Don't Speak

It was the days when I helplessly fancied that short-haired girl sitting right in front of me during Introduction to Sociology. The fact the she didn’t refuse when I ask her out to a poetry recital remains a mystery for a long, long time. I didn’t like poetry recitals. Still don’t. But she did and still does. And she knew I didn’t.

Then lunches. And dinners. Long walks along Selokan Mataram. Longer walks along Malioboro. And The English Patient. Borrowed books and exchanged notes. And visits to Asrama Santikara.

It was the days before the words were spoken. Before we knew what could happen.

Durmagati the Puppet

"Para miarsa, pasugatan ringgit wacucal ndalu punika katindhakaken dening Ki Dalang Hadi Sugito saking Toyan, Wates, kanthi lampahan 'Antasena Takon Bapa'. Sugeng nDalu, sugeng midhangetaken"*

This used to be my cue for gluing my ears to the radio, which was not much of a radio to start with. It was an unsightly lidless contraption with all dusty components--cathodes, diodes, and whatnots--visible to naked eye. "Don't touch that part. Nyetrum**", warned my cousin as he gave me that thing, unwanted now that he just bought a new Sony stereo. Anyway, that reluctant-to-live-yet-unwilling-to-die radio turned out to be a faithful companion who saw to it that my highschool years were not devoid of some colorful background music. This include long nights of listening to shadow puppet shows.

Those days, not all radio aired around the clock. Most went off air a little after midnight. So for a part-time insomniac like me, an all-night long shadow puppet shows, especially those aired live, were nothing short of a blessing. They gave reassurance that I was not the only poor sod still awake at the hour.

I'm not going to pretend that I know much about wayang. For one, I don't really understand the language. Seriously, most of the narrations are delivered in some sort of ancient Javanese no longer spoken by your average Slamet, or Eko for that matter. Yet, it never fails to make me go 'whoa!'. In addition, they are supposed to contain a truckload of equally ancient wisdom. You know, stuffs like what life is all about, what to do when calamity just can't get enough of you, and how to behave in the face of homo ignoramus. Admittedly, these gems are delivered in a somewhat preachy manner, yet it's such a joy to listen to. Again, perhaps it's the language. So it's kinda like listening to a Shakespearean play. You don't understand the whole thing, but the bits that you do understand make you feel good.

Sadly, what kept me up all night is not the lessons about morality, wisdom, and the likes. Rather, it's the humor. The show is filled with characters that crack you up every now and then. My hero, therefore, is not the almighty flying Gatotkaca with wire muscles and iron bones. Nor Antareja whose extremely venomous tongue would retain the ability to kill even if it's only applied on his enemy's foot print. Although I have to admit that it's quite impressive. Nor Antasena whose non-conformist attitude is reflected in his inability to clasp his palms together as a token of respect to others, including the gods. Nope. My hero is actually an orc-like member of Kurawa family called Durmagati.
Why? Because in a realm that is made up of entirely two-dimensional characters, Durmagati stands out as an almost-human character, especially in the skilled hands of Mr. Sugito. Durmagati rants about how his wife and kids continuously demand more spending money due to skyrocketing prices. Or about Kartomarmo teaching his kids some inappropriate adult stuffs. He asks Sangkuni to hold his wallet for him before slugging it out with invading armies, usually the good guys, for fear of losing it.

But what floored me is when he showed his acute understanding the concept of his fate as a puppet. Once, before his usual slug-fest with the Pandawas, he confided to Sangkuni that he thoroughly understand that until hell freezes over he, or the Kurawas for that matter, would never win a fight against the Pandawas. There's nothing new with the story line, he said in a typical Javanese pasrah attitude, I always end up being a human punching-bags for the likes of Setyaki or Abimanyu. Yet, he still fought. "Mung kanggo keguyuban, kok, Man ( referring to Sangkuni)***..."

And I laughed myself to tears...

********##********

*"Dear listeners, tonight's shadow puppet show is performed by the Esteemed Puppet Master Hadi Sugito from Toyan, Wates, entitled 'Antasena's Quest for His Father'. Good Night and enjoy.." more or less..
**I don't what's the right equivalent in English, but if you touch something that comes with 'nyetrum' warning, there is a fairly good chance that you'll get electrocuted.
***Just for the sake of solidarity (with other Kurawas), Man...

The Fallen Flowers

(originally Ismail Marzuki's Gugur Bunga)

How could my heart not be grieved
My hero has fallen
How could my heart not be sorrowed
I am now left all alone

Who shall now ease my pains
to remain faithful and gentle
Who shall now be the champion of my heart
the true defender of our nation

My hero has fallen
The oath has been fulfilled
Where one fell, thousands will rise
to the glory of our motherland

I must admit that the translation is nowhere near the original in its ability to evoke that eerie feeling associated with its every rendition. But, anyway, fare thee well General...

The Threesome Isn't Gonna Happen

So, the endlessly twisting plot finally unravels. The lucky bastard lost his mind and dumped his superhot wavy-haired fiancee for the long-haired, tearful old girlfriend. It came as a bit of surprise, really. I have always thought that he would stick to his superhot fiancee, who would not look too unfamiliar in a dominatrix outfit. Although, I must admit that I harbored a faraway hope that they would ended up in a steamy threesome. The Missus, on the other hand, have always knew that the whole episode would end up this way. The guy is a dick, she said. Now that the girl's fairer that she used to be, he would come back running. She has a keen understanding of the male species psychology, my Missus.

'told you she would make a superhot dominatrix

Now, in case I haven't make myself clear, I was reffering to the months-long Ponds-Whitening-something-or-other ad campaign which began I think some time in October last year. The story goes somewhat like this. The lucky bastard left the long-haired girl (by then her hair is still short) for some unspecified reason. Years went by and suddenly the long-haired girl found out that the lucky bastard had became a celebrity of some sort and was planning to marry his fellow celebrity, the superhot wavy-haired girl. Naturally, the long-haired heroine was devastated and was reduced into brooding endlessly in the flower shop in which she works.

the long-haired girl in brooding mood

Anyway, the producers just had to make up a reason to make the superhot wavy-haired girl unfit for the lucky bastard. They came up with this: the bitchy, yet superhot, girl demanded an engagement ring with a diamond the size of a fist. The poor lucky bastard tried to compensate his microscopic-diamonded engagement ring with a bunch of flowers. Which is a downright bad move, really. Any man in his right mind would know that diamond and flowers do not have substitutive or complementary association. Anyway, of all the flowershops in that big city, guess which one he conveniently stumbled into? Yes, you're a genious.

So, yeah. Apparently he noticed that her hair is longer now and her complexion is waaay fairer. Thanks to Ponds-Whitening-something-or-other. Actually, it didn't say so in the ad. I made the deduction. See, I'm the genious now. Anyway, they apparently exchanged phone numbers and began texting each other, harmlessly at first but flirtatiously later. The texting was rightfully sabotaged by the superhot, wavy-haired, would-make-an-excellent-dominatrix fiancee. Lesson #1: when you're having something even remotely resembling an affair, NEVER leave your cellphone unattended, especially when your significant other is prowling around. The long haired girl regressed back into screw-you-i'm-leaving mood and dragged her luggage to the airport. Hmm, I wonder who is managing the flower shop while she's away.

I thought that was the end. And the lucky bastard would come to his senses and returned to be mercilessly, but pleasantly, whipped by her superhot fiancee. But no. The jackass went after the long-haired ex girlfriend. Actually, it wasn't clear how he managed to find her in such a large airport. This goes for all the romantic comedies I have ever watched. Believe me, finding a person in an airport/football stadium/trainstation/large square is NOT easy, unless the person in question is ten feet tall and is partial to shocking pink headgears. Anyway, apparently they reconciled and now the Missus is badgering me about that split-heart magnetic pendant.

Renewing the Licence

Who says that dealing with the police is a pain in the arse? Yesterday, I went to a Polres, a police HQ of some sort, to renew my driver's licence and what I experienced was the exact opposite. No, not 'pleasure in the arse'. Not literally, at least. But I did get a quick and efficient service. Which is a good thing.

The thing was I lost my driver's licence a while back. I filed a report, but the report went missing as well. So I went to the Polres yesterday morning armed only with copies of my ID card. Which was a mistake. The place was packed to the roof. I went to the service counter and the police officer on duty flatly rejected my plea. No missing report, no renewal. I was asked to file a new one at the missing stuff counter. The missing stuff counter officer told me that he couldn't produce a report unless I have the number of my missing driver's licence. So I had to go back to the service counter to get the number and return to the missing stuff counter to file my report. I was beginning to wonder if I would live long enough to obtain my new licence.

It turned out that my brother knows a guy who knows a guy. So I called the first guy explaining that I am my brother's brother and in need of his assistance. The first guy was a police officer working in traffic management. He showed up, took my ID card, and disappeared in the mob. He returned ten minutes later with a missing licence report. He then took me directly to the photo room. It was quite uncomfortable, you know, walking past those people who had been waiting for hours to have their photo taken. I was a sitting duck for countless accusing stares. But I told myself to be strong. This would be over soon. And this is, after all, Indonesia.

The first guy introduced me to the second guy who kindly filled my application for me. The photo room was also cramped with people. However, after only five minutes of waiting, the second guy took over the photo booth and asked me to step in. And voila! My new driver's licence. In less than half an hour. I settled the 'administration affair' with a designated staff. And guess what, it's only 30 grand above the regulation price!!! That's what I call a premium service. Fast and cheap. No need for running from one counter to another, filling several five-mile long applications, and hours of non-airconditioned wait. All you need is a brother who knows a guy who knows a guy.