" DO NOT look into my eyes, you will fall in love."
You throw me the sentence again this afternoon. I don't know how many times.
Your eyes fought with beams of light that rushed from the glass of buildings, cars, and also the millions of billions of sunlight that struck the white color of the burial walls. There are red hot embers left there.
In the hero's grave, you visit your grandfather's grave. The place is exactly opposite the door to the most technologically advanced shopping mall;
Hi-Tech Mall. In the hot sun, despite wearing your mother's deceased brown sunglasses, you say that request too. Only then will it reveal what I thought was more important than just stealing your eyes.
"I didn't bring you here actually to visit my grandfather," you said while removing the strands of hair from your face.
"So what?"
"I just introduced you to him. While calculating the distance between the hero and the loser. "
You say that while opening the glasses, biting the end of the handle, then touching it near the pupils of your clear, glowing bluish-brown eyes. I know, the loser in question isn't me. Because of that I have the guts to rob your eyes.
As fast as I saw anger, sadness, and solitude behind your clear eyes. Then, again you say the same thing. "Don't look into my eyes ..."
I'm just cold. No smile. No embarrassment. Not also refute, let alone refute it.
A moment later two men carried buckets filled with water. He put a bucket near your grandfather's grave. You gave them twenty thousand sheets. Then talk for a moment. About grass. Regarding gravel. Problem land. The problem of who has visited here.
I hear it as a normal conversation even though it doesn't mean you know each other. I don't hear you asking the man not to look into your eyes. In fact, you have removed your glasses. Beneath the tomb, the shadow of the evergreen trees was soothing.
"He only needed money, and I gave him what he needed. Then, he responded with what I seemed to need. Water. Finally, be a habit. Initially, they only asked for money. At first, we didn't need water. "
"Oh, yes. You're the best con artists. He safely received your money by giving you two buckets of water. Likewise you, sincerely offer a piece of rupiah thanks to the water that soothes your heart and mind, "I said lightly while taking care of the grass at the tomb.
"Ah, that's not the case. Don't talk about my heart, mind and feelings. You just need to know, I reject any sympathy and empathy from others. This is what my grandfather taught me, "your poor smile said.
You started the introduction after the grandfather's grave. I help you pour the remaining bucket of water so that it is distributed evenly throughout the gravestone, from the maesan to the entire "body". After brushing aside a little sand and water in your palm, smoothing your dress, then crouching, you are talking to him.
"Grandfather ... I'm coming ..." you say. "I bring good men. Stout like grandfather. But, I forbid to see my eyes. Of course grandfather knows what I mean. "
Since that time I thought, you are a con artist. Starting with your quiet conversation with a grave thug. I also acted coldly with your trickery energy, because in a little bit I also learned the science of deception. Because of that, anyone does not need to be bothered, confused, let alone panicked if until this moment, like me, did not know the meaning of all these stories. The most important thing, whatever, do not completely obey what people say.
When it comes to honesty, when a sentence is said many times it is blasphemous, you are trying hard to deceive yourself with that sentence. This is the same with situations: pretending to be serious and seriously pretending. It's the same lie. I am an expert in putting myself in such circumstances. Circumstances are everything. The situation is more important than the message.
At first my belief in this situation was so serious. Then, it turns out that seriousness had happened long before in this world. In a book, I've read, Bertolt Brecht said, we've lived too long in drama. So finally I no longer believed it seriously as a drama. I believe it by pretending.
That is why I have never asked you; why you ask me not to see your clear, bluish brown eyes. Even though you say so many times, every man who looks into your eyes ends up falling in love with you. You often keep reminding me of that, as often as I enjoy the beauty of your eyes - the eyes of an imposter.
I have never asked in many ways. I found the answer myself from all your tricks. Because of my insistence, who does not trust you, and because of your growing distrust of me, then we agreed as fellow fraudsters. So, what can be trusted for all the stories of fraudsters? Of course what we say, do, even dream is a hoax. Our dreams are the con artists' dreams of con artists and are only a hoax.
Then, what more pleasure should we lie about with this state of deception?
You deceived me by claiming to be the daughter of a European-Dutch hybrid. Your father is a Javanese man with a hard and rich blue blood. So I describe the clear-eyed bluish-brown, fair-skinned, Indo-European-faced man. While you are trying to show your manners, gentleness and the flexibility of your speech, as well as a deep interest in your knowledge of Javanese culture and philosophy. Hey, you memorize the song Sluku Bathu from Kanjeng Sunan Kalijaga. Thus, you believe in various alternative treatments for your ancestors, deny putung, for example. And once in a while you lecture me about it.
I didn't ask when you said your mother was a Javanese dancer. Because, surely you will continue the essay about the beauty of your mother's face, which descends to you with the mole under those eyes - the left eye on you and the right eye on your mother. Then, I described your mother as a bedayan dancer, a legendary dance of the Javanese kings meeting the Queen of South Beach. Now that's the story you like too: Nyi Roro Kidul. In my picture, your mother dances with nine other dancers, graceful, gloomy, gentle, solemn, delicious, accompanied by a charming melodious gamelan rhythm. As usual before I was fooled, I deceived you first with my rudimentary knowledge, a kind of self-ignorant feeling.
On various occasions, in fact I have been waiting for your essay about your grandfather lying in the hero's grave park. Which day would you like to calculate the distance of his heroism to his defeat, with who knows who. However, what glides is actually a false story about your father. Well, at least I thought your father was the loser you meant.
"That's right," you say, which of course you know I can't believe, other than as boasting and reasoning to deceive me. "Father taught me very hard. Father made me like - exactly I wanted to - a man. I must be brave. In fact, no. Even though I'm ugly, my face is soft. Very contrary to my very sensitive heart. I am quiet and shy. But, I have to be tough, tough, strong in facing my father's firmness, because you want me to be born as a man. I was taught martial arts movements, lethal blows, weak points of our enemies, learning to meditate, and not to cry. "
Your boasting reminds me of the character Zahra in the novel the Sacred Night Tahar Ben Jelloun. It's not hard to put you in that story. Only, I must not think tragically about your fate, as tragic as Zahra, who is loved by blind men and ends up living in a torture in prison. Only novels. While we are in the real world. Zahra's world is the real world. Our world is a world of bullshit. Or upside down? I don't know, I don't care. It might be reversed, as you can also rotate the distance between the hero and the loser.
"In the midst of my fear," you continued. "The father's advice that I always remember: Never be afraid of anything in this world, except God. But when you are guilty, even if it is small and meaningless, be afraid of you and immediately apologize, even if it is to the ants. "
In the face of the honesty of the ants, you begin to doubt even more with heroes and losers. To your grandfather and father.
Because of that, I was not defeated by your mood when your mother passed away a few days before we were at the hero's grave park. How immersed you are in sorrow, loss. Your tears never stop. Your eyes are swollen and swollen all day. You seem to apologize that after your mother died, no one else will love you. Your grandfather has been gone for decades, your father has been unable to do anything, then now your mother.
I'm warning you, stop crying. Crying is only making other people's hearts cut. Grieving only makes a man fall in love. I say without having to look into your clear, bluish-brown eyes, which when wet like a lake in the rainy season. Moreover, why do you spit grief or injury in the media when in fact you can talk to the Almighty? God never reads the status of WhatsApp, Instagram, Twitter or Facebook . Because He hired his angels and provided them with the knowledge that they were all fake, hoaks. Remember, the angel took notes, not uploaded. You certainly understand the virtual universe, digital is only virtual. The universe of people who don't believe in God, when they make it a wailing wall.
This is my sermon, which I myself do not believe, but you can accept it. Even making banners to no longer dissolve in all feelings. That destiny in life is not what it receives, but rather what it can change. Then, you believe in self-seclusion and lies against others. Including me by asking me not to look clear in your eyes. Also retrace the history of your grandfather's life - an officer who you say eradicates crime in this city.
"My grandfather's heroism, because he managed to make the entire population of this city happy. Make citizens always self-aware to see the strangeness of others, as they see themselves alienated by others. In other words, there is no one who truly becomes himself. There is only always making yourself in a foreign state, in the name of the interests of others. "
"You mean, your grandfather has long taught you to refuse tepira salira?" I said.
"No, to be exact, grandfather successfully interpreted tepira salira in a new way, a new era. The old tepira salira is only the source of all sources of evil, the vandals of the cosmic order of life. "
"All right, I have to pretend to understand. Understanding why you forbid me to look clear in your eyes like those of Madelon Szekely-Lulofs, the Dutch writer born in Surabaya. We are just showing each other cheats, aren't we? "
After you can pretend to understand my pretense, then you continue your story. The story of your grandfather, your successful hero takes you insoluble after your mother's sadness. The story of a warrior man who has never had a tragedy or comedy in his life. That is why, you say, the life of the father and mother of grandfather's blessing goes with oddities, almost without the beautiful love story as the mock novels even though your mother and father are like heaven and earth. Father is a stubborn failed artist, painter and poet, while the mother is a graceful dancer, but successful in her career. Nevertheless, the grandfather managed to educate his son and his son-in-law, a Dutch-Javanese crossbreed, was considerate - precisely thoughtful. That what we think about life is not real life. The real life is a serious life in pretense, which pretends to be in seriousness. Urip may stop by, Owah, Solah and then Sawang Sinawang.
After grandfather's death, life's direction gradually shifted again. Crime begins with when people take care of others. When people are easily sucked into the sympathy, empathy, and affection of others. As your father slowly shows love to your mother in a way that is elegant. Rude, snapped, ordered. Mother had never cried, but then, stunned, silent, made pity instead. Touching each other's hearts, sentimentality. Sulking, seducing. That's how love is maintained by playing hearts and feelings.
That is, fast crime breeds; robbery, theft, rape. Not only for property, but also for soul and life. Not only outside the house, but also inside the house, in household rooms, even in the rooms of a married couple, lovers. You are married to God's chosen husband and circumstances that are already in such environmental conditions. I'd rather call it that. Don't I not believe anything you say and say?
Including the following story: You confess in the name of love being able to live married to a man who is very sensitive, sensitive, and sensitive in heart. You mean a man who is good at beating, light in his hand, strong in the grip of his hand when he curls your body in bed. A man who is rude, ignorant, sharp curses, his eyes red as blood, everywhere holding the embers of anger. A person who really cares about you and others. Caring is similar in his desire to make others half tortured torture. So, since your marriage, that's actually the first day you start a new life: sleeping facing the wall.
So you can tell anything. About the change in your life path. One thing that has never really changed and we have agreed on, life is to live a fellow con artist. I do not believe you as you forbid me to look into your eyes. Even though you say every day through WhatsApp messages, you state your situation after being kicked, beaten, beaten by your husband with a jujan jagoan. I better call out to you a martial arts champion from the most powerful hermitage, a sophisticated parry and strong brushing. A champion must have trained his body red bruised, swollen blue, bloody black eyes, limp, even injured. Moreover, only the words of song poetry: the former picture of your hand.
Indeed, I often loot your eyes. However, I've never really been jeri. The agreement and life we have taught, life as a fellow con artist will complicate the distance of a hero and a loser. Perhaps you are more familiar with both. But, I will continue to say to you: I do not believe any of your stories, your confessions, the news you send me, as you do not believe in what I look into your eyes. Even though I don't believe in you, I keep waiting for your story, your confession, how are you.
Frankly, this is not what I revealed to you. I'm waiting for news that your husband has been killed. Other people may. It could also be by your hand who champion martial arts. Which is somehow your tactics and strategy that it's not a murder. It's not hard for you to find the point of death. I also don't tell you about my plans when your husband is gone. I will invite you to live as a fellow con artist. That as a con, I have a completely new way of life as a man to the woman he cheated. Even though she is a con artist too.
You may forbid me to see your clear bluish brown eyes. As I will not reveal two sentences that of course you do not believe the truth if I imagine it to you. Living with me, I'll make sure you no longer sleep facing the wall. You will sleep facing the yard, the field or the forest. We will both vagrancy. Without feeling. (*)