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.

*****

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.

 

*****