Date: 21 August 2023

I want to tell you guys a beautiful story from my favorite book ever. Please have a seat and enjoy this one; you won’t regret it.

I have one personal favorite book that contains 10,126 pages in it. That would be ten times longer than some bearded guy’s Communist Manifesto or War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy.

10,126 pages. Took a lifetime to read and understand that book, as some parts were blurred and slightly torn, especially in the earlier and later parts. However that long, trust me, I would spend my entire life reading and savoring every page of that book until my last day.

The book was written in 1969 and published in 1997. But, in actuality, the final draft of that book is already finished longer than light has been travelling — before the first big bang, before the moon was formed, before the first Neanderthal was born, and before Saturn had its own ring.

The ink is dry.

The pen has been lifted.

One day, at the right time, the book will be read aloud by its Writer in the presence of its main character. And everyone has their own book for Him to read.

I will narrate to you from the very first page, if I may. This comes from my rough, vague memories gathered from people who know the main character personally. And, for this time, you will refer to the main character of that book.

Okay, let’s get started.

Page 1 from 10,126. 10,125 pages left.

The first page of that book starts with a story of a cry echoed uncontrollably through the small room of a public hospital, where grandpa took grandma in a rush after you kicked some parts of her belly.

That was nasty, to be honest.

But those kicks were deeply longed for and waited for every day by both of them. Sometimes, they were cheering and applauding when you did that, as if it were the decisive penalty kick in the last minute of a World Cup final.

Somewhere in early August, that kick, apparently, hit harder than usual. That day, the kicks became cries, and the longing altered beautifully to welcoming and embracing.

A beautiful baby was born that day.

That baby then has a name.

But, personally, I preferred her nickname: mother.

Cheers and applause get more festive than before, accompanied by endless prayers, silent wishes, and high hopes.

Time passed, and she grew up fulfilled by love, giving her love to her surroundings. Becoming the one who always sticks to God’s book in her entire life, the one who always lets her lips smile despite carrying a silent burden, and the one who brings peace unto others by her presence.

Life is always beautiful to her and everything she’s been touching.

I don’t want to skip any pages of this book, but let me fast-forward things to page 9,613. That’s where the new character is introduced, which you, readers, will know later on.

Now, we’re opening page 9,613. 514 pages left.

The page opens with a cry as well. From a small room, but not from a public hospital, I suppose. The cry should be heard around January or February 1996, but it seems like this baby had no enough patience to stay inside your belly longer, as he’s eager to meet you sooner in late November. He may know something that would happen if he’s not rushing to live sooner. Maybe he doesn’t want to waste any days.

It only took one and a half months earlier than the usual 9 months for that baby to finally have his first cries. His skin is quite yellowish and requires some intervention from the UV light and direct sunlight to make him more alive. His shape is quite tiny compared to his peers. Later on, I heard that some part of his lungs is not quite perfectly formed and leaves some flakes on it. And later, his brain would develop something he never expected, but that was another story to tell. Despite the imperfection, blessings and prayers will flow to him abundantly, right from his first day until the years to come.

Yes, that baby is me.

In that room, you and dad were happy, albeit mixed with smiles, tears, sweat, and surprises, as that baby had survived against the odds.

Everyone was so happy and offering me a good word that could be put as my whole name. And finally, my full name consists of five words! That also means five different prayers in it, from different people.

One word has an exact meaning of the situation of my early coming to this world: Sabiq. In Arabic, that means the one who wants to be the first, the one who goes ahead, and the one who outlasts others.

You gave a lot of care and love to that crying baby, despite knowing that your time with that baby was quietly running out. Yes, I know you were slightly hinted at by the loss of blood that sometimes occurred before I was born. The sleepiness during the daytime that has occasionally happened since your high school time. The unexplained fatigue.

And finally, you knew that your heart wasn’t working properly when you were checking on your belly in the hospital for the first time.

You knew long before I was born. And you still showed up on every page until page 9,613 just to greet and meet me.

If you could see your whole life from start to finish, would you change things?

Maybe you know that in the next 513 days, or 513 pages, the word “heart” that was previously associated with “love” is later on associated with “hospital”. The place that is mentioned in all important parts of the book, the place that carries both the cries of starting, ending, and everything in between.

And now, the ending part is about to happen.

It might be that you had known it all along, whether this is the end or not.

But, I am not sure I believe in those kind of things anymore. Sometimes, beginnings and endings are intertwined. Often they were cross-hatched, boundless, and blurry when we see it through a polarized microscope and squinted eyes.

Now, we’re going to read page 10,125. One page left.

Some pages and days before this day, you had just graduated from the university. Dad and grandpa recall that you really wanted to attend that ceremony despite the doctors saying no, as you might be getting exhausted and getting sicker. You just underwent the first surgery, and obviously there’s no one on this earth who would want the second one.

Your heart was trembling more on that day, I suppose. The committee and the master of ceremonies of the graduation announced your name earlier than the cum laude ones, so you could finish early and go back to the hospital as soon as possible. The plan was to bring you to the hospital in a blitz after the tiring graduation.

Yet, you got your second surgery. This time the doctors were unsure of what they’d be working on, since the first one was deemed a success.

But, before, we took some photos. You’re too weak to carry me, so my lovely aunt does the job for you. I was pointing at you. As if I would not see you again.

As if saying to my future self: “Please always remember that one person. Do not ever forget her.” That is where our last photos were taken. Not knowing that would be the last for both of you and me.

Page 10,126. The last page. Your book’s last page.

The last page also starts in a hospital. As always, cries are mentioned on this page as well.

I was not mentioned directly in the first paragraph of this page, as the hospital and doctors forbade me from being with you on that particular day. I have been waiting for you at home, one and a half kilometers from the hospital. Waiting for you to come back and play together. I think that day I had some toys that I wanted to play around with you.

While I was waiting at home, in your room, some of the adults in the other room were crying. Aunts, uncles, grandpas, grandmas, cousins, neighbors. Dad was not there, I think. But I saw later he looked paler than usual after hearing some news about you, right from the doctors in the hospital. And the other adults chose to cry rather than to fully digest the news. Acceptance didn’t exist yet at that time. The sorrow just introduced itself, before its name changes to grief.

But I didn’t understand that at all at that time.

Maybe I was playing around with my toys, and my ears had been shut for entire days, so the news wasn’t fully heard by me. But that doesn’t matter anyway since I didn’t know the meaning of all the words they said. They were adamant about crying in front of me and chose to cry in another room. I know that because one of them turned his face after seeing me directly and rushed to go to another room just to cry hard. That’s strange, since I thought crying was completely normal because I often did that as well.

At that age, my favorite was superhero-kind-of-things; I don’t care much about what I hear, as it might be my eyes that would lift all the sense and do all the hard work for me to grasp the world I live in. That’s why I often didn’t obey dad and you, and chose to seek and read that Batman comic instead. I think I am more interested in the black and mysterious gown, superpowers, bravery, and sacrifice for others. And the idea of an orphan who could become a hero. Not knowing it was a foreshadowing of what would happen to me that day.

Maybe I was dwelling on those thoughts all day, not knowing one of my heroes is going away just like that.

Then, you finally came back home. Everyone was rushing to see you. Everyone was there, coming from their place, and wanted to greet you. I did that too as well, as I felt I hadn’t seen you in days or so. Whenever I asked about your whereabouts, I was often told that I must pray instead and not have a clear answer to that simple question.

Pray? What’s that? Oh, maybe they mean… play? What’s pray? Oh, they said that is when someone lifts their hands up and wishes something good to happen. Ah, I don’t understand. That was too confusing. The only thing I cared about that day was to play, play, play, and play with you.

You were coming home, I was told.

Yes, you’re coming! I’ve seen a white car coming! Is that you in there?

Then, the double door in my home was opened widely. So you could enter without a hassle, the adults said. So you could enter it easily, I think. The door was not quite wide open when only one opens.

But, I was surprised that you were coming home sleeping while everyone else was awake.

I was more confused that you were coming wrapped in a white cloth.

I have never seen that outfit before, mum. Where are your flowery clothes? The one that has orchids on it? Or the cool black gown that you wore during your graduation? What’s the white thing that’s placed on your nosehole?

I think that day was hotter than usual, and yet you were fully wrapped in that very thick cloth and weren’t sweating at all. Even your nosehole is blocked with that white thing. You must be having difficulty breathing, right?

Did you find it okay, mum?

You were lying there and not moving an inch.

Ah, you might be sleeping without a care, I suppose.

You just got very tired, right?

I worry that you might be very tired after doing some adult things that I don’t know in that hospital, where I heard scary things happened there and sick and blood and stuff. That’s why I was scared to go to that place, even if it’s bright and full of lights, and sometimes I was given a candy from the woman everyone called a nurse.

But, you are very brave, mum! To go to that scary place on your own and still have time to come back home again, just to see me again.

Eh, is that so, right, no?

Then, everyone gathered and walked together. I heard they’d walk to a mosque nearby. I saw that you were still sleeping inside a carrier, where dad, grandpa, and any muscular men I could find out there were freeing their shoulders and putting that carrier on. I was laughing, as it would be a fun way to sleep while you were carried, and yet confused why you were still not moving an inch despite being carried inside that thing. You must be feeling something slippery, right? Having around seven men out there carrying you on their shoulders while you were napping in the daylight. I find it uncomfortable, yet I don’t know why you’re still doing that, especially in the daylight when you are usually awake.

The fact that I know, after some hours, I was standing on some brown dirt and a temporary wooden plank placed there. I know it was temporary since it was slightly tilted and not adeptly placed. There’s a hoe near that brown dirt and accumulated soils that formed a little mountain. I was tempted to play with it, actually. Then, I turned my sight to that wooden plank again. There are alphabets there. I think that is a name? Yes, I know it’s a name because I had found things exactly like that at home, written in front of the book, written on things you have owned. That is grandma’s way to differentiate things that belong to you and others. Such a funny thought, as someone would write names on an ugly wooden plank. Someone’s name should belong to a book, paper, or chalkboard, right? Or maybe their lunchboxes, diary, or a pen? Why do you own an ugly wooden plank? I don’t understand.

I have never seen names written on a wooden plank, or a lot of granite blocks that spread evenly near that wooden plank. I tried to read the names of others, but I couldn’t even though I put my eyes in a zoom. The alphabet seems like chicken’s trace on the dirt, as I began to squint a little more, they looked the same.

I couldn’t understand anything about it. Everyone is watching that wooden plank with a blank stare and began to weep. As I wandered around, I was careless and maybe fell on that dirt. Someone pulled me up, and I was standing again and laughing as if nothing had happened.

Then, I was staring right at that wooden plank. I turned my body in full just to face-to-face with that thing. Your name was on it, written by the black permanent marker. The one I was told not to use when I draw something in my house’s wall.

When I was standing there, maybe I heard you hear everything. The cries, echoes, whispers, prayers, losses, and probably my rumbling and mumbling, saying something which no one understands. But maybe you understood that. Because that day, I may sense it was you who pulled me up so I could stand again, just like you always did.

Then, I was tired and got back home and slept like a baby. But, at that time, during my sleep after that long and tired day, my wide open arms actually felt colder than before. I realize that you were not sleeping in the same bed as me anymore. Eh, where are you?

I was too tired to think about your whereabouts. I continued to sleep and did not want to play with my toys for the moment.

That was the last part of your book.

10,126 pages. Ten thousand and one hundred and twenty-six days.

27.7 years. Twenty-seven point seven years.

Your book stops there. Wow, 27. A cool number. You’re sharing the same stages with Hendrix, Lennon, Joplin, and Morrison. But I know your place would be different right now, and you’re not seeing them even if you know one of their songs. Instead, your place is filled by lights that were sent from my praying mat five times a day at the very least. The lights keep getting there to your place, and it doesn’t stop. The light comes from every direction to make sure that there’s no dark spot presents in your place right now. Every corner has lights beamed on it, white and pure.

Page 10,126. The last page of your book.

That is the same page as page 514 of my own book.

Then, I was opening page 10,126. Exact same page number as your last page.

10,126 pages. Ten thousand and one hundred and twenty-six days.

27.7 years. Twenty-seven point seven years.

But, this time of my own book and my own life.

I opened that page: page 10,126.

Ah, we’re at the same age now.

I am the same age when you left.

Yesterday.

Today, I am opening page 10,127.

The page that you never had in your book.

The ink is dry.

The pen has been lifted.

Now, I have enough vocabulary and understanding, as I traced the first 514 pages of my book. I borrowed others’ memories to fill those raw and vivid pages, and tried to re-run them in my heart. My memories are betraying me in remembering those pages. I know the brain and body do not forget, but it seems that we forget the way we should take to get there. I wished and trained so hard that every neuron and neurotransmitter inside my brain is working in the full capacity just to retrace those memories back. Connecting every circuit just to make sure that no memories left behind.

All those efforts were to no avail.

It was impossible. Although it was necessary.

Because no words were saved in my brain that can comprehend the experience. Memories are translated and rendered from words, and we assert the meaning of those words when we have fully understood. So the only way I could get is borrow someone’s memories of that moment. Sometimes, they have difficulty recalling it because it was full of sorrow, and clearly no one wants to remember that. Sometimes, I have recalled that memory through the photos that were hidden from me, and I just discovered it later during my decluttering time.

Now, I am sitting in my room and feel disconnected from time and space, and more connected to the black hole that warps all of it, expanding to near-infinite, which I can’t reach because I have my own limits.

I am hitting my own ceiling right now.

I thought the pain would disappear and dissolve as the limit ends. I was thinking that there’s an expiry date for every pain we experience, every loss we mourn, every emotion that we process.

I thought the pain was only mine.

But, having that thought lingering in my head for more seconds, I condemned myself as a selfish man if I continued to think so.

The pain and loss were never entirely mine. Never.

For everybody in this world, there was someone who mourned their loss. Even if they didn’t understand and didn’t know why.

I thought that limit would end yesterday, as I believe there’s no such thing as a premature son who could outlive his own mother. It feels like I am defying gravity. Standing alone against the physics. Declaring war on science. If Feynman and Einstein were still alive, they would be asking about the formulas and proof on how I am doing that.

Now, I am older than you, mum.

It’s strange that nearly three decades after your last moment, I am still here. Saying yes to life, even if so much no I had taken while I am living this life. Some of the no are hurting; the most hurtful one is the truth saying no to me with a lie. It’s as if I don’t deserve the truth at all.

The truth that I was and still seeking turns out to be a realization that free will and destiny are boundless and incomprehensible. They don’t care much about the space and time. They expand, like this universe. Strangely, at the same time, they don’t change their form at all like nothing happened.

The only thing we can do, is to surrender. Immersing oneself to the beauty and chaos of consequences. Surrender as an act of courage, rather than defeat. The courage to admit that there’s more to life that we can’t comprehend at all, yet we’re still forced to accept every second of it.

Seems like my pages keep writing themselves onwards, although I don’t really know when it really ends.

But, I know it was already fully written, and I was shown its entirety at one moment before I was born. Yes, during the assignment of every soul that was tasked to be placed on earth, long before I was born, I was told and shown everything. Every permutation and choice. Even the leaves that grow and fall near me were written as well. The air that I breathe. The hurt that I feel.

I was given the free will on how to choose that in the wisdom I could get from other books that serve as a manual of life. Those books were passed down through many iterations and generations, and it hasn’t changed after 1400 years.

And I still said yes back then, eagerly. Even I was rushing to go to the world to start living.

Which I plan to still say yes to, every day, every page.

Until it runs out and the book is closed.

The ink is dry.

The pen has been lifted.

Mum, if you could see your whole life from start to finish, as I am reading yours, would you change things?

Would I change things?

Would things change?

Despite knowing the journey and where it leads, I embrace and welcome every second of it. Despite the pain and loss, I think life is still beautiful, and I am eager to wake up every day just to immerse myself fully in it. To deep dive and let myself sink into its depth. Despite these slings and arrows, I force myself to turn. Despite the failure, I put another effort and have more courage to try again.

There are times when I was standing near the cliff and I choose to turn and refrain to jump from it. There are times when the edge is closer and closer, yet I face it and the edge began to be rounding rather than sharping. The stones that I have carried in my pocket are getting lighter and lighter every day, not because it’s shrinking, but my pocket is getting larger and my walking is hastened and directed. The scars and wounds are still there, but they are not quite noticeable anymore. No open wounds are exist. All is closed and healed.

I promise. I know you know our pinky promise.

I wouldn’t let the fear of abandonment shrink me. I wouldn’t let the days slip without gratitude and compassion. I wouldn’t let myself drown in disbelief and discouragement of what was already destined, written, in this life.

I will never forget you, even if my memories of you betray me the whole time. I know throughout the time, my mind and body will begin to forget their soul.

Lastly, I want to remember a bit about you for a long time in this life, so I can tell you everything when we meet again.

I can’t wait for it, to be honest.

Take my heart when you go, mum.

Take mine in its place, son.

Indeed, we belong to God, and indeed, to Him we will return.

Mum, 1969–1997–∞ ~ Me, 1995–∞

Saat muazin berganti tugas menjadi imam, nyala api berwarna merah jingga mulai merayap padat pada dinding rumah Mihamas. Rumah itu berada di pinggiran pemakaman, hanya berjarak sekitar dua atau tiga hasta saja dari sana, dan sekitar tiga atau empat meter dari rumah-rumah dadakan para perantau. Rumah dadakan itu dibuat seadanya dari campuran kayu pinus dan kayu sengon dan semuanya beratapkan ijuk.

Tepat hitungan ketiga sejak makmum pulang dari surau, rumah Mihamas dan pekarangan perantau itu perlahan berubah menjadi api unggun besar. Tak peduli kayu-nya sudah dipernis atau dipelitur, api sudah menjalar sampai ke atap-atap.

Sebelum hitungan ketiga, tepatnya pada hitungan kedua, warga sekitar sudah berlarian membeli air di tempat pengisian air minum terdekat. Kemarau belum juga selesai walaupun sudah lewat masa tenggang. Pemadam sudah dipanggil dan mengabarkan akan segera datang. Warga sekitar yang pernah berdinas sebagai pensiunan polisi dan tentara tentu saja hanya punya pistol dan peluru yang tak akan bisa memadamkan api. Semua orang terlihat was-was dan berkeringat melihat api yang semakin tinggi. Keringat dingin mereka terpanaskan hawa api, terasa hangat seperti air yang dimasak matang untuk mandi pagi.

Inilah api pertama yang tersulut di Ajnin.

Pengeras suara masjid kembali dinyalakan. Lantunan takbir yang seharusnya dikumandangkan sebagai penanda hari raya yang jatuh tempo besok berubah menjadi seruan propaganda agar warga membantu memadamkan api. Seruan itu dikoboarkan berapi-api, penuh dengan semangat layaknya pidato kampanye PKI saat memenangkan pemilu kedua. Tak lupa sang muazin mengutip kalimat-kalimat perjuangan dari buku Madilog dan The First International yang dipelajarinya saat sekolah, tak peduli bahwa tak ada satupun komunis atau Marxis yang masih hidup di Ajnin.

Seruan itu nyatanya terbukti ampuh. Hampir tak ada satu orangpun yang diam menyendiri di dalam rumah.

Semuanya bergerak memadamkan api, kecuali beberapa pemuda berumur dua puluhan yang baru pulang dari surau. Saat para tetua ingat ada api yang perlu dipadamkan, pemuda-pemuda itu ingat betul ada orang yang harus diselamatkan. Mereka berlari menuju sumber api setelah membasahi sekujur tubuhnya dengan air bekas cucian sebagai pakaian pengaman, dengan paham dan keyakinan bahwa panas bara api tak mungkin menyelimuti diri yang basah. Pintu rumah Mihamas mereka tendang sekuat tenaga, berusaha menyelamatkan siapa dan apa saja yang tersisa. Mereka segera berlari ke lantai dua dimana kamar anak-anak sang empunya rumah berada. Enam pemuda lainnya terpanggil nurani-nya untuk mengikuti jejak rekan sejawat mereka menjadi pemadam-pemadam lepas itu. Tiga diantaranya berhasil masuk ke wilayah rumah pendatang, dan tiga lainnya ditarik oleh para ibu yang takut anak-anaknya menjadi bahan bakar api unggun yang sudah terlalu besar.

Pemadam kebakaran tiba di tempat kejadian perkara pada hitungan ke dua ribu dua puluh sejak api pertama muncul, setelah terhambat oleh iring-iringan mobil gubernur. Jarak dari jalan besar sampai ke sumber api cukup jauh sehingga truk pemadam tak bisa berhenti lebih dekat. Hal itu membuat ibu-ibu dengan cepat berhimpun membentuk dua saf panjang dari truk pemadam sampai ke tempat perkara, lalu secara estafet mengantarkan ember yang terisi penuh. Juragan sembako yang melihat hal itu kemudian meminjamkan troli dan gerobaknya untuk meringankan beban mereka. Pemilik toko bangunan juga menyumbangkan paralon dan kecerdikan tukangnya untuk membagi satu lobang air dari tangki truk pemadam menjadi tiga lobang layaknya sebuah colokan. Tak lama keran itu sudah tersambung dengan selang biru yang sampai ke sumber api. Pemadam-pemadam masih bersiap di dekat truk untuk mengatur strategi.

Warga sekitar begitu sibuk dan terjaga akan kejadian ini: anak-anak kecil mengisi penuh mainan airnya dan berusaha menyiramkannya pada api, pengangguran bernama Rusdi yang menggedor setiap pintu rumah untuk meminjam ember, juga Bu Haji yang bergegas ke toko kain di kampung sebelah untuk membeli kain kafan, mengingat besok adalah hari raya dan semua toko kain pasti tutup; Ia tak rela jika ada korban yang dikebumikan menggunakan kain dari sisa produksi celana lebaran yang berserakan di belakang rumahnya.

Bantuan akhirnya datang: pemadam-pemadam, semuanya berstatus tetap dan berseragam lengkap. Tak lama setelah rapat di dekat truk, mereka kemudian mengambil alih komando sambil menyalakan keran air dan mengarahkan selang pada nyala api yang semakin besar. Beberapa perempuan bergantian membawakan makanan dan minuman yang seadanya untuk meringankan beban lambung mereka. Opor ayam, sambal goreng, dan rendang yang baru saja matang setelah dimasak sejak kemarin sudah tersiap rapi di belakang para pemadam, yang meninggalkan makanan serupa di rumahnya untuk melaksanakan tugas kedinasan di Ajnin.

Tak lama, pemadam-pemadam kebakaran lepas tadi perlahan mengundurkan diri dan berganti pekerjaan menjadi korban. Mereka segera dibawa oleh ojek pangkalan ke rumah sakit terdekat. Terhitung mereka berhasil menyelamatkan tiga belas orang, termasuk adik-adik Mihamas. Luka bakar mereka sungguh parah, mirip korban radiasi nuklir yang terjadi sekitar sepuluh tahun yang lalu di Pripyat, Ukraina. Api padam setelah semua botol air minum di toko kosong, bersama puluhan kardus air minum kemasan, juga dua truk pemadam tambahan yang datang sekitar dua jam sebelum api padam.

Saat itu pula pertama kalinya di Ajnin sang muazin tidak mengumandangkan takbir kemenangan di hari raya.

Pengeras suara masjid kembali dinyalakan. Tak terdengar adanya takbir. Suara yang menggema dari masjid kadang terjeda ketika sang muazin menghela nafas dan menyeka ingus dan air mata, dilanjutkan oleh lantunan innalillahi yang disusul enam puluh enam nama lengkap korban, ditambah lima nama korban yang diwakilkan oleh jenis kelamin dan prakiraan umur yang ditafsir secara mendadak oleh saksi di tempat. Sang muazin kemudian membuat pengumuman yang sama menggunakan Bahasa Inggris, khusus ditujukan untuk tiga puluh enam ekspatriat yang tinggal di Ajnin.

Para ekspatriat yang mendengar pengumuman itu kemudian berbondong-bondong menuju masjid. Beberapa dari mereka menangis karena belum sempat berbincang dengan para korban, bahkan tiga orang dari mereka secara sukarela mengucap syahadat agar bisa ikut menyolatkan para korban. Sebagian kecil eskpatriat Cina menggerutu kesal karena beberapa nama yang mereka dengar ternyata masih punya utang. Tanpa melihat kalender dan jadwal pelayanan kantor, dua orang perwakilan dari mereka segera pergi ke kantor dinas kependudukan untuk mengetahui siapa saja ahli waris mereka.

Hari raya berubah menjadi hari berkabung, salat ied berubah menjadi salat mayit.

Saf pertama sampai ke sepuluh sudah terisi penuh sebelum sang imam. Sebelumnya, saat imam belum datang, para makmum berdebat tentang berapa rakaat yang harus mereka tunaikan untuk setiap jenazah, mengingat banyak sekali yang harus disalatkan. Sampai akhirnya sang imam datang mengucap niat dua rakaat. Salat kemudian ditunaikan dan selesai menjelang sore setelah enam kali pergantian jenazah.

Setelah disalatkan, jenazah harus cepat dikebumikan sebelum matahari turun. Ziarah hari besar yang seharusnya ramai sejak pagi oleh pedagang kaki lima dan pengemis, sekarang ramai oleh para penggali kubur. Warga Ajnin tidak dapat banyak membantu soal urusan ini karena sudah terlalu letih berjibaku memadamkan api, juga terlalu sedih karena usaha mereka terlihat sia-sia karena lobang mayat masih tetap digali.

Penggali-penggali kubur itu dipanggil dari penjuru kampung terdekat, karena hanya ada satu penggali kubur di Ajnin. Mereka juga membawa anak laki-laki mereka sebagai persiapan karir mereka kelak. Para penggali kubur kebingungan karena lahan pemakaman sudah penuh setelah membuat sekitar tiga puluh tiga lubang. Atas beberapa pertimbangan, mereka berinisiatif mengubur beberapa jenazah di petak kosong yang berjarak hanya beberapa hasta dari tempat pembuangan sampah yang berada di selatan pemakaman. Tentunya jenazah para pendatanglah yang diprioritaskan untuk dikubur disana. Nisan mereka diberi nama Fulan jika korban laki-laki, dan Fulanah jika perempuan.

Semua itu terjadi tanpa sedetik pun disaksikan oleh sang penghuni rumah, Mihamas. Rumah yang habis dilalap api pertama kali adalah rumah orangtua sambungnya. Dari mereka, Mihamas dikarunia lima adik. Kedua ayah dan ibu sambung yang baik itu menghembuskan nafas terakhirnya di mobil ambulans sebelum mereka sampai di instalasi gawat darurat rumah sakit terdekat. Anak-anak kecil yang malang itu berhasil selamat dari api, namun harapan hidup mereka mungkin tak sempat terselamatkan. Belum sempat mereka mengerti arti dari kata “ayah” dan “ibu”, kini mereka harus menambah kata “meninggal” dan “pergi” untuk dipahami dan diterima.

Mihamas duduk di pojok kursi, tak jauh dari pintu masuk kamar mayat. Ia mengusap kepala adik-adiknya dan menatap mereka dengan keyakinan, walaupun terlihat ada sisa air mata yang belum sempat diusap. Anak-anak kecil itu hanya terdiam sambil sesekali mengusap mata dan hidung mereka yang sudah menghitam sejak beberapa jam yang lalu. Air mata mereka ikut terserap perban yang menutupi tangan dan sepertiga badan, bercampur dengan luka terbuka yang tertutup kain kasa.

“Walau ayah dan ibu telah meninggal, mereka berdua justru sudah tenang,” kata Mihamas seraya memperbaiki perban adiknya yang mulai longgar.

“Tentunya, orang yang sudah meninggal tak akan meninggal lagi, bukan?”

“Benarkah, Kak?” jawab salah satu adiknya.

“Tentu, Dik. Sekarang, ayo kita pulang.”

As the door opened, the rain showers the street and mixed its drops with the night wind that occasionally flew during this season, and in the time being, falls onto the olive nylon jacket he wore. The temperature in the dimmed light venue he was heading from was much colder and fresher than the windy and raining street outside. He had a thought that all of the streets should carry themselves with the air conditioner to make people stop complaining about how uneasy the air they were breathe.

The main street filled with the unrolled sleeves young workingmen, who killed their time in the desks or meeting room, from the sunup until sundown and sometimes until moon rise, unhappy and tired as the brown dirt on the back of their collar hinted. They walk in a rush as if they were fugitives. Many of them cried in the streets. One day, he once overheard their quarrels on the phone call, from the landlord or their loved ones. Yes, it seems odd that the loved ones would make their loved one cried. The odor of the fatigued sweats and droplets of saliva from their shouting leader-dressed micromanagers smelled when they lifted and opened the umbrella, in contrast to the suited and dressed-up youngsters behind that red door, featured with the alcohol-bearing smile and burden-free shoulders.

When he crossed the street, the traffic has gradually flowed with the neon green uniform jackets worn by the riders. The jackets often stitched with military-style insignia that resembles where they’re from and formed. The traffic is green although the traffic light still signing red. He soon remembered a story whom he heard from the riders that their jobs were delivering the food they never eat and hear, to the people they never know and see, and accept nothing but the credit in their phones which the rider can barter with some provisions to make their families meet their ends. The riders also said that they actually could afford a brand new car with forty-eight-month installments by doing that job, and left nothing but the idea that the car is a good investment for the family for the next sixty or seventy-two months; in a conditions that their wives or husbands doing a side hustle while their children doing the homework.

The moment after the street was crossed successfully, he ran to the side platform where the last train soon would be departed. Mixing himself with the crowd that seldom smiles, he made his way in a hurried fashion to sit in the seat, while remembering how often he had failed to sit when he encountered the much older granny that resembles his teacher walked slowly and set her gaze and foot to the vacant seat. Yet he fail again. The vacant seat was seated, and now he standing up with the crowd, stacking horizontally as the frozen sardine in the can. The seat was occupied by a much healthy younger man with an indifference looks, and the majority of the standing party attendees were an old and elderly man. Most of them carrying brown cardboard that carrying their clothes, which also can be served as their sleeping mat when they kicked out from their flat as he once has seen in the streets.

After a few train stations, some zebra crosses, a few walks, and a few taps on his phone, he stood up at the gate and it was the time when the neon green jacketed rider answered his call. Soon he was seen sitting in the back of the rider that welcomed him with a huge smile since the passenger‘s destination is in the same vicinity as the rider’s. They talked about three or four sentences while strolling the city road they both had well known by the heart.

The destination has been reached. The rider then parked his motorcycle in front of the wooden house at the end of the alley. The teak wood that formed the house was unfinished, the alley was dimly lighted, the fences were rusting, and the carport filled with scraps from the old car and whatnot. Of all that description, the rider soon provoked a judgment in his heart that he was transporting a ghost or a poor man who couldn’t afford the fare. Half awake and half asleep, the rider realized that by his judgment he was condemned guilty. The passenger really paid him both with real cash and its changes, plus the compulsory and obligatory thanks to him. Both the rider and passenger soon exchanged a farewell, and the latter rushed in the dash toward the front door hoping the rainwater that comes in the sudden not accumulating in his jacket’s hood.

“Peace be upon you. I am home.” He half-whispered in front of the door while knocking its glass, nervous as if a trooper reports his failed mission to his commander.

“Upon you too. Where have you been? It’s late,” answered by some elderly man that soon opened the door, whom the whisperer called father. The son answered nothing.

“How?” the dad asked.

The son struck for a while before he answers.

“I failed again.”

Pause.

“You have to. But, no need to worry,” the dad reassured his son with a firm words and nurturing looks, “at least, you remember to come home.”

Take mine in its place, son.

The field work counted as one of the most favorite thing I like during my college. I enjoy examining the outcrop with my own eyes and scrambled thoughts that gathered from previous night study. I eagerly traverse the river up to the steep hillside only to find the best exposure. The thrill and quest of the apparent truth about the region I set my foot onto is always intriguing.

This time, however, are very strange and different.

In the midst of my contemplation about the outcrop, my eyes sense a peculiar thing below the tree leaves and whatnot scattered in the beds: the shells of mollusk. I have seen many fossils before this, back then in my toddler time when I visited the geological museum for the first time, and in my sophomore year when I did my first field trip to the borderline of The Central and East Java. I picked the fossils from the weathered sandstone bed with my chiseled-hammer and closely inspect it with my loupe. It was a very tiny shell of mollusk that apparently happens to live around there some millions years ago. I looked at it for a long time, and thus my intrusive thoughts appear:

If I die and my remains were observed by our successors, like the way I found those mollusks, do they know me as a person? Or they just simply stash it over and named it as mere homo sapiens, a social animal? Do they know every good or bad thing I did while those fossils were intact with some flesh, and soulful, throughout a certain time of living? Or maybe they only see nothing?

Nothing. Perhaps, nothing is the only thing that certain in the future of humans in life — but not in the after.

Perhaps, we humans always craved to not to be nothing; or to not to be thought as nothing by others. Oftentimes, we deny our somewhat limited will had existed when we’re facing choices and soon condemned everything if the future we seek is not reciprocating. Spending so many times and thoughts to gain control of perceived future that sums up our present choices and doing. Trying to control our gray destiny by denying our will, not knowing those will was limited in the first place, and our destiny is infinite — outside any human’s proposition about time and space.

Perhaps, it would be wise for us to accept and embrace our will to live a meaningful and original life that does not touched and muddled by million double-standards that society and civilization provides. Try to embrace anything that the next minutes lies for us, for this we used our will to submit ourselves to God on ‘what will happen’.

Let’s stray away from focusing what future will give to us by abandoning the present, taking our days as some preparation for some uncertain future and zero-valuing the very present. The best chance to change is only available in our present state, not in the past nor the future.

If life is some sort of competition and contest, would it be the nothingness and death is the exact finish line? When one dies, one lives in the hereafter, taking responsibility for what he is doing with his will.

Let’s say that this life has contained a relentless series of a marathon.

So a few days ago you just finished another marathon. A long and hard one, and the one I still not finished. I don’t clearly watch your whole marathon and the way you run but it seems that you always strive to the best and outcome any obstacles. The medals in your shoulder and the smiles from your loved ones say it all.

You are the one that makes me so motivated and determined to finish what I have started and to outpassed my problems. I don’t know why and how, but I just did. I reckon that you won’t start at 0%, right? So I began to struggling for 5–10%, or any percent you desire.

You just completed a long three and half years of a long marathon. Just be prepared for your next marathon, I think it is more challenging. I do believe in you that you will make the best comes from it.

I don’t know what my roles will be in your next marathon. Whether it is as a runner who runs alongside you, a medic that pulls you out when you are collapsed, or even just a supporter in the crowd chanting your name.

I don’t care what my role is. Just keep in mind that while you run throughout any marathon, my thoughts and prayers are always present while you are struggling to finish your last lap.

What I care is that you are crossed the finish line with a huge and bright smile. Alive and safe. Cared and cheered by the others.

And what I hope is that you begin to looking for me amidst the crowd, runs together in the next marathon, called home.

— Someplace, 18 August 2016

Never let anyone know what you’re thinking.

Those legendary words, or maybe a good advice, said by Vito Corleone to his short-tempered son, Santino Corleone, quoted from a great mafia story written by Mario Puzo. The Don, whose his principles and vision were deeply firmed both in brain and hand, calmly said that words while seeing his son gone mad and uncontrollable because the news about his family. Upon hearing that, Santino only nods and walks away as if his ear was deafened by ego and his foot powered by rage.

Afterward, the son turns mad after hearing his beloved sister was attacked by her own husband. The short-tempered son hurried up to go after her, forgetting what his old man commands, not in a slightest thought realizing that his fate would end soon after that. And, yes, the son trapped by someone who had anticipated his next moves; who knows how his way of thinking.

Those small words that should be listened carefully and followed by the son, turn into some whisper that he will regret in the next life. From that small scene, it can be inferred that a words or order by your good old man is the greatest grace you ever had. The words that could alter any fate; a good old man always knows what is the best for their children.

In the another parallel life, the words itself served as my main perspective, yet my biggest question of living since the first time I have heard it, back then when I was in my junior high school time. That was the time I realized the real face when I faced myself in the mirror. Am I a very private and withdrawn person, or maybe the insecure one?

Oftentimes, in some particular extent, all the words I uttered to other is only a part, of a big picture, of the real story that I want to tell about. The rest, yes, still stuck up and dance elsewhere in the mind.

I realized that expressing my own thoughts or empathy is my greatest shortcomings. Whether it is only a small thoughts or a big one that involved feeling. It is hard when you were rushed or urged to express something personal, the words or emotion that should come in that exact time, slipped it away. The moment passed and I ended up silent while seeing the consequences from keeping the words raveled.

Sometimes I ended up contemplating the moment when I said those words. The moment that never happened in reality. It is the things that always haunted you in the moments to come.

I began to destroy my barrier by putting the empathy or feeling into a phrase or act that has a similar meaning with it.

I can’t express something as it is what it is, I always wanted to shout something more than what it is, sometimes it is more equal to what it could, and should be.

It turns out that also a wrong way. It often ends in some raw ambivalence. It always leads people to think reversely from the truest meaning. The impact is huge and I often lose people for that. I don’t want all of this happened again, seeing the people you cared about eventually gone because the thing you do is distinctive and less understandable from what others do.

It is sick when you already know your weaknesses and how to solve it yet you are unaware to get rid of it, by solving it.

There is some passage that said writing will help you well to eases the anxious and makes you more comfortable in expressing the raveled thoughts.

Maybe, reading the words written in letters is more real and alive than some words echoed in the air.

So here is my take. The unspoken in written words.

— This is my first interpersonal post in the net. 3 Jul 2016.