ABHIMANYU WORLD

Chapter XLI: Address Hunt

The dawn has not yet dawned. Darkness and fog still enveloped the slopes. The temperature dropped to its lowest point. In Surabaya, it is definitely impossible to feel this kind of freezing. Maybe only the heart is frozen.

Inside the narrow tent, I shivered. Hands feel numb. I submerged the body in a legendary sheath of ancestral relics from antiquity in search of warmth. Too bad, there's only men in this tent.

Huh!

Even so, activities outside the tent began to get crowded. Some camp participants were already preparing for the dawn prayer. Cold air triggers flatulence. The sound of farting tent residents connect, making a wry feeling. I like people to throw the wind.

Their goats!

Alright. This time I forgive them. Wind in the stomach can not be delayed at a time like this. In fact, I finally followed the demon's steps.

Bruuts!

It feels a bit relieved this stomach. In conclusion, I am also a goat. I don't give a shit.

The sun peeked blushingly from behind the mountain, greeting the slumbering universe. The fog that was enveloping began to rise. The dumps in the leaves slowly evaporate. The atmosphere began to squirm. I immediately cleaned myself up. In a sense it is not a bath, but washing your face with mineral water and brushing your teeth. At a time like this, the existence of water was similar to a treasure. There was a village down the mountain, but I was lazy to go down.

Suddenly, a heavenly scent tickled his nose. There are two scents in this world that I like the most. The first is the smell of a new baby shower, while the second is the aroma of cooked instant noodles. Currently, the aroma of instant noodles mix eggs pinch the stomach. There are a lot of delicious superfoods out there, but I think instant noodles are still special, no matter what people say. Especially when eaten in freezing weather as it is today.

After eating noodles in congregation, there are material activities filled by the dedengkot of the English world. In that case, I chose to retreat regularly. I saw that Dahlia was ready to carry her cute backpack. He looks like Dora the Explorer.

“So come with?” ask Dahlia.

“Who's coming?”

“Yes you, me, and Mas Suroto,” said Dahlia.

“OK. Yuk!”

After changing our costumes, we headed down the slope to the car park. This morning, there was no tired gurgle etched on Dahlia's face. Her cheeks are covered in a thin powder, transparent lipstick, without eye-shadow and blush-on. Her never-quenched spirit became a kind of doping for me. If there was a writer who worked on the book One Hundred Strongest Women in the World, I would have included Dahlia at number fifty. His energy seemed to never run out, directly proportional to his appetite.

Still remembering last night, when suddenly Dahlia shed tears on my shoulder. For a while, I felt like a hero who had entered Dahlia's life. Unfortunately, there was not a word that could calm him down. I just let her cry. Honestly, women's tears are one of my weaknesses.

Moments later, Mas Suroto, Dahlia's driver, drove the car to Malang City. I sat in the middle seat, while Dahlia was next to Mas Suroto in the front. That morning, the street was crowded. The inhabitants of the city began to spread like anai-anai for a living. The beautiful sun shines golden, occasionally shimmering behind the clouds. This was my first visit to the city nicknamed Apple City. I see the vibrant atmosphere of the city. Not as crowded as Surabaya, but not also said to be quiet.

Some friends say that girls from Malang City are on average beautiful. Maybe this opinion is not entirely wrong. Example Lusi. Her beauty was not glamorous, but I saw a strong character implied on her face. In my opinion, it is a magical power that can attract the attention of men.

Including myself.

“So where do you want to drop off?” ask Dahlia.

I deliberately didn't say much, so that Dahlia wouldn't interrogate me anymore. Even if I could, I wanted to get down quickly from the car to continue the hunt myself.

“Mmm, where are ya?” I'm a little confused. The atmosphere of this city makes a bit blank. The streets look the same, full of vehicles.

“Mas Suroto know Malang area not?” ask Dahlia.

“Tau little-little Ma'am. Rarely come here too,” replied Mas Suroto.

“Tau Sawojajar area no, Mas?” my many.

“Wah, don't memorize me either. I will drop it off in front of Malang Kotabaru Station. Can it be a taxi or a pedicab there,” advice Mas Suroto.

I immediately agreed, as I had no knowledge of the city. After arriving in front of the station building, Dahlia waved as I descended. The real adventure begins. What do I do first? For a few moments I stood dumbly in front of the train station which was quite magnificent.

“Good rickshaw, Mas?” pick up a rickshaw brother around the front of the station.

Indeed, in front of the station many scattered pedicab builders. Patiently they wait for prospective passengers while chatting, drinking coffee, or playing cards under a tree.

Without saying much, I showed you the address on the piece of paper. Brother rickshaw is just a mangosteen.

“Can if you want to be delivered becak,” said.

“How much, Sir?”

“Fifty thousand.”

Did I not hear wrong? In Surabaya alone, rickshaw rates only range from ten to twenty thousand. Is this a rickshaw fare or a disguised takedown?

“No ah, Sir!” reject me quickly.

I'm ready to walk away. This is a trick. Because usually the pedicab will lower the tariff that strangles the neck when seeing the prey is about to run away.

“Thirty, Mas!” said the rickshaw brother.

“Twenty!” I said indifferently.

“Add five thousand yes Mas. Make a seller early in the morning,” pinta the rickshaw brother.

To be honest, I was the least willing person when it came to bargaining. Especially in conditions like this, there is a sense of pity to see the rickshaw brother. The shadow of his family at home waiting for this rickshaw brother. Or maybe their kids are small. Collapsing is my feeling.

“Ya already,” I relented.

The rickshaw brother's face suddenly sumringah. Excitedly he let me sit. Along the way, he talked a lot about the gags in his life. It was the nomads from Nganjuk, who complained of fate in Malang City. Maybe from here I can learn to be grateful, that my condition is much better than this rickshaw brother.

Turns out, the distance from the station to the address I was going to was quite far. I secretly feel guilty for bidding at a minimal rate. Sweat as big as a grain of corn began to drip on the forehead of the rickshaw brother. Really, I feel so guilty.

“This is the fare sir,” I handed him two twenty thousand bills.

“Back fifteen thousand yes, Mas,” the rickshaw brother took out a worn wallet from his pants pocket.

“Not done, Sir. Take aja!” I said quickly.

“Loh, how to?” The rickshaw looks confused.

“Nothing,” reject me.

A happy face was emanated on the face of the rickshaw brother who had been forged the rigors of the times. Moments like this are really happy for me. The rickshaw man thanked him a lot before returning to fight. Eagerly, he pedaled a pedicab wading through the densely packed wilds of Malang City.

Good luck, sir!

I stopped in front of a rather magnificent house, with a black iron fence. Minimalist, two-story building with a beautiful home exterior. The courtyard was verdant, filled with large flower pots. Unfortunately I saw no one there. Somewhat hesitant to squeeze the bell that is near the fence. Don't think I'm a donation seeker!

Is this really Lusi's residence?

Not far from there, there was a mother who was sleepy waiting for the gas stall while listening to dangdut music on the obsolete radio. Shame to ask, perverted on the way. I think I should have found out the information first rather than wrong.

“Please excuse me, Mom. Numpang asked, is this house really the home of Ms Lusi?” ask that mother.

“Oh yes, Mas. That is indeed the home of Susi. But it looks like the guy's out. I saw the car was out early in the morning ..” explained the mother.

Oh fuck! Time away from Surabaya failed to meet Lusi?

“Who is this?” ask the mother again.

“Sa-me .. her friend, Bu.”

“Let's go back again, Mas. Usually there is afternoon. Lately it has been a bit busy. Would like a wedding ...” said the mother again.

Suddenly I felt an iron god tens of tons being smashed into my chest. Feels tight to make breathing difficult. My gaze is twitching.

“Who are you, Ma?” I also asked further to be sure.

“Ya same candidate who has a textile factory in Sidoarjo it ...”

Stopit! Don't say anything else, Mom. My inner.

Is there a bottle of disinfectant around here?

***