The other day a friend called about a certain fundraising and enquired whether I was willing to purchase a box of gudeg for $8. My heart skipped a beat. I struggled to contain my excitement and asked whether she just said gudeg. She replied that she did and repeated her offer. Would I? It was like offering gasoline at a discounted price to an arsonist. To me gudeg is a culinary masterpiece par excellence. It is God's second finest creation--Kirsten Dunst being the first. And it had been four long months since I tasted anything that is even remotely similar to gudeg. Ending her phone call, my friend promised that the delicacy would be delivered the following day.
The next day I couldn’t focus on anything. The prospect of having gudeg for fast-breaking was too much to bear. I waited impatiently. The clock seemed to tick particularly slowly that day. I felt like I was 8 again, struggling to survive my first day of fasting. Half an hour before the fast breaking, I grew nervous. No sign of gudeg anywhere. I tried calling her but the line was always busy. Every sound of approaching car brought renewed hope that was mercilessly shattered to smithereens as it passed without stopping. It was such that I began to question the point of hoping.
I waited for a full hour after the fast breaking time before I resorted to instant noodle. I still had chicken in the fridge but was too dispirited to cook anything complicated. The pain was almost unbearable. As I watched the water bubbled amidst the shimmering noodle, I felt no bursting anger. I was too disheartened to be angry. Rather, it was disappointment. The cold, bleak disappointment of hope failing to materialize.
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