Public Property and Other Poems
Illustration by Sukutangan.
Cyntha Hariadi
Translated into English by Dhania Sarahtika
PUBLIC PROPERTY
I let the strawberry crush in my hands rather than her mouth. We walk not side by side, her lips are as dry as the cement of the pavement. Again and again she reaches over, wanting to put my fist inside her mouth. Red drops trickle down behind us, wasted, on our unparallel paths, dripping from frozen hands, at almost 0 degrees Celcius. Ripe fruits are on sale along the street before they rot. Cheap fruits for starved children. Cheap fruits for cruel mothers. Cheap fruits to repaint the smiles of mothers and children. After spending 9 to 3 at school in thirst and hunger, she jokes that I’m an idiot. Because I was 5 minutes late for removing the strawberry leaves I knew she didn’t like. Because her friends are calling each other idiots as they laugh. Because it’s so funny when she expects me to laugh like her friends.
I let her, rather than me, run out of breath. A fish flounders on the edge of the expanding pavement. I stand waiting for her to get up and continue our journey. She believes that I can carry her and her bike. She doesn’t want to peddle anymore. She doesn’t want to walk anymore. She believes that I am capable of doing the impossible, which I don’t want to. I choose to carry her, instead of her bike. But it’s the bike she loves, instead of me. I have lent her my breath. She could breathe on her own if she were allowed to learn that she is human, not fish. A passing pedestrian pities her so much that she is put into a plastic bag full of water and handed to me. My child has been turned into a fish.
I want to take my child back to the forest where only animals live and we can be naked. No streets, no pavements, no spies, no virtual life, which millions can watch. That woman can be me. She is my future. I push my child out of the car. She falls butt first on the pavement. She gets up and wants to get back inside the car but I keep pushing her out. She refuses to go to her lessons because I forgot to bring a change of clothes. I forgot, just this one time. She’s not buying my apologies. She is still wearing clothes, as she strips me bare. I am in the driver’s seat every day. People just sit on high chairs, enshrining and judging every act without having to look up into my eyes. They recite the name of God, stroke their bellies, and curse seeing the violence I commit. They share my violence with fervor. A few days later my child and I become the past. Violent women are horrors, are the most favorite shows, are comedies, because seeing them out of control is a blast.
(On 28 March 2019, a video of a woman pushing her child several times out of their car, which was parked on the side of the road, went viral. Almost all netizens condemned her without first finding out the reasons behind her actions).
WHAT IS UNSEEN,
NEVER EXISTS
P: Children need their mothers
N: That’s just what mothers imagine
A conversation between the (P) police and (N) Nobuyo in Shoplifters,
a film written and directed by Hirokazu Kore-eda.
She imagines her child born and belonging to everyone, not just her
And her breasts would belong to every child
She imagines her child’s cry subsides upon seeing a face not hers,
And her face familiar to every child, no matter whom
She imagines her child fast asleep on everyone’s chest
The heart giving life to not just one flower but all the buds on a tree
She imagines coming to pick up her child and taking them to the ocean floor
If they feel at home, she leaves them there; they will grow gills and become part of the sea
She imagines her child calling her a woman or man, and calling another woman or man: mother - the giver of care
And other children would call her mother, whoever comes to her
She imagines raising her child on the highest peak and from inside the steepest valley
Rolling like a marble, darting like an arrow, floating like a fallen leaf
But then, an adorable house they give her
with a door and windows that will console them if they long to wander
Lulled by the flower garden, carried away by gurgles in the fish pond
She can only see the tops of the cranes, towers of loudspeakers, and electricity poles from where she stands, in front of the door or propping her chin on the window sill
She imagines her child hungry, thirsty because she’s not what the child wants or knows
She is hungry and thirsty because her other children are waiting past the cranes, loudspeaker towers, and electricity poles
They tuck her in, whisper what she should wish instead
No more what-ifs, she imagines only what she can see.
THE FLYING BABY JOKE
The octopus binds me still
when “L” Magazine asks me to write a column
about flying with a baby.
Its eight arms lift my body
so my head remains above water, ready to squirt ink
at an enemy’s approach
“L” Magazine decides not to publish my work
too domestic, needs some cosmetics
too banal, not that poetic
too mothersome, not socialite-friendly
Its eight tentacles loosen their grip so that
I can breathe under the murky water
Readers are put off by a woman finding it hard to pee
because her baby is strapped to her belly so she can’t unzip her pants
Readers are irked by a woman spilling food
on the tray she’s carrying because her shoulders
dangle a bag and a baby
Octopus, an invertebrate mollusk holding me upright
Readers are embarrassed that no passenger wants to sit
beside a woman and a baby on the plane
Will it cry, Ma’am? Ugh, a baby. Sorry
Flying with a baby makes a woman a leper
The octopus buckles me up tight against gravity
Readers want me to fly with a plastic baby
which can be placed anywhere, folded, or put inside a bag
It calmly passes through the scanner and is immune to air pressure
so there’s no need to call the police if it’s stolen
Readers want a tale of a flying baby
not the experience of flying with a baby
riding on a fleet of clouds, not a winged machine
Babies emerge from the darkest seabed
crawl out to find land
their world is turned upside down when they have to take flight
Babies made of plastic as light as kites
are dropped by the readers into my arms
so that I have time to pee, eat,
sleep, or even take some pics
I remove the octopus from my body before collapsing
this naked body—more raisin than grape—
is just not resonating with readers of “L” Magazine,
a lifestyle guide for today's women.
© Cyntha Hariadi
English translation © Dhania Sarahtika
PROPERTI PUBLIK DAN PUISI-PUISI LAINNYA
Cyntha Hariadi
PROPERTI PUBLIK
Kubiarkan stroberi remuk di tanganku daripada lumat di mulutnya. Kami berjalan tak seiringan, bibirnya sekering semen trotoar. Berulang kali ia meraih, ingin memasukkan kepalan tanganku ke mulutnya. Titik-titik merah bercucuran di belakang, mubazir, pada jalan yang tak beriringan, mengalir dari tangan yang beku, pada suhu hampir nol derajat Celcius. Buah-buah ranum sebelum peyot dijual diskon di sepanjang jalan. Buah murah untuk anak yang dilaparkan. Buah murah untuk ibu yang kejam. Buah murah untuk mengembalikan senyum ibu dan anak. Sehabis pulang sekolah dari jam 9 sampai 3 dalam haus dan lapar, ia mencandai aku goblok. Karena telat 5 menit mencabuti daun-daun stroberi yang kutahu tak ia sukai. Karena teman-temannya sedang senang-senangnya menggoblok-goblokkan satu sama lain sambil tertawa-tawa. Karena lucu sekali bila ia mengharapkan aku juga tertawa-tawa seperti teman-temannya.
Kubiarkan ia kehabisan nafas, daripada aku. Ikan menggelepar di pinggir trotoar yang memuai. Aku berdiri menunggunya bangkit melanjutkan perjalanan kami. Ia percaya aku bisa menggendongnya, dan sepedanya. Ia tak mau mengayuh lagi. Ia tak mau berjalan lagi. Ia percaya aku mampu melakukan yang tak mungkin, yang tak aku mau. Aku memilih menggendongnya, daripada sepedanya. Tapi ia lebih sayang sepedanya, daripada aku. Aku sudah meminjaminya nafas. Ia bisa bernafas sendiri bila dibiarkan belajar bahwa ia manusia, bukan ikan. Pejalan kaki yang melewati kami begitu mengasihaninya sampai memasukannya ke dalam kantong plastik berisi air dan menyerahkannya padaku. Mereka menjadikan anakku ikan.
Aku ingin membawa anakku kembali pada hutan yang hanya dihuni binatang dan kami bisa telanjang. Tak ada jalan, tak ada trotoar, tak ada mata-mata, tak hidup di dunia maya, yang bisa ditonton berjuta-juta orang. Perempuan itu bisa aku. Ia adalah masa depanku. Aku mendorong anakku ke luar dari mobil. Ia terjatuh duduk di trotoar. Ia bangkit dan ingin masuk kembali ke mobil tapi aku terus mendorongnya ke luar. Ia menolak les karena aku lupa membawakan baju ganti. Aku lupa, baru sekali. Obral maaf pun tak laku. Ia masih pakai baju, ia melucutiku. Aku pegang kemudi setiap hari. Orang-orang hanya duduk di kursi tinggi mengabadikan dan mengadili setiap perbuatan tanpa harus mendongak memandang ke dalam mataku. Mereka menyebut-nyebut nama Tuhan, mengelus perut, dan memaki menyaksikan kekerasan yang kulakukan. Mereka membagikan kekerasanku dengan nafsu. Beberapa hari kemudian aku dan anakku menjadi masa lalu. Perempuan pelaku kekerasan adalah horor, adalah tontonan paling favorit, adalah komedi, karena serunya melihat mereka lepas kendali.
(Pada 28 Maret 2019 beredar video viral seorang perempuan mendorong anaknya beberapa kali ke luar dari mobil mereka yang sedang berhenti di pinggir jalan. Hampir semua netizen menghujat tanpa terlebih dahulu mencari tahu alasan di balik perbuatan perempuan tersebut).
APA YANG TAK TERLIHAT,
TAK PERNAH ADA
P: Children need their mothers
N: That’s just what mothers imagine
Percakapan antara (P) polisi dan (N) Nobuyo dalam Shoplifters,
film yang ditulis dan disutradarai Hirokazu Kora-eda.
Ia bayangkan anaknya lahir dan menjadi milik semua orang, bukan hanya asuhannya
Pun payudaranya menjadi milik semua anak
Ia bayangkan tangis anaknya reda melihat wajah yang bukan wajahnya
Pun wajahnya diakrabi setiap anak yang tidak membedakannya
Ia bayangkan anaknya terlelap pada dada setiap orang
Jantung yang menghidupi tak hanya satu bunga tapi seluruh tangkai pada satu pohon
Ia bayangkan datang menjemput anaknya dan mengajaknya ke dasar samudera
Bila ia betah, ia tinggalkan di sana; ia akan bertumbuh insang dan menjadi bagian dari lautan
Ia bayangkan anaknya memanggilnya perempuan atau lelaki dan memanggil perempuan atau lelaki lain: ibu - ia yang mengampu
Pun anak lain yang bukan dilahirkannya memanggilnya ibu, siapa saja yang datang padanya
Ia bayangkan membesarkan anaknya pada puncak tertinggi dan dari lembah tercuram
Menggelinding seperti kelereng, melesat bak panah, mengambang bagai daun tanggal
Tapi kemudian, mereka menghadiahinya sebuah rumah yang elok mungilnya
dengan pintu dan jendela yang akan menghibur bila ia merindukan kelana
Taman bunga sekeliling yang melenakan, gemericik kolam ikan yang menghanyutkan
Ia hanya bisa melihat pucuk mesin-mesin derek, menara-menara pengeras suara, dan tiang-tiang listrik dari tempatnya berdiri, di depan pintu atau menopang dagu pada jendela
Ia bayangkan anaknya kelaparan, kehausan karena bukan dirinya yang ia minta atau biasa
Ia pun kelaparan dan kehausan sebab anaknya yang lain menunggu di balik mesin-mesin derek, menara-menara pengeras suara, dan tiang-tiang listrik
Mereka menidurkan ia, membisiki apa yang harus ia angankan
Tak ada lagi kata andai, ia membayangkan yang ada.
LELUCON BAYI TERBANG
Gurita masih membelit
ketika majalah “L” memintaku mengisi kolom
tentang terbang bersama bayi.
Kedelapan lengannya mengangkat tubuh
agar kepalaku tetap di atas air, siap menyemburkan tinta hitam
kala musuh datang
Majalah “L” memutuskan tidak memuat tulisanku
terlalu domestik, butuh sedikit kosmetik
terlalu banal, kurang puitis
terlalu emak-emak, bukan untuk sosialita
Kedelapan lengannya mengendurkan lilitan supaya
aku bisa bernafas dalam air kelabu
Pembaca risih melihat perempuan yang kesulitan kencing
karena bayinya menempel di bawah perut sampai sulit membuka resleting
Pembaca jengah melihat perempuan menumpahkan makanan
di nampan yang sedang dibawanya sebab kedua pundaknya
digelayuti tas dan bayi
Gurita, moluska tak bertulang menopangku agar tetap tegak berdiri
Pembaca malu tak ada penumpang yang mau duduk
di sebelah perempuan dan bayi di dalam pesawat
Nangis gak, Mbak? Ugh, baby. Sorry
Terbang bersama bayi menjadikan perempuan, kusta
Gurita melilitku kencang melawan gravitasi
Pembaca ingin aku terbang bersama bayi plastik
bisa diletakkan di mana saja, dilipat, dimasukkan dalam tas
anteng melewati mesin pemindai dan kebal terhadap tekanan udara
dicuri pun tak perlu lapor polisi
Pembaca ingin dongeng bayi terbang
bukan pengalaman terbang bersama bayi
mengendarai awan berarak bukan mesin bersayap
Bayi keluar dari dasar laut tergelap
merangkak keluar mencari daratan
dunianya terbalik ketika harus terbang
Bayi plastik seringan layang-layang
ditaruh pembaca di tanganku
supaya aku punya waktu untuk kencing, makan,
tidur bahkan foto-foto
Aku lepaskan gurita dari tubuh sebelum rebah
tubuh telanjang ini—kismis bukan anggur—
sama sekali bukan cermin pembaca majalah “L”
panduan gaya hidup perempuan masa kini.
© Cyntha Hariadi
CYNTHA HARIADI is the author of the book of poems Ibu Mendulang Anak Berlari, one of the winners of the 2015 Jakarta Arts Council Poetry Book Contest and a finalist of Kusala Sastra Katulistiwa 2016, and the collection of short stories Manifesto Flora, a finalist of Kusala Sastra Katulistiwa 2018. Her novel will be published January 2020. Before writing fiction, she has long worked as a journalist and an advertisement writer. Now she lives in Ubud, Bali.
DHANIA SARAHTIKA currently works as an editor/translator for a Jakarta-based socioeconomic research institute. Prior to that, she was a journalist for over two years. Her writings have been featured in the Jakarta Globe and Manual Jakarta. Some articles she is most proud of include “Is Indonesian Literature Written in English Still Indonesian Literature?”, which sparked debates among Indonesian writers and literary critics, and “Wanted: More Women Film Critics”, which addresses the lack of women’s voices in the Indonesian film criticism scene. When Dhania is not working her nine-to-five job, she occasionally translates films to be sent to international festivals.
SUKUTANGAN is a collective that consists of the couple Genta Shimaoka and Sekar Wulandari Yogaster, who works 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 5-10 cover designs every month. Sukutangan has designed covers for books published by major and independent publishers, from literary works to translated popular novels.
THESE POEMS ARE PUBLISHED AS PART OF INTERSASTRA’S UNREPRESSED SERIES.