Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

You Are What You Read of 2009


I know it’s only September, and the end of 2009 is still 3+ months away. But when a friend tagged me in one of her notes – which I copied and pasted below, but obviously changed her answers with my very own first – I was tempted to give it a shot.

The rules are simple: you have to answer these following questions using only book-titles which you have read in 2009. You are also expected not to repeat the titles.

Piece of cake, right? And now, you can read my answers. Here they go!

* * *

Describe yourself: The Great Gatsby (F. Scott Fitzgerald)

How do you feel: Possible Side Effects (Augusten Burroughs)

Describe where you currently live: Ghost World (Daniel Clowes)

If you could go anywhere, where would it be: The Mysteries of Pittsburgh (Michael Chabon)

Your favorite pastime: Sex After Dugem – Catatan Seorang Copywriter (Budiman Hakim)

Your favorite form of transportation: The White Tiger (Aravind Adiga)

Your best friend is: Spring-Heeled Jack (Philip Pullman)

You and your friends are: The Three Robbers (Tomi Ungerer)

What's the weather like: Silence (Shusaku Endo)

You fear: The Catcher in The Rye (J. D. Salinger)

What is the best advice you have to give: Almost Everything (Joelle Jolivet)

Thought for the day: More About Nothing (Wimar Witoelar)

The most precious thing in your life: Egg in The Hole (Richard Scarry)

How you would like to die: When You Are Engulfed in Flames (David Sedaris)

Your soul's present condition: Dan Damai di Bumi! (Karl May)

* * *

Not only very easy, this is also fun. Don't you think so? So why don’t you give it a try?

Monday, June 1, 2009

This Summer's Good Reader


It’s June already!
Don’t you think its quite funny how time flies?

I woke up lazily this morning, June 1st, and clicked on the TV to find a talkshow segment in tvone about the Pussycat Dolls concert in Jakarta, scheduled for tomorrow night. These sexy cats and dolls arrived last night straight from Down Under. Even though I won’t watch PCD live on stage, somehow watching them smile and all to the cameras made me feel a bit relaxed and strangely relieved. So I guess Indonesia is now officially out and off of the travel warning list by the U.S. of A.!

On the sidelines, June also marks the beginning of the sunny months. It’s summer, people! Welcome the warm and more often than not, hot days!

Summer is also the time to attach myself with one of my favorite activity: reading of as many books as possible, before the monsoon begins and then it’s much more tempting to sleep under my thick blanket than reading any (good) books.

I’ve already finished my first novel of this summer; it’s “The Catcher in The Rye” by J.D. Salinger. I believe you know what it was all about, so I’d rather not say anything. Looking at my short bookshelf this morning that is now over-occupied by too many books, somehow I really get excited about months to come.

I plan to finish “More About Nothing” by Wimar Witoelar tonight. He’s my best friend’s father in law. I saw in his Facebook profile this morning that he’s going to be a guest at Pagi Jakarta next Thursday. Mark the calendar. I’m curious whether he can beat Erwin Parengkuan again this time at his own show, just like the last one when they talked about Citizen Journalism.

There are also some children’s books I just bought from a sale in Grand Indonesia yesterday; ranging from “Spring-Heeled Jack” by Philip Pullman, to some Astrid Lindgren’s. These books are going to be my summer reads, obviously. Summers are intended for pop and leisure and fun, aren’t they?

What about you, friends? What books are going to be on your bedside table? How about in your beach bag? And what about the one(s) you’re going to bring with you on vacation? How many books do you think you can finish before the monsoon begin?

Let’s challenge ourselves! Be one of this summer’s avid book readers!



Monday, March 16, 2009

Darimana Datangnya Ilham?


Yang namanya ilham, bisa datang di mana saja dan kapan saja. Bagi yang kerjanya di bidang industri kreatif, pasti paham betul hal ini dan mengamininya. Oleh karena itulah, manusia yang lagi cari ilham – atau sebetulnya tidak dalam kondisi ’looking for, but who knows ...’ – haruslah selalu bersiap untuk menangkap ilham yang siapatau kebetulan melintas dan menghampiri.

Seperti baru-baru ini, lagi suntuk di satu petang pada suatu akhir pekan, dan merasa terganggu melihat celotehan tak lucu dari Komeng dan Adul di sebuah program ga penting di salah satu stasiun tivi swasta nasional, tiba-tiba aku terpikir satu hal.

Yaitu adalah, apa sebenarnya kondisi medis yang tepat untuk menganalisa dan menjelaskan keistimewaan fisik Adul? Tubuhnya kecil sepintas jadi mirip anak usia sekolah dasar, namun yang jelas umurnya sudah lebih dari batas minimal untuk memilih dalam pemilihan umum. Kalau dia memang menderita kondisi kretin, kenapa wajahnya tidak menua seperti Ucok Baba?

Terpancing rasa penasaran untuk temukan jawaban dan mengetahui kondisi medis si Adul ini, malah memunculkan ilham untuk menulis cerita seram, tentang seseorang yang tubuhnya tak pernah dewasa. Tentu saja bukan tentang seseorang yang darahnya dihisap oleh vampir ketika masih usia kanak-kanak, melainkan karena itu tadi, kondisi medis tertentu yang membuatnya demikian.

Jadi meskipun nantinya cerita khayalanku ini seram dan diduga mengandung unsur mistik dan klenik, namun sesungguhnya murni terkait kondisi psikologis dan fisiologis, serta dapat dijelaskan secara medis.

Kalau memang begitu halnya, cerita tersebut bisa disebut fiksi ilmiah tidak ya?

Terus, kira-kira judulnya yang cocok seperti apa ya?

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Di Antara Fiksi dan Karma



Sometimes, it can be very surprising to know what other people might do to you if they think you’re crossing their boundaries of comfort zone.


Baru beberapa menit yang lalu aku tersadarkan, seorang teman perempuan menghapus diriku dari daftar pertemanannya di Facebook, hanya karena aku menandai (tagged) dirinya di dalam salah satu entry catatanku. Barangkali dia tersinggung (offended?) dengan materi konten tulisan tersebut, yang sebenarnya murni fiksi. Meskipun sejujurnya, aku tak mengerti apa pentingnya dia merasakan hal tersebut. Toh aku sudah langsung mencantumkan ‘Disclaimer’ di bawah entry tersebut. Jadi rasa-rasanya, tidak perlulah sampai memberikan respon balik yang relatif keras semacam itu. Tapi ah, daripada aku malah menghabiskan waktu untuk sibuk menganalisis mengapa si model Eropa ini sampai menempuh langkah tersebut, lebih baik aku memikirkan hal-hal lain saja. Misalnya, mengapa aku masih saja berkutat di halaman “The Great Gatsby” yang itu-itu juga, meskipun sudah lebih tiga minggu berlalu sejak ketibaanku di pagina tersebut? Atau pertanyaan penting lainnya, mengapa aku selalu merasakan kantuk dan lapar dalam interval yang hanya tiga hingga empat jam? Mudah-mudahan bukan pertanda penyakit serius macam diabetes mellitus. Menakutkan, menyeramkan. Jadi ingat, aku meninggalkan tontonanku di-pause di menit tigapuluhan. Mari melanjutkannya !


Friday, January 23, 2009

"Maaf, Pak. Ada kartu lain?"



Ini adalah kejadian memalukan pertama, dan mudah-mudahan juga menjadi yang terakhir, yang kualami kemarin ketika mencoba berbelanja dengan menggunakan kartu debit “yang itu” (tidak menyebutkan nama bank yang mengeluarkan, karena rasanya tidak perlu dan memang kurang relevan dengan cerita yang ini).

Jadi ceritanya, kartu debit “yang itu” sebenarnya mengandalkan isi rekening tempat gajiku ditransfer setiap bulannya. Dan lazimnya yang kulakukan pada akhir bulan adalah, begitu gaji bulan berjalan ditransfer, isinya langsung didistribusikan lagi ke rekening bank milikku yang lain.

The problem is, sejak awal bulan ini aku sudah agak-agak mulai menyadari, sepertinya terjadi kesalahan pendistribusian gaji dan bonus bulan Desember 2008 lalu. Meskipun kesadaran ini datangnya relatif terlambat. Ada beberapa pos pengeluaran ekstra yang tidak kuperhitungkan sebelum mendistribusikan ke rekening yang lain. Akhirnya bisalah dikatakan, saldo yang disisakan di dalam rekening “yang itu” kurang memadai untuk men-support kehidupan bujangan metropolis pencinta mall ini.

Sebenarnya, kalau mengingat resolusi awal tahun ini untuk hidup lebih sederhana lagi, well, masih bisa aja sih survive dengan duit sekedarnya, mengikuti jumlah yang tersisa di dalam rekening. Namun seperti kata pepatah, manusia boleh berencana, tapi yang menentukan sih, lain lagi pihaknya. Inilah penuturan tentang pencobaan itu, yang menghantamku dengan keras kemarin banget, ketika lagi iseng-iseng selesai kerja malah kelayapan di Ritz Carlton Pacific Place.

Saat itu, sambil menunggu si Dia datang buat penuhi janji dinner bareng, aku memilih untuk keluyuran di aksara bookstore. Sebenarnya sih saat masuk ke dalam toko itu, tak ada niat sedikit pun buat beli buku apapun, sekali lagi, karena ingat pada isi dompet yang sangat terbatas.

Akan tetapi memang namanya nasib sering berkata lain, ya. Saking kelamaannya menunggu si Dia tiba di mall extra mahal ini, aku mulai melangkah ke rak-rak literature dan fiksi. Saat itulah aku dikejutkan ketika melihat label merah kecil menempel di cover belakang begitu banyak novel popular, maupun yang menang atau sekedar dinominasikan buat penghargaan literature bergengsi. Dan yang membuatku terkaget-kaget itu adalah, angka yang tertera di label merah kecil itu : 50.000. Hah?!?!

Dengan perasaan skeptis dan tak percaya, kutanyakan pada salah satu penjaga toko buku yang sedang asyik memindah-mindahkan setumpuk buku hard cover dari meja pajangan (pasti berat, siah!), apakah memang benar label harga merah itu bukan sebuah kekeliruan?

Dan coba tebak, si penjaga toko itu bilang bahwa harganya memang betul diturunkan jadi cuma 50.000 saja !! Mendapatkan jawaban afirmatif ini, langsung dengan penuh kesigapan, semua buku yang memang tampak menarik kutarik dari raknya untuk sekedar mengecek label harganya.

Saat aku mulai dijangkiti euphoria setelah menemukan banyak buku menarik seharga masing-masing hanya 50.000, tiba-tiba saja si Dia menepuk pundakku dari belakang. Quite a perfect timing, secara kalau tidak, bisa jadi akan ada setumpuk novel berbagai ukuran memenuhi pelukanku saat itu. Jadi teringat waktu QB World Bookstore closing sale, langsung saja membuatku mendadak kalap! Yaiyalah, secara semua buku didiskon 70%. Yabiiessh ... !!

Anyway, berkat petunjuk dan arahan dari si Dia (agar tidak boros dan malah membeli buku lebih banyak daripada yang bisa aku baca – ini hal yang sudah lazim banget terjadi padaku, a true bibliophiliae), akhirnya kuputuskan untuk memilih judul-judul berikut : “The Virgin Suicides”, “Ghost World”, “The Mysteries of Pittsburgh”, “Everything is Illuminated”, “Darkmans”, “Memories of My Melancholy Whores”, dan “My Mistress’s Sparrow is Dead”. Khusus untuk judul terakhir, berhubung cetakan hardcover jadi harganya lebih mahal daripada yang enam judul lainnya (IDR 100.000), tapi itu pun sebenarnya masih relatif murah dibandingkan harga aselinya (± IDR 275.000).

Lantas dengan penuh percaya diri aku berjalan menuju kasir dan menyerahkan setumpuk tebal buku-buku pilihanku tersebut berikut kartu debit “yang itu”. Sambil menunggu proses pembayaran, aku ngobrol dengan Dia. Saat tengah asyik berbincang-bincang, lelaki yang bertugas di kasir menyela percakapan kami dengan suara agak pelan dan terdengar sedikit ragu, “Maaf, Pak. Kartunya ada yang lain, ga? Yang ini di reject, katanya insufficient fund.”

Dan langit mendadak terasa runtuh menimpa kepalaku. Apaaaa … ?!?!?!

Saldo di rekening “yang itu” tidak mencukupi untuk belanja buku senilai IDR 400 ribu ?!?! Hastaga, malu banget rasanya. Apalagi kejadiannya di depan pacar sendiri. Si Dia sih dengan sigap langsung mengeluarkan dompet dan mencoba mengangsurkan salah satu kartu kredit gold-nya untuk melunasi pembayaran.

Meskipun aku tahu persis kalau si Dia tak akan pernah mempermasalahkan pembayaran yang cuma beberapa ratus ribu ini di kemudian hari, apalagi karena pengeluaran tersebut buat pacarnya sendiri. Tapi tetap dong, aku harus bisa menjaga gengsi pribadi. Apalagi kalau bukan persoalan ego dan harga diri seorang lelaki. Hehehe ... (*yang berkomentar nyinyir siap-siap ditonjok!*)

Tentu saja, sambil mengambil kembali kartu debit ”yang itu” dan mencegah si petugas menerima kartu kredit si Dia, dengan tegas kujawab, ”Oh, ga apa-apa. Bayarnya cash aja.” Dan untung bangetlah, saat itu uang tunai yang terselip di dalam dompetku yang mulai robek karena mulai uzur itu masih lebih dari mencukupi untuk melunasi transaksi semua buku tersebut (dan masih ada lebihannya untuk makan malam bareng Dia).

Setelah melunasi pembayaran, kami berdua pun melangkahkan kaki keluar dari aksara, dan aku setengah menulikan telinga dari beberapa pertanyaan bernada khawatir dari Dia terkait kondisi keuanganku sat itu.

Walk with pride, boy! Biarkan masalah hari ini menjadi masalah hari ini, dan yang besok pun demikian. Kurang lebih itulah salah satu kalimat bijak yang pernah kubaca di dalam kitab suci.

Pesan moral dari pengalaman memalukan ini adalah : ”Woy !! Ingat-ingat tuh Resolusi 2009 –mu !! Baru juga 3 minggu berlalu sejak Resolusi itu dibuat. Jangan sampai bikin malu lagi, ah !”



Friday, November 28, 2008

Ini yang Katanya Piawai ?



Kalau ditanya, pos belanja apa yang paling disesali dalam bulan ini, jawabanku bisa jadi adalah, mengeluarkan uang sebanyak Rp. 32.500,- untuk membeli “Telaga Fatamorgana”. Ini adalah sebuah buku yang berisikan himpunan cerita pendek karangan Happy Salma.

Kalau ditanya kenapa bisa membeli buku ini, jawabnya, adalah karena rasa penasaran sehabis baca blurb-nya. Plus, fakta bahwa buku kumpulan cerita pendek Nona Salma sebelum ini yang merupakan debutnya di ranah sastra Indonesia berhasil mengantarkannya menjadi nominator Khatulistiwa Literary Award untuk kategori Penulis Muda Berbakat.

Awalnya ketika membaca bagian kata pengantar yang dijuduli ‘Menulis Sebagai Hidup’, sempat terbersit rasa heran karena dengan jujur Nona Salma mengungkapkan bahwa ada beberapa judul cerpennya yang ditolak untuk diterbitkan oleh beberapa publikasi / majalah karena dinilai kurang sesuai dengan visi media yang bersangkutan.

Namun setelah membaca lebih dari separuh isi "Telaga Fatamorgana", yang muncul dalam pikiran justru pertanyaan, jangan-jangan tujuh cerita pendek pertama dari duabelas yang dikumpulkan dalam buku ini adalah rejected short stories, karena menurut hematku, sungguh tidak ada satu pun yang berkualitas baik untuk dipublikasikan bagi konsumsi publik literasi. Bingung rasanya mencari-cari dimana letak kepiawaian menulis seorang Nona Salma yang diklaim demikian di bagian belakang sampul buku himpunan ini.

Mau ga mau meskipun enggan terlihat seperti orang sinis dan / atau nyinyir, aku jadi sedikit curiga dan bertanya-tanya, apakah buku ini dinilai penerbitnya layak terbit menurut hitung-hitungan bisnis lebih karena faktor nama pengarangnya yang sudah dikenal khalayak luas semata?

Anda pun bisa turut menentukannya, karena dengan senang hati akan aku pinjamkan buku ini. Silahkan mendaftar dalam kolom yang tersedia.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

Bukan Kekasihku



Hari ini menandai telah 8 bulan kami saling bertemu secara eksklusif. Dan rahasia. Sifat yang disebut terakhir ini paling penting, karena kami memang perlu berupaya keras sedapat mungkin untuk mempertahankan hubungan ini tertutup, hanya diketahui oleh sesedikit mungkin orang.
Dan dari semua jenis orang yang menghirup udara kota ini, subspesies yang paling penting untuk dihindari adalah gerombolan manusia liar dengan tabiat cenderung brutal yang berani menamai diri wartawan infotainment.
“Cis! Berani-beraninya menyebut diri wartawan, padahal mereka tak mengerti apapun tentang kode etik jurnalisme!” demikian desisnya padaku suatu kali, ketika dalam satu kesempatan nyaris terpergok sedang berjalan bersama denganku.
Itulah sebabnya kami sekarang lebih ketat dalam mengatur pertemuan, harus selalu dengan pengaturan-pengaturan khusus. Tidak bisa langsung berjanji bertemu di satu tempat ketika ingin bersua.
Semua karena sosoknya yang terlalu banyak dikenali di kota ini. Padahal ia harus menjaga status sosialnya demi mempertahankan nama baik keluarga yang sudah terkemuka bahkan sejak bangsa ini belum merdeka. Sedangkan aku harus mempertahankan posisiku di perusahaan raksasa ini, yang terlanjur memanjakanku dengan terlalu banyak kenyamanan.
Aku sebenarnya benci bersandiwara, tak pernah kuanggap diriku bisa, tapi demi hubungan kami terjaga, harus kupaksa.
Itulah sebabnya setiap kali mendapatkan undangan untuk menghadiri acara-acara sosialita, harus kubertanya terlebih dulu padanya. Barangkali saja dia akan turut hadir di sana.
Kami sama-sama menyadari, keberadaan kami dalam rentangan jarak yang terlalu dekat bisa jadi berbahaya. Karena kedua tubuh kami bagaikan dua kutub magnet berbeda, yang dengan kekuatan luar biasa akan saling tarik, ingin menyatukan diri bersama. Daripada tertangkap basah sedang bercumbu di sudut-sudut gelap dan tersembunyi yang seringkali susah menemukannya, lebih baik kami saling menghindar, menahan dorongan jasmani.
Itulah sebabnya sekarang kami lebih akrab dengan sudut-sudut tua dan kelam kota ini, yang lebih menjamin reklusifitas bila dibandingkan dengan klab malam manapun di Selatan.
“Sampai kapan sih kita harus begini terus?”, pernah kubertanya saat ia masih dalam pelukanku. Buliran keringat yang tadinya membasahi punggungnya belum kering benar.
“Sampai aku mengatakan, ‘This is it. This is our time.’” sahutnya dengan suara pelan sedikit mendesah.
Aku tahu dia pasti sudah setengah jalan menuju kelelapan tidur. Tak apa, aku suka memeluknya saat ia tidur. Kulitnya lembut dan rambutnya selalu wangi terjaga. Mengantarkanku sendiri kepada nyenyak. Setiap kali usai bercinta dengannya, aku selalu bisa terlelap dengan mudah, dan mendapatkan mimpi indah. Sayang sekali waktu semacam ini tidak pernah bisa kami nikmati lebih lama daripada satu malam dalam setiap pertemuan.
Karena ia harus menjaga status sosialnya, dan aku dengan posisi di perusahaan multinasional itu.
Hidup lebih sering tidak bisa memberikan segala hal yang kamu inginkan.

Friday, September 5, 2008

The Strangest Christmas Present Ever



“Have you read that book I gave you as Christmas present?”

He suddenly popped up in a Messenger window that afternoon and asked me that question.

Having procrastinating since that morning, I very much welcomed this chance to busy myself.
My hands hurriedly typed answer:
“Nope. Haven’t even started yet. Am quite busy these days.” An easy automatic lie.
“Besides, I’m still on the first chapters of Midnight Children. Which I think is far more interesting.”
I knew exactly this excuse would hurt his feeling a bit, knowing how sensitive he is.

“Oh, okay.”
“But, tell me, why? Don’t you like that book?”
It was so him. Stubborn and tends to keep on insisting others to do things like the way he told them to do. Probably because of his upbringing as the last kid in his family.

“It’s not like that. It’s just that I already started reading Midnight Children before you gave me that Persian novel.”
My fingers just couldn’t stop typing letters. “Oh and furthermore ...” Then I stopped.

I was curious.
What if I told him that I found it very silly to give someone a novel – written by some author who was hardly familiar in literary world – which story was set in the earliest stage of Iran’s Islamic revolution, as a CHRISTMAS present?
Would he be mad at me?

Hmm, I didn’t think so.

“Yes? What’re you’re trying to say?”

Oh, be careful in responding this tricky situation, my mind warned me. Otherwise, he’d keep on asking you whether you already read that novel or not for these coming months. Each and everytime he sees you online in Messenger.

“Furthermore, I have these books which I already bought years before and until today still sit in my bookshelf, in their original wrapping.”
“I think it’s fair enough if I finished them all first, and then read yours.” Another lie.

I don’t know whether these books have feelings and care which one amongst them would get the chance to be read first. I just hoped he’d buy this rationale.

“Oh, ok. I see.”
“Just let me know when you finally read it, and whether you like it or not. Will you?”

Hah?! I couldn’t believe it! He trusted that answer. Thankfully, so I could stop lying to him, at least for that moment.

“Of course. I will.” This was, of course, not a lie.

* * *

What you’ve just read was a reenactment of a chat that happened one afternoon, almost three years ago.

And from that said afternoon until this very moment, I bought dozens other titles. Most of them are, obviously, fictions, and was written by European or American author. I did make some exceptions, though.
They are Marjane Satrapi’s Persepolis and Embroideries, some kind of semi-autobiographies that dealt mostly with women’s rights, (Western/liberal) democracy vs. sharia/Islamic rules, and Iran vs. the rest of the world; Arundhati Roy’s first and only novel, The Gods of Small Things that shocked me with it’s brutal honesty; also Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner which touched my soft spots.

Because honestly, before these, I never really had the slightest interest in reading stories about Persian and Arab countries. They’re just not written for me. (Note: Roy, as I believe you all know, is an Indian author).

As for now, if you’re still curious what I have done to that strangest Christmas present ever, well, it is now buried deep behind other thick novels in my bookshelves, its pages became yellowish and dusty. Perhaps I should just pass it on to others years ago, as a gift. Don’t you think?

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

A Little Extra Attention is Very O.K. !

Menjelang ulang-tahunku yang ke … - hmm, sebaiknya tidak perlu disebutkan di sini biar tetap (berkesan sok) misterius – di awal tahun ini, beberapa orang menyempatkan diri untuk bertanya apa yang kuinginkan sebagai hadiah.

Secara bercanda kukatakan bahwa sayang sekali aku bukanlah anggota keluarga kerajaan Inggris Raya, karena kalau iya, aku tentu akan memberikan mereka daftar hadiah-hadiah yang diinginkan untuk merayakan ulang-tahunku, sort of my wishlist.
Waktu didesak lebih lanjut, kukatakan pada mereka bahwa aku menerima hadiah apa saja. Seikhlas orang yang mau memberi.

Kecuali pada R. Waktu dia menelpon untuk bertanya hadiah ulang tahun macam apa yang kuinginkan kali ini, secara jujur terbuka dan apa adanya kuceritakan padanya bahwa waktu lagi mengantarkan teman-teman perempuan berburu baju-baju murah meriah di ITC beberapa waktu lalu, aku sempat melihat boneka beruang lucu. Bentuknya sangat sederhana dan dibuat dari bahan kain berwarna coklat susu, dengan motif daun dan bunga yang seakan memberikan aksen pada kulitnya. Tangan dan kakinya bisa digerakkan 360° karena dihubungkan ke tubuh boneka dengan semacam engsel yang dibuat dari benda yang mirip potongan batok kelapa berukuran sebesar koin 100 rupiah lama. Untuk boneka beruang berukuran sedang, harganya hanya 80 ribu perak dan itupun kemungkinan besar masih bisa ditawar.
Waktu itu meskipun kepengen banget, tapi aku malu membelinya untuk diri sendiri. Sebab perempuan-perempuan itu pastinya akan bertanya-tanya untuk siapa boneka beruang lucu itu kubelikan. Karena mereka tahu saat itu aku sedang tidak berhubungan asmara dengan siapapun yang rasanya pantas diberi hadiah selucu dan menggemaskan itu.
Jadilah hanya kepada R aku mengadu. Loh, kok kedengarannya jadi seperti lirik lagu cengeng ya? Anyway, dia berjanji akan mencoba melakukan apapun yang dia bisa. Maklumlah, dia kan tidak tinggal di negara ini.

Haha! Aku pasti terdengar sangat konyol ya, menceritakan hal sesepele itu kepada orang lain.
Sebenarnya aku pengennya ada orang yang begitu baiknya kepadaku lalu memberikan hadiah laptop canggih dan keren, serta harus enteng sehingga bisa gampang masuk tas dan dibawa kemana-mana. Seperti yang diterima Sarah Sechan sebagai hadiah ulang-tahun. Tapi itu tentu tidak bisa dicontoh apalagi diharapkan. Soalnya yang memberikan hadiah itu kepadanya adalah ... suaminya sendiri! Hehehe ...

Lalu seorang kolega bertanya, hadiah macam apa yang kumau untuk ulang-tahunku kali ini. Mungkin dia masih merasa tidak enak karena beberapa waktu sebelumnya aku memberikan hadiah buku ensiklopedi untuk anaknya yang masih kecil. Harganya sih memang beberapa ratus ribu. Waktu itu kupikir harga hadiah dariku barangkali tidak akan semahal hadiah dari orang-orang lain. Sampai waktu acara ulang tahun si bocah, ternyata ... well. Ya gitu deh.
Bukannya mau sombong sih di sini, dan memang tidak pada tempatnya juga mengungkit-ungkit harga hadiah yang kita berikan untuk orang lain. Itu tidak pada tempatnya, dan artinya ga ikhlas juga memberi. Setidaknya itulah pendapatku pribadi.
Kembali ke cerita, akhirnya si ibu ini bercerita, sehari sebelumnya saat dia sedang berada di aksara Kemang, dia teringat untuk membelikan hadiah buku untukku. Biar lebih gampang aja, katanya. Namun kemudian saat keluar toko, ternyata dia batal membeli apapun.
Karena saat melihat deretan rak penuh berisi buku, dia malah jadi bingung sendiri dan takut malah membelikan buku yang aku tidak suka atau malah sudah punya atau sudah baca.
Lalu kukatakan padanya, harusnya lihat dari account goodreads-ku saja. Di situ aku membuat satu shelf – istilah mereka untuk pengklasifikasian buku sesuka hati menurut selera si pemilik akun – khusus berjudul ”wishlist”.




Tinggal buka section itu dan, voila! Terbukalah di hadapannya alternatif hadiah yang kuinginkan. tinggal pilih apa judulnya. Karena memang semuanya buku.
Tapi tentu saja buat kolegaku ini, usulanku itu sama sekali tidak praktis.
Lantas yang dilakukannya adalah menggratiskan celana panjang khaki yang tempo hari dia jahitkan untukku. Lumayan banget, secara waktu itu dia bilang harganya, termasuk bahan, kurang-lebih 175 ribu. Padahal itu celana sudah jadi dan kupakai sejak sekitar 3 bulan sebelumnya. Aku sih hepi-hepi saja diberi celana panjang gratis dan bagus pula. Ha! Ha! Orang yang ga mau rugi banget ya.

Tapi sebenarnya untuk yang beginian aku paling sering merasa parno sendiri. Seringkali merasa ga enakan. Dan takut kalau sampai dicap matre gara-gara pengennya dapat hadiah-hadiah mahal.
Padahal, kenyataannya aku paling jarang menilai hadiah dari price tag nya. Hampir selalu memberikan perhatian lebih besar pada keunikan dan manfaat hadiah tersebut. Serta niat yang memberi. Semakin tulus dan tanpa dikaitkan dengan maksud-maksud terselubung, semakin baik. Karena siapa sih orang yang tidak senang mendapatkan perhatian dari orang lain?
Seperti hadiah tote bag bergambar spaniard dari Indra yang dibelinya di Bangkok. Dia cuma bilang harganya murah tanpa menjadi lebih spesifik. Dan kuingat waktu itu dia agak malu dan sedikit ragu pas memberikannya. Barangkali dia pikir aku akan kecewa diberi oleh-oleh seperti itu. Tapi dia salah besar, karena aku suka. Simpel dan unik. Just like me. *wink!*

Friday, May 23, 2008

The Constant Gardener: Reviewed.




It was said that, from the onset of the first pages of John le Carrรฉ’s The Constant Gardener, experienced readers would know that they are in the familiar and always capable hands of le Carrรฉ. But being a new kid in the vast knowledgeable creative mind of Mr. le Carrรฉ’s, I tend to sort of making this one particular novel as my introduction to his many works. The reason why I chose The Constant Gardener which got mixed reviews was that I was very much impressed when watching the movie adaptation back in 2005, my last ‘date’ with Nina before she went on and married to another fellow M.D. and moved out of this country. But that, of course, is a wholly irrelevant story.

The Constant Gardener begins with a crisis when news of the violent murder of Tessa Quayle, a young and beautiful white relief worker in East Africa, reaches the assorted bureaucrats and spies who populate the British High Commission in Nairobi, Kenya, where Tessa’s husband, Justin, works as midlevel diplomat.

At first, her death appears to be one of those embarrassing incidents that governments involved, especially the British, hate to have happen in foreign countries. It’s scandalous. Just like the death of former British Airways’ cabin crew Lucie Blackman. Even though of course, Ms. Blackman was actually a real-life person.

Tessa was known for her radical views and involuntariness to muffle her idealism and outspokenness. At the time of her tragic death, while she was up-country near the boundary with Sudan, she had been traveling with a handsome black Congolese-descendant Belgian-citizen doctor who was widely assumed to be her secret lover, and who has inexplicably vanished from the jeep in which her naked, beaten and severed body was found.

Justin Quayle, her husband, an efficient, very polite and by-the-book Englishman then returns to Britain, looking to all the world like a beaten-down loser, a gray man who has been effectively widowed twice, the first time when he lost his wife's love and was too polite, and repressed, to understand why or even to admit it.

But this is le Carrรฉ, who oftentimes compared with Tom Clancy, and of course his readers should expect more of things to come. And their expectations, of course, contented. Things were really not as they seemed to be.

For Justin Quayle, of whom the title character – the constant gardener – derived from, it seems everything ends when he buried his wife on the graveyard near Kibera slum.

It turns out; this is actually the part where le Carrรฉ shifts this novel’s perspective, from Sandy Woodrow’s, the head of the chancery, to Justin, the first secretary cum gardening aficionado, just after about a hundred or so pages. For impatient readers, they’d probably stop reading this novel already. Their loss.

As controversies begin to loom about what Tessa was actually doing exactly in Nairobi, and how it fits in with a powerful pharmaceutical company heavily connected to a number of overtly and covertly corrupt governments in Africa and the West, Justin went AWOL from Her Majesty’s Foreign Service, defied his old-fashioned Etonian background and eventually goes on a crusade in such chivalrous quest for the truth, also to avenge his wife’s death.

This novel is dense and finely plotted and nourished with examinations of how things like loyalty, honesty, self-preservation, and memory, can become murkier the deeper you get entangled in something bigger than yourself. This was clearly depicted in the character of Sandy Woodrow, whom loyalties conflicted as the plot entwined yet unraveled at the same time. It also holds its own because of John le Carrรฉ’s deeply felt assurance and passion about the sins perpetrated by drug companies on developing countries.

However, the biggest significant problem about The Constant Gardener is that le Carrรฉ gives his game away too early. Somewhere in the first third part, the mystery surrounding Tessa’s death is solved. So does other related mysteries: the death and disappearance of the poor African woman and her brother whom Tessa befriended, the three white doctors in the maternity clinic, even the identity of the bad guys and their collaborators. Those, of course, immediately rob the rest of the book from the sort of suspense that can make this work, otherwise, so masterful. It is never a moment in this novel where its reader learns something that wholly changes the course of the book and quite literally takes their breaths away.

And as the last (random) thought, being a self-proclaimed kitschy sentimental person, I found the ending was as much heartbreaking as it was almost unbearably moving. The kind of ending that will leave you astounded. Guaranteed.


Monday, May 19, 2008

Please, Sir, I Don't Understand Your English



what have I done to have been given children like these Benjamin was punishment enough and now for her to have no more regard for me her own mother I’ve suffered for her dreamed and planned and sacrificed I went down into the valley yet never since she opened her eyes has she given me one unselfish thought at times I look at her I wonder if she can be my child except Jason he has never given me one moment’s sorrow since I first held him in my arms I knew then that he was to be my joy and my salvation I thought that Benjamin was punishment enough for any sins I have committed I thought he was my punishment for putting aside my pride and marrying a man who held himself above me I don’t complain I loved him above all of them because of it because my duty though Jason pulling at my heart all the while but I see now that I have not suffered enough I see now that I must pay for your sins as well as mine what have you done what sins have your high and mighty people visited upon me but you’ll take up for them you always have found excuses for your own blood only Jason can do wrong because he is more Bascomb than Compson while your own daughter my little daughter my baby girl she is she is no better than that when I was a girl I was unfortunate I was only a Bascomb I was taught that there is no half-way ground that a woman is either a lady or not but I never dreamed when I held her in my arms that any daughter of mine could let herself don’t you know I can look at her eyes and tell you may think she’d tell you but she doesn’t tell things she is secretive you don’t know her I know things she’s done that I’d die before I’d have you know that’s it go on criticize Jason accuse me of setting him to watch her as if it were a crime while your own daughter can I know you don’t love him that you wish to believe faults against him you never have yes ridicule him as you always have Maury you cannot hurt me any more than your children already have and then I’ll be gone and Jason with no one to love him shield him from this I look at him every day dreading to see this Compson blood beginning to show in him at last with his sister slipping out to see what do you call it then have you ever laid eyes on him will you even let me try to find out who he is it’s not for myself I couldn’t bear to see him it’s for your sake to protect you but who can fight against bad blood you won’t let me try we are to sit back with our hands folded while she not only drags your name in the dirt but corrupts the very air your children breathe Jason you must let me go away I cannot stand it let me have Jason and you keep the others they’re not my flesh and blood like he is strangers nothing of mine and I am afraid of them I can take Jason and go where we are not known I’ll go down on my knees and pray for the absolution of my sins that he may escape this curse try to forget that the others ever were



No, I was not mumbling up there.

And for your information, it was not actually mine either.
The so-called mumbling above originally comes from William Faulkner’s The Sound and The Fury.
And yes, that passage above was coming from inside the mind of a particular character, of whom I can barely recall now.

All I wanted to convey is that if you have trouble in understanding the above passage and subsequently failed to finish reading it, so did I.
And it turned out, so did with many others, which are actually Mr. Faulkner’s fellow American writers.

And they said once that Ulysses written by James Joyce was one of the toughest read in the history of modern English literature. D’oh!

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

When in Doubt

"Doubt is useful for a while. We must all pass through the garden of Gethsemane, if Christ played with doubt, so must we. If Christ spent an anguish night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."



- a reminder quotation from Yann Martel's award-winning novel, Life of Pi, which I finished reading on December 2004 -

Thursday, November 1, 2007

Silly Guy


You know how much I’m in love with you, you silly guy
Anyone can see it, for it becomes too apparent in their eyes

But now I wonder what is it with you, you silly guy
I can feel your heart beating peculiarly fast in this chance meeting

Do you want me to take these all away, you silly guy?
Let’s not be so sure because even though I do it now, still we have it all later in the end

You know too well I’m not an optimistic person, you silly guy
But when I find you here in this place I feel this is where I belong

In the place where we know the bond between us will make us prevail
You and I both, two silly guys

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

The Lottery

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2nd. But in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. And their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather. Surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business. And people were sorry for him because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks."

The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool. And when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves' barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans. With one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.

Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on. "And then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you Joe?" and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"

"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."

Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"

"Me. I guess," a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

"Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."

"Right," Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said, "I m drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."

"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"

"Here," a voice said and Mr. Summers nodded.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. Wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.

"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."

"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more," Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row.

"Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."

"Time sure goes fast,” Mrs. Graves said.

"Clark.... Delacroix"

"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said. "Go on, Janey," and another said, "There she goes."

"We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand and turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

"Harburt.... Hutchinson."

"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said and the people near her laughed.

"Jones."

"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."

Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."

"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.

"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."

"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."

"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."

"They're almost through," her son said.

"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."

"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."

"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."

"Zanini."

After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, "Who is it?" "Who's got it?" "Is it the Dunbars?" "Is it the Watsons?" Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."

"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers. "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"

"Be a good sport, Tessie," Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."

"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.

"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. “Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"

"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"

"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."

"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.

"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."

"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"

"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.

"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.

"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.

"There's Bill Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."

"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."

"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. And Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.

"Remember," Mr. Summers said, "Take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy." Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out. "Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."

"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill Jr.. opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper, Bill."

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up and there was a stir in the crowd.

"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box.

Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. "Come on," she said. "Hurry up."

Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands and she said, gasping for breath, "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."

The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.




{ It was an article written by Chuck Palahniuk in The Guardian Unlimited that evoked my curiosity to find this short story he mentioned as the primary example for his 'cycle of horror' model theory. "The Lottery", and some other great American short stories, that is posted above can be found here }

Friday, October 5, 2007

Titi Nginung dan Nostalgia Piala Dunia

Bermula ketika aku menyaksikan partai perdelapan final antara Italia melawan Korea Selatan di putaran final Piala Dunia 2002. Kagum rasanya melihat permainan cantik tim Italia yang berusaha tanpa henti menggedor pertahanan tim Korea Selatan yang stamina para pemainnya pantas diacungi jempol. Meskipun ada sedikit rasa kecewa melihat kasarnya performance para pemain Korea Selatan, yang bisa jadi disebabkan oleh tekanan mental dari para supporternya plus tekanan sebagai tim tuan rumah. Wasit yang memimpin permainan pun rasa-rasanya ikut bertindak kurang adil dengan cenderung memihak pada tim tuan rumah.

Saat menyaksikan papan elektronik pergantian pemain yang diacungkan oleh salah satu ofisial untuk memberitahukan kepada wasit ketua bahwa Del Piero ditarik keluar dari lapangan, tiba-tiba terlintas dalam benakku sederet angka : 22-1-19. Kira-kira deretan angka apa ya?

Yap! Aku ingat sekarang.
Bukan, deretan angka itu tidak ada kaitannya dengan judi togel yang angka kemujurannya ditentukan dari Singapura.

Deretan angka itu mengingatkanku pada sebuah novel olahraga yang sangat menarik karya seorang penulis bernama unik, Titi Nginung. Novel yang kupinjam dari perpustakaan distrik dan kubaca ulang hingga lima kali (!!!) selama 3 tahun masa SMP. Novel yang membuatku sangat penasaran untuk mencari tahu karya lainnya dari mba’ Titi. Sayangnya, saat itu tak kutemukan satupun karyanya yang lain di deretan buku kategori bacaan anak dan remaja.
Tapi aku ingat novel Opera Jakarta yang pernah diterbitkan secara berseri oleh harian Kompas, dan resensi adaptasi filmnya sempat kubaca dari majalah Hai zaman baheula, saat isi Hai masih lebih berbobot dan jauh lebih ilmiah daripada yang sekarang.

22-1-19.
Saat aku membacanya untuk pertama kali, entah mengapa aku merasa ’terguncang’. Dan sempat sampai sangat mempercayai isi novel itu sungguh-sungguh terjadi. Bahwa semua hal yang disebut di dalam novel tersebut dapat (atau bahkan sudah pernah) terjadi dalam dunia olahraga Indonesia. Novel ini sungguh-sungguh mengaduk-aduk perasaanku.

Namun pada saat itu aku belum diizinkan membaca Opera Jakarta karena kata kakak-kakakku yang hobi membaca dan kemudian ’menghasut’ ibuku agar melarangku untuk membacanya, isi cerita yang terkandung di dalam Opera Jakarta itu tidak layak kubaca sebelum dewasa. Sebelum aku mencapai 17 plus.
Jadilah aku cuma bisa membaca 22-1-19: lagi dan lagi dan lagi.
Dan semakin pula aku terpesona pada gaya bahasanya, caranya bertutur, dan ’kejujuran’-nya (atau barangkali lebih tepat: ”keliaran” imajinasinya).

Rasa penasaranku diperberat oleh kemisteriusan sosok seorang Titi Nginung, yang di dalam pengantar novel terbitan Gramedia tersebut, identitasnya dirahasiakan. Menjadi sangat samar.

Hingga di awal dekade 1990-an, aku mendengar selentingan kabar mengecewakan dari kakakku bahwa Titi Nginung di-’breidel’. Katanya karena ada permintaan tidak resmi dari salah satu institusi pemerintah negeri ini. Titi dilarang berkarya lagi. Buku-bukunya tidak lagi diberi izin untuk dicetak, meskipun tidak berarti lantas harus ditarik oleh Gramedia dari pasar.

Aku masih ingat bahwa saat itu merasa sangat kecewa, karena hanya sempat membaca 22-1-19.

Hingga kemudian satu hari aku menemukan Opera Bulutangkis di salah satu rak di perpustakaan SMU-ku, tertumpuk di antara deretan buku menguning dan berdebu dalam rak di pojokan yang mendapat status tidak resmi: ”buku tidak laku”. Novel tersebut di-display bersama sejumlah buku yang saat itu (hingga kini) menjadi bagian dari sejarah terlupakan dalam khazanah sastra Indonesia.
Mungkin sekarang kalau diingat-ingat lagi, rasanya berlebihan. Tapi saat aku menemukan buku itu, rasanya begitu penuh semangat yang meluap-luap.
Saat itu juga buku itu kubawa ke counter untuk dicap. Dipinjam. Pertama kalinya setelah hampir lima tahun! Demikian yang sempat kuperhatikan dari stempel penanggalannya.

Setibanya di kamar siang itu, buku itu langsung kubaca dengan penuh perhatian. Nikmat rasanya. Kedengarannya aneh? Memang.
Seluruh perhatianku benar-benar tertumpah pada buku itu sejak kubaca baris pertama. Konsentrasiku tersedot. Dan jantungku terus berdebar membaca petualangan si tokoh utama yang orang Jawa dengan nama yang tidak kalah uniknya dari nama si pengarang: Bajang Kirek. Nama yang eksotis. Meski sebenarnya dikisahkan pemberian nama unik tersebut berkaitan erat dengan latar belakangnya sebagai seorang putra Jawa yang dibuang oleh keluarganya.

Imajinasiku melayang, mencoba mempersonifikasikan seperti apa kiranya sosok Bajang Kirek dalam kehidupan nyata.
Ah, barangkali dia seperti Icuk Sugiarto di tahun delapanpuluhan. Atau Joko Suprianto. Karena saat itu, tahun 1995, mas Joko sedang berjaya sebagai pemain top Indonesia. Dan di tingkat dunia.
Di mataku, sosoknya tampak begitu sesuai dengan karakterisasi fisik si jagoan bulutangkis dalam Opera Bulutangkis. Orang Jawa dengan prinsip hidup yang kuat. Dan sama sekali tidak ganteng :-P

Berdebar sungguh jantungku (swear! ini beneran!) membaca pertarungan antara ”Mas Joko” melawan si Super Robot yang diciptakan dan didesain agar menjadi jago bulutangkis nomor satu dunia.
Yang di kemudian hari membuatku berpikir bahwa Titi Nginung justru seakan-akan telah meramalkan pertarungan serupa antara Deep Blue melawan Garry Kasparov. Sekian tahun sebelum peristiwa bersejarah itu benar-benar terjadi di dunia olahraga catur.
Kagum, begitu maju dan ’liar’-nya imajinasi seorang Titi.

Sekian tahun berselang dan kini, di tahun 2002, kembali nama Titi Nginung mencuat dalam memoriku. Diiringi serangkaian pertanyaan mengganggu :
Siapakah sebenarnya Titi Nginung?
Mengapa hanya sedikit novel yang ditulisnya?
Benarkah isu bahwa dia di-’breidel’?
Mengapa karya tulisnya tidak pernah diterbitkan lagi?
Di manakah bisa kudapatkan novel Opera Jakarta?

Dan ...
Apakah dia masih hidup?




{ Artikel orisinil Titi Nginung dan Nostalgia Piala Dunia pertamakali dipublikasikan online pada tanggal 24 Oktober 2002 di situs Penerbit yang kini sudah tidak aktif. Setelah artikel tersebut ’terbit’, barulah beberapa penggemar buku menginformasikan kepadaku bahwa sebenarnya Titi Nginung adalah nama pena dari Arswendo Atmowiloto }

Monday, September 24, 2007

Whatever Happened to The English Patient ?



After spending more than three years struggling, reading and re-reading the so-called sophisticated level of English using in the award-winning critically-acclaimed The English Patient novel written by Michael Ondaatje given by my friend Astrid Reza Widjaja who brought it straight from Melbourne, which I started reading on Easter of 2002, I proudly claimed that I finally finished with it on May 2005 (since many people found it as a tough-read).

There was still one thing that really confused me after finished reading the final chapter.
I know that Kirpal Singh a.k.a Kip the sapper went back to India after the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and then married with two children, while Hana the nurse went back to Toronto after the war and live sadly by herself, nothing mentioned on the fate of Caravaggio the thief-cum-spy; but what bothered me much was that there wasn't any explanation available about the nameless-burned English-accented man (which was why he was known to others as the English Patient), even though the main character in that novel is supposed to be him.

The movie, which adapted from the novel by the gifted director/scriptwriter Anthony Minghella, showed us that Hana killed Almasy by overdosing him with morphine, which was actually requested by him (i.e. euthanasia). But there was nothing about (or similar to) it mentioned in the novel.

Was Mr. Minghella took the liberty from Mr. Ondaatje to explain some things that were not explained in his book?

All I know is that Mr. Ondaatje didn’t mind with that other ending version since I once searched all over the web to find any objection of Mr. Minghella’s twisted plot, and found none.

Maybe Hana, Kip and Caravaggio abandoned the paralysed Almasy by himself lying on his death-bed inside Vila San Girolamo ...

Maybe the Allied troops had taken over the English patient into their custody, and there he was in The Hague, waiting for his trial as a war-criminal ...

Or maybe, just like the suggested movie-plot, Hana did help Almasy committed euthanasia ...