Lutfi Gilang's

8. Hugs Longs

i

The clock shows the number 11:30 WIB, there is still approximately 45 minutes before the train reaches the station.

The mother sat in her chair and occasionally glanced at me with a glance that seemed to me: "Shame and apologetic but confused how to start."

I'm silent. Not caring about himself. Busy facing outwards with old books to fill my boredom, at once— I hope the story in the novel can bring up ideas in my brain to create a new work that has never been made before and will not be able to imitate others in the future.

Working as a writer is not as easy as most people imagine. We, the writers, more precisely the novelists, often struggle to make new stories. In addition to busy thinking about special characters from the main character, supporting characters, and other figures; we also need to present problems that can attract readers.

And of course creating a conflict in the story is not easy. Because so many novelists have sprung up, it requires that novel writers are more clever in developing ideas from established problems.

Not infrequently, readers are bored with the conflict that it is mulu. Several times, readers have even accused some novelists of being plagiarism writers because they feel that the core of the story is the same as the story of others who first published.

Cruel indeed, but that is the way of life of the novel writers. And indeed, it is hard to avoid.

There are also some writers who publish their work on an online platform, call it Noveltoon—indeed this work, also published on the platform, a little promotion does not matter, right? Who knows, the owner of the platform would rather promote my novel than someone else's. Yes, I was expecting it.

Okay, go to the discussion.

Those who have been struggling to make works and publish their work on one of the online platforms, but not many who read. But then came the plagiarist of the novel, copied his creations, and sent them on another platform, spread them on social media and made his plagiarism more famous than the original novel.

As a result, because the reader branches much more, the reader considers that the original novel is actually a plagiarism novel because the number of readers is much less.

You can imagine for yourself how ruined it is to be such a writer, and how depraved the novelist plagiarist is.

However, to avoid this, I, as one of the writers whose work has been in copy-paste, have a way to deal with the plagiarist novelist. The first way is, readers must see the time of publication of a novel if they see similarities in the form of covers, titles, contents, character names, backgrounds, conflicts, and writers. Remember this well! Usually, "plagiarism novel is a novel published after the original novel."

The second way, the original author will understand more about how the story takes place and ends than the novelist plagiarist. Because most plagiarists only copy works that they think are good but have a low reader branch. So, you can ask the continuation of the story to the author to make sure that it is really their original work and not a suggestion let alone the results help have people.

But, there is also someone who likes to imitate various stories for later he made as a typical work of himself, does he also include the plagiarist novelist?

I personally, would not consider that person a plagiarist novelist only if he took the core of the story and not imitating the sentences I made in my work. If you disagree with me, I don't care. You are free to have any view of the plagiarist novelist. But still, you can't judge him, because you're not the judge, right?

However, as a writer, always struggling in taking the storyline, I always hope to the readers of my book, to the readers of my work, I always hope, to not intentionally imitate what I have been struggling to make. Because after all I hate copycats let alone thieves, because it shows that they do not have more effort to make good work, which is in demand by readers.

Another important message from me to you, especially the novelist plagiarists: "If you want your work to be good, read as many other people's work as possible first."

The more you read, the more you have a storyline, the more conflict you know, the more vocabulary you get, the more messages you get, and more time is wasted. He's....

"Tooott!" The sound of a horn echoed as the railway line cut through the highway. Forcing riders to stop the pace of cars, or motorcycles, or bicycles, or shoes, or sandals, or bare feet.

Isn't the crossroads a sign that everything that runs must stop?

That means, anyone who steps on the earth must prioritize the passing of the train, even if he is not driving.

So I reiterate, don't you dare break through the railroad crossing gate! Again, IT IS STRICTLY FORBIDDEN TO BREAK THROUGH THE RAILWAY CROSSING DOOR CROSSING CROSSING!!!

🌹🌹🌹

ii

I catch my breath, exhale slowly. Read the book I'm holding.

"Dad!" exclaimed the toddler disperse my concentration.

The mother swiftly caught her son who almost jumped at me. "Sorry," he said.

I nodded, sighed and went back to reading the book.

"Anu...." My mother's voice returned to my ears.

I'm indifferent, stick to my activities.

"Make that up .. sorry!" he almost shouted with his head down.

Actually I would nod to answer his words, but because I felt he would not see my actions, so I said as well. "Yes," Then go back to reading the book.

"Thank you!"

I'm nagging. Continue reading the novel without facing it. I hope it shows that I don't want to be disturbed by it. Not just because of the problems that happened before, and not because I took revenge on him because of the problems. I just don't want people to think that I'm the father of the child, because he keeps calling me that.

Struggling, struggling, trying to get out of the arms of the Mother, the child broke free and jumped and hugged me while shouting loudly: "Ayaaaah! Don't go again!"

I was half dead hearing it. Looking around, almost all the passengers in carriage 2 got up and turned their gazes towards me.

I turned my eyes towards Mother. He was busy looking at the left and right sides, then looked at me with a shy expression mixed in confusion.

I exhale. Carrying the boy high. "Who's gone?! It was here!" my growl.

The boy laughed and pulled my nose as before.

I tried to do the same thing so people thought we were just playing. And, acting is powerful! The passengers sighed, some said: "Oooh.." blah blah blah. Then sit in their seats as before.

"Mamas," called the Mother while trying to pull her.

The boy refused and hugged me tightly.

"Mamas, here with Mommy." she tried to pull her son out of my lap.

"Ga!"

"This is the same Mother!"

"Engga!"

"This is the same Mother!"

"Enggaaaa! Mamas wants to be with Daddy!" he shouted, forcing the Mother to give up and return to her seat.

I patted his head. Handled it. Trying to get that bad boy to die soon. Sleep I mean.

Very upset about it!

"Sorry son, huh?" her door.

I'm nagging.

We're quiet for a while ahead. But I still stroked the child's head as gently as possible even though my heart was very irritated by all the actions that had troubled me a lot.

Five minutes passed like an hour to me. I had to keep trying to stare in the other direction and ignore the Mother's gaze that was centered on me, a piercing gaze that bothered me so much. And finally, back I heard him say: "Mas," This time in a much slower tone.

I pointed my right index finger at my lips. Ask him to be quiet because he feels that the child's breath has begun to calm down, a sign that he has been comfortable, and will soon be sleeping, or maybe already.

Indeed, ever since X grade High School at the end of semester 2, Lutfi and I, often visited orphanages to channel our hobbies, playing with young children. Sometimes we also bring food and or toys as lure so that the children of the home want to be with us.

Not only because of the things we carry, but the tenderness, affection, and care we give make the children at home linger with us. Mother said the caretaker, not me to make it myself.

🌹🌹🌹

iii

Eight years ago.

At about half-time three in the afternoon, after finishing helping the housekeeper to herd the children to go to the mosque, Lutfi and I returned to the orphanage to replace Bi Minah's duty to take care of Kafin. A baby dumped by his parents on the side of the road in a cardboard box.

"Thank you, huh?" bi Minah said.

"Make what?" lutfi asked as she fed the baby to drink milk.

Relax, it is breast milk that has been moved into a sterile baby bottle.

While I, stroking his head while his heart curses: "This is his parents how, anyway? No real responsibility. Just doyan make it but don't want to see the results."

How could I not curse with a scum? There have been many cases of children being dumped because of pregnancy outside marriage.

Cases like Kafin are far better than those of other babies who have to accept abortion, or forced abortions, and all sorts of other horrible acts for the sake of killing the womb in the stomach.

I remind you, it's not all for no reason. They do it to cover up the mistake of having had sex—husband-wife relationship—before officially married which is recognized religiously and stately.

It happens also because there is a cause, namely the relationship of men and women who are often referred to as "dating".

It is this relationship that becomes the greatest car for the act of extermination and or infanticide. The problem is caused by lack of parental supervision in the relationship of the child, or lack of parental attention in the life of the child.

There are also parents who have been very considerate but their children actually get pregnant out of wedlock, or impregnate children out of wedlock. That is because the child is wrong in getting along, wrong in choosing friends, and parents are less good at sorting out the school environment and or play environment for their children.

So again, the role of parents is very important in the development of their children. They are the first car openers for their children, will be successful and useful children for others, or even damage their own lives and others.

Okay, because many feel offended and do not like the explanation as above, we just continue the story.

"Yes, because every week you come here, bring food, bring toys, make the kids more fun. Aunty thank you very much" he explained.

"Sama-sama Bi. We play here because we like kids, don't we?"

Lutfi surprised me by patting me on the shoulder. "Huh? I-iya," I'll just answer.

"Well, ngalamun." said Lutfi.

"He," I laughed.

"What's salamunin, anyway?" He's nanya.

"Ga papa," I replied.

"Say me," he asked.

"Ngalamunin future, certainly." Saut Bi Minah preceded me.

"The future?" I'm the same Lutfi nanya.

"Ciyeee. A soul mate, yeah like that, huh?" ledek Bi Minah's.

I'm the same Lutfi just a smile.

"Yes, Bi Minah wants to follow the children to the mosque" he said. "You take care of Kafin, huh?"

"Yes Bi" replied Lutfi.

I'm nagging.

"If you can, be taken." added Bi Minah.

"Ready!" lutfi replied quickly to my surprise. "Why you?" he asked after seeing my face which at that time must have been very silly.

"I ... eemmm...."

"Why?" He's just another.

Bi Minah chuckled, then left us and said: "Ajarin tuh, her future husband can take care of the baby from now on."

Me, and Lutfi gasped at hearing it. Just looking at each other and smiling to yourself, for the second time, or to what extent, you don't know. We were embarrassed to be mixed up.

Then we bathed the baby person—Kafin together. Like a young bride who just got a baby.

At that time I had time to thank Kafin's parents for throwing away his son, making me and Lutfi can practice impromptu care of the original baby for free. He's....

From that moment on, Lutfi and I bathed Kafin more often together, like he was our son. But only once a day. It may not be because he likes to be the baby bathed many times. Torture is his name.

In addition to Kafin, we also take care of other children who are around two to four years old. Starting from eating, playing, teaching, reading and writing, bathing, to sleep. We are like a couple with lots of children. Cockroaches!

You can try your lovers if you are envious. He's....

🌹🌹🌹

iv

Now, in 2018.

From there I can assume that I am quite adept at calming young children. Just as I calmed down a boy who kept calling me: "Dad".

Although there was a slight annoyance to him, still, my fondness for little children seemed to overpower the irritation that incarnated my heart.

And, I'm sure that's what I mengikhlaskan, making the child feel at home linger with me until finally asleep in my arms.

Honestly, getting this kind of hug reminds me so much of her. Him, my lover, Lutfi.

Not when we hugged. Of course not! Even we did not dare to do so, because we were not legally married.

This hug reminds me of Kafin who was three years old when we were in 3rd grade of High School, who was hugging us at the same time, she said, which accidentally my hands and Lutfi's hands met until overlap behind his back.

And, that memory is what brings back tears in my eyes. Showing a passionate longing. Which even up to this second, I still have not been able to find where Lutfi is.

Ah, I'm a lousy guy!