

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “But almost all wives of the European officers in Singapore wear sarong or cheongsam.  Even their husbands sometimes wear Chinese-style clothing. This doesn’t have any bearing on the way their servants perceive them. Last time we were in Batavia, all of the Dutch women there wore sarong and kebaya, and the men wore takwa shirts. Were you disturbed by that?”

“We’re not in Batavia.” Theo tapped his pipe to discard the ashes. “Here, people still pull out their machetes for reasons we can’t comprehend. We should remind them that the distance between us still exists—one way to do this is by maintaining respect for each other. We should keep to our own way of dressing. Distance and assertiveness will help build obedience.

“It’s all for their own good,” Theo continued. “Imagine, they might be laughing behind us, thinking us fools for wearing their clothing. How would you feel if you saw a houseboy wear a suit?”

“A houseboy? That would be silly, of course. But the regents often wear a suit and European clothes. We don’t mind that, do we? And Mrs. Westenenk—”

“Ah, Adriana. Although she’s the wife of a high-ranking officer, she’s not someone you should look up to. Poor Louis. Adriana shouldn’t use social work as an excuse for her traveling around without her husband.”

“She’s not traveling for fun, Theo. I know what she has done for the native women in Agam and Bengkoelen. She gives them room to grow. And as far as I know, her husband supports her cause.”

“Louis doesn’t know anything about local manners. That’s why I asked to see you this afternoon. I don’t want you to follow what Adriana does. She’s like a contagious disease—anyone who gets close to her becomes just as wild. I don’t want people to gossip about you. Besides, what are you going to do with those native women? Do you want them to kick up their heels and dance the can-can? In Europe, you might be able to break away from tradition, like your idol Aletta Jacobs, who works away from home using her maiden name, even demanding the right to vote. But I’m telling you, not here!”

Theo put his pipe away and went inside, leaving me in the garden with a million of restless thoughts.

It was a day I would remember forever, because it led to endless arguments with my husband. He protested everything—from my choice of our food to the way I talked to the maids and houseboys—and forbid me to socialize with a nyai, the native companion of a Dutchman who lived near us. Everything led to further restrictions of my privileges. Finally, after a clash, he refused to let me buy newspapers, even though I was still allowed to enjoy books. I took revenge by moving to another bedroom. I locked the door and spent long nights writing poetry and essays on numerous pieces of paper.

Then, yesterday, when Theo left for Solok, I recklessly accepted Mrs. Westenenk’s invitation to visit Koto Gadang. I bribed the houseboys and maids to not tell Theo. This was a rare opportunity. I had to meet this amazing Minang woman who had become an inspiration to so many people in the Indies. She had founded a school for women and taught them handicrafts—weaving, stitching, and embroidering—so they would not have to depend on their husband’s income. And, most importantly, they would not become destitute and be forced into prostitution after their husbands died.

Three years ago, this woman had taken a step further, by becoming the editor-in-chief of a newspaper for women. This only strengthened my desire to see her. I wanted to write for the opinion column of her newspaper. I wanted to help her unlock the golden shackle that men so often use to trap women.

“Ah, Nellie. Did you get lost in those books?” Mrs. Westenenk’s voice called me back to the spacious, cool living room. “Look, the one you’ve been waiting for has arrived. There’s the founder of the Amai Setia School and editor of Soenting Melajoe newspaper. That’s her, no one else but her.”

I followed the direction of Mrs. Westenenk’s gaze.

A woman in her thirties stood at the front door with a rattan bag slung across her shoulder. She was shorter than I had imagined, and the crimson headband she wore around her head made her look even smaller. But I clearly saw the passion for life in her eyes, and the strength of her handshake communicated the same when she took my hand and introduced herself with a clear voice in fluent Dutch.

Ik ben Roehana Koeddoes. Welkom op de ambachtschool, Amai Setia. Van mevrouw Westenenk heb ik vernomen dat u een interessant manuscript over vrouwen heeft voor mijn krant.”

“I’m Roehana Koeddoes,” she said.Welcome to the Amai Setia Vocational School. I heard from Mrs. Westenenk that you have an interesting article about women for my newspaper.

—***—

Gusti, Doa Siapa Yang Akan Kaudengar?

Penulis novel sejarah Junaedi Setiyono lahir di Kebumen, Jawa Tengah, pada 16 Desember 1965. Perhatian Junaedi Setiyono tertuju pada sejarah Jawa Tengah terutama kejadian-kejadian sekitar Perang Diponegoro.

Junaedi telah menulis tiga novel yang meraih berbagai penghargaan, Glonggong, (Serambi, 2007), Arumdalu (Serambi, 2010), dan Dasamuka, (Penerbit Ombak, 2017). Ia juga meraih beasiswa ke Ohio State University sebagai bagian dari pendidikan doktor dalam bidang pendidikan bahasa, yang diselesaikannya pada tahun 2016 di Universitas Negeri Semarang. Novel Dasamuka diterjemahkan oleh Maya Denisa Saputra dan akan diterbitkan dengan judul yang sama oleh Dalang Publishing pada bulan Mei 2017.

Ia dapat dihubungi lewat alamat surelnya: junaedi.setiyono@yahoo.co.id

Hak cipta ©2017 ada pada Junaedi Setiyono. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan ©2017 ada pada Maya Denisa Saputra.

***

 Gusti, Doa Siapa Yang Akan Kaudengar?

 

Mas Agung adalah kakak tertua kami. Sepeninggal Bapak, Mas Agung menjadi pengganti Bapak. Ibu senang bahwa kami, tujuh bersaudara, tetap rukun seperti halnya pada saat Bapak masih ada. Tentu hal itu tidak lepas dari kepemimpinan Mas Agung. Maka ketika kakaknya Ibu, Budhe Mujirah, mendapat masalah, dan aku tidak sanggup membantu menyelesaikan masalahnya, tidak bisa tidak tumpuan kami ada pada Mas Agung.

Ya, aku pun menulis surat untuknya.

***

Purworejo, 10 Maret 2005

Mas Agung yang baik,

Bila tidak karena Budhe Mujirah, aku tidak akan menulis surat ini, Mas. Sebenarnya sudah sejak sepekan yang lalu beliau memintaku untuk mengirimimu surat, tapi baru kali ini aku bisa. Bukan karena sibuk tetapi karena aku harus menata hati terlebih dulu. Ya, ini tentang langgar kita.

Sejak Bapak wafat, aku memang tidak terlalu memperhatikan apa yang sudah dilakukan warga pada surau yang didirikan eyang buyut kita itu. Dan, kurangnya perhatian yang kuberikan adalah karena tampaknya keluarga kita semua setuju, bahkan merasa senang, dengan apa yang telah dilakukan warga terhadap langgar Eyang. Pernah kukatakan padamu kalau sikapku itu, selain karena Mas dan adik-adik semua sudah setuju, juga karena kesadaran betapa kita tidak bisa apa-apa. Selain itu, juga mungkin kita semua punya kekhawatiran bakalan dicap oleh warga kampung sebagai orang yang tidak setia pada agamanya.

Aku memang setuju-setuju saja pada rencana warga yang dipimpin oleh Pak Lurah, yang juga Pak Kiai kita, untuk memugar langgar yang sudah berdiri jauh sebelum negeri kita merdeka. Kita sendiri waktu itu terlalu miskin untuk memperbaiki langgar kita; untuk agak menutupi kemiskinan kita, biasanya kau menyamarkannya dengan bilang pada Pak Lurah kalau kita harus mendahulukan mana yang lebih penting. Paling-paling kita menjaga supaya atapnya tidak bocor dan rayap – yang mampu menembus lantai tegel – tidak naik merambati dinding menghabisi usuk dan reng; setahun sekali kita kapur temboknya, dan sekitar sepuluh tahun sekali kita cat semua kayu-kayunya. Ya, seingatku cuma itu.

Dana keluarga kita memang sudah habis untuk biaya kuliah kita tujuh bersaudara. Ibu memang menghendaki kita semua menjadi orang terpelajar, menjadi sarjana. Kita anggap dana itu sudah habis, karena selain menyekolahkan kita, Ibu harus selalu memiliki uang simpanan untuk biaya perawatan kesehatan Ibu sendiri; apa lagi, sekarang Ibu makin mudah sakit.

Maka ketika Pak Kiai rawuh ke tempat kita dan minta izin untuk mengganti genting kuno itu dengan genting pres sokka, kita semua setuju dan berkali-kali mengucapkan terima kasih. Genting kuno itu memang sebagian sudah kita ganti dengan genting yang lebih baru. Namun, genting yang lebih baru itu ukurannya tidak sama dengan genting yang dulu dipasang oleh Eyang. Dengan bermacam-macam jenis genting yang kita pasang untuk mengganti genting lama yang sudah aus atau pecah tentu berakibat kurang baik. Kalau hujannya deras akan tempias, dan menyebabkan para jamaah sesekali mengusap wajahnya karena risi kena kepyuran air dari atap.

Kebanyakan dari kita memang tinggal dan bekerja di Jakarta. Saudara-saudara sekandung kita lainnya tidak ada satu pun yang tinggal bersama Ibu menjaga langgar kita di Purworejo, kota tempat kita semua dilahirkan. Ada yang melanjutkan belajar, ada yang bekerja setelah menyelesaikan kuliah. Karena kita bertujuh hidup berpencar di berbagai kota, kita pun sepakat patungan untuk membayar tetangga terdekat agar menemani Ibu. Dan, untung ada Budhe Mujirah yang tinggal tidak jauh dari Ibu.

Maka kita maklumi saja kalau akhirnya warga memperbaiki langgar tanpa sepengetahuan kita karena mungkin mereka telah berusaha mencari tapi tak berhasil menemui kita. Dan Ibu, kita sudah tahu persis sifatnya, pasti hanya akan mengatakan: sumangga kula nderek, silakan saja saya setuju.

Untuk itulah atas usulku ketika itu: bagaimana kalau langgar itu kita wakafkan saja. Karena pada kenyataanya langgar itu memang sudah menjadi milik warga, bukan lagi milik keluarga kita. Dan, kau dan adik-adik setuju. Kita berdua lalu mengurus surat-suratnya hingga terbit surat bukti kepemilikan tanah. Ya, urusan itu selesai dengan melegakan. Ini sungguh menenteramkan karena kita merasa sudah menyenangkan hati Ibu. Ingat ‘kan kalau Ibu sering membisiki mengingatkan kita, bahwa kita ini “jelek-jelek” masih termasuk trah kesuma rembesing madu? Suatu trah yang salah satu cirinya adalah memegang teguh pituduh putra becik nyirami mring kulawarga, anak yang baik menyiram kebaikan kepada keluarganya.

Sekitar lima tahun yang lalu, kita sepakati pulang menjelang hari raya Idul Fitri dan kembali ke tempat kerja setelah shalat Ied. Namun, setelah Bapak berpulang ke rahmatullah, pada Juni 2002 yang lalu, Ibu menasihati kita untuk tidak harus pulang bersama-sama menjelang Lebaran. Ibu katakan, “Kepulanganmu itu lebih banyak mudharatnya daripada manfaatnya.”

Aku diam-diam berterima kasih atas usul Ibu itu karena memang kupikir beliau benar. Tapi tentu saja kurang baik kalau hal itu yang mengusulkannya adalah kita, anak-anaknya. Maka kita sepakat untuk pulang menjenguk Ibu pada hari ulang tahun kita masing-masing dan merayakannya – istilah Ibu, mensyukurinya – bersama Ibu di rumah tua kita yang letaknya berdampingan dengan langgar, rumah di mana ari-ari kita ditanam di pekarangannya.

Nah, karena itulah sejak berpulangnya Bapak tiga tahun lalu kita jarang berkumpul bersama-sama di rumah Ibu. Adik-adik bilang, kita ‘kan bisa berhubungan setiap saat pakai telepon atau HP. Jadi tak ada masalah kalau tidak dapat berkumpul setiap hari raya.

Kumpul ora kumpul asal mangan, kumpul tidak kumpul asal semuanya makan…,” begitu candamu ketika itu.

Sekarang ini setahuku memang hanya aku dan kau Mas, yang masih memikirkan langgar kita yang dulu dikenal orang dengan nama “Langgar Trunan” – karena eyang buyut, yang mendirikan langgar itu, dikenal dengan nama Eyang Truno. Dan sejak beberapa tahun yang lalu dapat kita amati perubahan-perubahan pada saat kita setahun sekali shalat di dalamnya.

Mas pasti ingat kejadian-kejadian dan percakapan kita. Perubahan pertama adalah digantinya genting lama dengan genting pres yang menjadikan langgar tampil mentereng. Perubahan berikutnya adalah lantai yang dikeramik. Ingatkah ketika kau berbisik, “Sebenarnya lantai tegel yang dibangun oleh Eyang Truno sesaat sebelum meninggalnya itu masih bagus dan bahkan makin lama makin tambah mengkilat.” Dan, tidak kutanggapi pernyataanmu karena memang keramik putih lebih menjamin kebersihan. Kotoran sekecil apapun, tahi cicak misalnya, akan kelihatan di atas hamparan lantai putih bersih.

“Lalu lantai tegelnya dibuang ke mana?” kejarmu ketika itu.

“Tidak dibuang, tapi keramik itu langsung dipasang di atasnya,” jelasku.

Jawabanku rupanya belum memuaskan rasa ingin tahumu, dan kau berujar, “O, begitu. Dananya dari mana Dik? Kamu tahu?”

“Iuran warga. Itu yang bilang Budhe Mujirah,” jawabku.

Kita pun berpikir, memang lebih nyaman shalat ditempat yang putih bersih. Dan, konon setelah dikeramik warga yang shalat jamaah di langgar ini tambah banyak. Ya, syukurlah kalau begitu. Dan, kita santai-santai saja.

Nah, sekarang aku ingin membagi pengalamanku pada saat aku kembali datang di kota kelahiran kita tahun ini untuk merayakan ulang tahunku yang ke tiga puluh sekaligus menengok Ibu yang makin tampak renta dan sakit-sakitan.

Ketika itu aku seperti biasa pergi ke langgar untuk shalat, dan aku mendapati bahwa warna putih keramik menyenangkan itu sekarang sudah berganti dengan warna hijau karpet yang menyejukkan.

Waktu aku tanya bagaimana cara mendapatkan dana untuk membeli karpet sebagus itu, Budhe Mujirah menjelaskan dengan berapi-api seperti biasanya bahwa warga dengan suka cita menyumbangkan uangnya untuk membeli karpet itu. Bahkan warga mengusulkan untuk juga melengkapi langgar dengan alat pendingin.

Namun, karena aku tahu siapa itu Budhe – satu-satunya orang di lingkungan sekitar langgar yang berani bilang tidak pada Pak Lurah – aku menanggapinya dengan bercanda,

“Termasuk Budhe? Budhe juga setuju?”

Dan, seperti biasa beliau akan meninggikan suaranya, “Selain aku tentu saja semua setuju!” dengan tekanan pada kata aku. Ya, begitulah Budhe, entah sudah berapa kali kudengar lengkingan suara beliau pada saat membincangkan kebijakan Pak Lurah.

Dan, seperti biasa beliau lalu bercerita dengan menggebu-gebu tentang banyaknya warga yang jadi pengangguran karena kena pehaka padahal mereka kebanyakan beristri lebih dari satu dan masing-masing istri beranak banyak. Juga tentang banyaknya perempuan muda, baik gadis maupun janda, yang jadi “nakal.”

Mas, dari genting pres, keramik, karpet, dan kipas angin aku bisa setuju, meski Mas berkali-kali bilang iuran-iuran itu dikhawatirkan akan membebani warga. Yang tidak dapat aku setujui adalah adanya rencana untuk mengganti karpet baru yang sudah ada dengan karpet yang lebih baru dan kemudian mengganti kipas angin dengan alat pendingin ruangan. Itulah yang tidak dapat aku setujui.

Pada saat aku menanyakan hal ini, salah seorang anggota takmir menjawab, “Karpet lama bukannya tidak terpakai, tapi bisa digunakan oleh warga yang ngunduh tahlilan tapi tak punya tikar atau tikarnya tak mencukupi.” Lalu dia melanjutkan penjelasannya bahwa karpet baru akan jauh lebih sedap dipandang mata, “Bukankah dengan dirancang seperti sajadah dengan gambar masjid megah nantinya para jamaah akan berderet shalat dengan lebih teratur?”

“Bukankah karpetnya masih bagus, Pak Lurah?” begitu tanyaku ketika secara kebetulan bertemu dengan beliau pada saat shalat maghrib.

Pak Lurah menjawab, “Betul Den Pras, tapi karpet ini kasar dan tipis. Dengkul bisa ngilu dan jidat bisa perih. Apalagi jika jidat dan dengkulnya kurus dan layu seperti punyanya Yu Mujirah. Karpet yang baru jauh lebih tebal dan gambarnya bagus. Ini sebetulnya demi orang-orang yang sudah sepuh seperti Yu Mujirah”

Aku kejar, “Bagaimana dengan rencana mengganti kipas angin dengan alat pendingin ruangan? Apa itu juga benar?”

Dan dengan penuh semangat dia membela diri, “Benar, karena kipas angin itu kurang menyejukkan, bahkan bisa bikin kami-kami ini, orang yang sudah tua, jadi masuk angin. Apalagi yang memang pada dasarnya tidak sehat seperti Yu Mujirah. Alat pendingin ruang lain lagi, cess krenyess … sejuk, tanpa angin dan tanpa bunyi uwuk-uwuk. ”

Aku tetap mengejarnya, “Tapi selain alat pendingin ruangan itu butuh tenaga listrik yang tidak sedikit, pemasangannya akan merombak bangunan langgar ini secara keseluruhan. Jendela kayu itu semua akan diganti dengan jendela kaca?”

Barangkali aku sudah berhasil menghabiskan kesabaran Pak Lurah, dan dengan roman muka jengkel dia berkata, “Ya, dan untuk masalah dana Den Pras tidak perlu khawatir. Bukankah selama ini warga tidak pernah merepoti keluarga besar Eyang Truno? Apalagi merepoti orang seperti Yu Mujirah? Tidak pernah, ‘kan?”

Kata-kata ini untukku cukup menyinggung, maka aku pun tak perlu lagi berbasa-basi. Aku pun lugas berkata, “Pak Lurah, saya memang tidak setiap hari shalat di sini, tapi saya dapat amati, bahwa meski sudah pakai keramik, sudah pakai karpet, para jamaah shalatnya masih pakai sajadah. Jadi sama saja dengan ketika shalat di atas lantai tegel yang dibangun Eyang dulu. Juga tentang aliran udara, hal ini sudah dipikirkan betul oleh Eyang. Lihat, begitu banyak jendela! Dan, Pak Lurah tahu bahwa gaya rancang bangun langgar inilah yang mengilhami perancang gedung kelas nasional pada saat dia diminta merancang bangunan masjid di Jakarta, ‘kan? Rumah ibadah berbentuk joglo dengan sebagian dinding dari kayu yang dihiasi ukiran Jepara inilah bentuk tampilan rumah ibadah yang khas Indonesia!”Aku pikir dengan perkataanku ini percakapan kami akan selesai. Namun, ternyata aku keliru.

Dengan senyum tipis dia berujar, “Maaf Den, sebetulnya karpet tebal berpola gambar masjid dan juga alat pendingin ruangan itu sudah kami beli, dan ada di rumah saya saat ini. Selanjutnya tinggal menarik iuran warga. Dan memang warga sudah setuju untuk iuran kok.” Dia berhenti sebentar, tajam melirikku sekilas, dan cepat meneruskan, “Memang untuk dapat dimasukkan menjadi golongan orang-orang yang nantinya masuk surga itu perlu pengorbanan harta benda. Semua warga sudah setuju … kecuali satu orang yaitu Yu Mujirah. Mungkin karena merasa diri keturunan ningrat, jadinya ya biasalah … tidak merakyat. Dan Den Pras tahu sendiri ‘kan kalau Yu Mujirah itu orang yang tidak waras?” Begitu Pak Lurah menyelesaikan ucapannya dengan enteng.

Mas, aku sungguh tak bisa menerima cucu kesayangan Eyang Truno dibilang orang sinting. Namun, rasanya tidak ada gunanya bersitegang dengan Pak Lurah. Aku tidak mampu berbuat apa pun selain bergegas menjauhinya – ya, dengan berbalik dan melangkah meninggalkannya. Tanganku yang terkepal pelahan kuregangkan. Kutarik napas dalam-dalam dan pelahan kuhembuskan. Kupandangi jendela-jendela kayu berukir yang sebentar lagi akan amblas. Tak mampu aku menahan diri, kupeluk dan kucium salah satu daun jendela yang ada di dekatku.

Pak Lurah mengawasiku dengan pandangan penuh tanda tanya.

Mas, aku tak peduli jika sekarang aku juga dianggap tidak waras oleh Pak Lurah. Namun, rupanya masalah dengannya berkembang, tidak berhenti sampai di situ saja. Bahkan, perkaranya kini berimbas pada Budhe Mujirah.

Tetangga yang kita minta menemani Ibu menelponku sekitar seminggu yang lalu. Dia katakan bahwa tiga hari lalu atap teras rumah Budhe Mujirah, yang sudah makin rapuh dan doyong ke arah langgar, membawa masalah. Beberapa gentingnya melorot dan ada yang jatuh menimpa kepala salah seorang jamaah langgar. Katanya, orang-orang menggelandang Budhe Mujirah ke rumah Pak Lurah. Mas, apa yang sebaiknya kita lakukan sekarang? Aku berdoa semoga masalah ini dapat segera diselesaikan dengan baik.

Aku tunggu jawabanmu.

Dari adikmu Prasojo.

Lord, Whose Prayer Will You Listen To?

Maya Denisa Saputra lahir pada tanggal 30 Juli 1990 di Denpasar, Bali, dan dibesarkan di pulau yang dijuluki Pulau Dewata tersebut. Maya melanjutkan pendidikan, dan meraih gelar Sarjana Akuntansi & Keuangan dari University of Bradford di Singapura, sebuah universitas yang memiliki kampus utama di Inggris. Maya kini bergabung di bagian keuangan perusahaan keluarganya.. Selain itu, Maya juga tetap meluangkan waktu untuk melakukan berbagai kegiatan yang disukainya, seperti menulis, menerjemahkan karya sastra dan fotografi.
Maya dapat dihubungi melalui alamat surel:maya.saputra@gmail.com

***

 

Lord, whose prayer will you listen to?

 

Mas Agung is our eldest brother. After our father passed away, Mas Agung stepped up to fill his role. Mother was glad to see that all of us, seven siblings, maintained the same harmonious relationships we’d had during the time Father was still around. This, of course, could only happen under the guidance of Mas Agung. Therefore, when Mother’s older sister, Budhe Mujirah, faced a problem I could not help her with, it was only natural that I turned to Mas Agung.

Hence, I wrote him a letter.

***

Purworejo, March 10, 2005.

Dearest Mas Agung,

If it were not for Budhe Mujirah, I wouldn’t bother you. Actually, she asked me to write to you last week. I delayed, however—not because I was busy. I had to sort out my own feelings first, as this is about our langgar.

Since Father passed away, I haven’t paid too much attention to what the villagers did to the prayer house that was built by our great-grandfather. This lack of concern came from the assumption that our family seemed to agree—was happy even—with the changes the villagers were making to Eyang’s langgar. I once told you that I took such a stand because you and everyone else seemed to approve. I also realized there wasn’t much we could do. Perhaps we were all afraid to be considered apostates of our religion if we objected to improvements made to a langgar that was built long before the independence of our country in 1945.

I had no qualms about the villagers’ remodeling plans for the langgar, under the leadership of our lurah, who also is our Pak Kiai. Aside from the fact that we were sure that a person who is the village chief, as well as the elder of our congregation, would do the right thing, we were too poor to shoulder the expenses ourselves. In order to conceal our financial situation, you told the lurah we needed to prioritize the execution of repairs. At least we kept the roof from leaking and prevented the termites that managed to crawl out from under the floor tiles from destroying the walls. These are the only things I can remember.

The education of the seven of us had depleted our family funds. Mother always wanted to see us become well-educated people with university degrees. Aside from providing for our education, our family savings also funds care for Mother, as her health is beginning to decline.

So, when Pak Kiai visited and asked permission to replace the old roof tiles with new, factory-made tiles, we immediately agreed and thanked him over and over again. At some point, we did replace some of the original old roof tiles. However, the size of the new tiles was different from the timeworn, broken ones, and this, of course, created a problem. When it rained hard, water would seep through and drip on people’s heads, making them wipe their faces uncomfortably.

As you know, most of us live and work in Jakarta now. None of us stayed in Purworejo, where we were all born, to live with Mother and take care of our langgar. Some of us left to study, while those who graduated from university found jobs elsewhere. As the seven of us are spread all over, we all agreed to jointly give money to a close neighbor to keep Mother company. And, fortunately, Budhe Mujirah does not live too far from Mother.

This is why we accepted it when the villagers renovated the langgar without consulting us. It was possible that they searched for us to no avail. And knowing Mother, she would only have said, “Sumangga kula nderek: I agree, please go ahead.”

For that reason, I suggested that we bequeath the langgar to the community. In reality, it already belonged to the public and was not ours anymore. Everyone agreed, and you and I took care of the necessary documents needed to transfer ownership of the property. The procedure ended smoothly and was a huge relief to us, because we also felt that we had pleased Mother. I’m sure you remember Mother often reminds us in whispers that, no matter what, we’re still descendants of trah kesuma rembesing madu, a clan that carries the distinctive quality of adhering to the concept of putra becik nyirami mring kulawarga: good children will be a blessing to their family.

About five years ago, we all agreed to go home just before Eid al-Fitr and return to work after the Eid prayer. However, after Father passed away in June 2002, Mother advised that we not all come home on Eid al-Fitr together. “Your homecoming creates more trouble than it is worth,” she said.

I secretly thanked Mother for her suggestion. She was right—but it would not have been appropriate if any of us children had made the suggestion. We agreed to go home on our own birthday and celebrate it—Mother prefers the term “give thanks”—with her in our old house next to the langgar; the house where our umbilical cords were buried in its yard.

This is why, after Father’s passing three years ago, we rarely gather at Mother’s house. Our younger siblings said that since we can connect at any time via telephones and cell phones, it won’t be a problem if we can’t meet on Eid al-Fitr. “Kumpul ora kumpul asal mangan: whether we gather or not, the most important thing is we all are still able to eat,” you joked at the time.

As far as I know, today, only you, Mas, and I are still concerned about our langgar—once known as Langgar Trunan, because our great grandfather who built it was known as Eyang Truno. We have noticed changes when we say our prayers there once a year.

I’m sure you remember these changes and our conversations. The first was the replacement of the old roof tiles with the new factory-made ones, which gave our langgar a luxurious appearance. Next came the ceramic floor tiles. Do you remember whispering, “Actually, the cement tiles Eyang Truno had installed just before his passing were still fine and would look shinier as time passes.”

I did not respond. The white ceramic floor tiles were better for hygiene purposes. The smallest dirt—the droppings of a cicak house lizard, for example—could be easily spotted on the surface of the white floor tiles.

You continued, “Then, where were the old floor tiles discarded?”

“They weren’t thrown away. Those ceramic tiles were put directly on top of them,” I explained.

My answer did not satisfy you, and you pressed on, “Do you know where the funds came from?”

“The villagers pooled their money. That’s what Budhe Mujirah said.”

We finally agreed that it was more comfortable to pray in a shiny and clean place. Reportedly, after the installation of the ceramic floor tiles, more villagers came to the langgar for congregational prayers. For this, we could only be thankful, and we relaxed.

Now I’d like to share what I saw when I returned to our hometown to celebrate my thirtieth birthday and visited Mother, who looks even frailer.

As usual, I went to the langgar to do shalat and noticed that the nice-looking white floor tiles had been replaced with a calming green carpet.

I asked Budhe Mujirah how the villagers managed to raise the funds to buy such a beautiful carpet; she explained that the villagers gladly donated their money and even suggested installing an air conditioner.

Knowing that Budhe was the only person who would dare to say no to the lurah, I responded jokingly, “Including you, Budhe? Were you also agreeing?”

As usual, Budhe raised her voice and spat, “Everyone agreed except me,” emphasizing the word me. Well, that’s our Budhe. I’ve lost count on how many occasions she raised her voice when she talked about the lurah’s policies, and then continued to rant about the villagers who were unemployed, even though most of them had more than one wife, and each wife had many children, and the many young women, virgins and divorcees alike, who went astray.

Mas, even though you repeatedly told me you worried that all their contributions would burden the villagers, I still can go along with clay roof tiles, ceramic floor tiles, rug, and fan. However, I object to replacing a rug that still looks new, and replacing the fan with an air conditioner. I really can’t agree with that.

When I asked the board about it, one of the administrators replied, “The old rug is now used to accommodate villagers who don’t have any or enough mats for a memorial service.” He also explained that the new carpet was even more pleasing to the eyes.

“Would a design resembling a prayer mat depicting a grand mosque not make the praying congregation line up more orderly?” he asked.

When I happened to meet the lurah during shalat maghrib, the sunset prayer, I asked him,

“Pak Lurah, isn’t the rug still in good condition?”

The lurah answered, “You’re right, Den Pras, but the material feels rough on the skin and it’s thin. Our knees ended up hurting and our foreheads scratched. This would be even more so for those who have thin and old knees and forehead, like Yu Mujirah. The new rug is much thicker and has a beautiful design. Actually, we do this for older people like Sister Mujirah.”

“Then, what about the plan to replace the fan with an air conditioner?” I quickly asked. “Are you really going to do that?”

Pak Lurah passionately defended himself. “Yes, I will. The air from the fan is not cool enough, and it might even make us old people catch a cold, especially those who are frail like Yu Mujirah. The air conditioner operates differently. The air is cool, but there’s no wind nor any humming sound.”

I continued to pressure him, “Aside from the huge amount of electricity needed to power the air conditioner, its installation will cause a major change to the overall appearance of this langgar. Are those wood windows going to be replaced with glass ones?”
Perhaps I had managed to exhaust the lurah’s patience.

“Yes,” he replied, irritated, “and Den Pras doesn’t have to worry about the funding. After all, the villagers have never bothered the family of Eyang Truno, nor someone like Yu Mujirah. Right?”

His words offended me, and I no longer felt the need to make small talk. I said straightforwardly, “Even though I don’t pray here every day, I notice that, despite the ceramic floor tiles and carpeting, members of the congregation still use their prayer mats. So, there’s no difference between what they pray on now and when the langgar still had the cement floor tiles Eyang had put in. And the ventilation was also something Eyang had already thought about. Look how many windows there are.

“The joglo roof and partially wooden walls decorated with Jepara carvings make this place of worship unique. The pyramid-shaped roof even inspired a nationally renowned architect who was commissioned to design a mosque in Jakarta.” I thought my statement would end our conversation. Well, I was wrong.

He smiled cynically and replied, “I’m sorry, Den, but actually, we already purchased the thick rug with a mosque design and the air conditioner. The items are now stored at my house. We only need to pool the money from the villagers. They have agreed, anyway.” He paused for a while, to give me a sharp glance, and continued. “Indeed, to be able to join those who go to heaven, a material sacrifice is needed. Everyone has agreed.

Everyone except for one person: Yu Mujirah. Maybe because she considers herself nobility, she figures she’s above worrying about the common folks. And you probably know that Yu Mujirah isn’t thinking right,” the lurah ended lightly.

Mas, I really couldn’t accept that he called Eyang Truno’s most beloved granddaughter a crazy person. However, there was no point in being stubborn and arguing further with the lurah. I couldn’t do anything else except quickly distance myself from him.

I relaxed my fingers and opened my clenched fist. I took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. I took a long look at the wooden windows that would soon be gone. Not being able to restrain myself, I embraced and kissed one of the window shutters near me.

The lurah watched me, perplexed.

Mas, I don’t care if I’m now the one who’s regarded as insane by the lurah. But, our problems with him are far from over. They’ve now extended to Budhe Mujirah.

The neighbor we often ask to accompany Mother called me about a week ago. She told me that the roof over Budhe Mujirah’s verandah, which was old and leaned towards the langgar, had caused a problem. Some of its tiles slid off and fell on a worshipper’s head. She also said that the villagers confronted Budhe Mujirah and hauled her off to the lurah’s house.

Mas, what should we do now? I pray that this problem will get resolved soon.

I’ll be waiting for your answer.

From your brother,

Prasojo

Nyai Dan Noni

Anindita S Thayf memulai riwayat kerja sebagai penulis cerita pendek anak-anak. Novel anak-anaknya yang berjudul Keajaiban Ila terpilih sebagai Pemenang I pada Sayembara Menulis Novel Anak 2005 dan nominator Mizan Award 2006 untuk kategori “Cerita Anak dengan Ending Terbaik”. Novel ini diterbitkan oleh penerbit Dar! Mizan, 2005.

Kini, Anindita lebih dikenal sebagai penulis novel sastra. Novel karyanya berjudul Jejak Kala terpilih sebagai Pemenang Harapan I pada Lomba Penulisan Novel Inspirasi Penerbit Andi 2008. Novel ini diterbitkan oleh penerbit Andi, Yogyakarta, 2008, dan terpilih sebagai Peraih Penghargaan Sastra dari Pusat Bahasa Propinsi DIY Yogyakarta pada tahun 2010. Adapun novelnya yang berjudul Tanah Tabu mendapat predikat Pemenang I pada Sayembara Menulis Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta 2008. Novel ini diterbitkan oleh penerbit Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2009, dan masuk finalis 5 besar dalam Khatulistiwa Award 2009.Kini penulis tinggal di lereng Gunung Merapi, Yogyakarta, Indonesia.

Hak cipta © 2015 ada pada Anindita S. Thayf. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan © 2015 oleh Stefanny Irawan.

***

Nyai Dan Noni

(Nyai)

Malam sudah datang lagi, yang kesepuluh, kau mendesah. Kakimu tertuntun menuju tempatmu yang biasa: pojok paling dalam. Relung paling hangat dan tersembunyi dimana kau selalu setia menunggu kunjungan subuh. Kau duduk sambil menajamkan pendengaran, cerabih binatang malam membuatmu merasa seolah sedang menyaksikan pagelaran wayang, bukannya berada di tempat yang menakutkan. Ada suara khas sang dalang. Nyanyian mendayu para sinden. Alunan gending yang akrab. Sesekali, kau bahkan merasa bisa mendengar seruan penonton dan gema tepuk tangan mereka. Semua itu memesonamu. Menghanyutkan sadar sampai tiba-tiba secubit rasa geli menyentilmu. Rupanya, ada yang sedang mengerikiti kakimu. Kecoak! Sertamerta kau bergerak menjauh. Tapi hanya sebatas itu. Tidak sampai menjerit panik—sebab itu bukan kau.

Kau memang seorang perempuan, tapi tidak seperti dia yang datang empat hari lalu. Yang cengeng dan manja. Yang peka dan perasa. Dia yang kau benci karena telah memaksamu berbagi tempat sempit ini. Lebih daripada itu, kau membenci semua yang ada pada dirinya; rambut pirang yang mengingatkanmu pada masa kejayaanmu dulu, bola mata yang membiru gundu dan terlihat begitu angkuh, juga kulit sewarna roti gandum, bahkan suaranya yang mirip dengkur palsu kucing.

Uhh! Kau sangat membenci yang terakhir itu—dasar bangsa penipu! Membuatmu kerap disesaki keinginan untuk mencekiknya. Menguburkan kuku-kukumu pada daging pucat leher jenjangnya. Kau yakin bisa membunuhnya. Mematahkan batang lehernya dengan cepat. Bukankah tanganmu terbukti cukup kuat karena terbiasa mencabut rumput dan memeras cucian? Bukankah pula tubuh perempuan itu tampak serupa tunggul pisang kering, yang besar tapi rapuh?

Tanpa sadar, bibirmu memainkan ringis kemenangan. Dengan membunuhnya, kau berharap mendapat sedikit kesenangan. Mendadak, tanganmu bergerak begitu cepat. Langsung menuju sasaran. Dan…

Plakk! Kriek!

Denyar kematian seketika terasa. Ada yang mati tanpa sempat lari. Kecoak itu. Kau tersenyum senang. Kebencianmu sedikit terlampiaskan.

***

(Noni)

Sebenarnya, kau sangat suka malam. Remang-remangnya kau anggap romantis. Dinginnya menuntunmu pada pendiangan cinta yang membara. Apalagi ketika sinar purnama menyirami tubuh dan rambut pirangmu maka saat itulah mimpi terindahmu menjadi nyata.

Kini, yang terjadi adalah sebaliknya. Kau sangat membenci malam. Malam telah mewujud monster mimpi buruk paling seram. Yang mendatangkan dingin dan mampu meradangkan tulang. Yang mengundang sejumlah makhluk kecil menjijikkan untuk berpesta di luar sarang. Namun, yang paling mengerikan adalah kengerian yang membuatmu selalu berjaga-jaga setiap kali sore mulai mengajak matahari melarikan diri seperti saat ini.

Kau sudah hapal, angin yang lembab akan datang dari arah kiri. Karena itu, kau sengaja memilih duduk di sudut kiri ruangan paling luar. Merapatkan tubuh letihmu pada dinding. Mencoba memulung sisa kehangatan yang masih ada, tapi sia-sia. Tempat terhangat di ruangan ini sudah dikuasai oleh perempuan itu. Yang kasar dan tidak beradab. Si pemarah yang keras kepala. Dia yang kau benci karena membuatmu merasa selalu terancam. Lebih daripada itu, kau membenci semua yang ada pada dirinya; rambut hitam mengikal, bola mata sewarna jelaga yang menyorot tajam, suara yang sekeras salakan anjing, juga kulit kecoklatan milik pribumi, mengenangkan kau pada masa lalu mu.

Uhh! Kau sangat benci pada bangsa itu—dasar bangsa rendahan! Kau tiba-tiba ingin menggigit lehernya. Menanamkan geligimu yang putih-kuat di sana, tepat di urat besar. Kau yakin bisa membunuhnya. Membuat darahnya meruah.

Ayahmu adalah seorang dokter yang sering membagi ilmunya tentang bagian tubuh manusia yang mematikan jika terluka. Kebiasaan perempuan itu duduk sambil menutup mata. Mudah sekali menyerangnya.

Tanpa sadar, ujung bibirmu menukik aneh. Dengan membunuhnya, kau berharap mendapat sedikit ketenangan. Kau baru saja ingin menyusun sebuah rencana ketika tiba-tiba…

Plakk! Kriek!

Ada yang bergema dari sudut ruang tempat perempuan itu bertahta. Suara nyaring yang mengusir hening dan menggerakkan kepalamu untuk berpaling. Di sana, dalam remang, kau menyaksikan pemandangan yang membuatmu bergidik. Di atas lantai, seekor kecoak terkapar mati dengan perut pecah. Dan, di telapak tangan perempuan itulah terlihat isi perutnya.

Huekk! Tak tahan, kau muntah.

***

“Sudah cukup! Kau telah membuat sabarku habis. Benar-benar perempuan sial, Kau. Sial!” terdengar teriakan kesal si perempuan berambut hitam pada perempuan berambut pirang, yang langsung disusul dengan terjangan penuh kemarahan. Gerakan anjing pendendam.

“Tunggu dulu! Tunggu! Ada apa denganmu?! Kau mau membunuhku, ya? Dasar gila! Kau sudah gila!” pekik panik si pirang berhamburan tanpa sela. Dia benar-benar tidak menduga. Serangan si rambut hitam terlalu kalap untuk dihentikan. Sebagai anak dari keluarga terhormat yang selalu menjaga sikap, situasi ini baru baginya. Ia tidak pernah terlibat perkelahian. Para penjaga selalu ada. Tapi kini, dinding penjara Jepang telah mengurungnya. Dia bukan lagi noni terhormat seperti dulu. Dia terbuang di sini. Tidak berarti.

“Kau telah menghinaku, Perempuan Sial! Kau barusan muntah di depanku. Apakah kau sengaja, hah?!” perempuan berambut hitam balas menjerit sepenuh paru-paru. Saat ini, dia merasa telah mencapai puncak jemu. Emosinya membumbung. Inginnya terus mengamuk. Keluwesan sikapnya yang dulu mampu menggaet hati seorang meneer hingga menjadikannya nyai, dipaksa menguap oleh kejamnya penjara Jepang. Dia bukan lagi nyai meneer Administratur tersayang seperti dulu. Dia terbelenggu di sini. Tidak bernilai.

“Tidak! Tidak begitu. Kau salah paham. Salah!” Si pirang masih mencoba menghentikan serangan. Tapi, si rambut hitam sudah gelap hati. Serangannya makin menyakiti. Serangan pelampiasan.

“Kau telah mengotori tempat ini dengan bau busuk sisa makananmu, Juffrouw! Kau akan kubunuh. Kubunuh!” Si rambut hitam lantas menduduki perut si pirang. Berusaha menjepit tubuh lawannya, yang terus memberontak, dengan kedua kakinya yang kuat hingga meletupkan serangkaian jerit histeris dari mulut si pirang.

Godverdomme. Perutku! Perutku!!!”

Mendengar umpatan dalam bahasa asing itu, perempuan berambut hitam malah semakin kalap.

“Pikirmu, aku tidak tahu apa yang kau katakan itu, hah?! Dasar perempuan asing tidak tahu diri. Penjajah sialan! Kafir!”

“Kaulau bangsa jongos yang tidak tahu diri. Perempuan bodoh! Mulut kotor! Kau yang kafir!”

Tak terhindarkan, ruang penjara sempit itu berubah menjadi kancah pergumulan. Tubuh-tubuh bergelut dalam amuk. Mencoba saling remuk dengan gigi dan kuku. Kulit pun terkuak. Daging terkoyak. Rambut-rambut tercerabut. Semuanya menghamburkan darah. Hingga…

Disertai pekik marah, tiga orang sipir penjara berkulit kunyit dan bermata kuaci menyerbu masuk ke tengah arena pergumulan. Mencoba memisahkan kedua perempuan yang lepas kendali itu dengan kasar. Dengan pangkal popor senapan dan sepatu lars. Dengan tamparan dan makian. Sebagai balasannya, erangan demi erangan saling bertalun. Jerit kesakitan pecah. Rintihan ampun menyela. Sebagai jawaban, caci maki dan suara tamparan diterima oleh perempuan-perempuan itu.

“Tutup mulutmu, Pelacur! Beginilah kalian akan selalu diperlakukan jika terus membuat kacau. Anjing-anjing betina gila!”

Malam kembali sepi ketika derap tiga pasang sepatu itu bergerak menjauhi penjara, meninggalkan dua sosok tubuh yang terkapar kesakitan dalam paluh darah.

***

(Nyai)

Kau memaksa membuka matamu yang bengkak. Rasanya berat dan perih. Tapi kau ingin melihat, meskipun hanya merah yang pertama kali tampak. Darah. Dengan menahan sakit, kau mencoba bergerak—tidak bisa. Lalu, kepalamu berusaha berputar—ternyata bisa. Sedikit gerak memutar ke kanan. Dan, saat itulah kau melihat dia. Si pirang.

Dia terbaring meringkuk serupa bayi dalam rahim. Terlihat selemah kulit jagung. Wajahnya menengadah ke arahmu; pucat, penuh lebam, bernoda darah. Noda yang memudarkan kecantikannya dan menyembunyikan matanya yang terpejam. Kau melirik bagian bawah tubuhnya yang bermandikan darah. Sudah matikah dia? Tanpa diundang, ibamu muncul.

Entah apa yang telah membawa seorang gadis pirang cantik sepertinya masuk ke dalam neraka dunia ini. Dalam hati, kau mencoba menebak. Apakah dia tidak sempat kabur bersama keluarganya saat Jepang menyerbu? Ataukah, dia diculik dari rumah?

“Ah, keluarga. Rumah,” desahmu pilu. Lalu, terbayanglah kisah hidupmu.

Seandainya Belanda tidak pernah kalah perang dan Jepang tidak menemukan negeri ini, kau meramalkan kalau hidupmu akan bahagia selalu. Dimanja oleh tuanmu. Dilayani para babu. Dibanggakan bapak-ibu. Sungguh indah hidupmu dulu, meskipun hanya menjadi nyai.

Tapi hidup memang penuh kejutan. Ketika Jepang datang, suamimu malah pergi. Kembali ke negaranya tanpa mau membawamu. Alasannya, tidak ada tempat untukmu di sana. Ah, betapa laki-laki itu telah melukai setiamu. Membiarkanmu menjadi harta rampasan perang bersama barang peninggalannya yang lain.

“Dasar kafir!” begitulah makimu selalu. Sejak itu, kau sangat membenci setiap orang berkulit pucat, termasuk si perempuan berambut pirang. Namun kini, keadaannya tidak jauh beda darimu. Haruskah kau tetap membencinya?

***

(Noni)

Kau tidak bisa bergerak. Tak mampu merasakan apa-apa. Mungkin tubuhmu melumpuh atau kau sudah mati. Tapi rasa hangat bercampur nyeri yang datang kemudian dari arah selangkang menyadarkanmu bahwa kau masih hidup. Tapi…

“Perutku,” kau mendesis lemah dengan kekhawatiran meraja. Bayimu yang baru berusia dua bulan sedang tertidur lelap di dalam sana. Kau bertanya-tanya bagaimana keadaannya; semoga ia selamat. Namun, kesakitan yang merebak jelas dari balik kulit perutmu langsung memberikan jawaban.

“Tidak ada. Dia sudah tidak ada!” Kau memekik lirih. Matamu dipaksa membuka oleh kucuran air mata yang menderas. Saat itulah kau melihat dia. Si rambut hitam.

Dia terbaring terlentang dengan wajah menengok ke arahmu. Begitu mengenaskan; bengkak, penuh darah kering, bibirnya sobek. Matanya terbuka setengah dan terlihat hampa sinar. Sudah matikah dia? Tanpa diduga, rasa kasihanmu timbul.

Entah apa yang membuat seorang perempuan pribumi menjadi tawanan Jepang. Dalam hati, kau mencoba menebak. Apakah dia seorang mata-mata yang dikhianati seseorang? Atau, apakah dia telah melakukan kesalahan?

“Ah, pengkhianatan. Kesalahan,” gumammu penuh sesal karena teringat kisahmu sendiri.

Seandainya kau mau mendengar perkataan orang tuamu dan tidak menuruti gelora cinta muda, tentulah kini kau sudah berada di atas kapal menuju daratan Kincir Angin bersama mereka. Tapi cinta telah meniupkan jampinya kepadamu.

Kau terbius kejantanan seorang laki-laki pribumi. Terpesona sopan santunnya sebagai pegawai ayahmu yang setia. Kau pun nekat melanggar batas. Menjalin kasih terlarang. Memasrahkan diri pada dosa…. hingga kau hamil. Dengan terpaksa, semuanya berjalan sesuai keinginanmu. Kalian akan dinikahkan seminggu lagi. Sungguh indah jika rencana itu terwujud, begitu pikirmu, meskipun harus mengorbankan mereka yang kau cintai: keluarga.

Namun, hidup selalu punya rencana rahasia. Kemenangan bangsa kuning. Kekalahan bangsa putih. Seluruh keluargamu bergegas mengungsi, kecuali kau, yang lebih memilih mengikuti pribumi itu. Calon ayah bayimu. Sang cinta sejati. Sebagai balasan, tanpa malu, dia mengabdi pada Saudara Tua berkulit kuning yang baru dikenalnya. Tanpa cinta, dia menyerahkanmu sebagai bukti kesetiaan.

“Dasar pribumi!” begitulah makimu selalu. Sejak itu, kau sangat membenci setiap penduduk asli, termasuk si rambut hitam. Tapi kini, keadaannya tidak jauh berbeda darimu. Haruskah kau tetap membencinya?

***

Kedua perempuan itu masih sibuk dengan luka dan pikirannya masing-masing. Di saat yang sama, derap langkah berpasang-pasang sepatu terdengar mendekat. Para sipir membuka pintu, mendekati dua sosok tubuh yang tergeletak lemah di atas lantai. Satu per satu, tubuh-tubuh itu digerayangi dengan kasar.

“Air. Air,” si rambut hitam mengerang.

“Dokter. Aku perlu dokter,” si pirang meminta.

Namun, sejak dulu, hidup memang tidak pernah adil kepada kaum perempuan. Tanpa setahu keduanya, kengerian yang sebenarnya baru saja akan terjadi. Tangan-tangan berkulit kuning itu merobek pakaian mereka satu per satu. Sejumlah laki-laki dengan mata-mata sipit yang memerah dan menyorotkan nafsu liar mulai memperkosa keduanya. Nyai dan noni terlambat untuk menyadari bahwa seharusnya mereka tidak saling membenci seperti ini; bahwa sebenarnya musuh mereka tiada lain adalah laki-laki.

The Mistress and the Lady

Stefanny Irawan adalah seorang cerpenis dan penyunting serta penerjemah lepas. Kumpulan cerpen pertamanya yang berjudul Tidak Ada Kelinci di Bulan! diterbitkan pada tahun 2006. Dia sangat menyukai teater dan memperoleh gelar M.A. dalam bidang Arts Management di State University of New York (SUNY) at Buffalo dengan beasiswa Fulbright. Kini ia menjadi dosen tidak tetap di Universitas Kristen Petra, Surabaya, Indonesia.

Stefanny bisa dihubungi melalui stef.irawan@gmail.com.

 

***

The Mistress and the Lady
by
Anindita Siswanto Thayf

(Nyai / Mistress)

Darkness fell on the tenth night. You sighed. Your feet moved to your usual place: the deepest corner, the warmest hidden nook where you faithfully wait for the break of dawn. As you sat with closed eyes and expectant ears, the sound of nighttime animals made you feel as if you were at a wayang show instead of this creepy place. You recognized the dalang’s distinctive voice, the enchanting singing of the sinden, and the familiar gending music. Every now and then, you even heard the cheering audience clap their hands. All of that amazed you. It took you to another place, until suddenly a ticklish tingle on your foot snapped you back to reality. A cockroach! Shocked, you jerked away immediately. That was it. You didn’t scream in panic. That was so not you.

Yes, you’re a woman, but you’re not like she who arrived four days ago. The spoiled, crybaby woman, emotional and over-sensitive. You hated her for making you share this tiny place. More than that, you hated everything about her, the blonde hair that reminded you of your past golden era, the arrogant look in a pair of round, blue eyes, her wheat-colored skin, and her voice that sounded like the false purr of a cat.

You especially hated hypocrisy; what a deceitful race she belonged to! She often filled you with the urge to strangle her, to bury your nails deep into her pale, long neck. You were sure you could kill her in an instant by snapping her neck. Your hands were strong from pulling weeds and wringing out the laundry. Her body looked like a dry banana stump—big yet fragile.

Your lips folded into a victorious grin. You expected a little fun from this killing act. Your hand suddenly moved fast, right on the target.

Whack! Splat!

The aura of death filled the room instantly. The cockroach had died an inevitable death. You smiled, happy to have released some of your hatred.

***

(Noni / The Lady)

You actually loved nighttime. You found its dusk romantic. Its coolness guided you to the smoldering furnace of love. You liked it best when the full moon illuminated your body and blonde hair and your most wonderful dream came true.

But now, it was the complete opposite. You hated everything about the night. Nighttime had turned into the most terrifying monster in your nightmare. The one that summoned cold and inflamed the bones. The one that lured a number of disgusting little creatures out of their nests. The most frightening thing, though, was the terror that kept you constantly on your toes every time the sun escaped the afternoon sky.

You knew by now that the humid wind would come from the west. That’s why you chose to sit at the farthest left corner of this room, leaning your body closely against the wall to pick up what was left of the warmth. But your attempts were to no avail. The other woman occupied the warmest spot in this room. That rude, uncivilized woman; the grumpy and stubborn one. You hated her for making you feel threatened all the time. You hated everything about her. The dark, wavy hair, the piercing, coal-black eyes, her loud, bark-like voice and brown skin, were like the other indigenous people of this land, and reminded you of your past.

You truly hated the people of this country. They were a cowering nation. You suddenly wanted to bite her neck, bury your white teeth deep into the vein. You were confident you could kill her, make her blood flow all over. Your father, a doctor, had taught you about the vulnerable areas of the human body. Attacking her would be easy. She was in the habit of sitting with her eyes closed.

The corners of your lips curled. You hoped to get some peace by killing her and started to formulate a plan.

Whack! Splat!

The noise came from the corner where that woman reigned. The silence-shattering noise made you turn toward her. Through the darkness you witnessed a bloodcurdling scene. A cockroach lay dead on the floor, its entrails smeared on the woman’s palm.

Unable to hold it any longer, you vomited.

***

“That’s it! You drive me to the limit of my patience. Damn you, woman! Damn!” the black-haired woman shouted before she charged at the blonde like a vengeful dog.

“Wait a second! Wait! What’s wrong with you? Are you trying to kill me? You’re crazy,” the blonde woman screamed, frantically. She had not seen the attack coming and was unable to stop it. As a daughter of a respected family, she had never been involved in a fight, and this situation was completely new to her. Then, her bodyguards were always around. But now, these Japanese prison walls surrounded her. She was no longer an honorable noni, a young lady. Exiled here, she felt worthless.

“You insulted me, bitch! You puked in front of me. It wasn’t an accident, was it?” the black-haired woman yelled at the top of her lungs. She had had enough. Her emotions soared, and she wanted to rage on. Her graceful mannerisms, which had won the heart of a meneer, a Dutch gentleman who had made her his mistress, had dissolved within the walls of this cruel Japanese prison. She was no longer the nyai, the mistress, of her beloved meneer administrateur. She was shackled here, meaningless.

“No! You misunderstood. You’re wrong!” The blonde still tried to stop the attack, but the black-haired woman went berserk.

“You ruined this place with the foul stench of your vomit, juffrouw, miss! I’m going to kill you. I’ll kill you!” The black-haired woman planted herself on the blonde’s stomach. She used her two strong legs to squeeze the still-struggling woman so hard it made the blonde scream hysterically.

Godverdomme, damn! My stomach! My stomach!”

The Dutch swearword set off the black-haired woman even more. “You think I don’t know what you said, huh! You ungrateful foreigner! Colonialist bastard! Infidel!”

“You ungrateful servant nation. Stupid, foul-mouthed woman! You’re the infidel!”

The tiny cell transformed into a fighting arena. The two women wrestled furiously and tried to destroy each other with their teeth and nails. They tore each other’s flesh and pulled locks of hair. Blood splattered everywhere.

Three wardens with turmeric skin and watermelon-seed eyes rushed into the middle of the arena. They tried to separate the two uncontrollable women with force using their rifle butts and boots, slaps and curses. Groan after groan answered them. Painful screams. Mercy-pleading whimpers interrupted them.

“Shut up, whores. This is what you get for causing chaos here. Crazy bitches!”

The night was silent once again after the stomping boots moved away from the cell where two figures were left writhing in pain and blood.

***

(Nyai / Mistress)

You forced your swollen eyes open. It was difficult and painful. You wanted to see more, even though all you saw at first was only red. Blood. Holding back your pain, you tried to move. You couldn’t. Then you tried to turn your head. You succeeded in turning a little to your right and saw her, the blonde.

You wondered what brought a pretty blonde girl like her to this hell on earth. You tried to guess, Was she not quick enough to escape with her family when the Japanese attacked? Or did they kidnap her from her home?

“Ah, family. Home,” you whispered sadly and thought about the story of your life.

If only the Dutch had not lost the war and Japan had never come to this country, you figured your life would have always been happy. Your blond keeper would have spoiled you, your maids would have served you, and your parents would have been proud of you. What a wonderful life you once had, even though you were just a nyai, the mistress of a Dutch man.

Life is indeed full of surprises. When the Japanese came, your keeper left. He went back to his country without bringing you along. He said there wouldn’t be a place for you there. Ah, how that man betrayed your loyalty, leaving you among the war spoils for the Japanese.

“Infidel,” you cursed him. From then on, you hated every pale-skinned person with all your heart, including the blonde woman. Her situation is not much different from yours now. Should you still hate her?

***

(Noni / The Lady)

You couldn’t move or feel a thing. You wondered if you were paralyzed or had died. The warmth and pain surging from between your legs a moment later made you realize you were still alive.

“My stomach,” you whispered faintly as your worry escalated. The fetus of your two-month-old pregnancy had been sleeping soundly inside your belly. You wondered how he was doing, if he had survived. The pain that spread underneath the skin of your stomach provided the answer.

“Gone. He’s gone!” You let out a hushed cry. The growing stream of tears forced you to open your eyes. That was when you saw her. The black-haired lady.

She lay on her back looking at you. Her face was swollen, blotched with dried blood, her lips split. Her half-open eyes seemed empty. Was she dead? Unexpectedly, you felt pity for her. You didn’t know what made an indigenous woman a Japanese prisoner. You tried to guess. Was she a spy and had someone turned her in? Had she made a mistake?

“Ah, betrayal. Mistake,” you murmured as you recalled your own story.

If only you had listened to your parents and hadn’t followed the foolish passion of young love, you surely would have been on the ship with them and, by now, heading to the Land of Windmills. But love cast its spell on you.

The masculinity of an indigenous young man had captured your heart. He was your father’s loyal guard and charmed you with his good manners. You steeled yourself to break the boundaries and engaged in a forbidden relationship. You succumbed to sin until you became pregnant. Everything then was forced to be the way you wanted it. You were to be married in a week. How wonderful would that be, you thought, even though you had to sacrifice those you loved, your family.

Life always has a secret plan. The victory of the yellow-skinned people. The defeat of the whites. All members of your family quickly moved away, except you who preferred to be with the indigenous man, the father of your child, your true love. In return he shamelessly served the yellow-skinned Older Brother he just met and handed you to them as proof of his loyalty.

“Indigenous scumbag!” That was how you cursed him. Since then, every inch of you hated every indigenous person, including the black-haired woman who now shares your predicament. Should you still hate her?

***

The two women were still occupied by their wounds and their thoughts when the stomping of boots came closer. The jail keepers opened the cell door. They approached the two weak women on the prison floor and forcefully groped their bodies.

“Water. Water,” the black-haired one groaned.

“Doctor. I need a doctor,” the blonde pleaded.

History had proven that life never treated women fairly. Little did either woman know of the terror about to happen. When yellow hands ripped their clothes, and the men with red, alcohol-induced, passion-ridden slanted eyes, proceeded to rape them, it was too late for the nyai and noni to realize they shouldn’t hate each other. They shared a common enemy: men.

(Merapi slope, 2014)

 

Mariantje dan Pasangan Tua

Erni Aladjai lahir di Desa Lipulalongo, desa penghasil cengkeh paling ujung Sulawesi Tengah, 7 Juni 1985. Ia adalah puteri sulung sepasang petani cengkeh: Hasarudin Aladjai dan Mardia Abd Karim. Erni menamatkan kuliahnya di jurusan Sastra Perancis, Universitas Hasanuddin Makassar. Sebelum memutuskan menjadi penulis penuh waktu, ia sempat bekerja sebagai wartawan di Makassar, penyunting berita. Kemudian ia memutuskan menulis penuh waktu. Selain menulis, ia bekerja sebagai penyunting novel lepas.

Sejumlah karyanya baik berupa puisi, esai, cerpen, dan novelet dimuat di media setempat dan nasional. Cerita pendeknya “Sampo Soie Soe, Si Juru Masak” menjadi pemenang ketiga dalam Jakarta International Literary Festival (JILFest) Tahun 2012, dua noveletnya, Rumah Perahu dan Sebelum Hujan di Seasea menjadi pemenang ke-II dan pemenang ke-III dalam Sayembara Cerber Femina 2011. Di tahun yang sama, novelnya Kei meraih pemenang unggulan dalam Sayembara Novel Dewan Kesenian Jakarta.

Bukunya yang sudah terbit : Pesan Cinta dari Hujan (Insist Press, 2010), Ning di Bawah Gerhana (Bumen Pustaka Emas, 2013) dan Kei (GagasMedia 2013).

Ia bisa dihubungi di : erni_aladjai@yahoo.com

“Mariantje dan Pasangan Tua” terbit pertama kali di koran Media Indonesia tanggal 21 April, 2013, hak cipta ada pada Erni Aladjai. Terbitan perubahan hak cipta © 2014 oleh Erni Aladjai. Terbit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan © 2014 oleh Nurhayat Indriyatno Mohamed.

***

Mariantje dan Pasangan Tua

Pada Rabu pagi yang bercahaya, mereka terbangun dalam satu selimut. Pagi ini, Laura dan Don masih bersama. Tak ada yang pergi lebih dahulu. Tuhan masih ingin melihat mereka melewati hari-hari baru. Tiap malam, saat jelang kelopak mata mengatup, Laura akan memasukkan jemarinya ke sela-sela jemari Don. Itu kebiasaan rahasia dia, yang hanya diketahui Mariantje.

Perlahan-lahan Laura bangkit dari ranjang, mengamati rambutnya yang setiap helainya telah berwarna kelabu. Mengamati pipi dan dagunya yang merosot. Tiga tahun lalu, dia masih sering duduk di depan meja rias ini, menyemir rambutnya sembari bersenandung lagu jaz kuno. Dia dan Don penyuka jaz. Mereka menikmati musik itu sejak pertama kali masuk Batavia.

Dia masih ingat baik, suatu malam, Batavia begitu ramai, beberapa musisi Filipina datang ke Batavia mencari kerja. Di ruang masuk hotel dan jalan-jalan, mereka mengenalkan alat musik angin. Trompet. Saksofon. Bolero. Rumba. Ah kenangan itu selalu bagai embusan angin sore yang menenangkan. Ingatan dia pada irama jaz pertama kali di kota ini selalu abadi di kepalanya, sebab pada hari itu juga, sesuatu yang membuatnya bahagia telah terjadi.

Mula-mula Don—yang sekarang terus “lelap” di belakangnya itu—membeli dua buah karcis untuk menonton pertunjukan jaz di Hotel Des Indes. Waktu itu, umur Don tujuhbelas tahun. Masih muda dan senang memakai topi bowler―serupa topi yang sering dikenakan Charlie Chaplin, celana pantalon dan jas.

Sementara Laura berumur enambelas tahun. Mengenakan gaun sifon bertabur bunga lotus, dia naik trem bersama Don. Mereka naik trem listrik pertama. Dia mendengar keterangan itu dari pembicaraan dua orang meneer dalam satu gerbong. Dan pada saat irama saksofon soleano dari si musisi Filipina itu terdengar di langit-langit hotel Des Indes, bersamaan itu juga Don memasangkan sebuah cincin perloop, verlooft di jari manisnya.

***

Laura menyukai pagi. Dia tak pernah mau melewatkan saat matahari keluar. Dan pagi ini, dia tak lagi menyemir rambut. Laura Tua seolah telah berjanji pada setiap helai rambutnya, bahwa mulai hari ini hingga di kemudian hari, rambutnya tak akan lagi “sesak napas” oleh baluran pewarna rambut yang kaku. Tak ada lagi sarung tangan. Tak ada lagi bubuk semir Tancho di atas meja riasnya.

Wanita tua itu kemudian melangkah ke ambang jendela kamar. Jendela itu selalu dia umpamakan layar bioskop. Di sana, di balik kacanya, ada dua pohon kersen dengan batang saling silang. Sangkar burung nuri peliharaan Don tergantung di salah satu tunggulnya. Setiap pagi, si nuri akan menyapa ketika Laura membuka tirai.

“Selamat pagi, sayangku!” itulah yang dikatakan si nuri. Don yang mengajari burung nuri itu menyapa Laura saban pagi. Seolah ketika itu, Don sudah tahu kalau suatu hari dia hanya bisa berbaring dengan selang di hidung. Penyakit telah mematikan sebelah tubuhnya. Laura tua mengangguk, menertawai burung nuri yang mengoyang-goyangkan pantatnya.

Lalu ucapan yang sama juga selalu dia dengar dari mulut Mariantje. “Selamat pagi, hari ini Nyonya tampak sehat dan bercahaya.” Laura tertawa.

Mariantje perempuan tinggi-besar, berkulit kelam, dan rambut diikat saputangan itu riang memasuki kamar Laura sambil membawa tongkat pel. Mariantje baru saja selesai merebus kentang untuk sarapan pagi Laura. Mariantje membantu segala hal di rumah Laura. Dia memasak. Mencuci pakaian. Menyetrika. Menyapu pekarangan dan belanja. Sudah lima tahun perempuan asal Sanger, Manado itu bekerja pada Laura.

Setiap Sabtu pagi, ada tambahan belanja yang ditugaskan Laura padanya. Laura memintanya pergi ke Senen, membeli novel terbaru yang akan Laura bacakan untuk Don menggunakan kaca pembesar. Laura menyukai cara Mariantje bekerja.

Mariantje menyukai rumah Laura. Wangi jeruk, sederhana, dan senantiasa terdengar alunan jaz. Setiap pagi, Mariantje akan mengengkol gramofon kuno milik Laura, memasang piringan hitam lagu jaz yang dipesannya.

“Pagi ini Natalie Cole, Mariantje!”

Bagi Mariantje, ada banyak keharuan di rumah Laura. Seperti dua malam lalu, saat dia datang memeriksa keadaan Laura. Dia lihat perempuan tua itu duduk di sisi Don, membacakan Don sebuah buku bersampul merah. Laura percaya, meski Don tak bisa bergerak lagi, tapi Don masih bisa mendengar. Seperti biasa, suara Laura terdengar gemetar.

“Don sayang, aku akan membaca sebuah penggalan sajak Heine yang dikutip dalam Max Havelaar. Aku pikir kau mungkin menyukainya,” kata Laura. Setelah berdeham, ia mulai membaca. “’Nun di sana menderau air sungai yang suci, di sana kita menyelam di bawah naungan palma… mimpikan impian yang serba bahagia.’ Jadi bahagialah, Sayang!”

Diam-diam, di bingkai pintu kamar Laura, Mariantje melihat pemandangan itu dengan haru. Laura memang seorang pembaca novel yang baik. Yang sedang dibaca Laura adalah Max Havelaar terbitan tahun 1977, yang Mariantje beli di Jalan Kwitang. Dulu, si pedagang buku membujuk Mariantje agar membelinya. “Ini buku bagus, Pram dan Kartini membacanya, kau harus punya!” katanya.

***

Setelah membaca novel seperti biasa, Laura menemui Mariantje. Mereka bercakap di dapur. Ini kali Laura melakukan pembicaraan sungguh-sungguh dengannya. “Mariantje, saya minta maaf tak bisa membayar gajimu beberapa bulan ini. Saya sedih, namun kau tak pernah mengeluhkan itu.”

“Nyonya jangan minta maaf. Membolehkan saya tinggal di sini, itu sudah lebih dari cukup.” Mariantje menggenggam tangan Laura.

“Jika, suatu hari saya tiba-tiba pergi, maka kunci rumah saya selamanya milikmu. Itulah yang mampu saya wariskan padamu. Tolong rawat burung nuri Don. Kelak jika ada museum jaz di kota ini, sumbangkanlah piringan hitam kami.”

“Terima kasih telah mengurus saya dan Don,” tambah Laura setengah berbisik.

“Tak perlu mengulang-ulang terima kasih, Nyonya. Sayalah yang berterima kasih.”

Sudah empat bulan memang, Mariantje tak lagi dibayar oleh Laura. Uang pensiun Don dan Laura bahkan hanya cukup untuk biaya perawatan Don, makan seadanya, dan membeli buku terbaru setiap pekan.

Mariantje tak mengeluh. Baginya mengenal Laura adalah kebahagiaan. Mariantje ingat wajahnya lebam, bibirnya pecah pertama kali dia bertemu Laura.

Mereka bertemu di toko. Laura datang membeli mayones dan susu manis kental. Mariantje datang membeli sebungkus biskuit untuk mengganjal perutnya. Tak ada yang peduli dengan wajah lebam dan bibirnya yang pecah. Semua orang hanya memperhatikan rak belanja. Satu-satunya orang yang menanyakan keadaannya hanyalah Laura.

“Kenapa wajahmu? Kau jatuh?” tanya Laura mendekat. Tanpa menunggu jawaban, Laura menggandeng tangan Mariantje ke rumahnya. Di sana, Laura mengompres dahi, pipi dan bibir Mariantje dengan es batu.

“Kenapa Nyonya mau membawa saya masuk?”

“Kau terluka.” Itu saja jawaban Laura. Ia memberi Mariantje pakaian, sebuah daster bergambar kembang sepatu. Memberinya selimut, dan mengantar Mariantje ke kamar tamu.

Bertemu Laura, membuat Mariantje yakin untuk berpisah dari Tigor. Dia tak tahan dengan segala hal yang ada pada Tigor. Bau bir. Membanting telepon. Menyembunyikan uang. Menggebrak meja. Merontokkan kaca jendela. Mariantje lari pada tengah malam ke rumah Laura. Semua ini terjadi sekitar lima tahun yang lalu.

***

Minggu pagi, Mariantje berangkat ke gereja. Mariantje ingin berdoa agar Don dan Laura tetap sehat. Ia sangat takut jika Tuhan memanggil kedua orang itu. Jika boleh memilih, Mariantje berharap dia yang mati lebih dulu. Dia tak punya siapa-siapa di Pulau Jawa selain Laura. Mariantje menghitung, besok tepat 170 hari Don terbaring di tempat tidur. Sungguh waktu yang sabar bagi Laura.

Dalam perjalanan pulang dari gereja, Mariantje singgah membeli bunga. Dia membeli setangkai mawar merah dan setangkai mawar putih.

Mariantje melangkah pelan-pelan ke kamar Laura dengan bunga mawar di dadanya. Kamar begitu sunyi. Di sana, di atas ranjang berseprai putih, Laura berbaring miring, tangan kanannya melingkari tubuh Don yang terlentang dengan mulut terbuka.

Mariantje menghampiri Laura. Perlahan-lahan jari telunjuknya menyentuh lubang hidung Laura. Tak ada embusan. Mariantje meraba tangan Laura. Begitu dingin. Air mata Mariantje mulai mengalir, membasahi pipi. Perutnya bergolak.

Tiga jari kanannya kemudian menyentuh pergelangan tangan Don, dia tak merasakan ada denyut di sana. Don sudah bebas.

“Mungkin memang sudah saatnya mereka pergi,” batin Mariantje. Dia terisak. Teringat pembicaraan dia dan Laura tempo hari, “Mariantje, sudah lama saya ingin pergi bersama Don. Pergi selama-lamanya. Konon di dunia sana, kami akan kembali muda. Bukankah itu indah, Mariantje?”

***

Mariantje and the old Couple

Hayat Indriyatno adalah kepala penyunting harian umum berbahasa Inggris, Jakarta Globe yang terbit di Jakarta. Lahir dan dibesarkan di Tanzania, dan mendapatkan gelar insinyur tekhnik mesin dari University of Natal, Durban, Afrika Selatan. Pada saat umur 24 tahun Hayat memutuskan untuk pindah ke Indonesia, tanah kelahiran ayahnya, dimana keputusannya itu seketika membuatnya tertarik dengan segala sesuatu yang ada di Indonesia.

Secara tak terduga nasib membawanya kepada pekerjaan di harian umum, hingga akhirnya dia mendapat kesempatan menerjemahkan sebuah buku karya penulis pemenang penghargaan Okki Madasari ke dalam bahasa Inggris. Sejak itu Hayat belum kembali melakukan kilas balik perjalanan hidupnya. Hayat penerjemah dari Kei novel pemenang penghargaan karya Erni Aladjai.

 

 

***

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?”

***

Hikayat Kura-kura Berjanggut

AZHARI lahir di desa Lamjamee, Banda Aceh, 5 Oktober 1981. Sebelum tsunami 26 Desember 2004, ia belajar di Jurusan Bahasa dan Sastra Universitas Syiah Kuala, Banda Aceh. Buku kumpulan cerpen pertamanya, Perempuan Pala, terbit tahun 2004 dan termasuk dalam daftar karya pilihan Khatulistiwa Literary Award. Pada 2005 Azhari menerima Free Word Award dari Poets of All Nations, Belanda. Tahun 2002 Azhari mendirikan Komunitas Tikar Pandan yang melalui program budayanya memperjuangkan perdamaian, keadilan dan kesetaraan kesempatan bagi masyarakat Aceh. Azhari juga menjadi penyunting serta pendiri jurnal budaya Gelombang Baru yang terbit di Banda Aceh. Sekarang, Azhari sedang mengerjakan sebuah novel dan beberapa esai tentang Aceh.

“Hikayat Kura-Kura Berjanggut” terbit pertama kali di Koran Tempo, Minggu, 04 Maret 2007, hak cipta ada pada Azhari. Terbitan perubahan hak cipta © 2014 oleh Azhari. Terebit atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan © 2014 oleh 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.”

Dahulu kala, ketika segala binatang dan pepohonan masih bisa bicara, dan bandar ini belum bernama, hiduplah seekor raja kura-kura yang menguasai selingkar lautan ini. Kura-kura itu disegani oleh makhluk sepenjuru lautan karena kecepatan dan keperkasaannya.

Sampai pada suatu hari di ujung lautan terlihatlah sebuah kapal. Di atas geladak kapal itu terlihat seekor unta. Hanya seekor unta.

O, keperkasaan dan kuasa membuat raja kura-kura menjadi kurang waspada.

Padahal petuah lama mengatakan, apabila kau melihat sebuah kapal dengan unta di atas geladaknya, segera usirlah kapal itu. Sebab itu adalah unta yang diusir Nabi Sulaiman, nabi junjungan segala binatang. Dosa apakah yang membuat orang sesabar Sulaiman berbuat begitu? Di tanah Sulaiman, dia telah menyebarkan banyak fitnah dan kebohongan, sering membuat Sulaiman susah tak kepalang.

Dalam pembuangan, unta itu masih saja menyebar kabar kebohongan ke seluruh penjuru lautan, karena dengan itulah dia mendapatkan doa para penguasa dunia. Bukankah tak ada raja yang sudi berdoa untuk unta usiran Sulaiman?

Kebohongan sang unta membuat sesiapa yang percaya menjadi gelap takdir hidupnya, sepekat kabut yang menudungi kapalnya.

Seperti kura-kura yang pernah hidup di bandar ini.

Kepada kura-kura, sang unta mengatakan, sungguh aneh kura-kura yang dilihatnya ini, sebab di tanah Sulaiman dan di seluruh penjuru lautan yang pernah disinggahinya, semua kura-kura ada janggutnya. Marahlah kura-kura mendengar kabar ini. Berkata ia, katakan padaku di mana aku bisa membeli janggut, wahai unta pembawa berita?

Kau tak perlu menghabiskan seluruh kekayaanmu kalau hanya untuk mendapatkan sejumput janggut di dagumu, begitu pesan Sulaiman, berdoa sajalah untuk keselamatan unta kelana ini. Maka akan tumbuhlah janggut di dagumu itu, jawab unta sambil tertawa. Begitu sang unta berdusta.

Maka berdoalah kura-kura untuk keselamatan si unta. Setelah mendapatkan doa raja kura-kura, unta itu pun pergi dengan hati seluas samudra bersama kapalnya dan kabut yang memayungi kapalnya.

Maka hitam-pekatlah hidup si kura-kura sampai anak cucunya hingga hari ini. Perhatikanlah, sungguh lambat jalannya kura-kura sekarang. Sampai sekarang makhluk itu masih saja merayap mencari-cari janggutnya yang jatuh di tanah, sebab ia menyangka Sulaiman melemparkan begitu saja janggut itu.

***

The Tale of the Bearded Turtle

Wikan Satriati adalah lulusan Fakultas Sastra Universitas Gadjah Mada, Indonesia. Sejak tahun 2001 bekerja sebagai penyunting buku sastra dan budaya, serta menjadi penerjemah lepas. Wikan menerjemahkan dari bahasa Inggris ke bahasa Indonesia esai-esai Harry Aveling dalam buku Secrets need Words: Indonesian Poetry 1966-1998 (Center for International Studies Ohio University, 2001). Terjeman buku ini diterbitkan oleh IndonesiaTera tahun 2004 dengan judul Rahasia Membutuhkan Kata: Puisi Indonesia 1966-1998. Buku ini terpilih sebagai salah satu buku bermutu oleh Program Pustaka Yayasan Adikarya IKAPI.

Wikan adalah penulis dua buku cerita anak: Gadis Kecil Penjaga Bintang (KataKita, 2008) dan Melangkah dengan Bismillah (KataKita, 2006). Sekarang Wikan bekerja sebagai pengelola bagian penerbitan di Yayasan Lontar, sebuah lembaga yang salah satu tujuan utamanya memperkenalkan sastra Indonesia ke mancanegara dengan menerjemahkan karya-karya sastra Indonesia ke dalam bahasa Inggris.

Wikan dapat dihubungi di 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.”

A long time ago, when the animals and trees could talk and the harbor of Lamuri had yet to be named, a turtle king reigned over this part of the ocean. He was respected by the ocean creatures for his speed and strength.

One day, a ship appeared on the horizon. On the deck stood a camel. Just a camel.

His strength and power made the turtle king less vigilant.

The old adage says, if you see a ship with a camel on deck, expell it at once because the camel has been expelled by the Prophet Solomon, lord of all animals. What kind of sin had the camel committed to make a prophet as patient as Solomon do that?

In the land of Solomon, the camel had spread much slander and lies that caused a lot of trouble. The camel continued to spread false stories from his exile because that way he was able to influence the rulers of the world. Without his lies there wasn’t a single king willing to pray for a camel the Prophet Solomon had banished. Everyone who believed the camel’s lies was doomed to live in misery and their destiny was as black as the fog that covered its ship. And so it was for the turtle that lived in this harbor.

The camel told to the turtle king how odd he looked, because in the land of Solomon and in all the countries across the oceans he ever visited, every turtle had a beard. The turtle king became angry when he heard this. He said, “Tell me where I can buy a beard, oh camel the news messenger.”
“According to Solomon, you do not have to spend your wealth to grow a pluck of beard on your chin. Pray for the safety of this nomadic camel and a beard will grow,” said the camel with a laugh, and so told his lie.

The turtle king prayed for the camel’s safety and the camel went away with a heart as big as the ocean.

And today, turtles still believe the lie. Notice how slow a turtle walks. The poor creature crawls on the ground looking for its beard, because it thinks Solomon might have thrown it away.

***

Percakapan Patung-Patung

Indra Tranggono, lahir di Yogyakarta 23 Maret 1960, sastrawan dan pemerhati budaya ini adalah penulis cerita pendek dan lakon. Karyanya telah diterbitkan secara luas. Cerpen-cerpennya terpilih dalam buku Cerpen Pilihan Kompas sebanyak tujuh kali antara tahun 2002-2012. Iblis Ngambek (Penerbit KOMPAS, 2004) dan Sang Terdakwa (Yayasan untuk Indonesia, 1998) adalah dua kumpulan cerpennya yang terkenal.

Indra adalah salah seorang penyunting Sembilu: Antologi Puisi 21 Penyair Yogya (Pustaka Pelajar, 2005).

Karya lakon yang ditulis Indra antara lain: monoplay “Saputangan Fang Yin”, 2013, dipentaskan di Gedung Societet, Yogyakarta dan “Negaraku sedang Demam”, 2011, dipentaskan di Teater Arena, Surakarta. Drama “Monumen” diterbitkan dalam bentuk buku oleh Yayasan untuk Indonesia, 2002, dan dipentaskan di Yogyakarta. Bersama AgusNoor, Indra menulis naskah monolog “Lidah Pingsan”, 1997, dipentaskan di Yogyakarta, berlanjut dengan Lidah (Masih) Pingsan”,1998, dipentaskan di Jakarta, Yogyakarta, Surakarta, dan Malang, serta “Mayat Terhormat”, 2000, dipentaskan di Purna Budaya Yogyakarta dan Taman Ismail Marzuki Jakarta. Pada tahun 1999, Indra bersama Heru Kesawamurti dan Agus Noor menulis lakon “Brigade Maling” yang dipentaskan oleh Teater Gandrik di Melbourne, Australia.

Tahun 2012 Indra mendapat Hadiah Sastra dari Yayasan Sastra Yogya yang didirikan oleh sastrawan Prof. Dr. Rachmat Djoko Pradopo. Hingga kini Indra masih giat menulis.

“Percakapan Patung-Patung” (The Statues’ Conversation)” terbit pertama kali di Kompas 2002, dan di kumpulan cerpen, Iblis Ngambek (The Sulking Devil Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2003), hak cipta © 2002, 2003 oleh Indra Tranggono. Terbitan perubahan hak cipta © 2014 oleh IndraTranggono. Terbit atas ijin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan © 2014 oleh 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.

***

The Statues’ Conversation

Wikan Satriati adalah lulusan Fakultas Sastra Universitas Gadjah Mada, Indonesia. Sejak tahun 2001 bekerja sebagai penyunting buku sastra dan budaya, serta menjadi penerjemah lepas. Wikan menerjemahkan dari bahasa Inggris ke bahasa Indonesia esai-esai Harry Aveling dalam buku Secrets need Words: Indonesian Poetry 1966-1998 (Center for International Studies Ohio University, 2001). Terjeman buku ini diterbitkan oleh IndonesiaTera tahun 2004 dengan judul Rahasia Membutuhkan Kata: Puisi Indonesia 1966-1998. Buku ini terpilih sebagai salah satu buku bermutu oleh Program Pustaka Yayasan Adikarya IKAPI.

Wikan adalah penulis dua buku cerita anak: Gadis Kecil Penjaga Bintang (KataKita, 2008) dan Melangkah dengan Bismillah (KataKita, 2006). Sekarang Wikan bekerja sebagai pengelola bagian penerbitan di Yayasan Lontar, sebuah lembaga yang salah satu tujuan utamanya memperkenalkan sastra Indonesia ke mancanegara dengan menerjemahkan karya-karya sastra Indonesia ke dalam bahasa Inggris.

Wikan dapat dihubungi di 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.

***

Rumah Kawin

Zen Hae menulis puisi, cerita, dan kritik sastra. Telah menghasilkan dua buku: kumpulan cerita pendek Rumah Kawin (KataKita, 2004) dan buku puisi Paus Merah Jambu (Akar Indonesia, 2007) – yang terakhir ini masuk lima besar Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2008 dan mendapatkan predikat “Karya Sastra Terbaik 2007” dari majalah Tempo. Menamatkan pendidikan di Jurusan Bahasa dan Sastra Indonesia IKIP Jakarta (kini Universitas Negeri Jakarta) pada 1994. Pernah menjadi wartawan, pekerja LSM, penulis naskah infotainmen dan dosen paruh waktu. Anggota Komite Sastra Dewan Kesenian Jakarta (2006-2012) dan Ketua Komite Sastra DKJ (2006-2009) dan Ketua Bidang Kajian dan Kritik DKJ (2011-2012). Sejak Februari 2012 ia adalah Manajer Penerbitan di Komunitas Salihara.

“Rumah Kawin” terbit pertama kali di Kompas (4 Juni 2003). Edisi perubahan Hak Cipta © 2014 oleh Zen Hae. Terbit atas ijin dari penulis. Hak Cipta terjemahan © 2014 oleh 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.

***

The Wedding House

Indah Lestari lahir di Singapura dan tinggal di Jakarta, Indonesia. Dia menyelesaikan S1 jurusan Sastra Inggris dari Universitas Padjadjaran dan S2 jurusan English Studies dari Jawaharlal Nehru University, India. Dia menerjemahkan novel JM Coetzee Disgrace (Aib) dan sebuah novel lain (dalam tahap penyuntingan) ke Bahasa Indonesia. Selain menjadi penerjemah lepas, dia meluangkan waktu untuk menulis puisi, yang beberapa di antaranya diterbitkan di Bacopa, Revival dan The White Elephant Quarterly pada 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.

***

Mata Yang Indah

Budi Darma adalah seorang penulis novel, esay, dan penulis cerpen. Beliau kerap dijuluki penulis yang memiliki pikiran diluar nalar. Novelnya yang bejudul Olenka (Balai Pustaka, 1980) memenangkan penghargaan dari Dewan Kesenian Jakarta 1980. Novel lainnya Rafilus (Balai Pustaka,1988) dan Ny. Talis: Kisah mengenai Madras (PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 1996). Harmonium (Pustaka Pelajar, 1995) adalah buku mengenai kritik sastra. “Mata yang Indah (Beautiful Eyes)” adalah judul yang menjadi bagian dari kumpulan cerita pendeknya, Kritikus Adinan (Bentang Budaya, 2002). Saat ini Budi Darma menjabat sebagai guru besar sastra Inggris di Universitas Nasional Surabaya, Indonesia.

“Mata yang Indah (Beautiful Eyes)” pertamakali diterbitkan dalam kumpulan cerpen, Kritikus Adinan (Bentang Budaya, 2002), hak cipta © 2002 oleh Budi Darma. Diterbitkan atas izin dari penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan © 2013 oleh Nurul Hanafi, penyunting 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.

***

 

Beautiful Eyes

Nurul Hanafi adalah seorang penulis cerita rekaan dan penerjemah karya sastra yang bermukim di Yogyakarta, Jawa Tengah. Antara karyanya adalah sebuah novel, beberapa cerpen, tiga naskah lakon, dan dua buku cerita rakyat. Dia mempelajari sastra Inggris pada masa awal modern, drama klasik Yunani dan penulis-penulis gaya baru. Terjemahan “Mata Yang Indah” disunting oleh 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.

***

Wali Kesebelas

TRIYANTO TRIWIKROMO, lulus Magister Ilmu Susastra Universitas Diponegoro, Semarang. Ia bekerja sebagai dosen Penulisan Kreatif di alma maternya dan Redaktur Pelaksana Harian Suara Merdeka.

Puisi Triyanto antara lain terbit di majalah sastra dwibahasa di Australia Mud Purgatory, (2008) dan buku kumpulan puisi Pertempuran Rahasia (Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2010).

Selain berpuisi, Triyanto menulis kumpulan cerita pendek Rezim Seks (2002), Ragaula (2002), Sayap Anjing (2003), Anak-anak Mengasah Pisau (dwibahasa, 2003: Children Sharpening the Knives) dan Malam Sepasang Lampion (2004). Kumpulan cerpennya Ular di Mangkuk Nabi (Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2009) memperoleh Penghargaan Sastra 2009 Pusat Bahasa. Celeng Satu Celeng Semua adalah kumpulan cerpennya yang terbaru (Gramedia Pustaka Utama 2013).

Pada 2005 dan 2007 Triyanto mengikuti Utan Kayu International Literary Bienale. Pada 2005, ia juga menjadi peserta Wordstorm: Northern Territory Writer Festival di Darwin dan Januari-Februari 2008 menjadi peserta Gang Festival dan residensi sastra di Sydney, Australia. Beberapa puisi dan cerita Triyanto telah diterjemahkan dalam bahasa Belanda, Inggris, Prancis, dan Swedia.

“Wali Kesebelas” terbit pertamakali di Koran Tempo (15 Januari,2012). Edisi perubahan Hak Cipta © 2013 oleh Triyanto Triwikromo. Terbit atas ijin dari penulis. Hak Cipta terjemahan © 2013 oleh 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?”

***

The Eleventh Saint

Indah Lestari lahir di Singapura dan tinggal di Jakarta, Indonesia. Dia menyelesaikan S1 jurusan Sastra Inggris dari Universitas Padjadjaran dan S2 jurusan English Studies dari Jawaharlal Nehru University, India. Dia menerjemahkan novel JM Coetzee Disgrace (Aib) dan sebuah novel lain (dalam tahap penyuntingan) ke Bahasa Indonesia. Selain menjadi penerjemah lepas, dia meluangkan waktu untuk menulis puisi, yang beberapa di antaranya diterbitkan di Bacopa, Revival dan The White Elephant Quarterly pada 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?”

***

Mata Yang Menyala

MONA SYLVIANA lahir di Bandung, 16 Mei 1972. Ia menamatkan kuliah di Fikom Unpad tetapi lebih banyak menghabiskan waktu di Gelanggang Seni, Sastra, Teater, dan Film (GSSTF) Unpad. Itu yang membuatnya sulit berpisah dengan teater dan sastra. Setelah sempat bergabung dengan Studiklub Teater Bandung (STB), sekarang terlibat di Teater Nalar (lebih dulu bernama Teater Prung Bandung). Sejak tahun 2000 terlibat dalam kelahiran dan kegiatan Institut Nalar Jatinangor, sebuah lembaga nirlaba yang segala kegiatannya terpusat pada kesetaraan dan keragaman.

Cerita-cerita pendek Mona, selain di koran dan majalah, juga terkumpul di Improvisasi X (bersama Hikmat Gumelar dan M. Syafari Firdaus, 1995), Sastra Indonesia Angkatan 2000 (2000), Dunia Perempuan (2002), dan Living Together (Biennale Sastra Internasional, 2005). Pada 2009 ia diundang dalam kegiatan acara “Ubud Writers & Readers Festival”.

Mata Yang Menyala pertama kali muncul dalam kumpulan cerita pendek, Wajah Terakhir (PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2011), hak cipta © 2011 oleh Mona Sylviana. Edisi terbaru hak cipta © 2013 oleh Mona Sylviana. Diterbitkan atas ijin penerbit dan penulis. Hak cipta terjemahan © 2013 oleh 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.

***

 

Flaming Eyes

Indah Lestari lahir di Singapura dan tinggal di Jakarta, Indonesia. Dia menyelesaikan S1 jurusan Sastra Inggris dari Universitas Padjadjaran dan S2 jurusan English Studies dari Jawaharlal Nehru University, India. Dia menerjemahkan novel JM Coetzee Disgrace (Aib) dan sebuah novel lain (dalam tahap penyuntingan) ke Bahasa Indonesia. Selain menjadi penerjemah lepas, dia meluangkan waktu untuk menulis puisi, yang beberapa di antaranya diterbitkan di Bacopa, Revival dan The White Elephant Quarterly pada 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.

***

Blokeng

Ahmad Tohari, penulis terkenal yang telah memenangkan banyak penghargaan, lahir pada 13 Juni, 1948, di Tinggarjaya, Banyumas, Jawa Tengah. Seorang anak keluarga petani yang besar, Ahmad membawa alam yang beliau cintai kemana pun beliau pergi saat mudanya. Beliau menyuarakan rasa cintanya ini dalam tulisannya yang kebanyakan menceritakan kehidupan di desa dan kebudayaannya.
Ayahnya, seorang Muslim yang taat, mewariskan sikap hidupnya kepada Ahmad Tohari yang menganggap dirinya sebagai seorang penganut Islam yang maju dan terpelajar dan mendukung hukum Syariah sementara hidup damai dengan warga negara lain yang berasal dari keturunan dan kebudayaan yang berbeda.

Ahmad Tohari telah menghasilkan sebelas novel, dua kumpulan cerpen, dan beberapa tulisan sastra yang lain. Beliau menerima Hadiah Sastra Asia Tenggara, dan mengikuti International Writing Program di Iowa City, Amerika Serikat. Beliau juga dikenal dan dikagumi sebagai wartawan dan penulis tetap untuk Suara Merdeka, surat kabar terkenal di Jawa Tengah, dan majalah Tempo.

Ahmad Tohari terkenal sebagai penulis karangan tigaserangkai, Ronggeng Dukuh Paruk. Karya ini telah diterjemahkan dalam bahasa Belanda, Inggris, German dan Jepang. Cerita novel ini telah difilmkan oleh Shanty Harmain dengan judul Sang Penari. Tohari juga terkenal atas pengetahuannya mengenai seni Jawa. Saat ini beliau tinggal di daerah dekat kota Purwokerto, Kabupaten Banyumas di mana beliau ikut mengelola sebuah pondok pesantren dan menjadi penasihat Dinas Kementerian Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan setempat. Untuk mendapatkan daftar terbitan karya Ahmad Tohari, silahkan mengunjungi
www.ahmadtohari.com

Blokeng pertamakali terbit dalam kumpulan cerita pendek, Senyum Karyamin (PT Gramedia Pustaka Utama 2000), hak cipta © 2000 oleh Ahmad Tohari. Hak cipta perubahan dan penambahan tulisan © 2013 oleh Ahmad Tohari. Penerbitan karya tulis ini atas ijin dari penerbit dan penulis.
Hak cipta terjemahan © 2013 oleh 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.”

***

 

Blokeng

Elisabet Titik Murtisari lahir dan besar di Salatiga, Jawa Tengah – kota di mana ia betah tinggal karena masyarakatnya yang majemuk dengan latar belakang berbagai budaya dan karena sejarah penjajahan kolonialnya yang masih terlihat dari bangunan-bangunannya. Ia memperoleh gelar master dalam bidang Studi Penerjemahan dari Australian National University (ANU) dan PhD dalam bidang yang sama dari Monash University, Australia. Karena kecintaannya mengajar dan melakukan penelitihan riset, ia kembali ke Salatiga dan bekerja sebagai pengajar di Universitas Kristen Satya Wacana. Ia menaruh minat antara lain dalam bidang penerjemahan – terutama penerjemahan karya sastra, budaya, sosiolinguistik dan pragmatik.

***

 

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.”
 

***

Zakaria

Linda Christanty, adalah seorang penulis dan juga seorang wartawan. Karya tulisnya, “Militerisme dan Kekerasan di Timor Leste”, memenangkan Penghargaan Karya Tulis Terbaik Hak Asasi Manusia 1998. Kumpulan cerita pendeknya, Kuda Terbang Maria Pinto, memenangkan Penghargaan Sastra Khatulistiwa tahun 2004. Linda Christanty juga menulis Tongkat Sultan, sebuah novel yang menceritakan perseteruan selama tiga puluh tahun di Aceh, dan From Java to Atjeh, sebuah kumpulan berita yang ditulisnya tentang hukum syariah, perseteruan politik, kesukuan, dan hubungan sesama jenis. Tahun 2002 dia kembali meraih Penghargaan Kathulistiwa untuk kumpulan cerita pendeknya yang berjudul, Rahasia Selma. Sebelumnya Linda pernah menjadi ketua penyunting dari harian Masa Depan Aceh yang berkantor di Banda Aceh, Sumatra. Linda Christanty sekarang tinggal di Jakarta, dan bekerja sebagai penyunting di majalah Dewi, sebuah majalah khusus wanita terkenal.

Zakaria, adalah salah satu dari kumpulan cerita pendeknya yang terjadi di Aceh selama dan setelah masa perseteruan politik, Linda mengangkat sisi kemanusiaan Aceh ke dunia luar.

Hak Cipta (c) 2011 oleh Linda Christanty. Penerbitan karya cipta harus melalui izin penulis.
Terjemahan (c) 2013 oleh 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.

***

 

Zakaria

Dewi Anggraeni lahir di Jakarta, Indonesia dan sekarang tinggal di Melbourne, Australia tempat beliau mengajar 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.

Selain sebagai penulis kisah rekaan dan kisah nyata dalam bahasa Indonesia dan Inggris, beliau juga seorang peneliti masalah kemasyarakatan yang diakui.

Karya beliau telah diterbitkan 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 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.

 

***

 

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.

***

Radio Pemberontakan

Catastrova Prima lahir di Pati, Jawa Tengah pada tanggal 6 Maret 1984. Dia menetap di Semarang hingga saat ini. Gadis yang gemar menulis esai dan cerita pendek ini sangat sibuk dengan berbagai kegiatan. Selain sebagai penggiat literasi media di blog Mata Tanda, Catastrova juga ikut terlibat memberikan terapi bagi anak-anak berkebutuhan khusus. Prima dapat diikuti melalui 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.

******

Resistance Radio Station

Terjemahan dalam bahasa Inggris dilakukan dengan bantuan dari Dalang Publishing. Sal Glynn, penyunting.

***

 
 

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.

******

Kumpulan Puisi L.K. Ara

L.K. Ara, lahir di Takengon, Aceh, 12 November 1937. Seorang penulis puisi, cerita anak-anak, dan tulisan seni dan sastra, karya beliau telah diterbitkan secara luas dalam beberapa surat kabar dan majalah di Indonesia, Malaysia dan Brunei. Selain dari itu beberapa karya Ara telah diterbitkan oleh penerbit terkenal seperti, Balai Pustaka, Grasindo, Pena, Tonggak, Horison Sastra Indonesia, dan Yayasan Mata Air Jernis. Beliau adalah penerima Hadiah Seni dari Pemda Aceh (2009).

Ara pernah menjadi kepala bagian budaya Harian Mimbar Umum (Medan), Pegawai Sekretariat Negara, terakhir bekerja di Balai Puataka hingga pensiun (1963-1985). Bersama K. Usman, Rusman Setiasumarga dan M. Taslim Ali, beliau mendirikan Teater Balai Pustaka (1967) yang memperkenalkan penyair Tradisional Gayo, To’et, dan pentas di kota-kota besar Indonesia.

Ara sering kali mengikuti berbagai perkumpulan kesastraan di tanah air maupun di Malaysia. Acara terakhir yang beliau hadiri adalah Pertemuan Sastrawan NUMERA di Padang ( April 2012).

******

 
Kumpulan Puisi 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 secaya 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)

Kumpulan Puisi L.K. Ara

Drs. MM. Yohannes De Santo dilahirkan di Timor, Indonesia, pada tanggal 27 Januari, 1963. Ia lulus dari The Graduate School of Management PPM Jakarta dan belajar bahasa Inggris di Universitas Sanata Dharma, Yogyakarta. Saat ini John mengajar Business Ethics, Self Development, and Strategic Management di ASMI Santa Maria Yogyakarta. Beliau juga seorang penulis tetap dari terbitan Educare Magazine, yang disunting oleh Indonesian Bishop Conference Jakarta.

Sebagai seorang penulis dwi bahasa (bahasa Indonesia dan Inggris) John mampu menerjemahkan karya rekaan maupun nyata. Terjemahannya telah diterbitkan oleh beberapa penerbitan terkenal seperti: Kunci Ilmu – The Unbearable Lightness of Being oleh Milan Kundera, 2002 – ISBN 979-3200-006; Bentang –The Priest’s Madona oleh Amy Hassinger, 2006 – ISBN 979-3062-2; Penerbit Kanisius – Mythology and Shaman oleh Levy Strauss, 1997 – ISBN 979-497-585-9; Kepelpress – Experience and Education oleh John Dewey, 2002 – ISBN 979-96230-4-9.

Kami sangat menghargai kemurahan hati John yang dinyatakan dengan membuat terjemahan bermakna dari karya penyair L.K. Ara untuk halaman ini.

John dapat dihubungi di jds_128@yahoo.com jika Anda membutuhkan jasa penerjemah.

******

 
Kumpulan Puisi 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)

Akar Tradisi

Dewi Anggraeni lahir di Jakarta, Indonesia dan sekarang tinggal di Melbourne, Australia tempat beliau mengajar 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.

Selain sebagai penulis kisah rekaan dan kisah nyata dalam bahasa Indonesia dan Inggris, beliau juga seorang peneliti masalah kemasyarakatan yang diakui.

Karya beliau telah diterbitkan 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 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 sedikit pun, 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.

******

Roots

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.

******

Choose Site Version
English   Indonesian