Biarkan Aku Memelukmu Sekali Lagi

            Wanita yang lebih cantikku hanya Ibukku. Tentu. Aku sering dipanggil sebagai bedangik wanita karena tidak jarang aku difitnah tidak sengaja memberi harapan palsu kepada manusa manusia pathetic yang mengira sopan santun sebagai sebuah harapan dengan wajahku yang mungkin lebih cantik dari pacar pacar kalian. Aku cantik dan tidak perlu pengakuan lagi.

            Kukira sebenarnya cinta tidak sesakit itu. Sampai aku mengenalnya. Nya yang entah keluar dari perut bumi mana. Nya yang tiba tiba datang membawaku liburan sesaat ke dufan dalam angan, mengajakku berputar manis naik Karousel, mengayunkan perasaanku seperti Kora Kora lalu meninggalkanku ketika aku di puncak Tornado. Hilang seperti dilontarkan Rollercoaster. Pergi jauh tinggi meninggalkanku yang masih menangis sendirian di puncak wahana.

            Sungguh lucu Tuhan bercanda. Aku sedang bosan bosanya tiduran, kelon dengan gitar. Lalu sepermili detik sebelum aku lelap tidur siang, ada SMS tanpa nama kontak tidak sopan bertanya, “Masih kenal aku, nggak?” Prologue pun terjadi.

Sepatu Valentine

                Aku bukan umat yang merayakan Malam Minggu, jadi malam ini aku putuskan untuk mbelayang ke minimarket dekat Desa Kecil Sekali. Dengan kantong beraroma bawang, kuberanikan diri memasuki imperium koleksi barang dagang dengan pendingin ruangan yang maha agung.

                Ranjang belanja sudah berisi kudapan agar aku makin gendut. Karena aku manusia yang ingin banyak tahu, aku melanglang minimarket ke daerah makanan kaum kaum stakhanovis, ke rak bagian coklat. Sejenak aku merinding setelah mendapati di rak coklat ada bayi tanpa busana sesuka udelnya gantung diri. Oh ternyata cupid, oh ternyata sudah masuk bulan Februari, oh ternyata Valentine lagi. Bangsat.

                Aku masih beku dalam kejut. Sesaat kemudian aku disadarkan oleh pukulan keras di pundak lalu aku berontak dan teriak sejadinya, “BUKAN AKU PEMBUNUH BAYINYA.”

                Gatot terbahak, pembawaanya yang tinggi dan tampan membuat mbak mbak staff minimarket terpesona lalu lunglai dan lemas ketika gigi putih gatot bersinar bak bulan purnama Apogee di awal bulan Maret. 

Bob, si Pengedar Ganja

            Tengah malam ketika pelacur pelacur dikejar yang berwenang mengejar, ketika jangkrik jangkrik, denotasi dan konotasi, berkeliaran di lingkungan pengap Desa Kecil Sekali, kulihat manusia hitam, bukan kulitnya tapi pakaianya, dikejar manusia manusia muntab berobor obor tanganya dan berapi api matanya. Aku tak peduli, aku tetap saja menyeruput kopi di bawah tenda wedangan. Rehab dari hidup.

            Ada manusia pembawa karung yang mungkin berisi sampah, lari terbirit birit mencari tempat sembunyi. Apa daya Desa Kecil Sekali adalah desa yang tidak akan bisa dipetakan tata letaknya bahkan oleh Colombus sekalipun. Akhir cerita, lelaki pembawa karung tadi, sebut saja Bob, tertangkap dengan basah kuyup karena kubangan air di jalanan Desa Kecil Sekali tidak jauh berbeda dengan palung marina. Namun, puji tuhan, dalam hati Bob, karung tadi selamat dari percikan air.

            Naas, warga sudah datang dengan nafsu amarah mereka. Khas manusia manusia Indonesia yang suka menjadi vigilante, atau bahasa awamnya, hakim swadana. Barisan depan tampak seperti orc orc gahar dalam buku J.R.R Tolkien, dengan garpu jerami khas tahun 1700an. Di belakangnya ada manusia slinger dari film medieval tahun 1800an, membawa batu batu siap lempar, membuat kepala nyeri hanya dengan melihatnya. Di barisan paling belakang ada gerombolan manusia bak penyihir dan api yang menyala nyala di tanganya, hanya saja ini obor.

            Bob sudah keluar dari palung desa, namun apadaya, badan sudah menggigil dingin dan otot tak kuasa menggerakan badan. Lalu salah satu manusia raksasa tadi menginjak perut Bob.

            “Bangsat! Apa apaan kau? Ganja? Wajahmu seperti wajah bajingan tak pernah ibadah!”

            “Asu buntung! Mau kau rusak lagi moral bangsa yang sudah rusak ini?”

            “Kontol kobong! Bajingan! Anjeng! Soal drill sosiologi! Tai anjing!”

            Dan makian terus berlanjut hingga wajah Bob tidak bisa dianggap wajah manusia. Mengerikan bukan main.

            Ketika perkusi badan si pengedar ganja dan kaki warga sedang bergemuruh liar, salah satu obor warga membakar karung kering tadi di luar sepengetahuan mereka. Tumpukan cannabis membara merah. Asap putih meledak dalam sunyi. Menyeruak jalanan desa yang becek. Orang orang terkencing kencing meninggalkan mayat pengedar ganja tadi sendirian di tengah kobaran daun ganja satu karung. Maka, malam di Desa Kecil Sekali itu, berlalu sangat happy. Termasuk aku yang teler dalam tenda wedangan. Menghirup berlinting linting kebahagiaan gratis.

Dunia Tidak Pantas Untuk Ibuku Cantik

            Tepat pukul 12 malam ketika aku nglantur menerawang langit malam untuk mendapati pemandangan delman dengan 4 kuda dengan warna berbeda beda dan kusirnya yang gendut dan brewokan, berpacu bersama angin malam, membuat siluet di depan cahaya bulan kuning. Setelah aku memutar otak akhirnya aku sadar ternyata Sinter Klaus regional Indonesia memiliki kultur tersendiri. Ketika kotoran kuda sudah bertebaran di mana mana, berarti ini tanda akhir Desember sudah tiba. Lalu, bayangan sang Santa dihapus hujan deras.

*******

            Ayam tetangga terjaga lebih awal. Tanyakan saja pada kotoran kuda yang dicampur hujan semalam. Ayam yang biasanya berisik mulai jam 5 sudah berkokok 1 jam lebih awal. Berarti aku hanya tidur 4 jam.

            Aku bukan tipe anak yang doyan sarapan. Maka aku terkantuk kantuk ketika mengayuh sepeda ke sekolah. Bahkan aku ketiduran sekitar 2 km ketika aku sedang gowes. Untung saja aku tidak celaka. Hanya baju dan celana yang kena lumpur, disponsori oleh cipratan ban mobil orang kaya yang sesuka hati mengambil jalur sepeda.

            Setibanya di sekolah, aku merebah di 2 meja yang kugabung menjadi tempat tidur kecintaan orang orang kesed. Dari tasku yang sudah penuh bercak lumpur, keluarlah solusi dari segala kotoran kuda – guling kecil. Jangan banyak tanya kenapa aku membawa guling ke sekolah. 

Genggong Trooper

            “Well, they are always there no matter what we do to them.” a cop in brown said to me. I hadn’t caught his attention. He was still reading a newspaper when he replied.

            “But sir,” I raised my voice a bit to catch his attention, “well, if you say so, am I wrong if I say that you are unprofessional police officer? Yet you vowed yourself to bring discipline to society. I’m afraid I don’t find playing chess and reading newspaper at office hour quite discipline. Those beggars need to be disciplined, dear ‘responsible’ officer. They make our traffic become worse than it was.” Well, I was quite angry, that sentence which was just said sounds quite intimidating.

            The cop lowered the newspaper. His eyes gazed deeply on me. I became little bit scared and regretted my words.

            His stares seemed like saying “If Human Rights doesn’t exist, I would totally kill you and shut your impudent mouth and then kill you again once more time.”

            “Listen young man,” the cop seemed hold his anger so bad that his grip tore the newspaper little bit, “We are working on it. About the traffic jam, I’m sorry. You ride bicycle, use the slow lane then. Then, if you may, you can leave. I have so much to do.”

            I got, politely, kicked out from police post.

            Well, don’t you think if cops who act like this don’t exist, Indonesia’s traffic would be more satisfying?

            Just a moment from when I kicked out, I saw a group of three elementary students still in their white and red uniform. They changed their outfit to a casual beggars clothing – bit stinky and bit torn but still cover the subjects.

            “Ah, another beggars?” I muttered. “Much to do, he said, eh?”

            Well, they caught my interest when they drew out their instrument. They weren’t beggars, they were buskers – beggars who sing (I’m pretty sure you know what I mean). They drew out a pair of cuk and cak.

            I was student of local high school. Do you think knowing my name affect the story much? I was ordinary student who lived ordinary live and lived in beautiful yet ironic, beloved Indonesia. I found music interesting. I found my passion there. If I write my passion about music there then this story won’t be a short story but a novel. I was nobody but a keroncong musician. Despite my position as violinist, I was quite ingenious with other keroncong instruments.

            Well, for your information, there is a pair of ‘ukulele’ in keroncong. The three-nylon-stringed one is named Cuk which plays main tone. The four-steel-stringed one is named Cak which plays contra-bass part. They make especially beautful harmony.

            I approached the group’s performance in the junction. I barely listened to keroncong music. I shed a tear which means I laid too much expectation from these kids. More or less they sounded like a cat grounded by a truck. Made my ears cringed.

            “Hey kids, come here!” I yelled sign of getting enough of this rubbish music.

            They turn their head. They continued their, they called it so, performance until the traffic signaled green.

            “What’s your problem, big boy?” The biggest one who brought cuk confronted me.

            I didn’t feel insulted. This kind of talking is their way to talk. Who was I to judge them?

            “May I take a look on your instruments?” I asked as polite as possible.

            “Nah, I meant no offense, but who are you? To be more precise, what are you?” the littlest one who brought cak asked me. His voice was, more or less, like a chipmunk with helium.

            “I’m only student who is fond of keroncong music. Well, don’t take it as insult, but your play wasn’t so good.” I tried so much to be less intimidating but well, it sounded little harsh.

            “And your point is?” the tallest yet the most skinny boy said.

            Well, despite my hate against beggar, I realized that not all beggars were despicable. There are beggars whose income as much as government worker, yet government are trying to get us worked for same amount of income with more effort rather than wearing stinky outfit and begging for pity in junction. These kinds of beggars are to be terminated ones. Well, at that moment I had more tolerance to beggar especially buskers.

            “Guys, why do you busk? Why don’t you just study in school?” I asked, curious.

“Thing happens out of blue, doesn’t it?” the biggest one replied, seemed sad “Father passed away when we were little boy,” he took some deep breath “Mother is sick. In these days, what would you do other than begging the, well, ones who fortunate enough to live in rich?”

            The tallest boy continued “At least we’re clever and smart enough that school pays for our fees but still, what would we do for living? Doctors don’t cost a little, young man. I know nothing about health card but as I heard in media these day, no money means no proper service.”

            “These little guitars are memento from father. He said that being a poor has more dignity than beggars and those who steal, especially those who steal poor citizen’s right – corruptors. But still, we can’t make a living without money, can we? Because father said so, we don’t beg money just by begging, but we also give them entertainment. It’s keroncong big bro! Everyone loves it.” The littlest one murmured “But yeah, we have no money for proper music lesson.”

            I cried little bit. I was so monstrous for once hate them and labeled them as lazy bumps without knowing their struggle.

            “Whoa man, don’t cry! We’re not begging for pity.” The biggest one snapped “If you let us, the red signal is coming, excuses us.”

            Just a moment they turned their body, I yelled “I can teach you proper keroncong music! For free! For true!”

*******

            The biggest one was named Samson. The tallest one was named Jakung. And the chipmunk who inhaled too much helium was named Encrit.

            Started from that day, every Saturday we learnt keroncong in my house. Alas, my mother was little bit disturbed with their present so I picked Saturday because that was the day my mother went to afternoon chatting with other mothers.

            They were quick learners. Jakung had beautiful voice and bloody handsome face. He sang gracefully. Girls would fall in love if they heard him sang Bengawan Solo. Samson played cuk. He played main tone so gentle. I teach him a lot variant of picking. We started from standard picking, langgam picking, double picking and mando-pop picking. He adapted so quick. Encrit who played cak was little bit hard to teach but once he started get the soul of the song, well, I got outplayed by him. He had too much energy – hyperactive. When he touched a cak, he lost his cute appearance then he turned into furious little monkey. Well, not literally.

            In three months we learnt many songs. From local’s masterpiece such Keroncong Kemayoran, Bengawan Solo, Jangkrik Genggong, Jembatan Merah, Tirtonadi to International re-arrangement like I’m yours or even old school music like Oh Carol. More or less, they got popular. They made more money from ‘the junction stage’ and got more sympathy from society. Encrit was right - Everyone loves Keroncong.

            Irony is beautiful isn’t it? There are tremendously motivated poor people who don’t get proper education or teaching which make them being seen by society as lazy bumpkins. But also, there are also those who lucky enough to attend proper formal education yet they waste their time (and their parent’s money of course) in school by doing, well, meaningless delinquency. Why don’t we swap their places? Nah, just kidding, but hey, it’s an open truth which get less attention.

            I said it was only 3 months, did I? Well, after the three months I never saw them again, not even once, not even at the junction. They were poor, so they had no cell phone. We missed contact for a long time. Until the end month of July, I got a written letter addressed to me. Well, I was surprised, twice. I was surprised about their letter. And I was surprised about the written letter use. I mean, who would use written letter in these days? Beggars often have cell phones.

            “Big bro, we’re sorry we don’t tell you immediately. Thing wasn’t so cash. Mother passed away when we got home at first July. We’re in orphanage in Semarang now. Well, we’re still playing keroncong. Don’t worry, our passion won’t die. –signed your pupils.”

            I gasped. My tears wouldn’t stop pouring. I had never in blue so much as this since I had my first love. Since that day, whenever I saw Cuk and Cak, I lost in blue. They lost their mother but their spirits not even shrink, not even a bit. But well, there are still rich people who are still being spoiled brats. What an irony. Irony, mate. Irony. As bitter as brotowali.

*******

            It was first Sunday in May. It was Sunday so there was Car Free Day. Whenever I got there, there was music themed festival. I remembered those kids. Then, I heard one shouted.

            “Big Bro!” high pitched voices snapped.

            “CHIPMUNK!”

            “And now, for our Big Bro who IS also the greatest music teacher in whole universe, we present you all, Waljinah’s masterpiece, Jangkrik Genggong!” Jangkung shouted along with passionate clapping from audiences. Then they played their first song – Waljinah’s Jangkring Genggong.

            They started as local busker who labeled by society as lazy bumpkins. They were buskers whose tremendous amount of motivation and dreams. How beautiful god set their journey, fate and dreams. At that time, they had their own spot of festival as ‘grown’ artists. How great! See? Artist! They named their selves “Genggong Trooper”, due to the first song I teach to them. God is always listening and understanding, isn’t he?

Passion and motivation is great things, isn’t it? No doubt there are people who make a living just by speaking motivational sentences. They are wise elders if not opportunists.

Most of them aren’t lazy. Most of them are just unfortunate. Don’t hate them. Help them. Also don’t forget to learn your own culture. Say, how many people who know Japanese thingy more than Indonesian culture? They memorized ALL OF JKT48’s songs when they can’t even wear Jarik properly. Then, may Indonesia be better place, for you and for me.

In those crowds, I cried of joy.

Hanyai Nilai Rapot

 

            Jauh di pojok kelas sana, aku, Indra, menyumpah serapah dalam hati. Membatin luapan Rahwana jiwa dan pisuhan tak beretika. Tanganku mengepal keras pensil hingga urat uratku methetet keluar dari seluruh sudut tubuh. Pensil patah tak kuasa menahan jiwaku yang tak tenang. Hingga akhirnya luber semua keringat dingin dari seluruh pori pori badan. Kaki lembabku membuat seluruh ruangan ujian berbau pesing, membuat adik adik kelas histeris dan beberapa pingsan.

            “Yang UTS Bahasa Jawa, waktunya sudah habis.” Terkencing kencinglah diriku ketika guru pengawas sok asik itu dan bel tes mengumumkan pertanda takdirku.

            “BENTAR PAK!” Sontak aku berteriak, peduli apa aku tentang orang orang yang memandang diriku. Aku ukir saja rentetan huruf N yang mereka sebut aksara jawa itu, tanpa tahu menahu aturan yang berlaku. Aku berharap energi mistis tiba tiba mengalir di seluruh saraf tanganku, berharap mukjizat yang mengerjakan seluruh soal essay yang susah bukan buatan ini. Nihil. Tanganku tetap terpaku diam. Beku dalam alphanya pikiran.

            Aku dan guru sok asik tadi berebut lembar jawab seperti sepasang anak TK ribut soal stik playstation. Tetapi apa kuasa, aku masih lemas tak berdaya karena naskah soal Bahasa Jawa yang susah diinterpretasikan diksinya tadi. Aku kalah telak. Lembar jawab essay, biar takdir ku yang mengisimu. Aku terima jika jatahku tidak lulus UTS Bahasa Jawa memang sudah rencana Tuhan.

            Tuhan Maha Tahu.

*******

            Hari Senin itu cuaca sangat tidak hore. Kulihat raut muka Bu Astuti semakin menjadi jadi keriputnya. Merinding seluruh bulu rambut tubuhku ketika kulihat bertumpuk tumpuk lembar putih dibawa sang wali kelas. Hari pembagian rapot datang lebih awal dari yang aku duga.        “Juara 1, Winda.” Tidak penting, gagaslah diriku saja bu “Biasanya yang juara dua siapa?” Bu Astuti memecah hening. Ia meringis, senyumnya blas tidak ada cerminan senyum seorang ibu.

            “Indra, bu.” Salah seorang teman menjawab.

    

            Sepegalnya aku mengayuh sepeda pulang ke rumah, semua terlihat jingga. Tumpukan krikil aku srempet saja, lalu aku jatuh. Mobil parkir di jalur sepeda, juga aku damprat, aku jatuh lagi. Anak SMP naik motor yang tidak punya SIM, aku tubruk, lalu jatuh sekali lagi. Tidak usah lagi gagas aku yang sok pintar ini. Tubruk, lindas, srempet saja lelaki yang sok cinta Indonesia ini. Naik sepeda onthel agar dibilang cinta bumi Indonesia, namun nilai Bahasa Indonesia tidak lulus! Naik sepeda onthel agar dibilang warga negara yang manut unggah ungguh lalu lintas, namun nilai Bahasa Jawa tidak ada 80! Lamis! Pemuda penuh omong kosong!

Aku adalah pemuda yang tidak bisa mengemban sumpah para pemuda. Aku adalah satu dari yang mereka sebut ‘pagar makan tanaman’. Aku 16 tahun mampir hidup di tanah yang katanya kita cintai ini, tanah gendut dan subur Indonesia, masih tidak pecus berbahasa kesatuan, Bahasa Indonesia. Aku adalah sebab Indonesia tidak maju maju. Aku berbicara Bahasa Inggris seperti bule dicekoki sambal lalu ditampar sandal, namun nilai UTS Bahasa Indonesia 77 pun tidak tembus! Aku berbicara Bahasa Mandarin seperti kakek buyutku yang rasanya baru kemarin dislundupkan ke Surabaya dari Singapura, namun Bahasa Krama Bahasa Jawa hanya tahu nggih dan mboten! Katanya cinta Indonesia, bicara pun tak lancar! Ironis!

Setibanya senja, aku merebah di kasur, menangisi nasib. Teriak sejadinya.

*******

            “Ada yang, katanya, suka sastra Bahasa Indonesia, nilai nggak nyampe KKM, ada. Yang mak jegagig lulus, juga ada.” Bu Wulan berdalil. Matanya menyipit, hunusan mata tajam membekukan sukma seluruh isi kelas. Khas antagonis cerita cerita klasik. Gerak geriknya tubuhnya seakan berteriak “AKU NGENYEK AWAKMU, NDRA!”

            Faktanya aku sudah malas betul menggubris nilaiku. Aku ngolet. “Hya sudahlah, bu.” Aku nglantur. Kurang ajar benar. “Toh, wong cuma nilai.” Aku cari penyakit.

            Ketika aku menguap tanda tak peduli, aku dibombardir spidol papan tulis. Mataku langsung sontak membiru memar. Saatku mengaduh kesakitan, tangan Bu Wulan menampar keras pipiku. Aku terpental sampai njaba, melayang, lalu jatuh ketatap njobin. Menungging kesakitan.

            “ANDA NANTANG SAYA?” Teriak Bu Wulan. “BAGAIMANA BISA ORANG MEMBELA NEGARANYA JIKALAU BAHASANYA SAJA TIDAK LANCAR?” Kelas pun diam seribu bahasa. Aku membuang muka ke tempat sampah.

Di dalam kelas yang ngeri tak terperi itu, ragaku mak bendunduk dibedil peluru suci jauh dari kayangan. Arwahku terbang melayang menembus atap sekolah. Semakin jauh tinggi aku melayang, rasanya semakin panas kepalaku hingga akhirnya ketika aku mencapai titik paling panas yang bisa aku tahan, aku membuka mata, kepalaku meledak. Seingatku, aku sudah kembali di dalam kelas, kesurupan, berdiri lantang menantang Bu Wulan yang semakin jadi amukanya.

Aku menggebrak meja. “Menurut Bu Wulan, apa nilai saja cukup?” aku menghela napas “Ironis, bu! Mereka yang memiliki nilai Bahasa Indonesia melejit, hanya melejit nilainya secara tertulis! Kapan Indonesia maju kalau pemuda pemudanya hanya mencari nilai rapot?” Aku memicingkan mata “Bahasa Indonesia sekarang hanya menjadi embyeh embyeh ajang cari nilai, bukan menjadi pedoman rasa cinta tanah air!

“Ketika Bu Wulan mulutnya berbusa busa mengajari tetek bengek ini itu, anakmu yang selalu kau banggakan berharap segera kuliah ke luar negeri, bu! Cepat pergi dari tanah yang katanya kita cintai ini! Lalu bangga jika kerja di luar negeri! Bangga jika sudah tidak perlu berbahasa Indonesia lagi!

“Ketika Bu Wulan ambeien stress memikirkan kami yang Bu Wulan cap sebagai bedebah bangsa, anak anak malaikatmu sedang sibuk joget joget Korea dan dicekoki gambar corek Jepang, bu!

“Bahasa hanya sebagian kecil dari bela negara, bu! Nilai rapot tembus 101, tapi mindset sudah dibudak neokolonialisme, ya lamis!

“Lihatlah anak anakmu, bu! Sudah bangga memakai kimono tetapi jarikan saja mbundet! Bengak bengok album album boyband korea, tapi tembang macapat yang jumlahnya hanya 11 saja masih asing! Merasa keren bisa lancar menulis huruf hiragana dan kanji, tetapi aksara jawa yang sudah diajarkan sejak jaman mekak ra enak, blas nggak apal! Bangga, bu?”

Lalu ubun ubun Bu Wulan umup, berasap asap.

Seingatku setelah aku sadarkan diri dari kesurupan, aku sudah duduk, diceramahi di ruang BK. Ternyata Indonesiamu belum maju.

 Nasib.

Indra. Cerita Pojok Kelas. XII SOSIAL 2