The Steps that Disappear Beneath the Shadows
Nurillah Achmad
Translated into English by Aditya Ramadhan
Illustration by Sukutangan.
You know where the sound of the gong and gamelan comes from, don’t you—mingling wildly with the sinden’s chant? How the highlands of Argopuro open themselves up only to find a dancer at the porch of a hill, masquerading the solitude of his performance. With no hesitation. With no exclamation.
Lereng Argopuro, 15 Safar 1437
A few hours before the show in the village hall, Cak Wan felt anxious. He walked the length of the hamlet of Tenap, which was still covered in mist, crossing rice fields and exchanging hellos with everyone who passed within one meter of him. The fog was so thick that one could only make out shadows from afar.
In Tenap, mists come down as they please, during the day, in the afternoon, or after the maghrib prayer. They sweep over and surround Tenap, which sits in the Argopuro Highlands. As a desolate hamlet with the added distinction of being the highest one among the hills, Tenap is a nightmare for every local official. Leaders come and go, but the roads have never been repaired. Rocks and inclines are the obstructions that one has to overcome. And let’s not forget the fact that the road is no more than two meters wide. If there is a miscalculation, one can tumble down and fall off the cliff. At least, so a college student from a university in Jember Regency found out during her community service program. She broke some bones and had to take leave for one semester.
Tenap is no more than a dried-out sugarcane stalk—after the sweetness disappears, there is no need for it anymore. One of seven hamlets that occupy Sucopangepok, Tenap shelters two hundred families, some of whom still live in gedek*, and work as farmers. The residents are those who are old. Young men and women decide to seek work elsewhere, leaving their children and grandchildren behind. Every year, during the election, the candidates running for regional chief scramble for the old people’s votes. The candidates compete to win the hearts of the people with their sweet promises—for example, that Tenap won’t have to use electricity from the neighboring hamlet anymore because it will flow directly all day long. Unlike now. The electricity only flows until dusk. Even daily Quranic recitations in the mosque, unfortunately, have to stop.
Well, at least some of the officials would get their hands dirty by repairing the road. Especially during the rainy season. The road would get so slippery and soaked with mud, as if it were trying to gain sympathy. Besides advising the people to stay safe by putting chains on their wheels, they also gave them money, which was never much. They seemed to genuinely care, but the fact was that once one of them got elected, he’d never set foot again in Tenap, saying that the terrain made it too difficult to pass by. Well, it appears that Tenap is destined to be like coffee. Once brewed, waste is always just waste.
Next to the coffee plantation, in fact, was where Cak Wan stopped walking. He waited for the call to maghrib prayer, along with the mist that ambushed the area for the umpteenth time. The coffee leaves danced in the gentle wind. It was getting darker. Cak Wan couldn’t contain his restlessness anymore.
Midnight
The drumming sound of the kendang and gong joined in wild harmony with the discordant chant of the sinden. People were surging in as the night grew darker. Even the smallest child among them was trying to wriggle his way through the crowd. A man had to stop him crossing the rope bordering the performance area.
Crack!
The ear-splitting sound of the whip split the stillness of the night. Pardi, the pawang, whipped the body of the main performer. Cak Wan’s body was brawny and firm. Thick powder covered his whole face. Black trousers and a red-and-white striped shirt added to his formidable air. The anklet he wore produced a tinkling sound as his feet stomped on the ground.
Crack!
Cak Wan jumped, hitting the other performers who had jumped at the same time. Two of them fell to the ground. Cak Wan regained his stance again. Ready to kick the remaining horsemen who tried to fight him. Then, Cak Wan curled up all of a sudden. His thick eyebrows frowned. His mustache curved upward. Both of his eyeballs rolled back in his head. Cak Wan ran toward the furnace. Then, his mouth was full of coals like rice in the mouth of a hungry man. People grimaced. It left them with goosebumps.
Over time, the sinden’s voice became raspier and raspier. Cak Wan was still eating the hot coals. Then, he stooped down, sniffing at the ground as if it was perfumed, like a dog sniffing at the smell of meat. He kept sniffing, scratching the ground at the same time. For rumor has it that if a Jaranan performer is possessed, he is capable of finding a tenung, an enchanted object activated by a witch in the middle of the night.
“Fweet… fweet…”
Cak Wan looked up. Searching every corner of the area. Looking for the loud whistling sound. He saw a boy wearing a sarong, smiling awkwardly before running toward the cemetery. Cak Wan hunted down the boy as if he were hunting down a burglar. Pardi was confused.
“You dare to whistle when the devil is present? Now you’ll pay the price,” said an old man squatting beside the boy.
This is the Jaranan dance. A monthly tradition performed at midnight. Beginning with chanting to the ancestors, the dancers enter the grounds in front of the village hall accompanied by a sinden singing, her voice sometimes shrill and frightening. Tonight, they were invited by the village chief as part of the circumcision ceremony for his only son. Naturally, they didn’t stop dancing until the night crossed the border of the morning’s light. Cak Wan, especially. He was the main star of the show. He was so agile, and one could see that he put his soul into every move that he made.
It was clear that Cak Wan didn’t become a Jaranan master overnight. He used to be like other dancers. He’d been practicing since he was little, in a shed next to the house of Wak Buto, his stepfather. In that shed, Cak Wan spent days learning how to do the staccato dance moves, until his feet were swollen. Even then, he was only allowed to perform after taking an oath to be loyal to the Jaranan way of life. As a Jaranan dancer himself, Wak Buto showed no mercy to the apathetic Cak Wan.
“You cannot dance properly if you only focus on the motions. Be one with nature. Greet God and our ancestors. Only then you will come out as one with the Jaranan.”
That was what Wak Buto would say again and again. Although Cak Wan felt embarrassed about being yelled at in front of other dancers, he tried his best to follow his stepfather’s instructions. First, he memorized all the dance moves. After he mastered the staccato steps, Cak Wan turned his attention to riding the kuda lumping, a horse made of woven bamboo. Oftentimes, Cak Wan’s face looked tense during practice. One day his mother, Ningsih, was shaken to see that her son was being severely scolded for swaying before the gamelan had even started.
However, of all the memories he kept with him, the one tragedy that haunted him was from the sixties. The branding of certain people as left-wing communists caused the Jaranan troupe led by his stepfather to be disbanded. In the dead of night, Sanadi—the man who’d been put in charge of security for the government’s coffee plantation—banged on the door of his stepfather's house, accompanied by his subordinates.
“Open the door, you bastard! Come out!”
Wak Buto had been performing his routine nightly prayers. He then asked Ningsih to hide in the kitchen with Cak Wan. Meanwhile, Wak Buto took his odheng** and wrapped it around his head. He opened the door calmly.
“On behalf of the government, starting tonight, Your Jaranan troupe is forbidden to perform.”
“Give me one reason. If it makes sense, I’ll stop, but if not, don’t expect anything from me!”
“You son of a bitch!” Sanadi grabbed Wak Buto by his shirt. The people gathered on the lawn outside tried to shove in, but were stopped by one of Sanadi’s men.
Sanadi continued, “Don’t you realize that you’re worshipping the devil? It’s apostasy!”
“If performing the Jaranan is devil worship, then what about you, who worships the government? What they do is far crueler than any act of the devil!”
Sanadi fell silent. He threw a punch at Wak Buto’s face, but Wak Buto deflected it. People joined the fight. A riot was unavoidable, unstoppable. Wak Buto kicked, hit, and punched Sanadi over and over again. The young man fell, his hand reaching for the back of his trousers, then pointing a gun at Wak Buto’s head. It only took one bullet to kill the lead Jaranan performer. The lawn was drenched with blood. Out of nowhere, a man threw a cleaver at Sanadi’s head. His men were showered with rocks. Falling over themselves to escape, they left Sanadi lying in agony. People paid no attention to him. They only cared about Wak Buto.
Ningsih, squeezing Cak Wan’s hand tightly, came out of hiding, her eyes full of tears. She held and shook her husband’s body several times. Ningsih felt her chest rumbling, for she realized that her dream last night of her teeth falling out seemed to have become reality. All of a sudden, her body went limp with the realization that her husband was truly gone. Meanwhile, Cak Wan, who was still eleven years old, could hold back his tears. He didn’t understand why those people would want to end his stepfather’s life so mercilessly. Only after several grief-stricken years did he finally come to an answer. The truth was that Jaranan, as led by his stepfather, was not performed the same way in other places.
In other villages, Jaranan performances involved kuda lumping and eating shards of glass and hot coals. Even if there was a highly anticipated attraction involved, it would consist solely of a possessed man’s search for an enchanted object, called a tenung. A tenung could take the form of seven nails or a bunch of hair, with a little bit of incense tucked inside, wrapped in a burial shroud. It was activated at midnight by those who could perform black magic. Through devilish chanting, the intended victim of a tenung would feel enormous pain. This was where Jaranan performers played their part. If a Jaranan performer like Cak Wan found a tenung in the garden of a house, then the sick owner would be cured. So of course, a Jaranan performer was different from the mystics who worked with the devil. As a matter of fact, a Jaranan performer was the one who fought them.
However, Wak Buto’s Jaranan was different altogether. It didn’t start with a sinden singing a song like Jaranan performances in other villages. It started with Wak Buto himself reciting a macapat—praise and counsel sung with sliding high-pitched notes—and, tucked inside, would be words to skin those who were in power. “Lokanah dheging bedeh obedheh, lokanah ateh dhere tambenah”—The wound of the flesh finds remedy but the wound of the heart finds agony. Words that would turn the village officials’ faces red. Words weighted with the wounds of the families that had lost their men. They were gone with the wind, leaving only rumors that those who’d disappeared had followed the ideology of the hammer and sickle. But the truth was they had only been farmers who carried a hammer and sickle every day.
Perhaps, this was the reason behind why Wak Buto’s Jaranan troupe was disbanded by force. If they had let him continue his performances, Wak Buto might have threatened the peace. It seemed that Wak Buto’s death had been planned all along by those men.
Six o’clock, the following morning
In a shed where the Jaranan instruments were kept, Cak Wan approached the players who were preparing their gamelan. After last night’s performance, he decided to approach Misrawi in person. Even though he was so unwell that his body was shivering, Cak Wan wanted to speak the question that he’d been keeping to himself.
“I heard that you’re moving to Denpasar. And Sidin too—to Kalimantan. Is that true?”
Misrawi only responded with a slow nod.
“I know, Wi. Staying means piling up debt until you die. But as a Jaranan musician, you must understand the oath we took when we first decided to take this path. No one is allowed to quit Jaranan, and staying in Tenap is a must, no matter what. Or have you forgotten that you swore an oath by the name of your ancestors?”
“Screw the ancestors! And screw the Jaranan rules! Maybe you think me disrespectful and rude for not listening to you and your words. But nothing is left here, Cak. My wife hasn’t contacted me in months. How about my daughter Sani? Tell me, do I have to keep going with performing this art and working this land, hardly making any money?”
Cak Wan, who had never faced any protest from Misrawi, spluttered. He hadn’t expected that the kendang player whom he’d taught since he was little would dare to argue with him. Slowly, Cak Wan withdrew and went outside, following the path of the road, slipping away into the mist, which was descending rapidly. He couldn’t take it—the conversation that would only end in a dispute.
Cak Wan kept walking east. In solitude. Holding back his tears. His heart was aching, burdened with a throat that desired to howl. But there was nothing he could scream. Instead, tears fell from his eyes, one drop at a time. Cak Wan kept walking, going as far his feet and mind would sail. After all, no one cared.
Standing amongst the trees, Cak Wan felt the wind of the valley caressing his hair, which had whitened over the years. The memories of his childhood struck him. He remembered a time when farmers had been very happy with their harvests. He remembered when the coffee trees seemed to bear so much fruit, they seemed to be trying to outdo each other. He remembered when coffee fetched a high price. He remembered when coffee farmers had lived in houses paved in prosperity and roofed in good fortune. Even those who hadn’t owned a coffee plantation and relied only on their rice fields had done just as well. Their rice had been able to provide for their family for a whole season.
Eventually, the coffee and rice harvests gave them not only contentment, but also hope that their children wouldn’t have to live a miserable life. They wouldn’t have to feel the sun burning their skin, as their parents had. They weren’t allowed to farm. “Focus on studying!”—that was what they told their children to do. “Don’t go to the fields. Let the parents do it.” Farming was not for the children. Therefore, it wasn’t surprising that they wanted to be a doctor, professor, engineer, or the president when they were asked at school. Only a fraction wanted to be a mullah. No one wanted to be a tobacco, coffee, or even rice farmer. No wonder only old farmers are left in Tenap now. Those who stink of the grave. The youth wandered off, looking for experience and salaries. If they got lucky, they could work in a factory. If not, they would become construction workers.
Alas, the prosperous land of the ancestors had now changed. Coffee trees grew old and bore no fruit. Meanwhile, the farmers grew old too, and merely hoeing left them out of breath. Cak Wan dwelled in his thoughts for a long time. Only old farmers were left in the rice fields, and only he remained in the Jaranan troupe. He felt his heart shrivel and wane. The hills seemed to be calling.
Lereng Argopuro, 15 Rajab 1437
The drumming sound of the kendang and gong mingle wildly with the discordant chant of sinden. Before long, children gather in the lawn of the Jaranan shed after school. Even the smallest child among them was trying to wriggle his way through the crowd. His old grandmother chases after him, panting.
Crack!
The ear-splitting sound of the whip echoed all over the mountains. Cak Wan’s body was brawny and firm. Thick powder covered his whole face. Black trousers and a red-and-white shirt added to his formidable air. The anklet he wore produced a tinkling sound as his feet stomped on the ground.
Crack!
Cak Wan squares his stance one more time. He is ready to kick any other player who tries to fight. But there is no man to be fought. The musician, pawang, and sinden are nowhere to be found. The sound of gamelan and gong, which the audience has been hearing, comes from his old cassette player. Cak Wan doesn’t give a damn. What matters now is that Jaranan will remain alive until he draws his last breath. Cak Wan keeps on dancing, pleading with the Almighty at the same time. He hopes that one of the kids enjoying his performance will be willing to carry on the legacy of the ancestors.
You know where the sound of the gong and gamelan comes from, don’t you—mingling in wildly with the sinden’s chant? How the highlands of Argopuro open themselves up only to find a dancer at the porch of a hill, masquerading the solitude of his performance. With no hesitation. With no exclamation.
* A traditional house made from bamboo
**A batik headband with floral or flame pattern particular to the Madurese.
© Nurillah Achmad
English translation ©Aditya Ramadhan
KAKI-KAKI YANG TERBENAM DALAM BAYANG-BAYANG
Nurillah Achmad
Ilustrasi oleh Sukutangan.
Kau tahu muasal suara gong, gamelan yang berpadu liar dengan nyanyian sinden, bukan? Betapa pegunungan Argopuro membuka diri mendapati penari di pelataran bukit itu kian menyaru gerak. Tak banyak gertak. Tak banyak hentak.
Lereng Argopuro, 15 Safar 1437
Beberapa jam sebelum pementasan di balai desa, Cak Wan gelisah. Ia menyusuri Dusun Tenap yang masih didekap kabut. Melintasi banyak petak sawah, dan saling bertegur sapa dengan sesama manakala jarak pandang dalam satu meter. Udara begitu pekat, menyisakan bayangan hitam dari kejauhan.
Di sini, kabut turun tak mengenal bilangan masa. Bisa siang, sore, atau lepas azan magrib, kabut sanggup mengalir dan menyergap Tenap yang berada di Pegunungan Argopuro. Sebagai dusun terpencil sekaligus menasbihkan diri sebagai dusun terpucuk di perbukitan, Tenap adalah mimpi buruk bagi perangkat desa. Berkali-kali pergantian pemimpin, jalanan tak pernah diperbaiki. Bebatu dan tanjakan tajam adalah rintangan yang mesti dilalui. Padahal lebar jalan tak sampai dua meter. Jika salah perhitungan, bisa terpental dan terperosok ke jurang. Setidaknya, ini yang dialami salah satu anak KKN dari sebuah universitas di Kabupaten Jember. Patah tulang dan terpaksa cuti satu semester.
Tenap tak ubahnya ampas tebu yang habis manis sepah dibuang. Satu dari tujuh dusun yang menghuni Desa Sucopangepok ini, Tenap didiami dua ratus kepala keluarga yang sebagian masyarakatnya masih berumah gedek dan bekerja sebagai petani. Penghuninya adalah mereka-mereka yang berusia uzur. Pemuda-pemudi memilih merantau, dan meninggalkan anak-cucu di kampung. Tiap pemilihan kepala desa, suara orang-orang tua ini kerap diperebutkan. Calon Kades saling berlomba menarik hati dengan beragam janji. Seperti listrik yang takkan lagi menumpang ke desa sebelah sehingga mengalir dari pagi ketemu pagi. Tak seperti sekarang ini. Mengalir sampai temaram petang. Sampai-sampai aktivitas mengaji di langgar terpaksa dihentikan.
Tak sedikit pula calon Kades itu ikut memperbaiki jalan. Terutama saat musim hujan. Jalan begitu licin dan tergenang lumpur seakan jadi ajang mengumbar simpati. Selain mengimbau menjaga keselamatan badan dengan memasang rantai pada roda, mereka juga memberi uang tak seberapa. Berlagak peduli padahal setelah terpilih tak pernah singgah dengan dalih medan amat sulit dilewati. Agaknya, Tenap memang ditakdirkan seperti kopi. Setelah diseduh, ampas tak dilirik lagi.
Di samping kebun kopi itulah, Cak Wan berhenti melangkah. Menunggu azan magrib bersama kabut yang kesekian kalinya menyergap. Daun-daun kopi ikut bergoyang diterpa angin kecil. Makin petang, kegelisahan Cak Wan makin jadi-jadi.
Pukul dua belas malam
Dentam gendang, bunyi gong berpadu liar dengan suara sinden yang tak karuan. Semakin malam, orang-orang bergerak maju. Bahkan anak kecil yang bertubuh paling mungil meliuk-liuk di antara kerumunan. Sampai-sampai, seorang lelaki mencegatnya agar tak melewati tali yang dipasang.
Centaarrrr!
Suara cambuk membahana. Membelah kesunyian malam. Pardi, Sang Pawang, memecut tubuh pemain utama. Cak Wan bertubuh kekar nan tegap. Bedak tebal menutupi seluruh wajah. Celana hitam serta kaos merah putih menambah kesangarannya. Dengan kerincingan di kaki, hentakan tariannya mengeluarkan gemerincing nyaring.
Centaarrrr!
Cak Wan meloncat. Beradu dengan para pemain lain yang ikut meloncat. Dua pemain tersungkur. Cak Wan kembali memasang kuda-kuda. Bersiap menendang pemain lain yang berusaha melawan. Tiba-tiba Cak Wan meringkuk. Alis tebalnya mengerut. Kumis lebatnya melengkung ke atas. Kedua bola matanya menepi. Cak Wan berlari ke arah tungku api. Dilahapnya bara api seakan memakan nasi. Orang-orang meringis. Bulu kuduk mereka berdiri.
Semakin lama, suara sinden terdengar makin payau. Cak Wan sendiri masih melahap bara api. Tetiba, ia merunduk. Terus menciumi tanah seakan beraroma parfum. Persis anjing yang mengendus aroma daging. Ia terus menciumi tanah sambil mengais. Konon, jika pemain Jaranan sudah kesurupan, ia bisa mencari tenung. Kiriman santet kala tengah malam.
“Suiit... suiit...”
Cak Wan mendongak. Menebar pandang ke seluruh penjuru halaman. Mencari sumber suara yang melengking keras. Dilihatnya seorang lelaki bersarung tersenyum menggigil berlari ke arah kuburan. Dikejarlah lelaki ini bak memergoki maling. Pardi kebingungan.
“Sudah tahu setannya datang masih bersuit. Sekarang rasakan kamu bakal mati,” ujar lelaki tua yang berjongkok di samping anak kecil tadi.
Inilah tari Jaranan. Tradisi bulanan yang dipentaskan tengah malam. Diawali puja-puji leluhur, para penari memasuki halaman balai desa diiringi nyanyian sinden yang kadang-kadang suaranya melengking menakutkan. Malam ini, mereka diundang kepala desa yang memiliki hajat khitan anak tunggalnya. Tentu pagelaran ini takkan berhenti menari sampai menembus batas malam dan pagi. Apalagi Cak Wan. Ia yang paling ditunggu-tunggu orang-orang. Selain lincah, Cak Wan terasa betul menghayati setiap gerakan.
Terang-terang Cak Wan tak serta-merta piawai seperti sekarang ini. Dulunya, ia sama seperti penari yang lain. Berlatih sejak kecil di sebuah los yang berada tepat di samping rumah uwaknya, Wak Buto. Di tempat itulah, Cak Wan belajar berjalan patah-patah. Berhari-hari sampai kakinya terasa bengkak. Dan baru diperbolehkan tampil setelah mengucap sumpah setia terhadap Jaranan. Sebagai penari Jaranan di masa lampau yang menjadi satu-satunya hiburan tiap bulan, Wak Buto tak segan-segan memarahi Cak Wan yang bermalas-malasan.
“Kau takkan bisa menari dengan benar kalau hanya fokus pada gerakan. Menyatulah dengan alam. Sapalah Tuhan dan leluhur, maka dengan sendirinya Jaranan akan menyatu dengan tubuhmu.”
Begitu ucap Wak Buto berulang-ulang. Meski kadang tak terima dibentak-bentak di depan penari lain, Cak Wan berupaya mengikuti saran uwaknya. Mula-mula ia menghafal seluruh gerakan. Setelah mahir gerakan patah-patah, ia beralih menunggang kuda lumping dari anyaman bambu. Tak jarang wajah Cak Wan tampak tegang sepanjang latihan. Bahkan pernah Ningsih, ibunya, terguncang-guncang menyaksikan Cak Wan dimarahi habis-habisan musabab ia melenggok terlebih dulu sebelum gamelan dibunyikan.
Namun, dari sekian kenangan yang tersimpan, satu-satunya peristiwa pahit yang masih menghantuinya terjadi pada tahun 60-an. Isu cap kiri menyebabkan kelompok Jaranan pimpinan uwaknya dibungkam. Di tengah malam buta, pintu rumahnya digedor-gedor Sanadi –lelaki yang diberi kuasa menjaga area lahan kopi milik pemerintah—bersama anak buahnya.
“Keluar kau, Bajingan! Keluar!”
Wak Buto yang kerap sembahyang malam, menyuruh Ningsih bersembunyi di dapur seraya membawa Cak Wan. Sementara Wak Buto mengambil odheng, mengenakannya di kepala, lalu membuka pintu dengan tenang.
“Atas nama pemerintah, mulai malam ini kelompok Jaranan kalian dilarang tampil.”
“Beri aku satu alasan. Kalau itu masuk akal akan kuhentikan, tetapi jika tidak, jangan harap kau bisa hentikan!”
“Kurang ajar!” Sanadi mencengkeram baju Wak Buto. Orang-orang yang menumpuk di halaman berusaha menerobos tetapi dicegat anak buah Sanadi. “Kau tak sadar kalau kelakuanmu itu musyrik? Menyembah setan!”
“Kalau Jaranan menyembah setan, lantas bagaimana denganmu yang menyembah pemerintah yang bertindak lebih kejam daripada setan?!”
Sanadi terbungkam. Ia menghantam wajah Wak Buto, tapi Wak Buto berhasil menangkisnya. Orang-orang ikut melawan. Perkelahian tak bisa terhindarkan. Tak bisa dihentikan. Wak Buto berkali-kali menendang, memukul, meninju Sanadi. Pemuda itu tersungkur, tangannya merogoh bagian belakang celana, dan mengarahkan sebuah pistol tepat ke kepala Wak Buto. Sekali tembakan, matilah lakon utama Jaranan itu dengan darah bersimbah di halaman rumahnya. Orang-orang terkesiap. Seketika seseorang melemparkan golok ke kepala Sanadi. Orang-orang lain melempar bebatu ke anak-anak buahnya. Tunggang-langgang mereka menyelamatkan diri tanpa membawa Sanadi yang terkapar. Orang-orang tak peduli kepadanya. Yang mereka pedulikan hanya Wak Buto.
Ningsih yang mengapit lengan Cak Wan keluar dari persembunyian dengan berlinang air mata. Dipeluknya dan diguncangkannya tubuh suaminya itu berkali-kali. Dada Ningsih bergemuruh sebab mimpinya semalam yang mendapati giginya tanggal seolah menjadi nyata. Seketika ia lunglai mendapati suaminya betul-betul tiada. Sementara Cak Wan yang berusia sebelas tahun lebih kuasa menahan isak tangis. Kala itu, ia tak paham mengapa uwaknya sampai hati dibunuh. Ia baru mengerti beberapa tahun setelah masa suram itu. Ternyata, lakon yang dipimpin uwaknya tak sama dengan lakon Jaranan di daerah lain.
Di desa lain, Jaranan menampilkan adegan kuda lumping, makan beling dan bara api. Kalaupun ada atraksi yang ditunggu-tunggu, tak lain tak bukan perihal pemain kesurupan yang mampu mencari tenung. Tenung bisa berupa tujuh paku, seutas rambut yang disisipi sedikit kemenyan lalu dibungkus kain kafan. Dikirim tengah malam oleh mereka yang memiliki ilmu hitam. Melalui puja-puji setan, si tertuju bakal merasakan sakit luar biasa. Di sinilah peran pemain Jaranan. Jika pemain Jaranan seperti Cak Wan menemukan tenung di halaman sebuah rumah, maka si empu rumah yang sakit akan sembuh. Tentu pemain Jaranan berbeda dengan dukun-dukun yang bekerja sama dengan setan. Pemain Jaranan adalah mereka-mereka yang mau menceburkan diri melawan tenung si ilmu hitam.
Tetapi Jaranan yang diketuai Wak Buto lain cerita. Jaranan milik Wak Buto tak dimulai dengan nyanyian sinden seperti kelompok Jaranan di desa lain. Justru Wak Buto sendiri mengawali dengan membaca macapat—puja-puji nasihat yang dinyanyikan dengan nada meliuk-liuk nan melengking ke atas—lalu disisipi pepatah yang menguliti pejabat. “Lokanah dheging bedeh obedheh, lokanah ateh dhere tambenah. Ini luka badan memang ada obatnya, tapi luka hati tiada penawarnya.” Sebuah pepatah yang berhasil membuat perangkat desa berwajah merah. Sebuah pepatah yang mewakili luka beberapa keluarga yang kehilangan lelakinya begitu saja. Yang raib tanpa musabab apa-apa, malah menyisakan isu kalau mereka-mereka yang hilang adalah orang yang berkiblat pada palu dan arit. Padahal, mereka memang petani yang setiap hari selalu membawa arit.
Barangkali, inilah musabab mengapa Jaranan Wak Buto terpaksa dibungkam. Jika dibiarkan, bukan tak mungkin Wak Buto mengusik ketenangan. Agaknya, kepergian Wak Buto memang direncanakan orang-orang itu.
Pukul enam pagi esok hari
Di sebuah los yang menyimpan seperangkat tetabuhan Jaranan, Cak Wan mendekati para penabuh yang sedang menata perangkat gamelan. Sejak pementasan semalam, ia memutuskan menanyakan langsung pada Misrawi. Meski badannya terus meringkih tak sehat, Cak Wan ingin menghaturkan pertanyaan yang akhir-akhir ini disimpannya erat-erat.
“Kudengar kabar kau bakal ke Denpasar. Sidin ke Kalimantan. Benarkah itu?”
Yang ditanya hanya mengangguk pelan.
“Aku tahu, Wi. Bertahan di sini sama artinya menumpuk utang dibawa mati. Tapi, sebagai pemain Jaranan, kau pasti paham janji setia saat pertama kali mengikrarkan diri. Tak boleh keluar dari Jaranan, dan menetap di Tenap apa pun yang terjadi. Apa kau lupa manakala kau disumpah atas nama leluhurmu?”
“Persetan dengan leluhur! Persetan dengan larangan pemain Jaranan! Barangkali aku terkesan tak hormat, tak sopan sebab tak menghargai ucapan Cak Wan. Tapi apa yang bisa kupertahankan di sini, Cak? Istriku saja belum berkabar berbulan-bulan. Bagaimana dengan anakku Sani? Apa aku harus terus berkutat dengan seni dan tani yang tak menghasilkan banyak rupiah?”
Cak Wan yang biasanya tak memperoleh sanggahan dari lawan bicaranya itu tergagap. Tak menyangka penabuh gendang yang diajarinya dari kecil itu ternyata berani mendebat. Pelan-pelan Cak Wan mengundurkan diri. Keluar menyusuri jalanan. Menyusup di antara kabut yang bergegas turun. Ia tak sanggup meneruskan perbincangan yang bakal berakhir perselisihan.
Cak Wan terus berjalan ke arah timur, tanpa siapa-siapa menahan air mata. Batinnya gundah, kerongkongan tercekat ingin berteriak. Tapi tak tahu apa yang ingin diteriakkan. Malah air matanya jatuh satu-satu. Cak Wan terus melangkah, menurutkan sejauh mana kaki dan pikirannya berlabuh. Lagi pula, siapa peduli?
Sembari berdiri di antara pepohonan, Cak Wan merasakan angin lembah membelai rambutnya yang beruban. Kenangan masa kecilnya tetiba menyeruak masuk. Ketika puluhan petani senang tak kepalang mendapati hasil panen. Ketika pohon-pohon kopi saling berlomba berbuah lebat. Ketika harga kopi dihargai mahal. Petani kopi hidup beralas makmur beratap mujur. Bahkan, mereka-mereka yang tak memiliki lahan kopi dan hanya mengandalkan padi, juga tak mau kalah. Hasil gabah cukup menghidupi keluarga satu musim tanam lamanya.
Lama-lama, panen kopi maupun padi tak hanya mengenyangkan, tetapi melambungkan angan kalau anak-anak mereka tak boleh hidup susah. Tak boleh bersusah-payah terbakar matahari sampai kulit hitam legam seperti orangtuanya. Mereka dilarang bertani. Disuruhnya fokus belajar, tak usah ke ladang. Cukup orangtua saja bertani, anak tak boleh mencicipi. Maka, tak heran jika anak-anak ini ditanya cita-citanya di sekolah, jawabnya mau jadi dokter, profesor, insinyur, dan presiden. Paling kecil suaranya jadi guru agama. Tak ada yang mau jadi petani tembakau, kopi, apalagi padi. Pantas jika sekarang Tenap menyisakan petani berusia uzur. Mereka-mereka yang berbau tanah kubur. Pemuda-pemudi merantau mencari pengalaman dan gaji bulanan. Jika beruntung, bisa bekerja di pabrik. Jika buntung, menjadi tukang bangunan.
Oh, tanah leluhur yang subur itu nyatanya telah berubah. Pohon-pohon kopi sebagian besar telah tua dan jarang berbuah. Sementara petaninya juga berusia tua, untuk mencangkul saja membutuhkan tarikan napas begitu panjang. Cak Wan termenung begitu lama. Sawah-sawah menyisakan petani tua. Sementara Jaranan meninggalkan dirinya saja. Hatinya terasa ciut dan mengecil. Tanah berbukit-bukit itu seperti memanggil-manggil.
Lereng Argopuro, 15 Rajab 1437
Dentam gendang, bunyi gong berpadu liar dengan suara sinden yang serak-serak basah. Semakin lama, anak-anak yang pulang sekolah bergerak semakin maju ke halaman los Jaranan. Bahkan, seorang anak kecil yang tubuhnya paling mungil, meliuk-liuk di antara kerumunan. Mbahnya yang tua renta ngos-ngosan mengejar ke depan.
Centaarrrr!
Suara cambuk membahana. Melengking ke seluruh penjuru pegunungan. Cak Wan bertubuh kekar nan tegap. Bedak tebal menutupi seluruh wajah. Celana hitam serta kaos merah putih menambah kesangarannya. Dengan kerincingan di kaki, hentakan tariannya mengeluarkan gemerincing nyaring.
Centaarrrr!
Cak Wan kembali memasang kuda-kuda. Bersiap menendang pemain lain yang berusaha melawan. Tetapi tak satu pun pemain yang hendak dilawan. Para penabuh, pawang juga sinden tak ada. Suara gamelan dan gong yang sedari tadi terdengar adalah musik yang disetel dari kaset tuanya. Cak Wan tak peduli. Yang penting Jaranan tetap lestari sampai ia mati. Cak Wan terus menari sembari memohon kepada Ilahi. Semoga ada satu dari anak-anak kecil yang menikmati tariannya itu berkenan meneruskan warisan leluhur ini.
Kini, kau tahu muasal suara gong, gamelan yang berpadu liar dengan nyanyian sinden, bukan? Betapa pegunungan Argopuro membuka diri mendapati penari di pelataran bukit itu kian menyaru gerak. Tak banyak gertak. Tak banyak hentak.
© Nurillah Achmad
NURILLAH ACHMAD is a writer of short stories and poems. She graduated from TMI Putri Al Amien Prenduan, Sumenep and the University of Jember, Faculty of Law. Currently she lives in Jember, East Java. She was selected as an Indonesian Emerging Writers 2019 at Ubud Writers & Readers Festival. Find her on Facebook at Nurillah Achmad and Instagram @nurillah.achmad.
ADITYA RAMADHAN’s accidental encounters with words have caused him to write some poems and short stories. His works, among others, are Jean Evans, published online in Detik, and Myung-Hee, published in a short story anthology together with other Kelas Menulis Cerpen Kompas 2018 alumni. He also writes songs, SEO articles, and sometimes translates journal articles. His album debut, entitled It’s Mayn, was recorded with his former band. You can find him on Instagram at @adityasrgr or contact him at adityasrgr@gmail.com.
SUKUTANGAN is a collective that consists of the couple Genta Shimaoka and Sekar Wulandari Yogaster, who work a lot with books. They make illustrations, design covers, do layouts, and perform editorial tasks, such as writing, editing, and translating. Sukutangan has been working for almost four years, producing cover designs every month. Sukutangan has designed covers for books published by major and independent publishers, from literary works to translated popular novels.