pram, the fire, and me

His eyes was glittering upon me. His skin is as dark as the night. Looking at him, suddenly a story about raped and murdered girl in that cemetery years ago came to my mind. But I had destined my goal that night, I had to find it.

And so I asked him, who was finishing a meal packed inside a plastic sack.

“Oh, that crowdy new funeral, it’s over there. Look, the one with flowers upon,” he said so kindly. His smile drown all my prejudice.

He took me to the edge of the paved ground. I stepped down to the grassy field, cultivated with several tombs, leaving him. If he meant to harm me, than it would be the best chance. And suddenly he cried, “Who was the name of this guy?”

I stopped and looked at him. “It’s Pramoedya Ananta Toer, just Pram.”

“Pram,” he replied slowly and back to the corner, where I first found him hiding from the cold of the night.

***

Actually, it’s easy to find the cemetery for it’s located on the bright spot, next to the street. He is alone now, in the dark night, under the dark sky. I kneeled down and touched the soil. I kissed my hand and found the smell of the fragrant soil.

After minutes made some prayer for him, I stood and tried remembering his picture of life I kept in my head, right in front of his cemetery.

“Hello, old man. You might not recognize me. Yeah, you were old when we first met. But look at me now, I’m here to kneel down on you,”
...

“Yes, you deserve it. For you raise me, teache me the value of life, the dignity of being Indonesian, your painful life, and at the same time showed me how to face it as a hero,”
...

“By the way, I learned your spirit from an old communist that was once imprisoned with you. He told me how you dragged in by military man, with bleeding ear, head, and face.. knowing that all the man was sobbing, you crawled, standed on your trembling bloody foot and cried ‘Bangun hai orang-orang muda! Siapa bilang berjuang demi kebenaran itu mudah?! Bangkit dan jangan gentar,’ and then the people prisoned there stopped sobbing and realized that it was Pramoedya Ananta Toer who said it. By the way, this man wept when he told me this story,”
...

“And then I found you and interviewed you. You talked a lot about Indonesian youth and literature. ‘Kalau penulis muda bangsa ini cuma bisa bikin novel tentang tempik, payudara, dan penis, mau jadi apa negeri ini?’ I know you cited Jenar Mahesa Ayu. You know what? I don’t like her works either. SCREW PENIS-VAGINA LITERARY SPECIALIST WRITER!!!”

***

“Jangan pura-pura goblok di hadapan saya! Yang harus memperbaiki negeri ini adalah kalian, para pemuda,” you shout in the middle of the interview.

"Satu-satunya harapan saya adalah memiliki kembali rumah di Rawa Mangun yang direbut tentara. Rumah itu kecil, tapi itu hak saya, ada banyak kenangan di sana,"

You looked at me very closely, “Saya tak berharap pada kekuatan politik apapun, mereka tak akan peduli pada saya. Kalian orang-orang muda inilah yang seharusnya memperjuangkan ketidakadilan yang menimpa saya dan mereka,”

I saw a fire in your eyes that day. It stroke my head, flowing through my blood. I found my position to face this country. I’m with you, Sir. But I just could do none. All I can do was making promise to fight for the principle that you believe is true.

You might be old, Pram, but your fire never dies... cause I will keep it.

And therefore I’m not wondering why you like making fire, burning garbages and old clothes before the death pick you up. I was once enjoyed it too when I was in high school and finding that life is not black and white.

In that situation, it is nice to be alone and watch the flame turning a material into dust. By watching it, we could feel a process of material disappearing. What will happen when our material's gone? Will we fly to the sky as the smoke? or will we be left as wracked bones?

It is like the story of a girl who sold matches in the stormy winter night. Everytime she lighted the match, she found warmth that reminded her passed away mom, therefore she lighted all the matches until the last one. And so she died in the cold winter night.

You had that fire, Pram. You found your dream from the fire, for you lost that fire from nowadays Indonesian youths, from Indonesian politicians, and from Indonesian journalists. You found the fire in the garbage you burn.

While making the fire alone, perharps you were remembering the fighting you have done, and whispered, “When will it ends, where will I go, I’m tired to have this fire alone...”

It was 21.00 when I felt my eyes’ watery. But I’m not crying, People! The body inside the crypt has run an inspiring life, shows me a precious spirit, amazing fight, and beautiful death. He doesn’t deserve to be sob for.

Good bye Pram, I have this fire with me, now, always,... I promise you I will keep it untill I find my time to make fire, burning garbage like you do.

And so I walked away from the cemetery, and hoping that she’s really understand all the consequence of what I said to her in the phone, half days before in Bandung.