Tag: cerpen

Jangan Menulis di Majalah Kartini

Keinginan untuk menuliskan hal ini sebenarnya sudah ada sejak lama. Sengaja saya tunda-tunda dengan beberapa pertimbangan. Salah satunya adalah menunggu itikad baik dari salah satu majalah wanita paling tersohor di Indonesia itu.

Tapi setelah menunggu tiga tahun lebih (iya tiga tahun, Anda tidak salah baca 🙂 ), dan tak kunjung ada respon ataupun tindak lanjut dari pihak mereka, saya rasa saya tak perlu menunda-nunda lagi.

Jadi ceritanya, tahun 2017 silam, saya mengirim cerita pendek (cerpen) saya yang berjudul “Usai Kopi Ketiga Puluh” ke Majalah Kartini. Pihak redaksi membalas email saya dan menyampaikan bahwa cerpen saya akan dimuat tapi meminta ending-nya diubah sedikit. Saya menuruti permintaan tersebut dan jadilah cerpen saya dimuat di Majalah Kartini Edisi 2446 yang terbit awal April 2017.

Setahun kemudian, di bulan April juga, cerpen saya yang lain, “Salju Turun Sedikit Terlambat”, kembali dimuat di Majalah Kartini Edisi 2471. Lalu di bulan November 2018, giliran cerita bersambung (cerber) saya “Klub LDR” yang dimuat di Majalah Kartini (empat edisi berturut-turut).

Sayangnya, dari tiga karya tersebut, tidak satupun yang sudah dibayarkan honornya sampai sekarang.

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Hayu Hamemayu6 Comments

Angin Musim Gugur di Dobutsuen-Mae*

*Salah satu cerpen dalam buku kumpulan cerpen Siklus Cinta (2016) karya saya dan Tietha Birgitta. Bagi yang berminat, kumpulan cerpen ini bisa dibeli di Poyeng Hobby di Jogja dan Tobucil di Bandung.

Perempuan dalam kotak suara memberikan pengumuman dalam bahasa Jepang yang hanya bisa kupahami sepatah-patah. Meski sudah tiga bulan aku di sini, kemampuan bahasa Jepangku masih sangat pas-pasan, kalau tidak mau menyebutnya parah. Aku masih saja lebih sering menggunakan Bahasa Inggris yang memang jauh lebih kukuasai. Bahkan di tempat kerja pun. Aku mencampuradukkan bahasa Jepang dan Inggris sesukaku.

Tapi anehnya, tidak ada kendala berarti yang kualami di sini. Tidak di kantor. Tidak juga di lingkungan tempatku tinggal. Aku dan orang Jepang di sini berkomunikasi dengan baik-baik saja. Pada akhirnya, kupikir bahasa hanyalah sebatas alat. Pemahaman manusia jauh melampaui itu semua. Buktinya, aku masih bisa bertahan di Osaka dengan berbekal pengetahuan standar seperti “arigato”, “sumimasen” dan kata-kata sederhana lainnya.

Setengah menggigil, kurapatkan jaket berwarna pink yang tengah kukenakan. Stasiun-stasiun kereta bawah tanah di Osaka bisa jadi sangat berangin menjelang musim dingin seperti ini. Di dalam kereta terasa sangat nyaman karena semua tempat duduk dilengkapi penghangat. Tapi di peron, dinginnya bisa menusuk hingga tulang. Apalagi kalau berdiri di dekat lorong stasiun. Persis seperti yang sekarang ini kulakukan.

Tapi aku punya alasan khusus kenapa memilih menunggu di dekat lorong meski harus menahan dingin seperti ini.

Karena hanya dengan berdiri seperti inilah aku bisa selalu melihat laki-laki itu. Laki-laki yang sudah kutemui sejak pertama kali aku berangkat kerja dari Stasiun Dobutsuen-Mae ini. Laki-laki yang tidak sengaja bertubrukan denganku saat aku kebingungan mencari jalur kereta di hari-hari awalku di sini. Laki-laki yang membantuku merapikan berkas-berkas yang berserakan gara-gara bertubrukan dengannya. Waktu itu, komunikasi kami hanya sebatas senyum maklum darinya dan aku yang mengulang-ngulang kata “sorry” dan “thank you”. Aku tidak pernah mengira bahwa sejak hari itu, laki-laki ini akan selalu “ada” dalam keseharianku di Osaka.

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Salju Turun Sedikit Terlambat*

*dimuat di Majalah Kartini edisi Maret – April 2018

Tak seperti orang Indonesia pada umumnya yang memuja musim panas dan matahari, aku begitu memuja musim dingin. Terutama saat-saat ketika salju turun dan membentuk hamparan karpet putih sejauh mata memandang. Aku tak bisa tidak jatuh cinta. Salju telah menjelma irama batin yang kurindu saban waktu. Salju tak ubahnya penanda kebahagiaan untukku. Mungkin karena salju memunculkan perasaan romantis. Mungkin karena musim dingin seperti lagu sendu yang tak bosan kuputar berulang-ulang.

Mungkin juga karena salju menjadi saksi kencan pertama kita setahun lalu. Kencan pertama penuh drama karena diawali dengan serangkaian proses panjang yang tidak mudah. Satu kencan di mana kita duduk berdua, bergenggaman tangan, melihat salju turun pelan-pelan dari balik kaca jendela. Atau mungkin karena kamu pernah berjanji, bahwa ketika salju mulai menebal tahun ini, kita akan merayakan setahun kebersamaan kita dengan melihat aurora, salah satu fenomena alam yang paling ingin kulihat dalam hidupku. Dan kamu tahu persis akan hal itu.

Sayangnya, salju turun sedikit terlambat tahun ini. Biasanya, di awal-awal November salju sudah mulai turun. Sedikit. Lalu menebal di bulan Desember dan Januari. Tapi tahun ini, Desember sudah mau habis dan salju masih turun malu-malu. Hanya satu dua, itupun segera meleleh dan tak bertahan lama. Jangankan karpet putih sejauh mata memandang, serpihan-serpihan salju di ranting-ranting pohonpun tak tampak di depanku. Orang bilang ini semua karena perubahan iklim. Karena pergeseran musim akibat bumi yang semakin panas. Aku percaya mereka benar. Tapi selain itu, secara pribadi, aku merasa salju terlambat turun karena menunggumu. Entah mengapa aku yakin, apapun yang membuat salju tak kunjung menebal akhir-akhir ini, salah satunya pasti karena kamu.

Iya, kamu.

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Penjual Bunga di Clemenstorget*

*dimuat di Media Indonesia, 3 Desember 2017

“Hhhh hhhh hhhh,” aku berlari terengah-engah menuju tempat pemberhentian bus. Dan saat itulah lagi-lagi aku melihat dia. Dia yang selalu tersenyum setiap kali mata kami bertemu. Dia yang selalu menyapa “hej hej [1]” setiap pagi saat aku terburu-buru mengejar bus dan melewati kiosnya. Begitu terus setiap hari. Tak peduli aku balas tersenyum atau tidak. Tak peduli aku membalas sapaannya atau tidak. Awalnya aku risih. Aku tak merasa mengenalnya. Tapi lama-lama aku terbiasa. Dan sekarang senyum dan sapaannya sudah menjadi bagian dari keseharianku.

Dialah salah satu dari dua penjual bunga yang ada di Clemenstorget. Kiosnya berada lebih dekat dengan jalan raya. Karena itu jadi lebih sering kulewati daripada kios yang satunya. Aku tak pernah tahu siapa namanya atau kapan dan dari mana dia datang. Setiap kali aku melewati area itu untuk berangkat kerja, dia sudah duduk manis di belakang puluhan ember berisi bunga-bunga segar. Kadang mawar. Kadang lili. Kadang tulip. Tergantung musim. Dia juga masih duduk di situ ketika aku pulang. Kadang bunga yang dijualnya tak banyak bersisa. Kadang ember-ember berisi bunga itu tampak tak mengalami banyak perubahan. Dia tetap berjualan ketika salju atau hujan turun. Juga ketika angin bertiup kencang mengacak-acak tenda kiosnya. Dia tetap duduk di sana. Tersenyum manis dan menyapa “hej hej.”

Menurutku dia sudah berjualan di Clemenstorget sejak lama. Minimal dia sudah ada di sini saat aku pindah enam bulan lalu. Kalau dilihat dari perawakan dan penampilannya yang khas (dia selalu mengenakan tutup kepala warna biru), aku menebak dia orang Roma, yang memang cukup banyak jumlahnya di sini. Aku sendiri belum pernah membeli bunga darinya. Aku tak merasa perlu menaruh bunga di apartemenku. Demi apa? Aku toh bukan penggemar bunga juga. Membeli bunga tidak pernah menjadi prioritasku.

Ketidaksukaanku pada bunga barangkali sedikit banyak dipengaruhi oleh karakter dasarku yang tidak hangat. Selama ini aku memang dikenal sebagai “si dingin”. Aku tak mudah bergaul. Cenderung penyendiri. Sinis pada banyak hal. Aku juga tak pandai mengekspresikan perasaan. “Your face needs deliverance,” kata seorang rekan padaku suatu ketika. Aku bukan tipe orang yang murah senyum. Apalagi ramah dan suka menyapa. Sama sekali tidak seperti si penjual bunga itu.

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The Old Man*

Have you called your parents today?

*Published in The Jakarta Post, October 9, 2017

I glanced at my phone. Two missed calls. The clock showed it was 2 a.m. Yet, I was barely able to sleep — thanks to the old man who lived in apartment 1401 on the 5th floor. An apartment opposite my building whose windows weren’t curtained and faced right onto my apartment.

Every 2 a.m. until sunrise, that old man would turn on his ridiculously bright lamp. He had been doing that for a week now. I was unable to get to sleep after working at night. Or suddenly it would disturb my sleep.

I tried to put up a curtain, but it didn’t work. The light was too bright. It shone through my apartment window and reached my bed. To make matters worse, every night with his light turned on he would stand near the window. His shadow made it even harder for me to sleep.

One day I took a peek from behind my curtain. I saw him stand near his apartment window with a phone in his hand, as usual. He was wearing a suit. Yes, a suit. It seemed like he couldn’t take his eyes away from his phone. I had no idea what he was doing. Wearing a suit in the middle of the night wasn’t just unusual; it was strange. I thought he might have lost his mind or something. But my friend, Don, who apparently knew him, said there was nothing wrong with him.

Don lived in the apartment unit downstairs. I ran into him in the laundry room some days ago and asked him whether he too was having trouble sleeping. Don said he had no trouble sleeping.

I told Don about the old man across from our apartment building and his annoying habit of turning on the lamp during the night. Don said the light didn’t get through to his apartment unit and therefore it didn’t bother him. He also told me the old man had been living in the apartment building across from us for decades. So far, he said, the old man had never caused anyone any trouble.

“Just wear a sleep mask,” Don advised. “Put up a bulkier curtain, or just move your bed,” he offered some other solutions.

I nodded my head but my mind was full of doubt. Wearing a sleep mask and getting a bulkier curtain would waste my time and money. They wouldn’t work. The lamp was too bright. Moving the bed wasn’t an option either. I didn’t have much space in my small apartment unit. Not to mention my books and my papers that were scattered all over the floor. So I told Don I would give the old man some time. But if nothing changed within a week, I would talk to the old man.

However, after almost two weeks, nothing changed. I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to talk to him. I was losing more and more sleep. I couldn’t think clearly in the afternoon. I felt like a zombie every time I went to work. And even coffee didn’t help. I begged Don to give me the entrance code to the old man’s building. I knew he had it because he once had a crush on a girl who used to live in the same building as the old man. Don tried to stop me.

“He’s old, man. He must have a reason,” he argued.

But I didn’t care. I was not going to take it anymore. That night, I visited the old man’s apartment unit. I rang the bell. After a while, he answered the door.

“Yes?” said the old man.

Don was right. He was very old. He was surprised to find me there.

“Hi, sorry to bother you. I live in the apartment unit on level 4, in the opposite building. Every night I can’t sleep because you, Sir, have been turning on a very bright lamp until sunrise,” I said frankly.

He seemed stunned and opened his mouth to say something but I didn’t give him a chance.

“So, could you please stop doing that? I haven’t been able to sleep properly these last two weeks and my career is at stake because of that. I hope you understand,” I added, firmly.

“Oh, okay,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said, then walked away.

For the following two nights, the old man kept his light switch off. I was beginning to catch up on my sleep. And then one night, as I had just finished writing my report, the lamp came on again. The old man stood near the window with a cell phone in his hand. I tried to ignore it. Maybe he forgot he had to turn it off. He was very old. Yet the next night, he forgot again. I couldn’t sit still and do nothing.

I rang his bell again. Several times. Then the door opened:

“Ah, I knew you would come. Come in, there’s something I want to tell you.”

I followed him with hesitation. His apartment was very much like mine: a studio apartment with no bedroom. There was only a bathroom and a kitchen on the left side, and a corridor that led to the main room with windows. This main room was used as a bedroom as well as a reading room with a sofa, table and bookshelf. I could see the culprit of my recent sleeping problem, the bright lamp, was seated on the table. I restrained myself not to take it and throw it away.

He allowed me to sit on the only sofa in that room, while he sat on the edge of his bed. Then he took something from his pocket and handed it to me. It was a picture of a young man with a short lady and a toddler, maybe around two years old. This time, I was the one who was stunned. I didn’t get it. What did this picture have to do with my sleeping problem?

“He’s my son,” he said, pointing at the picture of the young man.

Then the old man told me that his son had been living out of the country for quite some time. It had been almost two months they weren’t in contact. He said that his son once complained about how difficult it was to contact him because the old man couldn’t work out a video call or a web-call. So last month he decided to buy a smartphone. Hoping that it would be easier for him to talk to his son.

“I know he’s busy. And I don’t want to annoy him. I just want to say hello,” he added.

The old man later explained that every child, once they’ve become adults, deserves to lead their own lives. But a father would always be a father. He still wanted to hear from his son. Maybe twice a month, or even once a month is fine. That was why he had gotten up late in the last three weeks. He was trying to reach his son who lived in a different part of the world, the part where days and nights were all reversed. And the old man was trying to work the new phone with the help of the lamp.

“You can see there isn’t much space in my apartment,” he argued.

I didn’t know what to say. I was furious at first. But now I felt sorry for the old man instead.

“What about you? You call your dad often?” asked the old man, out of the blue.

I opened my mouth but nothing came out. I didn’t even know how long I hadn’t been in touch with my father. I missed or even ignored his calls most of the time. Sometimes he texted me, but my replies were curt. I felt like I had no time for chitchat. My time was always occupied with work.

My sister was the one who did me a favour when she visited me. She gave our father some updates, sent him pictures and things like that. But I hardly contacted him by myself. Even on the weekends. I didn’t know what to talk about. I wasn’t good at making conversation while my father was so quiet.

“You know what, sometimes listening to your son’s voice is enough,” said the old man.

I couldn’t find the right words to say. I returned the picture to him and excused myself. “I think I should go,” I said at last. “I’ll get someone to put up the curtain tomorrow,” he added before I left. “Thanks,” I said quietly. I rushed back to my apartment.

***

It was 2 a.m. And just like the nights before, something disturbed my sleep. The light was back on. The old man was pacing around, as usual, near the window. I wasn’t angry, though. Instead, I felt a smile coming onto my face. I looked at my phone screen. There were several missed calls. I redialled the number.

“Hello?”

“Hello. Dad?” I replied.

No answer. I could only hear him breathing a sigh of relief.

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