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Duruwiksa
Purwanti Kusumaningtyas adalah pengajar di Jurusan S1 Sastra Inggris, Fakultas Bahasa dan Seni, Universitas Kristen Satya Wacana, Salatiga, Jawa Tengah. Dia memperoleh gelar master dan doktor dari Jurusan Pengkajian Amerika, Fakultas Ilmu Budaya, Universitas Gadjah Mada, Yogyakarta.
Dia tertarik pada banyak hal, termasuk naik gunung dan menjelajah, penulisan puisi dan cerita pendek. Dia telah menerbitkan puisi dan cerita pendek, antara lain dalam buku kumpulan puisi “Furtive Notions” (DeePublish 2022) dan kumpulan cerita pendek “They Are Here” (DeePublish 2023). Beberapa puisinya telah dibuat musik dan ditampilkan dalam berbagai acara nirlaba dan kemanusiaan, termasuk dalam acara LETSS Talk, lembaga pejuang kesetaraan perempuan yang terpercaya di Indonesia serta Festival Musik Rumah (FMR).
Dia sudah bekerja dengan Dalang Publishing sejak 2013, yaitu sejak dia mengenal penerbit yang memiliki semangat yang sama untuk melestarikan dan memperkenalkan keragaman Indonesia pada dunia.
Purwanti dapat dihubungi melalui: purwanti.kusumaningtyas@uksw.edu
*****
Duruwiksa
The villagers said that my grandfather kept an ogre. They said it was huge and frightening. They called it duruwiksa ⸺ the giant.
I only came to know my grandfather well this month. Before that, I always lived in a different city than him. Circumstances prevented me from visiting. However this month, I started my studies in Bandung.
“You stay with your grandfather,” my mother had ordered me. “I’m worried about your safety and won’t allow you to rent a room. You’ll be safe in your grandfather’s house.”
When my mother stated something, there was no use in arguing. Her final decision was accompanied by a prayer for her eldest daughter’s successful pursuit of education.
To my surprise, moving in with my grandfather was not that bad. Aside from having the opportunity to get to know this mysterious man better, I could also assist my cousin teach an afternoon lesson program near my grandfather’s house.
When I first entered the gate of my grandfather’s house, the orange sun hung like a flaming ball in the sky. Saripah — who I came to call Bi Ipah — was my grandfather’s longtime live-in maid, who over the years earned the position of a family aunt. She welcomed me on the front porch, then told me to clean up and eat the meal she had prepared.
“I am assigned to look after you, Neng Silva,” she said, addressing me respectfully with the Sundanese term for “miss.” When I told her that I refused to be waited on hand and foot, she added, “You cannot refuse. Your grandpa will be angry with me if you do.”
After further discussions with Bi Ipah about the way she treated and served me, I eventually came to obey her, for I was still a child in the eyes of my grandfather and Bi Ipah. Still, I often wondered why my grandfather spent more time locked in his room than enjoying the outside breeze or taking care of his many pet birds.
One night, I was surprised by the sound of several people outside the house. I peeked at them from my bedroom window. They had arrived in a truck, now parked by our front yard fence, and wore black costumes like silat, martial arts performers.
They entered our hall and gathered the big wooden boxes containing my grandfather’s gamelan music instruments and colorful flags, then took them out to the truck.
Curious, I went to see Bi Ipah in the kitchen. She was pouring boiling water into a small thermos and placing different kinds of food into a tiered tiffin.
“Tonight, your grandfather performs in the nearby village,” Bi Ipah explained before I even asked her.
Then I remembered grandfather’s conversation with Bi Ipah two days ago. He had been invited to perform the wayang golek, a wooden puppet show, at the neighboring village. The village chief’s child was getting married, and my grandfather was hired as a dalang, to narrate the stories while manipulating the puppets. Even though he did not receive as many invitations as he used to when he was young, Bi Ipah explained, he still performed the show several times a year, typically for his longtime customers.
My grandfather was a popular role model who generously shared his skills and knowledge of puppeteering with Sundanese art students and cultural activists. Tall and fit, my grandfather was charismatic. Although in his late seventies, he was still as nimble as a young man.
“What time will the wayang golek start?” I asked. “Why are they only now taking the instruments?”
Bi Ipah looked at me, obviously puzzled by my questions. “A wayang golek show usually begins at midnight and ends when the mosque calls out the dawn prayer time.”
I stopped asking questions so she could finish packing the food. She excused herself to take the tiffins to my grandfather and left me alone in the kitchen. My thoughts turned to the villagers’ story I’d heard that my grandfather kept an evil giant — the duruwiksa. It bothered me. What had started such a rumor? The villagers must have some reason to suspect that my grandfather kept an ogre. And do people really still believe in such things in this modern age?
I thought about my grandfather’s unusual behavior that had started several days ago. His attitude toward me changed. He didn’t say much, and he looked tense whenever he came out of his room.
“You look sad,” I had said to him one day. “Has something happened?”
After looking at me closely, my grandfather softly replied, “When I was your age, I was greedy. I decided to choose the easiest way to become rich, well-respected, and well-liked. Now, I’m paying the price ….”
That cryptic conversation still weighed heavy on my mind.
Footsteps approached from the porch, startling me. “Would you like to watch the show?” a voice asked.
It was Arip, Bi Ipah’s teenage son, who often came to help with washing the car and feeding the pet birds. “If you do, I’ll take you!” His round eyes sparkled.
“Do you think we’ll be able to stay awake until dawn?” I asked, shaking my head. “I can’t promise.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday.” Arip grinned. “So, it’s okay to stay up the whole night.”
I paused. I’ve never watched a live wayang golek performance — or even finished the few shows I tried to watch on TV. It might be worth trying.
“But please don’t tell my mother,” Arip whispered. “She’s fussy and always trying to keep me from things I want to do.” I chuckled as Arip’s eyes narrowed. “And remember, if you go to the puppet show, you have to stay till the end.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“We cannot violate your grandfather’s rules,” Arip said. “That’s what my mother told me. She would say that leaving early is pamali ⸺ bad luck. Especially because there’s a full moon now.”
“Pamali” was the one-word response that my mother and other elders used to answer anyone who questioned tradition. For me, the word was just a way to keep young people from using logic to challenge the rules.
I had to adhere to the word, as well. Before I left home to study in Bandung, my mother told me repeatedly to watch what I said to my grandfather or even when speaking within earshot of him. I couldn’t enter his room without permission. I couldn’t leave the house at night ⸺ especially not to wander around during community ceremonies and rites at the pendapa. I couldn’t do this; I couldn’t do that. Why? Because it was pamali.
“So,” Arip leaned into me and whispered, “keep this just between us.”
I nodded, feeling excited.
“If we don’t watch the puppet show till the end,” Arip continued, “duruwiksa will stop us on our way.”
“Wha-a-at?” I asked.
“Ssshhh! Don’t speak too loud! Someone might hear you!” Arip put his forefinger against his lips, then told me that a duruwiksa was a frightening giant who had bulging, fiery eyes. He represented greed. Selling your soul to him had its benefits, but also exacted a very high price.
Arip then told me about what happened to his mother’s friend when she left the puppet show before it ended. On her way home, she met a scary shadow. Shocked, she watched the fat human-like figure — but too big to be human — grow still bigger in front of her. As if in a dream, one of the giant puppet characters stood before her. When the wind chased away the clouds that hid the full moon, she could see him clearly.
The grotesque giant’s grey skin was furred with coarse, unruly hair. His face held a pair of bulging eyes and a big, round nose. When he opened his mouth, his long tongue unfurled down his chest. She could see his sharp teeth and felt his warm, saliva drop on her foot.
“So, what happened then?” I interrupted impatiently.
“People going home from the show found her —” Arip added dramatic emphasis to his voice to make the story scarier “—lying unconscious on the road.”
We were both silent. The story scared both of us.
“I will pick you up on my motorcycle at eleven-thirty tonight,” Arip said. “My mother is sleeping at my grandmother’s house, so she won’t know.”
My curiosity piqued, the next two hours felt like two years.
***
At 11:30 sharp, Arip arrived wearing a jacket, warm cap, and thick pants against the biting wind.
After a short ride, I heard faint gamelan music. It grew louder as we entered the field where the open-air theater was staged. Even though it was now past midnight and had started to drizzle, the dark night had changed to bright day, with people of all ages mingling about, and street vendors trying to profit from the lively party.
The wayang golek show began. When my grandfather appeared on the stage, people roared with praise and rounds of applause. Radiating an indescribable charm, his attractive appearance mesmerized his fans. Wearing the traditional costume of a dalang, my grandfather looked handsome, authoritative, and more robust than he did in daily life.
The wooden puppet characters were placed in a row in front of my grandfather. Each puppet was supported by a wooden stick. These sunduks were stuck into a big banana tree trunk. Its bark had been removed to leave a smooth surface. My grandfather sat behind the stage, behind the puppets.
The gamelan music started and was followed with wooden puppet art and rounds of applause. Young and old spectators were immersed in my grandfather’s beautiful rendition of the “Baratayudha War,” a story from the Mahabharata, a smriti text from ancient India.
Like the other spectators, Arip repeatedly sighed in awe of my grandfather’s skill in manipulating the puppets with his two hands. Occasionally, he clapped and cheered. My heart pounded as I watched the fight between one of the puppet giants and the puppet Bima, the second son of the five Pandawa heroes of the Mahabharata story. The music accompanying the scene matched it perfectly, creating a spectacular scene.
At one-thirty in the morning, the show became more exciting as we moved toward intermission. Around me, the audience burst into laughter when my grandfather brought the clown servant characters Cepot and Dawala to life. Even though they were comedic, their dialog was meaningful ⸺ especially when they showed their partiality to the family of Pandawa Lima, who stood for righteousness.
A warm feeling surged through me when Semar appeared. A symbol of wisdom, Semar helped his children make peace with a funny giant, who had vomited yellow noodles after Cepot beat him up. I didn’t expect my grandfather, who seemed so remote and unfriendly, to captivate so many people with his wooden puppet show.
Watching a live puppet show was fun — very different from watching one on television. I felt proud. I was lucky to have a grandfather who preserved the traditional culture in this modern era. As a dalang’s granddaughter, I realized I should participate in preserving our culture instead of wasting time on modern-day popular performances that only amounted to noise.
Suddenly, my stomach cramped in pain. It was only two in the morning. Maybe I was getting sick from the cold drizzly wind? Monthly cramps? I winced and tapped Arip on the shoulder. Competing with the noisy gamelan music, I said loudly, “I’m going to the restroom.”
Still focused on the stage, Arip nodded and put both thumbs up.
I asked a woman sitting behind me where the nearest restroom was. She said I could use the one in the village meeting hall, just a few minutes’ walk from the celebration. I quickly moved through the crowd.
My stomach cramps grew worse. I no longer cared about the drizzle soaking my hair. I had to cross a dark rice field to reach the village meeting hall. I turned on my smartphone’s flashlight so I could see better. I could still hear the gamelan music behind me. Although I was not a fan of darkness or large, vacant areas, my stomachache spurred me on.
So when I saw a shadow on the paved road between the rice fields, I couldn’t — wouldn’t — turn back. I needed that restroom! A sudden wind gust slapped at me, trying to push me back. I stumbled as lightning cut through the dark sky and the wind whipped me harder. A downpour felt imminent. I focused on the ominous weather. I couldn’t go back to the celebration, not after having gone this far.
Behind me, something pulled my arm, and I fell to the ground, suddenly frightened. A ghost?
I tried to get up, but a shadow rose in front of me. I remembered Arip’s story about the duruwiksa that had stopped his mother’s friend. The frenzied wind howled, and the skies thundered. My heart stammered — and then everything went dark.
When I next opened my eyes, I felt a soft caress on my cheek. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the glaring light. Relief surged through me as I saw my grandfather and realized I was safe in my bedroom.
“Grandpa,” I whispered weakly.
The old man didn’t answer. Wearing a thin smile, he looked at me calmly. I noticed the gray in his aging eyes and the pronounced veins in the hand that reached for me. “Are you all right?” he asked.
I was too emotional to say anything. I swallowed hard as I clearly remembered the scary face of the grinning duruwiksa that had felled me in the middle of the rain and lightning. I shivered.
Smiling, Grandpa patted my cheek. “You were told to never violate the rule of a puppet show. If you don’t want something bad to happen to you, never move from your seat before the show is over.”
Guilt silenced me into shaky breaths. Duruwiksa was real. I had met the ogre and survived.
“I warned you because I love you so much.” My grandfather’s soft, deep voice soothed me. “Just because you think you’re an adult doesn’t mean you can ignore what you’re told.”
I was moved by the cost of my grandfather’s choice that, now in his wisdom, he regretted. A tear slipped between my eyelids. “I’m sorry, Grandpa.”
*****