ABHIMANYU WORLD

Chapter LIV: Interview with Mr. Turonggo

Morning just greeted the universe when I finished a mouthful of pecel-studded rice with rempeyek crumbs. Mumpung in the hometown, I will pamper myself. Try all kinds of favorite culinary that I rarely meet in Surabaya. After dawn, my mother was in line in front of the lap of Mbok Painem, a legendary pecel seller in our village. A little late, don't expect to be part.

The stall opens from five o'clock, and closes before nine in the morning. Actually it is not the desire of Mbok Painam to close the stall quickly, but what is the trading power is sold out. Mbok Painem has been selling pecel since he was young. The taste never changed. The sweet spicy fits on the tongue, becoming a kind of ectasy for the connoisseur. The vegetables are also quite complete. There are flower spurs to boiled spinach, combined with super savory bean seasoning.

After executing the legendary pecel, today I will make a pilgrimage to the father's tomb, as well as stop by Pardi's tomb. The cemetery area is not far from home, a little hidden behind the bamboo grove. Rows of frangipani trees are also deliberately planted by residents. The flowers are dried, shed on the soil of the tomb.

My hair got a little goosebumps when I set foot in the cemetery complex. Do not think this place is neatly arranged, filled with green grass like San Diego Hill, the tomb complex of artists and rich people in Indonesia. Here, the gravestones are scattered. Must carefully step so as not to step on the tomb carelessly. There are several new tomb soils, the land is still red with a sprinkling of roses and canthyl flowers.

I went straight to my father's tomb, praying fervently for him. After that, I went to Pardi's tomb which was located slightly inside. Very quiet atmosphere of the cemetery, even though it is still morning. Especially at night? Perhaps only invisible beings were floating around in this place!

“Lho, Bi. Are you home?” Suddenly a voice surprised me.

I saw the figure of a straight man with a cross mustache walking on the path that divides the cemetery area. Indeed, this cemetery is also a shortcut to the rice fields. Sometimes people pass through this place.

“Pak Turonggo?” I nodded my head.

“Against vacation?”

Immediately I scatter, kiss the palm of Mr. Turonggo, a man I hold very dear.

“Iya. Semester holidays,” anaksaku.

“This is me going to the rice field. Yuk, come! While chatting,” invite him.

There's actually a sense of disdain. Sometimes I lose my words in front of him. Moreover, he is the parent of Larasati, will certainly be a lot of questions about the news of his daughter. Unfortunately, I feel it is impolite to refuse his request. Inevitably, I followed Mr. Turonggo's footsteps into the rice fields.

We arrived at a small hut made of bamboo, which stood in the middle of a rice field. In addition to functioning as a resting place, this hut is also connected to the stuffed rice fields to repel sparrows that deliberately steal rice grains.

The wind of the fields is a gift of God that is breathed from heaven. The breech is so comfortable, able to contort until the eyes are clenched. My dry-continent soul was watered with drops of water, cold as an oasis in the middle of the Sahara. The weights I carried on my shoulders slowly melted in the air. Feels light.

We chatted for a while, before Mr. Turonggo asked Larasati, as I had expected.

“How's Laras?” Mr. Turonggo started the interview this morning.

“Alhamdulillah, alright, sir ..” I replied, staring as far as the eye could see. The expanse of green rice fields cool the eyes that during this hot crammed with college tasks.

“You often play there?” ask Mr. Turonggo.

This question is a bit risky for me to answer, because the answer is a bit difficult to find. Better to answer Dervish questions about metallurgy.

“Ya sometimes sir, if not a lot of college assignments,” I replied hesitantly.

To be honest, I only visited the Laras boarding house twice. That effect is also less good.

“Yesterday's phone ...,” Pak Turonggo began to ignite his favorite kretek cigarette.

The deg!

Hope not to talk about me.

“Oh yes, Sir?”

“Yes, he said you just invited him to Malang. Same Jono and his wife also.” Mr. Turonggo breathes smoke full of carbon dioxide into the air.

Suddenly my heartbeat was unstable, beating more intensely. Worried in case he told me that the trip to Malang was not pleasant because of me. I better not answer him.

“You're still a long time ago, Bi?” Mr. Turonggo kept asking.

“About another year, sir. It already wants practice work and final tasks,” I replied.

“Plan to work first or directly marry?” mr. Toronggo's questions raided.

Rather to answer that question. In accordance with the initial commitment, I will not get married before making the family happy. Mr. Turonggo's question is not strange, considering that many young people my age in this village have on average moved to the level of marriage.

“I want it to work first, Sir!” my firmness.

“Hmm. Goody. Before your father didn't exist, ever message me, to help direct you. So, yes you are not considered your own child, Bi. So do not hesitate if it is the same with me,” said Mr. Turonggo.

“Nggih, Sir.”

I don't know what pellet science is attached to my body. Suddenly people around me thought of as their own children. Yesterday his mother Dahlia, now his father Laras. Tomorrow, lest Luci's mother?

“Not got a girlfriend to?” ask Mr. Turonggo again.

“Not yet, Sir. Still want to focus on college first.”

“Yes, do not have much to be affected by the association of Surabaya children, Bi. Better, if you find a soul mate just find one that is already in the village. Who diligently cook, can sew, and obedient. Do not go far,” his advice.

I clearly know the direction of the conversation. I don't know, I have to. Should I be happy or worried? Happy, because there is no need to bother picking up a soul mate, or worry because I still want to freely wander to taste a drop of worldly honey.

“Nggih, Sir.” I answered briefly.

Coconut leaves waving toyed with the whirring of the wind that blows like a dime. The universe is smiling at me. Comfort in the heart. My camp is a little piece of heaven that falls from the sky.

“Let's go home, wait for lunch from his mother Laras,” bargain Pak Turonggo.

“Oh, no need sir. I have lunch at home only,” reject me.

“Ndak nothing. Coincidentally at home again gourami harvest. You like it?”

Gourami fish, is my favorite type of freshwater fish. The meat is so savory, combined with spices will certainly create flavors that spoil the tongue.

Who could refuse that invitation?

Pak Turonggo is also known as a freshwater fish. He has many fish ponds for the cultivation of goldfish, catfish and mojair. If it is harvesting, it must send fish to the house.

“Iya Sir, I like,” I replied shyly.

Can't refuse sustenance, so the message that came from the old woman on the car that I had met some time ago.

That afternoon, we were partying grilled gurami. As I thought, it feels so savory and addictive. I actually wanted to add some rice, but in front of Mr. Turonggo I kept myself looking polite.

“Come, add again!” bring Mr. Turonggo.

Not waiting for the command twice, the rice in the bamboo basket ludes into the hull. The stomach feels full because of the fullness. Is there anything more delicious than lunch on the edge of the rice field? Mr. Turonggo closes his lunch with a glass of hot coffee.

Unfortunately I can't be like that.

For a moment I asked in my heart, is this man really my future father-in-law?

***