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Gunawan Maryanto
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Gunawan Maryanto Sukra’s Eyes & Other Tales Translations by George A Fowler
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Gunawan Maryanto Sukra’s Eyes & Other Tales Copyright to Indonesian language stories © 2015 Gunawan Maryanto Copyright to all English-language translations © 2015 George A Fowler Copyright to this edition © 2015 The Lontar Foundation All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission in writing from The Lontar Foundation Jl. Danau Laut Tawar No. 53 Jakarta 10210 Indonesia www.lontar.org BTW is an imprint of the Lontar Foundation Editorial Team: John H McGlynn (Senior Editor) Yusi Avianto Pareanom (Indonesian-language Managing Editor) Nirwan Dewanto & Nukila Amal (Co-editors) Pamela Allen (English-language Managing Editor) Saira Kasim & Wikan Satriati (Editorial Assistants) Publication of this book was made possible, in part, with the generous assistance of BNI 46 Design and layout by Emir Hakim Design Printed in Indonesia by PT Suburmitra Grafistama ISBN No. 978-602-9144-60-4
Contents vii xi
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Publisher’s Note Introduction
Sukra’s Eyes Going to the Puppet Shop Efforts to Gain Supernatural Power Betaljemur Aswatama Goes Home
Mata Sukra 69 Pergi ke Toko Wayang 75 Usaha Menjadi Sakti 89 Betaljemur 107 Aswatama Pulang 59
119 Glossary 123
Publication History 125 Translator's Note 129 The Translator iv
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by the way… (a note from the publisher)
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iince its establishment in 1987, the Lontar iFoundation of Jakarta, a non-profit organization devoted to the promotion of Indonesian literature, has focused on the goal of creating a canon of Indonesian literature in English translation. With that as its mission, the Foundation has published close to 200 books containing translations of literary work by several hundred Indonesian authors. In its 28 years of existence, Lontar has published numerous significant and landmark works. By the end of this year, 2015, for instance, Lontar’s Modern Library of Indonesia series will contain fifty titles by many of Indonesia’s most important authors, with representative literary work spanning the entire twentieth century and beyond. These titles, together with The Lontar Anthology of Indonesian Drama, The Lontar Anthology of Indonesian Short Stories, and The Lontar Anthology of Indonesian Poetry–the latter two of which will be published this year–will make it possible to teach and foster appreciation of Indonesian literature anywhere in
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the world through the medium of English. Further, with changes in print technology, Lontar’s titles are now available throughout the world in a matter of days and for a fraction of the cost in former times. The authors whose work Lontar has published are recognized by both foreign and Indonesian literary critics and literati as some of the best writers Indonesia has ever produced. Naturally, however, given the scope of time covered by Lontar publications (from the late nineteenth century to the present) many of these authors are now elderly or already deceased. Which is why Lontar has now developed a new imprint, BTW Books, through which the Foundation will now begin to introduce to the world other talented Indonesian writers whose work is hardly known outside the country’s borders yet has been deemed by both literary critics and Lontar’s editorial board to be worthy of international attention. (In general, authors who already have one or more books available in translation, either in English or another major international language, were not considered for inclusion in this, the first stage, of the series.) Because of the abundance of talented Indonesian authors, the selection of the first 25 viii
authors was difficult to make, but Lontar’s hope is that if the series proves successful in achieving its goal, the Foundation will then be able to produce translations by another 25 authors and then another 25 authors and so on in the years to come. Because of the not-for-profit nature of Lontar’s work, none of Lontar’s numerous ventures would be possible without the generosity of others. In the case of BTW Books, Lontar is especially grateful to BNI 46 for its generosity in underwriting a large percentage of the cost of this series’ publication. Lontar is also grateful to the authors in this first stage of the series who, in their knowledge of the promotional nature of this series, agreed to forego royalties and other forms of monetary recompense. Lontar must also thank Emir Hakim and his design team; the many talented translators who contributed much valuable time to this project; and, last but not least, my editorial board and staff who selflessly devoted themselves to the goal of making this project a success. John H McGlynn
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Introducing Gunawan Maryanto
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iunawan Maryanto is a poet, playwright, iactor, and itheater director, who has been part of the Teater Garasi, a theatrical company, since 1995. Many of his short stories and poetry are reinterpretations of Javanese literature so familiar to him. A collection of his poems, Sejumlah Perkutut buat Bapak [A Flight of Doves for You, Father] won the 2010 Khatulistiwa Literary Award. Other published work include Waktu Batu [Stone Time], a performance script co-authored with Andri Nur Latif and Ugoran Prasad (IndonesiaTera, 2004); Bon Suwung [Empty Tracts], a short story collection (Insist Press, 2005); Galigi, a short story collection (Koekoesan Publications, 2007); Perasaan-perasaan yang Menyusun Sendiri Petualangannya [Feelings that Make Up Their Own Adventures], a poetry collection (Omahsore Publisher, 2009); Sejumlah Perkutuk buat Bapak [Doves for Father], a poetry collection (Omahsore, 2010) and The Queen of Pantura, a poetry collection (Omahsore, 2013).
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His works have been staged at the Utan Kayu International Literary Biennale in Jakarta in 2005, at the 2006 Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, and at the Second Korea-ASEAN Poetry Festival in 2011.
As a director, Gunawan staged Repertoar Hujan [Rain Repertory] at locations throughout Java in the period 2001-2005 and at the Tokyo Physical Theater Festival in 2005. He also directed Sri, adapted from Yerma, by Federico Garcia Lorca, in 1999; Dicong Bak in 2006; The Zoo Story, by Edward Albee, in 2007; Tuk [Spring of Water], by Bambang Widoyo, in 2007–2008; Bocah Bajang [Shaggy-headed Kid] in 2009; and Krontjong Mendoet and Gandamaya (codirected with Yudi Ahmad Tajudin) in 2012. He has been program arranger and has done curatorial work with Joned Suryatmoko for the annual Indonesia Dramatic Reading Festival since 2010. Yusi Avianto Pareanom
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Sukra’s Eyes
My name is Sukra. And hundreds of red ants were once put into my eyes. You’ll never know how that felt. Me neither. All of a sudden several men leaped out from all directions and surrounded me. “Is your name is Sukra?” barked one of them. I hadn’t gotten a reply out when someone got a handful of my hair from behind and pulled violently. I lost my balance and fell off the horse. Several big rough feet promptly pressed down my body as if wanting to grind me into the ground. I couldn’t move. Nirwati, my white horse, whinnied nervously. She kicked a few of the attackers before galloping away. “Is your name is Sukra?” It was the same man asking again. He squatted right there in front of me. I nodded quickly, hoping they would just let me go. But instead the one questioning me took out a knife and pressed it right up against my neck. I struggled all I could to break free. But their feet bore down on me all the more. “Yes! I’m Sukra! I’m Sukra!” 2
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The moment I said that they released me. But not completely. They roughly pulled me upright and brought my hands behind my back. One of them quickly tied them up and another tied a rope around my neck. Then I was dragged off somewhere. I walked at the rear, my feet stumbling and staggering to keep up with their horses. The event I have just related did not occur one lonely night, but in the middle of the day in a bridal procession witnessed by hundreds of guests. The event of my capture became a spectacle; poetry, maybe. Not only a spectacle where the incident occurred. But also a spectacle right along the road where I was dragged by a rope, hauled along like a wild animal or major criminal. People crammed the roadside. But not one of them dared raise a voice. I’m telling the truth. I was paraded in silence. In calmness. In long, and what seemed like never-ending, silence. Kartasura was suddenly deathly quiet. It felt like I was being led slowly to death, along a footpath fenced in by big sinister trees. Walking from the light toward darkness. Entering a dark forest. That day as usual I was performing my duties as cucuk lampah, guiding the wedding procession 4
up to the dais where the bride and groom would sit in state and eat rice together. I forget how many times I had done that already. Perhaps my good looks had become so well known throughout Kartasura that the wedding organizers would call me to “sweeten” their parties. Perhaps because their daughters whined and nagged that they didn’t want to get married if I weren’t their cucuk lampah. Don’t know. But clearly, I was very popular during the months of these great banquets. I was Sukra, child of Sindureja, the best looking youth in all of Kartasura, riding my favorite white horse, leading the happy bride and groom. I knew that many young men were jealous of me. I’ve known that for a long time. They say all kind of things about me behind my back. But I’ve only recently become aware that one of them was even angry about my good looks. An anger I never expected in my worst nightmares. His name was Raden Mas Sutikna. The crown prince. The future king of Kartasura. None of us had the guts to call him Gimpy the Cripple. Because he walked around all gimpy-like. There was something wrong with his left heel. We didn’t 5
dare call him Gimpy to his face because he was the crown prince. Also, because his character and behavior was very nasty indeed: quick with his fists, always angry, jealous and a whole lot of other unpleasant attributes. No one wanted to have anything to do with him. Still a young man, he had already decapitated many who wouldn’t carry out his commands. Man or woman, old or young, everyone was equally worthless in his eyes. Maybe that was the reason that Rara Lembah, his beautiful first wife, left him. I will tell you more about Rara Lembah on another occasion.
of storehouse maybe. It was dark and stifling. Like
Sutikna was totally fixated on becoming the first and best in all things. No name in Kartasura might be better and more beautiful than his. Even his own brothers were thrashed and forced to change their names. But was there a name more undignified than Gimpy? He was a pest. He was ridiculous too. Who knew what it would be like if and when he became raja? His cruelty and crazed stupidity might even exceed that of his father, Mangkurat II.
your humble servant Sukra,” I replied politely but
And it was Gimpy–sorry, the Esteemed Crown Prince Raden Mas Sutikna–who sent his henchmen to seize me. I was dragged into a room, some sort
cried out. Howled like a wild dog being slaughtered
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some uninhabited cave. My hands were promptly untied. Not that it meant I was free. Now they tied my hands above my head and cranked me up until my body hung like an animal about to be skinned. And Crown Prince Gimpy stood there in front of me. Hands on hips, enjoying my suffering, as he stood there on his queer feet. “So you’re the one they call Sukra?” He stared at me from a face that it would be hard for me to describe except as loathsome: square, with plump, pimply cheeks, and thick lips. “Yes, Prince, I am coldly. “Whip him!” He ordered to his sex-wolves who were still dutifully surrounding me. One of them ripped open my shirt, baring my chest. The slash of the rotan struck my back over and over. I could bear the pain of the first few blows. I clenched my teeth and flexed all my muscles. But it only made them redouble their tortures. Their frenzied whipping made me scream out in pain. Finally, I by dozens of arrows. My howls became louder and longer. And at one point, perhaps at the peak of my
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suffering, everything changed. I could hear nothing any more. Silence. I was as if reborn. As in the words of a village poet when he commemorates the day I was born in a song. At that time, they say, forest dogs barked long and high, and a royal servant said, “There was too the howling of jackals when the Kurawa were born”. My father, the mighty nobleman, went pale. As if witness to the shades of all the trees departing, going, never to return. *) Yes, Father. Perhaps I will never return. This crazy prince will murder me. “What wrong has your humble servant done, Prince?” I asked in weakness at the peak of my pain. “You dishonored me, you showed off your comeliness, you belittled me, you enticed my women, you besmirched my kingdom. Answer, Sukra.”
And darkness answered. I have no idea how long I was out cold. Suddenly I was choking. As if I had just been dunked into a pool. I guess they had splashed my head with a bucket of water. I groaned and squirmed in pain. My back felt terribly sore. “Mercy, Prince. Let your humble servant go.” He didn’t answer me. Rather he ordered his wolves, “Whip him again!” The same thing was repeated. I screamed and screamed for a few seconds and then it all went dark. And awoke again as if emerging from the bottom of a pool. But now it wasn’t pain that I felt. My chest was no longer throbbing with fear. It like a fire was within me, slow burning but steady, along with the torture I had undergone, growing and growing. Gimpy at first wasn’t aware of it. He was too busy enjoying my screams. He sat in chair in a very odd posture. His whole body was bathed in sweat. His face too. Like he was suppressing his lust. It made me tremble. My blood hissed and fizzed. The fire within me grew bigger. It radiated from my eyes, eyes stabbing him. Meanwhile his underlings
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The sentences in italics are an excerpt from a poem by Goenawan Mohammad titled “Penangkapan Sukra” [The Capture of Sukra]
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kept furiously lashing me with the whip. Destroying everything that stuck to my body.
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“Stop!” yelled Gimpy. His face was red, very red. “You dare to oppose me!” He got up slowly, smoothing and straightening his clothing. I glaring at him, unblinking. He suddenly went pale. As if he seen a ghost at midday. I could see clearly the change from lip-smacking lust to anger and then to abrupt terror. He no longer dared look at me. “Find some green ants. Stuff his eyes with red ants!” He shrieked like a woman. Hysterically would be the right word. His sex-wolves, who had been busy flaying me, ran off, presumably to climb the nearest jackfruit trees to get to the ants’ nests. “Don’t think I am afraid of you, Gimpy!” I muttered my abuse with my remaining. And before me, Gimpy’s body that had been so arrogant now shriveled like a mouse dunked into a clogged ditch. I enjoyed each moment left to me, like enjoying the last drops of rain before it stopped. A pause into which I could plunge with my whole being before the guards came and plugged my eyes with hundreds of red ants. My name is Sukra, born in Kartasura, 17… on a morning of Selasa Manis, when the moon had rolled behind the mountain. 10
Going to the Puppet Shop
Finally, I’m taking you to the puppet shop. I’ve been promising to do that since last year but haven’t been able to make good on my promise until now. It’s hard for me to explain to you that wayang kulit puppets are so expensive. That I put aside money month after month; otherwise I’d have been forced to borrow it. The only thing you know is that I love you and that I would give everything to you. You’re right. I would give everything I have to you. My only child. And now let’s go inside. Into the quiet puppet shop. There’s no one else there. Only piles of shadow puppets, wooden masks, wooden golek puppets, and several small shadow screens. Just as I expected, you dash over to the screens. You want one, along with a number of puppets displayed against its white surface. You say: This one looks like your friend, Daddy. Yes, you’re remembering the wayang practice I took you to a month previously. There you had played with some puppets in front of the screen. You were astonished at the shadows
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they created. And although you didn’t ask for them, I knew you wanted them for your own. I shook my head. No, son, they’re too expensive. You look at me. Then back at the screen. Choose the ones you like. I will buy a pair for you. Then later we’ll make a screen ourselves. You look at me again. Can we really do that? Yes, we can, I answer. We’ll buy cloth and wood later on. Yeah, yeah! And now your eyes move to the stack of wayang. Let the boy be. Let him choose on his own. An old codger, the owner of the shop, has appeared. Of course, sir. And so I let you run around to rummage through the stacks of shadow puppets in the store. Unobtrusively, I begin to make my own choice of puppets for you; ones I figure I can afford. Whatever you come up with, I’ll change them with what I select. Sorry about that. I too begin to go through a pile of puppets. Looking for ones with wooden handles, which are far cheaper than ones with horn or tortoise shell handles. Miniature ones, which of course aren’t real ones like those of a dalang, the shadow master. I’m looking for ones whose carving is rough and whose paintwork is garish. I know that you’ll pick the really good ones. Beauty is able to 12
catch anyone’s eye, but for me, at this moment, reality must rule. I’m right. You bring over a pair of wayang puppets, the characters Arjuna and Karna. Meanwhile, I have set aside miniature Gareng and Petruk puppets. So these are the ones you want? I ask hypocritically. You nod, with a big smile. These are nice ones. You say that so sweetly. And you’re right. They are nice. You’ve chosen well, I reply. Do you know who they are? You shake your head. They’re Arjuna and Karna. They’re enemies although they’re actually related. Oh yeah? Then why are they enemies? You’re curious to know. I’ll tell you all about it later, at home. It’s a long story. Now take those wayang back where you found them. I’ve chosen some really good wayang that are just right for you. Rather surprised, you return the two puppets to where you found them. Over here. You run to follow me where I am going. To the place I hid the wayang I chose for you. Who are these characters? You answer quickly: Gareng and Petruk! They’re neat, aren’t they? Yeah, they’re neat. But I like the others ones better. Yeah, but you don’t know their stories yet, so you wouldn’t be able to play with them. But Gareng and Petruk, you 13
already know their story. You can play with them to your heart’s content. And look at how funny they’re faces are. You say nothing. Apparently thinking. Why not the ones I picked out? You said you were going to tell me their stories. So then I would know their stories, too. You’re not going to give in as easily as you usually do. Finally, I tell the truth. The ones you picked are very expensive. I don’t have enough money. But I can afford two of these. You’d only be able to have one of the others. So what do you think? It’s up to you. One shadow puppet or two? You lapse back into thought. Your eyes going back and forth, comically. I’ll take two so they can be played together. Okay! I answer. Now take hold of them and take them to the old man sitting over there. Ask him how much they cost. You hurry off, Gareng and Petruk in your hands. I follow behind. The old man looks pleased when you approach. I’d like to buy Gareng and Petruk. You sound brave. How much are they? The old fellow bursts out laughing. You’re a clever boy. He examines the two wayang you hold out to him. Then he turns as I approach. Petruk’s handle is made from horn. Oh, you’re right, the handle is made 14
of horn, I say without thinking. For a moment I look for a replacement, trying to find a Petruk with a wooden handle. I quickly check the pile of puppets. I notice you chatting with the old man. But I find nothing. No wooden-handled Petruks. Maybe I didn’t look carefully enough. Then again, maybe there aren’t any there. But I keep on looking anyway. The old man calls out to me from across the room: No big deal if there aren’t any. No, it doesn’t look as if there are any, I say to myself. Um, so how much, sir? How much then? Now it’s the old fellow’s turn to be confused. I usually price my goods very high. But for this boy, I won’t be asking my usual price. I can tell he really likes wayang puppets. Thank you, sir, I say. You just grin. They’re cheaaap, you whisper loudly into my ear. The old guy gives a laugh when he hears this. When he’s grown up a bit, bring him back here. I’ll teach him how to make them. Would you like that? he then asks you. No, you reply. It would just be copying, you say. The old man laughs. Yeah, true. But still you’d have to carve them and give them colors so that they become proper wayang. You nod in agreement. After I pay the sum the old fellow quoted, we leave the store. How about if you come back to my 15
place? We can play with the puppets straight way. Yeah, let’s make a show straight way. On the motorcycle you remind me about the screen I promised. Today we won’t use a screen. It’s nighttime already. The cloth and lumber shops are closed. We’ll just play them against the wall. And for a lamp, we’ll use a flashlight this time, no big deal. You nod yes. Our motorcycle glides through the sunset brilliance.
Efforts to Gain Supernatural Power
After failing to acquire supernatural powers by secluding myself in the grove behind the house, I didn’t say very much. Budi was the only one who knew that I was sad. He was also the only person who even knew that I had been a hermit beneath the melinjo tree–which one day would fall, at the precise moment my mother died. I don’t need to tell you the details of that mediatation: my first, and also my last. It certainly wasn’t as calm and concentrated as that of Begawan Ciptoning in the wayang story. Neither devil nor angel seduced me or sat on my thigh. Neither Sage Narada nor the Angel Gabriel came bringing revelation or divine powers. There was just a swarm of weaver ants, which bit me repeatedly. A week after my failed attempt, Budi came bringing the news that Antok, the child of the snake shaman who lived at the eastern end of the kampung, had elevated himself to be a guru. I didn’t know him very well, even though, if you traced it
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back, we were in fact related. Antok’s grandmother, whom we usually called Granny Dukun, and my grandmother, Granny Dukuh Lawas, were related by blood, though who knows how exactly. Anyway, Budi persuaded me that Antok would accept us as his pupils. According to Budi, Antok’s right palm was like a spring of water. Anytime he was thirsty, Antok only had to press his palm to his lips. I wasn’t completely convinced but right then we took off looking for him. I forget whether or not we found him that evening. In fact there are a number of parts missing from this story; I hope this won’t bother you too much. As I recall, Antok was big, bigger than most of the kids in our kampung. He had a round face and his eyes were big and round too. His hair was close-cropped and spiky. Don’t know what he’d look like now. To he honest, at that time I immediately doubted his powers. Doubted he had a spring of water in his clutches. But still I went to the first meeting that Budi arranged. The first occult knowledge passed down by him was the Brajamusti charm. Who knows where he got Raja Pringgondani’s potent formula for 18
invulnerability. We–Budi, Budi’s cousin Kus, and I–received occult knowledge in our secret place: behind the little hut that housed the diesel generator hidden in back of the lush kalanjana grasslands precisely to the north of our kampung. According to Antok, there were three levels of Brajamusti and we had to master them one by one and in order. We can’t jump ahead? I asked. Antok shook his head. Your chest might split apart, he said coldly. I stole a glance at Budi and secretly gave a thumbs-up. Budi nodded with satisfaction. We straightaway prepared ourselves to receive the first level of knowledge. Antok asked us to take off our shirts. I was first. After mumbling and muttering and rubbing his palms together, Antok struck my chest five times with his open right hand. The first blow sent me reeling back and I fell down. I quickly got back up, grimacing in pain. Budi and Kus stared at me tensely. The second blow followed immediately. Although it felt harder and more painful, it just rocked me backward a little bit. I had no trouble taking the next ones. Then it was Budi’s turn. He took the first four blows very convincingly. His body wasn’t rocked in the slightest and he didn’t fall. But the fifth blow quickly sent my feelings of 19
admiration flying. Budi fell. Not backward but forward. Flat on his face. And he didn’t bounce back up. Kus and I panicked. Instinctively we moved to help him. But Antok stopped us. Antok sat cross-legged beside Budi, who was stretched out cold. Antok’s eyes were shut tight, he was mumbling and muttering, his left hand on Budi’s back and his right hand pointing heavenward. Budi came to not long after. I saw the blue bruise on his chest. He was ashen-faced. But he kept trying to smile at me. That calmed me down. Kus tried to back out. Maybe he was scared after seeing what had happened to Budi. But Antok persuaded him to go for a different occult knowledge. It would be easier to get but no less efficacious than Brajamusti, he said. Its name was Lembu Sekilan: “The One Finger and Thumb Span Ox”. If Brajamusti was the science of attacking with the palms open, Lembu Sekilan was the opposite, the science of standing firm without parrying an attack. A foe would not be able to touch you. He would feel that he had found a target, when in fact he would be off the mark by one kilan; the span of the little finger to the thumb of the open hand. All Kus had to do was sit cross-legged and keep his eyes shut. Then 20
with the fingers of his right hand, Antok measured Kus’s body in kilan. Done. Budi and I looked at each other, unwilling to let Kus get his knowledge so easily. But what to do? I certainly wasn’t bold enough to try and guess what was going on in Antok’s head. Was it because Budi had fallen down in pain that Antok straightaway changed the way he imparted his science? Or had Kus paid more, so that he got special treatment? Oh, right, I forgot to mention that we had to pay for each of these arcane lessons. But Antok hadn’t set a nominal amount that we had to pay. It was up to us, he explained. And the payments were made in secret. So one student wouldn’t know what any of the other students were paying. I knew what Budi paid because he was using my money. But neither of us knew how much Kus had paid. The first meeting was concluded by testing our newly acquired supernatural power. Budi didn’t join us. His chest was still too sore. And Antok didn’t make him go into the circle. So it was just me facing Kus. Brajamusti against Lembu Sekilan. I was pretty motivated as I faced the test. Perhaps because deep in my heart I was beginning to hate Kus for the favoritism he had received. I wanted to get him 21
in the chest with a blow of my Brajamusti. Antok acted as referee. After the order was given to start, I charged straight at Kus and hit him again and again on his chest. Kus just remained motionless and quiet. Didn’t try to dodge or defend himself. I lost count of how many times my open hand smacked his chest. I just remember Kus not budging an inch from where he stood. Then Antok separated us. I still couldn’t believe what had happened. I just couldn’t bring him down, even though I had clearly seen and felt how hard my blows had landed on his chest. Kus appeared to have mastered Lembu Sekilan very well. My Brajamusti was nothing compared to it. I found this impossible to accept. So did Budi; I could tell when our eyes met. Antok ended the meeting by giving a scrap of paper to each of us. He told us to burn them and mix the ashes in a glass of water. And we were to drink this down in one gulp precisely at twelve o’clock midnight. Then we left, agreeing to meet three days later. I went home with Budi. I could see Kus and Antok walking off together. Since that evening, without any tacit agreement, Kus has been our enemy. On the way home, Budi said he was going to ask Antok to teach him the Lembu Sekilan. He 22
didn’t want to be outdone by his cousin. Me too, I said. We would not to be outdone by Kus. Beginning the next day, I saved up my snack allowance so I could pay more to Antok. Three days later we met again at the same place. Antok had added another student: Kus had brought his younger brother Aris. That evening Budi and I requested the Lembu Sekilan. But Antok refused, saying we weren’t yet strong enough. We had to perfect Brajamusti first; only then could we get Lembu Sekilan. Budi and I really wanted to protest. Kus hadn’t acquired Brajamusti, so how could he have gone straight into Lembu Sekilan? Antok seemed to know what was bothering us, so he hastily added that the time to make the choice was before we had acquired any of esoteric knowledge at all. Once we had chosen Brajamusti, it had to be mastered to the end and only then could we move to another one. The second meeting was a repeat of the first. Budi and I got Brajamusti again, while Kus stayed with Lembu Sekilan. The difference was the level of knowledge we received. Level Two Brajamusti required us to be struck ten times. But, the strange 23
thing was, when Antok hit, it felt very feeble. It didn’t hurt a bit. Budi only grimaced when the pain of his earlier wounds flared up. According to Antok, this was due to our resistance having increased. Only Aris made that meeting different. Not just his presence, but also the science that was imparted to him. He acquired the Mantra of the White Monkey. It’s not a science of attack or defense, said Antok. By mastering the Mantra of the White Monkey, a person can run very quickly, far more quickly than ordinary people. As with other occult sciences, White Monkey also had its levels. Aris would be able to run five times faster than usual if he could master the first level that evening. We–Budi, Kus and I–waited with pounding hearts for the Mantra of the White Monkey to be imparted. Aris was ready for it. He stood barechested, eyes shut. As usual, Arok rubbed his hands together. Then suddenly he fell to the ground and started rolling around. Then he sprang up. He was acting just like a monkey, or like someone possessed by a monkey spirit. I reflexively backed away. Budi and Kus, too, had already moved from their earlier spots. Aris looked tense. Maybe he too wanted to back off. Then, Antok, growling and with one 24
leap, was right in front of him. Aris stepped back. I sensed he had not fully shut his eyes. Antok growled again. Aris backed away another step. I predicted what would happen next. Antok raked and clawed Aris’s chest. Maybe ten times. His hands seemed to be digging right into Aris’s body. Aris grimaced. Then it was over. Antok asked Aris to open his eyes. We moved closer again and could clearly see the red claw marks on Aris. Some scratches trickled blood. Aris rubbed his chest carefully. He cleaned off the dirt and the torn skin. The meeting was over. Antok again distributed paper for us to burn and drink that night. There were no test matches that evening. Instead, Antok asked Aris to run home, and he did. I don’t know how fast Aris ran before this, but that evening he ran fast. Very fast. That night, after doing my homework, I met Budi at his home. Secretly of course. If my mom found out, things could get complicated. I asked Budi to come out and we went to Punthuk, which is located west of our kampung. Punthuk is an open place, like a plain filled with sand dunes. Like a desert, to be precise. Previously there had been paddy fields here. My grandpa’s rice fields had been here too. Then, abruptly, the rice fields turned into 25
this desert. Monstrous dredging machinery had made it into desert. Word had it a sports stadium was to be built over it. But they said that for years and years, and the stadium still didn’t get built. Don’t know why. So we started calling the place Punthuk: “Dune”. Even now, with the stadium really and truly built. At Punthuk, I invited Budi to prove the effectiveness of Brajamusti. I was baffled. It might have been nothing but smoke and mirrors by Antok to use up our daily allowances. But when we saw how Kus and his kid brother mastered Lembu Sekilan and the Mantra of the White Monkey, I reconsidered that accusation. Maybe it was us; we were too stupid to absorb Antok’s supernatural powers. Even thought the pain in his chest hadn’t really gone, Budi went along with my request. Anyway, we hadn’t had the chance to try out the level-two Brajamusti given by Antok that evening. I asked Budi to go first, to hit me in the chest. Budi got ready. He went back some ten steps from where he had stood facing me and roughly rubbed the palms of his hands together. I expanded my chest even further. With a yell, Budi rushed toward me, his right hand raised in front, palm open, his left 26
hand holding his chest. My heart beat fast. I was really scared as Budi got closer and closer. He certainly wasn’t slowing. I was shaking from fear. I shut my eyes and don’t recall what happened next. All I know is that I was thrown backwards off my feet. I fell hard against a wet sand dune. Budi rushed over to me. It’s okay, I said as I hastily got up and brushed the dirt and sand off my trousers and jacket. Budi looked relieved. I asked him what had happened. He shook his head. He didn’t know either. He hadn’t felt a thing. He hadn’t felt his hand strike my chest. He was running and then all of a sudden I went off flying backward. I also had my eyes tightly shut, he said. We didn’t talk any more about it, but hurried on home. It was late. The moon had disappeared from Punthuk. For whatever reason–as I said, a lot has been lost from my memory–Budi and I are no longer pupils of Antok. I do recall that after that incident happened in Punthuk Budi and I received some new knowledge from Antok. The complete Brajamusti, the White Monkey, the White Eel, the Iron Mask, and several others whose names I’ve forgotten. It was only then that we quit. Kus and Aris stuck it out with Antok for some time after. And all that time, 27
we never spoke a word to them. And with the other kids we would tease the two brothers if we saw them coming our way. We got the other kids to laugh at their stupidity for being cheated by Antok. We never told the other kids that we too had been Antok’s pupils. I even told Budi that I never once drank the ashes of the papers Antok gave me.
Betaljemur
Betaljemur could hardly believe what he read. In that book, it was written that Bektijamal, his father, had been murdered by his father’s foster brother, Eklaswajir. The subsequent paragraphs explained how this had all come about. It was all there in black and white. Eklaswajir was prepared to kill Bektijamal in order to control for himself the hidden treasure of Korah discovered by his brother. Bektijamal, however, had decided to return this wealth to the descendants of Korah. It was totally unexpected. Eklaswajir, who had always loved his foster brother, suddenly “went ballistic” and carried out such an appalling deed. After the murder he did feel an inkling of having done wrong. But the moment his eyes returned to the mountains of gold and jewels all sparkling before him, that inkling just vanished, transformed into a fearsome greed and unbridled appetite. Fearsome to himself as well as to others. It was out of fear, that Eklaswajir immediately buried the corpse of Bektijamal. Then he returned
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to Bektijamal’s home to convey the false message to Bektijamal’s wife (who was then pregnant with Betaljemur) that Bektijamal wouldn’t be returning soon as he had decided to go on a journey to distant lands. Eklaswajir entrusted her with the Book of Kadamakna, which Betaljamal had had with him. Then he beat a hasty retreat from Bektijamal’s home. Then he gathered together slaves to build two large stone buildings in front of the cave where Korah’s treasure was kept. He also built a big wall surrounding the cave and the two buildings. Almost all the slaves asked themselves the same thing: Why does Eklaswajir, a child of the noted chief minister of Medayin, build two large stone buildings far from the center of the city? After everything was finished, Eklaswajir promptly drove away all the slaves who had worked here. Then he brought in dozens of criminals who had been sentenced to death, and on dark nights they were ordered to carry all of Korah’s treasure from the cave into the two newly constructed buildings. And on the following morning, before the sun had arisen, Eklaswajir himself executed them, one by one. 30
When he reached this page, Betaljemur stopped reading. His heart was beating wildly. All the secrets that had for so long been concealed from him were suddenly exposed in this extraordinary way. Would he relate all this to his mother who still patiently awaited his father’s return from his wanderings? Not right now. That was his decision. The time would come when he would tell her everything. Betaljemur also decided against reading any further, because the next section was the story of how Betaljemur took revenge on Eklaswajir. He preferred not to know what lay in store for him but to “enter the event”, come what may. Instead he returned to the pages of the Kadamakna, to pore over the various occult sciences written and implied therein. Tirelessly, he studied all the handwriting of Lukmanakim, his grandfather who had filled the Kadamakna. Within a short time, he had mastered the knowledge and powers that his grandfather had possessed in those bygone years. But not all of them. To be precise, all the occult and esoteric sciences written in the Kadamakna that he held in his hand. Because, as was stated there, part of this tome was missing; it had been snatched away by the Angel Gabriel who did not want the 31
intelligence of ordinary humans to equal to or even exceed that of the angels. Thus it may be said that what Betaljemur mastered was only a part of what his grandfather, Lukmanakim the Great, had possessed. For example, he could not make a person regain his youth, as his grandfather could, because the pages filled with the notes on that science were in the hands of the Angel Gabriel. “Mother, why is it only now that you are handing over the Kadamakna to me?” asked Betaljemur once when he had met his mother. “That was what your father always instructed. Only when you reached adulthood could this tome be given to you. If your father were in this room right now, I am sure he himself would hand over this book to you. Your father also inherited it from your grandfather when he was the same age as you are now.” “Had Father studied everything that was in this book?” Betaljemur tried to elicit information from her. If his father really had had a command over all the knowledge in the Kadamakna, surely he would not have been so easily tricked by Eklaswajir.
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“No, Child. Your father never opened this book even once. I don’t know why. But he did once say that he only wanted to be an ordinary human being. Not someone invested with invulnerable powers and having knowledge as vast as the oceans, like your grandfather. In fact, it was your uncle, Eklaswajir, who had read some parts of it.” Eklaswajir. Betaljemur felt as if his chest would explode. Just hearing that name made his whole body tremble with rage. “What’s the matter, Child? Oh, I’d almost forgotten. We’ve got to visit your uncle from time to time. At the very least, I’m obliged to introduce you to him. The last time he came here was to tell me about your father’s departure. It was also he who brought us the Kadamakna that had been entrusted to him by your father” “Where does Uncle Eklaswajir live, Mother?” He now is the chief minister of Medayin, replacing your foster grandfather, Abujantir. Your uncle lives in a great solid house he built outside the city. That’s what I have heard anyway. Whether it’s true or not, I can’t tell. I’m reluctant to visit him. I’m
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afraid of disturbing him. As the chief minister of a kingdom as big as Medayin, he must be extremely busy. The proof of that is he himself has never once come to see us here. But before you were born he did come to visit once in a while. He was just like your father’s womb-brother.” Betaljemur shuddered, his hair standing on end to hear his mother praising Eklaswajir. He very much felt like revealing Eklaswajir’s wickedness right there and then. Just so she would stop calling him “uncle”. So she too would shudder and get gooseflesh whenever mentioning or hearing Eklaswajir’s name. But Betaljemur now was not the same person as Betaljemur before reading the Kadamakna. Although the blood boiled in him now as it would have then, Betaljemur was now much more patient, wise and cautious. Betaljemur began to carry out his plan. He asked his mother’s permission to go to the city for one or two days. If he were slow in returning, he asked her to wait patiently and not to go looking for him. And so he set off. It wasn’t hard to find the sturdy building where Korah’s treasure, now in the hands of Eklaswajir, 34
had been put. The structure itself looked as if it had been jabbed down into a stretch of sandy desert that was devoid of the least living thing or other building. Betaljemur was no longer lost. This was the building he had been looking for. He felt as if he recognized it. There wasn’t the slightest difference in detail between it and what the book described. It was exactly the same. Its color and its shape. There was nothing amiss. Even the angle of lightfall that created the shadow of the two buildings. Betaljemur approached its gate. Knocked on it politely. An old man opened it and asked the purpose of his coming. Betaljemur claimed to be a traveler who was seeking a moment’s shelter before proceeding on his journey. The old gatekeeper bade Betaljemur enter. “You may rest for a while in the garden, dear lad. Perhaps you will find it refreshing.” Betaljemur was directed to the garden alongside the building where the treasure was stored. A garden of grass with a wellspring in its middle. There were no flowers or plants. Just rocks in a variety of shapes, arranged in the shape of an image that wasn’t clear but had a calming effect. Betaljemur sat on one of 35
the rocks. Enjoyed the pellucid waters of the little pool that had formed around the well spring. “I will carry on with my duties, dear lad.” Gently Betaljemur lowered himself onto the rock. Enjoyed the coolness of the wind that felt so different from what he had just experienced out there. He was also amused by a pair of eyes that observed him steadily from a window in the building. “Hello there! Where are you taking those three goats, sir?” asked Betaljemur to an old man who passed by, leading a goat. The old man stopped and looked at Betaljemur in total amazement. “Son, aren’t you mistaken? I am only leading one goat.” “That goat is pregnant, old sir. There are two baby goats in her belly. One has short legs on one side. The other has stripes on its back.” “Ah, you are jesting, dear lad. “Can I prove it, young fellow?” Another man, middle-aged, came and joined in. It was Eklaswajir. Betaljemur observed him closely.
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“Please go ahead, Lord Minister,” challenged Betaljemur. Eklaswajir secretly admired the courage of the young lad. The old fellow was asked to slaughter the goat. Then Eklaswajir quickly tore open the goat’s stomach with the end of his sword. True. Hunched up within the animal’s womb were two baby goats. One with short legs on one side. The other with stripes on its back. “What is your name, young fellow?” “I am Betaljemur. My father is Bektijamal,” replied Betaljemur calmly. Eklaswajir trembled. The thing that he had feared for so long was now about to happen. All his rottenness was about to be revealed. Stay calm. Eklaswajir controlled himself with these words. Not a single person knew of that murder other than he himself and of course Bektijamal. Surely Betaljemur didn’t know anything. Or supposing he did, he would easily eliminate the boy. That would be the end of the matter. Eklaswajir didn’t want to take risks. He assumed Betaljemur had found out about the murder of his
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father. So he asked an executioner to take Betaljemur somewhere and kill him there. “My lad, I would like to show you something. My servant will take you there. Just take it as a gift for your prophecy and clear-sightedness in correctly guessing what was inside my goat’s stomach. The executioner left the building hand-in-hand with Betaljemur. Headed somewhere. Betaljemur was told to just keep walking. After a few moments, he stopped. “Why not just here, man? You were asked to kill me, right? Why go somewhere far off? In a place as lonely as this, who’s going to know?” The executioner turned pale. He knew he had before him a youth who possessed a degree
eldest daughter. Am I right?” The executioner was all the more sure that he was in the presence of someone half-human and half-angel. “Eklaswajir has told you to kill me. If you don’t do it, then it will be you who is killed, and by him. Isn’t that how it goes?” The executioner nodded yes. “If you doesn’t want to kill me and you don’t want to be killed by Eklaswajir, go now to the nearest market. If there is someone leading a goat from the east, buy that goat without haggling over the price. Then slaughter it. Take out its liver. That’s all we need. That goat is actually the pet goat of the poor family that owned it. It was raised and nursed at the breast by its owner.” The man immediately left for the nearest
of something beyond that possessed by ordinary humans. He then admitted that he had never once committed murder. Every day he prayed that he would never be ordered to do his job. He had only taken the job because of how hard it was to find work.
market. The moment he arrived, and without
“You’re from Ngabesi, right? And you serve Eklaswajir because you’ve fallen in love with his
But what to do? Our supply of food is getting lower
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having to wait too long, an old lady came by from the east leading a goat. The executioner stopped her and bought the animal with any bargaining. “Oooo… thank you so much, my good fellow. Actually, we didn’t want to sell this pet goat of ours. and lower. So we’ve been forced to sell what we own,
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piece by piece. I nursed this goat myself because when it was born its mother got stolen.” The executioner was all the more amazed at Betaljemur’s powers. Everything was so precise. Nothing was awry. After paying for the goat, he quickly slaughtered it and took out its liver. “Mother, I only need its liver, go ahead and take back the rest of it.” Betaljemur asked the executioner return to Eklaswajir and hand him the goat’s liver. Just say that it is Betaljemur’s liver. Eklaswajir won’t suspect anything because the liver of a goat that has all its life been nursed by a human will very much look like a human’s liver. Eklaswajir seemed happy to receive Betaljemur’s liver brought to him by the executioner. He straightway ordered the cook to make it into a curry. And when it was done, he ate it all up. His fear had gone. Meanwhile at the Medayin palace, Baginda Kobatsah was angry. He knew he was dreaming but the moment he awakened he couldn’t remember the slightest thing about his dream. This went on for a 40
week. A dream that according to him was exactly the same. He was sure that he was being sent a message in the dream. Thus, he was determined to find the missing dream. But none of the palace astrologers could find it. Nor could all the soothsayers who were scattered around Medayin. They all failed. Chief Minister Eklaswajir was summoned. “Eklaswajir, you know what I want. Find the person who can find the missing dream. You have until tomorrow evening.” Eklaswajir acceded. Because he wanted praise, he answered as follows. “Yes, Your Majesty. If tomorrow evening your slave is unable to find a person able to do this, let your slave be beheaded.” “I am holding you to your promise, Eklaswajir. Hurry up and find the person.” Eklaswajir felt as if he had awakened from a dream. He regretted having made that promise. But it was too late now. At home he was agitated. He regretted his decision to murder Betaljemur. If the young fellow were still alive, surely he would spare no effort in 41
finding someone who could read Baginda Kobatsah’s dream. The executioner noticed his agitation. “Is there anything I can do, Lord Eklaswajir?” “Nothing. Tomorrow I will die, punished by Baginda. Watch over my family as well as you can,” replied Eklaswajir in despair. “Is there nothing that can done?” “The only person who can help me is the person that you have killed just this afternoon.”
sun by raising up over him the heirloom parasol of the minister of Medayin.” Betaljemur returned to meet Eklaswajir. But Eklaswajir being Eklaswajir, he threw Betaljemur into prison. The executioner felt guilty. But he hastened to calm him down. “It’s nothing, man. Betaljemur won’t die. And your wish to propose marriage to my daughter will be promptly fulfilled.” Needless to say this made the executioner very happy. It was easy for him to escort
The executioner felt genuine pity at seeing Eklaswajir’s sorrow. He wanted very much to help him.
Betaljemur to the prison.
“Lord, perhaps I can help. But please forgive all my wrongdoings.”
But Betaljemur refused. He would do it, but on
Eklaswajir nodded his head. The executioner then told him what had really happened, that he had backed away from beheading Betaljemur. Feelings of relief overcame Eklaswajir. He immediately ordered the executioner to find Betaljemur and bring him back.
Naturally Eklaswajir refused this. He didn’t want all
“Go and meet him with a palanquin showing the grandeur of the ministry. Screen him from the
The promised evening had arrived. Eklaswajir
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In the prison, Eklaswajir tried to force Betaljemur to interpret Baginda Kobatsah’s dream. condition that he meet directly with Kobatsah. his previous evildoings to be revealed by Betaljemur to the raja. So Betaljemur was tortured in various ways. But Betaljemur’s lips were sealed. His body could stand any kind of pain. Eklaswajir was again in despair. admitted his failure to find anyone who could read
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Baginda Kobatsah’s dream. The sentence was soon carried out. On the point of his execution, Eklaswajir changed his mind. “Baginda, I did find the person. He is in prison at the ministry.” Kobatsah was mystified by this. But he immediately ordered his soldiers to take Betaljemur from the ministry prison. But Betaljemur was unwilling to go, except on condition that Eklaswajir became his horse to take him from the ministry to the palace.
“Return my husband who went missing in constructing your buildings!” “Return our money that you forced from us!” Kobatsah gazed at the procession from afar. He saw a youth who for some unknown reason moved him deeply. Who was he? The future of Medayin seemed to be in his grasp.
Eklaswajir could do nothing. It was Baginda himself who fastened the bridle reins over his nose and mouth. And placed a saddle on his back. Then occurred the event that caused such a commotion in Medayin. Betaljemur mounted the back of Chief Minister Eklaswajir as he would a horse. The common folk of Medayin filled the streets through which this special horse passed. Every time the horse stopped from exhaustion, Betaljemur smacked him hard with a whip. The people cheered. Hatred so long buried deep against Eklaswajir’s rulership now found its release valve. They shouted and jeered and accused Eklaswajir of his past crimes. 44
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Aswatama Goes Home
“Finally the horse has come, my child. To help me.” Aswatama drew a breath. A long one. In the distance there was the sound of the whinnying of horses from a field; like a call to return. Enough. That sentence had answered all his questions. He did not require a sequel to that story. Enough. My mother is a horse! So it was true what the neighbors said. So it was true what my schoolmates had said. Krepi was not my womb-mother. Aswatama trembled. This fact made him shiver with fear. His eyes bore into the body of his father stretched out on the bed. The old man’s body looked smaller than it should have been. His mouth was open, as if to continue the story. But no voice emanated from that mouth. Aswatama was also unwilling to say anything. All he could was clench his fists. Tight. Grasp the emptiness that suddenly dominated his whole being. An emptiness that slowly and softly wiped out his presence. Once again he drew in a breath. As if trying to infuse his body with air, or
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with anything at all. He didn’t want to disappear. But nothing came. Not even a horse. “Come home now. Your father is in the hospital. He’s breathing his last.” The voice of the woman was flat, with almost no inflection. Without punctuation points. Aswatama could not read any feelings at all in such a short telephone conversation. It wasn’t a conversation really. Aswatama didn’t get a chance to say a single word. The other end hung up when he realized that he had remained silent for so long with the receiver stuck against his cheek. He was as silent as the statue of Dewi Windradi in the city center. This was a sad statue he had seen in a pool, with three monkeys swimming around it. It was said that the monkeys were the children of the Goddess Windradi, who had been turned into monkeys for quarreling over the Cupu Manik Astagina, a magic goblet containing everything in the world and granting the holder every wish. But Aswatama was not as sad as Dewi Windradi who was always looking at her three cursed monkey-children. He didn’t know what sort of feelings he was in the grip of. But whatever they were, it wasn’t sadness. He couldn’t put a name to the feeling–lonely, stretched
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out forever, like the roads in Sokalima, the place he’d left twenty years before. And now news delivered in a flat voice was calling him home to Sokalima. Krepi, his mother, telephoned. “Come home right away,” Krepi. Aswatama visualized his mother’s face; a woman whom for years he had thought of as his mother. It was on her breast that that he would cry his heart out when he was still a little kid and his playmates made fun of his feet that looked like horses hooves. “Aswa’s parents are horses! Aswa’s parents are horses!” Aswatama would run at the speed of a horse to find his mother. At home, at the market, in the rice fields, on the roads or wherever. He sought to nestle against Krepi. And to weep there. Nestling up against Krepi was being at home. The safest, the best place in the world. Until Aswatama reached adolescence, Krepi’s breast was his home. Was that breast still as warm as it had been when he left it? Did there still droop a pair of breasts, white and soft? The smell of Krepi’s body returned to envelop him. And uncontrollably his thing stiffened. “Mother… Krepi… Aswatama’s lips quivered as he whispered her name. That hellish night came back 49
to visit Aswatama. A night when he was completely unable to shut his eyes. He was overcome by an inexplicable restlessness; something was eating away at him. He was almost seventeen years old at the time. Still in senior high. He wandered aimlessly out of his room, certain he would get no sleep that night. He walked towards the veranda. Maybe a cigarette while taking in the night air would calm his troubled mind. And then he heard a woman sobbing in his parents’ room. He tiptoed softly over. The crying was much more distinct now. The bedroom door was partly open. He pressed his body up against the wall and edged toward the door. The sounds of sobbing and weeping increased, almost as if greeting his arrival. It was Krepi, his mother. Aswatama’s unease intensified. Perhaps something had just happened. He pricked up his ears. The only sound was his mother’s crying. He didn’t hear his father’s voice at all. Where had Durna gone? Aswatama wondered. Or maybe something had happened to him. Still very wary, Aswatama peered into their room. In the dimness he made out his mother’s form. She was sitting on the side of the bed, her back to him. His father was not there. Just his mother. Sitting, bowed over and crying. 50
“Mother…” Aswatama whispered her name. The crying stopped abruptly. Krepi glanced in the direction of the door in surprise. She wiped away her tears in panic when she realized Aswatama was standing at the door. “Oh, it’s you, Aswa. Come in!” Aswatama quickly entered and embraced Krepi. “Why are you crying, Mother? Where’s Father?” Krepi fell silent again. And again, he tears flowed like the River Silugangga. Aswatama shook his mother. “What’s wrong, Mom?” Krepi still said nothing but began to sob again. Louder. Longer. She embraced Aswatama as tightly as she could. Aswatama panicked. His heart beat fast. The woman who was embracing him didn’t seem to be his mother. It was as if he was hugging somebody that he had just met. A woman who made all his fine hairs stand on end. Krepi’s body, wrapped in a thin nightgown, rocked Aswatama. Aswatama stared into Krepi’s eyes. Krepi stared back. And their lips met. Time stood still as they embraced each other. They began sucking and biting and rolling around
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on the bed. And then Aswatama stared deeply into Krepi’s left eye. Under his breath, he recited a precopulatory mantra: Holy water of seven forms, before it trickles, resides within my root. I will fast sprinkle it from the tip of my weapon, to reside in your middle hole and become a glorious feeling, in hopes of becoming a glorious human. Krepi cried out when she received Aswatama in her body. “Ah, your blood! Ah, my blood! Ah, your feeling! Ah, my feeling! You feel as beaten as I do!” She breathed in Aswatama’s breath. “Come into me, Aswa. Enter my body!” And then there was silence. Sokalima was as silent as the grave. The streets were deserted. The night insects retreated to their holes. Black clouds erased the moon and stars. It was an empty night devoid of living beings. The next morning Aswatama left Sokalima forever. That night was the first and last night he was with Krepi. With his own mother. There would be no more. Aswatama endeavored to put as big a distance as possible between them. He was overcome by guilt. For twenty years he succeeded in staying away from Krepi. Up until a few moments ago, when she had called him home. 52
On his way to Sokalima, Aswatama tried to picture his father’s face. He let his thoughts drift. The passage of twenty years may have changed a lot of things. But then again, maybe not. Durna may be unchanged from when Aswatama last saw him. Nothing may have changed. Durna was still a primary school sports teacher. He was good at it, but was still as taciturn as ever. He was a father that loved his son more than anything. He was a man with physical disabilities, with visible wounds. Now lying all alone in hospital. Waiting for his time to come. Aswatama recalled one afternoon during an archery lesson. Five years old at the time, he held a bow that was higher than he was. He had put an arrow on his bow and aimed at a target, a rice field scarecrow with a face upon which was pasted the picture of some unknown person. “Aim at that man’s eyes, Aswa. And shoot your arrow the second you see both eyes become one!” Durna stood beside his only son. Little Aswatama focused on his target. The eyes of an unknown person. “Who is he, Dad? The picture that you pasted there.” 53
“The wickedest person on the face of this earth. Someone who deserves to die. Look at his eyes, Aswa, and don’t waver!” Aswatama stared at the eyes. He didn’t find any wickedness emanating from them. Rather, he saw a light that was soft and full of love and affection. It was the face of a father, a father offering shelter. “But who is he? What bad things did he do?” “Look closely at your Father. You will discover what bad things that man had done!” Aswatama turned without lowering his bow. He stared intensely at his father. He searched for an answer there. Before him stood a man with a lame leg, a maimed hand and a mutilated face. Aswatama was shocked, as if he had only just become aware of his father’s decrepit body; like a wrecked kapok tree still standing despite having been battered by storms and tempests. He’d always just seen this as something natural, something ordinary, just the way his father had been born. So that’s the way his father should be. “Keep looking. And from now on let as many arrows fly as you can. Someday, when the time has 54
come, you will come face to face with him. His name is Sucitra. He is a community leader in Wirata.” Aswatama emerged from his daydream. The train had stopped at some station or other. He looked out of the window. He looked for a legible name board. He soon saw it, hidden behind a crowd of people waiting for their respective trains: Banyu Tinalang Station. Still two more stations to go. Aswatama looked at his watch. It might be midnight by the time he arrived in Sokalima and met with his father. What should he say? Sorry I ran away from home? Sorry I had sex with your wife? Sorry there’s no way I can make amends? Sorry for being such a loser? He had nothing else. Nothing that might make his father proud and able to die in peace. He wasn’t Arjuna. Nor Bima. They were his former schoolmates. Former pupils of his father who had now become big shots. He wasn’t even Duryudana, the most idiotic student, who now had become a leader. He was a nobody. Nobody knew him. Although he was no less capable than Arjuna, he was just a loser. Aswatama glanced outside the carriage window. It was dark. There was nothing out there. 55
The train brought him to Sokalima. Brought him back to face reality. Aswatama drew a deep breath. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He wanted to wake up somewhere unfamiliar. He wanted to finish his 6,000 years of wandering as an immortal being; never dying and never knowing love.
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Mata Sukra
Namaku Sukra. Dan kedua mataku pernah dimasuki ratusan semut merah. Kau tak akan pernah tahu bagaimana rasanya. Aku juga. Tiba-tiba saja beberapa lelaki berlompatan dari segala arah dan mengurungku. Benar namamu Sukra! Bentak salah seorang dari mereka. Belum sempat aku menjawab seseorang telah menjambak rambutku dari belakang dan menariknya dengan keras. Keseimbanganku hilang dan aku pun jatuh dari kuda. Beberapa telapak kaki yang besar dan kasar segera menekan tubuhku seolah ingin melesakkannya ke dalam tanah. Aku sama sekali tak bisa bergerak. Nirwati, kuda putihku, meringkik dengan gelisah. Ia menyepak beberapa penyerang sebelum berlari menghilang. Benar namamu Sukra! Orang yang sama kembali bertanya. Ia jongkok di dekat wajahku. Aku mengangguk dengan cepat berharap mereka segera melepaskanku. Tapi penanya itu malah mengeluarkan belati dan menempelkannya di leherku. Aku meronta 58
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sekuat tenaga. Tapi injakan kaki-kaki mereka semakin kuat. Iya! Aku Sukra! Aku Sukra! Begitu kujawab mereka memang segera melepaskanku. Tapi tak sepenuhnya. Mereka membangunkanku dengan kasar dan menelikung kedua tanganku ke belakang. Seseorang segera mengikat kedua tanganku. Seseorang yang lain lagi mengikat leherku. Dan digelandanglah aku menuju sebuah tempat. Aku berjalan di belakang, terseokseok mengimbangi kecepatan kuda mereka. Kejadian yang baru saja kuceritakan itu tidak berlangsung di sebuah malam yang sepi. Melainkan di tengah hari di dalam sebuah arak-arakan pengantin yang disaksikan oleh ratusan tetamu. Peristiwa penangkapanku menjadi tontonan–dan barangkali puisi. Bukan hanya di tempat kejadian. Tapi juga di sepanjang jalan di mana aku diseret dengan tali laiknya binatang liar atau seorang penjahat kelas kakap. Orang berkerumun sepanjang jalan. Tapi tak ada satu pun yang berani bersuara. Sungguh. Aku diarak dalam diam. Dalam tenang. Dalam sepi yang panjang dan seolah tak pernah selesai. Kartasura tiba-tiba mati. Aku seperti sedang digiring pelan-pelan menuju kematian. Melewati 60
jalan setapak yang berpagar pohonan besar dan angker. Berjalan dari terang menuju gelap. Memasuki rimba gelap yang tak kukenal. Siang itu seperti biasanya aku bertugas menjadi cucuk lampah dalam upacara perkawinan. Aku lupa sudah berapa kali aku melakukannya. Mungkin ketampananku sudah dikenal se-Kartasura hingga para empu hajat memanggilku untuk mempermanis pesta mereka. Mungkin karena anak gadis mereka merengek-rengek tidak mau menikah jika bukan aku cucuk lampahnya. Tak tahulah. Yang jelas aku sangat laku di bulan-bulan hajatan. Aku Sukra, anak Sindureja, pemuda paling tampan se-Kartasura, menunggang kuda putih kesayanganku, mengarak para pengantin yang berbahagia. Aku tahu jika banyak pemuda iri denganku. Aku tahu sejak lama. mereka bergunjing di belakangku. Tapi aku baru tahu bahwa ada yang sampai marah dengan ketampananku. Kemarahan yang tak pernah kubayangkan bahkan dalam mimpi-mimpi terburukku.. Namanya Raden Mas Sutikna. Pangeran Pati Anom. Calon Raja Kartasura. Tapi tak seorang pun di antara kami berani memanggilnya Kencet– 61
si Pincang. Sebab memang jalannya terpincangpincang. Ada yang salah dengan tumit kirinya. Kami tak berani memanggilnya Kencet di depan mukanya sebab ia seorang putra mahkota. Di samping karena tabiatnya memang buruk: ringan tangan, pemarah, pencemburu dan setumpuk sifat buruk lainnya. Tak seorang pun ingin berurusan dengannya. Tangannya yang masih muda itu telah memenggal banyak kepala orang-orang yang tak mau menuruti perintahnya. Tak pandang dia laki atau perempuan, dia tua atau hanya seorang bocah, semua sama-sama tak berharga di matanya. Mungkin itu sebab Rara Lembah si istri pertama yang jelita pergi meninggalkannya–tentang Rara Lembah akan kukisah pada kesempatan lain. Sutikna benar-benar berambisi untuk menjadi yang pertama dan terbaik dalam segala hal. Seluruh nama di Kartasura tak boleh lebih baik dan lebih indah dari namanya. Bahkan saudaranya sendiri pernah dilabrak dan dipaksa ganti nama. Tapi adakah nama yang lebih rendah dari Kencet. Kelakuannya memang menyebalkan. Juga menggelikan. Entah bagaimana jadinya kelak jika ia menjadi seorang raja. Mungkin kekejaman dan kekonyolannya akan melebihi ayahnya: Mangku Rat II. 62
Dan Kencet. Maaf. Raden Mas Sutikna sang Pangeran Adipati Anom inilah yang memerintahkan anak buahnya menangkapku. Aku digelandang menuju sebuah ruang. Mungkin sebuah gudang. Gelap dan pengap. Seperti gua yang tak pernah dihuni. Ikatan di kedua tanganku segera dilepas. Tapi bukan berarti bebas. Kini mereka mengikat kedua tanganku ke atas dan mengereknya hingga tubuhku tergantung layaknya binatang yang akan dikuliti. Dan Pangeran Kencet kini sudah berdiri di hadapanku. Berkacak pinggang menikmati penderitaanku dengan sepasang kakinya yang ganjil. Jadi kamu yang bernama Sukra? Ia menatapku dengan raut muka yang sukar kugambarkan selain menjijikkan: persegi dengan pipi-pipi gembul penuh jerawat dan bibir yang tebal. Iya, Pangeran. Hamba Sukra. Aku menjawab dengan sopan tapi dingin. Cambuki dia! Perintahnya kepada begajulbegajulnya yang masih setia mengelilingiku. Seseorang menyobek bajuku dengan paksa dan membuatku telanjang dada. Dan cambukan rotan bertubi-tubi menghajar punggungku. Beberapa cambukan pertama aku masih bisa menahan sakit. Aku mengatupkan gigiku rapat-rapat dan 63
mengencangkan seloroh ototku. Usahaku ini tampaknya malah membuat mereka semakin bersemangat menyiksaku. Cambukan mereka makin bertenaga dan memaksaku untuk menjerit kesakitan. Akhirnya aku berteriak. Melolong seperti ajing hutan dibantai dengan puluhan anak panah di sekujur tubuhnya lolonganku semakin keras dan panjang. Dan pada sebuah titik, barangkali puncak kesakitanku segalanya berubah. Aku tak bisa mendengar apa-apa lagi. Senyap. Aku seperti terlahir kembali. Sebagaimana kata seorang pujangga desa saat mengenang hari lahirku dalam sebuah tembang. Waktu itu, kata orang, anjing-anjing hutan menyalak panjang, tinggi, dan seorang abdi berkata, “Ada juga lolong serigala ketika Kurawa dilahirkan.” Bapakku, bangsawan perkasa itu, jadi pucat. Ia seolah menyaksikan bayang-bayang semua pohon berangkat Pergi, tak akan kembali. *)
*)
Kalimat-kalimat yang dimiringkan merupakan cuplikan puisi Goenawan Mohamad yang berjudul “Penangkapan Sukra” 64
Iya, Pak. Mungkin aku tak akan kembali. Pangeran gila ini aku membunuhku. Apa salah hamba, Pangeran? Aku bertanya di lemah di puncak kesakitanku. “Kau menghinaku, kaupamerkan kerupawananmu, kauremehkan aku, kaupikat perempuan-perempuanku, kaucemarkan kerajaanku. Jawablah, Sukra.” Dan kegelapan yang menjawab. Entah berapa lama aku pingsan. Aku mendadak tersedak. Seperti baru tenggelam di sebuah kolam. Rupanya mereka mengguyur kepalaku dengan seember air. Aku mengerang dan menggeliat kesakitan. Punggungku terasa sangat pedih. Ampun, Pangeran. Lepaskan hamba. Ia tak menjawabku. Ia malah memerintah para begajulnya. Cambuk lagi! Kejadian yang sama berulang lagi. Aku berteriak-teriak beberapa saat dan kemudian gelap. Dan terbangun lagi seperti baru muncul dari dasar kolam. Tapi kini bukan sakit lagi yang kurasakan. Dadaku tak lagi berdegub oleh rasa takut. Seperti ada api di dalam tubuhku yang pelan namun pasti, seiring siksaan yang kualami, membesar dan membesar. Kencet semula tak menyadarinya. Ia
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terlalu sibuk menikmati jeritan-jeritanku. Ia duduk di kursi sikap tubuh yang aeng--ganjil. Sekujur tubuhnya basah oleh keringat. Dan wajahnya. Seperti tengah memendam birahi. Aku bergidik melihatnya. Darahku berdesir. Api di dalam tubuhku makin besar. Api itu terpancar di sepasang mataku yang menatapnya dengan tajam. Sementara para kacung terus merajam tubuhku dengan cambukancambukan paling kerasnya. Menghancurkan segala yang melekat di tubuhku. Berhenti! Tiba-tiba Kencet berteriak. Wajahnya merah, sangat merah. Kau berani menentangku! Ia perlahan berdiri sambil merapikan pakaiannya. Aku terus menatapnya tanpa kedip. Wajahnya mendadak pucat. Ia seperti melihat hantu di tengah hari. Aku bisa melihat dengan terang bagaimana
nangka terdekat untuk mengambil sarang semut rang-rang. Jangan kaukira aku takut denganmu, Kencet! Aku bergumam mengumpatnya dengan seluruh tenaga yang masih bisa kumiliki. Dan di hadapanku tubuh Kencet yang semula begitu jumawa itu mengkeret seperti tikus kecemplung di selokan mampet. Aku menikmati detik demi detik yang tersisa, seperti menikmati titik-titik hujan terakhir sebelum tamat. Sebuah jeda yang bisa kuselami dengan seluruh diriku sebelum para penjaga itu datang dan melesakkan ratusan semut rang-rang ke dalam lubang mataku. Namaku Sukra, lahir di Kartasura, 17…, di sebuah pagi Selasa Manis, ketika bulan telah berguling ke balik gunung.
perubahan mimiknya dari birahi, kemudian marah dan mendadak ketakutan. Ia tak berani lagi menatapku. Cari semut rang-rang. Sumpal matanya dengan semut rang-rang! Ia berteriak seperti seorang perempuan. Histeris tepatnya. Para begundal yang semula sibuk mengulitiku berlarian ke luar ruangan. Mungkin mereka sedang memanjat pohon-pohon 66
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Pergi ke Toko Wayang
Akhirnya aku mengajakmu ke toko wayang. Itu janjiku sejak tahun lalu. Barulah sekarang aku bisa melunasinya. Betapa sulit menjelaskan kepadamu bahwa wayang kulit itu harganya mahal. Bahwa aku harus mengumpulkan uang berbulan-bulan atau terpaksa mengutang untuk bisa membelinya. Kamu hanya tahu bahwa aku sayang kamu dan aku akan memberikan segalanya untukmu. Kamu benar. Aku akan memberikan seluruh yang kupunya untukmu. Anakku satu-satunya. Dan sekarang masuklah ke sana. Toko wayang yang sepi itu. Tak ada siapa-siapa di sana. Hanya tumpukan wayang, topeng kayu, wayang golek dan beberapa kelir ukuran kecil. Seperti yang kuduga kamu lantas berlari ke kelir itu. Kamu ingin memilikinya bersama sejumlah wayang yang terpajang di kelir putih ini. Ini mirip punya teman bapak, katamu. Ya, kamu masih ingat sebulan yang lalu aku membawamu ikut latihan wayang bersamaku. Di sana kau memainkan beberapa wayang di depan kelir. Kamu begitu kagum
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dengan bayang-bayang yang tercipta di sana. Dan meski kamu tak memintanya, aku tahu kamu begitu menginginkannya. Aku menggelengkan kepala. Tidak, Nak, itu mahal sekali.
yang tentu saja bukan wayang beneran untuk
Kamu menatapku. Lalu kembali menatap kelir itu. Pilih wayang saja. Bapak akan membelikan sepasang buat kamu. Kelirnya nanti kita buat sendiri. Kamu menatapku lagi. Memang bisa? Bisa, jawabku. Kita nanti beli kain dan kayu. Ya, ya, kamu setuju. Kini matamu beralih ke tumpukan wayangwayang. Biarkan saja, Mas. Biarkan dia milih-milih sendiri. Seorang kakek-kakek muncul. Tampaknya ia pemilik toko itu. Iya, Pak. Lalu kubiarkan saja kamu berlarian ke sana ke mari, membongkarbongkar tumpukan wayang yang terserak di seluruh ruangan. Diam-diam aku mulai memilih-
Keindahan selalu menarik siapa saja. Tapi
milih sendiri wayang buat kamu, yang menurut perkiraanku harganya bisa terjangkau oleh uang yang hari ini kupunya. Apa pun yang kamu pilih nanti, akan kuganti dengan wayang pilihanku.
masih bersaudara. O, ya? Lalu kenapa mereka musuhan?
Maaf. Aku pun mulai membongkar-bongkar tumpukan wayang. Mencari yang bergagang kayu. Itu jauh lebih murah dari pada yang bergagang tanduk atau penyu. Kucari yang berukuran kecil, 70
dimainkan Ki Dalang. Kucari yang pahatannya kasar dan catnya yang terlalu rumit. Aku tahu kamu akan memilih wayang-wayang yang bagus. kenyataan sekarang jauh lebih menarik buatku. Benarkan, akhirnya kau membawa sepasang wayang: Arjuna dan Karna. Sementara aku sudah menyembunyikan Gareng dan Petruk ukuran kecil di salah satu tempat. Pilih ini, ya? Tanyaku purapura. Kamu mengangguk sambil tersenyum lebar. Bagus, sih. Katamu dengan lucu. Iya, bagus. Pinter kamu milihnya. Kataku kemudian. Kamu tahu siapa itu? Kamu geleng-geleng. Ini Arjuna itu Karna. Mereka musuhan meski sesungguhnya Tanyamu ingin tahu. Nanti Bapak ceritakan di rumah. Panjang ceritanya. Sekarang balikin dulu wayang itu ke tempatnya. Bapak sudah milih wayang yang bagus dan pas buat kamu. Kamu dengan agak heran mengembalikan kedua wayang pilihannya itu. Sini. Kamu berlari mengikutiku. Sesampainya di tempat yang kutuju segera kutunjukkan wayang
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pilihanku. Siapa ini? Gareng dan Petruk! Jawabmu dengan cepat. Bagus, nggak? Bagus, jawabmu. Tapi lebih bagus tadi. Iya. Tapi kamu kan belum tahu ceritanya, jadi kamu belum bisa memainkannya. Kalau Gareng dan Petruk kamu kan sudah tahu. Kamu bisa mainkan mereka sesukamu. Dan wajahnya lucu-lucu. Kamu diam. Tampak berpikir. Kenapa tidak yang tadi, sih? Kan nanti Bapak mau cerita. Jadi aku akan tahu ceritanya. Kamu tetap tak gampang menyerah seperti biasanya. Akhirnya aku buka yang sebenarnya. Yang kamu pilih tadi mahal banget. Uang Bapak tidak cukup. Kalau wayang yang ini Bapak bisa beli dua. Kalau yang tadi kamu harus milih salah satu. Bagaimana? Terserah kamu. Dapat satu wayang. Atau dua wayang. Kamu berpikir lagi. Matamu melirik ke sana ke mari dengan lucu. Pilih dua wayang biar bisa dimainin. Sip! Sahutku. Ini sekarang kamu pegang. Lalu kamu bawa ke simbah yang duduk di sana. Kamu tanya harganya berapa. Kamu bergerak dengan cepat membawa Gareng dan Petruk di tanganmu. Aku mengikuti di belakang. Kakekkakek itu tampak senang menerima kedatanganmu. Mbah, mau beli Gareng dan Petruk. Berapa harganya, ya? Tanyamu dengan gagah berani. 72
Kakek-kakek itu tertawa. Pinter kamu. Lalu ia memeriksa kedua wayang yang kamu sodorkan. Lalu matanya menuju ke arahku yang perlahan mendekat. Petruknya gagangnya dari tanduk, Mas. Waduh, dari tanduk ya, Pak. Kataku spontan. Sebentar saya cari gantinya. Petruk yang bergagang kayu. Lalu dengan cepat aku memeriksa tumpukantumpukan wayang kembali. Kulihat kamu tengah bercakap-cakap dengan kakek-kakek itu. Tapi tak ada. Petruk bergagang kayu tak kutemukan. Mungkin aku tak teliti. Mungkin pula tak ada. Tapi aku terus berusaha mencari. Kalau tidak ada tidak apaapa, Mas. Kata kakek-kakek itu dari kejauhan. Ya, memang tak ada, kataku kemudian dalam hati. Jadi berapa, Pak? Berapa, ya? Kini gantian kakek-kakek itu yang bingung. Bisanya aku jual sangat mahal, Mas. Tapi untuk anak ini aku tidak akan memberi harga yang biasanya. Ia suka sekali dengan wayang. Terima kasih, Pak. Kataku. Kamu tersenyum-senyum. Muraaah, bisikmu keras-keras ke telingaku. Kakek itu tertawa mendengarnya. Besok kalau sudah agak besar bawa saja ke sini, Mas. Aku mau mengajarinya membuat wayang. Mau tidak? Tanya kakekkakek itu kepadamu. Enggak, jawabmu. Buatnya kan tinggal ngeblat saja. Jawabmu. Kakek itu tertawa. 73
Iya, diblat. Tapi tetap nanti kamu harus menatahnya dan memberi warna supaya benar-benar jadi wayang. Kamu manggut-manggut. Setelah aku membayar sejumlah uang yang disebutkan kakek-kakek itu kita pun pulang. Kita langsung ke rumah Bapak ya? Nanti kita main wayang. Iya, nanti kita langsung mainkan kedua wayang itu. Di atas motor kamu menagih kelir yang kujanjikan. Mungkin kamu baru saja ingat. Hari ini kita tidak pakai kelir. Sudah malam. Toko yang jual kain dan kayu sudah tutup. Kita nanti main di dinding saja. Lampunya pakai lampu senter dulu tidak apa-apa. Kamu mengangguk setuju. Motor kita terus melaju. Melintasi sore dan candik ayu.
Usaha Menjadi Sakti
Setelah gagal memperoleh kesaktian dengan jalan bertapa di kebun belakang rumah, aku jadi tak banyak bicara. Hanya Budi yang tahu kesedihanku. Dia pula satu-satunya orang yang tahu bahwa aku pernah bertapa di bawah pohon melinjo yang kelak tumbang berbarengan dengan meninggalnya ibuku. Tak perlu kuceritakan bagaimana jalannya samadiku yang pertama dan terakhir itu. Yang terang tak sehening Begawan Ciptoning di cerita wayang. Tak ada setan atau bidadari yang menggoda dan duduk di pahaku. Tak ada Narada atau Jibril yang datang membawa wahyu. Cuma sejumlah semut rangrang, menggigitku berulang-ulang. Seminggu setelah kegagalan itu, Budi datang membawa kabar bahwa Antok, anak pawang ular yang tinggal ujung timur kampung, telah mengangkat dirinya menjadi guru. Aku tak terlalu mengenalnya meski sebenarnya jika dirunut-runut kami masih bersaudara. Nenek Antok, kami biasa memanggilnya Mbah Dukun, dan nenekku, Mbah
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Dukuh Lawas, memiliki ikatan persaudaraan, entah bagaimana persisnya pertalian itu. Budi meyakinkanku bahwa kami bisa diterima menjadi muridnya. Kata Budi telapak tangan kanan Antok seperti mata air. Tiap kali haus Antok tinggal menempelkan telapak tangannya ke bibir. Aku tak sepenuhnya percaya tapi saat itu juga kami segera mencarinya. Aku lupa apakah kami berhasil menemuinya sore itu atau tidak. Ada beberapa bagian yang hilang, memang, dari kisah ini–semoga tak terlalu mengganggu.
tempat rahasia kami: di belakang gardu diesel yang
Seingatku Antok berbadan besar, lebih besar dari kebanyakan anak-anak di kampung kami. Wajahnya bulat dengan kedua mata yang besar dan juga bulat. Rambutnya cepak dan tegak. Entah bagaimana wujudnya sekarang. Waktu itu terus
itu. Antok meminta kami buka baju. Aku mendapat
terang aku segera meragukan keampuhannya. Meragukan mata air di genggaman tangannya. Tapi tetap saja aku datang pada pertemuan pertama yang telah diatur oleh Budi.
ke belakang dan jatuh terjengkang. Aku segera
Ilmu pertama yang diturunkannya adalah ajian Brajamusti. Entah dari mana Antok mendapatkan ilmu sakti Raja Pringgondani itu. Kami, aku, Budi dan si Kus, sepupu Budi, menerima ilmu itu di 76
tersembunyi di balik rimbun kalanjana yang terletak persis di utara kampung kami. Menurut Antok Brajamusti memiliki tiga tingkatan dan kami harus menguasainya satu persatu dengan urut. Tak bisa melompat? Tanyaku waktu itu. Antok menggeleng. Dadamu bisa pecah, katanya dengan dingin. Aku langsung melirik Budi dan mengacungkan jempol dengan sembunyi-sembunyi. Budi mengangguk puas. Kami segera bersiap menerima ilmu pertama giliran pertama. Setelah berkomat-kamit dan mengusap-usap kedua telapak tangannya Antok memukul dadaku lima kali dengan telapak tangan kanannya. Pukulan pertama membuatku terdorong bangun sambil meringis kesakitan. Budi dan si Kus menatapku dengan tegang. Pukulan kedua segera kuterima. Meski terasa lebih keras dan lebih sakit, pukulan itu hanya mampu membuatku terdorong sedikit ke belakang. Pukulan-pukulan berikutnya bisa kuterima dengan mudah. Budi mendapat giliran setelahku. Ia menerima pukulan pertama
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hingga ke empat dengan sangat meyakinkan. Sama sekali badannya tak terdorong atau jatuh. Hanya sedikit goyah. Sedikit sekali. Diam-diam aku kagum dengan ketabahan dan ketahanan tubuh Budi. Tapi pukulan ke lima membuyarkan kekagumanku dengan segera. Budi jatuh. Tidak ke belakang tapi malah ke depan. Jatuh tertelungkup dan tak segera bangun. Aku dan si Kus panik. Kami spontan bergerak untuk menolong Budi. Tapi Antok segera mencegah. Kami tertahan. Antok duduk bersila di samping tubuh Budi yang terbujur diam. Kedua matanya terpejam, mulutnya komat-kamit, tangan kiri menempel di punggung Budi sedangkan tangan kanannya tegak mengarah ke langit. Budi pun segera bangun tak lama berselang. Kulihat dadanya membiru. Wajahnya pucat. Tapi ia tetap mencoba tersenyum kepadaku. Aku merasa tenang. Si Kus mengurungkan niatnya. Mungkin karena takut setelah melihat kejadian yang menimpa Budi. Tapi Antok berhasil membujuknya untuk tetap menerima ilmu sore itu. Lebih ringan syaratnya tapi tak kalah ampuh dengan Brajamusti, katanya. Namanya Lembu Sekilan. Jika Brajamusti adalah ilmu menyerang dengan telapak tangan, Lembu
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Sekilan adalah sebaliknya, ilmu bertahan tanpa tangkisan. Lawan tak akan berhasil menyentuh badan kita, ia hanya merasa menemu sasaran padahal sejatinya sasaran itu meleset satu kilan–jarak terjauh antara ujung jempol dan ujung kelingking telapak tangan kita. Si Kus cuma diminta duduk bersila dan memejamkan matanya. Lalu dengan jari-jari tangan kanannya Antok ngilani tubuh si Kus. Selesai. Aku dan Budi saling tatap, tak rela si Kus mendapatkan ilmu dengan cara yang mudah. Tapi mau apalagi. Aku bahkan tak berani menduga apa yang sebenarnya berlangsung di kepala Antok. Apakah lantaran Budi jatuh kesakitan sehingga ia segera mengubah caranya menurunkan ilmu. Apakah si Kus membayar lebih mahal sehingga ia mendapat perlakuan khusus. O, ya, aku lupa menjelaskan bahwa kami harus membayar untuk setiap ilmu yang kami terima. Tapi Antok memang tak menetapkan jumlah nominal yang harus kami bayar. Sukarela, jelasnya. Dan pembayaran itu dilakukan dengan rahasia, maksudku, murid yang lain tak tahu berapa duit yang dikeluarkan oleh murid lainnya. Aku tahu berapa yang dibayar oleh Budi karena Budi pakai duitku. Tapi kami berdua tak tahu berapa yang dibayar si Kus pada Antok. 79
Pertemuan pertama ditutup dengan menjajal kesaktian yang telah kami miliki. Budi tak ikut. Dadanya masih terlalu sakit. Antok juga tak memaksanya turun gelanggang. Jadi tinggal aku berhadapan dengan si Kus: Brajamusti melawan Lembu Sekilan. Aku cukup bersemangat menghadapi ujian itu. Mungkin karena jauh di dalam hatiku aku mulai membenci si Kus atas segala kemudahan yang telah diperolehnya. Aku ingin menghajar dadanya dengan pukulan Brajamustiku. Antok berlaku sebagai wasit. Setelah aba-aba untuk mulai diberikan aku langsung merangsek si Kus dengan pukulan bertubi-tubi ke dadanya. Si Kus diam saja. Tak berusaha mengelak atau menangkis. Aku tak ingat berapa kali telapak tanganku menghantam dadanya. Aku hanya ingat si Kus bergeming dari posisinya. Lalu Antok memisah kami. Aku masih tak percaya pada apa yang baru saja terjadi. Pukulan-pukulanku tak mampu menumbangkan si Kus. Padahal, jelas-jelas aku melihat dan merasakan sendiri bagaimana kerasnya pukulanku menghajar dadanya. Lembu Sekilan tampaknya telah berhasil dikuasai oleh si Kus dengan sangat baik. Dan Bajramustiku tak ada apa-apanya. Aku makin tak terima. Begitu 80
juga Budi ketika bertatapan denganku. Antok menutup pertemuan sore itu dengan membagi secuil kertas. Masing-masing dari kami mendapat satu. Dia berpesan supaya kami membakarnya lalu mencampur abu sisa pembakaran itu dengan segelas air putih. Dan kami harus meminum tepat pukul dua belas malam dalam satu kali tegukan. Lalu kami pulang dan janji ketemu tiga hari kemudian. Aku pulang bareng dengan Budi. Sedang si Kus kulihat jalan berdua dengan Antok. Tanpa bersepakat sebelumnya, sejak sore itu, si Kus adalah musuh kami berdua. Dalam perjalanan pulang Budi mengatakan bahwa ia akan minta Antok untuk menurunkan Lembu Sekilan kepadanya. Ia tak mau kalah dari si Kus, saudara sepupunya itu. Aku juga, kataku. Pokoknya kita berdua jangan sampai kalah dari si Kus. Mulai besok uang jajanku akan kusimpan, biar bisa bayar Antok lebih mahal. Tiga hari kemudian di tempat yang sama kami bertemu lagi. Murid Antok bertambah lagi seorang. Si Kus membawa adiknya yang bernama Aris. Sore itu aku dan Budi jadi meminta Lembu Sekilan. Tapi Antok menolaknya. Katanya kami belum cukup kuat untuk menerima ilmu itu. Kami harus 81
menggenapkan Brajamusti terlebih dahulu setelah
Putih. Bukan ilmu serangan atau pertahanan, kata
itu baru bisa dapat Lembu Sekilan. Aku dan Budi
Antok. Dengan menguasai Ajian Kethek Putih
sebenarnya kepingin protes. Si Kus sama sekali
seseorang akan dapat berlari dengan sangat cepat,
belum dapat Brajamusti tapi kok bisa langsung
melebihi kecepatan manusia biasa. Sama dengan
dapat Lembu Sekilan. Antok sepertinya tahu
ilmu-ilmunya yang lain, Kethek Putih juga memiliki
keberatan kami. Maka ia buru-buru menambahkan
tingkatan-tingkatan. Aris akan dapat berlari lima
bahwa jika sama sekali belum dapat ilmu justru bisa
kali lebih cepat dari biasanya jika sore itu ia bisa
milih dengan leluasa. Sekali memilih Brajamusti
menguasai tingkatan pertama.
maka si penerima harus menggenapkannya sampai tuntas, baru kemudian setelah itu bisa berpindah ke ilmu yang lain.
Kami, aku, Budi dan si Kus, berdebar menanti turunnya Ajian Kethek Putih. Aris sudah bersiap menerimanya. Ia berdiri telanjang dada dan
Pertemuan kedua itu adalah pengulangan
memejamkan mata. Seperti biasa Antok mengusap-
pertemuan pertama. Aku dan Budi mendapat
usap kedua telapak tangannya. Lalu tiba-tiba ia
Brajamusti lagi, sedang si Kus tetap Lembu Sekilan.
terjatuh dan berguling-guling. Kemudian meloncat
Bedanya adalah pada tingkatan ilmu yang kami
bangun dengan cepat. Kelakuannya mirip monyet
terima. Brajamusti tingkat kedua membutuh sepuluh
atau seseorang yang tengah kerasukan roh monyet.
kali pukulan. Tapi anehnya pukulan-pukulan Antok
Aku tanpa sadar mundur ke belakang. Budi dan
waktu itu terasa sangat lemah. Aku sama sekali tak
si Kus ternyata telah lebih dulu menjauh dari
merasa kesakitan. Budi cuma meringis menahan
tempatnya semula. Wajah Aris tampak tegang.
nyeri luka lamanya. Menurut Antok itu karena
Mungkin ia juga kepingin lari menjauh seperti
daya tahan kami sudah bertambah. Hanya Aris
kami. Antok menggeram-geram lalu dalam sekali
yang membuat pertemuan itu berbeda. Bukan
lompatan ia telah berada di depan Aris. Aris mundur
hanya kehadirannya, melainkan juga ilmu yang
selangkah. Kurasa ia tak sepenuhnya memejamkan
diturunkan kepadanya. Ia mendapat Ajian Kethek
matanya. Antok menggeram lagi. Aris mundur
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selangkah lagi. Kejadian berikutnya entah kenapa sudah bisa kutebak sebelumnya. Antok mencakar dada Aris berkali-kali. Mungkin ada sepuluh kali. Kedua tangan Antok seperti sedang mengais-ngais dada Aris dengan cepat. Aris meringis. Lalu selesai. Antok meminta Aris membuka matanya. Kami mendekat lagi dan dapat melihat dengan jelas bekas-bekas cakaran di dada Aris. Merah. Beberapa goresan bahkan mengeluarkan sedikit darah. Aris mengusap dadanya dengan hati-hati. Membersih daki dan kulit arinya yang terkelupas. Pertemuan selesai. Antok kembali membagi kertas untuk kami bakar dan minum malam harinya. Tak ada uji tanding sore itu. Gantinya, Antok meminta Aris lari pulang ke rumah. Aris pun segera berlari pulang. Aku tak ingat seberapa cepat lari Aris sebelum ini, tapi sore itu aku merasa ia berlari dengan cepat. Sangat cepat. Malamnya setelah mengerjakan tugas sekolah aku menemui Budi di rumahnya. Diam-diam tentu saja. Kalau sampai ketahuan ibuku bisa runyam kejadiannya. Aku mengajak Budi keluar dari kamarnya. Kami pergi ke Punthuk yang terletak di barat kampung. Punthuk adalah sebuah tempat terbuka, seperti tanah lapang yang dipenuhi 84
dengan gundukan-gundukan pasir. Seperti padang pasir tepatnya. Dulunya adalah persawahan. Sawah kakekku juga berada di sana. Kemudian dengan cepat sawah itu berubah menjadi padang pasir seperti yang kuceritakan. Mesin-mesin pengeruk berukuran raksasa yang membuatnya menjadi seperti itu. Katanya akan dibangun sebuah stadion olahraga di atasnya. Tapi hingga bertahun-tahun kemudian bangunan stadion itu tak juga berdiri. Tak tahu kenapa. Hingga kemudian kami menyebutnya Punthuk. Sampai sekarang, bahkan ketika stadion itu telah benar-benar didirikan. Di Punthuk aku mengajak Budi untuk membuktikan keampuhan Brajamusti. Aku benarbenar merasa penasaran. Jangan-jangan itu semua hanya akal-akalan Antok untuk menghabiskan uang jajan kami. Tapi jika melihat Lembu Sekilan dan Kethek Putih yang dikuasai si Kus dan adiknya, aku kembali menimbang tuduhan itu. Siapa tahu justru kamilah yang bodoh dan tak mampu menyerap kesaktian Antok. Budi setuju. Meski nyeri di dadanya belum sembuh benar ia menuruti ajakanku. Apalagi Brajamusti tingkat dua yang diberikan Antok sore itu belum sempat kami uji. Aku meminta Budi untuk mencobanya terlebih 85
dulu. Kupersilakan ia memukul dadaku terlebih dulu. Budi bersiap. Ia mundur kira-kira sepuluh langkah dari hadapanku dan segera menyatukan kedua belah telapak tangannya, menggesekgesekkannya dengan keras. Aku membuka dadaku lebih lebar. Dengan sebuah teriakan Budi berlari ke arahku. Tangan kanannya diacungkan ke depan dengan posisi telapak terbuka. Sedang tangan kiri memegang dadanya sendiri. Jantungku berdegub dengan kencang. Aku benar-benar ketakutan. Sementara itu Budi sudah makin dekat. Ia sama sekali tak mengurangi kecepatannya. Aku makin gemetar ketakutan. Aku memejamkan mataku dan tak ingat lagi apa yang terjadi kemudian. Tahu-tahu aku terpental jauh ke belakang. Jatuh menghantam gundukan pasir yang basah. Budi buru-buru menghampiriku. Gak apa-apa, kataku sambil buruburu bangun dan membersihkan celana dan jaketku yang kotor kena pasir. Wajah Budi terlihat lega. Aku bertanya apa yang sesungguh terjadi baru saja. Budi menggelengkan kepalanya. Ia juga tak tahu. Ia tak merasakan apa-apa. Tangannya juga tak merasa memukul dadaku. Ia hanya berlari dan tahu-tahu aku melayang jatuh ke belakang. Aku juga merem tadi, katanya. Kami tak melanjutkan percakapan. 86
Tapi segera buru-buru pulang. Sudah jauh malam. Bulan sudah hilang dari Punthuk Entah bagaimana kejadiannya, sekali lagi memang banyak yang hilang dari ingatanku, aku dan Budi tak lagi menjadi murid Antok. Seingatku setelah kejadian di Punthuk itu aku dan Budi masih menerima beberapa ilmu lagi dari Antok. Brajamusti lengkap, Kethek Putih, Welut Putih, Topeng Waja dan beberapa lagi yang aku lupa namanya. Setelah itu baru kami undur diri. Si Kus dan Aris masih bertahan mengikuti Antok sampai beberapa lama kemudian. Dan selama itu pula kami tak pernah bertegur sapa dengan mereka. Bersama dengan anak-anak lain kami selalu meledek kakak beradik itu jika kebetulan berpapasan. Kami mengajak anak-anak yang lain untuk mengolokolok kebodohan mereka karena bisa diperdaya Antok. Pada anak-anak yang lain itu kami tak pernah bercerita kami pernah menjadi murid Antok. Bahkan aku bilang kepada Budi bahwa aku tak pernah sekalipun minum abu kertas pemberian Antok.
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Betaljemur
Betaljemur hampir-hampir tak percaya pada apa yang dibacanya. Dalam kitab itu tertulis bahwa Bektijamal, ayahnya, mati dibunuh oleh saudara angkatnya,
Eklaswajir.
Kemudian
paragraf-
paragraf selanjutnya menerangkan bagaimana jalannya peristiwa tersebut. Semuanya jelas terbaca. Eklaswajir tega membunuh Bektijamal karena ingin menguasai harta Karun yang ditemukan saudaranya itu sendirian. Sementara Bektijamal memilih untuk mengembalikan harta tersebut kepada anak-turun Karun. Benar-benar di luar dugaan. Eklaswajir yang selama ini begitu menyayangi adik angkatnya tiba-tiba menjadi gelap mata dan tega melakukan kekejian serupa itu. Sehabis membunuh, memang sedikit muncul rasa bersalah dalam dirinya. Tetapi begitu matanya kembali menatap gunungan emas permata yang berkilauan di depannya, perasaan tadi hilang begitu saja. Berganti ketamakan dan kerakusan yang begitu menakutkan. Bukan hanya bagi orang lain, tapi juga bagi dirinya.
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89
Karena takutnya Eklaswajir segera menguburkan jasad Bektijamal. Kemudian ia pulang ke rumah Bektijamal untuk menyampaikan pesan palsu kepada isterinya (yang tengah mengandung Betaljemur) bahwa Bektijamal tidak pulang dalam waktu dekat karena memutuskan mengembara ke negeri-negeri yang jauh. Ia juga menitipkan Kitab Kadamakna yang semula dibawa oleh Bektijamal. Cepat-cepat ia meninggalkan rumah Bektijamal.
harinya, sebelum terbit matahari, Eklaswajir sendiri yang menjadi algojo mereka satu-persatu. Sampai di halaman ini Betaljemur berhenti membaca. Hatinya berdebar tak karuan. Seluruh rahasia yang selama ini tersembunyi dari dirinya tiba-tiba terbuka dengan cara yang luar biasa. Akankah ia ceritakan semua ini kepada ibunya yang masih dengan sabar menantikan ayahnya pulang dari pengembaraan? Tidak sekarang.
Kemudian ia mengumpulkan para budak untuk
Begitu keputusannya. Nanti akan tiba waktunya
membangun dua gedung besar di depan gua di
ia mengabarkan kepada ibunya. Betaljemur juga
mana harta Karun tersimpan. Ia juga membangun
memutuskan tidak membaca halaman-halaman
tembok besar mengelilingi gua dan dua gedung
selanjutnya. Karena bagian selanjutnya adalah
besar itu. Hampir semua budak memendam
cerita perihal bagaimana Betaljemur membalas
pertanyaan yang sama, kenapa Eklaswajir, seorang
dendam kepada Eklaswajir. Ia memilih tidak
anak patih kenamaan dari Medayin, membangun
mengetahui bagaimana jalannya masa depan.
dua gedung besar jauh dari pusat kota. Setelah
Ia memilih untuk memasuki peristiwa, apa pun
semuanya selesai Eklaswajir segera mengusir
yang akan terjadi. Ia malah kembali ke halaman-
seluruh budak pekerjanya. Lalu ia mengangkut
halaman dari Kitab Kadamakna yang dipegangnya.
puluhan narapidana yang sudah divonis mati dan
Mempelajari berbagai ilmu yang tersurat dan
di malam-malam yang gelap mereka diperintahkan
tersirat di sana. Dengan tekun ia mempelajari
untuk mengangkut keseluruhan harta Karun di
seluruh tulisan tangan Lukmanakim, kakeknya
dalam gua untuk dipindah ke dalam dua gedung
yang memenuhi Kitab Kadamakna. Dalam waktu
besar yang baru saja selesai dibangun. Dan keesokan
singkat ia telah menguasai semua pengetahuan dan
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91
kesaktian yang pernah dimiliki oleh kakeknya di masa yang lalu. Tidak semuanya. Tepatnya seluruh ilmu yang tertulis dalam Kitab Kadamakna yang dipegangnya. Karena sebagaimana tersurat di sana, separuh kitab telah hilang direbut oleh Malaikat Jabarael yang tak ingin kepandaian manusia biasa bisa sejajar atau malah melebihi malaikat. Jadi bisa dikatakan, apa yang dikuasai oleh Betaljemur sekarang hanya separuh dari apa yang dimiliki oleh kakeknya, Lukmanakim yang agung. Contohnya, ia tak bisa membuat seorang tua kembali menjadi muda, sebagaimana kakeknya karena lembaranlembaran yang berisi catatan tentang ilmu itu berada di tangan Malaikat Jabarael. “Ibu, kenapa baru sekarang-sekarang ini Ibu menyerahkan Kitab Kadamakna kepadaku?” Tanya Betaljemur suatu kali ketika bertemu dengan ibunya. “Begitulah yang selalu dipesankan ayahmu dulu. Jika usiamu telah menginjak dewasa, barulah kitab ini boleh diberikan kepadamu. Seandainya sekarang ayahmu ada di rumah, tentu dia sendiri yang akan menyerahkannya kepadamu. ayahmu dulu juga mendapatkan kitab warisan kakekmu ini ketika dia seumuran denganmu sekarang.” 92
“Apakah Ayah telah mempelajari seluruh isi kitab ini?” Betaljemur mencoba mengorek keterangan. Jika benar ayahnya telah menguasai seluruh ilmu dalam Kadamakna, tentu ia tak akan mudah diperdaya Eklaswajir. “Tidak, Nak. Ayahmu sama sekali tak pernah membuka kitab ini. Aku tak tahu kenapa. Tapi ia pernah suatu kali bilang bahwa ia hanya ingin menjadi manusia biasa. Bukan orang sakti mandraguna dan memiliki pengetahuan seluas samudera sebagaimana kakekmu Lukmanakim. Justru pamanmu Eklaswajir yang pernah membacanya beberapa bagian.” Eklaswajir. Dada Betaljemur serasa akan meledak. Mendengar namanya saja seluruh tubuhnya telah bergetar oleh amarah. “Kenapa, Nak? Ah, ibu malah hampir lupa. Kita harusnya sesekali berkunjung ke rumah pamanmu itu. Paling tidak ibu berkewajiban mengenalkanmu kepadanya. Terakhir ia datang kemari ketika mengabarkan kepergian ayahmu. Ia juga yang menyerahkan Kitab Kadamakna titipan dari ayahmu ini” “Di manakah rumah Paman Eklaswajir, Ibu?” 93
“Dia sekarang telah menjadi Patih Medayin, menggantikan
kakek
angkatmu,
Abujantir.
Pamanmu tinggal di gedung besar yang dibangunnya di luar kota. Begitulah kabar yang kudengar. Entahlah kebenarannya. Ibu sebenarnya enggan bertemu
dengannya.
Takut
mengganggunya.
Sebagai patih kerajaan sebesar Medayin ini tentu ia memiliki kesibukan yang luar biasa. Buktinya ia sendiri tak pernah datang menengok kita di sini. Padahal dulu sebelum kami lahir, sebentar-sebentar pamanmu itu datang berkunjung. Ia sudah seperti saudara kandung ayahmu saja.” Betaljemur bergidik, bulu-bulunya meremang, mendengar kebaikan
bagaimana Eklaswajir.
ibunya
memuji-muji
Rasa-rasanya
ia
ingin
membuka seluruh kejahatan Eklaswajir saat itu juga. Agar ibunya berhenti menyebutnya sebagai paman. Agar ibunya juga bergidik dan meremang jika menyebut atau mendengar namanya. Tapi Betaljemur sebelum dan sesudah membaca Kitab Kadamakna adalah Betaljemur yang berbeda. Meski masih sama-sama berdarah panas, Betaljemur sekarang jauh lebih sabar, bijak dan berhati-hati dalam melakukan tindakan.
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Betaljemur mulai menjalankan rencananya. Ia minta izin kepada ibunya untuk pergi ke kota barang satu dua hari. Jika ia tak pulang-pulang ibunya diminta menunggu dengan sabar, tak perlu mencari-carinya. Maka berangkatlah Betaljemur. Tak sulit menemukan gedung penyimpanan harta Karun milik Eklaswajir. Gedung itu kelihatan mencolok di tengah padang pasir gersang yang kosong tanpa tumbuhan atau bangunan secuil pun. Betaljemur tak silap lagi. Itulah bangunan yang dicarinya. Ia seperti sudah begitu mengenalnya. Apa yang digambarkan oleh Kitab Kadamakna tak meleset satu detil pun. Semuanya sama. Warna dan bentuk bangunannya. Tak ada yang meleset. Bahkan sudut jatuhnya cahaya yang mencipta bayangan kedua gedung itu. Betaljemur mendekati pintu gerbangnya. Mengetuknya dengan sopan. Seorang lelaki tua membuka pintu dan menanyakan maksud kedatangannya. Betaljemur mengaku sebagai musafir yang ingin berteduh barang sebentar untuk kemudian melanjutkan perjalanan. Lelaki tua penjaga gedung itu mempersilahkan Betaljemur masuk. “Anakmas bisa beristirahat sejenak di taman. Mungkin akan sangat menyegarkan.” 95
Betaljemur diajak menuju ke taman di samping gedung penyimpanan harta. Sebuah taman rumput dengan mata air di tengahnya. Tak ada bunga atau tumbuhan besar. Hanya ada beberapa batu dengan beraneka ukuran disusun membentuk sebuah imaji yang tak terang tapi terasa begitu menenangkan. Betaljemur duduk di sebuah batu. Menikmati jernihnya kolam kecil yang mengelilingi mata air itu. “Saya melanjutkan pekerjaan saya, Anakmas.” Pelan-pelan Betaljemur merebah dirinya di batu itu. Menikmati sejuknya angin yang terasa begitu lain dengan yang barusan ditemuinya di luar sana. Ia juga menikmati sepasang mata yang memperhatikannya tanpa berkedip dari salah satu jendela gedung. “Hai, akan kaubawa ke mana tiga ekor kambing itu, Pak?” Tanya Betaljemur kepada lelaki tua yang melintas dengan menuntun seekor kambing. Bapak tua itu menghentikan langkahnya dan menatap Betaljemur dengan penuh keheranan. “Nak, apa kau tak salah lihat? Aku hanya menuntun seekor kambing.” 96
“Kambing itu sedang hamil, Pak Tua. Ada dua ekor anak kambing di dalam perutnya. Satu anak panjang sebelah kakinya. Yang lain belang punggungnya.” “Ah, Anakmas ini bercanda. “Boleh kubuktikan, Anak Muda?” Seorang lelaki lain datang bergabung. Dialah Eklaswajir. Betaljemur menatap lelaki setengah baya yang baru saja datang itu. “Silakan, Gusti Patih.” Tantang Betaljemur. Eklaswajir diam-diam mengagumi keberanian anak muda itu. Pak Tua diminta untuk menyembelih kambing itu. Lalu Eklaswajir buru-buru menyobek perut si kambing dengan ujung pedangnya. Benar. Di dalam rahim kambing itu meringkuk dua ekor bayi kambing. Yang satu panjang sebelah kakinya. Yang lain belang punggungnya. “Siapa namamu, Anak Muda?” “Saya Betaljemur. Ayah saya Bektijamal.” Sahut Betaljemur dengan tenang. Eklaswajir bergetar. Hal yang selama ini ditakutkannya akan segera terjadi. Seluruh kebusukannya akan segera terbongkar. 97
Tenang. Kata Eklaswajir menenangkan dirinya. Tak seorang pun tahu peristiwa pembunuhan itu selain dirinya dan tentu saja Bektijamal. Betaljemur tentu tak tahu apa-apa. Atau jika seandainya saja Betaljemur tahu, dengan mudah ia akan menyingkirkannya. Perkara selesai. Eklaswajir tak mau mengambil risiko. Ia mengasumsikan Betaljemur telah mengetahui peristiwa pembunuhan ayahnya. Maka ia meminta seorang algojo membawa Betaljemur ke sebuah tempat dan membunuhnya di sana. “Anak Muda, aku ingin memperlihatkan sesuatu kepadamu. pelayanku akan mengantarkanmu ke sana. Anggap saja hadiah atas kewaskitaanmu dalam menebak isi perut kambingku.” Algojo itu menggandeng tangan Betaljemur dan meninggalkan gedung. Menuju ke sebuah tempat. Betaljemur diajak berjalan dan terus berjalan. Ketika sudah makan waktu beberapa saat, Betaljemur berhenti. “Kenapa tidak di sini saja, Paman? Bukankah Paman diminta membunuhku. Kenapa harus berjalan jauh-jauh. Di tempat sesepi ini tak kan seorang pun tahu.” 98
Algojo itu menjadi pucat. Ia tahu tengah berhadapan dengan seorang pemuda yang memiliki kelebihan yang tak dimiliki lumrahnya manusia. Lalu algojo itu mengaku bahwa ia belum pernah sekali pun membunuh. Tiap hari ia berdoa agar tak pernah diperintahkan untuk membunuh. Semua itu hanya karena sulitnya mencari pekerjaan. “Paman dari Ngabesi, bukan? Dan paman mengabdi pada Eklaswajir karena Paman jatuh cinta pada puteri sulung Eklaswajir. Benar, bukan?” Sang algojo semakin yakin bahwa ia berhadapan dengan manusia setengah malaikat. “Eklaswajir telah menyuruh Paman membunuh saya. Jika Paman tak melakukannya, maka Ppamanlah yang akan dibunuh olehnya. Bukankah begitu logikanya?” Algojo mengangguk. “Jika Paman tak mau membunuhku dan tak mau dibunuh oleh Eklaswajir, sekarang pergilah Paman ke pasar paling dekat. Jika ada seseorang menuntun seekor kambing dari timur, belilah kambing itu tanpa Paman tawar harganya. Lalu sembelihlah. Ambillah hatinya. Hanya itu yang kita butuhkan. Kambing itu sebenarnya adalah 99
kambing kesayangan keluarga miskin itu. Dulu dibesarkan dan disusui sendiri oleh pemiliknya.” Lelaki dari Ngabesi itu segera berangkat ke pasar terdekat. Begitu sampai, tanpa harus menunggu terlalu lama, seorang ibu tua melintas menuntun seekor kambing dari arah timur. Algojo itu segera mencegatnya lalu membeli kambing itu tanpa ditawar-tawar lagi.
kepada tuannya itu. Katakah saja itu adalah hati Betaljemur. Eklaswajir tak akan curiga karena hati kambing yang sejak kecil disusui manusia itu mirip benar dengan hati manusia. Eklaswajir tampak gembira menerima hati Betaljemur yang dibawa oleh algojonya. Ia segera memerintahkan koki untuk memasaknya menjadi gulai. Segera setelah matang, ia memakannya tanpa
“Ooo… Terimakasi banyak, kisanak. Sebenarnya kami tak ingin menjual kambing kesayangan kami ini. Tapi mau apalagi. Persediaan makanan kami semakin tipis. Maka terpaksa kami jual satu-satunya yang kami miliki ini. Dulu kambing ini saya susui sendiri karena begitu dia dilahirkan induknya hilang dicuri orang.”
sisa. Ketakutannya telah pergi.
Algojo dari Ngabesi semakin kagum dengan kesaktian Betaljemur. Semuanya begitu tepat. Tak ada yang kelewat. Setelah membayar harga kambing algojo langsung menyembelih kambing itu dan mengambil hatinya.
persis. Ia yakin ada suatu pesan yang tengah
“Ibu, saya hanya membutuhkan hatinya saja, bawalah kembali daging kambing ini.” Oleh Betaljemur algojo diminta kembali ke tempat Eklaswajir dan menyerah hati kambing itu 100
Sementara itu di istana Medayin, Baginda Kobatsah sedang marah-marah. Ia merasa bermimpi tapi begitu bangun dari tidur ia sama sekali tak bisa mengingat mimpi itu sedikit pun. Hal ini berulang selama seminggu. Mimpi yang menurutnya sama disampaikan dalam mimpi itu. Maka ia berkeras menemukan mimpinya yang hilang. Tapi tak seorang pun nujum istana dapat menemukannya. Juga seluruh peramal yang tersebar di seluruh Medayin. Semuanya gagal. Patih Eklaswajir diminta menghadap. “Eklaswajir, kuinginkan.
kau
Carilah
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sudah orang
tahu yang
apa
yang
mampu
menemukan mimpiku yang hilang itu. Waktumu hanya sampai besok sore.” Eklaswajir mengiyakan. mendapat pujian ia menjawab.
Karena
ingin
“Baik, Yang Mulia. Jika sampai besok sore hamba tak mampu menemukan orang pintar itu, penggallah kepala hamba.” “Kupegang janjimu, temukanlah orang itu.”
Eklaswajir.
Segera
Eklaswajir seperti tersadar dari mimpinya. Ia menyesal telah mengucapkan janji itu. Tapi sudah telanjur. Di rumah ia gelisah. Ia segera menyesali keputusannya membunuh Betaljemur. Jika anak muda itu masih hidup sekarang tentu ia tak akan bersusah payah menemukan orang yang bisa membaca mimpi Baginda Kobatsah. Kegelisahan ini terbaca oleh algojo dari Ngabesi. “Apakah ada yang bisa saya kerjakan, Tuan Eklaswajir?” “Tidak ada. Besok aku akan mati menerima pidana dari Baginda. Jagalah seluruh keluargaku
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dengan sebaik-baiknya.” Jawab Eklaswajir dengan putus asa. “Apakah tidak ada yang bisa dilakukan?” “Satu-satunya orang yang bisa menolongku adalah orang yang baru saja kaubunuh tadi siang.” Algojo itu benar-benar merasa kasihan melihat kegundahan Eklaswajir. Ia ingin sekali bisa menolongnya. “Tuan, mungkin saya bisa menolong. Tapi mohon ampunilah seluruh kesalahan saya.” Eklaswajir menganggukkan kepala. Algojo lalu menceritakan peristiwa sebenarnya, bahwa ia urung memancung kepala Betaljemur. Kelegaan menguasai diri Eklaswajir. Ia segera memerintah si algojo mencari Betaljemur dan membawanya kembali. “Jemputlah ia dengan tandu kebesaran kepatihan. Payungilah ia dengan songsong pusaka kepatihan Medayin.” Betaljemur kembali lagi menemui Eklaswajir. Tapi dasar Eklaswajir, ia malah memasukkan Betaljemur ke dalam penjara. Si algojo merasa bersalah. Tapi buru-buru menenangkannya. 103
“Tak apa, Orang Ngabesi. Betaljemur tak akan mati. Dan keinginanmu meminang puteri Eklaswajir akan segera terpenuhi.” Si algojo gembira bukan kepalang. Dengan ringan ia menggandeng Betaljemur ke penjara. Dalam penjara Eklaswajir memaksa Betaljemur membaca mimpi Baginda Kobatsah. Tapi Betaljemur tak mau melakukanya. Mau tapi dengan syarat ia harus bertemu langsung dengan Kobatsah. Tentu saja Eklaswajir menolaknya. Ia tak mau seluruh kebusukannya di masa lalu dibongkar Betaljemur di hadapan rajanya. Maka disiksalah Betaljemur dengan berbagai cara. Tapi Betaljemur tetap bungkam. Tubuhnya mampu menahan sakit sekeras apa pun. Eklaswajir kembali putus asa. Sore yang dijanjikan telah tiba. Eklaswajir mengakui kegagalannya menemukan orang yang bisa membaca mimpi Baginda Kobatsah. Pidana pun segera dijatuhkan. Menjelang eksekusi, Eklaswajir berubah pikiran.
Betaljemur di penjara kepatihan. Tapi Betaljemur tak mau, kecuali dengan syarat, Eklaswajir mau menjadi kuda tunggangannya dari kepatihan menuju istana. Eklaswajir tak bisa apa-apa. Baginda sendiri yang mengikatkan tali kekang di hidung dan mulutnya. Juga menaruh pelana di punggungnya. Maka terjadilah peristiwa yang menggemparkan Medayin. Betaljemur menaiki punggung Patih Eklaswajir laiknya menunggangi seekor kuda. rakyat Medayin memenuhi jalan-jalan yang dilewati kuda istimewa itu. Tiap kali kuda itu berhenti karena kelelahan, Betaljemur mencambuknya dengan keras. Rakyat bersorak-sorai. Kebencian yang selama ini dipendam dalam-dalam terhadap kepemimpinan Eklaswajir mendapatkan katup pelepasnya. Mereka berteriak mengejek dan menuntut Eklaswajir atas dosa-dosa masa lalunya. “Kembalikan suamiku yang hilang dalam pembangunan gedungmu!”
“Baginda, saya telah menemukan orang itu. Dia ada di penjara kepatihan.”
“Kembalikan uang kami yang kautarik dengan paksa!”
Kobatsah tak habis pikir. Tapi ia segera memerintahkan prajuritnya untuk mengambil
Kobatsah menatap arak-arakan itu dari kejauhan. Dilihatnya seorang pemuda yang entah
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105
kenapa begitu menggetarkan perasaannya. Siapakah dia? Masa depan Medayin seperti berada dalam genggamannya.
Aswatama Pulang
“Akhirnya kuda itu datang, Anakku. Menolongku.” Aswatama menghela napasnya. Panjang. Di kejauhan terdengar ringkik kuda dari sebuah padang–seperti sebuah panggilan pulang. Cukup. Kalimat itu telah menjawab seluruh pertanyaannya. Ia tak memerlukan kelanjutan cerita itu. Cukup. Ibuku adalah seekor kuda! Jadi benar kata tetangga. Jadi benar kata teman-teman sekolahnya dulu. Krepi bukan ibu kandungku. Tubuh Aswatama bergetar. Kebenaran itu membuatnya gentar. Matanya menatap tajam tubuh bapaknya yang tergolek di ranjang. Tubuh lelaki tua itu tampak lebih kecil dari yang seharusnya. Mulutnya terbuka seperti hendak melanjutkan cerita. Tapi tak keluar suara apa pun dari mulut itu. Aswatama pun tak sanggup berkata apa-apa. Ia hanya bisa mengepalkan kedua tangannya. Sekuatkuatnya. Menggenggam kekosongan yang tibatiba menguasai seluruh dirinya. Kekosongan yang menghapus kehadirannya pelan-pelan. Sekali lagi
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107
ia menghela napasnya. Seperti berusaha mengisi tubuhnya dengan udara atau apa saja. Ia tak mau hilang. Tapi tak ada yang datang. Bahkan seekor kuda.
“Pulanglah segera. Bapakmu sekarat di rumah sakit.” Suara perempuan itu datar. Hampirhampir tanpa tekanan. Tanpa tanda baca. Aswatama tak bisa membaca perasaan apa pun dalam percakapan telepon yang begitu singkat itu. Bukan percakapan sebenarnya. Aswatama bahkan tak sempat mengucapkan sepatah kata apa pun. Telepon di seberang sudah ditutup saat Aswatama menyadari bahwa dirinya telah terdiam begitu lama sambil menempelkan ponsel di pipinya. Ia terdiam seperti patung Dewi Windradi di pusat kota. Patung tersedih yang pernah disaksikannya– di tengah kolam dengan tiga ekor kera yang sedang berenang mengitarinya. Konon tiga ekor kera itu adalah anak dari sang Dewi yang terkutuk jadi kera karena berebut Cupu Manik Astagina. Tapi Aswatama tak sedang bersedih seperti Dewi Windradi yang tengah melihat ketiga anaknya berubah menjadi kera. Aswatama tak tahu 108
perasaan macam apa yang tengah menguasainya. Tapi yang jelas bukan kesedihan. Ia tak bisa menamai perasaannya yang lempang dan lengang seperti jalan-jalan di Sokalima yang telah dua puluh tahun ditinggalkan. Dan kini sebuah kabar dengan nada yang datar memanggilnya pulang ke Sokalima. Krepi, ibunya, menelepon. “Pulanglah segera.” Krepi. Aswatama terbayang wajah ibunya–perempuan yang selama bertahun-tahun dianggapnya sebagai ibu. Di dadanyalah ia kerap menghabiskan airmatanya ketika masih bocah, saat teman-teman sepermainannya mengolokolok sepasang kakinya yang mirip kaki kuda. “Aswa anak kuda! Aswa anak kuda!” Aswatama berlari secepat kuda mencari ibunya. Di rumah, di pasar, di sawah, di jalan atau di mana saja. Ia mencari dada Krepi. Dan menangis di sana. Dada Krepi adalah rumahnya. Tempat paling aman dan nyaman di seluruh dunia. Hingga Aswatama beranjak remaja, dada Krepi adalah dunianya. Apakah dada itu masih hangat seperti saat terakhir ditinggalkannya? Masih digelayuti sepasang payudara yang putih dan lembut? Bau tubuh Krepi kembali datang mengurung Aswatama. Dan 109
tanpa bisa dicegah kemaluannya menegang. “Ibu… Krepi…,” Bibir Aswatama bergetar membisikkan namanya. Malam jahanam itu kembali datang mengunjungi Aswatama. Sebuah malam di mana ia sama sekali tak bisa memejamkan mata. Hatinya gelisah tanpa alasan. Seperti ada yang terus-menerus mengganggunya. Umurnya hampir tujuh belas tahun waktu itu. Masih duduk di bangku kelas tiga SMA. Dengan malas ia keluar kamar setelah yakin tak akan bisa tidur malam itu. Ia melangkah menuju beranda. Mungkin dengan merokok di teras sambil menikmati malam rasa gelisahnya akan berkurang. Saat itulah ia dengar isak tangis seorang perempuan dari kamar orangtuanya. Aswatama berjingkat pelan menuju kamar mereka. Isak tangis itu makin jelas terdengar. Pintu kamar separuh terbuka. Aswatama merapatkan tubuhnya ke dinding lalu bergerak pelan mendekati pintu kamar. Isak tangis itu makin mengeras seperti menyambut kedatangannya. Suara tangis Krepi, ibunya. Aswatama makin gelisah. Sesuatu mungkin baru saja terjadi. Ia menajamkan pendengarannya. Hanya tangis ibunya yang terdengar. Ia sama sekali tak mendengar suara Durna, bapaknya. Ke mana 110
dia? Aswatama bertanya-tanya. Atau janganjangan sesuatu telah terjadi pada bapaknya. Masih dengan penuh kehati-hatian Aswatama melongok ke dalam kamar orangtuanya. Dalam remang cahaya ia menangkap sosok ibunya. Duduk di tepi ranjang. Membelakanginya. Bapaknya tak ada. Hanya ibunya sendirian. Duduk, tertunduk dan menangis. “Ibu…,” Aswatama berbisik memanggilnya. Tangis itu seketika terhenti. Krepi menoleh ke arah pintu kamar dengan kaget. Dengan gugup ia mengelap airmatanya begitu tahu Aswatamalah yang berdiri di ambang pintu. “Oh, kamu, Aswa. Masuklah.” Aswatama buru-buru masuk dan memeluk Krepi. “Ibu kenapa nangis? Bapak ke mana?” Krepi kembali terdiam. Airmatanya kembali mengalir deras seperti Bengawan Silugangga. Aswatama mengguncang-guncang tubuh ibunya, “Kenapa, Bu?” Krepi tetap tak menjawab. Isak tangisnya kembali terdengar. Lebih keras. Lebih panjang. Ia memeluk Aswatama sekencang-kencangnya.
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Aswatama gugup. Jantungnya berdegup dengan cepat. Perempuan yang tengah memeluknya itu terasa bukan ibunya. Aswatama seperti tengah memeluk seseorang baru saja dikenalnya. Seorang perempuan yang membuat seluruh bulu tubuhnya meremang. Tubuh Krepi yang terbalut gaun tidur tipis begitu menggetarkan Aswatama. Aswatama menatap mata Krepi. Krepi menatap mata Aswatama. Dan bibir keduanya pun bertemu.
Krepi menjerit menerima kedatangan Aswatama dalam tubuhnya. “Ae, rahmu. Ae, rahku. Ae, rasamu. Ae, rasaku. Rasamu kalah kaya rasaku.” 2) Ia menghirup napas Aswatama dalam-dalam. “Masuki aku, Aswa. Masuki tubuhku!” Dan kemudian tak ada suara lagi. Sokalima diam seribu bahasa. Jalanan lengang ditinggalkan para pejalan. Seranggaserangga malam masuk kembali ke dalam liangnya. Awan hitam menghapus bulan dan bintang-bintang. Sebuah malam yang kosong tanpa penghuni.
Entah berapa lama mereka berdua saling pagut. Saling gigit dan berguling-guling di ranjang. Hingga kemudian Aswatama menatap mata kiri Krepi dalam-dalam. “Banyu suci pitung prakara, sadurunge tumetes, manggon aneng dhangkeling rikinaningsung, nuli ingsun tetesake saka pucuking braja, manggon ana cupu
Paginya Aswatama pergi meninggalkan Sokalima untuk selama-lamanya. Malam itu adalah malam terakhir ia bertemu dengan Krepi. Tak akan ada malam-malam yang lain dengan Krepi. Dengan ibunya sendiri. Aswatama berusaha lari sejauhjauhnya. Dikejar rasa bersalah yang berlebihan. Dua puluh tahun ia berhasil meninggalkan Krepi. Hingga beberapa saat yang lalu, perempuan itu
kang ana tengah dadi rasa mulya, tumibaa manungsa kang mulya.” l )
memanggilnya pulang.
l)
Air tujuh rupa, sebelum menetes, berdiam di dalam akarku, segera kuteteskan dari ujung pusakaku, berdiamlah dalam lubang tengahmu dan jadilah rasa mulia, jadilah manusia mulia. (Mantra Jawa sebelum bersetubuh) 112
2)
Aih, darahmu. Aih, darahku. Aih, rasamu. Aih, rasaku. Rasamu kalah sebagaimana rasaku. (Mantra Jawa sebelum bersetubuh)
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Sepanjang jalan menuju Sokalima Aswatama berusaha menggambar wajah bapaknya. Sekenakenanya. Dua puluh tahun mungkin telah mengubah banyak hal. Tapi mungkin juga tidak. Durna barangkali masih tetap seperti saat terakhir ditinggalkannya. Tak ada yang berubah. Durna tetap seorang guru olahraga di sebuah SD yang bertangan dingin dan tak banyak bicara. Seorang bapak yang begitu mencintai anaknya lebih dari segalanya. Seorang lelaki dengan tubuh yang cacat dan penuh luka. Dan kini sedang terbaring sendirian di rumah sakit. Menanti ajalnya tiba. Ingatannya melayang pada sebuah petang, Pada sebuah pelajaran memanah di tanah lapang. Aswatama, lima tahun saat itu, memegang busur panjang melebih tinggi tinggi tubuhnya. Ia sudah memasang sebatang anak panah dan mengarahkannya pada sebuah sasaran: orangorangan sawah dengan wajah yang ditempeli gambar seseorang yang tak dikenalnya. “Tatap mata orang itu, Aswa. Dan lepaskan panahmu saat kedua mata itu telah menjadi satu di matamu!” Durna berdiri di samping anak lelaki satu-satunya itu. Aswatama kecil menatap 114
sasarannya. Menatap sepasang mata seseorang yang tak dikenalnya. “Siapa dia, Pak? Gambar siapa yang Bapak tempel di sana.” “Seseorang yang paling jahat di muka bumi ini. Seseorang yang pantas untuk mati. Tatap matanya, Aswa, jangan lepaskan!” Aswatama menatap sepasang mata itu. Ia tak menemukan pancaran kejahatan di sana. Ia justru menemukan cahaya yang begitu lembut dan penuh dengan kasih sayang. Wajah seorang bapak yang begitu teduh. “Tapi siapa dia? Apa kejahatan yang telah dilakukannya?” “Lihat baik-baik Bapakmu. Kamu akan tahu kejahatan apa yang telah dilakukannya!” Aswatama menoleh tanpa menurunkan busurnya. Ia menatap tajam bapaknya. Berusaha mencari jawabannya di sana. Di hadapannya tegak berdiri seorang lelaki dengan kaki pincang, tangan pengkor dan wajah yang rusak. Aswatama terhenyak seolah baru saja menyadari keadaan tubuh bapaknya yang porak poranda itu–seperti 115
sebatang pohon randu rusak yang masih tegak sehabis dihantam badai bertubi-tubi. Selama ini ia menganggapnya sebagai sebuah kewajaran, sebuah kelaziman, bahwa bapaknya memang dilahirkan dalam keadaan demikian. Dan demikianlah bapaknya seharusnya. “Tatap lagi mata itu. Dan lepaskan panahmu sebanyak kamu bisa mulai sore ini. Kelak jika saatnya telah tiba kamu akan berhadapan dengannya. Namanya Sucitra. Kini ia berdiam menjadi seorang pemimpin di Wirata.” Aswatama terbangun dari lamunannya. Kereta tengah berhenti entah di stasiun mana. Ia melihat ke luar jendela. Ia mencari papan nama yang bisa dibacanya. Tak lama kemudian ia telah menemukannya, tersembunyi di balik kerumunan orang-orang yang berdiri menunggu keretanya masing-masing: Stasiun Banyu Tinalang. Masih dua stasiun lagi. Aswatama melihat jam tangannya. Tepat tengah malam mungkin ia akan sampai di Sokalima dan segera bertemu dengan bapaknya. Apa yang musti dikatakannya? Maaf telah lari dari rumah? Maaf telah menyetubuhi istrinya? Maaf tak bisa membalaskan dendam itu? 116
Maaf karena telah jadi seorang pecundang? Di luar itu ia tak punya apa-apa yang bisa diceritakannya. Sesuatu yang barangkali akan bisa membuat bapaknya bangga dan mati dengan tenang. Ia bukan Arjuna. Bukan Bima. Bekas teman-teman sekolahnya. Bekas murid-murid bapaknya yang kini telah menjadi orang-orang besar. Bahkan ia bukan Duryudana, si murid paling bego yang kini telah jadi pemimpin itu. Ia bukan siapa-siapa. Tak seorang pun mengenalnya. Meski kemampuannya setanding dengan Arjuna, ia tetap hanya seorang pecundang. Aswatama membuang wajahnya ke luar jendela kereta. Gelap. Tak ada apa-apa di luar sana. Kereta terus menyeretnya menuju Sokalima. Membawanya kembali berhadapan dengan kenyataan-kenyataan. Aswatama menghela napasnya. Memejamkan mata dan mencoba tidur. Ia ingin bangun di sebuah tempat yang tak dikenalnya. Menuntaskan 6000 tahun pengembaraannya sebagai seorang ciranjiwin–hidup abadi dan tak mengenal cinta.
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Glossary
Arjuna and Karna: Scions of the rival branches of one family, the Pandawas and Kurawas, in the Indian epic poem, “Mahabharata”, subsequently absorbed into the Hindu-Buddhist culture of Java and Bali. Arjuna is a hero and the renowned archer of the Pandawa side. The doomed Karna is actually a secret half-brother of the Pandawas but raised among and loyal to the “evil” Kurawas. Begawan Ciptoning: In the Javanese version of “Mahabharata”, an alternative name of Arjuna when he performs meditation in Mt Indrakila. Begawan is an exalted honorific and Ciptoning evokes Arjuna’s cessation of all creativity and feelings in the course of his meditation. Dewi Windradi: An angel married to the sage Resi Gotama whose two sons were turned into monkeys for quarreling over a magic goblet, and as Subali and Sugriwa were leaders of Anuman the White Monkey’s army in the Javanese and Balinese version of the “Ramayana”. 118
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Dukuh Lawas: Literally, “old hamlet”. dukun: In the Malay and Indonesian world, a traditional healer, expert on local adat (customary law), spirit medium, and, in some instances, practitioner of black magic. Gareng and Petruk: In Javanese mythology, Petruk and Gareng are two of three adoptive children of the simultaneously comic and awesome Semar, also traditionally believed to be Ismaya, the guardian spirit of Java. Collectively, these four grotesques are known as punakawan, the lively retainers and sometime advisors of the gods, and who provide a mouthpiece for the puppeteer's (qv) own social and political commentary. kadamakna: A special primbon, or handbook of traditional Javanese esoterica and occultism kalajana: An alfalfa-like grass grown mainly as fodder for cattle.
Mangkurat II: Also known as Amangkurat II, Sultan from 1677 to 1703 of the Central Java-based Mataram Sultanate. First sultan to ally with East India Company in Batavia to further own dynastic ambitions. raden mas: Common title for Javanese nobility Raja Pringgodani: The mythical raja of the kingdom of Pringgodani was Gatokaca, the son of mighty Pandawa, Bima. rara: Title for an unmarried female of Javanese aristocratic lineage Selasa Manis: In Java, the days of the week are indicated as a combination of the modern sevenday week and the traditional five-day market week, here “Tuesday Manis (or Legi)”. Wayang, Wayang Kulit: Refers to the ancient shadow plays of Java, Bali and the Malay Peninsula, and also to the shadow play puppets themselves.
Kartasura: Located near present-day Surakarta, Central Java, Kartasura was the capital of the Mataram Sultanate (qv) established by Mangkurat II (qv) in 1680 and destroyed in the Great Chinese Upheaval of 1743. 120
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Publication History
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Sukra’s Eyes
Mata Sukra
Media Indonesia, June 16, 2013
Going to the Puppet Shop
Pergi ke Toko Wayang
Efforts to Gain Supernatural Power
Usaha Menjadi Sakti
Koran Tempo, June 27, 2010 Koran Tempo, June 15, 2008 Usaha Menjadi Sakti. Yogyakarta: Omahsore, 2009.
Betaljemur
Betaljemur
Suara Merdeka, August 26, 2007 Usaha Menjadi Sakti. Yogyakarta: Omahsore, 2009.
Aswatama Goes Home
Aswatama Pulang
Koran Tempo, September 8, 2013
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Translator’s Note
These four short stories by Ben Sohib are gem-like portraits Jakarta’s Betawi people—placid vignettes of real life, and with little frissons at the end. The origin of the word Betawi is “Batavia,” the Holland-evoking name given to the governing center of the Dutch East Indies Company’s presence in the East Indies, established in 1619 by its first (and very definitely frisson producing) governor-general, Jan Pieterzoon Coon. Over the centuries, Europeans, Chinese, Indians, Arabs and native peoples from across the archipelago, arrived in or were brought one way or the other to Batavia. Today’s orang Betawi are the descendants of this kaleidoscopic gene pool and they have long proudly possessed a cultural and linguistic identity quite separate, not only from the Dutch overlords of colonial times, but from later arrivals after Batavia became Jakarta, the capital of independent Indonesia in 1949. Nonetheless, Betawi people staunchly supported the independence
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movement and more than a few important figures of the Republic have been Betawi. The Betawi are a generally pious and conservative Muslims people and the centrality of Islam in their lives is reflected in several of these stories. They are also well known as canny capitalists, albeit mostly on a small scale, and this too is reflected here. One thing that admittedly will not be found in this translation is any attempt by me to recreate the humorously pungent potpourri of the Betawi dialect which appears in a number of the dialogues here. Omong Betawi, the Betawi/Jakarta dialect, is a form of Malay (itself the basis of modern Bahasa Indonesia) whose “finishing” school was not enclosed by walls but rather in the midst of all the comings and goings at this seaport of the world. I trust that the reader will forgive me and still find much to enjoy in these works.
the debit he is claiming from Mail’s just-deceased father. Mail implies that if it is, the burial niche will become sempit, narrow or restricted. This reflects a widespread belief among Muslims, and supported by hadiths, I am told, that this will happen in the grave if debts are not paid in full either before the time of death or by the deceased’s representative, usually a family member, as here. Finally, readers may find the following glossary useful for a deeper understanding of the various geographical, etc., references in these delightful stories.
I would like to clarify one point, brought to my attention by a colleague on the Bahtera listserv of worldwide translators of Indonesian. In the story The Vulture and the Bane of the Ninth Victim, Mail Basuri wants to ensure that Hisam hasn’t understated 126
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The Translator
George A Fowler lived and traveled widely in the Asia Pacific region for over thirty years, first as a Marine, then as a student of Chinese and Malay, and finally as a commercial banker. He co-authored Pertamina: Indonesian National Oil and Java, A Garden Continuum while living in Indonesia in the early 1970s. George received a BA from the University of St Michael’s College at the University of Toronto in 1975, and a Master of Arts in International Studies (China Studies) from the Jackson School of International Studies at the University of Washington in 2002. His published translations include Marah Rusli’s classic Indonesian novel Sitti Nurbaya: A Love Unrealized, Old Town by Chinese writer Lin Zhe; The Golden Road and Life Under Mao Zedong’s Rule, by Hong Kong writer Zhang Da-Peng, The Rose of Cikembang, a popular novel of the late 1920s Netherlands East Indies by Kwee Tek Hoay; Ceremony, by Dayak poet and novelist
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Korrie Layun Rampan; and A Conspiracy of God-killers, a collection of short stories by the Javanese writer and poet Triyanto Triwikromo. George and his wife, Scholastica Auyong, currently live near Seattle, where he is a full-time freelance translator of Chinese, Indonesian, Malay, and Tagalog, and is finally learning Vietnamese.
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ISBN 978-602-9144-69-7
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