Something Blue ©

 

“In a time when everybody had a chunk of the NGO influx, in a time when most rickshaw peddlers were able to afford installing motors on their rickshaws, here's this skinny dude, paddling his way through the hottest time of the day, looking for anybody who'd give him the chance to employ his services.

The fact that I had been standing under the midday sun for almost fifteen minutes made it look like it was not a bad idea to get on a traditional, manpowered becak. So I hailed him, told him where I was going and asked how much.

For what it’s worth, I didn’t bargain. Because the moment I got on that becak, I was horribly sorry that I felt sorry at all. IT WAS THE GODDAMN SLOWEST BECAK I’D EVER BEEN ON IN MY LIFE!

To make things worse, that’s when dozens of motor-powered becaks started sailing from every direction. Just to spite me for pitying some poor stranger on some street!”

[Maya took a pause; she sipped from her glass. Then continued...]

Every time a motor becak showed up, I struggled to remain seated. I took cursory glances at my peddler, and he was looking at me too. And the way he looked at me caught me off guard. You see, he wasn’t staring or anything impolite. He looked like he was wondering whether or not I was going to hail a faster becak and leave him midway to the office.

And I also saw that he wasn't having much fun either. I could see his ropey muscles working under his overly tanned skin. I could see beads of sweat rolling down his cheeks and chin. I heard him panting. By god, how I wanted to hop off then, this time just to help him push the becak!

But would he want that?

Like I said earlier, this is a time when every other becak driver made the job as easy as: Accelerate-break-clutch. The fact that my becak peddler is still pedaling meant that he didn’t get much of the NGO-Influx cake. The fact that he stuck to this unfair job, that he stood up to what was given to him, that he didn't quit his job just because everyone else got the easier part of it, floored me.

Every time an empty motor becak passed, the urge came back, you know, to hail a faster and more convenient ride. But, after the third empty motorbecak passed unhailed, something seemed to make the ride easier. For both passenger and driver. Something like an unspoken understanding. That this manpowered becak will deliver the job. That the man will keep his dignity and make his humble keep. And that the passenger – so far, the only one with doubts - will keep every part of her promise, given at the beginning of the ride.

And by the way, being stuck and forced to slow down made it easier to meditate. I smelled a breeze from the Indian Ocean, packed under a dandy shade from a passing cloud. I might've been under hundreds of shades before, and smelled the ocean enough times to sneeze seaweed. But I’ve never really felt it, you know? Not like when I couldn’t do anything else beside.

At the end of the trip, I stuffed a crumpled banknote in his hand and walked very quickly away from the slowest, proudest and most enriching becak ride I'd ever been on.

[She paused again. Looking at me with meaning.]

"Is that how much you gave him, fifty thousand rupiah?" That's five dollars to you, reader. That's how much something blue is worth in banks and markets.

Maya didn't immediately reply, save for her thoughtful gaze. Then, in the most endearing voice, she said, “How much did seeing that camera again cost? How much did having your mother around a little longer cost? How much does earning the dignity and pride from making our keep cost?”

Karma isn't a linear process, you see? And that's the wonderful side of blessing/berkah; that it is vastly inestimable. That the little things we do and cherish have the power to reach beyond their logical and linear means.

If, for once, we allowed ourselves the pleasure of gratefulness for the boring little things -- say, a cool shade under a cloud, a wheezing-but-working air-conditioner, or another day spent having a job (no matter how yucky)—we might then realize that, compared to the generous kindness we receive everyday from the world around us, our service to the world is incomparably weightless and humble.

---

PS: “Something Blue” is available here in PDF. Feel free to share.

Something Blue (b)

 

One day, few months after my mother had fallen ill, there was a carnival held in our Acehnese town.

I asked Maya to accompany me there and see what the shebang was all about. Maya, carrying her backpack and camera bag on the walk home, looked a little tired. Or, let’s call her deflated.

I figured that, after few months of living in Aceh, the dirty side of the humanitarian industry was starting to sink into her. I told her that she needed the break of routine. And pulled her to a waiting motorbecak, going “Carnival”.

The sun had already set by the time we arrived. It looked like the entire town was concentrated on the carnival grounds. We squeezed ourselves through the crowds. Nothing we saw was worth noting. The same food, the same mobile and mobile credit stalls, the same clothes. All but the change of location, the town wasn’t showing much of a carnival.

It only took us five minutes to realize this. Just when I decided that it wasn’t worth the trip, Maya tugged my sleeve. “I can’t find my camera bag.”

Curses!

We traced our steps back trying to find the camera amongst the stalls. We had just spent 10, 15 minutes on he carnival grounds, without stopping on any of the stalls. That’s when we realized that her camera bag must have been left in the becak that we came with.

I saw Maya’s face flatten. She gave up trying to find it, and asked if we could go home. I was aggravated that she could give up so soon. Beside her laptop, the camera was her only other treasure.

She was right, though, as small as this Acehnese town could be, it was still big enough to hide a camera or a vaguely remembered, middle-aged, becak driver.

ஜ

The next morning, on the way to work, I saw a becak driver waiting at the front of the gate. The very same becak driver from last night. Who, in the morning light, looked older than he seemed to be last night.

The moment he saw me approach, he reached to the becak seat, and pulled out – what else – Maya’s camera bag.

“Kakak," he muttered shyly, "I think this camera is yours. I checked the pictures in it --  and I’m sorry about that -- but I had to know where it came from. I found a picture of this house, your house...I’ve been waiting all morning. I didn’t dare to knock on your door. I only had a hunch. That this camera is yours.”

And just like that, he gave Maya's camera to me.

I took the bag. Checked inside. It was in perfect condition. I looked at the becak driver. He didn't look like he was waiting for a reward. He simply stood there, looking for signs of recognition, that "Yes, this is mine."

Above all, I wondered, was HE PRACTICALLY INSANE? Even a beat DSLR camera, of the dumbest make, can make a becak driver’s whole month’s worth of income.

Yet, here he was.

ஜ

When I got to the office and saw Maya, still speechless, I raised the camera bag to her view.

She screamed in ecstasy. Hopping towards me, she kissed and hugged me and her camera bag. When she regained her sanity, she asked “Did you give the driver any reward?”

I nodded. “Something blue.”

Maya blinked, and was silent for a minute.

Then, in a tone that between scolding and awe, she asked, ”You gave him a blue Indonesian banknote?”

I tried explaining, “It was all that I had. I would’ve given him more, but I didn’t have any…”

“No, sweetie,” she said with a strange calm, “It's perfect. You gave him something blue...” She walked away, hugging her camera bag, shaking her head and mumbling in disbelief. “By Jove, she gave him something blue."

ஜ

Over lunch (which she paid for because I was…you know), she calmed my suspicion of possible insanity or POSD (Post Overjoyed Stress Disorder). She told me her story about another kind of blue.

The deepest shade of blue yet.

Something Blue (a)

Blogger’s Note:

The original storyteller to “Something Blue” was my roommate in Aceh. The story occurred few months before I started working there. I never met “Maya”, and I’m not sure if that’s her real name. I’m pretty sure, though, that this story is true. There were too many people adding testimony to different parts of it. Including the storyteller’s family, and the people they worked with, and that something blue we see everyday around us.

In accordance to blog writing rules, long stories have to be broken down. “Something Blue” will be told in three parts. Each part adds depth to that shade of blue. I need to tell you the whole thing. If you want to wait, I’ll upload a PDF version of the whole story in the last post. “Something Blue” is available here in PDF. Feel free to share.

Okay? Here we go…

Unethical Love

Love is a gift from God. We won’t argue that. Love is gorgeous and tempting and ticklish here – in your tummy -- and sweetly there -- on your lips. But sometimes, love comes in forms that – how do I say this – defies social and ethical norms. Sometimes love calls us to follow the kind of whims can be considered sinful. Wrong. Or just down right gross. For instance, I love tattoos. I have gay and lesbian friends. And we’ve all heard of stories about married men and women who fall into passionate extramarital affairs. And end up so miserable. So, if love is a gift from God, why did He have to sprinkle it on things and people we’re not allowed to have?

Simple Love

Have I ever told you about my one true love?

He was actually the one who said it's okay to move to Indonesia. Based on the terms that A) I had him nearby at all bedtimes and B) He had his meals served on time. Every day. For the rest of his nine lives.

Simple, no? Yeah, cats tend to give that deceiving impression.

At the beginning, we lived on my slowly-draining savings, in a rented 3x4 room, in an indifferent city that is too big to care about small fries. I don’t remember how many times I regretted coming to Indonesia then, probably a lot more often than showering.

This was a time when I didn’t have anything else to wake up for. Even self-recognition.

In the mean time, my cat didn't care about the dingy, small room, or the fact that we were practically illegal in Indonesia. My cat didn’t care how I felt, or how I looked or smelled. My cat just wanted his meals and the occasional conversations.

To me, to have someone to need me for those simple tasks, was all that kept me afloat. He needed to eat, and I needed to be there, at least, for him.

So he, in turn, stayed. He was loyal. He was there when I turned home from lonely meals or futile job interviews (that kept on getting stuck at my citizenship). He sat on my chest if I dared oversleeping his breakfast. He sniffed and judged all the friends who visited.

I loved having him around. No, I loved him. Even when he was saying, “Woman, I didn't know anyone could suck at serving canned dinners until I met you.”

ஜ

One evening, while making for bed, I opened a brand new bottle of cajuput oil; and poured some into my palm.

The smell of it, a warm zest that contrasted with the meaty dinner he had just had, made my cat convulse with curiousity. C. Van Vechten once said that kittens ask more questions than toddlers. And this was one curious cat. He nudged, sniffed, pushed and disrupted my oil application. On a whim, I responded by tapping him on the forehead with my hand.

He took a sharp gasp. I watched my cat topple backward and fall off the bed; wheezing and shaking his head. To my horror, I realized that the cajuput in my hand had touched directly with his eyes.

I held and took him with me to the bathroom, washed my hands and carefully ran water in his eyes to dissolve the cajuput.

The thought that tap water might worsen his pain made me stop. It didn’t work. Nothing was going to work. I held and watched him, tearful and gasping from the burning pain in his sensitive eyes. I was begging forgiveness, and crying with lonely panic.

Then, almost too scared to reconsider, I brought his face near my mouth. Forced his eyelids open.

And licked his eyeballs.

Ewwwwww...

His eyes tasted salty. And a bit hairy.

But, for what it’s worth, it worked. I felt him relax. My cat took one, two deep breaths of relief. Blinked a couple of times. Then, he looked at me with his moist, beautiful and appalled eyes.

“Don’t you EVER do that again. But..thanks.”

Big Love

“…a happy ending polygamy story …”

The Timekeeper and I were at breakfast. I was multitasking between spreading the toast and mumbling unconsciously planning my day, when the Timekeeper interrupted my traffic of self-rambles, “How can polygamy make a happy ending?”

“What? Oh. It’s simple: Kunto got lonesome.”

See, Ava grew up and works and lives in Bandung. Bandung is her home. Whereas Kunto [who seems like a sweet, shy, nerdy kind of guy] likes the money that he makes in (and only in) Jakarta.

Other than logistic issues, Ava and Kunto make a happily married couple.

The only snag is that men don’t function well without wives. Kunto got awfully lonesome after a while of living without Ava in Jakarta. As much as she loves Kunto, Ava doesn’t want to sacrifice her life in Bandung.

Besides, women don’t get lonesome without husbands because they have children and social support and a network of awesome girlfriends._{(◕‿-)*hints*}

Which is why Ava agreed to have a sister wife to take care of Kunto. A Kunto-manager. Because Ava didn’t want her husband to be miserable and lonely. Because she loves him that much. Because that’s how big her love is, big enough to share.

“And because polygamy gives women much needed breaks, yes?” said the Timekeeper, smiling.

Absolutely, I said, a break and freedom and self-actualization and a career too. The whole benefit package; with motherhood and marriage and -- from the sound of it – the spice in their occasional sex nights.

What more could a woman ask for?

[ps: did you hover on the pic?]

The Director

[hover your pointer on the picture to see a hidden quote. click on it to see the original version]

The most obvious symptom of spinal disease is A) constant pain and B) the stooping back. Since Donny B. is a commercial director, and has to spend long hours sitting, walking, editing and directing, his weakened torso is supported with an iron (em)brace, that keeps him upright but also compromises his breathing capacity.

There are times when the disease announces its presence to Donny B., right in the middle of a shoot, and the pain would be so severe that everyone, including crew and actors and the rolling film, would have to pause. A pause that lasts until the kaleidoscopic needles from Donny's back fade.

I told my storyteller that Donny B. is an idiot. “Why does Donny B. bother putting himself through that kind of shit? He’s already dying from pain, why rush and add up to it?”

My storyteller, a guy who has seen and worked with Donny B., said, “Because he loves making movies. Sure, wallowing and sleeping through the pain would’ve been easier. But easy doesn’t make the cut when love is involved. Because love is the big picture.”

“Besides, whatever that disease is doing to his body,” he added with mild professional jealousy, “it’s improving his career. Clients actually seek him for professional collaboration. Maybe he’s that good at it. Or maybe he’s good at it because he loves doing it.”

I stared at my storyteller because I didn’t want to call “Bull!”. I knew that. Heck, every kid with a brand new PS3 knows that. We’d stay up for weeks if the thing we loved was in our hands. Absolutely. With every time. Every anniversary. And every person we say “I love you” to. Right?

Maybe. Love sometimes last for only 30 months. Although 82% of all married couples will reach their fifth wedding anniversary, only 52% will celebrate 15 years of marriage.

Everything becomes easy when your wrap it with love. Donny B. just took his share and wrapped it with love. A kind of love that’s deeper than thresholds to pain. A kind of love that makes both living and dying and waiting to meet again, worth staying up for...

[ps: donny b. isn’t a real name. but his love story is. and it’s worth retelling.]