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It's him, it's me

Born in 1951 and died in 2010, he was known as Ibung by all his peers and kin. I called him Papa. This is him in the photo, taken when he was in his early 30s, I think. Nowadays, his and my mom’s friends often comment that I look a lot like him.

We were never close. While I was little, he was often away for work, mostly in other cities, and only home on weekends. At some point in his life, he became so absorbed in his obsession with starting his own ventures. He initiated a couple of them, but none of them landed well. After the 1997 recession, he finally gave in. He spent most of his time at home, mainly moving about on the front porch tending to the goldfish aquarium or caring for our pet birds, or when inside playing solitaire on our desktop computer. From time to time, ideas for new business ventures would emerge through friends or relatives. His eyes would spark again during these moments. But they never developed into anything solid.

As I grew older, I became increasingly rebellious toward him. Despite everything, he continued trying to connect with me.  This usually occurred during the rare times we drove alone together to out-of-town destinations. Then he would give me pep talks about how to become a successful businessman. He also took charge of my education, pushing me toward earning a BA in Economics focusing on Management. This was one of his dreams for me—just as he had hoped during my early teenage years that I would become a swimmer like him—that I would follow in his footsteps as a business manager, or at least as an accountant. His dreams were simple, yet I continued to harbor resentment. It took me some time to realize that my anger was never about or at him. I was angry towards all the unjust things that the world had offered: to me, to those I saw around me, to him.

I believed the distance between us grew so wide that it had become unbridgeable, and I made sure of that by choosing to stay in Yogyakarta, away from parents' home and from him. This continued until around November 2009, when my mom told me to come back. He had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer and was given just three months to live. The doctor advised that the only thing we could do was provide him with comfort in his final days.

So, I returned to my parents’ house in Jakarta and stayed there for an extended period. Most of my time there was spent driving him to various alternative healing therapies throughout the city. I also assisted him with moving to the bathroom so that my mom could wash him. Eventually, he began to experience constant back pain as the cancer had already spread throughout his spine. I would wake up in wee hours whenever he rang the bell, signaling that he needed someone to rub his excruciatingly painful back. Usually, my mom was deeply sleeping next to him, too tired to even hear the bell. One night after rubbing his back, he said softly to me, “Thank you.” I didn’t respond.

In his final days, shortly after his 60th birthday on February 14th, more or less 3 months after his diagnosis, his condition declined rapidly. After a few days in the hospital, he lost consciousness, and soon after, he could only breathe with the help of a machine. One morning, while my mom, who had been staying with him outside the intensive care unit, went home for a quick shower, the attending doctor approached me with a somber expression and informed me that all his vital signs had ceased. He was being kept alive only by the machines. She asked me what should be done next. I called my mom to return to the hospital, and when she arrived, I shared the news with her. My sister was there too.  After spending the entire morning thinking, my mom told me that the decision was mine to make. My sister wasn't very helpful either and left the decision up to me. I chose to unplug the machine. A few hours later, he passed away surrounded by those who loved him.

I bathed his body together with a few male relatives, under the guidance of an official corpse-washer provided by the hospital. We wrapped his body in a shroud and brought it home, where we prayed for him. During the wake, everyone kept mentioning that he seemed to be smiling. “Husnul khatimah“, they said. Both my sister and I were asked to give eulogies. My sister quickly wrote something and delivered it through her tears. I did not say anything.

We then brought him to the cemetery. My brother-in-law, a few male cousins, and I went into the grave where his body would be laid to rest. As others lowered him down, we received him from below. We untied the shroud, and as the only son, I was asked to recite the adzan in his right ear. I refused, and my brother-in-law took on that role. Afterward, I stared at him for some long seconds and kissed his forehead. At that moment, I smiled all teary-eyed and thought, “There, it took a while until we get here, but finally, we have our closure.”

This happened 14 years ago, and it’s very rare for me to think about him ever since. But not tonight. As I write this, I can sense a deep presence enveloping the air—it’s him, and it’s me too.

[blahdom]

[blahdom]

bon suwung

Gunawan Maryanto

Aku pingin bercerita. Panjang. Tapi apakah kamu sanggup? Aku sanggup?

Eka adalah satu adalah bumi tempat mahluk hidup dan dihidupi. Dwi adalah dua adalah sawah tempat tumbuhan tumbuh. Tri adalah tiga adalah air rumah para ikan. Catur adalah empat adalah angkasa rumah bangsa burung. Panca adalah lima adalah gunung yang mengukuhkan semesta. Sad adalah enam adalah manusia penata dunia. Sapta adalah tujuh adalah raja manusia nabi di bumi. Hasta adalah delapan adalah pendeta yang tekun bertapa. Nawa adalah sembilan adalah dewa yang dipuja manusia. Dasa adalah sepuluh adalah penanda kesempurnaan.

Bencana di musim ketiga. Bumi kehilangan seluruh dirinya, tak ada hujan, kalau pun ada ia jatuh di musim yang salah, membuat tumbuh-tumbuhan sekarat. Tanah kering rekah selebar-sedalam jurang berisi hewan melata yang berbisa. Para binatang meraung di jalan-jalan. Panas yang mengerikan tanpa tempat berteduh, mencipta kematian di mana-mana. Banyak tumbuhan tak bisa tumbuh, mati oleh sepinya air, menjerit dimangsa hewan-hewan lapar. Langkanya tumbuh-tumbuhan membuat langka makanan. Manusia-manusia menderita. Kejahatan menjadi-jadi, saling berebut kehidupan menghalalkan segala cara. Hewan-hewan air, bangsa ikan menderita di mana-mana, panas tak mendapat kesejukan. Yang kecil mati jadi mangsa yang besar, ibarat makan kawan sendiri pun bisa terjadi. Bangsa burung merintih mencari pengungsian, saling makan, hingga banyak yang mati jatuh ke tanah, berserak di mana-mana. Gunung penyangga semesta terjungkal, hingga bumi hilang keseimbangnya, kejatuhan yang mencipta sengsara. Gempa bumi terjadi, katakanlah, duapuluhsatu kali sehari, merusak keindahan dunia. Orang kebanyakan menderita, kematian menjadi-jadi, yang kuat makan yang lemah, hilanglah tatanan semesta.

Raja tak kuasa menghentikan bencana, karena hanya manusia biasa yang tak luput dari bahaya. Pendeta tekun memanjatkan doa, meminta anugrah dewa memohon lenyapnya sang bencana. Mereka berlari ke puncak-puncak gunung, menghujankan bunga-bunga, tapi bencana tak kunjung reda. Akhirnya pasrah pada dewata, hati sumarah pada Yang Kuasa, jika hendak melebur dunia. Dewa bisa sakit tapi tak bisa mati, menderita tak terkira. Sempurna sudah bencana, di langit, gelap pekat, kilat dan petir bertubi-tubi, berkelebatan, ekor Hyang Anantaboga berpusing seperti kitiran, tanduk lembu Andini, kawah Candradimuka menggelegak, meluap lahar hingga ke bumi, makin menambah kesengsaraan.

Lega hati Yang Kuasa, telah memberi ujian pada dunia, sebagai peringatan untuk manusia pada Sang Pencipta.

Tetapi ada mahluk serupa bocah kembar. Yang satu membawa cambuk, ingin menggiring angin, yang satu membawa tempurung, maksud hati menguras samudera. Keduanya berpapasan di sebuah perempatan, salah kata salah ucap berubah menjadi perkara, bergumul berebut unggul, demikianlah asal muasal bencana.

Tersebutlah, selepas bencana. Di langit timur tampak segurat garis cahaya setajam lidi jantan. Selepas cahaya tersilak pelataran luas tanpa nama tanpa pohonan. Bon Suwung. Ada bocah lanang memetik bunga. Lalu dibuang. Memetik lagi. Dibuang lagi. Lalu ada bocah perempuan mendekat. Berkaca-kaca melihat sampah bunga-bunga. Lalu jongkok memungutinya satu persatu. Ditata di atas sebuah pagar bata.

Sekarang keduanya sudah tumbuh dewasa. Sudah menemukan jalannya sendiri-sendiri. Hingga suatu hari Si Lelaki teringat pernah membuang bunga. Teringat pernah berlari ke timur.

Geragapan Si Lelaki mengetuk pintu berupa alang-alang. “Bu, aku pulang.”

“E, masuk sini. Bocah nakal.” Suara ibunya sedikit pun tak berubah. Masih seperti duapuluh tahun yang lalu.

“Aku kangen ibu. Ibu kangen aku tidak?”

“Tidak. Rambutmu berdebu. Sampai di mana saja kamu?”

Si Lelaki tertunduk. Seperti bocah kecil yang ketakutan karena pulang bermain terlalu sore.

“Pasti bermain di bendungan lagi. Bocah kok, nggak bisa dibilangin. Anak siapa sih, kamu? Apa mau jadi tumbal bendungan kayak Sugeng?”

“Bapak tidak pulang, Bu?”

“Dimakan anjing, kali.”

Keduanya menangis. Ibu dan anaknya. Perempuan dan tanggung jawabnya.

Leng-leng gatining kang. Awan saba-saba. Nikeng Ngastina. Samantara tekeng. Tegal milu ring karya. Krena lakunira. Parasu Rama. Kanwa Janaka. Dulur Narada. Kapanggih ing ika. Jumurung ing karsa. Saparti tala. Sang bupati.

“Aku sudah tak berani berharap kamu pulang, seperti bapakmu. Biar. Biar malam sepi-sepi saja. Tak perlu ada harap, bulan dan bintang. Tidak perlu ada apa-apa. Dan sekarang kamu pulang. Rambutmu berdebu. Ada apa? Tidak ada apa-apa, kan? Tidak perlu ada apa-apa.”

“Aku tidak berniat pulang. Tidak sekalipun. E, ternyata malah pulang. Tiba-tiba ketemu pintu tembusan belakang rumah. Perasaan aku sudah berlari begitu jauh. Tak menengok belakang sama sekali. Ternyata…”

“Pintu sudah kaututup belum? Nanti anjing-anjing hutan masuk.”

“Aku kangen ibu. Ibu kangen aku tidak?”

“Tidak.”

Si Ibu membelai rambut anaknya. Mencari kutu, ketombe dan cerita yang terselip di sesela rambut kaku itu. Tak satu pun ketemu. Termasuk air matanya duapuluh tahun yang lalu. Lalu masuk ke belakang. Pura-pura bikin kopi.

“Katanya kamu mau pulang. Mana? Katanya: aku mau pulang. Lewat jalan yang lalu. Tunggu aku di Bon Suwung. Aku pulang naik naga Taksaka. Tadi sore Parikesit baru saja mati. Mayatnya dihanyutkan di Bengawan Silugangga. Tanpa doa. Tanpa upacara. Biar saja. Yang terang aku mau pulang. Tunggu aku!”

“Kopinya sudah jadi. Diminum. Nanti keburu dingin.”

“Bapak belum pulang, Bu?”

“Nggak tahu. Tadi aku seperti mendengar suaranya. Nggak tahulah. Dimakan anjing, kali. Sudahlah. Kamu menunggu siapa?”

“Pacar.”

“Yang mana? Siapa? Yang dulu pernah kaubawa ke rumah itu? Yang rambutnya panjang? Yang kaupanggil-panggil tiap malam? Yang mana? Ibu kok lupa.”

“Yang baru.”

“Siapa namanya?”

“Nggak tahu.”

Dalam tubuh naga Taksaka. Seorang perempuan jatuh tertidur. “Tolong, bawa lari aku. Sejauh kau bisa!” Begitu rintihnya sebelumnya. Pada siapa?

Lelaki muda di sampingnya membuat puisi. Tentang seorang perempuan yang jatuh tertidur. Dibaca sekali, teringat Marquez, kertas itu disobek-sobeknya, disebar sepanjang rel. Melihat puisi beterbangan, mbak pramugari segera datang membawa secangkir kopi. Cangkir kecil berwarna hijau. Plastik.

Lelaki muda membangunkan Si Perempuan.

“Kopinya sudah jadi. Diminum. Nanti keburu dingin.”

“Sudah sampai mana, Mas? Sudah sampai Bon Suwung belum?”

“Dik, kereta ini menuju Jogja. Aku nggak tahu bon suwung-mu itu terletak di mana?”

“Aku juga nggak tahu. Dulu aku pernah menanam airmataku di sana. Kupupuk dengan tahi babi seminggu sekali. Lalu tumbuh subur. Daunnya lebat, hijau, beterbangan setiap sore. Aku suka duduk-duduk di bawahnya, menggembala angin. Lalu datang masa sekolah. Anak-anak tak pernah lagi pulang ke rumah. Antar aku ke tempat itu, Mas.”

Buta Pandawa tata gati wisaya. Indriyaksa sara maruta. Pawana bana margana samirana.

“Sudah, diamlah, Dik. Adikku, lihat bulan bulat seperti kepala raksasa yang menakutkan.”

Sebenarnya aku ingin bercerita. Panjang. Tapi apa kau sanggup? Aku sanggup?

Suatu sore aku melihatmu. Berlarian di pelataran luas. Tidak mengejar kupu-kupu. Lalu berhenti. Termangu. Berdiri di depan sampah bunga-bunga matahari. Lalu kamu bernyanyi, entah lagu apa, aku tak pernah mendengarnya. Kira-kira di bait ke lima tanganmu mulai mengambil bunga-bunga yang berserakan itu. Lalu kamutata di atas sebuah pagar bata. Begitulah. Berulang kali.

Kamu tak menangis.

Malamnya arwah-arwah bunga itu mengganggu tidurmu. Kamu mengigau. Menyebut-nyebut sebuah nama. Entah nama siapa aku tak mengenalnya. Dan nama yang kamupanggil-panggil itu tak kunjung datang. Begitulah sampai malam terbangun.

Paginya aku membawa cahaya sore yang kubungkus kertas koran. Kamu tak suka. Sayang. Kamu cuma diam. Memeluk lutut. Menunduk.

Kamu tak menangis.

Aku pingin bercerita. Panjang. Tapi buat siapa?

Musim hujan. Kau tergila-gila pada hujan. Tak sembuh-sembuh. Tak juga beranjak dari kursi taman dan melayat ke rumahku, bangsat. Tak berziarah ke kuburanku. Apa lagi berdoa bagi cerita-cerita lama. Gawat. Aku terlanjur mati. Dan kau tak juga segera paham.

“Aku minta maaf, Mas. Aku tak bisa apa-apa selain minta maaf. Dan terakhir, tolong antar aku sampai di Bon Suwung.”

Stasiun Tugu. Si Lelaki berjalan ke timur. Pegangan pada bintang sendirian memanggil pagi hari. Aku ingin mencari embun yang serupa dengan airmatamu, begitu pamitnya pada Si Perempuan. Si Perempuan berteriak, tapi sudah kehilangan lacak. Si Lelaki sudah hilang di perempatan.

Jogjakarta, 2002

[blahdom]

[blahdom]

[blahdom]

[blahdom]

[blahdom]

[blahdom]

When one cannot establish innocence, one joins the cavernous ranks of the guilty, and guilt, it seems, removes the value from one's life or death. When one is guilty, there is little available language to speak of injustice, hardship, or death. Moral judgment has already been passed - one has brought on one's own misfortune

Miriam Ticktin, 2016

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[blahdom]

[blahdom]

[blahdom]

Richard Bell, 2022

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[blahdom]

To write is to die a little, but a little less alone

Marc Auge

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[blahdom]