Cerpen: Dua Rumah Kayu (Two Wooden Houses)

DWIBAHASA – BILINGUAL

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Bahasa Indonesia

Dua Rumah Kayu

Labodalih Sembiring

 

Ibu tidak sekalipun menatap Bapak ketika kami meninggalkan rumah, apalagi berpamitan. Lelaki itu bergeming di kamar sejak bangun tidur dan melihat ibu sedang mengepak barang-barang.

Dua minggu setelah kejadian memalukan itu, kami pindah ke pinggir lain kota untuk menumpangi keluarga Pakde, saudara tertua Ibu. Lalu semakin lama kata “bapak” semakin susah untuk kuucapkan dengan wajar kepadanya. Tiga minggu lalu aku bahkan tak yakin mana yang lebih sulit: Mengucapkan kata itu di hadapannya, atau membujuknya untuk melihat Bapak buat terakhir kali.

“Bagaimanapun juga dia bapakku,” tegasku, “dan rumah sakit perlu kita mengenali jasadnya.”

“Kalau begitu kamu saja yang pergi,” balas Ibu. “Aku sudah nggak ingat dia lagi.”

Adzan Ashar dari seberang sungai mengembalikanku kepada sekarang. Kantong plastik berisi kuas dan kaleng cat kumasukkan ke bagasi. Empat lelaki tua itu masih menatap dari pos ronda ujung jembatan. Orang-orang yang melintas masih menyempatkan diri untuk berhenti, membaca keterangan bahwa rumah beserta tanah Bapak kini berstatus dijual.

Aku tak ingat seorang pun dari mereka; dua puluh tahun telah mengaburkan banyak wajah dan nama. Namun ada kemungkinan bahwa siapapun yang telah menetap di kampung ini selama dua puluh tahun lebih masih ingat keluargaku.

Tidak mudah menghadapi itu.

Kudatangi pos ronda. Demi sopan santun. Demi mencegah kecurigaan yang tak perlu. Barangkali juga demi menuntaskan penasaranku. Keempat lelaki membalas sapaanku lalu bergeser, memberi ruang di dalam pos ronda untuk kududuki sebelum salah satunya menawarkan rokok.

“Adik ini siapa ya?” bertanya seorang.

“Saya Yusuf, Pak, anak Pak Gareng yang meninggal tiga minggu lalu. Mungkin Bapak-Bapak masih ingat, dulu saya biasa dipanggil Ucup,” jawabku usai menghembuskan kepul asap pertama. Sudah lama aku tak merokok.

Kutangkap kelap ganjil di mata mereka yang bersamaan menyerukan: “Oh.”

“Walah! Ini Ucup yang dulu sering main bola di depan rumah saya toh? Hebat, sudah bawa-bawa mobil. Hahaha. Ibu di mana sekarang, Cup?” tanya yang tadi menawarkan kreteknya, sepertinya berusaha bernada ringan.

Kusebutkan nama kota tempat Ibu dan aku tinggal. Mereka kembali ber-oh, sebelum lelaki yang kelihatannya paling tua, disusul ketiga temannya, mengucapkan belasungkawa atas kematian Bapak. Lama kami membahas penyakit jantung yang ia idap, serta kecelakaan yang menewaskannya, sebelum salah seorang menanyakan harga jual rumah kayu itu.

Rumah masa kecilku.

Kualihkan pandang pada pintunya yang kini bertorehkan rangkaian huruf dan nomer telepon berwarna merah gelap.

“Belum tahu, Pak,” jawabku. “Terserah ibu saya.”

Rumah almarhum Bapak kini terasing di antara hunian-hunian yang lebih kokoh — bangunan-bangunan yang terbuat dari semen dan bercat. Tapi rumah itu tak sendirian. Di seberangnya, satu lagi rumah kayu yang tak kalah ringkih. Meski lebih kecil, rumah itu sama berdinding jati tebal kusam abu-abu. Kupandangi lagi pohon mangga di sampingnya. Dulu sering kupanjati bersama teman-teman pada musim berbuah. Kini daun nyaris tak melekati dahan-dahannya.

Di rumah berpohon mangga itu Anes pernah tinggal. Suaminya mati muda, hanyut di sungai ketika tengah malam berak dalam keadaan mabuk, belum sampai tiga bulan setelah keduanya menikah. Tak terkecuali Ibu, istri-istri dan gadis-gadis kampung ini lantas cemas para suami dan kekasih mereka akan tergoda oleh si janda kembang.

“Masih muda, manis, kenes lagi! Siapa yang tahan?” Begitu kudengar kelakar yang pernah muncul di pos ronda ini, ketika aku mengantarkan rokok pesanan Bapak. Tidak seperti teman-temannya yang kemudian tertawa terbahak-bahak, Bapak cuma tersenyum.

“Kenes itu apa?” aku tanya Bapak. Teman-temannya malah mengusirku.

Sejak Anes mulai terlihat tak lagi berduka, Ibu jadi mudah marah. Sering dia mengomeliku karena masalah sepele, termasuk ketika menemukan biji-biji jagung berserakan di teras rumah pada beberapa pagi.

“Tiap hari disapu, ada lagi, ada lagi! Selesai main dibersihkan!”

Aku selalu membantah tuduhan yang satu itu. Tidak masuk akal. Untuk apa aku mainan jagung? Anak lanang kan tidak main masak-masakan!

“Pokoknya kalau kotor, bersihkan!” kata Ibu. “Aku capek masak, capek nyuci, kamu mestinya bantu-bantu. Aku ini sedang hamil!”

Setelah dewasa — aku selalu merasa telah terlalu lekas dewasa — aku paham bahwa saat itu akulah sasaran paling empuk untuk dijadikan pelampiasan kecemasan dan ketakutan Ibu. Mungkin karena sedang mengandung dua bulan, dia mulai enggan bersebadan dengan Bapak. Lalu dia khawatir, jangan-jangan Bapak mencari pelampiasan pada perempuan lain. Pada Anes si janda kenes seberang rumah, terutama.

Kecemasannya meradang ketika seorang tetangga bilang ia melihat Bapak memboncengkan Anes dengan sepedanya suatu sore.

“Dia baru selesai nyuci. Aku kasih tumpangan. Itu saja,” jawab Bapak dalam interogasi mendadak di kamar sebelah.

“Dia yang minta diboncengkan apa kamu yang nawarin?”

“Enggak gitu. Dia baru naik dari sungai, aku hampir nabrak dia. Aku minta maaf, terus kutawarkan…”

“Berarti dia masih pakai kain basahan? Kamu senang lihat teteknya yang kimplah-kimplah?”

Sepertinya Bapak tergeragap. Jeda sebelum ia menjawab, “Aku enggak selingkuh!”

“Awas, kamu! Demi bayi ini, aku sumpahi kepalamu pecah kalau kamu berani serong!”

Malamnya, ketokan-ketokan di jendela. Mungkin ketokan-ketokan itu yang membangunkan aku. Atau mungkin gerimis yang dinginnya memaksaku menarik selimut hingga dagu. Yang jelas aku lantas membuka mata. Gelap.

Aku memperhatikan dengan telinga. Bukan, suara itu terlalu ringkas. Bukan ketokan. Hanya sesuatu yang terantuk. Tapi muncul berulang di berbagai sisi depan rumah. Kadang di pintu. Kadang di ujung sana, di dinding luar kamar orang tuaku.

Antukan-antukan berhenti. Terdengar derit halus. Empat kali. Yang terakhir ketika pintu depan ditutup dan aku bangkit untuk mengintip dari celah jendela. Satu sosok berjalan di pekarangan, menuju rumah depan. Cahaya lemah mengilapkan kulitnya yang basah. Itu punggung Bapak, lebar dan liat.

Pintu di seberang terbuka. Bapak menghilang ke dalam ruang tanpa penerangan. Pintu ditutup kembali. Aku rasa saat itu aku mulai paham, karena dadaku berdebar cepat. Karena kemudian kulihat pula bulir-bulir jagung yang berserakan di teras dan halaman.

Aku rasa aku paham, maka aku membangunkan Ibu. Aku tak mengatakan apa-apa, seperti ia tak membuka mulut. Ia cukup melihat bahwa ia sendirian di ranjang.

Ibu berjalan ke dapur. Dalam temaram cahaya teplok Ibu berjongkok. Berdiri di bingkai pintu, aku mendengar isak, geram, serta tumbukan-tumbukan batu. Berulang-ulang. Cepat dan marah. Punggung Ibu maju mundur seiring gerak tangan kanannya. Setelah dewasa, aku bisa mengingat kembali kejadian itu dengan berbeda: Saat itu aku ikut menangis bukan karena memahami rasa sakit hati Ibu, tapi karena takut.

Pada hari-hari hujan, Ibu selalu melarangku keluar dan memintaku bermain saja di dapur dengan mobil-mobilan kayu atau koleksi kartu tepokan — kartu dengan gambar-gambar yang bercerita tentang manusia super, tentang para ksatria, atau tentang para punakawan yang sudah mengenal pakaian modern. Atau menggambar. Atau bermain dengan anak-anak kucingku. Dan ada nyaman pada denting perkakas dapur, pada desah sayur yang masuk ke panas wajan, serta pada aroma sedapnya yang segera penuhi ruangan. Ibu ada dekat.

Ketika melemah atau hilang penanda-penanda itu, aku menoleh. Apabila Ibu masih di sana, rasa nyaman itu kembali. Jika tak ada, aku tahan kepalaku pada posisi menengok ke belakang sambil berteriak memanggilinya. Menunggu ia menyahut.

Tapi malam itu aku takut. Di dapur yang mendadak asing, gigil api dalam semprong menjadikan bayangan-bayangan bergetar ganjil. Cobek dan muntu kian sengit beradu. Jauh lebih baik aku diomeli atau dimarahi Ibu daripada melihatnya menggiling kegusaran seperti hendak menggerus malam. Aku belum pernah melihatnya seperti itu. Seolah-olah ia bukan ibuku.

“Ucup, ambilkan air seember,” ujar Ibu. Ia tak mengacuhkan tangisku yang mengeras. “Cepat!” bentaknya sebelum kudengar isaknya turut menderas.

“Buuu,” ibaku, memohon agar ia berbalik, agar aku mengenalinya. Agar rasa nyaman itu muncul. Tapi ia kembali membentakkan “cepat” dengan memanjangkan akhir kata, melolongkan perihnya.

Aku masih tak bisa melihat wajah Ibu saat datang meletakkan seember kecil air di sampingnya. Ibu menariknya pelan lalu memasukkan hasil ulekan. Ia menarik nafas panjang. Tubuhnya tegak sewaktu mengudak air dengan sudu kayu sampai bau cabe meruap. Ia mirip sosok nenek sihir yang mengudak ramuan dalam satu cerita pada kartu tepokan.

Aku menduga, yang terjadi kemudian menjadi bahan obrolan warga untuk waktu yang lama. Ibuku menyangga perutnya dengan tangan kiri yang juga menjinjing ember sambil memanjat pohon mangga. Merayap pada satu dahannya yang menjulur di atas atap genteng rumah Anes.

“Dia geser satu genteng,” seorang bapak di warung kopi mengocehkan versi yang dia dengar entah dari siapa, “terus, dia lihat Gareng sama Anes lagi begini.” Kedua telapak tangannya dirapatkan, bagian pergelangan merenggang, menutup, merenggang, menutup.

“Memang gila,” tutur perempuan nyinyir sebelah rumah kami kepada seorang tetangga jauh. “Air cabe dia siramkan pas di atas Gareng dan Anes. Kedua pezina itu kalang kabut keluar rumah, teriak-teriak.”

Mereka berteriak-teriak bahwa tubuh mereka kepanasan, seperti tak peduli orang-orang telah berkerumun menyaksikan ketelanjangan keduanya. Ibuku turun dari pohon. Memungut sebuah sapu, ia ayunkan gagangnya sekuat tenaga, memukuli Bapak dan Anes berkali-kali sambil menjeritkan serapah. Ia bahkan merenggut rambut Anes dan membenturkan keningnya ke dinding. Kulihat bercak darah menempel pada kayu.

Bercak yang tak seberapa. Dibandingkan darah yang mengaliri kaki Ibu sebelum ia tersungkur tak sadarkan diri. Di tengah kebingunganku menyaksikan rangkaian kejadian itu, aku belum tahu, takkan ada adik kecil. Kelak saat kusadari perut Ibu mengempis, aku tak berani bertanya. Aku tak pernah menanyakannya.

Dini hari beberapa lelaki mengamankan Bapak di pos ronda. Satu becak melarikan Ibu ke rumah sakit, membawaku serta. Anes menghilang entah ke mana. Banyak yang lihat ia lari sambil memegangi kepalanya ke arah hulu sungai, namun tak pernah kembali. Ada yang bilang sempat melihatnya meringkuk bugil di bawah jembatan tengah kota, seperti orang gila. Toh bagiku, juga bagi Ibu, gila adalah penyelesaian yang terlalu mudah untuknya.

“Sudah jam segini, sebaiknya saya pamit dulu,” ujarku pada keempat lelaki yang hampir satu jam bersamaku di pos ronda ini.

“Ya, ya, silakan,” jawab mereka. “Kapan-kapan main lagi kemari,” salah satu menambahi. Entah apa yang harus kusimpulkan dari sikap mereka yang ringan. Yang tidak mengungkit peristiwa malam itu. Barangkali ada tahu diri untuk tidak mengorak luka yang mengerak.

Barangkali mereka masih melihat bekasnya. Ketika siang ini aku hanya menulisi pintu, tidak memasukinya. Atau saat membayangkan perubahan warna bilah-bilah jati hingga menjadi seperti adanya sekarang — membayangkan berada di tengah-tengah Bapak dan Ibu sampai mereka tua.

Sulit untuk tidak teringat lagi pada jasad Bapak yang mendapat serangan jantung ketika menaiki sepeda motor hingga jatuh dan kepalanya terlindas truk melintas. Membayangkan mayatnya dikerumuni orang-orang asing.

Lalu aku berusaha mengenali lagi aroma tanah pekarangan yang terbentang memisahkan — ataukah menghubungkan — kedua rumah kayu.

Lalu pohon mangga itu.

Sebentuk sedih menyelinap. Kunyalakan mesin mobil, melaju, melambaikan tangan pada keempat lelaki tua. Roda mendecit nyaring saat kuinjak rem, mengembalikanku kepada sekarang. Seorang perempuan berkain basahan dengan bakul cucian di pinggang muncul di depan dan buru-buru berlalu.

Aku pun ingin cepat-cepat pulang ke tempat yang lebih mudah kusebut rumah. Mencari nyaman dalam tatap dingin Ibu. Juga dalam kehangatan pelukan istri dan putraku.

Yogyakarta, Juli – Agustus 2010

* * *

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English

Two Wooden Houses

translation by author, co-edited with Megan Ryan

 

The day we left the house, Mother did not look at him at all, let alone say goodbye. Waking up, he sat motionless in bed, watching her pack.

Two weeks after the humiliating incident, we moved to another border of town to stay with Pakde, Mother’s oldest brother. And as time went by, it became more and more awkward for me to mention the word “father” in her presence. Three weeks ago, I wasn’t sure which was more difficult: To say that word to her, or to coax her into seeing him for the last time.

“He is my father after all,” I finally said, “and the hospital needs us to identify the body.”

“Then go,” she replied. “I no longer remember him.”

The call to ashar prayer brings me back to now. I put the plastic bag filled with a brush and a can of paint into the trunk, and realize that the four old men are still staring at me from the night-watch post by the nearer end of the bridge. Passersby continue to take time to stop and read the announcement from a distance. A house and a piece of land in their neighborhood are now on sale.

I can’t recall any of these people; twenty years have blurred a lot of faces and names. There is, however, a possibility that those who have lived in this village for a little more than twenty years still remember my family.

That’s not an easy thing to cope with.

I walk toward the night-watch post. For well-manner’s sake. To get rid of any unnecessary suspicions. Probably to satisfy my own curiosity, too. The four men reply to my greeting and then shift about, giving me some room to sit before one of them offers me a cigarette.

“Who are you, little brother?” one of them asks.

“I’m Yusuf. My father, Gareng, died three weeks ago. You may remember me by my childhood name: Ucup,” came my answer after my first puff. I catch a glimpse of curious luster in their eyes as they let out a short “oh.”

“My my! You’re the one who used to play footie with my son in front of my house. All grown up and driving your own car now, I see. Ha ha ha. Where is your mother, Ucup?” asks the man who offered me this cigarette. A sudden change of ambiance. Something was hidden behind his light tone of voice.

I mention the name of the town where Mother and I now live. Another “oh” before the oldest of the group, followed by his three friends, extends his condolences on Father’s passing. We then talk about his heart disease, as well as the accident that killed him, before one of them asks me about the price of the wooden house.

My childhood home.

I cast a glance at its door, now inscribed with a series of letters and numbers in dark red.

“I’m not sure,” I reply. “It’s all up to my mother.”

The house is isolated amid the more solid, colorful residences — buildings made of cement with tiled terraces. But it’s not alone. Right across from it is another wooden house, smaller in size, just as abandoned. Its walls are made up of thick yet dull teak timbers, too. For the third time now, I look at the mango tree beside it. One of the few mango trees in this village I used climb with the boys when the season came for them to bear fruits. Today, almost no leaves stick to its skeletal branches.

In the house with the mango tree is where Anes used to live. One night, her husband had had too much to drink before he took a piss by the river, slipped, and then drowned, just three months after they got married. Mother wasn’t the only woman in the village who became troubled over the possibility that her man would be tempted to take over the dead man’s place in the young widow’s bed.

“So young, so sweet, so teasing! What man could resist her?” I heard one man say in this same night-watch post when I brought my father his pack of cigarettes. Unlike his friends who laughed so hard at that remark, Father simply smiled.

“What did he mean by ‘teasing’?” I asked Father. But his friends sent me away.

As soon as Anes started putting a smile back on her face, Mother became easily agitated over trivial things, like when she found corn seeds scattered on the terrace a number of mornings.

“I sweep the goddamn place every day, and here they are again, and again! Clean them up after you play with them!”

But I would deny this particular accusation, saying she wasn’t making any sense. Why would I play with corn seeds? Boys don’t play pretend-cooking!

“I don’t want to hear it. Just clean up any mess you find around the house!” she yelled. “I’m tired of cooking and doing the laundry everyday; you should be helping me. I’m pregnant, for goodness’ sake!”

As I matured — and I always knew I matured too soon — I could understand that at that time I was the easiest target for her worries and fears. Maybe because she was two months pregnant, she had begun to feel reluctant to have sex with Father. And then she got worried that he would seek it elsewhere. Inside that wooden house across ours, especially.

A neighbor stoked the flame when she reported seeing Father rode Anes home one late afternoon on his bike.

“She just finished washing her clothes. I gave her a ride home. That was it,” Father said in a sudden interrogation in the next room.

“She asked for that ride or did you make the offer?”

“She just got back from the river, I nearly bumped into her. I made the offer as a way of…”

“Oh, so she was all wet and teasing, wasn’t she? You enjoyed seeing the outline of her nipples? Underneath that wet jarik wrapping those overflowing tits?”

I imagined Father stammering. A pause before he replied, “I’m not cheating on you!”

“You’d better not! I swear on this baby I will curse you — you will break your head if your dare cheat on me!”

Late that night, knocks on the window. Maybe those knocks woke me up. Maybe it was the drizzle outside whose chill seeped inside and forced me to pull my blanket up to my chin. I opened my eyes anyway. It was dark.

So I relied on my ears. No, the sounds were softer. No one was knocking. They were the sounds of small objects hitting the window. But not just the window. They hit against different parts of the house’s façade. Sometimes against the door. Sometimes against the outer wall of my parents’ room.

The faint thuds stopped. Soft squeaks ensued. Four times. The front door shutting was the last of them. I got up to peek from a small opening on the window. A man was walking across our front yard to the house facing ours. His wet skin glistened in a pale light. That was Father’s back, broad and solid.

That house’s front door opened. Father disappeared into the unlit room. Then it was shut again. I could feel that at that moment I began to understand, because my heart beat faster. Because I immediately saw corn seeds scattered on our terrace and lawn.

I felt that I understood, so I woke Mother up. I didn’t say anything, as she didn’t open her mouth. She only needed to see she was alone in that bed.

She walked into the kitchen. In the dim light of the wick lamp she squatted. Standing by the door frame, I heard sobs, growls, and the sounds of rocks rapping against one another. Time and again. Rapidly, angrily. Mother’s back moved back and forth, in unison with the movement of her right hand. As I matured, I could look back to this specific episode differently: As I stood there, I cried not because I could feel what she felt, but because I was scared.

On rainy days, Mother would make me stay inside and play in the kitchen with my collections of wooden cars or tepokan cards — cards with different series of stories about Western super heroes, Javanese knights, or stories about the classic punakawan jesters living in a more modern setting. Or I would draw pictures or play with my kittens. And there was comfort in the clanking noise of her cooking utensils, in the hissing of vegetables thrown into a hot pan, and in the delicious smell that quickly filled the room. They meant mother was close.

When the signs weakened or disappeared, I would turn my head. If she was still there, that feeling of comfort returned. If not, I would hold my head in that position and called for her. Waiting for her to answer.

That night I was afraid. In the kitchen that suddenly felt unfamiliar, the shivering flame inside the lamp chimney cast strange, shuddering shadows. The mortar and pestle continued to collide even more violently. I thought it was better that she scolded me than for me to see her grinding her rage as if she wanted to crush the night. I had never seen her like that. Like she wasn’t my mother.

“Ucup, get me a bucket of water,” she suddenly said. She didn’t seem to care that my cry grew louder. “Now!” she shouted, before I heard her cry burst into shrills.

“Mother,” I sobbed, hoping that she would turn around, so I could recognize her. So the feeling of comfort would return. But she cried another “now,” lengthening it as if extending her pain.

I still could not see her face when I put a small bucket of water right next to her. She pulled it closer to her side and then put the content of the mortar into it. She took a deep breath. Her body straightened as she stirred the water with a ladle until the smell of chili permeated the air. She looked like the old witch lady stirring her magic potion in one series of my tepokan cards.

I suspected that what happened next became the talk of the village for a long time. My mother propped her tummy with her left hand, which also carried the bucket as she climbed the mango tree. She crept on one of the boughs that stretched over Anes’ house.

“She removed one roof tile,” a man in the coffee stall babbled the version he had heard, “and she saw Gareng and Anes doing this.” He brought his palms together, and then both wrists parted, and closed, and parted, and closed again.

“Well, she is crazy,” the nosy woman living next door said to a distant neighbor. “She poured the chili liquid on Gareng and Anes. The two adulterers ran out of the house screaming.”

Crying for help, for water, for anything that might rid them of the stinging heat, they didn’t realize that those who had gathered about them could not make out what they were actually saying. We all just watched in bewilderment. Mother got down from the tree. Having picked up a broom, she swung the handle as hard as she could over and over on Father and Anes while cursing them. She even seized Anes by the hair and knocked her head to the wall. I saw a small blotch of blood on the plank.

But it was nothing. Compared to the drips of blood trickling down Mother’s legs before she fell unconscious. In my confusion witnessing the whole incident, I didn’t yet know there would be no little brother or sister. When I later found out that Mother’s stomach had deflated, I dared not ask her about it. I never asked her about it.

That early morning several men took Father to the night-watch post. One tricycle rushed Mother to the hospital, taking me along. Anes disappeared. Many saw her run, one hand on her head, to the upper course of the river, and she never came back. Someone reported seeing her under a bridge downtown, squatting with her body folded over, like a mad woman. Still, to me, and also to Mother, madness is too simple of an ending for her.

“Look at the time. I’d better be going,” I say to the four men who have accompanied me for almost an hour in this night-watch post.

“Come again sometime,” one of them reply.

I don’t know what to make of their relaxed attitude. For they haven’t mentioned anything about the incident. Perhaps it’s the Javanese “don’t poke your nose in your neighbors’ business, at least not in front of them” way of life that has prevented them from scraping the scab of this old wound.

Perhaps they pity me. For I only wrote on my childhood home’s door and did not open it to step inside. For I stared for so long at the wall’s teak boards thinking how much the color had changed to what it looked like now — imagining what it would have been like if I had grown up with Father and Mother until today, or until one of them died.

It was difficult not to be reminded of Father’s dead body back in the hospital. The doctor could not decide if he died from the heart attack that made him fall from his motorbike, or if he was alive until the moment his head smashed into the asphalt. My dead father, surrounded by people who didn’t know him…

Maybe those four old men also saw me trying to recognize the smell of the soil of the lawn separating — or connecting — the two wooden houses.

And then the mango tree.

A form of sadness sneaks in. I start the car, step on the gas, and then wave at the men in the post. The tires squeak as I suddenly step on the brake, returning me to the present. A woman in a wet jarik with a basket of laundry on her hip appeared before the car as if out of nowhere. She lifted one of her hands at me as a way of apologizing, and then ran to the other side of the street.

But I need to hurry too. To a place I can easily call home. To look for comfort in Mother’s cold stare. And in the warm embraces of my wife and son.

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