Ibu India dan semesta

Di Dharamsala, di kuil yang sama, tempat itu lagi-lagi memelukmu. Setelah segalanya kau lepaskan, setelah tepat 108 kali kau membuang ego di papan bersujud dan berdoa. Setelah semua surat dituliskan dan terbakar menjadi abu bertebaran di kaki Himalaya.

Kau ingat ini Ibu India dan di Dharamsala, kau pernah berjanji akan kembali dan di kala menatap Triund, kau ingin menetap. Kau ingat betapa butir salju di Dharamasala menyapa wajahmu kala itu, di balik selimut yang digunakan para biksu Tibet. Betapa merahnya Dharamsala dalam ingatanmu.

Kali kedua ini dalam waktu yang kau pikir akan singkat saja, kali ketiga itu akhirnya datang lagi. Dalam bentuk satu kerjapan tatapan di pojokan kuil itu. Tepat di bawah patung Buddha dan di depan patung Guru Padmashambava. Ada rasa sendu yang mendalam ketika tatapan kalian berpapasan. Ada rasa berterimakasih atas pertemuan. Kembali. Dua menit pendek untuk selamanya.

Ya, kau memutuskan untuk kembali kepadanya. Melewati hijau pepohonan di tengah kemacetan Bangalore, dalam bau laut yang bercampur keringat kecemasan Mumbai serta debu yang pekat dalam udara Delhi. Suaranya mengisi kekosongan yang diciptakan oleh kota-kota dan di tengah lantunan lagu-lagu Maharastra menembus malam yang makin larut akan rasa, serta botol anggur kedua. Lalu sekian pernyataan rindu dan cinta. Api pelan yang tersimpan dalam sekam kesempatan.

Ia menatapmu apa adanya. Segalanya akanmu, bahkan sisi gelapmu yang bahkan seolah teduh di dekatnya. Sisi gelap yang dengan santai ditunjukkannya dan rasa takut akan tanpa jarak memudar begitu saja. Hingga ia menarikmu dalam genggamannya pagi itu, di tengah udara dingin hanya untuk memastikan dirimu berada di sana. Dalam kesementaraan yang baik-baik saja.

Pagi hari ketika ia melafalkan sekian mantra atau ketika ia membaca sutra, membawakan ketenangan tertentu hingga ke dalam jiwamu. Dalam diam, kau mendengarkan suaranya yang jernih dan kemunculannya dalam memorimu bagaikan lautan yang tenang. Gemanya bagaikan gelombang dan rintik hujan, yang membasahi pagi hari yang tenang di pegunungan. Masa yang seolah jauh itu di padang savanna dan juga padang pasir di bawah kesunyian gemerlap bintang di langit. Malam dan perjalanan yang selalu panjang di ingatan para musafir.

Matamu kini mengandung rindu. Yang melampaui segala waktu. Segala masa. Segala rasa.

Semestamu yang tersimpan padanya. Kini.

A Letter for the Grandmother: Tethyst (1) – English

: Oma Leni Tanukusumah, and all the women elders and for Tethyst

As old as women, Gran. You are the oldest. The most ancient even. And you are the only grandmother that I had. And between all love and hate, on top of the remaining Tethyst Sea of most ancient, I prayed for you. Exactly at the Annapurna gate, that also reminds me of the abundance of all the taste of the food you ever cook for as long as you lived. Only for one reason: love. Your philosophy is simple. Food is love and your heart is the ongoing kitchen. Only that love that you know. The very only one.

And at 89 everything ends, with the bitterness of a broken heart. Also of a broken leg.

Ah, Gran, I hope everything ends anew and all that bitter can turn into goodness in your next cycle of life.

A red spot carry you to the gates of heaven, marking that your spirit going back to the sky. I threw dried fruits all over, to you, to Grandpa, to my father and mother. Among the snow in my face that day, to my eldest grandmother that I prostrated. To all four direction. In the central that I stand. Between Tethyst and Cimmeria.

Himalaya is a mountain range that always grow from time to time. Himalaya is one of the remaining oldest sea. Ancient sea between Gondwana and Laurasia. What happens if the highest mountain like Everest aka Sagarmatha aka Chomolungma has never been sure about their fix height. All the mountain summiters know very precisely that often the top of the summit is an illusion, because sometimes it seems to grow relentlessly. But in this century for now we agreed about a certain height. Just for now.

Then Gran, in every sea I would see you every time. In the side of the Indian Ocean. Either in the southern side of Java or the Western side of Australia. Not to mention the Northern part of Java Sea. Ah, and beside Mars, water take over my birth line. And to the Grandmother that I go. The Ancient mother.

In Sanur, I drown my head, floating in the lightness of the waves and found your embrace. The sun rises when I ran among the sand. And through the water, everything washed out. Through the water, our sadness was taken, also badluck and bitterness. Oh, through the South where all our prayers went. All river and water that comes down through the Himalayan glaciers. Grandmother, through you, Gran. We begin, we go and we end.

Mimpi yang Ketiga

Aku tak lagi mengerti kita berada di arah mana. Namun dalam mimpi ini kita selalu tertangkap basah. Dalam detail yang mengendap, aku hanya mengingat ketika kepalaku kutaruh begitu saja pada lekuk sisi tubuh kirimu. Seolah mendengar di antara jantung dan gemericik suara perut. Sensasi yang aneh untuk menjadi bagian rusuk kirimu. Mitos Hawa yang tak pernah kumau percayai dan aku akan terbayang wajahmu yang juga mengingkarinya di suatu sore.

Sore yang nyaman untuk saling bergelung, dalam hangatnya matahari senja dari arah jendela. Aku hanya ingat gelung rambutnya saat ini. Seolah kubiarkanlah semua nubuat tanda-tanda ini. Pada kenyataannya mungkin kita hanya berbicara melalui aliran udara dan gelombang kesadaran kita masing-masing.

Aku tetap tak lagi sabar, namun juga belum dapat dikatakan rindu. Karena hal-hal yang kita ketahui dan juga belum lagi terjadi.

The East – Iswara/Uma

I come to your ear one day and like a river flow my mouth become yours. And my anger become the world. I’m dancing in this burning forest where my tears dry in deserted lands. No more trees left in this land. Deserted heart is what all I got.

How could I give you drink, when all poison destroy all my water. How could I give you food, when all the earth is barren. How could I give birth to life, when everything in my body had already being sucked empty. How did all my children had been gone, ruined, meet all their tragic fate of their own.

Listen, from my steps, my dancing steps. When my anger become the world. Listen, when this anger become the seas that rises above and the ground crack uncontrollably. I puff my breath like the mountains and my cough become a bloody hot lava. Have you forgotten me, have you forgotten me, my dearest?

I would make everything crystal clear when all this anger finish the world. And like an unborn child I would rock you in my stomach while I do my first dance when everything vanish. In your first lullaby I would be born again.

So dance with me, dance with me until the world is gone.

The West – Wisnu

Smell of cempaka, smell of incense, smell of prayers. Early morning without sound. That silent longing. I see the sea through the taxi window. I see a pour memories coming into like the waves. I see those waves everywhere I look. But there was not lost. Or even that tinged of pain. It was surprising. I felt like standing in a small island and in a very vast sea without ending. I remember the Pacific. The blue sky. The golden shine of sand. The heat of the very best summer. I might eat some flowers with some coconut water. Silent prayers are everywhere and I was just still knowing, that I’m sitting in a taxi. Touching and standing in this very ground after three long years.

A sound of bell turn out to be the sound of a very dear friend. Who have been spending time very far away. Every time I see him, I see that small pinkish lotus flower tattoed in his right arm. It is like seeing a sign every time I remember him. And a hug feels like forever. Did I just come home then? Did that just feel like home?

Those smell of grass, waiting for the rain to come. Silent conversation at the very odd hours. I see mountains rise through his eyes when we were telling our stories and journeys. I remember some promises to be at the far away land. It feels not far anymore. In so many loses somehow we meet again to gain something out all the events of our lives.

I hear death knocking in every birth. That the sound of baby crying is the same of wailing. Women, women wome. Everywhere they always cry. At my son’s birth all these women before me came, gather and surrounds me. I just see my life flashes in seconds. I felt an earthquake coming through my body. An another being born amidst all cries. Did a cry always help you to feel better? Or to be better? I smell jasmine sometimes without reasons. And sometimes the urge to let go everything comes when I saw the South Sea. That feeling, the coming back to a mother’s womb.

Kintamani – Batur, 20th July 2012