NADIRS
NADIR ~ Dinar Latisha Adara
Night evaporates a frenzy, instantly. Spread dark. Gives an opportunity for anyone familiar with solitude. Tranquility. Contemplating the stories they create, all day long. Sweet Mongunguman¹ with baby in a wooden bed, in a pitate² walled room room, being one of many things that reconcile. Until their children fall asleep, they are content to kiss her forehead, rub her head, hug her tightly, achieve a deep warmth. Oh, how beautiful if you imagine.
For most villagers, everything becomes complete when the night has come. Gathered together in one roof, in one space, in one bliss. Families. Letting go of longing after a day of shaking with time. Fight with the situation. A tired hand swung to clean the fields, a back burned by the blazing sun, shoulders tired of carrying burdens, at night, all that sense evaporated. Joy, happiness, is another luxury offered by families through togetherness. The most effective herbal medicine.
But not for him. His face pias-masam made something so deep, as if a wound was pinching him from within. His gaze was empty, touching the dimness, as if the silhouette of the night that was soaking in front of him was the morality that was about to swallow him up was gone.
He doesn't want many things, even just joking, tonight. The best option is to sit on the terrace of the house. Grasping a piece of gold-colored metal that had dimmed its brilliance. There was no intention of telling stories, mongumans, or singing. Just remembering. Especially when the clouds start coming. The night sky he saw was getting bigger. Wrapping up his frail body. And when the roar of thunder struck Mayapada, he let out a heavy sigh, swallowing the bitter memory of his journey.
His eyes were blankly combing the night back. No matter the depth of the mystical story contained the voice of an owl at night. Even the ambition of the kalong that squeaks boisterously in the armpits of the mango golek tree. Flapping wings, sheath the ripe fruits of mango. He still doesn't care. The entity itself has been far absorbed by the shadow of the seething. Nelangsa. Saru along the lines of fate that curved in her eyeballs. The lines of fate that were far away were slammed down to the depths of his heart.
Together with the dim sweep of the bottle light, the puzzle-story plays out in his mind. As if wanting to give a picture of calmness for the last time, before the entity himself actually left all these circumstances. Oh, once again he groaned while clutching his chest book. There's an unspeakable wound in there.
If I were not ashamed of his age. He wants to play around under the cloud tonight. Rolling him over the red earth that he used to always be able to conjure into tiny, gladly-eyed statues. If only he could, he wanted to run around in the middle of the dim night, playing the story of the guerrilla warfare in the colonial era. If only time still gave time, he wanted to comb the ridge full of memories of his own, despite only befriending the whirring of the wind, and astonishment. He wanted to scream, to give voice. Or even just barking, in order to repel pests**** that damage the corn plant. He would carry empty baskets on his back. All for the sake of longing and separation that stick together. But. ah, that's it.
His body withered, his heart ached. The wooden house crackled, screeching the ramps. The sound of an owl on a banyan tree, no longer noticeable. Maybe someone made him squeak. Or maybe a sign. The night slowly sank deeper into silence. The sweep of the wind was much colder, shaking the molars.
At a glance, his eyes were pounded on the seven-stringed object hanging fretfully on the wall, he was moaning, too many stories he was singing with it. wanting him to hug him, he was whining, stroking her jaw which is always able to conjure silence into harmony. He wanted to sing the poem of the Moon, as he often sang when the night came. Oh....
However, for tonight, he could only remain silent. There was nothing he could speak of, except a heavy sigh. Even the silhouette of himself on the pitate wall was no longer obvious, everything was blurry. Far away drowning, his desperate yearning piled up. In the pain, the extreme bitterness, he crossed his arms, hugging his own increasingly thin bony body, hoping to find a hint of warmth. A little, if there were still. However, no matter how he tried, it was his heart that wanted his frail body to tremble.
He decided to leave the terrace of his house creaking in the wind. His steps were heavy and sloping, approaching the wooden table that was reot in the inner room. Grabbing a piece of paper and pen. His hand shook, his soul as if slashed, when he began to crumple something on the shabby paper. His eyes pushyly stared at the piece of the story that was back playing on the paper and the short sentences he had painstakingly written. As hard as he fought, half-dead maintained his limits, before everything was uprooted by the clear water that slowly decayed from his eyelids.
Oh. once again he groaned, clutching his pained chest. Suffocate.
In his pain, he was among the faint sobs of his cries, he tried to string the most beautiful words in his writing. Words that could be a detonator for a great story later. The eyes of the questioner trembled, along with the pain that crept slowly before killing him. However, for a while, he was still quite strong. The tears were satisfied. Although the occasional tightness is still in the bite, anticipate. So when he came to the last part of his writing, he stopped, gasping.
To him, longing is a detonator for every memory. One thing that can make anyone fall into a critical depth of his heart. Night tales, rattan baskets, fresh vegetables, ridges, trails, long dark forest, wooden sticks, shrubs, clear cold rainwater, clear rainwater, it was as deep as he understood about longing. So that the cloud that is approaching the night this time brings out a biting cold. Much more piercing. Making her body tremble, her teeth twitching, holding back the urge of sweet memories that somehow made her feel slashed.
He snorted for a moment, trying to deny the dispute that had been stirring in his heart. Look again at the white paper on the wooden table that has been hollowed by termites. Spell out a row of sentences written there. It was like dancing to the light of a bottle lamp that was fluttering against the wind. He protected the flame with his hands so as not to be extinguished. Another lesson he learned. That old hand was himself, the flame of the lamp was the best treasure he had guarded all those years of his time. Her hope.
“Do not extinguish... do not extinguish!” whispered.
His heart was bitter to imagine. His hand shook with the pen. Strong he gripped, until his molars pounded each other, causing a crackling sound. His eyes began to feel thick, there was a burden that again piled up there, before spilling as tears. And once again he was defeated by the yearning and the pain that lingered together. Blaspheme his defenses blindly. He's shivering. Although he wanted to, there would be no words that could come out between his trembling lips, his tongue was murky. There ain't! Only the night knows how deep the pain of longing. Sorry if I had to cry....
That paper. The paper that he had been looking at since, had been wet on some sides by the clear water dripping from his chin, even the medal was still slaughtered to silence.
The folded paper contained a message he had written with great difficulty. Folded the paper, heartbroken, as if his life was folded with him. And so, with his chest getting claustrophobic, at the urging of his slowly blurring eyes, he whispered once again; “NADIR”.
Footnote :
¹. Storytelling
². Bamboo Webbing
³. Father; Father
⁴. Bamboo; Bamboo iron
⁵. Om; Uncle; a term for people who are the same age as parents.
⁶. Call for boys.
⁷. Coconut
⁸. 9-string stringed stringed stringed instrument shaped like a pda rowboat generally. (This musical instrument is simply the result of the author's imagination).
⁹. Fairytales
¹o. Fairytale creatures that are said to come from heaven.
¹¹. Mother; Mama; can also be used to greet women who are the same age as our parents.
¹². Shamans
¹³. Grannies
¹⁴. Freshwater fish; similar to mojair
¹⁵. Mother; Mother
Please appreciate it if there is any criticism or advice...😁😁
thank's earlier, I've stopped by🙏
