The Burglar On The Roof

I think it was the New Year's Eve of 1995. Awan, Hindarto and I had just completed a long, long walk from Malioboro all the way to Bener, Tegalrejo. It was a splendid idea at the onset. First of all, it was, of course, the New Year' Eve. We actually had nothing to celebrate. In fact, all omens indicated that the new year would be grim in educational, financial, and romance fronts. But then again, it's the New Year's Eve. We just had to find festivity somewhere. The fact that we had no mode of transportation beside our own feet did not dampen our spirit. So we chipped in for a pack of Marlboro, a luxury compared to our usual fare of Djarum 76, and started off.

Five hours, a pack of Marlboro, and roughly ten kilometers later, tired and weary, we were back home. Koskosan (boarding house) Bu Dxxxx (population 12, when full). The sole proprietor, Bu Dxxxx, was a feisty elderly woman with sharp tongue and strong commanding aura. It had been known that she showed little compassion or mercy. Especially when the subject matter involves rent or female presence in her territory, which was not good for us either way.

You see, old-school Jogjakartan koskosans were run like big families. Parents would come at the beginning of their kid's stay and asked the proprietor to take care of their offspring. Pull their ears if you have to, they often said to the smiling and nodding proprietor. So, maintaining good behaviour was essential. Especially if your parents often visited. The proprietor might say something highly euphemisized like," Well, So and So is a good boy, really. But he seems to be out late quite often lately. Perhaps he is busy studying with his friends." Knowing that there was no chance in hell their boy was studying at night, let alone the suggestion that the poor sod was making the effort to visit friends for educational purposes, alarm bells would be ringing. Next thing you know, your allowance was cut in half, or worse.

Please excuse the detour. So anyway, the rest of the tenants were still out and none of us had enough sense to bring the key to the front door. The only other thinkable entry point was at the back, through the roof of the loo. So we went around the house, knocking on every window--except Bu Dxxxx's, to no avail. So the loo it was. Hindarto, with an unbelievable spirit of self-sacrifice, volunteered to climb in. The plan was, he would climb the 2-meter back wall, enter through a gaping hole at the roof of the loo, somehow came down, and open the front door for the rest of us, his two helpless best friends.

Without further ado, Hindarto took off his sandals and began climbing with surprising ease that rivaled any seasoned burglar. He was about to slid feet first into the hole when he was challenged by a commanding, "Sopo kuwi! (Who goes there!)". To say the he was startled out of his wits was a gross understatement. He lost his grip and slid further down. Now, half his body was visibly perching on the roof while his legs must have been hanging over the loo and whoever (although we have a pretty good idea who) was in there.Yet, Hindarto managed to compose himself (credit to him) and stammered back," Kula, Bu. Hindarto (It's me. Hindarto)"

I didn't catch the rest of what I imagined to be an extremely awkward exchange. By then, survival instinct shamelessly took over and Awan and I fled to nearby bushes, battling the overwhelming urge to laugh our heads off. Some friends we were. We did, eventually, drowned ourselves in an endless laughing fits once we were in a safe distance. The mental picture of Bu Dxxxx in a rather undignifying circumstance conversing with Hindarto's dangling legs was just too much. It was like a vintage scene from Warkop DKI movies--only better. It was for real and we were there to witness it.

We gave it fifteen minutes before we knocked on Hindarto's window, humbly begging to be let in. He was far from happy and didn't hold back on telling us exactly what he thought of the two us, which, for the purpose of venting out anger, were addressed in a series of rather unflattering names. Eventually, his golden heart shone through and he opened the front door for his two completely unworthy friends.

That night's episode became the koskosan's mythical legend. Immortalized in time. It was told over and over again in various occasion and courts. Over endless puffs of cigarettes and cups of coffees. To the newcomers as well as the seasoned old-timers. Late at night or while we're queuing for the bathroom. We all applaud the Brebesian boy's heroics. And that is why I wrote it here. So, you see, Hindarto, your tale is forever told.