Homoctopus

Triskaidekaman

Aku tak pernah minta dilahirkan ke dunia sebagai bayi laki-laki dengan dua kaki, satu lengan, dan satu tentakel yang menggantikan sekujur lengan kanan.

Namun, begitulah kenyataannya. Bahu kananku terbuat dari tulang dan daging seperti semua manusia lain. Ceruk gelang bahuku, yang seharusnya ditempati kepala tulang lengan atas, kosong. Tak ada tulang sama sekali di sana. Yang ada malah seonggok daging kenyal, langsung melekat begitu saja, lincah meliuk kapan pun ia mau. Ia berkedut, berdenyut, dan berlapis lendir tipis kental yang lekat di permukaannya. Warnanya sama dengan warna kulitku. Panjangnya sama dengan seluruh lengan kiriku. Ada banyak kuncup mirip corong kecil yang berbaris di sisi dalam tentakel itu, sementara banyak jendulan dan sisik bercangkang di sisi luar. Makin ke ujung, onggok daging itu makin kecil. Ia berakhir pada sebuah kuncup kurus dengan gada tumpul mungil di buntutnya. Tidak ada cabang-cabang selayaknya jari di tangan orang normal.

Ibu bercerita, ia ketakutan setengah mati waktu pertama kali melihat wujudku di dalam perutnya. Usia hamilnya baru enam bulan saat bidan dan dokter bergantian memeriksanya, sambil mengusap-usap mata tak percaya. Itu kehamilan Ibu yang pertama, pula. Dokter sempat menuduh ada ular bersemayam dalam rahim Ibu, sebelum akhirnya mengonfirmasi bahwa itu adalah bagian dari tubuhku. Berita ini menggegarkan Ibu hingga ia pening berkepanjangan. Ia memohon-mohon kepada Bapak agar aku digugurkan saja, daripada dibiarkan lahir cacat dan cuma menambah kesusahan rumah tangga. Bapak bilang jangan, karena ia percaya hal itu dosa.

Sesudah sampai di rumah, Bapak malah mencari-cari penyebab mengapa Ibu mendapat cobaan demikian. Setelah memungut sembarang ingatan, omong kosong, dan menyambung-nyambungkan sekenanya, Bapak menuding darah Ibu pernah tercemar partikel tentakel gurita sebelum ia mengandungku. Entah bagaimana partikel itu masuk ke dalam tubuh Ibu: dicekok di tenggorokan, disasar menembus pusar, atau disanggama lewat liang kelamin. Ibu bungkam saja dituduh begitu, karena memang tak ada bukti yang menguatkan satu pun dari tiga tuduhan itu.

Kelahiranku tiga bulan kemudian mengabsahkan vonis dokter dan menambah kemurkaan Bapak, yang terpaksa Ibu terima dengan tabah. Di sela-sela tangisanku yang ribut dan tangisan Ibu yang sunyi, Bapak terus saja menebak-nebak dari mana datangnya tentakel itu. Sementara itu, aku terus bertumbuh, kebingungan mau menjadi manusia atau menjadi gurita.

Kira-kira dua tahun kemudian, wajahku mulai menampakkan lesung pipit dan dagu belah—dua macam hiasan yang tak ada di wajah Ibu maupun Bapak. Para tetangga di desa kami, yang biasa hidup berdempet-dempetan, mulai mengimpit Bapak dengan cecaran tanya. Bapak jengkel, marah besar, mengusir mereka, tetapi mereka tidak kapok. Mulailah teori demi teori digoreng: bahwa bapakku yang sebenarnya adalah gurita tampan, bahwa bapak kena kutuk karena saban hari menjagal ternak, bahwa bapak sungguhlah laki-laki sial. Balik digunjing sana-sini, Bapak pun lelah dan berhenti menuding Ibu.

Namun, mau Ibu dituding ataupun tidak, aku tetaplah anak biasa yang tak tahu apa-apa. Anak manusia yang ingin sekali bermain cilukba dan mengocok kerincing, juga tak sabar menyanyi pok ame ame belalang kupu-kupu. Sayang, tanganku cuma satu. Bertepuk tangan pun aku tak mampu. Tangan kiriku tak punya teman sepadan.

Saat aku berusia empat tahun, Ibu susah payah mengajariku menggengsgam krayon dan pensil pakai tangan kiri. Menyuruhku menggoreskannya pada kertas, melukis bangunan rumah dengan matahari bersinar dari balik gunung di belakang. Otakku keras menolak. Gambarku berantakan. Selalu tak menentu. Sepertinya otakku ini selalu memaksaku mengandalkan tangan kanan, yang tak kumiliki. Ibu meringis sambil memutar otak, sementara aku terus menangis dan bertanya kepadanya di manakah tangan kananku.

Kemudian Ibu mendapat akal. Ia akan mengajariku bagaimana caranya mengendalikan tentakelku. Ibu bilang ia bisa. Pasti bisa. Padahal kulihat dengan jelas bahwa Ibu tak punya tentakel.

Ibu segera mencanangkan aturan nomor satu. Bagaimana pun caranya, tentakelku tak boleh bergeliang-geliut terus. Orang-orang bisa ketakutan karenanya. Menakuti orang itu tidak ada gunanya. Pokoknya aku harus belajar mengendalikan tentakelku. Harus bisa dipakai menggenggam. Genggaman itu pun harus mantap. Itu saja. Aturan nomor dua mengikuti. Aku harus tenang dan fokus. Aku mengangguk, menarik napas, lalu membuangnya perlahan.

Ibu melatihku dengan sebuah apel merah segar. Ia meletakkannya di meja, lalu menyegel tangan kiriku di balik punggung dengan seutas tambang. Simpul mati. Aku meraung-raung. Ibu mengacak lembut rambutku beberapa kali, membisikkan beberapa bujukan. Walau sempat tercekat bermenit-menit, kuarahkan tentakelku ke apel itu. Desis bercampur jejak terdengar beberapa kali. Aku gagal menautkan gada kepadanya, gagal pula merekatkan kuncup isap, meskipun sudah mencoba sekuat tenaga.

Ibu menegur. Apa pun yang kulakukan, aku tak boleh memakai kuncup isap. Kata Ibu, itu kelakuan gurita. Anak manusia, apalagi darah daging Ibu dan Bapak, tidak boleh begitu. Ia memintaku, memohon-mohon padaku, jadilah anak manusia dan jangan jadi anak gurita. Aku, yang masih begitu polos, mengangguk saja. Padahal, betapa sulitnya aku menggenggam kalau memang cuma mengandalkan gada dan belitan. Ibu tidak tahu bagaimana susahnya menjadi aku!

Namun, ajaib. Perlahan, semakin aku mengatur napas, semakin aku bisa mengendalikan tentakelku. Sebagai manusia. Kapan ia harus mengedang, kapan harus bergelung.

Aku bisa menggenggam apel di hari keempat. Memindahkan apel ke depan mulut di hari ketujuh. Ibu mengganti sasaran dengan kerincing. Lalu boneka. Buku cerita. Koran Bapak. Lama-lama aku mulai bisa menyuap makanan sendiri. Berganti baju. Mandi sendiri. Banyak sekali yang Ibu ajarkan. Aku lahap sekali belajar. Berlatih, dan berlatih lagi. Dalam beberapa bulan, bagiku tentakel itu sudah seperti tangan kanan asli. Cekatan. Dominan. Fungsi tentakel ini sudah mendekati sempurna.

Namun, urusan fungsi rupanya tidak cukup bagi orang lain. Semua masih menatap tentakelku dengan bergidik jijik. Termasuk Bapak. Bulu roma mereka semua berdiri ketika melihat gelenyar tentakel kenyal ini saat memilah atau mengambil barang di warung. Mereka yakin aku baru bisa memegang kalau ditolong perlengketan kuncup isap yang melembapkan apa saja yang kupegang. Barang yang habis kupegang pun tak ada yang mau menyentuh lagi.

Karena menjabat tangan dan menghormat bendera mutlak harus pakai tangan kanan, pada usia enam tahun aku tak diterima di sekolah mana pun. Bahkan sekolah luar biasa pun tak mau menampungku. Mereka menatap Ibu dan aku serupa monster dari alam fiksi ilmiah yang tak masuk di akal. Sama halnya dengan empat preman yang kebetulan berpapasan denganku pada suatu siang. Mereka mengaku penggemar cumi, lantas mengejarku, ingin menumis tentakelku dengan kecap, dan memangsanya.

Aku berhasil lolos, tapi dari situlah Bapak mendapat ide bengis. Bapak mau mengamputasi tentakelku, tuntas sampai ke gelang bahu. Pakai parang jagalnya, tentu saja.

Untuk itu Bapak menyusun siasat. Ia bahkan tidak tidur semalam suntuk. Dia membawa pulang parangnya dari rumah jagal. Ia akan melakukan aksinya pagi-pagi buta, di lapangan kosong belakang kebun Pak Haji Said, supaya tidak ada yang menonton. Dasar teori yang Bapak pakai sederhana saja: banyak binatang laut yang tentakelnya bisa tumbuh kembali dalam sebulan atau dua bulan setelah dipenggal. Bapak berharap tentakel yang mencuat dari bahuku itu cuma sekadar kesalahan teknis waktu aku diciptakan. Semacam kekeliruan yang mudah dikoreksi dengan memotong seluruh tentakel ini sampai ke akarnya. Nanti akan ada lengan kanan betulan—berdaging, bertulang, dan berjari—yang akan menggantikan tentakel ini. Mulanya Ibu bilang jangan, tetapi lambat laun Ibu terpengaruh juga.

Seperti apa rasanya jadi anak berlengan satu?

Ibu meyakinkanku, aku akan baik-baik saja. Hidupku masih akan sama, bahkan mungkin lebih baik, mungkin bisa diterima di sekolah. Bukankah sekarang lenganmu juga cuma satu?

Perlahan-lahan, rasa takutku luruh, seiring seretan langkah kakiku dari pintu rumah sampai ke lapangan kosong itu. Menghadapi Bapak dan parangnya, aku menoleh ke arah Ibu. Usai anggukan Ibu, kurebahkan badan di hadapan Bapak, menyerah pada kehendaknya.

Dalam sekali ayunan parang, darah muncrat ke mana-mana.

Aku menjerit melawan rasa sakit yang teramat sangat. Tentakel itu terempas ke tanah, menggeliat, menggelinjang, mengejang. Gelang bahuku buntung seketika, tinggal air mancur merah. Dengan sigap Ibu membebatnya dengan kain tebal, lalu mengikatnya erat. Dengan ketangkasan tukang jagal, Bapak meringkus tentakel itu saat masih menggelepar. Lama-lama tentakel putus itu pun berhenti bergerak dan terkulai lunglai. Bapak merendamnya dalam larutan cuka bercampur garam, lalu menguburnya di lapangan belakang rumah.

Malam harinya, puntung bahu kananku itu gatal bukan main. Aku demam, menggigil, hingga mengigau tak keruan. Karena masih berbebat perban, aku hanya bisa menggesek-gesekkan bahuku ke kasur. Maju mundur tanpa henti, melengking lirih. Aku ingin melolong dan menungging, saking gatalnya. Ibu tak berani membawaku ke Puskesmas, karena takut Bapak dikeroyok warga sekitar atas tuduhan kekerasan terhadap anak sendiri.

Besok paginya kasurku sudah banjir darah. Lengket dan amis itu memaksa Ibu untuk mengganti perbanku secepat yang dia bisa. Begitu bebat perbanku dibuka, Bapak kaget bukan main. Di balik perban putih yang dirembesi merah darah itu, ada daging tak bertulang yang menjuntai dengan ratusan tunas berbintil-bintil dan berjendul-jendul, kuncup-kuncup isap mungil, dan sebuah gada mini. Segar dan baru. Semua sudah bersiap bertambah panjang sampai menyerupai tentakelku sediakala.

Bapak merosot, lalu meminggir. Langkahnya gontai hingga tersuruk ke pojok. Semakin Bapak jijik kepadaku, semakin keras pula tentakelku melawan dia. Persis di samping tempat tidur, Ibu masih terus terisak-isak meratapi nasibku. Malah aku yang mati-matian menenangkannya. Ia tidak tahu, betapa penasarannya aku: salah apakah aku di kehidupan sebelumnya, sampai kini aku dijatuhkan di persimpangan dua makhluk: Homo sapiens dan Octopus vulgaris?

Aku sadar aku butuh lebih dari sekadar keajaiban.

Mulai saat itu aku rajin bertasbih. Dengan jemari tangan kiri, apa boleh buat. Awalnya cuma pagi, siang, malam. Sekarang kutambah dini hari, sore, dan sekali lagi pada tengah malam. Aku minta Tuhan menumbuhkan lengan kanan normal buatku. Aku lelah. Otakku terus mengindoktrinasi segenap badan bahwa tangan kanankulah yang dominan, walau yang kupunya itu bukan tangan, tapi tentakel. Sungguh. Aku ingin jadi manusia yang biasa-biasa saja. Memang, sebetulnya aku sudah bisa beraktivitas macam-macam dengan tentakel ini. Aku bisa menggambar. Melukis. Menulis dengan rapi. Bisa memasak sayuran. Mandi dan keramas sendiri. Mengancingkan kemeja, memasang celana. Mengurus sendiri ketika buang air. Namun, dunia tempatku hidup ini meminta lebih: semua aktivitas itu harus dilakukan dengan tangan.

Aku terus berusaha, tahun demi tahun, hingga aku menginjak remaja. Pernah juga kubelah-belah tentakel ini dengan pisau hingga menyerupai jari-jari. Tak ada gunanya. Tentakelku selalu menyatu kembali ke bentuk semula. Tak pernah sebersit pun ia bergelagat akan beralih ke lengan biasa.

Seorang tetangga memberi saran: bagaimana kalau aku mencoba lengan palsu? Ah, ternyata tak bisa. Lengan palsu itu solid. Bukan selongsong yang bisa kupakai untuk menyembunyikan tentakelku. Tetangga lain menawariku tiang pancang untuk dijadikan tulang palsu. Ia berbelok setinggi siku dan pergelangan tangan. Nanti tentakelku tinggal membelit tiang itu saja. Ternyata tak cocok juga. Belum lagi sampai ke pergelangan tangan, tentakelku sudah berakhir di setinggi pangkal lengan bawah.

Apa boleh buat, aku hanya bisa menyelubungi tentakel itu dengan jaket atau kaus lengan panjang saat keluar rumah. Usaha yang tak sepenuhnya berhasil karena ujung tentakel itu masih sering tampak terjulur keluar dan aku harus selalu ingat untuk memasukkannya ke dalam saku celana. Kalau aku lupa dan kebetulan ada yang melihat, biarpun sedetik saja, aku pasti dikejar-kejar. Lambat laun, aku semakin ahli berjalan cepat. Cukup cepat untuk menghindari kejaran, tetapi tidak terlalu cepat sampai melewatkan objek-objek sekitar dari pandangan. Termasuk gadis itu, yang kulihat di pinggir jalan suatu hari. Karena ia tampak tak asing, rasa penasaran mendorongku untuk mengamatinya. Kubuntuti ia, dan aku berakhir di rumah jagal Bapak. Rupanya gadis itu anak sopir truk ternak. Di sanalah ia membalik badan, tahu-tahu sadar akan keberadaanku. Ia mengamatiku seolah sudah mengenalku cukup lama. Ia menghampiriku. Dari jauh tadi saja, ia tampak bersinar. Dari dekat, ia cantik sekali. Pipinya berisi, merona merah muda. Matanya bulat, dibingkai alis yang menyerupai kubah teduh.

Demi kesan pertama senormal mungkin, kuulurkan tangan kiri ke hadapannya. Di luar dugaan, ia malah menjabat tentakelku. Aku coba mengelak, tapi kalah sigap. Aku bergeming, tak percaya kalau ia tidak jijik. Kusebutkan namaku, dan ia berkata namanya Andara, biasa dipanggil Dara. Ia menjelajahkan ujung jarinya ke tepi-tepi kuncup isapku, sambil bertanya apa itu. Kujawab dengan malu-malu. Aku bersiap menghadapi yang terburuk, tetapi rupanya ia tak takut sedikit pun. Aku memaksakan senyum samar.

Sejak saat itu, ia sering mengajakku serta ke mana pun ia pergi. Sekadar makan bakso, menonton wayang, atau ke tempat ia belajar menjahit. Waktu kubilang aku pun bisa menjahit, ia takjub. Saat kuperagakan caraku memegang kain dan jarum, lalu bagaimana aku menyimpul benang dan mencipta berbagai tusuk, aku yakin akan satu hal: aku mulai jatuh hati kepadanya.

Perlu berbulan-bulan buatku untuk meraba-raba apakah ia membalas perasaanku itu. Kupikirkan setiap kata yang dia ucapkan. Kusimak baik-baik setiap tindak-tanduknya. Dara tak peduli pada sorot mata tetangga yang sarat wasangka, juga tak acuh pada sindiran tetangga yang menyangsikan seleranya dalam berkawan. Dia terjang orang-orang yang mengejek tentakelku. Saat kondisiku dipertanyakan orang, alih-alih ucapkan kata ‘cacat’, dia memilih kata ‘berbeda’. Atau ‘istimewa’—kata yang membuatku yakin bahwa dia memandangku sebagai manusia seutuhnya.

Maka kuajak Dara ke rumah. Kukenalkan ia kepada Ibu dan Bapak. Lalu kucoba memasak makan malam untuknya, melengkapi deretan lauk masakan Ibu yang sudah tersaji di meja. Ia suka. Bahkan memuji tumis kangkung masakanku lebih kaya rasa ketimbang masakannya sendiri. Nasi goreng buatanku lebih gurih daripada buatannya. Aku pun menyombong kepada Dara bahwa kebisaanku tak hanya menjahit dan memasak, tetapi juga menggambar dan mengetik di komputer. Bahkan gambar-gambarku di atas kertas karton dan ketikanku yang rapi sudah mulai bisa bantu mendatangkan penghasilan buatku, meskipun belum besar. Melihat itu, Dara malu bukan kepalang. Mukanya kian merah kalau kami membandingkan keterampilan tangan masing-masing. Kulihat jelas, percik kekagumannya bertambah besar. Kagum itu lalu menimbun jadi rasa percaya—kepadaku, kepada dirinya sendiri. Lalu percaya itu menguat dan mengakar, hingga ia yakin akulah orang yang bisa ia andalkan. Aku juga kian percaya diri di sisinya. Untuk kali pertama dalam hidup, aku bertemu orang yang sama sekali tak memandangku sebagai sepucuk monster. Saat tentakel ini ingin memeluk rasa aman, Dara memancangkan tiang bukti yang kian kukuh.

Tak sampai setahun berselang, kami mengucapkan janji setia di depan penghulu. Hanya di hadapan beberapa kerabat dari pihak Ibu. Tidak lebih. Tidak ada pesta-pora, karena kami memang tak punya uang banyak. Dara mengecup dahiku. Lengan kiriku, yang tadi kurangkulkan ke pinggang rampingnya, kuulurkan ke depan dua tangannya. Kupasangkan cincin pada jari manis kanannya terlebih dahulu. Kemudian ganti Dara yang memasangkan cincin serupa di satu-satunya jari manisku. Kubelai lembut wajahnya dengan usapan gada yang mencuat dari balik jas. Giliran aku yang mengecup pipinya. Lalu kami tertawa lepas, diikuti Ibu dan Bapak.

Ah, Dara. Aku memang beruntung mendapatkannya sebagai istri. Ia selalu sabar dan pengertian. Kepintarannya menjahit membuahkan sebuah kontrakan kecil yang kemudian kami tinggali berdua. Ia juga bijak mendengar, punya segudang saran dan petuah. Ia benar-benar seperti ibu yang kuimpikan sejak kecil.

Setahun kemudian, Ibu jatuh sakit dan tahu-tahu berpulang. Bapak menyusul tiga bulan kemudian. Awalnya kupikir meninggalnya Bapak adalah kabar gembira. Kupikir aku patut lega tak lagi dipasung lalimnya Bapak yang kerap ditimpali abainya Ibu. Namun, saat kafan Bapak mulai digunduki tanah merah dan kenangan atas kekejaman parangnya memberati bahuku, pandanganku mengabur. Tanpa sadar, rupanya aku menangis juga. Pulang dari makam, tak henti-hentinya Dara menenangkanku. Membiarkan bahunya jadi sandaran kepalaku. Memelukkan lengannya ke pangkal tentakelku.

Beberapa bulan setelahnya, ia hamil. Kami gembira bukan main.

Namun, ketika kami melihat pindaian kehamilannya pada usia enam bulan, kami menyaksikan pemandangan mengejutkan.

Di dalam rahimnya tampak sepasang batang tubuh janin identik, perempuan, berhadapan, berpagutan tentakel. Ya, di tempat yang seharusnya dua lengan dan dua tungkai, hanya ada tentakel. Delapan-delapannya berkedut, menggeliang-geliut, saling membelit. Kuperhatikan mereka lebih dekat. Dua wajah yang saling salin, sangat lucu, juga sangat normal.

Sangat normal, kecuali tubuh mereka bertentakel.

Kuingat kembali masa kecil hingga remajaku dulu. Di antara dua orangtua dan orang-orang lain yang sibuk main tangan, meskipun agak bersusah payah, aku masih bisa hidup. Kuhitung ulang apa saja aktivitas yang sudah kukuasai: makan, mandi, berkemas, memasang pakaian, menjahit, memasak, mengetik, menggambar. Kuingat-ingat kemampuan yang diam-diam sudah kupelajari dengan kuncup isap tentakelku: menggenggam, menyikat gigi, menulis, berkeramas. Kubayangkan aku bekerja. Mencari nafkah. Membangun masa depan.

Tak salah lagi, aku layaknya manusia normal.

Aku manusia normal.

Anak-anak ini juga normal.

Kulirik air muka dokter yang tak bisa berkata-kata. Lalu kulirik air muka Dara yang dari tadi tak berubah sama sekali: dia tersenyum—apakah aku salah lihat? Aku mengamati wajahnya lagi: aku tidak salah lihat. Bahkan Dara masih tampak berseri-seri saat perawat membersihkan sisa-sisa gel alat pindai dari perutnya.

Semakin besar kehamilannya, raut Dara justru semakin semringah. Nyaris setiap malam, dia memelukku saat akan tidur. Kadang dia memainkan jari-jari kurusnya pada kuncup dan gada di tentakelku. Kemudian aku ganti mendekapkan tentakel pada perutnya yang tampak bergerak-gerak. Merapatkan kepalaku di sana sambil membisikkan janji untuk mencintai si kembar apa adanya. Tak akan ada parang jagal dan adegan pemenggalan. Setiap hari, tanpa putus, Dara mengembuskan kekuatan pada telingaku, seraya membiarkan sisi kanan tubuhku menjadi gurita. Perlahan-lahan, aku merasa lebih tenang. Walaupun tanpa sudut dan sendi, tentakel ini akan baik-baik saja. Aku dan si kembar pun akan baik-baik saja.

Pagi tadi pun, ketika ia sudah mau didorong masuk ke kamar bersalin, Dara masih sempat memastikan aku cukup tenang dan nyaman. Sesaat sebelum berpisah dengannya, aku mengelus perutnya dengan tentakelku.

Aku memang belum tahu cara agar dunia mau menerima dua manusia baru, perempuan pula, dengan fisik yang lebih tak lazim dariku. Namun, setidaknya aku sudah tahu cara bertahan hidup di dunia yang kejam ini.

Aku memanjatkan doa dalam diam, tanpa berharap begitu banyak.

Setelah beberapa jam, dari dalam terdengar tangisan susul-menyusul. Dengan izin perawat, aku menghambur masuk ke ruang bayi. Pandang-pandang ganjil dan jijik yang kuterima, ketika tentakelku keluar dari lengan jaket untuk saling membelit dengan tentakel-tentakel mungil si kembar, kuabaikan begitu saja.

Kami bertiga kini satu.

Beberapa dokter menarik-narik bahuku, menawarkan menjadikanku obyek penelitian. Aku menggeliat menolak, tak peduli lagi dengan apa pun. Termasuk pada perkara siapa yang mewariskan tentakel ini kepada garis keturunan kami.

Kini aku hanya peduli akan janjiku kepada si kembar. Kami dianugerahi perangkat tentakel cerdas nan leluasa yang akan berbuat banyak. Akan memperbaiki dunia. Akan membuat kami dicintai dan berharga.

Aku yakin bahwa kami, para perintis Homoctopus, akan bertahan.

Pasti.

HOMOCTOPUS

Triskaidekaman

Translated into English by Ayunda Nurvitasari, edited by Eliza Vitri H

I never asked to be born into this world as a boy with two legs, one arm, and one tentacle that replaced my whole right arm.

My left arm was made of bones and flesh, just like everybody else’s. But from my right shoulder grew a limb of boneless, flexible flesh that swerved and twitched, and covered in thick mucus. It had the same colour as my skin, the same length as my left arm. Suckers lined the inside of the tentacle, scales covered the outside. Instead of fingers, the tentacle ended in a small, thin bud.

Mother told me she’d been scared to death the first time she saw me inside her belly. It was her first pregnancy, too. She was six months pregnant when the midwives and doctors scanned her womb and wiped their eyes in disbelief. One of the doctors thought she was carrying a snake, but then he saw that the tentacle was a part of my body.

The news made Mother very dizzy. She begged Father to let her have an abortion, she thought it was better than letting me live deformed and making things even harder for the family. Father said no, because he believed it was a sin.

Father tried to figure out what caused my strange condition—bringing up some memories and nonsense, Father accused Mother of being tainted by octopus’ genes, perhaps through something she ate, perhaps an octopus had poked into her belly button, or perhaps she’d had intercourse with one.

Mother only stayed silent—after all, there was no proofs to support any of the accusations. Three months afterwards, I was born—with my legs, arm, and tentacle. Father got angrier. Mother cried in silence. Day by day, Father paced around the house, cursing and speculating where my tentacle came from. And I grew more confused about whether I was human or octopus.

About two years later, my face showed dimples and a cleft chin—two facial features that neither Mother nor Father had. The neighbors in our village never stopped bugging Father with questions. They came up with crazy theories, too: that my real father was an octopus, that Father was cursed because he butchered animals for a living. Having known what it’d felt like to be harassed and accussed all the time, Father stopped blaming Mother for my condition.

All that didn’t matter to me. For as long as I could remember, I was just a child who wanted to play peek-a-boo and pok ame-ame and clap my hands in joy. But I had only one arm.

When I was four years old, Mother tried teaching me to use my left hand. She made me hold crayons and pencils, and draw a house with twin mountains in the background and the sun rising from between them. But my drawing was no good, my lines went all over the place. My brain was forcing me to use the right side of my body, but I didn’t have a right arm or hand. I cried and cried and asked Mother where my right arm was.

After that, Mother tried to teach me to control my tentacle. She said she could show me how I could use it like an arm. I wondered how, as she didn’t have a tentacle herself.

Mother set the number one rule: I had to keep my tentacle still, I had to keep it from wringgling at all times, so I wouldn’t scare other people with such octopus-like behavior. I had to learn to hold objects with the tentacle. I had to be calm and focused.

I nodded and took a deep breath.

Mother asked me to sit down by a table and put an apple on the table. She told me to grasp the apple with my tentacle, and tied my left arm behind my back with a rope. I cried in pain. But Mother caressed my hair as she whispered words of encouragement. At first, I refused. Then I slowly directed my tentacle to the apple. Very slowly. The first few times I failed to wrap my tentacle around the apple, I tried really hard, but I could only get it to stick to my suckers.

Mother scolded me. No matter what, I could not use my suckers, she said, as it was what an octopus child would do. Human child, especially Mother’s and Father’s child, should not do such a thing. She begged me, “Please be a human child and don’t be an octopus child.” As I didn’t know any better then, I nodded. Mother clearly didn’t know how challenging it was to be me!

Slowly, miraculously, I was able to control my tentacle. I kept it from wriggling, it rolled out and curled in when I told it to. On the fourth day, I finally grasped the apple. On the seventh day, I brought the apple to my mouth. Mother replaced the apple with maracas. Then a doll. A storybook. Father’s newspaper. Soon I could grasp spoons and forks, and eat by myself. I could change my own clothes. Shower. The more things I could do, the more eager I became to train.

Two months later, my tentacle had become as dexterous as a real right hand. Quick. Dominant. It was almost perfect.

It turned out, however, being able to do things for myself wasn’t enough for everyone else. The neighbors still looked at my tentacle with disgust, as did Father. They got goosebumps whenever they saw my tentacle trying to pick up goods at a local kiosk. They said my suckers left mucus at everything I’d touched in the kiosk. So, none of them wanted to touch anything that I’d touched.

When I was six years old, no school wanted to admit me. They said, to shake hands and salute the flag one had to use a right hand. Even schools for children with special needs rejected me. They looked at me as if I were a sort of monster from a science fiction book that didn’t make any sense.

Around this time, I passed by four thugs who, upon seeing my tentacle, told me they loved eating squid and chased me—they said they wanted to chop off my tentacle and eat it with soy sauce. I escaped them, but it gave Father a horrible idea: he wanted to amputate my tentacle.

Father stayed up all night planning it. He brought home his machete from the slaughterhouse. He said we should do it at dawn, in an empty field, so that no one would see. Father’s theory was simple: many sea creatures could regenerate their limbs after they’d been chopped off. Father hoped that after my tentacle was amputated, a real right arm would grow in its place—a human arm with bones and fingers. Mother said no at first, but as the night wore on, he managed to get her to his side.

How could I live with only one arm?

Mother said I’d be just fine. My life would stay the same, maybe even get better, I might even be accepted into schools. After all, you only have one arm now, right?

Slowly, I quieted my fears. At sunrise I dragged my feet out of the house to the empty field. Facing father and his machete, I turned my head to mother. She nodded. I laid down and spread my tentacle in front of Father and surrendered to his will.

One swing of his machete and blood splattered all around me.

My scream ripped through the morning. Quickly Mother wrapped my stump with a thick cloth and bound it tightly. My whole tentacle had been lopped off—it fell on the ground, writhing, wriggling, jerking. Father, being a dexterous butcher, snatched the tentacle and soaked it in salt and vinegar. Soon it stopped moving and floated up dead. Father buried it in our backyard.

That night, my armless shoulder itched terribly. As it was still bandaged, I rubbed it against the bed again and again. I writhed in agony. And then the fever hit—I was burning, shivering, and blabbering. Mother didn’t dare bring me to a clinic, as she was afraid Father would be beaten up by the neighbors for abusing his own child.

When I woke up the next morning, my bed was drenched in blood. Mother changed my bandages as quickly as she could, which had become all sticky and stinky. When Father saw my unwrapped wound, he fell down. Out of my right shoulder grew a tiny boneless limb with hundreds of tiny sucking bowls. Fresh and new. Ready to grow into the tentacle I’d had before.

Defeated, Father staggered away. By my bedside, Mother sobbed and sobbed. I tried to be strong and calm her down, but deep inside I asked myself: What had I done wrong in my past life that I was born in this one part human and part octopus?

From that moment on, I became even more devout. I prayed day and night, counting the beads of my tasbih with my left hand, as it was the only hand I had. I asked God to give me a normal right arm. I just wanted to be a normal human being.

At this time I could draw, paint, and even write neatly. I could cook, shower and wash my own hair. I could button up my shirt and put on my own pants. I could take care of myself in the bathroom. But the world didn’t care about that. All they cared about was that I performed all those tasks with a human arm.

I kept on trying, year after year, to be a normal human being. As a teenager I even carved the end of my tentacle with a knife so that I’d have something resembling fingers. It didn’t work. The tentacle just reattached itself back together.

One of the neighbors gave me a suggestion: Why don’t I try a prosthetic arm? But prosthetic arms weren’t hollow, I couldn’t use it to hide my tentacle. Another neighbor told me to wrap my tentacle around an iron stick that bent where the elbow and wrist on a human arm would be. But my tentacle wasn’t long enough to spiral down to the end of the stick.

Whenever I went out of the house, I always wore long-sleeve shirts, and put the end of my tentacle in my pocket. If I forgot to and someone saw it, they’d bully me and chase me. That was why I always walked very fast—fast enough to elude bullies but not too fast that I couldn’t pay attention to things around me.

One day, I saw her as I was walking around. She seemed familiar, but I couldn’t be sure where I’d seen her. I followed her to Father’s slaughterhouse. It turned out she was the cattle truck driver’s daughter. She turned around, saw me, and walked towards me. From afar, she seemed to glow. Up close, she was even more beautiful. Her cheeks blushed pink, her eyes were round and framed by dome-shaped eyebrows. Wishing to appear as normal as possible, I offered her my left hand. But she reached for my tentacle instead. I was stunned, I couldn’t believe she wasn’t disgusted by it.

I told her my name, and she said her name was Andara, Dara for short. She ran her hand through my suckers and asked what they were. I answered sheepishly. I was ready for the worst, but somehow she didn’t seem to mind my tentacle.

Since then she asked me to accompany her everywhere—we ate bakso together, watched wayang, and we went to her sewing class. When I told her I could also sew, she seemed amazed. I showed her how I held the cloth and the needle, and how I made sewing patterns. At that moment I knew: I’d fallen in love with her.

It took months for me to figure out if she felt the same way about me. I considered every word she said. I paid attention every little thing she did. Dara didn’t care what the neighbors said, she even went after the people who made fun of my tentacle. When people asked her about my condition, she never used the word “deformed”, she said I was different. Special.

I brought her home and introduced her to Mother and Father. I cooked several dishes for her, and Mother had also prepared a few. She complimented my fried rice and sauteed water spinach, she said my cooking tasted better than her own. I couldn’t help but boast about all the things I could do with my tentacle. Not only sewing and cooking, I could also draw and type on the computer. My drawing and typing skills had even made me some money, although it wasn’t much. Dara blushed.

Because she seemed to admire me, it made it much easier for me to trust her. And she seemed to trust me, too. That I was the one she could rely on. I became more confident around her. For the first time in my life I’d found a person who didn’t see me as a monster. She saw me as a human being, with my tentacle and all. And when I needed comforting, Dara was always there for me.

In less than a year, we exchanged vows in front of the penghulu. Besides Mother and Father, a couple of relatives from Mother’s side were in attendance. There was no lavish wedding, we didn’t have much money anyway. Dara kissed my forehead. I removed my left hand from her thin waist to put a ring on her finger. Then Dara put a ring on my only ring finger. I gently stroke her face with the tip of my tentacle. She giggled, and we laughed. Mother and Father did too.

Ah, Dara. How lucky I was to have her as my wife. She was always patient and understanding. My typing skills and her amazing sewing skills enabled us to rent a small house, just for the two of us. She was also a good listener and she gave wise advice. In many ways, she was the mother I always wished I’d had.

A year later, Mother fell ill and passed away. Father followed three months later. At first, I thought I’d feel freed, I’d never have to feel Father’s cruelty or Mother’s neglect anymore . Still, as we were shoveling red dirt over Father’s wrapped body, I felt his machete on my shoulder again, and my vision blurred. I was crying. At home, Dara tried to calm me down. I put my head on her shoulder, my tentacle entwined with her arm.

Several months afterwards, Dara became pregnant. We were overjoyed.

At the sixth month of her pregnancy, when we looked at the sonogram, we saw a pair of identical twin female fetuses, facing each other, surrounded by floating tentacles coming out of their shoulders and pelvises.

Yes, where there should’ve been a pair of arms and legs, there were tentacles. Eight tentacles in total were wriggling, writhing, and tangling with one another.

I watched them closely. Their faces mirrored each other—so cute and normal. Except that they had tentacles for limbs.

I recalled my childhood and adolescence. Although living with parents who were often abusive, I’d managed to survive. I listed all the things I’d learned to do with my tentacle: eating, showering, packing, changing clothes, sewing, cooking, typing, drawing. I’d even realized that my suckers were really useful for many things: grasping objects, brushing my teeth, writing, shampooing. Working, earning a living, building a life for myself.

And I realized, I was just like a normal human being.

I am a normal human being.

And my children are also normal human beings.

I looked at the doctor, who was speechless. And I looked at Dara, who was smiling. I couldn’t believe it. But it was true. She was smiling. She was still beaming as the nurse wiped the gel off her belly.

As the days went by, Dara became more and more cheerful. She held me every night in bed and played with my suckers. I wrapped my tentacle around her belly. I put my head there and whispered a promise to love the twins as they were. They would never know what it felt like to have their arm chopped off. Dara whispered courage and strength at my ears and let my tentacle wriggle, writhe, and rolled in and out like an octopus’. Every day I felt calmer and more reassured. Being boneless and flexible had its advantages, too.

Early this morning, as she was being pushed into to the delivery room, she took a moment to make sure that I was all right. I assured her by stroking her belly with my tentacle.

Now, I still don’t know how the world can accept two human beings—and girls, at that—with such unusual physical condition, but at least I’ve learned how to survive in this cruel world. I managed to find my way, and so will the twins. We will be just fine.

I pray in silence.

An hour later, I hear a baby crying, and then another. As the nurse lets me in, I run to hold my babies. I notice some disgusted looks as I pull my tentacle out of my jacket to hold my twins, but I ignore them all.

The three of us have become one.

Some doctors pat me on the shoulder, asking to do research on me and my daughters. I tell them no. I don’t care anymore about anything else, including who actually passed down this octopus gene to me and my descendants.

Right now, I only care about one thing: teaching my daughters how to use their tentacles. We have been given these intelligent tentacles that can do so many things. We can make the world a better place. We can show everyone that we are valuable and worthy of love.

I’m certain that we, generations of Homoctopus, will survive. I know it.

TRISKAIDEKAMAN is a part-time author who wrote Buku Panduan Matematika Terapan (published in 2018, 1st winner of 2017 Unnes International Novel Writing Contest, shortlisted in Khatulistiwa Literary Award 2017/18 for First/Second Book, shortlisted in 2018 Tempo’s Best Work of Prose) and Cara Berbahagia Tanpa Kepala (published in 2019). Occasionally she writes poems, flash fiction, and microfiction. She is mostly active on Instagram @triskaidekaman. She lives in Jakarta.

AYUNDA NURVITASARI is interested in the intersection of pop culture, media, and gender issues. She has an M.Hum from the University of Indonesia. She loves Lana Del Rey, speculative fiction, and the series BoJack Horseman. After working at the Magdalene, an online feminist magazine, Ayunda now works at an ad agency. Say hi to her on Facebook or Twitter @ayundanurvi.

JAYU JULI works at at the Gudskul Ecosystem art collective (affiliated with RuangRupa-SERRUM-GHH). As an artist, she also has a studio there, at Gudside. With her husband she creates an audiovisual performance project called PlusMinus. Jayu likes to work with watercolor best. See some of her works on Instagram @jayujuliproject and on her website www.jayujulie.id.

fiction, fiksi, in-en, unrepressedEliza HandayaniJune 28, 20192 Comments