Aku tidak mengharapkanmu memahami tulisan ini.

Seperti kembali pada tujuh tahun silam. Mimpi buruk pada hampir setiap malam. Lalu aku bangun dengan semacam kram perut dan sedikit pusing kepala. Juga pada siang. Aku seperti tidak bisa membedakan mimpi dan bukan mimpi. Juxtaposisi. Seperti bertubrukan dengan banyak orang. Dan tak habis pikir kenapa. Ada kesalahpahaman. Ada orang-orang pada sebuah koridor. Aku melihat orang-orang tapi tak mengerti kenapa mereka ada di situ. Kenapa aku ada di situ. Kenapa mereka menatapku begitu. Aku selalu berusaha menghindari kontak mata, seakan-akan ada yang menyakitkan dengan membiarkan orang tahu aku menyadari kehadiran mereka dan bahkan menaruh kepercayaan. Lalu ada novel-novel terbitan Penguin Books—atau nama yang tak begitu kuingat kini—pada almari kaca tua. Buku-buku dengan kertas ringan dan bau yang tua dan lama. Aku selalu ingin punya satu. Ride A Wild Pony. Washington Square, Henry James. Sayang aku tak pernah menyelesaikannya. Hanya paragraf-paragraf awal tentang seorang gadis yang canggung. Beyond the Divide. Lalu sebuah buku yang memuat nama Serena (di sebuah buku harian aku bahkan menulis surat untuknya). Juga ada Charlotte’s Web. A Swag of Stories. Kenapa kini hanya kuingat judulnya. Aku selalu ingin punya satu. Aku tak pernah ingin ke mana-mana. Hanya duduk di sana dan membaca. Lalu jadi lupa aku laki-laki atau perempuan atau sesuatu di antaranya. Lalu jadi lupa aku masih kanak-kanak atau pura-pura dewasa. Lalu jadi lupa hari itu aku telah bercakap-cakap dengan seseorang, untuk bisa disebut makhluk sosial yang pantas, atau tidak. Lalu jadi lupa orang-orang peduli padaku atau tidak. Lalu jadi lupa orang-orang yang menginginkanku menjadi yang mereka inginkan; orang-orang yang tidak memperkenankanku untuk melamun dan tenggelam. Aku ingin menjadi pustakawan. Orang-orang jadi mendadak dekat denganku tiap ada kelas bahasa Inggris, seharusnya aku masuk sastra Inggris (ayahku bilang kalau anaknya tertarik pada sastra, itu pasti semacam kutukan). Atau tidak kuliah dan hanya menekuri buku-buku itu. Aku selalu ingin punya satu. Aku tidak mengerti. Aku tidak pernah mengerti dengan kecanggunganku. Semua keriangan itu pura-pura. Aku tidak pernah punya teman. Aku sering melamun pada jendela besar sebuah gedung sekolah tua peninggalan Belanda, pada daun-daun dan ranting-ranting, kau tau di sana ada sebuah kerajaan kecil? Tidak ada orang-orang di sana, bahkan juga tak ada raja, tapi kerajaan itu hadir, seakan-akan daun-daun, ranting-ranting, desau angin, titik-titik air hujan itu saling bercakap-cakap, lalu aku jadi Dorothy Gale atau Alice di sebuah negeri asing. Aku tidak pernah mengerti orang-orang di sekitarku dan yang mereka bicarakan. Sekuat hati aku selalu mencoba mengikuti, tapi aku selalu gagal. Maka aku kembali pada buku-buku itu. Meski aku ingat seseorang yang mencoba mengetuk pintu (Desi, kamu berani ketika sendiri) dan aku sering berterima kasih padanya meski tanpa perlu terwakili oleh ekspresi verbal. Aku selalu terburu-buru, rumahku jauh, aku tidak boleh ketinggalan bus. Dan di antara kepadatan penumpang aku mengingatkan diri sendiri bahwa akan ada siklus yang sama esok pagi.

Seakan semuanya serakan dari sesuatu yang amat jauh.

Tertimbun oleh segala sisa-sisa pada tempat pembuangan akhir. Mendadak segalanya gempita. Aku menjadi bagian dari orang-orang. Lalu kerudungku makin lebar. Ya, makin lebar, seakan aku meja yang diberi taplak. Ada serentetan dauroh dengan sekian bujukan untuk menjadi lebih berarti. Lalu ada pertemuan rahasia pekanan, tapi aku selalu melamun atau mencoret-coret pada sehelai kertas. Juga ada rapat rahasia. Mereka menyebut sesuatu seperti target rekrutmen tahun ini. Aku jadi gagap. Aku semakin terburu-buru. Aku semakin tidak mengerti dengan orang-orang. Meski kudapati aku jadi riang. Aku riang. Kenapa aku riang? Dari mana keriangan itu berasal? Sebentuk keshalihan yang masih kucoba tafsirkan atau apa? Ada sesuatu yang gelap di dalam sana, ruang yang penuh ketidakpastian. A room in which I crave certainty for the room doesn’t provide any.

Aku ingin menjadi tetap rapuh, lalu hancur, terderai, dan tetap tak akan membiarkan seorang pun menjadi perekat. Biarkan keping-keping dan partikel-partikel itu menari dengan caranya sendiri, mungkin kelak akan menyatu, menjadi utuh.

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Tuhan,
Terima kasih atas setiap butir nasi yang kumakan pagi ini. Juga lauk tahu yang gurih dan lembut. Terima kasih atas tubuhku yang dengannya aku mencerap jejak-jejak yang Kautinggalkan pada semesta. Terima kasih atas sepeda tua dengan stiker dari sebuah pertunjukan. Terima kasih atas setiap klakson yang menyalak ketika aku jadi gagap untuk menyeberang (aku paling idiot kalau disuruh menyeberang). Terima kasih atas buku-buku. Terima kasih atas BH yang nyaman, juga buruh-buruh yang telah membuatnya. Terima kasih atas termos bergambar buket berisi air hangat. Terima kasih atas bergayung-gayung air untukku mandi. Terima kasih atas eksperimen poni yang gagal. Terima kasih atas alarm pagi. Terima kasih atas kehangatan matahari pagi. Terima kasih atas setiap tetes hujan. Terima kasih atas orang-orang yang pernah singgah di hidupku, baik yang dapat kumengerti maupun yang tidak. Terima kasih atas SMS-SMS dingin menusuk berisi kutipan kitab suci dan hadits nabi. Terima kasih atas prasangka baik dan buruk dari setiap orang padaku. Terima kasih atas Sofia. Terima kasih atas “Mahasiswa seperti anda ini tidak akan lolos wawancara kerja.” Terima kasih atas tiga pasang kaos kaki di keranjang pakaian. Terima kasih atas setumpuk pakaian dalam yang bersih dan kering. Terima kasih atas selimut yang memberi rasa aman. Terima kasih atas kekalutan hati. Terima kasih atas bunga-bunga di sebuah taman yang hanya bisa kukenali wanginya bukan namanya. Terima kasih atas ayah. Terima kasih atas ibu. Terima kasih atas orang tak dikenal yang mengambil uang dari tasku, limpahkan berkah untuk hidupnya dan keluarganya. Terima kasih atas kebaikan. Terima kasih atas ketulusan. Terima kasih atas cinta. Terima kasih atas kata ‘bangsat.’ Terima kasih atas kata ‘bajingan.’ Terima kasih atas fruit gathering. Terima kasih atas upaya merebut diri, lalu menari, terus berputar, menuju cahaya. Terima kasih atas abstinence. Terima kasih atas celibacy. Terima kasih atas kesabaran. Terima kasih atas kesadaran akan hal-hal yang lebih kuat dari kekuasaan. Terima kasih atas ficus elastica dan sebuah percakapan tentang film yang aku telah lupa judulnya. Terima kasih atas kehangatan. Terima kasih atas kerudung. Terima kasih atas pikiran merdekaku: laziness is a virtue. Terima kasih atas ketakutan, kecemasan, kesendirian, perasaan tidak pernah selesai. Terima kasih atas rasa lelah. Terima kasih atas rasa sakit. Terima kasih atas kebingungan. Terima kasih atas keputusasaan. Terima kasih atas Hope yang tertahan pada Kotak Pandora lalu dengan senyum hangat membujukku untuk terus bertahan.

Bukan aku mencari-Mu, melainkan Kau menemukanku. Mungkin suatu ketika aku akan memahaminya dengan lebih baik.

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(Sorry, it’s bahasa Indonesia again this time. I just find that Indonesian and Javanese colloquial language can only be best spoken in its original)

Minggu malam yang lalu saya merasa lebih kenyang sebungkus lemet dan sepotong lumpia, lemet dan lumpia yang jauh lebih enak daripada yang sudah-sudah. Lemet dan lumpia yang saya kunyah dengan sepenuh rasa syukur. Kedua makanan itu pemberian seorang kawan baru yang saya temui di depan Vredeburg.

Ceritanya, karena agak jenuh, ba’da Maghrib saya puter-puter naik sepeda, hang out sebentar di toko buku di kompleks Taman Pintar. Karena tempat saya duduk di depan kompleks toko buku itu banyak nyamuknya (gek gedhi-gedhi tenan), saya lalu memutuskan ke depan Vredeburg sekedar istirahat dan membaca sesuatu. Di sana, agak berdekatan dengan saya ada seorang mbak penjual sate dengan dua temannya yang duduk agak berjauhan hingga mereka harus teriak untuk bicara. Sepertinya logat mereka jawa timuran. Yang saya hafal banget, baju atasan mereka bisa kaos atau mungkin blus, tetapi bawahan mereka selalu kain, semacam sarung atau batik. Perempuan-perempuan itu saling menggoda, nggak dong bahasanya sih, cuma menangkap gestur mereka saja. Suasananya begitu ramai, orang-orang berlalu-lalang di sekitar saya.

Lalu mendekatlah mas-mas itu. Namanya Damar (padahal saya sudah setengah teriak: “Hah? Siapa? Jamal? Kayak Jalan Magelang itu?”). Sepintas, ia tampak pemalu. Wajahnya seperti perpaduan aneh antara Nelly dan Denzel Washington (rasah repot mbayangke), setidaknya dalam hal hitam-manis-look itu. Ia memakai kaos Extra Joss warna kuning yang sangat ngejreng sehingga kaos itu seperti berteriak kenceng: “Eh, ini kaos Extra Joss, lho!” tetapi, ajaibnya, yang dia jual justru teh dan kopi. Ada termos besar yang dia letakkan pada semacam kereta tarik kecil, sementara itu tangannya menenteng boks plastik berisi bungkusan teh, kopi instan, gula pasir, sendok dan yang lain. Mendekatlah ia di sebelah saya. Dan mulailah  kami bercakap-cakap. Setelah beberapa waktu, ia pun mulai berpromosi tentang pengetahuannya perihal peternakan ayam. Kata mas ini, dengan gaya yang sangat meyakinkan seperti jurkam kampanye, manusia itu sama dengan ayam (saya menelan ludah). Setidaknya dalam artian kalau manusia dikasih jamu bisa sehat, maka demikian juga dengan ayam (saya takjub dan diam-diam bernafas lega). Lalu dia ngasih tau jamu apa yang sebaiknya diberikan ke ayam biar sehat. Saya tak begitu ingat komponen ramuannya, tapi saya ingat dia menyebutkan madu dan daun pepaya. Dalam hati sebenarnya saya sibuk bertanya-tanya: “Nah, gene dheknen ngerti carane ternak pitik sing tokcer, kok malah dodolan wedang mubeng-mubeng ngene?” (Tahu cara beternak ayam yang oke, kok malah jualan minuman keliling?)Tapi pertanyaan itu urung saya tanyakan karena mungkin dia punya alasannya sendiri.

Demi memulai sebentuk pertemanan selain karena kehausan, saya pun memesan segelas Nescafe Classic padanya. Harganya Rp 2000. Yah, bolehlah, untuk gula, air anget, dan upah lelahnya karena hilir-mudik ke sana kemari. Lalu obrolan kami mulai berkembang ke mana-mana. Tentang kekecewaannya pada beberapa perempuan mantan pacarnya (dia jadi keliatan sengsara banget), tentang gempa Jogja lalu, tentang kerjaannya jadi loper Media Indonesia, tentang mahasiswa, tentang operasi pembersihan di Malioboro, tentang kerjaan nggak tetap saya, dll.

Sejurus kemudian seorang bapak penjaja semacam aksesoris HP, atau mungkin difungsikan sebagai gantungan kunci juga bisa, bergabung bersama kami. Jualannya itu dari bahan karet berbentuk bulat seperti rambutan dengan gambar wajah. Ada semacam tali yang kalau ditarik membuat lampu di dalam bola itu menyala. Mainan itu diberi judul ubur-ubur. Bapak itu bercanda: “Wah jangan percaya, Mbak. Hati-hati, rayuannya maut.” Mas-nya tersenyum agak malu, saya nyengir ‘hehe.' Maka bertambahlah teman ngobrol kami. Bapak yang ini namanya Agus, tinggalnya di daerah Pathuk. Dia sudah jadi penjaja keliling seperti itu selama sepuluh tahun. Selalu di daerah Malioboro, kadang-kadang berjualan juga kalau ada wisuda di universitas manalah. Mainan seperti ubur-ubur itu didapat dari grosir. Kalau ada yang rusak, seperti beberapa ubur-ubur di tasnya yang lampunya mati, maka itu resikonya sendiri. Kadang berakhir sebagai mainan anaknya.

Tiba-tiba si Damar memanggil mbak berjilbab yang jual jajanan. Mbak-nya ini kenes banget. Kenes ki boso Indonesia-ne opo to Cah? Agak genit gitu-lah, cerewet dan menggoda. Dia bilang saya manis dan cocok banget disandingkan sama mas-nya. Saya cuma nyengir, jurus andalan menghadapi setiap rayuan.

Eh, lha kok ternyata saya ditraktir si Damar sebungkus lemet (makanan dari bahan ketela, diisi gula jawa) dan sepotong lumpia seperti yang sudah saya ceritakan. Mula-mula saya menolak tapi karena dia memaksa, akhirnya saya ambil juga. Padahal, kalau nggak salah, semuanya Rp 1500. Saya keheranan sendiri. Cah iki ki niyat dodolan pa ora je? Wong bar takkulaki kopine kok malah nukokke aku panganan. Penjual kopi yang aneh. Damar, Damar. Dia bilang di antara sesama temannya penjaja makanan/ minuman keliling, sudah biasa misalnya seseorang diberi makanan/ minuman tanpa harus membayar. Tapi pastinya, dia merasa nggak enak karena itu mata pencaharian temannya dan dia akan membayar. Tapi dia bilang bener-bener niat nraktir saya. Wah, manis sekali!

Kenalan saya berikutnya disapa Pak Gondrong (rambutnya memang gondrong). Dia membantu menjualkan ubur-ubur jualan Pak Agus itu. Tapi anehnya (saya juga gak gitu ngerti perkaranya gimana), dia menolak uang yang dikasihkan Pak Agus untuk upahnya itu. Kelihatannya sih sungkan, karena dia cuma membantu menjualkan. Padahal dia udah keliling ke mana-mana. Rasa sungkan yang membuat saya takjub.

Ketika jam di HP saya menunjukkan pukul 20.35, saya pun berpamitan sama mereka. Eh, lha kok curahan kebaikan mereka buat saya belum selesai sampai situ. Yang namanya pak Agus itu, tiba-tiba mengangsurkan sebuah ubur-ubur untuk saya. Katanya nggak usah bayar. Saya menolak karena merasa tidak enak, “Eh, mboten, mboten. Niki kan dipun sade. Lha mangke nek Bapak rugi pripun (Eh, jangan, jangan. Ini kan dijual. Nanti kalau Bapak rugi gimana)”. Katanya tidak apa-apa. Dia bilang harga beli satu ubur-ubur itu cuma Rp 500. Dari ngobrol-ngobrol kami tadi, saya tau ubur-ubur itu dia jual sekitar Rp 5000. Wah, berarti dia ngasih gratis untuk sesuatu yang bisa dia jual seharga lima ribu rupiah.

Itu pun belum cukup ternyata. Si Damar yang tadi keliling tiba-tiba datang dan memberi saya sebungkus kacang tanah untuk dimakan di rumah. Tuhan, baiknya! Waduh, muka saya udah nggak jelas saking nggak enaknya menerima kebaikan bertumpuk-tumpuk seperti ini. Saya pun membungkuk-bungkuk seperti orang Jepang sambil mengucapkan terima kasih berulang-ulang, juga doa semoga perjumpaan kami mendatangkan barokah, yang mereka sambut dengan ‘amin’ berjamaah. Lalu setelah berpamitan, saya pun menuntun sepeda saya turun ke jalan Malioboro menuju tujuan berikutnya: pulang.

Wah, terharu sekali. Maksud saya, kenal juga barusan, tapi mereka udah baik banget. Maka saya memilih mengesampingkan semua pikiran buruk. Di rumah saya makan lumpia, yang ternyata berisi rebung, dan kacang dengan terharu. Rasanya benar-benar enak, makanan yang berisi banyak kebaikan. Saya juga memandangi ubur-ubur lucu itu dan berjanji pada diri sendiri akan merawatnya baik-baik. Tuhan, berkahilah hidup mereka semua.

Moral of the story: jangan-jangan Damar betulan naksir saya ya?

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Kadang-kadang, sebagai homo ludens, saya menganggap diri saya kanak-kanak yang tertawa-tawa dalam sebuah taman bermain. Mencoba berbagai permainan dengan sepenuh gairah rasa ingin tahu. Tapi, kadang saya juga merasa saya sedang memasuki wilayah asing. Dan kegentaran ini tampaknya belum juga sirna. Wilayah ini begitu rawan dan saya sadar mungkin saya akan tergelincir suatu ketika. Saya melakukan hal-hal yang tak terbayang akan pernah saya lakukan sebelumnya. Tapi saya seorang ksatria dengan baju zirah. Mungkin baju zirah itu ketakutan saya sendiri karena ia menyelubungi saya dan membuat saya waspada.

Setelah penyeberangan ke wilayah asing itu, wilayah yang sebenarnya telah menjadi tanah impian hingga ia menguasai alam bawah sadar itu, lantas apa? Saya masih ingat pergolakan di perbatasan. Ketercerabutan. Tapi sepertinya pemberontakan, penyeberangan itu jauh lebih menggairahkan daripada ketika saya sudah benar-benar di sini. Di sini yang ternyata saya rasakan sepi.

……………………
Konon perselingkuhan itu seksi. Saya sendiri pernah melakukannya, sesuatu yang saya sebut perselingkuhan ideologis. Nggabung di acara diskusi atau kajian tetangga gerakan, misalnya. Saya ingat bagaimana dulu di lingkungan musholla kampus, ketika seorang ‘ikhwah’ keliatan deket atau diskusi dengan seseorang dari gerakan/ ‘harokah’ lain, gosipnya udah macem-macem. Segitunya? Ya, segitunya. Jarene sih anti ng-ghibah/ nggosip, padahal yo podho wae kok. Juga membaca diam-diam buku-buku yang tidak direkomendasikan untuk dibaca (liqo’ saya puritan banget), karena buku-buku itu berbahaya untuk akidah atau ketaatan pada doktrin gerakan (padahal nek macane Al-Banna, Quthb, po Qardhawy thok yo ra gaul no!). Nonton teater sendiri tanpa harapan dikenali, juga memelihara cara pandang saya sendiri tentang-Nya yang begitu intimate, Ia yang selalu sedia untuk merengkuh ketika saya melakukan kesalahan, bukan Ia yang menghukum ‘cuma’ gara-gara saya males-malesan sholat, membaca sekenanya sambil nguap-nguap, lalu saya begitu takut.

Saya sendiri tidak pernah memaksudkan semua ini sebagai pemberontakan. Semuanya benar-benar didasari niat yang terlalu bersahaja, terlalu sederhana, untuk lebih mengenali diri. Bahkan kata ‘pemberontakan’ itu terlalu muluk-muluk dan mewah.

Kecewa? Mungkin. Untuk sekian macam hal. Salah satunya, karena ternyata hanya atas nama harokah, orang bisa berlaku diskriminatif. Saya sendiri pernah mengalaminya. Saya pernah ndaftar di ‘sesuatu,’ yang merupakan lembaga underbouw ‘temen-temen itu’, dan membuat presentasi yang lumayan mengesankan. Tapi saya bisa meraba kenapa saya tidak tererekrut, karena ketika wawancara saya tidak menyepakati gagasan si pewawancara tentang irisan jamaah dan sebuah parpol. Tentunya saya lebih beresiko daripada seorang mbak yang, nyuwun sewu, jilbabnya lebih kecil tapi lebih taat dibanding saya. Ning nggih sampun. Itu kebijakan mereka kok, saya sendiri cukup bisa menahan hati. Juga ada banyak hal lainnya, menyangkut banyak hal rahasia yang kiranya tidak bijak jika saya beberkan di sini.

Sekarang ngapain ya.
Tiba-tiba kok saya jadi ragu sendiri. Saya cemas dengan diri saya sendiri. Jangan-jangan semua ini kesalahan. Saya yang dulu begitu patuh dengan ge-be a.k.a. ghodhul bashor alias adab menundukkan pandangan, sekarang bahkan tak merasa berdosa dengan duduk deketan seorang laki-laki. Saya yang dulu begitu patuh dengan aturan jam malam, sekarang jadi mulai biasa pulang lewat tengah malam. Juga semua-mua yang saya sebut petualangan budaya itu. Tertawalah dengan term ini, tapi semua itu sungguh-sungguh baru bagi saya. Dan semuanya saya jalani dengan ketegangan antara cemas dan gairah.

Makanya saya bilang tokoh yang ada di buku yang saya ceritakan di posting sebelumnya itu mirip saya, dalam hal tertentu. Beberapa hari ini saya memikirkan ide yang agak liar. Kalau saya juga jadi pelacur, gimana, ya. Toh saya sudah bukan (dalam tanda kutip) ‘akhwat’ lagi, sehingga cukup saya sendiri yang menanggung malu. Mungkin keluarga. Perawan (setidaknya secara biologis^^) yang terlalu berhati-hati seperti saya, yang bersentuhan tangan dengan seorang laki-laki saja bisa merasa berdosa (entahlah, mungkin saya perlu merevisi pandangan ini), perawan yang baginya memakai jilbab adalah ritual suci nyaris seperti wudhu atau sholat (makanya jarang banget pakai jilbab instan), kira-kira laku berapa di pasaran tubuh perempuan? Harusnya laku banyak. Orang harus bayar mahal untuk bermalam bersama saya. Lalu saya jadi kaya, bayar uang kuliah sendiri, membelikan ayah saya buku-buku sastra Jawa atau novel-novel berbahasa Inggris yang mahal-mahal untuk mengisi masa pensiunnya, membelikan ibu saya jilbab baru juga blus manis yang senada, memberi kakak saya modal usaha, membiayai kuliah adik saya, dan saya sendiri beli laptop biar bisa baca e-book bejibun itu di mana pun saya mau. Liarnya pikiran saya.

Hff. Tapi betapa mengerikannya membayangkan diri saya dimasuki seorang laki-laki untuk membuat mereka puas lalu saya tak lebih benda. Saya bukan Yasmin (heleh-heleh, ket wingi kok Saman-Larung terus!) yang memburu kemerdekaannya sebagai perempuan hingga baginya segala yang masuk ke tubuhnya bukan ‘mengintrusi’ tetapi ia ‘konsumsi.’ Perempuan yang dengan lantang meneriakkan dirinya sebagai subjek. Kadang saya bahkan tidak begitu ingat saya ini laki-laki atau perempuan. Nah, lho. Pripun niki, pripun?

Saya sendiri harusnya sadar bahwa jalan ini memang sunyi. Dan yang harus saya lakukan adalah terus berjalan. Menemui dan mengabarkan kasih sayang pada setiap orang, seperti yang sudah lama saya bayangkan. Saya sudah lama pingin ngobrol sama waria-waria yang mangkal di jalan yang sering saya lewati kalau malam. Tapi belum kesampaian juga, karena ada rasa segan yang tak juga sirna. Saya juga pingin ngobrol bareng suster-suster di gereja deket rumah. Bilang bahwa kadang saya sendiri pun memikirkan selibat seperti mereka. Sejak baca ‘Akar’ (Bodhi, saya tergila-gila kepadamu!), saya juga jadi penasaran banget sama punk. Saya pernah nyoba-nyoba ngobrol sama anak punk di perempatan Pingit jam 1 malam. Tapi mereka menanggapi saya dengan sangat ketus. Sok-sokan gitu. Takjak omong ki malah nggrundhel dhela, njuk bar kuwi bali turu meneh. Asem tenan ki. Mungkin liat jilbab guede saya kali ya, jadi saya juga jadi keliatan sok buat mereka. Waktu itu dengan ketus saya bilang: setau saya filosofi anarkhisme itu gak kayak gini. Lalu saya buru-buru cabut. Belakangan jadi nyesel juga, kok saya sok-sokan gitu sih. Gek olehe yo opo. Ah, well. Saat ini saya suka ternganga sendiri dengan eksperimen saya itu, karena bahkan teman saya yang cowok pun nggak berani melakukannya (“Hah? Tenane? Kowe nyedhaki cah punk? Bengi-bengi?”).

Kalau ‘teman-teman saya yang dulu’ bergabung dengan komunitas yang berbeda dengan sebentuk ‘misi suci’ untuk yang mereka sebut dengan ‘mewarnai,’ saya bahkan tak berani mengkhayalkan saya ini punya tinta untuk di-sibghoh-kan pada sekitar saya, atau pembawa cahaya yang akan memberi terang. Saya bukan perempuan suci. Saya juga punya sekian noda di hati saya. Dan yang saya coba lakukan hanyalah bergaul, menghargai setiap orang, mencintai mereka, siapa pun mereka.

Seperti seorang kawan dalam sebuah suratnya (saya belum pernah bertemu dengannya dan hanya mengenalinya lewat surat, hingga lama-lama saya mengidentifikasinya sebagai huruf-huruf, kata-kata, bahasa yang puitik dalam surat-surat itu, bukan seseorang dengan kepala, pundak, lutut, kaki), …………saya pun merindukan subuh.

Subuh yang terasa lama, gelap, dan berkabut.

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Imagine it when different people who are likely to 'clash' in 'ordinary life' meet in one place but they already forget that they're different. Imagine it when people of the so-called Western culture, people of Javanese culture, Catholics, Muslims (ranging from the moderate to the radical), students, street vendors, ladies in hijab, and (maybe) commercial sex workers all gather in one place, singing together in a chant, dancing together, laughing together, and sharing the same concern. Suddenly all the boundaries start to melt. Distinction is no longer significant. Sounds like utopia.

But I think I've encountered the utopia in our Maiyah gathering this month, though it was just a small space among the broad hostile world. Maiyah is not a religious lecture, or merely a musical concert, or a strict intellectual discussion, or just a poem recital. It's not any of those, but at the very same time we have them all. Depends on how you see it.

In Maiyah last Saturday (Maiyah is carried out on the 17th in every month), several Australians, a pastor, and his fellow Catholics were even invited to join. We had a discussion on the rising fuel price and its impact on the people's daily life. I'm not going to emphasize the fuel-price discussion. The air just felt really great as all those people were there, we're ignoring the fact that we're different and just shared the same concern. And don't imagine a campus-style discussion. Everybody was welcome to share their ideas. Every opinions were appreciated, even the most naive. It was such a beautiful night.

I can still remember how the so-called 'christianization' had always been a sensitive issue among fellow Muslim activists I used to be a part of. They had always regarded the entire muslim society as vulnerable to outsider's attack and thus tried to defend it with the idea that people outside 'Islam' is dangerous and suspicious. Most of my muslim friends who agreed to such an idea were (and still are) always eager to follow any christology lecture because they had the chance to find out the weaknesses of other religion. Frankly, I just found it exhausting.

But in our Maiyah even a pastor was invited and shared his idea on the current issues. Then his fellow Catholic even presented a beautiful song in front of us. We sang together, we danced together. And it was just so beautiful.

When many people out there were still quarelling on which side is the right, we had gone beyond that. Religion, if understood merely as a set of rules on right/wrong, my side/ your side, does not resolve anything and even potentially causes more hostility and hatred.

I'm not sure if heaven should be gained with hating and even killing other people just because they're different.

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This post is not really intended to be a sort of book review since it’s more like a reflection upon my own life and choices, in which somehow I find similarity with those of the character of the book I’m about to discuss. So, it’s written from a viewpoint of a person whose life story resembles in some way with the character.

Nidah Kirani is the character of the once (and still) controversial Tuhan Izinkan Aku Menjadi Pelacur: Memoar Luka Seorang Muslimah, meaning “God, let me be a whore: a muslimah’s memoir of agony,” written by an Indonesian author Muhidin M. Dahlan. Since it was first published, the book has been a wide controversy particularly among Indonesian Muslim activists. And even by reading the very title, the reason for the controversy can be easily guessed; the idea of divinity meets the idea of depravity in a way that the latter is deliberately chosen to clash with the previous. No wonder, as far as I know, the author is often verbally assaulted and even accused of being infidel for the book.

Nidah’s preliminary touch with Islamic movement starts when she studies in a university. There’s a kind of chastity and naiveté in her character that somehow easily plunges her into the idea of pursuing benevolence suggested by muslim activists in her campus. She changes her habit that she’s now an obedient girl who’s struggling to obey God’s rule and avoid what He (I always find difficulty to find the suitable pronoun for God. I mean, ‘He’? Forgive my brutal curiosity, but is God masculine? God, are You? ^^) prohibits as the proof of her total devotion towards Him. She industriously follows the morning religion lecture in a mosque and commits on the practice of Islam. She finds peace as she’s now feeling that she’s on the right path.

Later on, some people introduce her into the idea of being united in a group to gain the victory of Islam, or in that case to form the Islamic Nation. Islam is the truth, that people have to follow it, and the idea of Islamic nation just seems make sense. The idea just enthralls her that she follows what she’s told vigorously. It even makes her change her appearance drastically from a girl wearing ordinary medium-sized headscarf into the large dark-colored hijab that makes people stare at her. But she’s steadfast and therefore ignores them. From this point on, she even gets much much more vigorous to improve her piety: she often does fasting and praying and leads a modest life.

Basically, she tends to be critical by asking questions on the things she disagrees or things she's simply curious about: why she's not allowed to know the entire members of the group and that many things are kept as a secret by the upper-level structure. But sometimes she represses and is even made to repress them with the thought that stating dissenting opinions just shows that she’s not loyal. Then, weird things in the group seem to always bother her, as the fact that they don't vigorously do pious things as she does, or that they seem to lack the knowledge of why they join the group. They're just persuaded with the idea of 'dakwah,' 'jihad,' and Islamic nation without really knowing why or how. She’s gradually disappointed with their behavior that doesn’t represent a Muslim activist’s proper spirituality but she's still encouraging herself with the thought that she has to hold on as the proof of her faithfulness.

Until one day, she has to come face to face with the fact that she’s left behind and that the whole things are just fake. She’s being chased by police because they suspect her of being involved in a group that’s likely to endanger the national integration. But the Islamic group she expects would help her doesn’t even seem to care. She’s still trying to hold on, but finally all her disappointment culminate that altogether with several friends, she decides to escape from the post, a very dangerous action to do ever since she once heard that those who betray the group will have to be death-sentenced.

She runs and hides with heart full of terror. Her faith starts declining. She’s Eve being thrown away from the peaceful heaven into the dry, scorching desert that doesn’t provide her any protection and even gives her unquenchable thirst and painful loneliness. She starts protesting God why she has to suffer all of these after all she’s done. She’s hiding in a rent room, avoiding contact with as much people. No more praying, no more closeness to God, only the emptiness and absurd feeling remain. She even tries drugs a friend offers her and lives a street life. After the decline, her fate just gets miserable. Under great depression, a man she thinks can be her friend takes advantage of her, abuses her, and just leaves her behind. After this one man, come the next several men who do the same thing, men living in hypocrisy and treat women as mere object to satisfy their needs. She’s finally involved in free sex she does deliberately as her protest towards God who seems to have left her after all the devotion she’s done. She chooses the darkness way as a prostitute as her protest towards both God and men.

After reading the summary above, it’s easy to see why the book invites protest from a great number of audiences. They say this book is a subtle persuasion of liberalism, even Marxism and provokes the discredit towards Islamic groups. It just simplifies the matter, I think. I myself tend to regard it as a reflection that one’s struggle towards her existence mostly takes her to the most bitter and painful experience. It’s also a lesson that following something as taken for granted without consciousness is likely to get yourself drowned and lost among purposeless mass. They persuade you with those grand ideas but repress your questions because they might endanger the establishment. In the end, it's absurd. People gather in a group, say a political affiliation or a jamaah, but without proper reasoning. I'm not saying that it's wrong to be a part of such a group. It's just that when truth is forced upon you (subtly or obviously) without any proper intellectual process and it's final, and then your presence is just taken advantage of for, say a political interest, what's the sense of it all? Didn’t Kierkegaard say, “It’s only after the individual acquired an ethical outlook that there can be any suggestion of really joining together. Otherwise, the association of individuals who are themselves weak is just as disgusting and harmful as the marriage of children.”

As I’ve mentioned, this writing is a reflection on my own life as Nidah is so much reminiscent of myself. In my struggle to seek the sense of my being (to be ‘authentic,’ a fellow loner^^ said), I was once one of those who believed that the way towards benevolence was obedience. I had my own way of bargaining my position in the group when I disagreed, of course, but eventually I gave in to the friendship bond and particularly the way people seemed to stereotype girls clad in hijab like me. Moreover, political interest was always in the air when you’re involved in the campus activism. I realized I should break such an assumption and made them see me as an individual, but instead of walking bravely in such a choice, I hid myself behind the ‘security’ of being a part of a group. I conformed and just followed what I was told. My story is not as much pain and wound as Nidah’s. I admit I once came to such a depression and just felt like I was left behind in a total loneliness. I felt purposeless. I felt my devotion was absurd because I was there among those people (I’m still regarding as very good friends) but I just didn’t know why and if it was the truth. The whole interpretation on Islam that just seemed final and not fluid always made me question. The way I had to see people in a dichotomy of Muslim-infidel, insider-outsider, pious-scoundrel was just so tiring. And I just followed obediently all instructed to me, as many people around me.

But I tried to break free and took the cost. Maybe I'm just luckier than Nidah. When I came to a despair culmination, I quickly made a leap to a different perspective in seeing the sense of my being and my relationship with the divine power. Maybe I just used to see God, as I had always been told, as the outer distant subject who puts rules, reward, and punishment and that I just have to be obedient towards Him; a kind of confrontational religiosity (confrontation-interiority, typology proposed by Berger in ‘The Other Side of God’). Then I made a leap and started to believe that He’s just much closer than my own mind and soul. He’s the Beneficent, the One who loves, so I love. I love my life with all the pain and sorrow and loneliness. I love those who are different, those who don’t treat me well. So, here I am, in a state I know never final but I’m grateful about. I’m glad with my encounter with the Maiyah Sufism gathering that just affirms me. I’m glad for all good people who give me support and appreciate me the way I am.

It’s not that the author was once a mentor in a writing community I used to join that I don’t give negative comments on the book (though as a matter of fact I’ve only met him once^^). But maybe it’s because the book is valuable in the way it makes you reflect on your own life.

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My father and I are good friends, though we’re not getting along pretty well recently. He’s not just a father, he’s a spiritual mentor for me. When I was a kid, he taught me how to practice the daily prayer (salah). But he himself didn’t practice it because he regarded that the way to approach Allah didn’t have to go through such a formal way. Maybe it was just such a weird fact because he chose not to do it but he kept on persuading me to pray and, hey, I didn’t seem to object him. Maybe it’s because he raised me to appreciate different ideas and different people. He often persuaded me to keep on praying by saying that my face seemed to be illuminating for the ablution water if I pray well (and he said it with his hand gently tapping my head). “Raine anakku wedok dadi ketok padhang nek sregep sholat.”

Maybe I’m not his prettiest daughter, but I’m surely his favorite. Probably it’s because I’m the bookworm who always catches up his talking when we have a discussion. When I was a little girl, we shared adventure together. He often took my little sister and me to the Opak river to go fishing with his fishing net and I was his assistant who brought the fish bamboo bag (called ‘kepis’). Along the way, he explained to me many things around us. I’d ask him anything and since he could always answer my questions I started making him a hero. It was also him, instead of my mother, the one who told his daughters bedtime stories. Later on, I found out that he made up some of the stories. No wonder, I never read them anywhere.

I’ve mentioned that I’m not the prettiest daughter, right? Well, he once told me that, instead of beautiful, pretty, sweet, or cute, my face was classic. What. Ever. It. Means. I didn’t ask him why because I could only blush and said, “Muni wae rai ndesa” (Just say I’m a rural-faced girl) and walked away. He always encouraged me to be proud of how I looked. I remember when I was little he nicknamed me Jitheng which means “The Black” to encourage me that it was okay to be a dark-skinned girl (both my sisters have fairer complexion). He even gave me a pet, a black-skinned-and-feathered Cemani hen, a rare kind of chicken (with black feather, skin, beak, and, some say, even blood and organ. But as far as I can remember, my cemani wasn't perfectly black), to show that to be black-skinned is simply unique. I keep the pride till now when I’m a grown-up. Many girls in my country suffer the inferiority complex of having dark skin and are easily persuaded with commercial ads on TV to purchase whitening products. But I’m proud of my skin color and just don’t care if I look pretty or not. Sometimes I have an argument with my mother who thinks I should make up my face and dress up properly in feminine way like my sisters (bukan hanya kaos dan kemeja yang sebagiannya kuwarisi dari bapakku^^ serta kain-kain serba lebar itu). But my father always stands up for me. He thinks I’m elegant in my simplicity.

Back to the story of my father.

When other fathers might be passing on wealth, he passes on sort of melancholy and anxiety to me. He often shared his youth life story: on his life as a college student (he studied in two different universities but failed both of them, and now he can hardly sympathize to me who has not yet graduated? >.<), his activism, his spirit of rebellion, and also story of betrayal and pain. I see in him a man who’s been through a lot of ups and downs and felt so much pain; a man who can speak eloquently of injustice and oppression, a man who’s always restless with the system. And I absorb the pain well.

I remember one night when he delivered me to school on his old bike as I had a program to follow in my junior high school. All my friends were delivered with motorcycle and passed us by. When we reached a dark road, suddenly our bike stumbled on a stone and we fell. He asked me if I was okay. Then he said, as if to himself, “Urip kuwi dinggo ngrasakke.” (Life is about experiencing). I couldn’t see his eyes because it was really dark but I could tell he was crying from his trembling voice. I didn’t really know why he cried and I dared not to ask. I didn’t cry ‘cause I was afraid I would make him even sadder. But that was my preliminary introduction to the anxious and melancholic side of my father.

I’ve known him since I was little but weird, I never really have a complete picture about him. He always seems to me as a mysterious man with so much secret in him. I never really know where he went at night, and what he did. I just know sometimes he told stories and secret things I never knew before. One day he told me that he was the man behind the riot that forced the chief of the neighboring village to resign. And he did that several years after the riot happened (Shh..this is a secret between you and me^^). He just seems to be an expert in those ‘dirty’ things…

He’s done many things in his youth, but now there he is, in a village where people don’t put so much respect on him because sometimes he criticizes the religion clerics obediently followed by most people in the village. But respect is not what he gains in his life. There are stronger and more precious things than that.

Sometimes when I go home in my Bantul house, I look at him as he’s absorbed in his new hobby of chatting via walkie-talkie with his friends and acquaintances. He’s a very good speaker, indeed, who easily charms people with the way he talks. He never forces people to follow his idea, but apparently it’s just what makes him seem to be compelling. When he talks, nobody dares to interrupt. He gains many friends with that.

As he retired, he had more time to spend at home. Besides the walkie-talkie, sometimes he makes fishing net or reads books I give him or composes Javanese poems (called geguritan). The neatness and perfection of his hand-written Javanese letters are so unbeatable. Sometimes I also see several English poems among his works.

We sort of share our spirituality. Haven’t I mentioned that he never prayed when I was little? Everything seems to reverse now that he never skips his five-time-a-day prayer and often reads the Qur’an. Together with several friends, he even founded a group that do the Qur’an recital program every week. One day he confessed in front of my friends visiting our place that it was me who had brought such an influence. I don’t know. I even find myself less obedient now (malah anakke sing genti edan, haha!). It’s not that I skip my prayer times, I’m just seeking a different interpretation on the religion I’m embracing, the more tolerant Islam.

My father doesn’t recite pretty well, but seeing him with the Qur’an on the bamboo bench often brings tears into my eyes. How I wish so much that he’s blessed with happiness, peace, and serenity. No matter how tough the situation he deals with.

I love you, Dad. I’m sorry if it takes me time to prove it. I know I’m always a little girl to you and thank you for worrying me but I’m a big girl now. I can take care of myself.

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I made another record for my (so-called) ‘cultural adventure:’ together with several Pintu colleagues, I went to a coffee shop. Yes, I did, Baby! For you who are used to living an urban life, there might be nothing particular with visiting a café or coffee shop. But for me? It’s surely a whole lot of new experience.

Grandong, who had lived a strict life as a santri or Islamic boarding school student since primary to high school and is now enjoying a freedom ^^ as an ordinary college student, said, “As far as I can remember you are the first lady in large headscarf visiting this place.”

I looked around and said, “Wah, petualangan budaya banget nih buat saya” (Wow, it’s definitely a cultural adventure for me).

Suddenly all those boys stared at me in amazement. Apparently the phrase ‘cultural adventure’ sounded bizarrely funny for them. I sounded like an adventure-show host on TV or something. Shaking his head, Penya said to me, “Nek udu kancaku, wis takkamplengi lho kowe, Mbak!” (If you’re not my friend, I’d really get you beaten black and blue) (It was just a joke). Everybody laughed again, particularly after I said, “And how stupid. I go to a coffee shop but I’m ordering a glass of sweet tea?” I even drank it up that one of them said again, “She’s definitely a newbie.” He explained that when drinking in a coffee shop he’d sip it slowly and little by little so that the process of drinking last longer as he had a chat with his friends. Well, that explained why their cups, which were smaller than my glass, were still filled with coffee while my own glass was draining out (I suddenly felt like a thirsty camel)..

Later on, I finally decided to try the black coffee some of those boys were drinking. And, for God’s sake, what’s that? It tasted really bitter with coffee grounds floating. Now I understood why they sipped it little by little.^^

We had a discussion until it was really late and the place was about to close. The waiter finally approached us and politely requested us to go. Since there were few things we still needed to discuss, we moved to another place. And guess where we were headed. In the pavement in front of a closed store! As the store’s sliding door was filled with graffiti, someone said to me, “Maybe you should bring a Pylox and add some more.” I can’t imagine it.

I’m enjoying it all as much as I can. Several days ago my uncle said that somebody wanted to rent the room my sister and I were staying in. Suddenly it sounded like a polite request to go. I know it might sound weird that an uncle would do that. Frankly, my sister and I don’t get along pretty well with my uncle’s family. A cousin once used the form “cah ndesa kae” or “that rural kid” to refer to me and sometimes mentions that they’ve done us a favor that we should behave well. I’m not angry or sad (or worse: acting as if I were a new version of miserable Cinderella in one of those soaps called the Millennium Cinderella, whose only business is sobbing all night long for all the despair and bothers the entire neighborhood that they all gather and yell: shut up, Cinderella. You’re bothering our peaceful sleep. Get a life, will you?). I’m just used to it all. I’m just worried that if I really have to go back to my home in Bantul, I wouldn’t have the chance to enjoy all these. No more Pintu, no more Maiyah, no more theatre, no more late discussion, no more riding on my bicycle at night. So, in the time being, I’m really enjoying it as much as I can just in case they do a brutal action of asking us to go out of the house.

Anyway, I got a job. Well, not quite a ‘real’ job that requires me to go to office every morning. A fellow Pintu working as a co-editor in a publisher in Yogya offered me a translation job. I immediately replied, “Ho’oh, ho’oh, gelem biyanget aku!” (Yes, I’m taking it). The job is to translate 160-page-long book and should be done within a month. If I’m good at it, they might consider giving me another job. Sounded tough, but I’ll give it a shot. So yesterday morning I went to the office, carrying a sample of my translation work. I gave the chief editor the translation of two pages of Gorky’s “Creatures That Once Were Men,” from my e-book collection. He looked satisfied and gave the job for me. And, hey, it was such a sexy book^^ that I already got infatuated with it.

Someone I regard as alter ego replied my e-mail, after one long week. Makes me wanna scream out aloud right in his ear for making me wait too long >.<. But considering the gallantry of his well-composed letters, alright, he’s forgiven.

I’m happy, I’m so fine. Life is not really that bad. You just have to hold on a little longer. Hell yeah, Baby.

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What a week.

It was really exciting to have a chance to watch Teater Dinasti’s rehearsal in Kadipiro. This week I’ve even done it twice: in Wednesday before the Pintu gathering and Thursday. It made us feel reluctant when they said they began the Wednesday rehearsal in the afternoon because Wednesday night is the schedule for Pintu. How kind of them! We’re so touched! I mean, Pintu is still very new and we haven’t done anything to be proud of but they appreciate our process by not interrupting our weekly schedule. I can’t imagine it if we were in a community with seniors that don’t appreciate the spirit of egalitarianism.

Cak Nun said that the whole performance concept would be new; the novelty is in the story, costume, music, choreography, and everything. I’m still new to theatre that I can’t really figure it out yet. But I’ve read the script (this lucky little scoundrel^^) and I find it really interesting. Of course, it’s not wise to reveal the whole story to you all. Besides sort of moral responsibility, honestly speaking, it takes time to understand it. The dialog in the script is composed in poetry style. In fact, I once overheard that the play was meant to be sort of a long poetry recital arranged in a performance. It offers a new interpretation in understanding the concept of human, angel, demon, creation, universe, and God.

Besides the rehearsal, what I particularly enjoyed was the discussion after it. They evaluated everything and explored new ideas. Cak Nun, the man behind all of these, always encourages the team by reminding them that this is not a mere play. It’s an effort towards enlightenment. And indeed, I can always feel such a spirit: the spirit to live with the tolerant face of Islam.

I can still remember when Cak Nun said he wouldn’t seek the fund by making sponsorship proposal because his theatre wasn’t, as he mentioned, barang jualan or commercial goods. Such a spirit of sincerity and devotion he preserves and passes on towards people around him!

How I’m grateful I was among those kind people.

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What fictional character do you relate to most and why?

Violet

Definitely Violet Baudelaire (in 'A Series of Unfortunate Events'). She's so intelligent, courageous, and simply classic.

Of course, unlike her, I'm not, as Lemony Snicket says, 'reasonably attractive' or genius. God knows how I'm way too silly and ridiculous to be compared with her^^. But there's something in her courage and the way she realizes her distinctiveness that reminds me so much of myself. One of my favorite parts of the movie is when Violet builds a sanctuary for her siblings, particularly desperate Klaus, her younger brother. She's just so sweet and kind. I love my siblings, too. Hehe^^. In fact, I'm the only one in my family who'd hold my sisters and mother or at least sit near them when they cry (my father rarely cries).

I always want to read the book but so sad I don't think I can find the series in Indonesia. I've watched the movie several times that I've even memorized most dialog and narration in it. When it comes to describe Violet, Snicket says (if I don't mishear): "Violet Baudelaire, one of the finest fourteen-year-old inventors in the world. Anyone who knew Violet could tell she was inventing when her long hair was tied up in a ribbon. ..In the world of abandoned items and discharged materials, Violet knew there's always something...." Inspired by her, sometimes I murmur "there's always something" whenever I'm in a hectic situation.

Plus, I like her hairdo very much. I really like the way she arranges the three strands of braided hair at the right side of her head.

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