—Dalih Sembiring
He slowly folds the paper, deciding against using it as a shoe wrap. The news—having arrived way too late!—is as unexpected as his encounter with The Bule a few years ago. Probably in mid-2008. It marked the beginning of their friendship, and the news of his death has now drawn the story to a final close.
Palrus is slightly regretting his decision to stop busking. In October 2015, he returned to Samigaluh, Kulon Progo, after his parents’ house on the Menoreh Mountains—where his wife and two children had also stayed—had collapsed in a landslide. Palrus and his family had to relocate the remains of the building to safer grounds, and he has bidden farewell to busking since. He then opened a village-style coffee shop while helping reassemble the house gradually. For half a year Palrus became somewhat disconnected from the outside world. But with the shop promising no future, he returned to the city for another shot at busking. Only to stumble across the dumbfounding news.
Palrus realizes, however, that no one could have thought about telling him of Om Ben’s passing. Nobody knows about their relationship. It may not even count as one. All he had to offer was information about some “mixed graves,” which piqued Om Ben’s interest. The man then asked to be accompanied on a “pilgrimage” there, as well as to other places of remembrance in different corners of Yogyakarta. Granted, there was the driver who took them around in a rented car; he and Palrus were introduced to each other, only to later forget one another. The driver may forever remain unaware that the ashes of the person he once escorted are now one with the ocean. That Dreadlock Guy—the poet whom Palrus saw at the café where he first met Om Ben—may be too. It’s possible that the poet with the Merapi-like growls quickly forgot about The Bule after deciding that he was unbearable.
*
As he tries to relieve his fatigue by leaning against a wall, Palrus recalls his early encounter with Ben Anderson. That awkward first meeting.
One night, as usual, he was busking along Prawirotaman Street. Wandering from one café to another, he arrived at the bamboo-draping-ornamented building no. 30: ViaVia Jogja. But Rujan and his troupe were already there, performing the blues with guitars strumming rhythmic flows that occasionally gushed like pelting rain. Rujan sprang into action in front of a group of patrons who seemed, from the way they had joined two tables together, to be expecting more people.
So Palrus waited for his fellow buskers to finish. For buskers are like city buses: no overtaking allowed! Once Rujan was done, the obligatory short pause ensued before Palrus took his turn to strum his guitar and perform dolanan rhymes.
But rewind to when Rujan’s group was still playing their guitars and drums and other percussion instruments, when Palrus sensed something as sinister as the wind blowing violently outside. Just as a Bob Dylan number was fleeting through the air, a crowd—about four or five people—walked in. They headed straight to the joined tables. Among them was a bespectacled bule; his face looked sour. Those who had been expecting them stood up in welcome. A warm greeting from a man sporting dreadlocks in the style of a Jamaican reggae aficionado: “Hello, Ben. Nice to meet you!”
“Hi, Situmorang, the poet!” was Ben’s reply to the tattooed, dreadlocked man.
“Yeah, the next Chairil!” Dreadlock Guy responded, grinning.
The man called Ben also grinned and went on to introduce his entourage. Situmorang then introduced the people who had been sitting with him in wait, as if reading out a table of contents: a German woman, a researcher, a Muslim scholar, and a poet couple. They shook hands with each other. And beer was poured.
“Cheers!”
“Come on, Ben!”
“Nah, I’ll just have lemon tea. Too tired for beer,” Ben balked.
The man beside Ben immediately called the waiter. He later explained in an extenuating tone, “We came here straight from Pacitan, so we’re a bit drained.”
Slumped in his chair, Ben was apparently directing his surly attitude toward Rujan’s act. Palrus figured he must be exhausted. It could be gleaned from his thoroughly gray hair that he must be over seventy, with a large, hefty build. Pacitan–Jogja would make a demanding drive indeed—about four hours through the Sewu Mountains’ endless sharp turns. That Palrus could understand. But when Rujan’s group was done and a crew member went around with a leather bag in hand, Ben’s iciness remained. That was when the pang of uneasiness hit Palrus. From his side of the room, he could hear Ben pipe up, “What a racket!”
That quickly informed him that Ben disliked street musicians in general. Palrus even thought about canceling his act. But, hey, to hell with it! A sense of resentment—and comradeship—pushed him to perform anyway. Yes, as a busker who had scaled the streets of Jogja and other cities in Java, Palrus is imbued with great solidarity. This had once motivated him to join the Tabaah Community, helping its grassroots advocacy for the issuance of ID cards for Yogyakarta’s street teens.
Without further delay, Palrus delivered his intro: “Excuse me, folks. Allow me to bring you some dolanan rhymes from Menoreh . . .” and, twang, he strummed his guitar. Surprisingly, this time Ben looked calm. Perhaps the exotic-sounding songs, performed solo, didn’t count as a racket? He wasn’t sure. Palrus breathed a sigh of relief anyway.
While singing—or was it chanting?—he managed to listen in to the people around Ben. Bits of their conversation, which he can still recall, went like this:
“We’re staying at a literary critic’s place.”
“A critic? Who?”
“Astrid. Astrid Wijaya.”
“Hm,” Dreadlock Guy mumbled.
“Hehehe,” the Muslim scholar chuckled.
Then came the sentences that Palrus remembers the most:
“In Pacitan we didn’t stop by the caves,” said a man in a laken hat, as if acting as Ben’s mouthpiece. “Even the beach trip was nothing more than a quick dip. We got too engrossed in walking through a public cemetery with mixed tombstones of Muslims and Christians. So unique. It kept Om Ben’s mind occupied, though he’s currently in talks for his autobiography . . .”
“Ultimately, the grave is the unwritten ending of every autobiography,” Ben commented somewhat diplomatically. “But I need to write about it, after that chance episode with Tjamboek Berdoeri . . .”
The words spliced with the last beats of Palrus’s closing song. At one point when he was circling them, asking for his overturned hat to be filled, Palrus boldly chirped, “Mixed tombstones, huh, om? Pardon me, but you needn’t have gone that far. We’ve got one here in Krapyak. It’s even close to an Islamic boarding school! Thank you, thank you . . .”
Truth be told, Palrus had only said that to get back at Ben for his attitude toward his fellow buskers. The people at the table were stunned, but Palrus had flowed on like the Progo River. He went to perform at the next café. Later, as he was heading back to ViaVia, Palrus saw Ben and his group walking toward their car. Palrus returned to his previous spot. The employees here know him well, so they let him occupy that corner every now and then. From his seat, Palrus heard Dreadlock Guy roar as soon as the other party had driven off.
“Unbelievable! The man whose books y’all have read and you think so highly of turned out to be . . . that. Upset over buskers doing their job.” Clearly, like Palrus, the poet had noticed Ben’s grumpiness. “An Indonesianist should know better about what life is like for the lowly in this alluring, coconut tree-lined island nation. What’s wrong with busking or street folks? That’s our reality.”
“That was probably his age talking,” the younger poet calmly chimed in.
“Ha, age should’ve satiated him with wisdom!”
“He was too tired, perhaps?” said a female poet referred to as Ida.
“I don’t know, Ida. But researchers aren’t supposed to be tired. Ain’t that so, Poltak?”
The researcher called Poltak raised his glass high. “Horas, mate!”
“Oh, and I heard they’re staying at a literary critic’s house . . . Never heard of the name. Who was it?” said the German bule, her blue eyes blinking.
“Astrid!” said the Muslim scholar, patting his sarong.
“Ha, Astrid a critic?!” Dreadlock Guy cut in. “Let’s just drink till we die . . .” He gulped his beer straight from the bottle, putting on an ironic look of desperation as if to show that he had elegantly surrendered to the situation. “Oy, mate, let me borrow your guitar real quick!”
Seeing Dreadlock Guy waving at him, Palrus stood up. He held out his guitar in comradeship. “Good job saying he needn’t have gone all the way to Pacitan,” the guy said, proceeding to sing “Gereja Tua” in a somber tone. Palrus smiled, thinking he had done the right thing.
*
The next day, Palrus unsuspectingly received a call from someone who claimed to be “Om Ben’s driver while in Jogja.” The Bule wanted to see him. Palrus had no idea how they’d gotten hold of his contact information. It was only after Palrus went back to ViaVia, where they had agreed to meet again, that he found out that Darmadi, a parking attendant he knew, had given them his number.
From outside the café, he noticed the man who had introduced himself as the driver. He then saw Ben. Bright-faced this time. Looking fresh in an airplane-patterned batik shirt and plain gray shorts. His neatly combed cotton hair remained still under the fan spinning right above his head. The large eye bags and wide nose on his face gave rise to that classical impression of royalty.
They shook hands. “I’m Ben, but you can call me om, munyuk, or bangsat.”
Palrus was stunned; he felt bad. Does this bule know that what he said last night was born out of solidarity? But the man’s friendly disposition made Palrus calm. “I’ll go with ‘om.’”
Ben chuckled. He swung his arm around Palrus’s shoulders in good jest. “Let’s have breakfast.”
“Thanks, om, but I had some porridge earlier,” said Palrus casually.
“Does that mean we can visit the tombs now?”
Palrus remembered the mixed graves that he had mentioned, and immediately realized that that was what the man actually wanted to research (or simply prove for himself?). “Sure, om, I can take you there right away.”
As the car headed toward Krapyak, Palrus kept convincing himself that all of this was really happening. They were outside the Al-Munawwir boarding school complex when Ben asked the driver to stop. From inside the car, with one window rolled down, he snapped a picture of the pesantren’s old-fashioned plaque.
“All the buildings look new, including that mosque that’s being expanded. Only thing that dares to remain old is this plaque.” Ben seemed moved by the rusty sign. “Ah, turns out something is even more daring,” he said, pointing. Across from the boarding school was a suggestively named shop: Warung Sembako Buka Dikit Joss—Oh Yeah Open It a Bit Grocery Store. Click! He just had to snap that with his digital camera. Three shots in total.
The car drove on. Passing by a fort-like building in the middle of a roundabout, a question leapt out of Ben’s mouth: “What’s this?”
“Kandang Menjangan, om, also known as the Krapyak Platform. This is where the sultan used to hunt.”
“I see. Looks just like the Arc de Triomphe, only simpler-looking,” Ben murmured. He asked for another quick stop before stepping out to take pictures from various angles.
“This is part of the Imaginary Axis, om. The Palace–the Main Monument–Mount Merapi–this Platform–the South Sea. This street serves as a link that stretches all the way from the Palace.”
“What’s the street called?”
“The Street of Kyai Haji Ali Maksum, founder of the Krapyak boarding school. Even though it’s disconnected by the Southern Ring Road, it still goes by that name all the way to the Indonesian Institute of the Arts. It’s pretty long. Maybe it serves to remind those who pass it to learn the Qur’an.”
Ben let out a big laugh. “So where does it end? Seems to get narrower and narrower like a snake’s tail, doesn’t it?”
“True, om. After the Arts Institute, it even swerves left to meet ‘Paris’ Street.”
“You mean Parangtritis Street?”
“Yes.”
“That means the link doesn’t go straight to the South Sea!”
“That’s why it’s called the Imaginary Axis. It cuts through rice fields and houses, om!” It was Palrus’s turn to laugh.
“Ah you’re right! Aren’t you Menoreh’s Tumbler of Tricks—MTT!” Ben cackled heartily after awarding Palrus the honorific title. MTT smiled sheepishly.
Before long, they arrived at their destination: The Krapyak Wetan Public Cemetery. A dirt path ran through the center of the vast complex. It was enclosed by a hip-high fence, allowing passersby to see rows of crosses and Islamic tombstones arranged side by side. Apart from the tombstones and small crosses, there were gravestones darkened by lichens or damaged by age, alongside semi-gigantic domes and majestic crosses perched atop porcelain structures.
Palrus asked the driver to pull over on the dirt path, right in the middle of the compound. The smell of dust and fragrant petals mingled in the air, penetrating their nostrils.
“I used to sleep here as a lad.” Palrus pointed to a space under a tomb’s cupola. “Many people did. Some would bring family members along. We practiced guitar during full moons. Some even did theater rehearsals.”
Ben shook his head. Amused. Under a frangipani branch, he expressed his amazement. “Well, so it does exist. Near an Islamic boarding school there’s a cemetery complex filled with rows of crosses and moon-star signs.”
“Not just the moon-star symbol, om,” said Palrus. He knew now how to react accordingly to Ben’s pattern of eccentricity, in his own tumbler-of-tricks kind of way. “There’s the rope-bound globe symbol as well.”
“Yes, yes, the rope of Wali Songo. Nahdlatul Ulama.”
“And the sun, too,” the driver chimed in.
“Hahaha, Muhammadiyah! I mentioned the moon-star sign as a general symbol for, well, Islam. But since you’re taking it in the mosaic sense, let’s say the moon-star is for Masyumi.” Ben showed a wide smile. “Okay. Interesting. One cemetery complex for Masyumi, Nahdlatul Ulama, and Muhammadiyah—hopefully Shia, too,” he muttered. “And then we have the Catholics and Protestants as well. The point being, in their public cemetery, Indonesians are truly united!”
But a simple notion then tickled his curiosity. “Is it because the area is so large that the mixing has become possible? Would they share it nonetheless if it were small?”
Feeling like a novice riding on an opportunity to learn along, Palrus was quick to answer, “Ask no more, om. Let’s head west.”
As the call to midday prayer was drifting past the frangipani branches, Palrus asked the driver to circle the cemetery to the south before turning west. Soon they arrived at the Krapyak Kulon Public Cemetery. The area was much smaller, but next to the Islamic gravestones were crosses that seemed large enough to serve as wings and carry the walled complex to outer space.
Om Ben was delighted. “You’re truly top class, MTT!” he exclaimed. So satisfied, he saw no reason to say no to stopping by an angkringan—the layman’s food tent—to celebrate the big discovery.
“Many of these food tents open in the afternoon nowadays,” the driver said. He and Palrus had ordered coffee.
“Yes, things are shifting everywhere . . .” Ben surely understood. He then asked for tea, no sugar, after adding a little joke, “Still, I bet there’s no whiskey here.”
*
After the relaxing afternoon break, the three incidental adventurers drove off to the tomb of Panembahan Senopati in Kotagede. A caretaker greeted them under the shade of a sapodilla tree. A group of people in sarongs sat in silence in the paseban or entrance hall, immersed in ritual. After a brief conversation with the caretaker, Ben got the permit to enter the thick-walled complex of the Mataram Kingdom founder’s tomb. Ki Ageng Mangir’s grave was also there, and it made Ben sad to find it bisected by a fence, leaving half of the tomb outside the compound. Part of his body was considered to belong to Mataram because he had secured an offspring in the womb of Princess Pembayun, but he remained a dangerous rebel nonetheless.
It reminded Ben of his past trip to the Tombs of Kings in Imogiri. Back then he still had the strength to climb the hundreds of staircases that seemed to lead to a gate in the sky. Arriving at an actual gate, a caretaker courteously asked him to trample the last staircase, which was wider than the rest. “Please stomp on it, sir. This is the tomb of Trunojoyo the traitor,” the caretaker said coldly.
Now, walking away from Senopati’s tomb, Ben was breaking into a cold sweat. Palrus ushered him to the Great Mosque’s foyer. Here, Ben glanced in all directions. He said he admired the mosque’s architecture, which had ruled out the use of a dome and was instead topped by the pyramid-like Javanese limasan, similar to that of the Demak Mosque. “The Sultan Suriansyah Mosque in Banjarmasin looks like this as well, characteristically Nusantara,” he stated.
Ben then went to touch the leathered side of the bedug or mosque drum. “Imagine a live cow being beaten whenever it’s time for prayer; the cow must be guaranteed heaven,” he joked while sticking his head into the drum’s hollow. After some more looking around, he sat back down with a grin on his face. “You know what’s inside? Sad, fun, hopelessly romantic doodles, such as ‘I Love Kriwul.’”
“Ha, you’re going to research that too? Wacky old man!” cussed the driver who had mostly been silent.
“Wacky munyuk!” Ben corrected the insult directed at himself.
They all laughed.
“Where to now?” Ben then asked.
“Since we’ve seen Ki Ageng’s tomb, we should go to his perdikan territory, om,” suggested Palrus.
Ben agreed. So they drove to Mangir in southwest Bantul, where they came across whatever remained of Ki Ageng’s reign over the area, sprawled in tranquility under giant Java olive trees. The place was overgrown with towering trees that formed a gapless fortress. However, to Ben, “This is a nameless fortress, penetrable only by the sharpness of the dragon-tongued spear that was Baru Klenting. What I mean is that only diplomacy helped the ledhek dance troupe from Kotagede to be accepted in Mangir. And we know that there were Ki Juru Martani and Pembayun in that group.”
Behind nearby houses they saw lichen-covered sculptures lying in silence. Scattered in a bamboo forest were statues and archaeological objects fashioned out of ancient stones. Ben asked Palrus to stand next to a Linga-Yoni sculpture and touch the forbidden symbol before he snapped a picture.
By the confluence of Progo, Gesikan, and Kalisoka rivers stood a food stall offering Mangir’s very own delicacy: gudeg manggar. Instead of using unripe jackfruit, this gudeg stew was prepared using coconut flowers, a recipe said to be Princess Pembayun’s legacy. They ate it with fried spotted barbs that had been netted straight from the river. Simply delicious. The unique thing about the warung is that the husband-and-wife owners actually hailed from Lamongan, East Java.
*
There were many more places they wished they could visit. But God’s power had worked through the inexorable medium of time and they succumbed to the suddenness of the evening’s arrival. The low-hanging western sky across the Progo River was gleaming with red. Ben eventually said that they must resume the adventure sometime. Palrus had hoped to take Ben to his village up in Menoreh, to see the traces of the soldiers of Diponegoro and Nyai Serang. And no less important: to hunt for durians. Ben seemed delighted by the plan, especially that last offer.
“When it comes to durian, I’m the munyuk. There’s no denying it,” he said with cheer. “But, uhm, will we see each other again? I’m old.” He cautiously loosened the enthusiasm.
“We’re a wishing well away from our next meet, om. And Menoreh’s many farmlands have more spring ponds than wells. Forget monkeys, even cows can bathe there.” Palrus’s idyllic descriptions made Ben grin profoundly at the wind.
Later, Ben said softly with a tinge of wisdom, “Rest assured that your country is a great country, not only in the mind, but all the way to the tombs. It’s evident from the way people from all backgrounds can rest peacefully in one cemetery complex. That kind of peace only happens when the living can agree on one final resting place for everyone . . .”
The wind was stirring the sugar cane crowns. Ben savored it all with delight. Then, he said in a low voice, as if talking to himself, “Still, there actually remain many issues with graves. Ki Ageng lies buried half outside, half inside; Trunojoyo, a hero to one group, was buried under the stairs by another; and the countless ’65 mass graves have never been revisited nor excavated. Also, other unidentified tombs, with all their mysteries . . .”
Palrus and the driver gazed deep into the distance.
“Strange . . . I suddenly feel the urge to join those lying in the mixed cemetery! Is that possible?” The words flew out like a sudden gust of wind.
Palrus was stunned. But he was always prepared. “Why not, om? I know the caretaker.”
“But I’ve signed a statement in front of a notary that I wish to be scattered to the sea when the time comes . . .” His voice sounded like the sore creaks of bamboo trees in the evening wind. A gloomy air enveloped them for a moment. But before his company had time to rekindle the waning candle of joy, Ben slipped into a laugh. “Alright, let’s not think about it!”
Yet Palrus couldn’t help but think about it. That wasn’t the first time he’d heard a foreigner say such a thing, either spontaneously out of admiration, or jokingly to ease off an exhausting trip. But Ben’s words were deep and sincere, and accompanied by a calm expression of surrender.
Palrus found his confirmation long after he and Ben had parted ways. The man sent him a postcard with a strange message: “Menoreh’s Tumbler of Tricks, a.k.a. MTT, I hope you are well. I wish to tell you this: When my time comes and my friends in Djakarta won’t approve of my request to lie peacefully in a mixed cemetery, which looks like this will be the case, why don’t you do it on my behalf? RIP in the mixed Krapyak Wetan Cemetery. It’ll be splendid.”
Palrus didn’t know where to send his reply since the postcard had no return address. So he responded in his heart, the way he would prepare himself before strumming his guitar every night: “Let’s do it, man!”
*
Damn! Om Ben is really gone now. Palrus is astonished by the thought that his ashes have been scattered over the Java Sea. The man’s will suddenly sneaks into his mind. Will? Did Ben Anderson actually leave him a will? Palrus isn’t sure. But as he recalls the pair of eyes and the longing kept hidden behind them, Palrus can feel the faint radiance of the one unattained wish.
Hey, might as well . . . Palrus consoled himself. Be it the Java Sea, the north coast, or in a parcel of land in Krapyak close to the South Sea, the man is now one with the country he loved. The country that Om Ben—the benevolent munyuk who peeked into a bedug and loved to hunt durians—once referred to as “a nation powerful enough to face anything that comes its way, with all of its red-and-white sins and merits . . .”
