Wajo
Tjak S. Parlan
Translated into English by Clarissa Goenawan
Illustration by Cindy Saja.
We walk along the reservoir, talking about an old friend.
Every now and then, we pause for a moment and look at the expanse of the water where, in some parts, water hyacinth covers the surface. The weed scatters quietly in the peak of the dry season. The late afternoon wind blows stronger, cold and dry. At times, your pace quickens, so I can gaze at your back which—who knows since when—gives the impression that you’ve been patiently waiting. But what keeps you waiting?
“I often find myself thinking he’ll appear at this reservoir, carrying a rod,” you say with a smile.
I remember something about our friend that would amuse me; how he insisted that in every puddle—basically any crevice filled with water—fish were always hiding. Therefore, he felt the need to prove it the only way he knew how: by catching them.
“Wajo is a true farmer—he loves to fish,” you say. “I really miss him.”
Of course, I long for him too. I miss the three of us: me, you, and Wajo. You think of him as your own brother. After your parents passed away, he was the one who taught you things. You learned how to live as a tenant farmer. You realized why the people in our village must defend every inch of our cultivated land.
“Come look,” you say, as soon as we step onto the higher part of the embankment. “I think this was where I used to clear the paths, or plough before the planting season.”
We sit on this higher ground. I listen to everything you say. Sometimes you stretch your arms wide, or point into the distance, as if you’re measuring or marking something that still lies before us. And I can almost smell your muddy sweat from that afternoon, seven years ago.
The soil had just been ploughed. The rice fields had just been watered. Rice seedlings were being prepared for the planting season. And you looked so happy.
But, on another afternoon, you seemed to be worried about something.
“Wajo said the messenger came again,” you told me.
What kind of messenger? What are you talking about? Deep inside, I wondered to myself. And now, even as I sit here with you, I still wonder. How could the land tilled for decades with the sweat of our village’s people be replaced with a reservoir? What’s more, according to my father, the great-grandfathers of our village were the first ones to take care of this former onderneming land.
This afternoon, I recall how Wajo started to disappear frequently, always returning with his new friends. He often invited the people in our village to gather to discuss the fate of the land we farmed. It was during the period when our village had lost almost all hope, but Wajo never failed to revive their fighting spirit.
One night he declared, “We must defend this land!”
The next morning the villagers moved north and formed a human barrier across the road at the border of our farmland. I was among them. You and Wajo and a dozen other friends were in the front row.
Heavy machinery was already lined up, waiting to pass. I even saw a digger, its engine already turned on. The sight of them made Wajo furious. He pushed his way forward and picked up the loudspeaker. His voice blaring and fiery, he asked that all the engines be turned off. But from another direction, a group of people we didn't recognize began to shout.
“A reservoir for the people! A reservoir for all!”
The people from our village started to get incensed and surged into that group. A brigade of police officers blocked us. Pushing and shoving was inevitable. Being small, I ended up squeezed between two increasingly unruly crowds. Wajo, who had spotted me, grabbed my arm and told me to go wait at a distance with the other village women.
To tell the truth, I was terrified. Not wanting to stay there any longer, I ran away. I didn't know what happened next exactly, but I heard gunshots in the distance. From what you told me later on, I could only imagine the chaos that day.
The next day, you told me, “Then we saw the pile of straw, the remains of the failed harvest. I don't know who started the fire. An excavator was burning.”
The authorities moved fast. The same day you recounted your story, you and five other people were taken to the police station for questioning. You didn't return for two years. Meanwhile, the others—two of Wajo's friends and three villagers—were released from prison after several months. From them, I learned that Wajo was the main target. Since then, not one of us has ever caught a glimpse of him. It’s as if Wajo was swallowed up by the earth. A drunken young man once joked that Wajo had been used as a sacrificial offering for the reservoir’s construction. We tried not to believe it.
Today, you seem filled with regret.
“Every time I come here,” you say, “I like to remember Wajo as a simple farmer. If that were the case, he might still be around, even though there's nothing left anymore.”
I look at our surroundings. A sliver of the past appears, revealing a scrawny Wajo waving at me, and I scurry to meet him. I can already guess what he’s about to give me.
He hands me a huge bunch of genjer, young and green, while whispering, “Here, pass them to Kak Yun. Don’t forget, okay?"
It’s one of those days leading up to the harvest season. After clearing the weeds that have grown between the main crops, Wajo sets aside genjer leaves for my family. He admits he doesn't usually like genjer, but he loves them if they’re cooked by my sister. From this, I know that Wajo had strong feelings for Kak Yun.
After Wajo went missing, Kak Yun wasn’t the same person anymore. I often found her daydreaming, her expression looking more somber than before. Sadly, my older sister, who was born mute, couldn't talk about her feelings. But I could sense what she felt. If Kak Yun were still with us, she would probably sit on the edge of this reservoir a lot, staring at the surroundings and imagining Wajo in the distance, beckoning to her.
You tell me about your new patch of land, located at a distance from the village. You can’t grow rice. The land isn’t good enough, but you can still grow peanuts and corn.
“Come over,” you say. “Take a moment to look around.”
I promise to stop by your field, though moments later, I regret saying so. But I'm relieved to know that you can still farm. One of the reasons I come here is to see you. I’ve heard from the neighbours that you’re often seen walking along this reservoir.
“I thought you would still be here when I returned," you say. “No one told me anything.”
You stare at the wide body of water, snaking into the distance. The reservoir embankment stretches from north to south as far as the eye can see. The giant artificial river is receding now, the water murky. In the distance, our village grows dim under the darkening sky. A man walks along the reservoir with a long bamboo rod slung over his shoulder, as if trying to reach the past he has left behind.
I tell you about my departure. At that time, we had no choice. After the construction of the reservoir, our lives became difficult. We didn't have jobs. My father was forced to go around looking for work in neighboring villages, laboring as a hired hand in the fields before the harvest season. Kak Yun and I sometimes tagged along. Several rice-field owners let us pick genjer. When we got home, we tied the genjer leaves in small bundles and sold them in the nearby village. What other option did we have? We had no idea when we would get the promised replacement land. We couldn’t do anything. I had no friends to talk to. You were in jail, and Wajo was somewhere.
That was what made us decide to leave the island. We built a new life on land belonging to an old friend of my father's. They were a transmigrant family who had emigrated decades ago and were quite successful. They needed someone hardworking who could be trusted to tend their neglected watermelon fields. They found a good match in my father. We worked hard to maintain their trust.
“Thank God you found a home there,” you say with a laugh. “Luckily, you’re not married. Otherwise, we definitely wouldn't be able to see each other again.”
When I try to ask about your marriage, you laugh again. Rather than answering, you tell me about your relationship with Wajo's old friends. After you were released, you reconnected with them. You all, and a number of the remaining villagers, are planning to hold an event soon to remember Wajo. You invite me, hoping I can take part.
“Stay a few more days. You should come.”
I wish I could accept your invitation, especially since it’s for Wajo. But I can’t, and I won't tell you why.
You see, at our new place, Kak Yun met her soulmate. He’s a good man and a dedicated farmer, and I was glad to see her happy. But almost a year has passed since Kak Yun left us. She had an asthma attack and died in a community health clinic. She left behind a pair of twins who still need to be hugged at bedtime. They hadn’t even been weaned from their mother's breast. They’re very close to me now. I’ve become a mother to them. Meanwhile, my father is getting on in years. He hopes to see me settling down soon.
“I used to think that Wajo liked you, and it turned out that he liked Kak Yun. But did you like Wajo?”
This time, I can’t answer. Instead, I observe that the sun has set. We must hurry back to the village. You seem reluctant, but you still stand and offer me your hand. I reach for your strong, sturdy arm. Walking along the reservoir, you apologize for asking. I keep silent, enduring the cold, dry wind.
You don't need to apologize. Perhaps I'm the one who should do so. I can't stay here for long. Tomorrow I'm going to visit my mother's grave to pray. At her headstone, I’m going to tell her that I’m ready to be someone's wife, as well as the mother of his children. That someone is my brother-in-law. Maybe you don't believe me, but in many ways, my husband-to-be is very much like Wajo.
Banyuwangi, October 2018
© Tjak S. Parlan
English translation © Clarissa Goenawan
WAJO
Tjak S. Parlan
Ilustrasi oleh Cindy Saja.
Kita berjalan menyusuri tanggul sambil membicarakan seorang kawan lama. Sesekali kita berhenti sejenak dan memandang hamparan waduk di mana—pada sejumlah bagian—eceng gondok menutupi permukaan air. Gulma itu terus menyebar secara diam-diam di tengah musim kemarau. Angin menjelang sore bertiup lebih kencang, terasa dingin sekaligus kering. Ada kalanya langkahmu lebih cepat, sehingga aku bisa menatap punggungmu yang—entah sejak kapan—tampak seperti sesuatu yang betah menunggu. Apa yang membuatmu terus menunggu?
“Aku sering merasa dia akan muncul di tanggul ini. Sambil membawa sebatang joran,” katamu seraya tersenyum.
Aku teringat hal yang membuatku merasa geli tentang kawan kita itu. Tentang bagaimana dia bersikeras bahwa di setiap genangan—ceruk apa pun yang berisi air—selalu menyembunyikan ikan-ikan. Oleh karenanya, dia merasa perlu membuktikannya dengan satu-satunya cara, yaitu memancing.
“Wajo tetaplah petani tulen yang senang memancing,” katamu. “Aku sering merasa kangen.”
Tentu, aku juga kangen. Aku kangen kita bertiga: aku, kamu, Wajo. Kamu bahkan sudah menganggap Wajo sebagai kakakmu sendiri. Setelah kedua orangtuamu meninggal, Wajolah yang mengajarimu banyak hal. Kamu menjadi lebih tahu, bagaimana cara menjalani hidup sebagai petani penggarap. Kamu juga menjadi lebih paham, mengapa orang-orang di kampung kita harus mempertahankan setiap jengkal tanah garapan.
“Coba lihat,” katamu, sesaat setelah kaki kita menapaki bagian tanggul yang lebih tinggi. “Menurut perkiraanku, di sekitar sinilah aku dulu membersihkan pematang atau membajak menjelang musim tanam.”
Kita duduk di tempat yang lebih tinggi ini. Aku mendengarkan apa saja yang kamu katakan. Sesekali kamu membentangkan tangan atau menunjuk ke kejauhan, seolah-olah sedang mengukur atau menandai sesuatu yang masih ada di depan kita saat ini. Aku seolah bisa mencium keringatmu yang berbau lumpur pada suatu sore, tujuh tahun silam. Tanah baru saja digemburkan ketika itu. Petak-petak sawah baru saja diairi. Bibit padi mulai disiapkan pada sebuah musim tanam, dan kamu tampak bahagia. Namun, pada suatu sore yang lain, kamu tampak seperti sedang mengkhawatirkan sesuatu yang akan terjadi di masa depan. “Orang suruhan itu datang lagi. Wajo yang memberitahuku,” katamu ketika itu.
Orang suruhan apa? Kamu bicara tentang apa? Dalam hati—hingga bersamamu sore ini— aku masih bertanya-tanya, bagaimana mungkin tanah yang sudah puluhan tahun digarap dengan cucuran keringat orang-orang kampung kita, harus ditukar dengan sebuah waduk? Bahkan menurut cerita bapakku, kakek buyut orang-orang kampung kitalah yang pertama kali merawat tanah bekas onderneming ini.
Sore ini, aku kembali teringat ketika Wajo mulai sering menghilang dan selalu kembali bersama kawan-kawan barunya. Wajo sering mengajak orang-orang kampung kita berkumpul dan membicarakan nasib tanah garapan bersama mereka. Itu masa ketika orang-orang kampung kita nyaris tidak memiliki harapan. Tetapi Wajo selalu bisa menumbuhkan kembali semangat itu.
“Kita harus pertahankan tanah ini!” kata Wajo pada suatu malam.
Besok paginya orang-orang kampung bergerak ke utara dan membuat perintang hidup di pintu masuk perbatasan tanah garapan. Aku berada di antara mereka. Kamu bersama Wajo dan selusin lebih kawan-kawannya berada di barisan paling depan. Beberapa alat berat sudah menunggu. Aku bahkan bisa melihat sebuah mesin pengeruk tanah sedang dijalankan. Wajo geram melihat semua itu. Dia merangsek maju dan mengambil pengeras suara. Suaranya lantang dan berapi-api, meminta agar semua mesin itu dihentikan. Tetapi dari arah lain, sekelompok orang yang tidak kita kenali mulai berteriak-teriak.
“Waduk untuk rakyat! Waduk untuk semua!”
Orang-orang kampung kita mulai tersulut emosinya, merangsek ke kerumunan itu. Selapis pagar betis aparat pun menghadang. Dorong-mendorong dan baku pukul tidak terhindarkan. Aku yang bertubuh kecil terhimpit di antara dua kerumunan yang semakin ricuh itu. Wajo yang sempat melihatku segera menarik lenganku dan menyuruhku agar menjauh bersama sejumlah perempuan kampung lainnya.
Jujur saja, aku gentar dengan semua itu. Maka, tidak perlu menunggu lebih lama, aku pun berlari menjauh. Aku tidak tahu persis kejadian berikutnya, selain hanya mendengar suara-suara tembakan di kejauhan. Tapi dari apa yang kamu ceritakan kemudian, aku bisa membayangkan betapa kacaunya hari itu.
“Kami melihat tumpukan jerami itu, sisa-sisa panen yang gagal. Entah siapa yang mulai menyulut api. Sebuah eskavator pun terbakar,” ceritamu, sehari setelah kejadian itu.
Aparat bergerak cepat. Pada hari yang sama kamu bercerita, kamu bersama lima orang lainnya digelandang ke kantor polisi untuk dimintai keterangan perihal kejadian itu. Kamu tidak kembali hingga dua tahun berikutnya. Sementara yang lainnya—dua orang teman Wajo dan tiga orang warga kampung—dibebaskan setelah mendekam di penjara selama beberapa bulan. Dari mereka yang aku tahu, sebenarnya Wajolah yang menjadi target utama. Namun, sejak peristiwa itu, tidak seorang pun di antara warga kampung yang pernah melihat batang hidungnya. Wajo seolah-olah lesap diisap bumi. Seorang pemuda kampung yang sedang mabuk pernah berkelakar, nyawa Wajo telah dijadikan tumbal pembangunan waduk. Tapi kita berusaha tidak memercayainya.
Hari ini, kamu tampak sedang menyesali sesuatu. “Setiap kali aku datang ke waduk ini, aku lebih senang membayangkan Wajo sebagai petani saja. Dengan begitu, mungkin dia masih berada di sini hari ini. Ya, walaupun sudah tidak ada apa-apa lagi di sini.”
Aku memandang ke sekitar. Sebentang masa lalu muncul, menampakkan Wajo yang bertubuh ceking melambai-lambai ke arahku, dan aku berlari-lari kecil menyongsongnya. Aku bisa menebak apa yang akan diberikannya kepadaku. Wajo menyodorkan seikat besar genjer muda dan hijau seraya berbisik, “Ini, berikan kepada Kak Yun. Jangan lupa, ya!”
Itu hari-hari biasa menjelang musim panen. Wajo telah membersihkan gulma yang tumbuh di sela-sela tanaman utama dan menyisihkan daun-daun genjer itu untuk keluargaku. Dia mengaku tidak menyukai sayur genjer, tapi akan senang jika kakak perempuanku yang memasaknya. Selanjutnya aku tahu, bahwa Wajo memendam hasrat yang kuat kepada Kak Yun.
Sejak Wajo tidak tentu rimbanya, Kak Yun terlihat berbeda. Aku sering mendapatinya melamun dan wajahnya terlihat lebih murung daripada sebelumnya. Namun, sayang, kakak perempuanku yang tuna wicara sejak lahir itu tidak bisa mengatakannya. Tapi aku bisa merasakan apa yang dirasakannya. Kalau Kak Yun masih di sini, mungkin dia juga sering duduk di bibir tanggul ini—memandang ke sekitar dan membayangkan Wajo melambai di kejauhan.
Lalu kamu bercerita lagi tentang tanah garapan pengganti yang lokasinya cukup jauh dari kampung. Kamu bilang tidak bisa menanam padi. Tanahnya kurang bagus. Meski begitu, kamu bisa menumbuhkan kacang tanah dan jagung.
“Mampirlah. Kamu bisa melihatnya barang sebentar,” ajakmu.
Aku berjanji akan mampir menengok ladangmu, meski beberapa saat kemudian aku sangsi. Tapi aku cukup senang mengetahui kamu masih bisa berladang. Salah satu tujuanku datang ke tempat ini adalah untuk menemuimu. Sebelum menemuimu, aku sempat mendengar cerita dari beberapa tetangga bahwa kamu sering terlihat berjalan di sepanjang tanggul ini.
“Aku kira kamu masih di sini saat aku kembali,” katamu. “Tidak ada yang mau memberitahuku.”
Kamu menatap genangan yang lebar dan memanjang itu. Sejauh pandangan tanggul waduk membentang dari utara ke selatan. Sungai raksasa buatan ini sedang surut dan airnya berwarna keruh. Di kejauhan, kampung kita mulai tampak remang. Tampak juga seseorang yang sedang berjalan menyusuri tanggul, di pundaknya sebatang joran bambu memanjang, seolah ingin menjangkau waktu yang ditinggalkannya di belakang.
Kemudian aku ceritakan kepadamu perihal kepergianku. Kami tidak punya pilihan lain saat itu. Sejak pembangunan waduk, hidup kami lebih susah. Kami tidak punya pekerjaan. Bapakku terpaksa keliling mencari pekerjaan di desa-desa tetangga, menjadi buruh di sawah-sawah menjelang musim panen. Aku dan Kak Yun kadang-kadang ikut. Beberapa pemilik sawah membolehkan kami memetik genjer. Sampai di rumah, genjer itu kami ikat kecil-kecil untuk dijual keliling di kampung sebelah. Mau apa lagi? Tanah garapan yang dijanjikan masih jauh dari harapan. Tidak ada yang bisa kami lakukan. Aku sendiri merasa tidak ada kawan bicara. Kamu di dalam penjara dan Wajo entah di mana.
Itulah yang membuat kami pergi keluar pulau untuk membangun harapan di tanah milik kawan lama bapakku. Mereka adalah sebuah keluarga yang sudah puluhan tahun menjadi transmigran dan cukup berhasil. Mereka butuh orang yang mau bekerja keras dan bisa dipercaya untuk merawat ladang semangka yang sering tidak terurus. Mereka berjodoh dengan bapakku dan kami pun bekerja keras untuk menjaga kepercayaan yang telah diberikan itu.
“Syukurlah kalau kamu merasa betah di sana. Untung saja kamu belum menikah. Kalau sudah, kamu pasti tidak bisa menemuiku lagi,” katamu seraya tertawa.
Saat aku mencoba menanyakan perihal menikah kepadamu, kamu kembali tertawa—tidak menjawab pertanyaanku. Kamu justru bercerita perihal hubunganmu dengan kawan-kawan lama Wajo. Sejak dibebaskan, kamu terhubung kembali dengan mereka. Dalam waktu dekat, kamu bersama mereka dan sejumlah warga kampung yang tersisa, akan membuat sebuah acara untuk mengenang Wajo. Kamu mengundangku dan berharap agar aku bisa turut serta.
“Tinggallah beberapa hari lagi. Kamu harus datang.”
Aku pasti senang jika bisa menghadiri undanganmu. Apalagi ini untuk Wajo. Tapi aku tidak akan bisa datang—dan aku tidak akan menceritakan alasannya kepadamu.
Kamu tahu, di tempat kami yang baru, Kak Yun bertemu jodohnya. Seorang laki-laki yang baik—petani penggarap yang ulet. Aku senang melihat Kak Yun lebih bahagia. Namun, sudah hampir setahun ini Kak Yun tidak bersama kami lagi. Dia meninggal di sebuah Puskesmas karena penyakit sesak napasnya. Kak Yun meninggalkan bocah kembar yang masih butuh dipeluk saat menjelang tidur. Bahkan kedua bocah itu belum terbiasa lepas dari air susu ibunya. Mereka begitu dekat denganku. Akulah yang akhirnya berperan sebagai ibu bagi mereka. Sementara, bapakku sudah semakin tua. Bapakku ingin aku segera hidup bersama seseorang.
“Aku dulu berpikir Wajo menyukaimu, ternyata Kak Yun. Apa kamu menyukai Wajo?”
Pertanyaan itu tidak bisa kujawab. Aku justru mengatakan kepadamu bahwa matahari sudah benar-benar tenggelam dan kita harus cepat kembali ke kampung. Kamu tampak enggan, meski kemudian berdiri dan mengulurkan tangan kepadaku. Aku menyambut tanganmu yang keras dan kuat itu. Sambil berjalan menyusuri tanggul, kamu meminta maaf atas pertanyaanmu. Aku diam saja, merasakan angin kering yang dingin.
Kamu tidak perlu meminta maaf. Mungkin akulah yang harus meminta maaf, karena aku tidak bisa berlama-lama di sini. Besok aku akan ke kuburan emakku—aku akan berdoa di sana. Di dekat nisannya, aku akan mengatakan bahwa aku telah siap menjadi istri bagi seseorang, sekaligus ibu bagi anak-anaknya. Seseorang itu adalah kakak iparku. Mungkin kamu tidak percaya, bahwa dalam banyak hal, calon suamiku itu sangat mirip Wajo.
© Tjak S. Parlan
Tjak S. Parlan was born in Banyuwangi, East Java on 10 November 1975. He writes short stories, essays, reviews, travel features, and novels. His published works include the short story collections Kota yang Berumur Panjang (Basabasi, 2017) and Sebuah Rumah di Bawah Menara (Rua Aksara, 2020); the travel book, Berlabuh di Bumi Sikerei (Badan Pengembangan Bahasa dan Perbukuan, 2019); and the poetry collection Cinta Tak Pernah Fanatik (Rua Aksara, 2021).
Cinta Tak Pernah Fanatik was included in the 21st edition of the Sastra Khatulistiwa’s Top Ten—an annual award for literary works in Indonesia. Apart from writing, Tjak S. Parlan engages in book design and print journalism (newspapers, magazines, bulletins, journals, and zines). He is also an active member of Komunitas Akarpohon Mataram—a literary community in Mataram in Nusa Tenggara Barat province. He currently resides in Ampenan, Mataram. You can find him on Instagram (@tjaklana) and Facebook (Parlan Tjak).
CLARISSA GOENAWAN is an Indonesian-born Singaporean writer and translator. Her award-winning short fiction has appeared in literary magazines and anthologies in Singapore, Australia, Japan, Indonesia, the UK, and the US. Rainbirds, her debut novel, has been published in eleven different languages. Her second novel, The Perfect World of Miwako Sumida, came out in March 2020.
CINDY SAJA is an illustrator who started her career in 2010. She completed her Fine Arts education at IKJ in 2011 and Master of Design education at ITB in 2014. Cindy's illustration style tends towards cartoons which use bright and minimalist colors. Her collaborative work doesn’t focus on one particular character, but rather the content that will be accompanied by the illustration itself. This is why the audience will find differences in the materials used, such as pencil shading, monochrome watercolors with particular accents of color, or digital cartoons. Cindy has collaborated with several authors and artists including Gouri Mirpuri, Butet Manurung, Rene Suhardono, Erikar Lebang, and many more.