Cok Sawitri. A Lonely Death & Other Stories. Translations by Marjie Suwanda

Cok Sawitri

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Cok Sawitri

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Cok Sawitri

A Lonely Death & Other Stories Translations by Marjie Suwanda

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Cok Sawitri A Lonely Death & Other Stories Copyright to Indonesian language stories © 2015 Cok Sawitri Copyright to all English-language translations © 2015 Marjie Suwanda Copyright to this edition © 2015 The Lontar Foundation All rights reserved.

Contents vii

Publisher’s Note

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Introduction

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

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A Lonely Death,

BTW is an imprint of the Lontar Foundation

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Baruni, Bridge to Heaven,

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.978-602-9144-62-8

27 Dagger, 53

English Glossary of Balinese Terms,

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Mati Sunyi,

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Baruni, Jembatan Surga,

111 Keris, 127

Istilah Bahasa Bali,

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Publication History

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The Translator

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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 Cok Sawitri

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ok Sawitri is a novelist, poet, scriptwriter for theater and dance, and an artist who performs in modern theater and traditional Balinese performances. Besides writing and dancing, she also conducts workshops in literature, dance and theater, and is a leading activist in social, cultural, interfaith and humanitarian issues. Cok Sawitri has established a number of arts communities, including Kelompok Tulus Ngayah and Forum Mitra Kasih Bali, that are active in basic training in gender. Few writers are such a complex combination as Cok Sawitri with her understanding of history, philosophy and Balinese traditions, and her activism in the social issues of contemporary society. Coming from a family of Brahman priests and as the eldest daughter, she has inherited a traditional vocabulary and esoteric knowledge passed down from one generation to the next, and often must lead traditional ceremonies and dance a number of mesmerizing sacred dances. All of

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this contributes to a rich vocabulary for the themes she creates in her literary works, be that novels, poetry or plays. Her works often tell about the lives of Balinese in the modern world and the various challenges they face. Readers are invited to examine the psyches of Balinese people in the midst of the traditional customs which they practice, in which art is a way of life closely interwoven with everyday life in society, together with the various struggles and tensions it holds. She doesn’t just look at external conflicts but also at those within people’s hearts. Thus, we will meet various Balinese characters, for example, a woman experiencing angst, existential struggles and the uncertainty between life and death. Cok presents this dark topic with light humor, without us having to be burdened by philosophy or metaphysics. Or we meet a character who is psychologically distant from established traditions and the complexity of society’s beliefs, due to a political scar from his past. Or how the death of a character unveils individual vs. collective identity and aspirations which are

Cok Sawitri has written three novels, Janda dari Jirah [The Widow from Jirah, 2007], Sutasoma (2009) and Tantri, Perempuan yang Bercerita [Tantri, a Woman, Speaks, 2011], all of which are historiographies of figures in Balinese history. Recent publications include a collection of poems, Setahun Kematian, Semilyar Nyanyianku Mati, Kiamat Tiba dalam Jarak 3 Sentimeter [A Year of Death, A Billion of My Songs Die, the End of the World at a Distance of 3 Centimeters] and a collection of short stories Baruni, Jembatan Surga [Baruni: Bridge to Heaven], both of which were published in 2013. She received the Dharmawangsa Award for literature in 2010 for her novel, Sutasoma. Her debut novel, Janda dari Jirah, has been translated into English and published in the US. Her novel, Tantri, Perempuan yang Bercerita was short-listed for the Khatulistiwa Award. Cok Sawitri continues to write, with various poems, short stories and articles published in newspapers and journals, as well as collected in a number of literary anthologies in Indonesia and abroad. She currently lives in Bali.

not always in harmony in society, and that social sanctions and karma always apply.

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Nukila Amal xiii

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A Lonely Death

The newspapers reported the death of my aunt. Many leading figures commented that the nation had lost one of its finest. A humanitarian fighter was gone! The nation was in mourning. Television stations began to compete to broadcast the story of this national figure. The government even announced that flags would be flown at half mast. Respect would be shown to honour her contribution to the glory of the nation. They wrote about how at a time when this country was seen as a nation that didn’t respect human rights, a woman had emerged whose every word and action moved people’s hearts. It allowed our country to stand tall and face the onslaught of criticism of various humanitarian issues. “If only narrow political views had not been involved, she should have received the Nobel Peace Prize last year!” was one of the rather emotional commentaries in a local newspaper quoting the comments of a national figure. As her niece, I was 2

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suddenly seen as one of the best sources to comment on my aunt, perhaps because I am also active in a number of social justice activities. Because local newspapers knew of my family ties with my aunt, I was suddenly in demand and was kept busy answering questions from national and international reporters. I had to explain all sorts of things, including plans for her ngaben, the funeral ceremony. But it was so difficult to answer the reporters’ questions honestly. What should I comment on? My aunt’s entire life story was already public knowledge. All her activities had made the headlines. But now they were searching for a different angle, something unique. If necessary, something exotic and newsworthy, some secret in her life. But my aunt’s life had been normal. Her marriage was good. There was nothing unusual about her children. Everything was normal and smooth. My aunt was a woman, a wife. Just a normal person. What more was there to say? Finally they decided to use the ngaben ceremony as the angle for their articles. Not a bad strategy. Auntie was always known as being very modern, independent and removed from–even a critic of– 4

traditional customs, but it turned out that in death she would follow the customary rituals. For the fans who were hunting news, the plans for the ceremony became an expression of their admiration at how Auntie, no matter how worldly she was, remained faithful to tradition, how this fighter for human rights still had strong roots in tradition and local wisdom. This was proof of the fact that no matter how firmly she held her opinions about change, she was nonetheless immersed in change, proof that although she behaved globally, a nagben ceremony would still be held… and so on and so forth! I bowed my aching head. I have to say that in this village, the village where Auntie was born and raised until her teenage years, my aunt was nobody special, despite Auntie and her late husband having once held positions in the district government, and despite the fact that according to their genealogy, Auntie and her husband were both descendants of nobility. Although Auntie was in the news every day and given awards every week, still for the people of this village, she was no one special. 5

Auntie and her husband had left the village long ago, looking to move ahead. When her husband died, Auntie became involved in humanitarian activities. During the reform era, her name became wellknown when she organized peace demonstrations. She was known not just nationally, but she was also respected in international circles. Her appeals were heard by world leaders, as well as spiritual leaders.

the family. They remembered meeting my father

But for this village, Auntie was no longer a part of the community. My aunt and uncle had not been active in the community association (which we called banjar) for a long time and neither had their children. They never took part in the various ceremonies or community activities of the village. If every once in while they came, it was only for a vacation or to take care of the house and family property, or to return

were dealing with death?

home like now, at the time of death. It was true that on the village roads flags were flying at half mast. But for almost three days, since Auntie’s body had been laid out in the ancestral home, only a few villagers had come to pay their respects. Those who had come, I knew, came not out of respect for my aunt but because they remembered relationships with other members of 6

and other aunts and uncles. Meanwhile, other villagers pretended they did not know what was going on. Similarly in the extended family, almost everyone came to visit, but they all acted like guests; they didn’t stay long; they all seemed to be making a gesture. Isn’t this how your aunt treated us when we I understood their attitude. Other members of the family also understood. Auntie’s attitude towards the community and family during her life had been topics of gossip for a long time. And of course my cousins, my aunt’s children, were not aware that in subtle ways the community and family were punishing Auntie and her family. The usual protests were being aired against the attitude of Auntie and her children who rarely came home to the village, rarely had time for family events. But there was an air of calm, as calm as the peace that my aunt had fought for. It was a subtle protest. We had always assumed that the villagers would have this kind of response towards Auntie and her

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children. A gentle response, with little commentary, without verbal abuse or regrets about Auntie’s attitude when she was alive. They knew that silence was best way to face people who had died. To be honest, this had been causing me some angst for a long time. Every time I visited Jakarta or met with some of this country’s leaders, when they questioned me and positioned Auntie as someone with so much influence in her native region, I would bite my tongue and just give a wry smile. Auntie marched to her own drum. She deserved respect. Of course everyone was impressed with her accomplishments, and with advances in the media, newspapers in particular were able to write about her humanitarian work. People everywhere were eager to have her visit their regions. People paid great store by her words. Auntie’s comments were influential, and people were always quoting her. There was no doubt that she was a force to be reckoned with. She was consistent and her honesty was unquestionable. But I must tell her admirers that whatever Auntie did had no connection to the community in her native region. Her activities were far removed 8

from this village. Auntie’s ideas were for the global society. Not for the people of this village. But the village in which Auntie was born had many humanitarian problems of its own, from poverty to criminality, from politics to unrest. Just like other villages. Just the normal problems faced by society today. Just like the issues for which my aunt fought. But my aunt never involved herself in searching for solutions to the problems in her own village. What Auntie fought for was national, international humanity… as one figure commented, “She was indeed a woman ahead of her time!” And it always brought a wry smile to my face, every time I recalled how many well known activists were in awe of my aunt and assumed she must have a fanatical and solid group of followers. I should have told them that Auntie was not a leader of her own people; she was not adored by them. She was a nobody in the village where she was born. And even if she had tried to involve herself in issues in the village, there is no question about it, her advice would not been heeded. At most, she would be quoted in the newspaper. Her comments would only have been news in the newspapers. The people 9

of the village had their own leaders. Leaders who were always there, in good times and bad, in their own language. And with their own following. “Your mother is famous, but what use is that now? You think everyone will come to help arrange the funeral ceremony for your mother? Just because she is famous?” My throat tightened. My uncle began ranting at my aunt’s oldest child. As one of the caretakers of the traditional village, my uncle must have known what the people were saying about the plans for my aunt’s ngaben. “For years I have advised you that when your mother dies, you should have her cremated in Java! Don’t even dream about a big funeral ceremony. Even if you can afford it! Nobody in the village wants to come. None of them will want to help you. Why? Because none of you have ever given them the time of day! You yourself, what have you ever done to roll up your sleeves and get involved when they had ceremonies to arrange? Now you demand your rights as a village citizen. Have you ever fulfilled your responsibilities? Is this the justice that your mother fought for? Now you demand 10

equal treatment? But did your mother ever treat them fairly? All your mother could do was criticize traditional customs! Suggest changes. Promote equality… Now they are following your mother’s teachings. They are practicing the same attitude as your mother’s attitude towards them!” “So don’t be unrealistic! Your mother was only important in the news. But she lost her roots. Lost her ties with the people she was fighting for! Especially with the people of this village!” I moved away. My cousins would have a hard time understanding. Since they were small they had lived far away from this village. Away from this country even. All they knew was that their mother was famous, a humanist respected by many people. A compassionate mother who always had time for others. A mother who railed against injustice of all kinds. Logically of course the people of this village should be proud of their mother. They should mourn for days, should be saddened by the death of one of their own, a woman regarded as a global humanitarian figure! They should mobilize; 11

without being asked they should go shoulder to shoulder to make the ngaben ceremony for the death of their mother a success. Was it not true that the village chronicles told of the strength of the tradition of mutual aid, compassion and valuing one another? The shouting between my uncle and my cousins slowly faded away. Faded into the big house that was quiet and deserted. Visitors who came from far away, who knew Auntie from newspapers and discussion forums, who admired her because of her ideas and concepts, could not control their gasps of surprise. They could not hide the looks of astonishment in their eyes: why is this big house so quiet? Wasn’t what they had heard and read true, that when someone dies, throngs of villagers come to offer assistance. Especially as plans were underway to hold a ngaben ceremony for such an important and influential figure. Wasn’t it usually true that if even a local villager died, all the villagers if needed would spend days sleeping at the house of the family just as a sign of solidarity and respect? But this was the reality. The only ones who came to visit Auntie were those from far away; those who

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lived close by acted as if they didn’t know there was a dead person in the house. The argument flared up again. Why didn’t you cremate her in Java? Or in Denpasar? These days you can hold a quick cremation without the complete ceremony. Why did Auntie’s children feel it was necessary to give this final gift of a complete ngaben ceremony? For goodness sake! Of course they can’t be forbidden from bringing my aunt’s corpse home. They can’t be forbidden from planning a big ceremony. They want to show respect for their mother. They have the money. But do they know that a ngaben doesn’t just take money but also the support of the community? And weren’t they aware that their mother never performed the communal work for any village activities? She didn’t even give donations. Auntie, I don’t know why, was very stingy and critical, even cynical, towards her family and her own village community. I don’t know why… Do they think this is like a wedding reception? Where everything can be bought? Or that it can be held in a hotel?

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I sensed the fears on the faces of everyone in the family that night as we sat together to make plans for my aunt’s ngaben ceremony.

friends we appear to be solid. Our mother and we ourselves have been wrong… but don’t punish her like this.”

My aunt’s children were still adamant about their plans. Even more incredible was that my aunt’s ngaben ceremony would be attended by lots of reporters and officials.

I bowed my head. There were sobs around me. Although all the work and materials needed for the ngaben had been ordered, and rented, a loneliness still gripped this big house. Like something breaking, then falling to the ground. The smashing sound overwhelmed the heart with a sense of loneliness.

“You think inviting guests is easy? Who’ll make the arrangements? Don’t you realize that a multitiered funeral tower will require people to carry it to the cemetery? Do you think it’s going to be easy to find people to do it!” Everyone began to get hysterical, as they imagined the potential chaos. “Relax! I’ve formed a committee. I know there’s no chance of getting help from the villagers. So for accommodation and food for our guests we’ll hire a catering service. To carry the tower to the cemetery, we’ll hire construction workers. And transportation is already taken care of, a travel company is arranging it, ” Auntie’s eldest son, a rich businessman, explained the plans. “We ask just one thing, that the entire family be willing to attend. So that in the eyes of mother’s

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Everything had been neatly planned. Eventually the whole family wanted to take part as the committee. Not because of Auntie, but more to safeguard the family name. And the day of the ceremony arrived. Hundreds of cars lined the streets. From early morning visitors began to arrive, from far away, from various cities and countries. The sound of gamelan music greeted the guests, and refreshments were served. Everything went smoothly. In an orderly fashion. Perhaps too orderly. Then the procession for the ngaben ceremony began. It also went smoothly, guided by an expert master of ceremonies. The carriers of the tower,

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wearing uniforms that still smelled brand new, set forth, carrying Auntie’s body towards the cemetery, shouting enthusiastically as they went. They became the target for cameras and awe. The village roads were so crowded. The villagers came out of their homes, but just sat in front of them, like spectators. As if this procession had nothing to do with their village. They just watched. With a look in their eyes that was hard to interpret. How different from the friends and admirers of Auntie who, when they joined the procession, were overcome with emotion because of how grand and festive my aunt’s ngaben ceremony was. It was as if they could again hear my aunt’s cry, come live with a sense of togetherness. Come live in diversity! Because at heart we are all people who are the same! Then upon arriving at the cemetery, before the body was burned in the rented oven, a cabinet minister gave a speech in her memory, as did several other political leaders who supposedly had chances at the presidency. Cameras flashed constantly. Wreaths of flowers with sympathy messages piled up, covering the cremation site. Everything went 16

smoothly and on time; like my aunt who was always disciplined and punctual. At exactly midday, my aunt’s body began to burn. Flames rose into the clear sky, accompanied by the sound of the gamelan. The serenity of the moment brought tears to the eyes. Death always brings a sense of loss. And at that moment the visitors, leaders, reporters and admirers of Auntie began to take their leave. One by one they shook hands with Auntie’s children, feeling deeply touched. A child of the nation was gone. A fighter for humanity was gone. Faintly I heard the voice of an announcer giving an eye-witness account live from the cemetery. And when the fire went out, and I was free of musings, of emotions, I looked to the right and left. I counted the people who were still at the cemetery: just the family and hired helpers, busy counting the hours they had worked and the fee they would receive. With anxious eyes I looked for my father and for my cousins. I looked for all of the family in fact. The smell of the burning body put an end to my thoughts. An end to my heart. I suddenly felt 17

so alone. Alone and far from the world. Far from friends, far from everything. And now Auntie was also in a different world. Alone. Still not needing anyone but herself. Just as she did in life.

Baruni, Bridge to Heaven

After staring at herself for hours in front of the mirror, Baruni convinced herself that she was dead. She didn’t feel hungry, didn’t feel thirsty, and she didn’t want to pee or fart. She also didn’t feel hot or cold. Baruni felt fresher, freer and more relaxed than she had ever felt before. Slowly she went out of the room and headed towards the dining room. Her younger brother didn’t greet her as usual. For a moment Baruni felt bad, but then she smiled; was it not true that if you are dead you don’t need to chat? But why did her brother look so calm while enjoying his breakfast? Why wasn’t he crying or wailing? Why wasn’t her brother sad, wasn’t his sister dead? “Now what are you thinking about?” Baruni was startled. It was her brother’s voice. But a dead person could not speak, not even in a dream. Baruni didn’t answer, her brother must be recalling his regular morning habit, how at breakfast he would remind her not to daydream too much. “Eat up, I’ve been cooking this since dawn.”

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Baruni almost nodded, yes…. Aren’t dead people also provided with food and drinks? Yes, Baruni began to enjoy her breakfast. She chewed slowly, there was no flavor whatsoever, it was tasteless. So this is what food tastes like when you are dead? “What are you thinking about now?” Baruni was startled. Why was her brother’s voice so clear? Then she looked up, “I’m not thinking about anything!” she replied and was certain that her younger brother was only imagining chatting with her. “Do something so that your thoughts aren’t all over the place. Don’t get sick again, medicine is expensive now and my salary is still the same!” Her brother’s voice was so loud and clear. Baruni was confused. But she was sure she was dead. She took a deep breath. So she wasn’t dead? Earlier when she had looked in the mirror she was certain she was dead. Slowly she cleared the dining table. Then she cleaned the kitchen, the sitting room; she straightened up all the rooms. She then washed all the clothes, and hung them out carefully. Her brother had already left for work and would be 20

home at night. Then Baruni returned to her room, and stared at herself. Yes, I’m dead, she was sure of it, with her eyes closed. Then she went out of the room again, even more certain she was dead, because the table was still a mess, the laundry was still piled up, ah, everything she had done earlier had only been her wishful thinking, in death. Just wishful thinking. So she decided to test her death by repeating all of the housework she had done earlier. Again she cleaned up the table, washed the plates and glasses, then she cleaned the kitchen, cleaned the house, washed the clothes and hung them out to dry. Baruni was confused. Had she really done these things or was it only her wishful thinking in death? Slowly she approached the dining table. It was clean, as was the kitchen and the laundry area, and the laundry had been neatly hung out to dry. Hmm. Who had done it? Baruni wondered. Someone else must have done it. In a daze, Baruni stared at herself in front of the mirror until night fell, then her brother suddenly arrived and complained, “Can’t you clean up after yourself ? Can’t you help wash up and clean the house? You’re too self-absorbed, always caught up in your daydreams!” 21

Baruni smiled, what dead person could clean the house or wash up. Baruni smiled, “I’m dead, I can’t help you anymore…” “What?” Her brother who, still dressed in his office clothes, was cleaning the table, moved over to the laundry and soaked the pile of dirty clothes and then began to sweep the floors.“So now you feel you’re dead?” “It’s not a feeling, I am dead!” “Okay, if you’re dead, tell me what you saw on the bridge to heaven and hell, and tell me why you’re still here?” Baruni smiled, “Only after three days can I leave this house. Then I can fly far away, like a bird…” Her brother finished hanging the clothes out to dry, then he watered the garden. The night grew darker. Baruni just stood like a statue in the middle of the room. So, after three days she would move towards the bridge between heaven and hell? Okay, throughout this waiting period she would recall all her mistakes and good deeds. Baruni was determined to bravely face the angels who reckoned 22

the good and the bad. She would answer all of their questions. “Take a bath, you’re starting to smell!” “They bathe corpses.” Her brother laughed with a sharp look in his eyes, “Okay then, my dead sister. In some countries there are corpses that can walk by themselves to their graves, they can bathe themselves, they can clean the house, and even dance.” “Really?” “Yes… so now go take a bath.” Baruni bathed, washing herself clean. Then she got dressed. And she laid down. She shut her eyes. She felt like she couldn’t wait for the three days to pass. Those angels surely couldn’t wait to see her. They would surely ask, fiercely, “Did you ever have sex? Did you ever commit adultery?” Baruni smiled with satisfaction. She had answers ready for all those questions, even the most difficult. “Are you still dead?” In the morning her brother scolded her in a loud voice. Baruni smiled. Maybe the angels at 23

heaven’s bridge would sound like this. “Yes…I am dead, I can’t possibly come back to life…”

“Her brother begged, oh angels, my sister shouldn’t die yet, she isn’t married yet. She is good and responsible, when she was still in school she was

“Who says?” “What do you mean?” “There are stories about dead people who come back to life. As long as there is someone who wants to defend them against the guardian angel of death.” Baruni stared at him wide-eyed. “Really?” “Really, there are lots of stories about that. For example, once upon a time there was a brother and sister who loved each other. The older sister was smart and good, but naive. The two of them lived happily, working hard to fill their lives. Until one day, the older sister was betrayed by her lover and her heart was broken. She shut herself in her room, didn’t want to eat, didn’t want to drink, and finally she died. Her brother was so sad and didn’t accept his sister’s death, so he took off to search for her at heaven’s bridge. Every morning he went, and returned home at night. Until finally he found the bridge to heaven and saw that his sister was tied up by two fierce guardian angels…” Baruni wrinkled her brow, “And then?” 24

always top of her class. If she dies there will be less goodness in the world. So allow me to take her back home…” “What did the angels answer?” “The two angels were deeply touched and said, you are a faithful brother, so yes we will return your sister and she will live a long life, become a good worker and a guardian of goodness.” “So the sister came back to life?” “Yes.” Baruni took a deep breath, “Then?” “Now you know, right? I go out every morning and come home at night. Where do you think I go? I look for the bridge to heaven. And I found the bridge to heaven, and this afternoon I entered the bridge to heaven! And the two angels brought you back, so you could live again!” Baruni was startled. She stared at her brother in disbelief. “Really?”

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“Absolutely! When did I ever lie to you?”

Dagger

“So I am alive again?” “Yes, you are alive again.” Baruni stared at herself in the mirror again. She felt very hungry, very thirsty, then she felt peace in her heart. So this is what being alive again feels like? Baruni came out of the room, set the dining table, cleaned the house, washed up and then turned on the television.… So, this is what it feels like to be alive again? Baruni was thoughtful for a long time and then murmured over and over again, “I’m alive again!” It was so quiet.

The old man was still the same as ever. It was not only during ceremonies that his pride at being the Mangku Gede, the Keeper of the Village Temple, was evident. At any given moment and with any given movement, his pride shone like a firecracker, at times disguised as a searing arrogance. Ah, to be the holiest person in the village! Chosen from dozens of people who longed for the position, closest to the gods of the Pura Desa, the Village Temple. What more could one achieve in this village than becoming the Mangku Gede? Arrogance was often not limited to the firecracker glow, but also shone in the eyes of Mangku Gede. Whether it was because of that or for some other reason, whenever there was a community prayer session–what we called odalan–at the temple, I felt my heart shrink. My mind was far away from the people around me. Every time a ceremony began, every time the priests began to don their ritual attire, predictably, as in previous years, one of

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Mangku Gede’s nephews, either Nyoman or Ketut, would start to go into trance. I knew it well, they were regulars at going into a trance! It always happened at the same moment, as the ceremony was about to begin, when the priest was sitting preparing himself, when people sat quietly preparing to pray. They would go into a trance, without fail. It happened year after year… When the trance broke the silence, my mind unintentionally wandered. It was as if my thoughts were at a red light; they stopped for a moment then looked around and focused on Ketut who had begun to squeal as he went into a trance, instantly drawing everyone’s attention to him. As usual, the village caretakers moved quickly, holding on to Ketut’s body. From where I sat, all that was visible was a crowd of bodies tensing up and murmuring indecipherably. I don’t think that even those holding on to Ketut could understand his delirious words.

returned to his worldly self after a drop of tirta pulled him down from the sky. People began whispering to one another, asking what on earth Ketut had been talking about when he was in the trance? Which god had entered his body? As in previous years, someone became the interpreter of his delirium. Before long everyone was silent and the person next to me, unasked, explained Ketut’s delirium. “The god Betara sweca will award a special gift to the family of Jro Mangku in the form of a dagger! The dagger will come down, but he said that the awaited one is not meditating!” Ooo! My mouth made a circle, I nodded. Same as last year. “You never know, De, you may be chosen!” whispered Mang Prongo, my childhood friend, as soon as he heard what Ketut had said in his trance.

As usual, Mangku Gede, as the person most

In my distracted state I smiled broadly. “That’s crazy!” I slapped Prongo on the back. Of course everyone would like to be chosen to receive the award. But it was not going to be me.

beloved of the gods, appeared calm as he walked towards the temple, returning not long after with a bowl filled with the holy water tirta. Ketut also

Prongo nodded seriously, as if reading my thoughts as I dismissed any such possibility. “This is the umpteenth time Betara has come down. For

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dozens of full moons already the family of Jro Mangku have meditated for it, but no one has been chosen. Who knows if it will be you, De, you are still family!” Family of Jro Mangku! My thoughts formed bubbles, like clouds gathering in an overcast sky, ready to turn into a heavy rain that drenched all memories. My thoughts made me automatically look over at Mangku Gede, who was sitting near the light. He was a picture of pride mixed with arrogance, as if saying, “I just proved to you all how easily I could bring Ketut back from his trance! Who besides me could do that so easily?” But behind that pride, I noticed that for some reason there was a dejected frustration, slowly being woven like a spider’s web. Every year his set up appeared more clear, the trances had the same message, but not one member of Mangku Gede’s family had ever been chosen. Perhaps people had begun privately to question the holiness of Mangku Gede and his family. Every year, one member was always chosen to go into trance. Didn’t that challenge the holiness of Mangku Gede! Why didn’t Betara give the dagger to Mangku Gede or to someone in 30

his family? What was wrong? Why was a message the only thing he ever received? Had they become impure? Why was there always a signal that there was someone else, someone who was long awaited, upon whom the special gift? Would be bestowed? Did that mean that there was someone holier than Mangku Gede? The odalan ceremony progressed smoothly. Everyone quickly forgot about the trance, forgot about the message from Betara. As usual after praying, dances were held in the central courtyard and the cockfight in the yard of the temple began. Prongo and I joined the crowd betting on the cock belonging to Pak Walka, a cock the color of red earth with shining spurs. Amid shouts from the crowd, the opponent, a white chicken with black spots, fell, flapped for a moment then its eyes opened wide to death. “Not bad!” Prongo rejoiced. I was also pleased. I quickly collected my winnings and suggested Prongo come home and rest awhile, visit my family, and return to the temple later that night for what we called makemit, staying up all night to protect the temple. 31

But on the way home Pan Orti stopped me and invited me to his food stall. “Hey, come over and take a seat. Don’t put on your city airs and pretend you don’t like hanging out!” His teasing had me trapped, and I was unable to refuse his invitation. “So you didn’t go to the temple?” “I’ll go later, it’s the same thing. The gods are here for three days, right?” came his easy reply. Prongo and I were used to his attitude. Who cares! Pan Orti was always relaxed, freely speaking his mind. It suited him as the owner of a palm wine stall. “So tell me, De, how are you? I hear you’re a rich boy now?” “Rich in what? My shit still stinks!” I picked up a fried banana and ordered coffee; Prongo asked for a bottle of beer. Pan Orti chuckled, “I hear you’re the boss now. Driving yourself around!” “It’s a rental car, Pe. I don’t want Mama riding on the back of a motorcycle. She’s not as strong as she used to be!” “A rental car from his own rental company!” Prongo chimed in. Pan Orti chuckled. “Our fate is 32

indeed in the hands of the gods. Right, Ngo? Who would have thought the little snotty nosed brat would ever become the owner of a car rental company?” Prongo nodded, “I still remember, Pe. He’d whine like a puppy just to buy an iced drink. ” “And you’d always treat me!” I looked over at Prongo and we burst out laughing. Ah, childhood was a beautiful time in my life even though I lived with a desperately poor widowed mother. Although we didn’t go hungry, I was aware that I wasn’t the same as the other kids my age. I never had money to spend when I went to school. Every afternoon with Prongo, I explored the hills around our village, looking for grass and plants to feed the pigs. “Did anyone go into a trance before, Ngo?” Pan Orti put an end to my daydreams. Prongo nodded, “Ketut. As usual, Betara was going to hand down the dagger, but no one was approved. Apparently no one had been meditating!” “Who says so?” Pan Orti frowned. Prongo smiled broadly. Every full moon, there are lots of people who feel they have the potential to be the chosen ones, and they meditate at the Village Temple, sitting still like stones, waiting for a holy revelation. 33

“This is like the saying, ‘If a small knife is on the waist, it will be sought everywhere!’” Pan Orti began speaking in verse, criticizing the attitudes of people who had the ambition to be village leader. “In my view, those trances are a warning for Mangku Gede!” Pan Orti went on, lowering his voice. Hearing what Pan Orti had to say, my mind sprung into action. But then I extricated myself from a whirlpool of emotions. I was not going to get caught up in a discussion of Mangku Gede’s legitimacy. Ever since I was a child I knew the history of his becoming a pemangku, a history that also involved me. No matter what, I was in the vortex of this story. Although my mother and I had been expelled from the family of descendents of the pemangku of this village, there was no kind of offering that could ever erase our blood ties! I suggested to Prongo that we go. Pan Orti didn’t try to stop me; he must have understood that I didn’t want to get involved in any discussions about Mangku Gede. The whole village knew the reason why my mother and I had left the village in 1971, moving to Denpasar to work in the market. We had lived in the area now known as Jalan Gatot Soebroto 34

and joined with other new arrivals from different corners of Bali. At first mother and I rented land and built a shack. In the morning I went to school, midday to the market, and in the late afternoon I would plant vegetables. At night I would study while making offerings that the neighbors ordered. My mother took any job available and we were so thrifty, saving every rupiah just to be able to buy a four hundred square meters block of land on Jalan Nangka Utara. At the time the price of land per 100 square meters was about five hundred thousand rupiah! Two million rupiah at the time was no small amount. With our savings, to which mother added money she got by selling jewelry she had inherited, finally we had a place that belonged to the two of us. No more insecurity. No more being haunted by worries that the owner of the land would stop renting to us. In 1986 I graduated from high school. By that time mother had a food stall and I decided I would sell fruit and vegetables in the market. From being a seller carrying my produce in baskets over my shoulders eventually I was able to buy a pick-up truck. I don’t know if it was through my connections at the market or due to fate, but eventually I had 35

the good fortune to become a fruit and vegetable supplier for hotels, and from there I learned about a lot of business opportunities. In 1990, I bought a Toyota kijang to rent, and a year later I added two Jimnys. Denpasar changed so rapidly. The quiet area around Gatot Soebroto became very busy, as did Jalan Nangka Utara. Many friends my age who I had encouraged to become market workers with me were now hotel errand boys. But others kept planting vegetables and selling offerings. My thoughts stalled again. When we arrived at the house, I left Prongo to continue on to his own house. When I went inside, my thoughts began to tear me apart. Every year people would inadvertently whisper in my ear about my origins. Although I could not recall the face of my late father, my mother always assured me that I resembled him in looks, character and behaviour. “Your uncle came by earlier!” I glanced at my mother and picked up a plate, I was hungry. My aunt, my mother’s sister-in-law, was busy blowing through a pipe into a hole in the stove, 36

“I’ll heat up the rice!” she said to me. “Uncle Rinu asked that you go to grandpa’s house!” “What for?” I looked at the two old women sitting across from me. Two widows who, from the time I was little, had taken such good care of me, making themselves a fortress against anything that might attack me. “Just go, at the most he’ll just talk about chickens!” My mother. She was always gently cynical, a breath of fresh air to me. Uncle Rinu, my father’s stepbrother, was the only male left in grandfather’s house. A large man with two wives, he lived from one cockfight to the next, giving his life over to gambling. The biggest loss was when he was not chosen as Pemangku Gede; since grandfather had passed away no one had been chosen in the traditional divine way. The current Mangku Gede was chosen by the village leaders so that the position of Pemangku would not be vacant. And so, every full moon, both the family of Mangku Gede and the family of Uncle Rinu took turns meditating to

37

get that dagger, the dagger to legitimize being the Pemangku chosen by God. “I have no interest in being Pemangku, Uncle!” “It’s not a matter of being interested or not. After grandfather, you must step up, because you are the eldest grandson!” “Uncle, you forget, my father was murdered!” “That was a false accusation! Everyone knows, that was the doing of Mangku Gede’s father! They were always jealous of our family!” “They are also our family. Let them be the Pemangku; the village is still safe and peaceful!” “Peaceful? What do you know! Almost every year there is a mysterious death here. Someone in our family is always facing with some disaster or other…”

have the courage to talk about the matter of the position of Pemangku in this village? The ones who are asking for you are the village leaders, because everyone is anxious, every year there is a death amongst the village leaders…” “Uncle, don’t be too hasty to link natural deaths with the divine appointment of the Pemangku. Mangku Gede is good enough.” “Good enough? In a little while he is going to court; the land his father controlled is being contested by his cousin. The village Mangku will be on trial? Then there’s the problem of his third wife…” Suddenly the night felt heavy, like a millstone around my neck. “Do I have more of a right than he does, don’t you know that my father died accused of being a communist? “That was pure slander!”

Pemangku!”

“The fact is my father was beheaded in front of his own house! Witnessed by his family. And wasn’t the whole village unwilling to attend his cremation ceremony?”

“Do you think I’d be happy to see you involved in this problem? After your father’s death, did I

“That was slander! Your father was a good teacher, a good brother-in-law. His only mistake

“Uncle, don’t make me compete with Mangku Gede’s father. I’m not involved in those interests. I’ve never felt I had any right to the position of

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was protecting your aunt’s husband. And that linked him to the banned organization. Your aunt was a Gerwani activist, a member of the women’s wing of the Communist Party. Her husband was a Communist too! Your father was not a Communist Party member; he protected a member of the Communist Party. In those troubled times, your father insisted on protecting his brother-in-law.” As Uncle Rinu’s voice rose, I retreated into my own thoughts. The blind masses just needed one person to provoke them. My father died with a cruel accusation over his head: that he was a Communist! I inherited that as his son, growing up with an indescribable pain. Every time an election was held, my house was treated like a brothel; all the men kept an eye on it and the women were also wary of us. Was it not for that reason that my mother and I moved to Denpasar in 1971, far away from our big house? “Times have changed. The village leaders will ask you to meditate, if you wish; it will prove that your father was not a Communist!” “And if I don’t?” I retorted. “So, you’d get involved in a new contest? As if the pressure I’ve 40

been under all this time wasn’t enough? No! I don’t want to get involved in this contest. Let all of you who have ambitions to become something before God do it! I just want to be an ordinary citizen.” “Don’t you want to clear your father’s name? This is the one chance!” I looked into Uncle Rinu’s face. He had unwittingly expressed his pity for his nephew. With my feelings deeply hurt, I challenged him. “You yourself are not sure that my father was slandered. So all this time Uncle you have secretly accused my father of being a Communist?” “No, it’s not like that. This requires intervention from the unseen forces, the niskala!” “As far as I’m concerned, my life has been far from a disaster!” I rose from the bamboo chair which felt like it was pinching me, and walked out of the house of my grandfather, which Uncle Rinu had inherited. My face felt hot. For a long time I had repressed this suspicion. It turns out I was right, my mother was right: my uncle had allowed the slander to spread through the crowd that murdered my father. There was only one motive, to inherit the land! 41

Prongo picked me up, to go together to the makemit at the Village Temple. When we arrived at the Village Temple, Mangku Gede suddenly called me.

went looking for Prongo. Suddenly I felt uneasy. I

“Are you going to makemit?” he asked flatly, his eyes avoiding looking at my face. “Yes, Mangku!”

was ready to burn my body.

“There’s something I want to ask, come sit down here!” Prongo moved away, letting Mangku Gede invite me to the place it seemed he had prepared. “What is it Mangku?”

don’t know why but I felt exhausted. My heated emotions must have been the reason. The anger I had repressed since childhood had flared up and “What’s up?” Prongo stopped me in my tracks. “Let’s go, or do you want to makemit yourself ? I have to go to Denpasar tonight!” “Why?” “Forget it Ngo, I’ll explain later!”I hurried away, leaving Prongo.

“Did your Uncle talk to you?”

Feeling very upset, I half ran to the house,

“He did. I can’t meditate. I’m tarnished, you know that. Don’t make me the laughing stock of the village. I am the son of a Communist sympathizer!”

finding my mother and aunt lying relaxed watching

Mangku Gede gave a wooden smile. “It’s up to you! The important thing is I have offered it to you; I’ll tell the village leaders. This idea came from them, not from me!”

softly, cooling my heart and my voice, which shook

“Thank you!”

TV in the living room. “Don’t get emotional, De!” my aunt said as I told them about what Mangku Gede had said to me. “Go back to the temple, and makemit! Don’t run away. Your father didn’t run away from the

Mangku Gede nodded. He seemed to have lost the desire to talk. Seeing that, I excused myself and 42

accusations, although it meant he had to be cut down in death!”

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I was thrown by this. It was true, I wanted to run away. I had to admit, I was frightened, very frightened. My position was so difficult, the offer to meditate had really made me happy, as if suddenly I was valued, as if the burden of my father’s death that I had carried all these years had suddenly been lifted. But on the other hand, I was flooded with incredible fear: what if, after meditating, I didn’t receive the keris? Wouldn’t my failure be used as a new weapon to validate that it was true that my father was anti-God? That I was tarnished!

“Since your father was a baby!” he proudly replied. “Your grandfather had not yet become Pemangku at that time. ” Pan Orti reached for a glass and poured a glass of palm wine. “You’re not drinking?” he asked offering the palm wine and beer lined up on the table. “I just drink coffee, Pe!” “Your father was like that too, he didn’t drink, didn’t smoke. Lived a straight life. So different from Rinu…” I said nothing. Pan Orti seemed to be

I left the house, but not to return to the temple. As I walked I tried to calm my emotions, pulling my thoughts away from the village. I headed towards Pan Orti’s stall. “Aren’t you going to makemit, De?”

daydreaming. “But his fate was bad. If only your

“Later. It’s still crowded at the temple. You’re having a quiet day?”

your grandfather as Pemangku.”

“Everyone’s at the temple. I’m old: I can’t be bothered moving all my stuff to the temple!” he explained. The food stall was very quiet indeed; I was the only customer. I ordered a coffee, staring at the empty road, “Have you been doing this for a long time?”

drew in his breath, “No matter how good a step-

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grandfather had still been alive at the time, things would have been different. If only at the time your father had wanted to immediately take over from “Enough, Pe…” I stopped him. Pan Orti brother or sister is, better your own cousins! But your father didn’t have good cousins either. Instead they cornered Rinu, they goaded him into believing that he had more right to become Pemangku and to inherit your grandfather’s inheritance!”

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I knew that. Uncle Rinu was the son of grandfather’s wife, but he felt he had more rights than my father in the house, because his mother, Dadong Rinu, was grandfather’s cousin. However grandfather had been forced by his family to marry his cousin. The whole village knew that, and they knew how much Dadong Rinu hated my mother and me. Even until now, every time I went to pray at the family shrine at grandfather’s house, Dadong Rinu never greeted me. After my grandmother died, my father left, building a house outside grandfather’s compound. Although Dadong Rinu and other members of the family opposed it, before grandfather died he had given some of his land to my father. Because my father felt he wasn’t accepted in grandfather’s house, he felt closer to my mother’s family. And that closeness became the source of the slander because one member of my mother’s family was indeed an activist in the banned party. For his part, my father had never liked politics; he was just a teacher, an inlaw to my mother’s relatives. At the time that politics were heating up in villages throughout Bali, Uncle Rinu got married 46

and held a big party, selling a lot of his rice fields and cows to fund it. Then a year later, when his first child was born, he married again, also with a big party. And due to the costs of all the cockfights and festivities, his inherited land grew smaller and smaller. I don’t know what led him to do it, but after Mount Agung erupted in 1963, Uncle Rinu asked for half of the land that my father had inherited. Of course my father refused Uncle Rinu’s request. When she heard about my father’s refusal, Dadong Rinu grew really angry and broke off family ties. From then on, father was not allowed into grandfather’s house. Then in 1965, I don’t know what date, one night my father was beheaded in the yard in front of his own house. My mother just remembers that the night was dark and a lot of men wearing masks pounded on the front door. My father’s corpse disappeared without a trace. But mother had seen my father collapse in the yard with his head severed from his body. “The truth can’t be buried, De. Now they are feeling the results of what they sowed themselves!” Pan Orti’s voice dragged me back to the bench at 47

his palm wine stall.” Rinu has lots of debts, his kids are irresponsible, as is his extended family. Mangku Gede might look healthy, but he’s not well. His daughter is divorced, his son is in jail for crashing into someone! What else is there that can make them feel safe. I’ve heard the rumors; the village leaders want you to meditate!” “I’m tainted, Pe. My father was murdered!” “Your father was killed by people paid to do the job, by someone who wanted your father’s land. Who do you think was behind all of this?” “Who Pe? Didn’t people come and pound on our door?” “That was the story in a time of fear. What else could they say in that dark period? Other than to save yourself from accusations that could kill you at any moment. Everyone was forced to be silent. Each one keeping the story to himself. Your father was a teacher, he was a good man. He was slandered!” “Enough, Pe… I don’t want to think about it anymore!” I got up and left the palm wine stall. Exhausted, I followed the footpath. My thoughts wandered. Without realizing it I climbed the steps 48

of the village temple. It was full moon. People gathered in groups and filled the pavilion, half of them awake and half asleep. The village leaders were still awake and saw me arrive. I continued walking and looked for a place to lie down. Circling all the pavilions, I saw they were all full of women and children, sound asleep. Finally, I found a place to makemit. Without thinking much, I stretched out. Let me be free myself from all these problems. I wanted to rest, let whatever was going to happen, happen. I’d had enough of isolation. Falling asleep with a heavy heart made it seem like I was in the clouds. In a state of semiconsciousness I heard the sound of the wooden clapper being struck, then the sound of people waking up, the peal of the gamelan. Then I didn’t hear anything else. I was so relieved and didn’t even know where Mangku Gede came from, as he suddenly calling me, “Wake up De, Wake up!” I was startled. Bringing my self around from my deep sleep, I looked around. People were crowding around looking at me, as if at some strange sight. My mind, trained to keep a distance, made me get up and be alert. People seemed to 49

have been commanded to drop down and bow their heads. “What’s happening?” I sensed the strange attitude of the people towards me. Only Prongo had the courage to look in my direction. “De, in your hands!” He indicated with fearful eyes. As if by reflex I looked at my hands, which I had unconsciously raised above my head. Oh my God! Who had slipped a dagger into my fingers? Why hadn’t I realized it? While I was sleeping, who had slipped it there? My thoughts had always been remote, cut off by the hurtful years. In school, at the market, wherever I was, all kinds of stories, all kinds of accusations had made me never feel a part of this village. My thoughts separated me from their reality.

my father? Answer me!” I screamed. Not from pride that I had been granted the paica. I screamed from bitter resentment. From a brooding sense of defeat. The night stopped in my mind. It turned out that being the chosen one was deeply painful.… All this time, while my mind had rejected accusations that my father was a Communist, my feelings had convinced me that he was a Communist.… This dagger, this dagger in my hands, paica Betara, cut through what was in my head. It was so painful, as painful as I imagined it was when my father’s head was separated from his body. Now I really did feel removed from everything around me! As if my head was separated from my body, like what they had done to my father!

Now the dagger pierced my thoughts. Stabbing a reality that was close and intense. The revenge that I didn’t initially feel, as it hid behind all the pain, had taught me to feel unclean every time I entered this temple, had made me lack the guts to ask about and defend my father! This dagger now threw me into an uncontrollable rage. “Who killed 50

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Glossary of Balinese Terms

bale

Open-sided building for sitting, can also be a place for offerings

bale paruman Building for village meetings bape

Familiar address for an old man

becingah

Name for the courtyard in a temple

Another name for gods betara betara kodal

Familiar name for an odalan (temple ceremony)

Betara Sweca Generous god canang

Offerings made with flowers

jaba tengah

Name for the central courtyard in a temple

Respectful way to address a jro mangku Pemangku (spiritual leader of a temple) Inner section of a temple jroan ketakson

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Means by which someone is chosen to be a Pemangku through paica or trance

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makemit

Sleeping while remaining aware or conscious during a ceremony

meme Address for mother and older women merajan Family temple which functions for kemulan worshipping ancestors nakti-nakti ngarangin niskala

Meditation, act of meditating to receive a gift or grace from God To build a home outside one’s native compound Realm of unseen forces

tajen

Cockfight

tedun

Descend (in the context: something which enters the body)

To cook with liquid, steamed until tim soft Holy water tirta tungku penerang

Every temple in Bali usually has a brazier in the front inner courtyard which is lit for the purpose of keeping rain away Uncle uwak

odalan

Temple ceremony, festivities held once a year to commemorate the existence of a temple paica Gift from God in the form of an object such as a gem, a dagger, etc. pekak Grandfather pelinggih

Place for gods which are worshipped, Pelinggih come in various forms; in the shape of a meru (an odd number of triangles stacked on each other) or in other structural forms pengutik Small knife, in the sentence in the text it is used metaphorically sing ada pis There is no money 54

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Mati Sunyi

Koran-koran menulis tentang kematian bibiku. Banyak tokoh berkomentar bahwa bangsa ini telah kehilangan salah satu anaknya yang terbaik. Seorang pejuang kemanusiaan telah pergi! Bangsa ini berduka. Televisi pun tak kalah haru birunya, mulai berlomba menayangkan kisah sang anak bangsa. Bahkan pemerintah mengumumkan pengibaran bendera setengah tiang. Penghormatan diberikan karena anak bangsa ini telah mengharumkan nama bangsa. Tercatat, di masa bangsa disorot sebagai bangsa yang kurang menghargai hak asasi manusia, telah tampil seorang perempuan yang setiap kata dan tindakannya menggetarkan hati. Membuat bangsa ini sanggup tegak menghadapi hujan kritik atas berbagai persoalan kemanusiaan. “Andai saja politik sempit tidak ikut bermain, seharusnya dialah yang pantas tahun lalu mendapatkan Nobel Perdamaian!” begitu salah satu komentar koran lokal dengan sebuah berita yang nyaris emosional mengutip komentar seorang tokoh nasional. Sebagai 58

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keponakan, tiba-tiba aku dianggap sebagai salah satu narasumber yang pas untuk memberi komentar mengenai bibiku—mungkin karena aku juga aktif di beberapa kegiatan sosial. Apalagi akibat koran lokal yang tahu aku ada hubungan keluarga dengan bibiku, namaku sontak populer dan akibatnya aku pun sibuk menjawab pertanyaan wartawan nasional dan internasional. Sibuk memberi penjelasan mengenai banyak hal, termasuk rencana upacara kematian, upacara ngaben. Tetapi

alangkah

sulitnya

menjawab

pertanyaan-pertanyaan para wartawan dengan jujur. Apa yang mesti kukomentari? Semua kisah hidup Bibi telah diketahui umum. Semua sepakterjang Bibi selalu menjadi headline. Padahal, mereka kini ingin mencari sisi yang lain, yang unik, yang bisa didapat dari kisah hidup bibiku. Bila perlu yang eksotik dan bernilai berita, yang tersembunyi dalam hidup bibiku. Ah, hidup bibiku berjalan normal. Perkawinannya bagus. Anakanaknya pun tak ada yang aneh-aneh. Semua normal dan lancar. Bibi seorang ibu, seorang istri. Manusia yang normal-normal saja. Apalagi yang mesti ditulis?

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Yah, akhirnya mereka menjadikan upacara ngaben itu sebagai angle penulisan. Lumayanlah untuk nilai keunikan. Bukankah Bibi yang selama ini dikenal sangat modern, independen, dan berjarak dengan adat bahkan sering mengkritik adat, ternyata di saat kematiannya akan mengikuti ritus adat. Bagi para pengejar berita, para pengagum Bibi, rencana upacara itu dijadikan sebagai ungkapan kekaguman, betapa Bibi, biarpun sudah mendunia, ternyata tetap setia pada tradisi. Waduh! Pejuang kemanusiaan itu memang memiliki akar yang kuat. Akar tradisi dan kearifan lokal. Sebagai bukti, betapa teguh kepribadiannya menghadapi berbagai perubahan sekaligus berada dalam perubahan itu… terbukti biarpun berperilaku global… upacara ngaben akan dilaksanakan... dan seterusnya! Dan seterusnya! Aku merunduk menahan sakit kepala. Haruskah aku bilang, bagi desa ini, desa di mana Bibi dilahirkan dan dibesarkan hingga remaja, bibiku bukanlah siapa-siapa. Sekalipun di masa hidupnya Bibi dan almarhum suaminya pernah menjadi pejabat di kabupaten. Dan jika dirunut dari keturunan, Bibi dan suaminya adalah 61

keturunan bangsawan. Biarpun setiap hari Bibi jadi berita, setiap minggu mendapat penghargaan... tetap saja bagi masyarakat desa ini Bibi bukan warga istimewa. Bibi dan suaminya telah lama meninggalkan desa ini, mengejar kemajuan. Ketika suaminya meninggal, Bibi kemudian aktif di dalam kegiatan kemanusiaan. Di era reformasi nama Bibi meroket ketika menggerakkan aksi-aksi perdamaiannya. Namanya berkibar bukan saja di tingkat nasional, di kalangan internasional pun Bibi dihormati. Seruannya didengarkan oleh para pemimpin dunia, juga para pemimpin spiritual.

hanya beberapa warga desa saja yang datang melayat. Mereka yang melayat itu, aku tahu, bukan karena hormat pada Bibi, tetapi karena mengingat hubungan dengan keluarga yang lain. Mereka mengingat pertemuan dengan ayahku, dengan para paman juga bibi-bibi yang lain. Sedangkan warga lain memilih pura-pura tidak tahu-menahu. Begitu pun dalam keluarga besar, hampir semua memang datang melayat, tetapi semua bersikap sebagai tamu, tak ada yang berlama-lama, semua seakan memberi isyarat. Dulu, bukankah begini caranya bibimu memperlakukan kami jika kami menghadapi kematian?

Sebaliknya, sejak lama, bagi desa ini, Bibi tidak lagi bagian masyarakat. Bibi dan paman sudah lama tidak aktif di banjar. Begitu pun anak-anaknya. Tidak pernah lagi mengikuti berbagai kegiatan upacara dan sosial masyarakat desa. Kalaupun sesekali datang, mereka datang untuk berlibur. Mengurus rumah dan tanah warisan. Atau pulang seperti sekarang, di saat mati.

Aku mengerti sikap mereka. Keluarga lain pun sama-sama memahami. Pembicaraan mengenai sikap Bibi semasa hidup terhadap masyarakat dan keluarga memang sudah lama menjadi pergunjingan. Dan sudah barang tentu, para sepupuku, anak-anak bibiku, tidak menyadari bahwa diam-diam masyarakat dan keluarga tengah menghukum Bibi dan keluarga.

Ya, di jalan-jalan desa memang berkibar bendera setengah tiang. Tetapi hampir tiga hari ini, sejak jasad Bibi disemayamkan di rumah warisan,

Protes khas atas sikap Bibi dan anak-anaknya yang memang jarang pulang ke desa, jarang punya waktu untuk acara-acara keluarga, tengah bergulir,

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diembuskan dalam udara desa yang tenang. Begitu tenangnya, setenang perdamaian yang diperjuangkan oleh bibiku. Sudah diduga sejak lama akan datang balasan semacam ini dari warga desa terhadap Bibi dan anak-anaknya. Balasan yang begitu halus, jauh dari komentar. Tanpa umpatan atau sesal mengenai sikap Bibi selama hidup. Mereka tahu, jalan diam adalah yang terbaik menghadapi orang yang sudah mati. Yah, sejak lama aku pun mengalami kegamangan. Setiap kali berkunjung ke Jakarta atau bertemu dengan beberapa tokoh di negeri ini, lalu mereka bertanya dan menempatkan Bibi seolah-olah orang yang amat berpengaruh di daerah asalnya, aku selalu tersedak dan hanya bisa tersenyum miring. Oh-ho! Bibi memang berjalan di atas ide dan gagasannya sendiri. Pantas dikagumi. Wajar semua kagum atas sepak-terjangnya, apalagi dengan kemajuan media massa, terutama korankoran bila menuliskan sikap keberpihakan Bibi terhadap kemanusiaan. Membuat Bibi di manamana ditunggu kehadirannya. Dipanutkan dan didengarkan kata-katanya. Komentar Bibi 64

berpengaruh, selalu dikutip. Bibi memang hebat. Konsisten dan tidak diragukan kejujurannya. Tetapi, haruskah aku bilang kepada para pengagumnya bahwa apa pun yang dilakukan Bibi tidak terkait dengan masyarakat tempat asalmuasalnya. Semua aktivitasnya jauh dari desa ini. Ide dan gagasan Bibi adalah untuk manusia dunia. Bukan manusia di desa. Sekalipun desa kelahiran Bibi tak kalah banyak memiliki persoalan kemanusiaan; dari kemiskinan sampai kriminalitas. Dari politik sampai kerusuhan. Sama seperti desadesa lain. Sama seperti persoalan-persoalan umum yang dihadapi masyarakat di zaman ini. Sama seperti yang menjadi bahan perjuangan Bibiku. Namun, bibiku tidak pernah melibatkan diri untuk mencari solusi dari persoalan di desanya sendiri. Yang diperjuangkan Bibi adalah kemanusiaan nasional, internasional… seperti komentar seorang tokoh, “Dia memang perempuan yang mendahului zamannya!” Dan sungguh selalu membuatku tersenyum miring, setiap kali ingat betapa banyak aktivis yang terkenal itu terkagum-kagum pada Bibi dan mengira Bibi tentulah memiliki pengikut yang fanatik dan 65

solid. Astaga, haruskah aku bilang, Bibi tidaklah seperti tokoh informal yang lazimnya dikenal di pedesaan. Yang dicintai buta oleh masyarakatnya. Bibi bukan siap-siapa di desa kelahirannya. Bahkan andai dicoba Bibi dilibatkan mengatasi suatu persoalan di desa kelahirannya, tidak usah dipartaruhkan, apa pun saran Bibi tidak akan didengar oleh masyarakat desa kelahirannya. Ironis memang, Bibi paling akan dikutip koran-koran. Seolah komentarnya akan mengubah sikap seisi desa, tetapi itu hanya berita di koran. Masyarakat desa punya tokoh sendiri. Tokoh yang hadir setiap saat dalam suka dan duka, dalam bahasa mereka sendiri. Dan panutannya sendiri. “Ibumu memang terkenal, tapi apa guna keterkenalannya saat ini?! Kamu pikir semua orang akan datang membantu mengurus upacara kematian ibumu?! Hanya karena dia orang terkenal?!” Kerongkonganku tercekat. Paman bungsuku mulai meraung dan melotot kepada anak bibiku yang paling sulung. Sebagai salah satu pengurus Desa Adat, paman bungsuku tentu tahu apa yang telah digunjingkan masyarakat terhadap rencana ngaben bibiku. 66

“Dari dulu telah aku sarankan, jika ibumu meninggal, kremasi saja di Jawa! Jangan bermimpi membuat upacara kematian yang besar. Biarpun kamu punya duit, bisa membeli apa saja, tetapi apa gunanya?! Semua orang di desa ini enggan melayat. Enggan menolong kalian. Karena apa? Karena kalian tidak pernah menganggap mereka ada dan hidup! Tanya pada dirimu, apa pernah kamu ikut terlibat meneteskan keringat jika mereka bikin upacara?! Sekarang kamu menuntut hak sebagai warga desa. Kewajibanmu sendiri apa pernah kamu penuhi? Apa begini yang namanya keadilan yang diperjuangkan ibumu itu? Sekarang menuntut perlakuan yang sama. Tetapi apa pernah ibumu memperlakukan mereka dengan adil? Ibumu hanya bisa mengkritik adat! Hanya bisa mengusulkan perubahan. Menyarankan persamaan sikap. Sekarang mereka telah mematuhi ajaran ibumu. Menjalankan persamaan sikap terhadap sikap ibumu kepada mereka!” “Jadi, jangan muluk-muluk! Ibumu hanya besar dalam berita. Tetapi dia sudah kehilangan akar. Kehilangan ikatan dengan manusia yang dia perjuangkan! Terutama dengan manusia desa ini!” Aku menyingkir jauh. 67

Para sepupuku tentu sulit mengerti. Mereka sejak kecil jauh dari desa ini. Bahkan jauh dari negeri ini. Yang mereka tahu, ibu mereka seorang terkenal, humanis yang dihormati oleh banyak orang. Seorang ibu yang selalu penuh perhatian kepada banyak orang. Ibu yang penuh kasih dan perhatian terhadap berbagai ketidakadilan. Logikanya, tentulah masyarakat desa bangga pada ibunya. Tentulah desa ini akan berkabung berhari-hari, bersedih atas kematian salah satu warganya yang ditempatkan sebagai tokoh kemanusiaan dunia! Sewajarnya, masyarakat akan bergerak, tanpa diminta bahu-membahu menyukseskan upacara ngaben untuk kematian ibu mereka. Apalagi, bukankah dalam buku-buku kisah desa ini dituturkan mengenai kuatnya tradisi gotongroyong, kasih sayang, dan harga-menghargai? Teriakan-teriakan antara paman bungsuku dan para sepupu itu perlahan lenyap. Lenyap oleh rumah besar yang tetap sunyi sepi. Pelayat-pelayat yang datang dari jauh, yang mengenal Bibi dari koran dan ruang-ruang diskusi, yang kagum karena ide dan gagasan Bibi, setiap kali datang tak dapat menahan ketersentakannya. 68

Tak sanggup menyembunyikan keheranan di mata mereka: kenapa sepi nian rumah besar ini? Bukankah dari yang mereka dengar dan baca, jika ada kematian, warga desa akan datang berduyunduyun melakukan kerja bakti. Apalagi akan ada rencana upacara ngaben besar seorang tokoh yang begitu berpengaruh. Bukankah biasanya bila salah satu warga saja yang mati, semua warga bila perlu berhari-hari menginap di rumah duka sebagai tanda solidaritas dan penghormatan? Tetapi inilah kenyataannya. Yang melayat Bibi hanyalah mereka yang dari jauh, yang dekat seolah tidak tahu bahwa ada jasad di dalam rumah. Oh, kembali perdebatan itu terdengar. Kenapa tidak dikremasi di Jawa saja? Atau di Denpasar? Sekarang toh bisa ngaben cepat tanpa harus menggunakan upacara lengkap? Kenapa anak- anak bibi merasa perlu memberi hadiah terakhir sebuah upacara pengabenan lengkap? Astaga! Mereka tentu tidak bisa dilarang membawa jasad bibi pulang. Tentu tidak bisa dilarang untuk merancang membuat upacara besar. Mereka ingin menghormati ibu mereka. Juga mereka punya uang. Tetapi tahukah mereka, ngaben tidak cuma 69

perlu uang tetapi perlu dukungan masyarakat? Dan tahukah mereka, Bibi tidak pernah sekalipun melakukan kerja bakti untuk kegiatan apa pun di desa ini? Menyumbang pun tidak. Bibi entah kenapa, kepada keluarga dan masyarakatnya sendiri begitu pelit dan kritis, bahkan cenderung sinis. Entah kenapa… Apa mereka kira ini semacam resepsi perkawinan? Yang bisa segalanya total dibeli? Atau dilangsungkan di hotel? Aku merasakan kengerian berindap-indap di tiap wajah keluarga malam itu ketika duduk bersama untuk merapatkan rencana upacara ngaben bibiku. Anak-anak bibiku tetap ngotot dengan rencana mereka. Yang menakjubkan lagi, upacara ngaben Bibi akan dihadiri pula banyak wartawan dan pejabat. “Kamu pikir mengundang tamu itu mudah? Siapa yang akan mengurus? Apa kamu pikir dengan bade bertingkat tidak perlu manusia untuk mengusungnya ke kuburan? Kamu pikir akan mudah menyuruh orang-orang mengusung bade ibumu?!” Semua mulai histeris, membayangkan upacara yang kacau. 70

“Tenanglah! Saya sudah membuat kepanitiaan. Saya tahu, tidak mungkin mendapat bantuan masyarakat desa ini. Karena itu, untuk akomodasi, perjamuan para tamu kita sewa katering. Untuk mengusung bade ke kuburan, kita sewa buruh- buruh bangunan. Kemudian transportasi sudah ada, travel yang akan mengurus,” anak Bibi yang tertua, yang kini menjadi pengusaha kaya, menyampaikan rencananya. “Hanya satu yang kami mohon, sudilah semua keluarga hadir. Agar di mata teman-teman Ibu, kita tetap tampak kompak. Ibu dan kami memang bersalah… janganlah Ibu dihukum seperti ini.” Aku menunduk. Isak tangis pun mulai pecah. Entah kenapa, walau semua pekerjaan dan perlengkapan yang diperlukan untuk ngaben telah dipesan, telah disewa, tetap saja ada kesunyian yang mencekam di rumah besar ini. Seperti ada yang patah, lalu jatuh di tengah tanah yang sunyi. Desaunya membuat hati dilanda perasaan sendiri. Begitu sendiri. Segalanya telah dirancang rapi. Akhirnya, seluruh keluarga mau terlibat sebagai panitia. Bukan karena Bibi, tetapi lebih karena menjaga nama keluarga. 71

Dan hari-H pun tiba. Ratusan mobil berderet di jalan. Para pelayat yang datang dari jauh, dari berbagai kota dan berbagai negara, berdatangan sejak pagi. Suara gamelan, penyambut tamu dan perjamuan, berlangsung lancar. Rapi. Bahkan terlalu rapi. Semua tertata nyaris sempurna. Kemudian prosesi upacara ngaben pun dimulai. Juga lancar dipandu oleh penata acara yang piawai. Para pengusung bade dengan seragam yang masih bau toko mulai bergerak mengusung jasad Bibi menuju kuburan, bersorak dengan semangat. Menjadi sasaran kamera dan kekaguman. Jalanan desa begitu ramai. Semua penduduk desa keluar rumah, tetapi cuma duduk-duduk di depan rumah masing-masing, hanya sebagai penonton prosesi ngaben Bibiku. Yah. Hanya menonton. Seolah prosesi ini bukan bagian dari desa ini. Semua hanya menonton. Dengan sorot mata yang sulit diterjemahkan. Jauh berbeda dengan para pelayat, teman, dan pengagum Bibi saat larut dalam prosesi dilanda keharuan hebat karena merasakan betapa agung dan meriahnya upacara ngaben bibiku. Seakan kembali mendengar seruan Bibiku, marilah hidup dalam kebersamaan. 72

Marilah hidup dalam keragaman! Karena sejatinya kita adalah manusia, yang sama! Lalu setibanya di kuburan, sebelum jasad dibakar dengan kompor sewaan, seorang menteri berpidato dan beberapa tokoh politik yang katanya berpeluang jadi presiden memberikan sambutan kenangan. Kilat blitz serta sorot kamera tak hentihenti. Karangan bunga duka cita bertumpuktumpuk menutupi tempat pembakaran. Semuanya lancar, rapi dan tepat waktu seperti sikap bibiku yang selalu disiplin dan tepat waktu. Tepat menjelang tengah hari, jasad bibi pun mulai dibakar. Api meliuk ke langit. Langit cerah. Ditingkahi suara gamelan. Keheningan sesaat memaksa air mata menetes. Kematian selalu membuat rasa kehilangan. Dan saat itu para pelayat, para tokoh, wartawan, dan orang-orang yang mengagumi Bibi mulai berpamitan. Satu per satu menyalami anak-anak Bibi dengan keharuan. Seorang anak bangsa telah pergi. Pejuang kemanusiaan itu telah pergi. Sayup-sayup aku mendengar suara penyiar yang menyampaikan pandangan mata secara langsung dari kuburan. Dan ketika api padam, aku terbebas dari lamunan, 73

dari keharuan, lalu menoleh kiri dan kanan. Menghitung jumlah orang yang masih ada di kuburan. Yah, tinggal keluarga dan orang-orang sewaan saja yang tengah sibuk menghitung-hitung jam kerja dan upah yang akan mereka terima. Aku mencari ayahku dengan mata tergetar. Aku juga mencari wajah para sepupuku. Aku mencari wajah semua keluarga. Bau asap jasad menghentikan pikiranku. Menghentikan hatiku. Aku merasa tiba-tiba begitu sendiri. Sendiri dan jauh dari dunia. Jauh dari teman-teman, jauh dari semuanya. Jauh sekali. Oh, seperti hidup di dunia yang lain. Begitu lain. Dan Bibi pun kini berada di dunia lain. Sendiri. Tetap tak perlu siapa-siapa selain dirinya. Sama seperti saat hidupnya.

Baruni, Jembatan Surga

Setelah berjam-jam mematut diri di depan cermin, Baruni meyakini dirinya telah mati. Ia tidak merasa lapar, tidak merasa haus, juga tidak ingin kencing atau kentut. Ia juga tak merasa gerah ataukah kedinginan. Baruni merasa hatinya begitu segar, bebas dan melebihi kelegaan yang pernah dirasakan. Dengan langkah pelan ia ke luar kamar, menuju ruang makan. Adiknya tidak menyapanya seperti biasanya. Baruni sejenak merasa tak enak hati, kemudian tersenyum, bukankah jika sudah mati tidak perlu mengobrol? Tetapi mengapa adiknya tampak terlalu tenang menikmati sarapannya? Kenapa tidak menangis atau meraung? Kenapa adiknya tak bersedih, bukankah kakaknya mati? “Kau memikirkan apa lagi?” Baruni tersentak. Itu suara adiknya. Tetapi orang mati tidak bisa ngomong bahkan sekalipun dalam mimpi. Baruni tidak menyahut, adiknya pastilah ingat kebiasaan di waktu pagi, saat sarapan akan menegurnya untuk tidak banyak melamun,

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“Makanlah, aku menyiapkan sejak subuh makanan ini.” Baruni hampir mengangguk, baiklah.... Bukankah orang mati juga disuguhi makanan dan minuman? Iya, Baruni pun mulai menikmati sarapannya. Mengunyah pelahan-lahan, tidak ada rasa apa-apa, semuanya terasa hambar. Jadi seperti inikah rasa makanan dalam kematian? “Kau memikirkan apa lagi?” Baruni tersentak. Kenapa suara adiknya begitu jelas terdengar? Lalu ia mendongak, “Tidak memikirkan apa pun!” sahutnya dan yakin pasti adiknya sedang berkhayal mengobrol dengan dirinya. “Kerjakanlah sesuatu agar pikiranmu tak ke mana-mana. Jangan sampai sakit lagi, harga obat sekarang mahal. Gajiku tak naik-naik!” Suara adiknya begitu keras dan lantang. Baruni bimbang. Namun hatinya yakin, dirinya telah mati. Baruni menghela napas. Jadi dirinya belum mati? Tadi saat bercemin ia yakin, dirinya sudah mati. Dengan perlahan ia benahi meja makan. Lalu membersihkan dapur, ruang tengah, semua kamar 76

ia rapikan. Lalu ia pun mencuci semua pakaian, menjemurnya dengan cermat. Adiknya sudah berangkat kerja dan akan pulang di malam hari. Kemudian Baruni kembali ke kamarnya, kembali mematut dirinya. Ya, aku sudah mati, yakinnya dengan mata memicing. Lalu ia kembali ke luar kamar, semakin yakin akan kematiannya, sebab meja makan masih berantakan, cucian masih menumpuk, ah, semua yang dikerjakannya tadi ternyata hanya harapannya dalam kematian. Ya, harapannya. Lalu ia ingin menguji kematiannya dengan mengulangi kembali mengerjakan semua pekerjaan rumah itu. Kembali ia membenahi meja makan, kembali mencuci piring dan gelas, lalu membersihkan dapur, membersihkan seisi rumah, mencuci, menjemur. Baruni termangu. Apakah kini benar ia melakukan atau itu hanya harapannya dalam kematian? Dengan langkah perlahan ia menuju meja makan. Meja makan itu telah bersih, begitu pula dapur, tempat cucian, dan cucian-cucian itu sudah terjemur dengan rapi. Hm. Siapa yang mengerjakannya? Baruni takjub. Pasti ada orang lain yang mengerjakannya. Baruni termangu-

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mangu, mematut dirinya di depan cermin hingga malam tiba, hingga adiknya tiba dan mengomel panjang pendek, “Tidak bisakah kau membersihkan bekas makananmu? Membantuku mencuci dan membersihkan rumah? Kau terlalu asyik dengan dirimu, selalu terjebak dengan lamunanmu!” Baruni tersenyum, orang mati manalah bisa membersihkan rumah ataukah mencuci. Baruni tersenyum, “Aku sudah mati, tidak bisa membantumu lagi.…” “Apa?” Adiknya dengan masih berpakaian kerja membersihkan meja makan, bergerak ke tempat cucian, merendam baju-baju kotor dan kemudian mulai menyapu, “Jadi sekarang kau merasa sudah mati?” “Bukan merasa, aku sudah mati!” “Baiklah, kalau kau sudah mati, apa yang kaulihat di jembatan surga dan neraka, dan mengapa kau masih di sini?” Baruni tersenyum, “Setelah tiga hari, barulah aku bisa meninggalkan rumah ini. Melayang jauh, seperti burung….” 78

Adiknya sudah selesai menjemur, lalu melanjutkan menyiram halaman. Malam semakin gelap. Baruni hanya berdiri seperti patung di tengah ruangan. Jadi setelah tiga hari ia akan melangkah memasuki jembatan surga dan neraka? Baiklah selama penantian ini ia akan mengingat-ingat semua kesalahan dan kebaikan. Baruni bertekad akan menghadapi malaikat-malaikat penghitung kebaikan dan keburukan dengan gagah. Ia akan menjawab semua pertanyaan. “Mandilah, badanmu sudah bau!” “Orang mati dimandikan.” Adiknya tertawa dengan sorot mata sengit, “Baiklah, kepada saudaraku yang mati. Di beberapa negeri ada mayat bisa berjalan sendiri menuju kuburnya, bisa mandi sendiri, bisa membersihkan rumah, bahkan bisa berdansa.” “Benarkah?” “Iya…maka sekarang, mandilah.” Baruni pun mandi, membersihkan dirinya. Kemudian mendandani dirinya. Lalu membaringkan dirinya. Memejamkan matanya. Rasanya tak sabar menunggu waktu tiga hari itu. 79

Pastilah malaikat-malaikat itu sudah tak sabaran menantinya. Dan pastilah mereka akan bertanya dengan suara garang, “Apakah kau pernah mesum? Apakah kau pernah berzina?” Baruni tersenyum puas, ia sudah menyediakan jawaban untuk semua pertanyaan yang paling sulit sekalipun. “Apakah kau masih mati?” Pagi itu adiknya dengan suara lantang menghardiknya. Baruni tersenyum. Mungkin seperti itu suara malaikat penjaga jembatan surga, “Ya…aku mati, tidak mungkin hidup kembali....” “Siapa bilang?” “Maksudmu?” “Ada cerita tentang orang mati bisa hidup kembali. Asalkan ada yang mau memperjuangkannya kepada para penjaga malaikat maut.” Baruni terbelalak, “Benarkah?” “Benar, banyak cerita mengenai itu. Jadi dahulu kala ada dua saudara, kakak beradik yang saling menyayangi. Kakaknya itu pintar dan baik hati, tetapi lugu. Keduanya hidup berbahagia, tekun mengisi 80

hidup mereka. Sampai suatu ketika, kakaknya dikhianati oleh kekasihnya dan menjadi patah hati. Ia pun mengurung dirinya, tidak mau makan, tidak mau minum, akhirnya mati. Adiknya sedih sekali dan tidak terima dengan kematian kakaknya itu, maka ia pun berangkat mencari jembatan surga. Adiknya setiap pagi berangkat, malam kembali ke rumahnya. Hingga akhirnya ia menemukan jembatan surga itu dan melihat kakaknya tengah diikat oleh dua malaikat yang garang.…” Baruni mengerutkan dahinya, “Lalu?” “Adiknya itu memohon, oh malaikat, kakak saya belum pantas mati, ia belum menikah. Dia baik dan bertanggung jawab, semasa sekolah dia juara. Jika dia mati maka berkuranglah isi kebaikan di dunia, karena itu izinkan ia kubawa kembali ke rumah….” “Malaikat itu menjawab apa?” “Kedua malaikat itu terharu dan berkata, kau adik yang setia, baiklah kukembalikan kakakmu dan ia akan hidup dengan usia yang panjang, menjadi pekerja yang baik dan menjadi penjaga kebaikan.” “Jadi kakaknya hidup kembali?” 81

“Iya.” Baruni menarik napas, “Lalu?”

“Aku hidup kembali!” Keluhnya kepada dirinya sendiri. Begitu sepi.

“Nah, kamu tahu bukan? Aku setiap pagi pergi dan pulang malam, kamu pikir aku ke mana? Aku mencari jembatan surga. Dan sudah kutemui jembatan surga, tadi sore aku memasuki jembatan surga itu! Dan dua malaikat itu sudah mengembalikanmu, untuk hidup kembali!” Baruni tersentak. Menatap adiknya dengan tak percaya, “Benarkah?” “Benar sekali! Kapan pernah aku berbohong padamu?” “Lalu aku hidup kembali?” “Iya, kau hidup kembali.” Baruni kembali mematut dirinya di depan cermin. Ia merasa sangat lapar, merasa sangat haus, lalu hatinya terasa sepi sekali. Jadi, begini rasanya hidup kembali? Baruni ke luar kamar, membenahi meja makan, membersihkan rumah, mencuci dan kemudian menghidupkan televisi…. Jadi, begini rasanya hidup kembali? Baruni termangu lama dan bergumam tanpa henti.

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Keris

Lelaki tua itu masih seperti dulu. Kebanggaannya sebagai Pemangku Pura Desa tak cuma tampak di saat upacara, bahkan setiap saat di setiap gerak geriknya kebanggaaan itu memancar-mancar, meletik seperti kembang api yang kadang samar pancarannya menjadi keangkuhan yang menyengat hati. Ah, sebagai orang tersuci di desa ini! Terpilih dari puluhan orang yang berhasrat berada di posisi tertinggi, terdekat dengan Betara di Pura Desa; ketinggian apalagi yang dapat dicapai di desa ini? Kecuali menjadi Mangku Gede? Keangkuhan itu kerap tak lagi sebatas percik kembang api, namun kadang menyala dalam sorot mata Mangku Gede. Entah karena itu, entah karena hal lain, setiap kali odalan di Pura Desa, aku merasakan hatiku mengkerut, pikiranku berjarak dengan orang-orang di sekitar. Setiap kali upacara akan dimulai, setiap kali para pendeta mulai mendandani diri, seperti yang kuduga, seperti tahun-tahun yang telah berlalu, Nyoman atau Ketut, salah satu keponakan 84

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Mangku Gede pun mulai kesurupan. Aku hafal betul, mereka langganan kesurupan! Selalu terjadi saat-saat seperti ini, saat upacara akan dimulai, selalu disaat pendeta tengah mempersiapkan diri, disaat orang-orang mulai duduk hening bersiap sembahyang. Mereka pun kesurupan, selalu demikian. Setiap tahun kejadian itu berulang....

keluar dengan mangkuk berisi tirta. Ketut pun

Tanpa aku inginkan, saat kesurupan itu memecah keheningan, pikiranku berjarak dengan sekitarnya. Pikiranku seperti berada di lampu merah, berhenti sejenak lalu memandang sekitar kemudian terfokus pada Ketut yang memulai kesurupannya dengan memekik tinggi, sontak menarik perhatian semua orang. Seperti biasa, para pengurus desa segera bergerak cepat, memegangi tubuh Ketut.

itu. Tak lama kemudian, semua orang terdiam dan

Dari tempatku duduk, yang terlihat hanyalah kerumunan tubuh-tubuh menegang dengan gumam tak jelas. Aku selalu yakin, yang memegangi Ketut pun tak jelas mendengar apa isi susunan igauan dari kesurupan itu. Seperti biasa, Mangku Gede sebagai orang terkasih dari Betara tampak tenang melangkah menuju pelinggih, masuk ke dalam dan tak lama 86

kembali menginjak bumi setelah percikan tirta menariknya dari langit. Kemudian orang-orang mulai saling berbisik, bertanya gerangan apa yang disampaikan Ketut di saat kesurupan? Betara yang mana yang tedun? Seperti tahun-tahun yang lalu, entah siapa yang menjadi penerjemah dari igauan orang di sebelahku tanpa ditanya menjelaskan isi igauan Ketut, “Betara sweca akan memberi paica kepada keluarga Jro Mangku berupa keris! Akan tedun keris, tetapi yang ditunggu katanya tak nakti-nakti!” Ooo! Mulutku membulat, mengangguk. Sama seperti isi kesurupan tahun yang lalu. “Siapa tahu kamu, De, yang terpilih!” Bisik Mang Prongo, sahabatku sejak kecil begitu mengetahui isi igauan kesurupan Ketut. Pikiranku

yang

berjarak

membuatku

tersenyum lebar, “Ada-ada saja kamu!” Kutepuk pundak Prongo. Semua orang tentu senang terpilih, menerima paica. Tetapi tentu saja bukan aku. Prongo mengangguk serius, seolah membaca isi

pikiranku

yang

87

menepis

kemungkinan-

kemungkinan sekecil apapun, “Ini yang kesekian kali Betara tedun. Sudah puluhan purnama keluarga Jro Mangku nakti, tapi tak ada yang terpilih. Siapa tahu kamu, De, kalian kan masih keluarga!” Keluarga Jro Mangku! Pikiranku membentuk buntalan-buntalan, mirip awan yang bersiap membangun mendung tebal. Sebelum awan itu menjadi hujan lebat membasahi seluruh ingatanku. Pikiranku otomatis membuatku memandang tubuh Mangku Gede yang tengah duduk dekat tungku penerang. Kebanggaan bercampur keangkuhan itu tengah meruak keluar dalam kerdip matanya yang seolah mengatakan, “Di hadapan kalian tadi aku buktikan, betapa mudahnya aku menyadarkan Ketut dari kesurupan! Siapa lagi yang bisa semudah itu selain aku?” Tapi di balik kebanggaan itu, entah mengapa, aku menangkap ada pedar keresahan, menjalin pelan seperti jaring laba-laba. Setiap tahun semakin jelas menampakkan jebakannya, kesurupankesurupan itu dengan isi pesan yang sama, namun hasilnya, tak ada satu pun keluarga Mangku Gede yang terpilih. Diam-diam mungkin saja orang-orang mulai mempertanyakan kesucian Mangku Gede 88

dan keluarganya. Setiap tahun, bukankah ada saja salah satu keluarganya terpilih untuk kesurupan; bukankah itu seperti menggugat kesucian Mangku Gede! Kenapa Betara tidak memberi keris itu pada Mangku Gede atau salah satu keluarganya? Apa yang salah? Kenapa hanya menitip pesan? Apa mereka sudah mulai cemar? Kenapa selalu ada isyarat bahwa ada yang lain, yang ditunggu-tunggu untuk menerima paica? Itu artinya ada orang yang lebih suci dari Mangku Gede? Odalan tetap berlangsung lancar. Cepat benar, semua orang melupakan soal kesurupan itu, melupakan pesan dari Betara. Seperti biasa seusai sembahyang, di jaba tengah digelar tari-tarian dan di becingah tajen pun dimulai. Aku dan Prongo ikut berkerumun bertaruh pada ayam milik Pak Walka, ayam jago berwarna merah tanah dengan taji berkilat. Dalam gemuruh sorakan, sang lawan, ayam putih berbintik-bintik hitam itu terkapar, menggelepar sesaat lalu matanya mendelik kepada kematian. “Lumayan!” Prongo kegirangan. Aku pun senang. Segera aku menerima uang kemenangan dan mengajak Prongo pulang untuk istirahat 89

sejenak, berkumpul dengan keluarga, lalu nanti malam kembali ke pura untuk makemit. Namun di tengah perjalanan, Pan Orti tiba-tiba mencegatku, menyinggahkan aku ke warungnya, “Hayolah, duduk di sini. Jangan mentang-mentang jadi orang kota, tak mau lagi nganggur!” Ejeknya menjebakku, membuatku tak dapat menolak ajakannya singgah. “Bape tidak ke Pura?” “Nanti malam, toh sama saja. Betara kodal selama tiga hari, toh?” Sahutnya santai. Aku dan Prongo sudah terbiasa dengan sikapnya. Masa bodoh! Pan Orti selalu santai, berkomentar selalu dengan bebas. Cocok sebagai pemilik warung tuak. “Gimana De, kabarmu? Kudengar makin kaya saja sekarang?” “Kaya apanya Pe? Tai saya masih bau!” Aku mencomot pisang goreng dan memesan kopi, Prongo meminta sebotol bir.

“Mobil sewaan dari penyewaan sendiri, Pe!” Prongo menimpali, Pan Orti terkekeh, “Nasib orang memang di tangan Betara. Iya kan, Ngo? Dulu waktu kecil, ingusnya masih meleleran, kini siapa yang mengira dia bakal jadi juragan penyewaan mobil?” Prongo mengangguk, “Saya masih ingat, Pe. Untuk beli es mambo saja dia harus nangis sekeras anjing. Tapi memenya tetap saja berteriak, sing ade pis! sing ade pis!” “Dan kamu juru traktirku!” Aku memandang Prongo, lalu terbahak bersama. Ah, masa kecilku, masa yang indah walau hidupku dengan ibu yang menjanda serba kekurangan. Walau tak sampai kelaparan, tapi aku sadar tak sama dengan anakanak sebayaku yang lain. Tak pernah punya bekal uang untuk sekolah. Setiap sore bersama Prongo, aku jelajahi bukit-bukit di sekitar desaku, mencari rumput dan tanaman untuk makanan babi.

Pan Orti terkekeh, “Kudengar kamu jadi bos sekarang. Sudah nyetir sendiri!”

“Ada yang kesurupan tadi, Ngo?” Pan Orti menghentikan lamunanku. Prongo mengangguk, “Ketut. Biasalah, Betara akan mepaica, tapi belum ada yang berkenan. Katanya belum ada yang nakti!”

“Itu mobil sewaan, Pe. Saya kasihan sama Meme. Kalau dibonceng motor sudah tidak sekuat dulu!”

“Siapa bilang tak ada yang nakti?” Pan Orti mencibir. Prongo tersenyum lebar. Setiap bulan

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91

purnama, banyak orang yang merasa berpotensi menjadi yang terpilih sebagai penerima paica melakukan semedi di Pura Desa, duduk seperti batu, menanti wahyu suci.

pasti mengerti, aku tidak ingin terlibat pembicaraan

“Inilah ibarat kata, kalau pangutik di pinggang, dicari ke mana-mana!” Pan Orti mulai berpantun, menggugat sikap orang-orang yang berambisi menjadi penguasa desa.

Bermukim di wilayah yang kini dikenal sebagai

“Bagi saya, itu berbagai kesurupan adalah peringatan bagi Mangku Gede!” Lanjut Pan Orti menjelaskan namun dengan mengecilkan suaranya. Mendengar ucapan Pan Orti, pikiranku langsung berderak, mirip pintu yang dibanting. Begitu cepat aku mendorong diriku keluar dari pusaran emosi. Aku tidak akan terjebak dalam pembicaraan menyangkut legitimasi Mangku Gede. Sejak kecil aku tahu riwayat kepemangkuannya, riwayat yang menyangkut diriku pula. Bagaimanapun aku ada dalam pusaran cerita itu, walau aku dan ibuku dibuang dari rumpun keluarga keturunan para pemangku desa ini, tetapi ikatan sedarah di antara kami tak dapat dihapus dengan sajen mana pun! Aku mengajak Prongo pergi tinggalkan warung Pan Orti. Pan Orti tak menahanku, dia 92

apa pun mengenai Mangku Gede. Seisi desa tahu, mengapa tahun 1971 aku dan ibuku meninggalkan desa ini, pergi ke Denpasar menjadi buruh di pasar. wilayah Jalan Gatot Soebroto dan bergabung dengan orang-orang perantauan yang datang dari berbagai pelosok Bali. Awalnya, aku dan Ibu menyewa tanah dan membangun bedeng. Pagi aku ke sekolah, siang pergi ke pasar, sore menanam sayur. Di malam hari belajar sedikit sambil membuat canang pesanan tetangga. Apa saja pekerjaan diambil ibuku, hidup demikian hemat, menabungkan uang penghasilan serupiah ke rupiah yang lain hanya demi membeli tanah empat are di bilangan Jalan Nangka Utara. Waktu itu, harga tanah per are sekitar lima ratus ribu rupiah! Ah, uang dua juta waktu itu, bukan jumlah yang sedikit. Dengan tabungan itu ditambah hasil menjual perhiasan warisan, akhirnya ada tempat milik kami berdua. Tidak lagi didera perasaan tak pasti. Tidak lagi diburu kekhawatiran jika pemilik tanah menghentikan penyewaannya kepada kami. Di tahun 1986 aku tamat SMA, waktu itu ibuku sudah punya warung dan aku memutuskan

93

berdagang buah dan sayur di pasar. Dari dagang pikulan akhirnya aku bisa membeli mobil bak pickup. Entah karena pergaulanku di pasar, entah pula karena takdir, akhirnya aku dinasibkan memasok buah dan sayur ke hotel-hotel, dari situlah aku mulai tahu banyak peluang berbisnis. Merekalah yang mengajariku jadi pedagang. Di tahun 1990 aku membeli sebuah kijang untuk disewakan, setahun kemudian bertambah dengan dua buah jimny. Denpasar berubah begitu cepat. Wilayah Gatot Soebroto yang dulu sepi berubah menjadi sesak, begitupun Jalan Nangka Utara. Temanteman sebayaku yang dulu kuajak berburuh di pasar kini banyak menjadi pesuruh hotel. Tapi ada juga yang tetap menanam sayur sambil masih berjualan canang. Pikiranku berhenti lagi. Saat tiba di depan rumah, Prongo kubiarkan melanjutkan langkahnya menuju rumahnya sendiri. Saat memasuki rumah, pikiranku mulai berderak patah. Setiap tahun tanpa sengaja orang-orang selalu membisikkan ke telingaku tentang asalusulku. Meski tak pernah kuingat wajah almarhum ayahku, tetapi ibuku selalu meyakinkan aku, bahwa 94

wajahku mirip dengannya, begitu pula sifat dan perilakuku. “Uwakmu tadi ke sini!” Aku memandang ibuku dan mengambil piring, aku lapar. Bibiku, ipar ibuku tengah meniup semprongke lubang tungku, “Aku panasi timnya dulu!” Ucapnya ditujukan kepadaku. “Uwak Rinu memintamu untuk datang ke rumah Pekak!” “Untuk apa?” Aku memandang kedua orang tua yang duduk di seberangku, dua janda yang sejak kecil memeliharaku sekuat hati, menjadikan dirinya benteng dari berbagai serangan yang bakal menghantamku. “Datangi saja, paling-paling membicarakan ayam!” Ibuku. Selalu menyampaikan kesinisannya dengan lembut, membuat pikiranku sejuk. Uwak Rinu, adik tiri ayahku, satu-satunya lelaki yang tersisa dalam rumah Pekak. Lelaki tinggi besar dengan dua istri, hidup dari satu tajen ke tajen lain. Mempercayakan hidupnya sebagai taruhan. Kekalahannya yang terbesar ketika tak terpilih 95

sebagai Pemangku Gede; sampai kini setelah Pekak meninggal, belum ada yang dipilih secara ketakson. Mangku Gede yang sekarang adalah pilihan pengurus desa agar tidak terjadi kekosongan jabatan Pemangku. Karena itu setiap bulan purnama, baik keluarga Mangku Gede dan keluarga Uwak Rinu bergantian nakti untuk mendapatkan keris itu, keris legitimasi menjadi pemangku pilihan Betara.

“Uwak, janganlah membuat saya menjadi pesaing terhadap keluarga Mangku Gede. Saya sudah di luar kepentingan ini. Saya tidak pernah merasa berhak atas jabatan pemangku itu!” “Kamu pikir aku senang jika kamu dilibatkan dalam masalah ini? Setelah kematian ayahmu, apa aku punya nyali untuk bicara soal kepemangkuan di desa? Yang memintamu ini adalah pengurus desa, karena semuanya sudah resah, setiap tahun selalu

“Saya tidak tertarik menjadi pemangku, Uwak!” “Ini bukan masalah tertarik atau tidak, setelah Pekak, kamu yang seharusnya meneruskan, karena kamu cucu tertua!” “Uwak lupa, ayah saya mati dibunuh!” “Itu fitnah! Siapa pun tahu, itu ulah ayah Mangku Gede! Sejak dulu, mereka iri terhadap keluarga kita!” “Mereka juga keluarga kita. Biarkan saja mereka jadi pemangku, toh desa ini tetap aman tenteram!” “Tenteram? Tahu apa kamu! Hampir setiap tahun ada kematian aneh di sini. Setiap saat satu dari keluarga kita tertimpa musibah....”

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ada kematian pengurus desa....” “Uwak jangan buru-buru mengaitkan antara kematian yang wajar dengan takson kepemangkuan. Mangku Gede cukup baik.” “Cukup baik? Sebentar lagi dia akan ke pengadilan, tanah yang dikuasai ayahnya digugat oleh misannya. Mangku Desa akan ke pengadilan?! Belum lagi soal istri ketiganya....” Malam tiba-tiba terasa berat, bergayut di leherku, “Apa saya lebih berhak dari dia, bukankah Uwak tahu ayah saya mati dengan tuduhan komunis?” “Itu fitnah!!”

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“Nyatanya ayah mati dipenggal di halaman rumahnya sendiri! Disaksikan keluarganya sendiri. Bukankah seluruh desa tak sudi menghadiri pengabenannya?” “Itu fitnah! Ayahmu seorang guru yang baik, ipar yang baik. Kesalahannya cuma satu, dia melindungi suami bibimu itu. Akhirnya, dia dikaitkan dengan organisasi terlarang itu. Bibimu itu aktivis Gerwani, juga suaminya!!” “Ayahmu bukan PKI, dia melindungi anggota PKI. Saat itu zaman panas, ayahmu bersikukuh melindungi iparnya.” Suara Uwak Rinu naik turun, membuatku terhenyak dan mengerut dalam otak sendiri. Massa yang buta cukup dengan satu penghasut saja, ayahku mati dengan tuduhan keji, komunis! Aku warisi sebagai anaknya, tumbuh besar dalam rasa sakit yang tak terperi. Setiap pemilu datang, rumahku diperlakukan bagai rumah pelacur, semua lelaki mengawasi dan para perempuan mewaspadainya. Bukankah karena itu, di tahun 1971 ibu mengajakku pindah ke Denpasar, menjauhi rumah yang membesarkanku? 98

“Zaman sudah berubah. Pengurus desa akan memintamu untuk nakti, jika kamu dikehendaki, akan terbukti bahwa ayahmu bukan PKI!” “Jika tidak?” Aku tercekat, “Jadi, Uwak membiarkan diri saya dalam taruhan baru? Tidak cukupkah selama ini ketertekanan yang saya alami? Tidak! Saya tidak mau ikut serta dalam taruhan ini. Kalian saja yang berambisi menjadi apa saja di hadapan Betara! Saya memilih menjadi warga biasa.” “Kamu tidak ingin membersihkan nama ayahmu? Ini satu kesempatan!” Aku memandang wajah Uwak Rinu, betapa tanpa dia sadari, kelicikan telah membuatnya merasa penuh kasih kepada keponakannya. Dengan hati sakit kutantang dia, “Uwak sendiri tidak yakin, ayah saya kena fitnah. Jadi, selama ini Uwak diamdiam menuduh pula ayah komunis?” “Bukan begitu. Ini perlu bukti niskala!” “Buktinya sudah jelas, hidup saya jauh dari musibah!” Aku bangkit dari kursi bambu yang terasa menjepitku, pergi meninggalkan rumah pekak-ku yang diwarisi oleh Uwak Rinu. Terasa 99

panas wajahku. Sekian lama aku memendam dugaan. Ternyata benar dugaanku, benar dugaan ibuku, Pamanku memang ikut membiarkan fitnah itu merasuki massa yang membunuh ayahku saat itu. Hanya satu motifnya, tanah warisan! Prongo menjemputku, mengajak pergi makemit ke Pura Desa. Setibanya di Pura Desa, di tengah keramaian orang-orang yang hendak makemit tibatiba Mangku Gede memanggilku. “Kamu akan makemit?” Tanyanya datar, matanya seperti enggan melihat wajahku, “Iya, Mangku!” “Ada yang ingin kutanyakan, kemarilah duduk di sana!” Tunjuknya ke balik pelinggih. Prongo menepi, membiarkanku diajak Mangku Gede ke tempat yang agaknya sudah dia persiapkan. “Ada apa Mangku?” “Uwakmu sudah bicara denganmu?” “Sudah. Saya tidak memiliki kemampuan untuk nakti. Saya cemar, Mangku sendiri tahu hal ini. Janganlah membuat saya menjadi tertawaan orang sedesa, saya ini anak simpatisan komunis!” Mangku Gede tersenyum beku, “Terserah kamu! Yang penting, aku sudah menawarkan 100

padamu, nanti aku sampaikan pada pengurus desa. Ide ini datang dari mereka, bukan dariku!” “Terima kasih!” Mangku Gede mengangguk. Seperti kehilangan nafsu bicara. Melihat itu, aku pamit mencari Prongo. Pikiranku tiba-tiba tidak nyaman. Entah kenapa aku merasa pepat. Hatiku yang panas pastilah penyebabnya. Amarah yang kupendam sejak kecil kini berdenyar siap menghanguskan tubuhku. “Ada apa?” Prongo menahan langkahku. “Kita pergi, atau kamu mau sendiri makemit? Aku harus pergi ke Denpasar malam ini!” “Kenapa?” “Sudahlah Ngo, nanti aku jelaskan!” Aku bergegas meninggalkan Prongo. Dengan hati panas, setengah berlari aku menuju rumah, menemukan ibu dan bibiku berbaring santai menonton TV di ruang tengah. “Jangan emosi, De!” Bibiku berkata pelan, mendinginkan hati dan suaraku yang bergetar menuturkan ucapan Mangku Gede terhadapku. 101

“Kembalilah ke pura, makemit-lah! Jangan lari, ayahmu dulu tidak lari dari tuduhan, biarpun harus ditebusnya dengan kematian!” Aku tersentak. Iya, sejujurnya aku berniat lari. Harus kuakui, aku takut, takut sekali. Posisiku demikian sulit, penawaran untuk nakti itu sungguh menyenangkan, seolah membuatku tiba-tiba berharga, seolah beban yang selama ini kutanggung akibat kematian ayah lenyap. Tetapi sebaliknya, aku dilanda ketakutan luar biasa, andai setelah nakti, ternyata aku tidak mendapatkan keris? Tidakkah kegagalanku dalam nakti bakal dijadikan senjata baru mengesahkan bahwa benarlah ayahku antiTuhan? Bahwa aku cemar! Aku keluar rumah, bukan untuk kembali ke pura. Aku jalan-jalan, menenangkan hatiku sendiri, menarik pikiranku agar berjarak dengan desa ini. Aku menuju warung Pan Orti, “Tidak makemit, De?” “Nantilah, masih ramai di pura. Warungnya sepi, Pe?” “Semua orang ke pura. Aku sudah tua, malas memindahkan dagangan ke jabaan pura!” jelasnya. Warungnya sepi sekali, hanya aku yang singgah.

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Lalu kupesan kopi, menatap jalanan yang lengang, “Pe.... Sejak lama berdagang?” “Sejak ayahmu masih bayi!” Sahutnya bangga, “Pekakmu waktu itu belum jadi Pemangku,” Pan Orti meraih gelas, menuangkan tuak dagangannya, “Kamu tidak minum?” Tanyanya menawarkan tuak dan bir yang berjejer di atas meja. “Saya minum kopi saja, Pe!” “Ayahmu juga begitu, tidak minum, tidak merokok. Hidupnya lurus. Jauh berbeda dengan Rinu....” Aku terdiam. Pan Orti tampak melamun, “Tapi nasibnya naas. Andai pekak-mu masih hidup waktu itu, tentu kejadiannya berbeda. Andai saja, ayahmu mau segera waktu itu menggantikan pekakmu jadi Pemangku.” “Sudahlah, Pe....” Aku tercekat sendiri. Pan Orti menghela napasnya, “Sebaik-baik saudara tiri, lebih baik misannya sendiri! Tapi ayahmu tidak memiliki misan yang baik. Malah mereka menjebak Rinu, menghasutnya agar percaya bahwa dia yang lebih berhak menjadi pemangku dan mewarisi warisan pekak-mu!”

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Aku juga tahu itu, Uwak Rinu anak istri Pekak, tetapi merasa lebih berhak dari ayahku di rumah, karena ibunya, Dadong Rinu, adalah misan Pekak. Padahal, Pekak terpaksa mengawini misannya atas desakan keluarga. Seisi desa juga tahu, betapa bencinya Dadong Rinu terhadap ibu dan aku. Bahkan sampai kini, setiap kali aku sembahyang ke Merajan Kemulan di rumah Pekak, Dadong Rinu tak pernah menyapaku. Setelah kematian nenekku, ayah ngarangin, keluar dari rumah Pekak. Walau ditentang oleh Dadong Rinu dan keluarga lainnya, sebelum Pekak meninggal, dia memberi bagian tanah warisan pada ayah. Itu sebabnya, karena merasa tidak diterima di rumah Pekak, ayahku jadi lebih dekat dengan keluarga ibuku. Kedekatan inilah yang menjadi sumber fitnah itu, karena memang salah satu keluarga ibuku aktivis partai terlarang. Padahal, ayahku tidak pernah menyukai politik, dia hanya seorang guru, seorang ipar bagi saudara-saudara istrinya. Saat perpolitikan memanas di desa-desa seluruh Bali, Uwak Rinu kawin dan mengadakan pesta besar-besaran dengan menjual banyak 104

sawah dan sapi. Lalu setahun kemudian, saat anak pertamanya lahir, dia kawin lagi, juga dengan pesta besar ditambah biaya tajen dan hura-hura, tanah warisan yang diterimanya makin menyempit. Entah angin apa yang mendorongnya, sehabis Gunung Agung meletus di tahun 1963, Uwak Rinu meminta setengah bagian tanah yang diwarisi ayahku. Tentu saja ayahku menolak permintaan Uwak Rinu. Mendengar kabar penolakan ayahku, Dadong Rinu marah besar dan memutuskan hubungan keluarga. Sejak itu, ayah tak diizinkan ke rumah Pekak. Lalu tahun 1965, entah tanggal berapa, pada suatu malam ayah dipenggal di halaman rumahnya sendiri. Ibuku hanya ingat, malam itu gelap dan banyak lelaki bertopeng mendobrak pintu rumah. Mayat ayah hilang tanpa jejak. Tapi ibuku sempat melihat saat ayah rubuh di halaman dengan kepala terpisah dari badan. “Kebenaran tidak bisa dikubur, De. Sekarang mereka merasakan hasil tanamannya sendiri!” Suara Pan Orti menyeretku, kembali duduk di bangku warung tuaknya. “Rinu utangnya banyak, anak-anaknya tak karuan, begitu juga keluarga besarmu itu, Mangku Gede kelihatannya saja 105

sehat, dia sakit. Anak perempuannya bercerai, anak lakinya ditahan karena menabrak orang! Apa lagi yang membuat mereka masih merasa nyaman. Aku sudah dengar kasak-kusuk itu, pengurus desa menginginkan kamu nakti!” “Saya cemar, Pe. Ayah saya mati dibunuh!” “Ayahmu dibunuh orang suruhan, yang menginginkan tanah ayahmu. Kamu pikir siapa yang berdiri di balik semua ini?” “Siapa Pe? Bukankah masyarakat yang datang mendobrak rumah saya?” “Itu cerita di zaman ketakutan. Apa yang bisa dikatakan saat zaman gelap? Kecuali menyelamatkan diri dari tuduhan-tuduhan yang setiap saat bisa membunuhmu. Semua terpaksa diam. Menyimpan di hati cerita masing-masing. Ayahmu guru, dia lelaki baik. Dia difitnah!” “Sudah, Pe.... Saya tak ingin mengingatnya lagi!” Aku pergi meninggalkan warung tuak itu. Dengan lunglai aku menyusuri jalan setapak. Pikiranku menerawang. Tanpa sadar aku menaiki undakan Pura Desa. Bulan mulai penuh. Orang-orang berkumpul dengan kelompoknya dan menempati 106

semua bale, setengah terjaga dan setengah tidur. Aku melewati bale paruman. Para pengurus desa masih terjaga dan melihat kedatanganku. Aku terus melangkah menuju jroan pura, mencari tempat untuk berbaring. Setelah berputar ke semua bale, semua telah penuh oleh perempuan dengan anak-anak yang terlelap. Akhirnya, setelah berputar tiga kali, aku mendapatkan tempat untuk makemit di dekat Gedong Penyimpenan. Tanpa pikir panjang, segera aku baringkan tubuhku. Biarlah aku bebaskan diriku dari segala masalah. Aku ingin istirahat, terserahlah apa saja yang bakal terjadi. Toh selama ini hidupku sudah kenyang dengan keterpencilan. Memasuki tidur dengan hati yang memberat, membuatku seperti berada di awang-awang. Antara sadar dan tidak, aku mendengar suara kentongan dipukul, lalu suara orang-orang bangun, gemuruh gamelan. Semuanya silih-berganti. Akhirnya aku tak mendengar apa-apa lagi. Lega sekali dan entah dari mana datangnya Mangku Gede, tiba-tiba saja dia menarikku, “Bangun De, Bangun!!” Aku tersentak. Menenangkan diri dalam kantuk yang berat. Aku memandang ke sekitar, orang-orang berdiri berkerumun memandangku, 107

seperti memandang barang aneh. Pikiranku yang terlatih untuk berjarak, membuatku bangkit dan waspada. Orang-orang seperti dikomando segera menjatuhkan dirinya, duduk dengan kepala tertunduk. “Ada apa?” Aku merasakan keanehan sikap orang-orang di hadapanku. Hanya Prongo, yang berani memandang ke arahku, “De, di tanganmu!!” Tunjuknya dengan mata bergetar. Aku refleks menatap tanganku yang tak kusadari terangkat di atas kepala. Astaga! Siapa yang menyelipkan keris di jemariku? Kenapa aku tak menyadarinya? Dalam tidurku, siapa yang menyelipkan? Pikiranku telah selalu berjarak, disekat-sekat oleh tahun-tahun yang menyakiti kesadaranku. Di sekolah, di pasar, di manapun aku berada, segala macam kisah, segala macam tuduhan telah membuatku tidak pernah menjadi bagian desa ini. Pikiran ini memisahkanku dengan kenyataan keberadaan mereka, sedekat apapun jaraknya.

semula tak kumiliki, sembunyi di balik segala kepedihan, mendidikku untuk selalu merasa kotor setiap kali memasuki pura ini, membuatku tanpa nyali untuk mempertanyakan dan membela ayahku! Keris ini melemparku pada rasa amarah yang tidak mungkin lagi kukendalikan, “Siapa yang dulu membunuh ayahku? Jawab!!” Aku memekik keraskeras. Bukan atas nama kebanggaan memperoleh paica. Aku memekik atas nama dendam kesumat. Rasa kalah yang gelap. Malam henti dalam pikiranku. Ternyata, sakit sekali sebagai yang terpilih.... Sejujurnya, selama ini pikiranku menolak tuduhan bahwa ayahku komunis, tetapi perasaanku selalu meyakini ayahku komunis.... Keris ini, keris di tanganku ini, paica Betara benar-benar menebas isi kepalaku, begitu menyakitkan, sama menyakitkan seperti bila membayangkan kepala ayahku terpisah dari badannya. Kini, aku sungguh merasa berjarak dengan apapun di sekitarku! Seperti kepala yang terpisah dengan badannya, seperti yang mereka lakukan terhadap ayahku!

Kini, keris ini menikam pikiranku. Menusukkan kenyataan yang dekat dan pekat. Dendam yang 108

109

Calon Bupati

Dengan kumis tipis, bibir bawah mengatup, tatapan yang seolah tak melihat siapapun, Gede Bagus mengangguk sekenanya. Duduk bersila di bale gede, bale warisan kakeknya yang sudah direnovasi tiga kali dan kini sudah menyala-nyala, bale yang berwibawa karena diukir dan didempul cat prada, dimpor dengan harga mahal. ”Jadi begitulah tanggapan mereka, Bli.” Dalam keheningan rumah berhalaman luas, tepatnya diperluas, kebun belakang sudah dijadikan bangunan, ladang kiri kanan sudah jadi show room. Dulu, rumah kakeknya hanya seluas tiga are, tetapi kakeknya juga memiliki kebun dan ladang sebelahmenyebelah dengan rumah, kini sudah ditatanya, sudah dipilah dengan perhitungan asta kosala kosali. Penataan rumah itu dimulai ketika almarhum ayahnya diangkat jadi pejabat di awal reformasi, dan meninggal mendadak saat Gede Bagus baru saja menikahi Gek Ayu, tetapi untunglah sewaktu ayahnya diangkat jadi pejabat, Gede Bagus 110

111

membuka restoran, jual beli mobil dan juga jual beli tanah. ”Mereka katakan, Bli sudah mulai melakukan manuver.” Mendengar perkataan itu, yang diucapkan secara lirih seolah takut didengar, Gede Bagus makin menaikan bibir bawahnya, makin mendorong bibir atasnya, nampak manyun sekarang. Dengan pandangan

yang

nyaris

melamun,

teringat

kematian ayahnya yang mendadak; konon ayahnya meninggal karena terkena serangan black magic, kata dokter itu serangan jantung, tapi para balian yang ditemui oleh ibunya memberi jawaban yang hampir sama, ‘Arwah ayahnya mengatakan, dirinya memang lalai, jadi kena serangan ilmu, namun kini ayahnya sudah menjadi pelayan di pura dalem.’ “Tapi itu katanya itu omongan orang, sudahlah! Yang penting niatmu baik, Bli.” Suara lain terdengar menyahuti, seolah membantah, seolah berusaha menghibur. Rumah itu senyap, rumah yang begitu luas, bersih tertata; ada beberapa pembantu dan satpam yang mengurus dari dapur sampai garasi, sebab

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istrinya sibuk mengurus restoran.Ibunya masih aktif menjaga showroom, sedang adik-adiknya keduanya perempuan dan sudah menikah. Anakanaknya sendiri semua masih sekolah di sekolah internasional. Ah, sebenarnya tak ada kenyamanan lebih dari ini. Bagi Gede Bagus, inilah proses yang harus dijalani. Namun entah mengapa, dirinya terjerat gosip politik yang tak menyenangkan. ”Apa sebabnya mereka berpikir begitu?” Itulah kalimat yang tercetus di bibir Gede Bagus, sebab dia memang tidak mengerti, mengapa setelah menggagas ngaben massal di desanya dan bersedia menjadi penyandang dana, gosip itu muncul: katanya dia akan maju menjadi calon bupati! Sejak itu hati Gede Bagus menjadi tak nyaman. Walau ‘ngaben massal’ itu sudah usai, walau semua undangan datang dengan bungah meriah; dari berbagai pejabat kabupaten sampai tingkat provinsi, dari camat sampai calon, juga para kenalan almarhum ayahnya—baik yang masih aktif di pemerintahan maupun yang sudah pensiun—ternyata tetap setia berdatangan. Sama seperti dahulu, sama seperti ketika ayahnya masih jadi pejabat; bila melakukan upacara, selalu banyak 113

undangan yang setia datang, walau kadang tak jelas tujuan kedatangannya. Apa sebabnya mereka berpikir sesempit itu? Keluh hati Gede Bagus. Semua undangan itu, semua orang yang datang tentu saja membludak karena ngaben massal, semua orang membawa undangan dan kerabatnya juga sebagai penua penyelenggara upacara. Gede Bagus dikenal memiliki pergaulan yang luas bukan semata karena ayahnya dahulu pejabat; beberapa teman-teman sekolahnya kini menjadi wakil rakyat, beberapa pegawai almarhum ayahnya dahulu, kini ada yang menjadi kepala dinas. Semuanya masih berhubungan baik dengannya, sebagai teman, sebagai kenalan, tetapi mengapa gosip itu bisa muncul? Iparnya, Bagus Jaya, memang tokoh partai, kakak Gek Ayu itu memang mewarisi tradisi berpolitik,

tetapi

dirinya?

Ayahnya

sebelum

reformasi adalah pegawai negeri biasa yang sepulang kerja mengurus kebun, lalu di awal reformasi diangkat menjadi pejabat karena proses karier semata. Memang pernah terdengar oleh Gede Bagus, bahwa bisik-bisik jabatan ayahnya itu katanya karena dukungan politik keluarga

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Gek Ayu. Tetapi benarkah? Entahlah, almarhum mertuanya justru sakit saat ayahnya diangkat menjadi pejabat. Mertuanya dirawat di Surabaya ketika semua orang yang katanya ‘orang partai’ tiba-tiba memenangkan pemilu, menjadi penguasa baru! Lalu entah bagaimana ceritanya, tibatiba banyak teman Bagus Jaya kala itu, terutama teman-teman iparnya, yang dalam pikiran Gede bagus sungguh aneh penampilan mereka, sebab tiba-tiba memakai baju safari tapi dengan keringat berleleran, bicara politik di mana saja seakan dunia berhak di-kavling, tetapi itulah politik, politik aneh! Sebab tiba-tiba rombongan teman minum tuak iparnya ikut serta menjadi ‘orang partai’ bahkan kemudian lebih lucunya lagi, teman-teman iparnya itu muncul di tivi, di koran, seolah-olah sejak lama memperjuangkan rakyat, fasih benar mengkritik ini-itu, seolah paham, seolah geregetan dengan keadaan. Gede Bagus makin memanyunkan bibirnya. Pikirannya ke mana-mana, entah mengapa, dirinya merasa terusik dengan gosip-gosip itu. Hanya karena dia mendanai ngaben masal? Karena tamu membludak dan prosesi berjalan lancar? Ah,

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itu mulai terasa makin mengusik saat istrinya sendiri yang bertanya, “Pa, benar ya papa ada keinginan menyaingi Bli Jaya untuk maju jadi bupati?” Dengan takjub Gede Bagus memandang istrinya, takjub bahwa ini bukan lagi gosip, tapi sudah jadi pembicaraan keluarga. Lalu setelah itulah beraneka macam orang menemuinya: dari temanteman iparnya, teman-temannya sendiri, dari yang kini jadi pejabat bahkan sampai yang samar-samar dikenalnya, katanya, mereka itu keluarga si A atau si B, orang kepercayaan Pak ini ataukah Pak itu. Gede Bagus menarik nafas panjang, mengerutkan dahi, bibirnya kian manyun. Kenapa tiba-tiba dirinya begitu santer digosipkan ingin maju jadi calon bupati? Padahal dia bukan orang partai, juga tak punya kenalan di Jakarta? Orang pusat. Itu istilah orang-orang politik untuk menyebut penguasa, mereka yang mengatakan kepadanya tanpa diminta, menjelaskan berbagai tahapan jika ingin sah menjadi seorang calon–semacam brosur lisan, “Kalau mau maju, harus dapat restu!” Lalu katanya lagi, ada proses semacam seleksi di partai. Lalu dikalkukasikan berapa biayanya. Gede Bagus menghela nafas dengan kepala menggeleng, “Mereka 116

pikir, uang itu dipetik seperti daun nangka?” Jelas, tidak akan dirinya membuang-buang uang untuk maju menjadi calon bupati, itu kegilaan namanya. Namun walau sudah tegas dia mengatakan tidak ada niat maju, gosip itu malah makin santer, makin riuh, makin mengacaukan. Anehnya, beberapa contoh proposal tiba-tiba dibawa oleh orang-orang yang hampir tak dikenalinya: entah atas nama partai inilah-itulah, investor anulah-inilah, entah atas nama pribadi atau kelompok, yang katanya mereka mengaku bersimpati, menaruh harapan, mengingat pula, kata mereka, kebaikan almarhum ayahnya dahulu. Gila! Istrinya mulai gelisah, bertanya selalu, ibunya resah, kedua adik perempuannya juga ikutan resah. Astaga. Gede Bagus mulai merasa rikuh dan merasa tak nyaman, apalagi ketika para tetangga, nyame braya di banjar, di desa juga ikutan berbisik-bisik bila ketemu, “Kita akan mendukungmu, De. Maju saja!” “Tidak, saya tidak ada niat maju jadi calon, itu gosip, Bli.” Itu yang dia ucapkan tegas dan jelas melalui telepon ketika iparnya Bagus Jaya 117

menelpon. Suara iparnya datar, berjarak, dan jelas curiga.”Bli, Bli kenal saya. Tidak mungkinlah saya ada uang untuk maju menyaingi Bli.” Demikian dia berusaha menjelaskan kepada iparnya yang tidak menutupi rasa berang dan gundah karena telah merasa disaingi. Dan percakapan telepon itu tidak menyelesaikan kesalahpahaman, tidak mengusir gosip itu, tidak memperjelas keadaan. Istrinya pun ditelpon, katanya Bagus Jaya tanpa basa-basi langsung mendamprat keras, ”Bilangin suamimu itu! Setan apa yang merasuki dia sehingga membuat kesan kepada masyarakat, aku ini tidak mendapat dukungan dari keluarga sendiri! Sekarang, dukungan teman partai melemah, secara internal mereka mulai menekanku!! Kamu tahu, suamimu itu diperalat sama lawan politikku! Dan orang pusat sudah tahu hal itu!” Istrinya menangis, ibunya menangis, anakanaknya kebingungan. Gede Bagus apalagi. Hatinya berdetak tak karuan. Tak ada seorang pun yang bisa diajak bicara, yang bersedia mendengarkan, soal dirinya tak ada niat untuk memasuki dunia politik! Bahkan dia tak tahu, kapan sebenarnya pilkada itu akan dilaksanakan? Astaga. Berita di koran apalagi: setiap kali ada berita soal kandidat calon bupati, 118

namanya disebutkan, bahkan pernah potretnya dijejerkan dengan iparnya dengan tulisan: kakak dan adik ipar bersaing di bursa pencalonan. Kenapa bisa terjadi? Apalagi kemudian ketika ada piodalan di pura, ada orang kerauhan yang isinya ternyata jika diterjemahkan bebas seperti ini: katanya, sudah saatnya warih ida sesuhunan menjadi pemimpin… astaga! Gede Bagus sungguh-sungguh dipojokkan oleh sesuatu yang tak dipahaminya, tak pernah dipikirannya. Lalu iparnya menjauh, beberapa kegiatan keluarga yang diadakan oleh keluarga istrinya, Gede Bagus tidak diundang. Lalu seperti guliran kerikil dari gunung, begitu saja dirinya dibanjiri oleh pernyataan dukungan, pernyataan kesediaan orang-orang untuk menjadi tim sukses. Gilanya, para pegawai showroom-nya, pegawai restorannya, mungkin mulai melakukan kampanye, seolah-olah memang benar atasan mereka akan maju. “Bila perlu, kita buat posko!” Itu kata sepupu Gede Bagus dengan penuh semangat, lalu berdirilah posko dengan banner yang memampang wajahnya. Gila. Banjar-banjar di desanya pun mulai memasang spanduk, lalu keluarga ibunya, 119

keluarga ayahnya, klan, soroh…. Gede Bagus tercenung merasa sendirian di Bale Gede warisan kakeknya, terhisap dalam kepekatan yang tak dapat dia pahami. Di sekelilingnya duduk beberapa orang, yang seolah-olah hanya bayangan, bayanganbayangan yang bicara seperti hantu, ”Bli dikatakan melakukan manuver.” “Manuver apaan?” Dengan kesal Gede Bagus berteriak. ”Katanya, orang-orang Bagus Jaya sudah menyeberang ke Bli, katanya.” “Katanya apa?!” sergah Gede bagus kesal. Tak tahukah mereka akibat dari gosip yang tak bertanggung jawab itu. Situasi keluarganya menjadi tak terkendali. Kakak iparnya yang pada dasarnya emosional dan berangasan sudah menyatakan putus hubungan kekeluargaan. Dan pendukung iparnya juga demikian, bahkan beberapa pejabat yang dulu menjadi langganan showroom-nya menjauh…. Astaga!!. Gede Bagus sungguh muak. Kini rombongan orang partai mendatanginya. Semua berlagak 120

penting seakan ini masalah terpelik di dunia. Katanya, dirinya membuat manuver dan itu membuat banyak orang gerah. Banyak orang? Siapa saja orang banyak itu? Gede Bagus mendecak. Dalam hati ingin berteriak, bagaimana mungkin orang-orang ini bisa menjadi tokoh masyarakat? Menjadi figur publik? Gaya berpikir mereka seperti petajen megang ayam, mengelus-helus agar orang panas, lalu dipasangi taji? Gede Bagus menenangkan dirinya dengan menarik nafas panjang, lalu berkata dengan tenang sekali, ”Mamang! Itu manuver saya. Dan saya tegaskan, saya tidak takut sama orang-orang partai, tidak perlu mendapat restu orang pusat…. Jadi kalian tidak usah risau, tidak perlu menakuti ini-itu, saya tahu undang-undang, tahu hak dan kewajiban, dan jelas saya tidak mau diintimidasi!” Seperti yang diduganya, setelah dia bersikap tegas, gosip makin merebak, makin melebar ke mana-mana, pastilah nanti Gede Bagus akan maju secara independen sebab menolak uluran bantuan orang partai. Hah!! Bantuan apa? Bantuan menyulitkan hidup? Lalu seperti diperkirakan oleh 121

Gede Bagus, akan muncul perdebatan ini-itu: di warung, di koran, di facebook, di mana saja, lalu akan muncul orang-orang baru yang bergaya sebagai pendukung sejati. Tetapi Gede Bagus sudah muak, tidak mau tertekan lagi karena pikiran orang-orang yang memang aneh jika berkaitan dengan politik. Kepada istri dan ibunya dia diam-diam sudah mengatakan, ”Saya tidak maju untuk ini-itu, hanya tuhan yang tahu, apa sebenarnya yang terjadi di luar sana.” Biarlah Bagus Jaya, iparnya itu, seperti cacing kepanasan: mulai melakukan kegiatan sosial, diliput televisi, dimuat di koran, semuanya harus dibayar, semuanya itu advertorial. Iparnya diliput media dari kegiatan menyumbang kambing sampai kerbau untukupacara, dari menjadi sponsor lomba bola voli sampai menyapu di pura! Tentu saja dengan dikawal orang-orang partai berbaju adat, dengan ikat kepala bergaya seperti pecalang, plus kacamata hitam. Tetapi istrinya setiap malam dengan setengah berbisik menyampaikan, ”Ibu menelpon tadi pagi, Bli Jaya jual tanahnya bapak lagi.” Gede Bagus menghela nafas. Kasihan ibu mertuanya! Pastilah tak berdaya, sebab sejak lama

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Bagus Jaya terus menerus menjadi bemper kegiatan partai, mudah dipanasi dengan kata loyalitas dan pengabdian sejati, karena itu menunjukan sikap berjiwa besar untuk tidak maju di pencalonan wakil rakyat agar memberi citra pimpinan tidak memperebutkan jabatan. Katanya, lebih mulia bila ia melakukan tugas konsolidasi membenahi partai, konsentrasi untuk membangun kader, itu alasannya waktu pemilu yang lalu. Kemudian saat ada pilkada yang terdahulu, Bagus Jaya belum diperkenankan maju sebab katanya ada calon yang lebih potensial, entah apa potensialnya kecuali ketika pilkada begitu sibuk menghamburkan bantuan ini-itu. Dan Bagus Jaya sibuk mencarikan dukungan, demi partai! Dan kini nampaknya Bagus Jaya tak mau lagi menjadi bemper, dia akan maju! Tetapi dia butuh dana, dan tentu saja dengan gaya hidup selalu menjadi bemper, tanah-tanah warisan pun harus dijual, dan sudah pasti, manalah ada yang mau peduli soal itu, cukup dengan kalimat manis, ‘kan pengabdian pada rakyat? Pada partai? Gede Bagus menghela nafas, setengah berbisik bertanya pada istrinya, ”Sebenarnya, kapan sih pilkada itu?”

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*

Istrinya tertawa, ”Mama juga tidak tahu kapan, tapi kata koran sudah mulai memanas bursanya.” Sahut istrinya terus tertawa. Kesibukan bekerja, membuat mereka berdua sesungguhnya tak tahu kapan pilkada akan tiba, dan kenapa mereka itu, para pengasong, pemulung politik itu, begitu peduli dan seolah tak habis energi hilir-mudik menukar cerita? Gede Bagus tersenyum pahit, menggelengkan kepala. Biarlah Bagus Jaya dengan keasyikannya, ia tak mungkin lagi diajak bicara. Dengan memilih diam, mengatupkan bibir, memanyunkan bibir sesekali jika bosan,menerima siapa saja yang datang entah dengan kepentingan apapun, akan dia terima. Satu hal yang kemudian dia tahu dengan sikapnya yang diam itu, restorannya tetap laris, jual beli tanah tetap berlangsung dan showroom-nya tetap laris. Dan niat hatinya setelah menghitung keuntungan: tahun depan akan menggagas upacara mamukur massal! Apapun kelak gosipnya, toh kini dia akan lebih siap dengan segala macam gosip, yang entah mengapa begitu kuat mendekatinya, sebab dirinya menantu dari seorang tokoh partai, ipar dari seorang bemper organisasi yang royal.

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Tiba-tiba istrinya histeris, Gede Bagus melonjak kaget. “Ada apa?” “Bli Jaya….” Istrinya mendekap HP. “Kenapa?Ada apa?” Tanyanya dengan jantung berdetak tak nyaman. Istrinya terisak mulai gemetar, ”Bli Jaya meninggal, barusan terpeleset sepulang dari kunjungan ke desa tetangga.” Malam itu juga seluruh keluarga ke rumah sakit, berharap segalanya hanya mimpi buruk. Namun usia tak mungkin diduga, tak bisa dibujuk dengan mengatakan jangan diputus dulu usia orang ini, ini calon bupati! Duh.... Gede Bagus menenangkan istrinya, menenangkan mertua, menenangkan seisi rumah.Ia duduk di bale gede dan menjelaskan dengan terbata-bata, ”Kakak kami memang benar meninggal tadi malam. Dari pemeriksaan dokter, kakak kami terkena serangan jantung, kelelahan.” Tangis meledak, orang-orang berdatangan, Gede Bagus sibuk menjadi tuan rumah, sibuk memberi jawaban, sibuk menepis gosip yang bukanbukan, sibuk menyiapkan upacara ngaben. Dan memanyunkan bibirnya agar tak terpancing dalam

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percakapan soal politik. Yang memang gila, bahkan disaat jasad iparnya akan diusung ke kuburan, masih sempat ada yang bertanya,”Bagaimana Bli, Bli maju saja sekarang, sekarang pasti dukungan sudah mengerucut ke Bli saja.” Gede Bagus menghela nafas. memanas, ada kilau perih di dalamnya.

Matanya

Istilah Bahasa Bali

asta kosala kosali

Tata aturan pembangunan di Bali

bale

Bangunan terbuka untuk duduk, bisa juga untuk tempat sajen

Iparnya Bagus Jaya kini sudah tiada. Andai masih hidup, ingin rasanya dia bertanya, apa hasil dari pengabdian yang aneh ini pada partai? Kecuali kematian, lalu dilupakan, sedangkan yang lain mendapatkan jabatan?

bale paruman Bangunan untuk rapat desa

Gede Bagus memanyunkan bibirnya, menatap hambar teman-teman politik kakak iparnya yang berdiri bersidekap, berjejer dengan kepala terangguk-angguk berkaca mata hitam, berbaju hitam serta jam tangan keemasan, berkumis pula. Wajah mereka, entah mengapa, di mata Gede Bagus nampak bodoh dan menggelikan!

bape

Sebutan akrab kepada lelaki tua

becingah

Sebutan untuk halaman dalam pura/puri

betara

Sebutan lain untuk dewa

betara kodal

Penyebutan odalan secara akrab

Betara Sweca Dewa bermurah hati canang

Sajen dari bunga-bunga

jaba tengah

Sebutan untuk halaman dalam pura/puri

jro mangku

Cara menyebut hormat Pemangku (pimpinan spiritual di Pura)

jroan

Bagian dalam pura.

Cara seseorang terpilih untuk ketakson menjadi Pemangku melalui media paica atau kesurupan

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makemit Mamukur meme merajan kemulan nakti-nakti ngarangin niskala odalan

Tidur berjaga di pura saat ada upacara

Piodalan

Upacara untuk pura yang dirayakan setahun sekali

Upacara setelah ngaben

sing ada pis

Tidak ada uang

Sebutan untuk ibu dan perempuan yang lebih tua

soroh

klan

Pura keluarga yang difungsikan untuk memuja leluhur

tajen

Sabung ayam

tedun

Turun (dalam konteks: sesuatu yang memasuki tubuh)

tim

Sejenis masakan berkuah

tirta

Air suci

Semadi/meditasi, bertapa untuk memohon anugerah Membangun rumah di luar pekarangan asal Wilayah kekuatan energi yang tak nampak

Upacara untuk pura, perayaan setahun sekali untuk keberadaan suatu pura paica Anugerah berupa benda seperti permata, keris, dan lain-lain pekak Kakek

tungku penerang

Setiap pura di Bali biasanya memiliki tungku di halaman dalam yang dinyalakan dengan tujuan untuk menahan hujan uwak Paman warih ida sesuhunan

Keturunan langsung

pelinggih

Tempat untuk Dewa yang dipuja, Pelinggih bentuknya bermacam; berbentuk meru (segitiga bertumpuk dalam bilangan ganjil) atau dalam bentuk bangunan lainnya pengutik Pisau kecil, dalam kalimat tersebut menjadi makna kiasan 128

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Publication History

• “A Lonely Death” (Mati Sunyi) first appeared in Koran Sepi pun Menati di tepi Hari: Kumpulan Cerpen Pilihan Kompas 2004. Jakarta: Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2004

• Baruni, Bridge to Heaven (Baruni, Jembatan Surga.) and Dagger (Keris) first appeared in Baruni, Jembatan Surga. Denpasar: self published, 2013

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The Translator

Marjie Suanda came to Indonesia in 1976 with a scholarship from the Center for World Music in Berkeley, California to further her studies of Javanese traditional dance. And she stayed… Marjie has a master’s degree in English from the University of Washington, and over the years has taught and been an examiner of academic English. During the period of Reformasi, following the fall of former president Soeharto, she became deeply involved in civil society and worked as a program officer for Ashoka Indonesia for ten years. She began translating essays for visual artists in 1997 and now keeps busy translating articles for Tempo English, as well as short stories, poetry and novels for Lontar, Gramedia, and other Indonesian publishers. Marjie lives in Bandung with her husband, ethnomusicologist Endo Suanda.

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ISBN 978-602-9144-69-7

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