Short Story (Cerpen)

Distant

Category: Fiction Fantasy Short stories

Title: Distant

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'So, what do you care about this place, son?' his hands trembled holding a belly-high iron fence in front of him. Eyes withering. I guess those eyes will close for a minute. But clearly nationalism, patriotism, even a little chauvinism there. His skin is wrinkled here and there. Even crack, literally. 'Forged times, Son. People with skin like me who actually have the greatest love for the country.' That was what she said when I asked her about her 'broken' skin five years ago. When I just set foot on this ground. A land without hope.

The water points started to fall. One drop, two drops, three drops began to divide my hand. Sticky.

'Don't you get exposed to that rain too often, son.' The old grandfather pointed at the cracked skin of his hand.

Oh, so that's what made her skin crack.

'It's okay once in a while, Cake. I love the rain.' I reply while looking up at the overcast sky. Hands up to feel the provision of God. Even though it's been destroyed.

'The sulfur content in it is overrated. You know, I only need to get this rain eight times to get this crack.' Grandpa again showed me the crack in his hand.

'My hands weren't rough. Subtly. Muscled. Masculine. I was once a…'

'Explorer. It's the eighth time you've told a story like that, Cake.' I laughed.

'You counting?' Grandpa laughed.

'All Grandpa's words repeated, I count.'

'Grandpa, why is your name Dasa? You've told me everything except this. Is the name too cool to tell?' I patted her shoulder. Joking.

'Because young people now have very high levels of sarcasm. My name changes every decade, son. Back then, when I was seventy years old, my name was Sapta. When I was eighty, my name was okta. When I was ninety years old, my name was Miss. I was often insulted in those ten years. Obviously, my name is like the name of a very feminine woman. But, that's my principle. My name's changing to remember the age, son. As long as whatever you stand on the ground, you will eventually fuse with it. Now, I'm ninety-nine years old. Therefore my name is Dasa. Means ten. And tomorrow I have my hundredth birthday! I don't know what name I'm using for the day after tomorrow at my age of over a hundred.' Dasa laughed again.

'I'm ninety nine for a moment. Dying for just another moment and I'm. ah I forgot the song. It was my favorite song. Five for Fighting, 100 Years. It always reminds me of my age. My body is broken, son. In fact, I can say that all my organs have disease. Countless times I should, should, take medicine in one day. But, I realize, boy, we're gonna die eventually, aren't we? What are these medications for?'

'Hey, Son. You know my ideals? Died at my hundredth age. Then it's tomorrow! But, I don't know. With the condition of my body that still seems strong to support all kinds of diseases. I thought I'd die at the age of five. Maximum of seven hundredth.'

Dasa is famous for telling stories everywhere when asked about his life. I don't know, maybe too many experiences and ideals are stockpiled, swollen in his brain. So, maybe he should share those experiences and ideals with others before they blow his own brains out.

'It means you were born when the Monetary Crisis hit Indonesia. Economic crisis for the first time huh, Cake?'

'Ah! Aye, aye! Monetary Crisis! That's not the first economic crisis for Indonesia, son. The first economic crisis occurred when Indonesia became independent. When those who care about the nation can still be found in all corners of the country. The economic crisis occurred because Indonesia could not make two focuses between economic welfare and maintaining Indonesian independence.'

Ah, I forgot. Dasa would even be more noisy if he had talked about this country.

'This country is starting to corrupt, starting to break down, when I was still sitting on the Junior High School bench, son. In the past names such as Gaius Tambunan, Anas Urbaningrum, Muhammad Nazaruddin, Andi Mallarangeng, The Minister of Youth and Sports, even Akil Mochtar, a Chairman of MK! Projects such as the Hambalang sports centre, the 26th SEA Games athletes' guesthouse, and beef imports, even holy scripture, have become a loophole for corruption! From there, Son, from the criminals, came new deadly seeds. Muhammad Nur Zulfiqar, our 9th President. 'The Killer'. I don't think anyone could be more corrupt than him, son. Fifty percent, imagine! Fifty percent of APBN funds are lost to him!'

I only listened to Dasa's lecture solemnly. The rain is falling more and more. My body feels more and more sticky.

'Arm. Your name is Ardi, isn't it? You know, Ardi, I thought this country couldn't be more ruined after that 'Killer' case, son. It turns out that, after decades of wandering here and there, after my birthplace was bought to be made into big factories, which caused this deadly rain, I realized that the crux of the matter was not those corrupt rulers. The point of this country's destruction is that there are too many apathetic people, son. These are the people who bring

Face of red blush. Anger at the people mentioned in his talk. Including all those who are apathetic to the fate of the nation. This is the first time I've seen Dasa so turbulent when talking about this country.

I don't know why, I'm a little worried about his health.

'Globalization brings degradation of morality to Indonesia. This is how this country became. All aspects of life are broken. Health insurance for the people can not be stolen, vacant land, rice fields, gardens, forests, even the countryside in the corners to be a place of business for corrupt people, greedy people. That's why a famine hit this country, especially for people who can't buy food. All aspects of life for the poor cannot be fulfilled.'

'BUT WHY ARE WE BEING BLAMED?! We are the ones now imprisoned in this city! A city designed by the government to house the poor, sick, slum, poor, 'not worth living'! Since Muhammad Nur Zulfiqar was revealed, the biggest disease disaster in Indonesian history struck. Were you born that day, son? SARS, HIV, bird flu, all the diseases that have been a disaster for this country are coming back in countless numbers. Along! Poor people who do not have money to do medicine, are being led to a city, I can even say a small country surrounded by high walls ' which needs trillions of rupiah, through four presidential terms, made to prevent the disease that we carry is not spread everywhere. I remember that day, son.'

'I was with millions of other people being herded like farm animals into here. Little children, teenagers like you, middle-aged people, until people who are not strong enough to lift their legs, if they have contracted a disease and cannot pay for treatment, are brought here. It's called genocide for the incapable! I still remember the words of Almira Maulana, our tenth President, Si Lugu, the Fool. 'They no longer have hope. We are trying to do the right thing, he said. This country has no hope!'

'Maybe if there was a novel titled Indonesia Aftermath that tells the condition of Indonesia now, at the climax point of its destruction, the novel would be the best dystopian genre novel in the world, he said, even stepping over Brave New World by Aldous Huxley.'

'I didn't know your knowledge was so vast, Cake.' I patted the temple, amazed.

'You must not believe that I didn't pass SD. Experience is the best teacher, son. I've visited all corners of the country. In fact, the untouched land in the Papua region has been conquered, Ardi.' now Dasa who patted my shoulder.

Suddenly Dasa's face looked very heavy, his eyes were glazed over. Dasa is an emotional person. However, the five years I had known him, I had never seen him this emotional.

'If only there had been a lot of young people like you. Care about the nation, don't you think?' Dasa looked at me expectantly so that I would answer as he wished.

'If I don't love this country, I can't stay away from this high wall.' I try to answer with what Dasa seems to expect. However, not in spite of the facts.

'You're a successful novelist out there, aren't you?'

'Journalist, Cake. Not novelist.' I laugh.

'Ah! News hunter! There's so much news you can hunt inside these walls, son. Not happy news, of course.' Dasa shook his head. Laugh back. But I saw water coming out of his eyes. Dasa quickly rubbed it.

'You said that when we first met, Cake.' I laughed again.

'Just like Grandpa, I'm fed up with everything outside these walls. When the people out there think that inside these walls is what they call dystopia, it's exactly what I think, outside that's what should be called dystopia. A country no one ever wanted. Five years in here, running away from the extravagant life out there, I've never seen a single crime here. Maybe one, when the Jabrig tried to steal my flip-flops.'

We both laughed again. It was so nice to see Dasa laughing.

'I found peace within these walls, Cake.'

'Although shabby and stinky?'

'Even though it's shabby and stinky. That was the answer to grandfather's question at the beginning of the conversation.'

'You're naive, son. There is no crime here because everyone's lives are the same! Who would steal the goods of a person as poor as him?' dasa's laughter grew louder.

He suddenly gave me a smile, not an ordinary smile, a hopeful smile.

'Ardi, people like you are the ones the nation hopes for. The people who are expected to bring back the 'peace' that you talked about earlier to all corners of the country.'

'Turning this dystopia into a utopia.' His withered eyes sparkled, his hands clasped tightly onto my hands, despite the trembling.

Brucks.

'Grandpa!'

The next day, January 1, 2098, just when she was a hundred years old, Dasa died from a compilation of illnesses. Dream accomplished. Died at the age of one hundred. However, his love for this country is eternal. Blooming along with the love of millions of others who still hold hope to this country.

In a dystopia, a hero is not someone who holds weapons against invaders. Not someone who gets a position; one, two, three, four, five, or whatever star it is. Nor are people shouting in front of people, talking about morals.

In a dystopia, a hero is someone who still cares to share. Even if you just share experiences