English Version of the Short Story
Short Story by Selaras
Translated (Indonesia – English) by Leni Marlina
—
Sheets of paper scrawled with red ink fluttered out of my bag, which I had left open as though I had never noticed it. Around me, the pavement teemed with faceless voices. Today was no different, no matter how hard I tried to be better than I had been yesterday.
Baca juga: "NEGARA BUKAN PANGGUNG"
I sat at the edge of the bus-stop bench, deserted that afternoon. I already knew by heart every bus route displayed there, yet none of them was truly where I wanted to go. My hands busied themselves crumpling, tearing, and flinging away sheets covered in red-ink markings at every corner.
Watching my desk mate stride ahead of me yet again, becoming the owner of every trophy I had once dreamed I could win, made my chest ache.
One… two… three… three buses had already stopped before me, but I did not want to go home too soon. I had no idea what awaited me at the threshold—shouts, perhaps, or even curses.
Baca juga: SUKA-SUKA KAU LAH
Cold drops began sprinkling the thirsty pavement. Thank goodness for them… they gave me an excuse to stay a little longer.
The wind swept through, carrying fallen leaves from the trees and the remaining sheets of paper from my bag. But… I rose from the bus-stop bench, trying to catch one sheet before the rain could soak it. It was nothing special, merely another rough sketch I had drawn on the back of an examination paper.
But the sheet slipped through my fingers and was caught instead by a middle-aged man holding an umbrella in one hand. I felt irritated for a moment. Rather than returning it immediately, he opened it and looked at it.
I walked toward him. But just as my fingers were about to touch the paper, the corner of his mouth lifted slightly before his gaze met mine.
“Funny, isn’t it?”
His shoulders trembled with laughter.
“Hey?!”
“You’re willing to throw away your exam paper, yet you chase after the drawing on its other side?” the man cut in.
“None of your business, Sir. Give it back. It’s mine!”
The man straightened the small crease at the corner of the paper before extending it toward me again.
“…I just didn’t want the drawing to get caught in the rain.”
A low hum escaped him, his eyes studying my sketch with almost excessive attention.
“Your lines are bold,” he remarked. “You draw without doing much erasing.”
For a moment, my eyes met his again. My mouth opened, ready to speak.
But I was interrupted by a cheerful voice from across the pavement.
“Mom, I got the highest score in class today! Do I get a present, Mom?”
Across the street, a boy stood grinning widely, holding a sheet of paper covered in red ink. His chest swelled with pride as he held it up.
“Wow, what a wonderful boy you are! What do you want, sweetheart? That comic book you asked for last week?”
His mother’s voice was soft, impossibly soft. How tenderly her hand stroked the boy’s head.
“No, Mom. I want a new set of colored pencils! The one with lots and lots of colors!”
The boy raised both hands, waving them excitedly to show just how many colors he meant.
His mother laughed softly and nodded in agreement.
My eyes followed them as they walked away. Their voices sounded unnaturally loud, as though the world around me were fading. Too loud… loud enough to feel like a slap.
Steam formed when I exhaled.
Enough.
I no longer cared about the toes of my shoes splashed by puddled water. Faintly, I could still hear the man behind me.
“Hey, it’s still raining! If you’re in a hurry, I can lend you my umbrella!”
His voice faded even as he called after me, his words dissolving when I turned at the crossroads. The next bus seemed to take forever. My clothes felt as heavy as the water dripping from them, water they could no longer bear.
I turned the doorknob with cold, trembling hands. Inside, silence reigned, stark against the thunder of raindrops striking everything in their path outside.
Though the house was dark, every shelf seemed to glow beneath the rows of certificates arranged with immaculate precision. Yet not one bore my name—not even the dusty ones.
Every photograph framing the figure of the man who had once worn the same ring as Mother had been turned to face the cold wall.
There was no difference at home.
Wait… why wasn’t my bedroom locked?
My eyes darted wildly around. I hurried from one corner of the room to another. Where? Where was it? Why wasn’t it here?
The room that had once felt warm now looked unnaturally tidy. Where was the canvas? Where was the palette? Where were the brushes? Where had all those colors gone?
I bent down, peering beneath the bed, rose onto my toes, checked the top of the wardrobe. But… nothing.
Even my drawings that had been pinned to the walls were gone. I stood frozen in the middle of the room.
This time, the world felt even quieter. Until… click. Then came the creak of the opening door. I went toward it, clutching the sheet containing the now half-soaked, crumpled sketch.
“Where did you throw them away, Mom?!”
A woman stood in the doorway, her eyebrows sharply drawn downward.
“Your mother has just come home after working all day, and this is how the child she raised welcomes her?” Mother’s face reddened as irritation sharpened every word.
“I threw them all away!” she added.
“Where did you throw them?” I flinched, my voice trembling.
“Outside. In the trash.”
And just like that, pain came crashing over me again and again, like rain finally breaking after a sky that had held its clouds for too long. Warm drops began streaming down my cheeks.
I passed her without another word. The paper, already saturated, dissolved like porridge, the marks upon it destroyed beneath the assault of the rain.
Not everything could be gathered back into my hands. My lips trembled; my voice faltered before it could escape.
“What’s the point? You’re already in twelfth grade. Stop playing around!” Her voice came again from behind me.
My hair fell like a curtain closing. I still held some of the colors she had thrown away against my chest. At least… I still had something to hold on to.
I rescued whatever fragments of myself remained. I emptied the entire trash bin, rummaging through it for scraps of colored marks on the surviving sheets. Until my fingertips touched the canvas bearing the final brushstroke I had made.
Cold drops fell from the edge of the canvas, now creased at the corner beneath the pressure of my grip. Half of it had been painted over with muddy brown, with tears along both the left and right sides.
My mouth opened, but could only tremble. The breath carrying my sobs lodged in my throat. I could not even manage a whimper.
Tears pooled in my eyes, ready to spill more heavily down my cheeks. All I could do was slowly shake my head.
No. Not this one…
The door behind me had been closed for some time, leaving me alone with the efforts of every night, now scattered across a heap of rubbish.
The roar of the rain felt sharper than usual, matching the number of tears falling from me. A cold saltiness landed on my trembling lips.
What am I supposed to take with me tomorrow?
The following day, at the same hour, the sky had already begun fading into orange, and the sun was sinking toward the horizon.
Tap… tap… tap… The soft rhythm of my footsteps struck the deserted pavement, while the traffic lights at every intersection blinked in unison. There was nothing inside the bag hanging from my shoulder, yet my shoulders felt unbearably heavy.
The bus stop was deserted again, with only the last bus still due to stop. Dry leaves struck the toes of my shoes, dragged along by the wind that had gone home ahead of me.
“Haa…” White vapor formed with every breath. The streetlamp beside me had begun to glow, illuminating scattered patches of pavement around the bus stop.
My phone had been silent in my pocket all this time. Was no one worried about me?
Light footsteps on the pavement pulled me out of my thoughts, and I turned toward the figure approaching the bus stop.
It was the man from yesterday. He sat beside me, still leaving a respectful distance between us. I flinched when he returned my gaze with a warm smile.
“Are you all right? You’re the one who got caught in the rain yesterday, aren’t you?”
I merely nodded. Meanwhile, my fingers twisted the hem of the gray-and-white school uniform I was wearing as I lowered my head.
“Why? If you can’t bear it alone, you can tell me.”
I raised my head and stared at the traffic flowing along the road, suspended beneath the glow of the headlights.
“I don’t know what to do anymore…”
“Today, at school, was the last chance I had. But everything had already fallen apart yesterday afternoon.” I gave a small smile before continuing, “I was disqualified because I didn’t have a canvas with me.”
My legs swung beneath the bus-stop bench in rhythm, creating little currents of air that sent several dry leaves skittering nearby.
“What do you mean, your last chance?” the man asked, leaning slightly closer toward me.
I glanced at him and gave a small laugh. “Because if I fail this time, I’m not allowed to draw anymore. But… even if no one forbids me, I’ll stop anyway. The paints can’t be used anymore.”
Silence followed, filled only by the roar of passing vehicles and the sound of our breathing. After several quiet moments, the man rose from the bus-stop bench and walked away without explanation.
The corners of my mouth fell again, turning into a bitter smile. He was right. Why had I expected him to stay and listen to something that had nothing to do with him?
My phone lit up when a social-media notification appeared on the screen: “Yayyy, won again! I can continue to the provincial level!”
A sharp pang struck when I bit my lower lip. My phone vibrated as my grip tightened around it without my realizing. There was no point.
Clink!
A glass of coffee, still steaming, sat beside me. And the man was already sitting where he had been before. When had he come back?
The man sipped his coffee while gazing calmly at the sky, as though he carried no burden at all.
“Thank you…” I took the glass of coffee he offered and sipped it too.
“Better?”
“Huh?” One eyebrow rose.
“After telling me about it, how do you feel?”
“Ah, that…” Only then did I realize that the tension lodged in my shoulders all this time had begun to loosen.
“Sometimes we have to let our feelings out so other people can understand us. They’re not mind readers,” the man chuckled.
“Besides, no one listens. What’s the point of telling them?” I grumbled.
“That’s because they don’t know what you’re feeling. Or have you tried talking to them before, only to find that they wouldn’t listen?”
“You know? Sometimes people’s minds draw their own conclusions.”
“Who says? I don’t—huh, never mind.” I turned my face away from him.
My hair fluttered as a gust of wind swept across the pavement. I rose from the bus-stop bench, still carrying the glass of coffee.
I stepped onto the bus. The familiar scent of vehicle air freshener greeted me first. I lowered myself into an empty seat beside the window, which now framed the bus stop and pavement blurring as the bus moved away.
The creak of a pushed-open door revealed the living room. On one of the sofas sat a boy surrounded by stacks of textbooks and sheets of paper filled with theoretical formulas.
He was the owner of every certificate arranged neatly in the cabinet. His name was engraved in every word of praise and every comparison Mother had ever made.
“Where’s Mom, little brother?” I asked as I approached him.
“She was in the kitchen earlier. Don’t know where she is now.”
I nodded faintly before turning and entering my bedroom.
The room felt foreign now, as though it belonged to someone else, the traces of its former owner erased.
The hands of the clock moved on without regard for time. I had been tossing restlessly across the bed for two hours. My eyes showed not the slightest sign of sleep. I exhaled deeply before getting up.
Cold spread upward from the soles of my feet as they touched the floor. I went to the kitchen to quench my thirst.
Then, halfway there, I stopped. I glanced sideways to make sure.
“Mom still isn’t asleep?” I murmured. The light in her room was still on. Strange. Usually, her light was off whenever she was asleep or not in the room.
I tiptoed toward her door. It was unlocked. I pushed it open as quietly as possible and stopped once there was just enough space for me to look inside.
There, Mother sat cross-legged on her bed. Her hands were busy counting the banknotes she held, skillfully arranging them into several piles. A stab of pain pierced my chest as her movements slowed along with the dwindling stack of money in her hands.
I saw her slumped shoulders, her disheveled hair, and hands that had begun to feel rough beneath my touch when I greeted her. Mom… the shadows beneath your eyes are so clear now. I wish I could walk beside you, but you insist that I remain behind you…
“Mom…”
Mother shifted her attention toward me as I approached.
“Can I work too?”
Before I could finish, Mother interrupted me in a raised voice.
“No!”
“Study hard! Look at your younger brother. He wins so many competitions and earns money. If you want to help, then focus on your studies!”
“But, Mom—”
“Instead of just painting, are you really sure you’ll be able to live on your own someday just by painting?”
“I can succeed someday, Mom. Please, just believe in me once—”
“Yes, maybe you can succeed, but the path won’t be as easy as you imagine! Don’t waste your time. Find yourself a dream you can be certain about. What’s so difficult about that?”
Both my hands clenched tightly until they trembled at my sides. I no longer looked into her eyes. I stared only at the cold tiles beneath me.
The door that marked the end of the staircase I had been climbing for so long seemed to slam shut, even before my fingertips could touch it.
In harmony with the bedroom door closing behind me, both my knees gave way. My body, leaning against the door, slid downward until I was sitting on the floor.
I could no longer recognize, one by one, all the feelings that had battered against that same door. For the first time, my mouth did not ask for a sob; my chest hurt so terribly that tears simply descended without asking permission.
“Do I have to?…” I asked, not knowing who might be listening.
I stared at the hollow-eyed figure in the mirror before me. No trace of color remained in my room. The room that had been silent yesterday had now become utterly still.
Paintings had been replaced by schedules, canvases by books, brushes by pens, and whatever colors remained had faded into gray. The sheets marked with red ink were now acquiring greater value with every passing day.
But where was I going? What was the point, really? Without realizing it, my steps carried me back to the bus stop. This time it was still crowded because I had arrived earlier than usual. Besides, there was nothing left for me to do at school.
Even though the bus stop was crowded, my thoughts were more crowded still. I truly felt like a lost child with vacant eyes.
“What am I supposed to do now…” I murmured.
My body jolted when a hand tapped my shoulder. Good grief, him again? Why was he always there?
“Hey? Looks like it’s our destiny to keep meeting here. By the way, you’re going home this early today? Why?”
I rolled my eyes and let out an irritated sigh.
“Hey, come on. Are you still upset?” The man’s gaze fell upon my bag, which now contained neither drawings nor sketches. “You’ve stopped drawing?… Why?”
“I just want to stop. What’s it to you?” My brows furrowed as he continued showering me with questions.
As I looked at him, my eyes accidentally fell upon the large bag in his hand. It was stuffed to the brim. What was he carrying?
Noticing that I could not stop staring at his bag, the corner of the man’s mouth lifted. He opened it, revealing various paints and colors, along with several white canvases tucked between the paint boxes.
“I like painting too. As a matter of fact, I’m a painter. Want to come with me? I’ll lend you the equipment,” he said, his face bright with anticipation.
I glanced at the bus now visible at the far end of the road, then tilted my head upward toward the still-clear sky. Only afterward did I quickly turn my gaze back to his open bag.
“Hahh…”
“…Okay.”
His smile widened until his eyes narrowed with it.
Then the man waved and began walking ahead along the pavement. I rose from the bus-stop bench as well. The bus stopped in front of the shelter moments after I stood, together with the other passengers who rose to board it.
With considerable difficulty, I pushed through the increasingly dense crowd to reach the man. I could not take too long; he might change his mind and walk away.
My hand reached out before I even realized it, but this time someone truly took it. His firm grip freed me from the crowd. My gaze traveled upward, searching for the owner of that hand, until it reached him again.
His gaze was tranquil enough to shelter me all the way to the small self inside me that was almost falling apart. My eyes filled with tears, but I quickly wiped them away before they could fall.
The man laughed softly as he continued leading me toward his place. Along the way, his mouth was never silent for more than five seconds. Though I was annoyed, I occasionally laughed at his jokes—jokes that were not even funny, and somehow that was exactly what made them funny. All along the way, he chattered about his work.
“Do you know why some people stand in front of a painting for such a long time?” he suddenly asked, immediately answered by my shaking head. But the man only smiled broadly.
“You’ll find out for yourself someday.”
My mouth opened to ask, but stopped when his footsteps stopped too, right before the town square bustling with people.
The faint scent of fresh grass and the aromas of various foods greeted my nose even before my feet touched the green expanse of the square.
Laughter drifted through the air carried by the wind. My eyes swept across every corner of the square. Children ran here and there, while others joked with friends; families picnicked together; people reunited with those they had not seen in a long time; and so much more.
Each of them carried a story of their own.
My eyes remained fixed on them until the man pulled me toward a bench in the middle of the square. Only then did he open his bag, take out every color, and offer me a blank canvas.
“Here. You can paint whatever you want.”
“Ah, but… I’m not very good at painting.”
“Who said you have to be good first? You’re free to scribble all over the canvas.”
“Um… okay.” I took a brush from his bag, filled the palette with several colors, then spilled those colors across the canvas in sweeping strokes.
I became absorbed in every stroke of color, and so did the man. Every now and then, I stole a glance at his canvas, which was also beginning to fill with layers of color.
“Wow, that’s really beautiful. How did you make that?”
The man turned and smiled faintly. Instead of answering, he asked in return, “Would you like me to teach you?”
I nodded enthusiastically. And so the man began explaining the various techniques he had mastered at each of our meetings.
Little by little, stopping by the town square after the final school bell became my routine: listening to his explanations, painting together, and going home only when the sky turned orange. Eventually, I also learned that he was a street painter who had become widely known among the people.
“Mr. Damar!”
I ran toward him as he was still absorbed in his brushes and paints. The man whose name I had called turned around.
“Well, this is unusual. You don’t usually come on holidays. What happened?”
“Mom asked me to give this to you, Mr. Damar.” I lifted the food carrier in my hand so he could see it. “And I also wanted to finish my painting from yesterday.”
Mr. Damar accepted the food carrier with a broad smile. “Wow, thank you!”
“By the way, how is your mother now?”
My hand, which had been reaching for my painting, stopped. I looked at Mr. Damar with a small smile. “She’s doing somewhat better. Now, when I come home, my paints and paintings are still there.” I laughed softly.
“Hey, that deserves a celebration! I’ll buy you a big canvas later!”
“Oh, Sir, you don’t have to—”
“Excuse me?”
“Huh?”
When I turned, I found a neatly dressed woman standing before me, her eyes studying the canvas resting on my lap.
“Did you paint this?”
I glanced briefly at Mr. Damar before looking back at the woman, whose face wore a professional smile. I nodded slowly.
“You’re talented, dear. I can see it in your brushwork. Who taught you?”
I pointed toward Mr. Damar.
“Oh, I didn’t teach her much. I only helped guide her,” Mr. Damar said, his smile widening.
The woman gave a small nod before extending her business card toward me. “As it happens, I own an art gallery. You could display your work there. Contact me if you’re interested in my offer.”
I stood stunned. My hand reached for her card with trembling fingers, my heart pounding so hard it seemed to have migrated into my stomach.
“T-thank you so much!”
The woman nodded with a smile before walking away.
Mr. Damar nudged me with his elbow, his eyebrows rising and falling beneath an unbearably smug grin. “Well, well! I never would have guessed! Believe me, this is fate! You mustn’t let it pass you by!”
“But… can I really do it?”
“What are you talking about? Of course you can. Maybe you can do more than that! I believe you can.” Mr. Damar gave my shoulder a firm pat. The conviction in his eyes placed a new kind of courage inside me.
His hands pushed me forward while remaining watchful on either side of my path, always ready to reach out whenever I needed help.
When I got home, I immediately called the number printed on the woman’s card and accepted the offer after she explained it in just a few words.
I quickly gathered all the paints, now replaced with new ones. Even though it meant having less pocket money, it was worth it!
The sun had risen and set fourteen times, and tonight’s sunset would determine whether my painting would be ready by dawn.
But… tonight did not go smoothly. The electricity throughout the housing complex where I lived went out as evening approached. Yet this could no longer be postponed.
All night I worked with brushes and a palette crowded with paint. I sacrificed my phone battery for temporary light, until dinner passed unnoticed.
A moment later, there was a knock at my bedroom door.
Knock… knock… knock…
“Come in.”
The bedroom door opened, revealing a woman holding a lit candle, followed by a boy carrying a plate of food.
She placed the candle beside me.
“Are you going to be much longer? Don’t stay up too late.”
“Here, Sis. You haven’t eaten yet, have you?”
The corners of my mouth lifted into a small smile. “Thank you,” I said, followed by a small laugh behind him.
I felt the rhythm of footsteps and quiet murmurs moving through every corner of the room where I now stood.
“I knew it. You underestimate yourself far too much, you know!” Mr. Damar put an arm around my shoulders, his eyes shining as he gazed at the large canvas displayed before us.
There, painted across the canvas, stood a solitary bus stop, with no other buildings anywhere nearby. Around it stretched a field of green grass bending and swaying with the wind, beneath a clear sky. Beside it stood a great tree whose leaves sheltered the roof.
From its foundation to its roof, climbing plants blossomed across the bus stop, while the space once reserved for the displayed bus routes had been transformed into a wall covered with paintings hung side by side. On the bench sat two cups of coffee, only one of them steaming, while beneath the bench lay a large open bag, revealing an abundance of paints in every color.
“Hey, look at this! It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said a woman who now pulled her friend toward the painting before me.
“Wow, it really is! I wonder what it’s called?”
“Before Going Home,” I answered loudly enough for them to hear.
Mr. Damar laughed, patting my shoulder again and again. “Oh my goodness, if only they knew the painter is standing right beside them!”
I laughed along with him.
“Now I understand why people can spend so long staring at a painting.”
—
Pecalungan, Batang, Central Java, August 2026
——
About the Author – Selaras
Ainina Mulia Salaras, better known by her pen name SELARAS, is a ninth-grade student of Class IX-A at SMP Negeri 1 Pecalungan, Batang Regency, Central Java. She is currently developing her interest in writing through the journalism extracurricular program at her school. The full support of Drs. Bambang Santoso, Principal of SMP Negeri 1 Pecalungan, Adhi Bhaskoro, Head of Pecalungan District, and the blessing of her parents have strengthened Selaras’s determination to establish herself as a young writer.
—
About the Translator – Leni Marlina
Leni Marlina is an Indonesian writer, poet, lecturer, and literary educator from West Sumatra, Indonesia, where she resides in Padang. Her passion for literacy and creative writing began during her school years and has remained a guiding thread throughout her life. Her engagement with literature deepened while she pursued a Master of Arts in Writing and Literature in Australia. Since 2006, Leni has served as a lecturer in the Department of English Language and Literature, Faculty of Languages and Arts, Universitas Negeri Padang, Indonesia. Alongside her academic work, she writes poetry, short fiction, essays, and scholarly articles, and takes part in translation, literary, and editorial projects. She has been involved in communities and international literary networks including PPIC (Poetry-Pen International Community), WCLC (World Children’s Literature Community), ACC SHILA (ACC Shanghai Huifeng International Literary Community), Littalk-C (Literary Talk Community), and Starcom Indonesia (Starmoonsun Edupreneur Community).
——-
Indonesian Version of the Short Story
HALTE ALUN ALUN NOMOR 3
Cerpen: Selaras
–
Kertas bercoretkan tinta merah berterbangan keluar dari tasku yang kubiarkan terbuka, seolah tak pernah kulihat. Di sekitarku, trotoar ramai oleh suara tak berwajah. Hari ini pun sama saja, sekeras apa pun aku mencoba lebih baik dari kemarin.
Aku duduk di ujung bangku halte bus yang lengang sore ini. Hafal sudah aku semua rute bus yang terpajang, namun tak ada yang benar-benar kutuju. Tanganku sibuk meremas, menyobek, dan membuang jauh-jauh kertas dengan banyak coretan tinta merah di setiap sudutnya.
Melihat teman sebangku yang lagi dan lagi melangkah di depanku, menjadi pemilik setiap piala yang kugadang-gadang bisa kuraih, membuat dadaku terasa nyeri.
Satu… dua… tiga… sudah tiga bus yang berhenti di depanku, tapi aku tidak ingin cepat pulang. Entah teriakan atau bahkan makian apa yang menungguku di ambang pintu.
Tetesan dingin menyiram trotoar yang kekeringan. Terima kasih padanya… aku bisa tinggal lebih lama.
Angin berembus membawa daun yang jatuh dari pohon, juga kertas yang tersisa di tasku. Tapi… tubuhku beranjak dari bangku halte, mencoba menangkap satu kertas yang terbang sebelum basah disiram hujan. Bukan apa-apa, hanya sketsa kasar lainnya yang kubuat di kertas jawaban ujian.
Namun kertas itu lolos dari tanganku, justru tertangkap di tangan seorang pria paruh baya dengan satu tangan memegang payung. Sempat kesal aku dibuatnya. Bukannya langsung dikembalikan, pria itu malah membukanya.
Aku membawa langkahku ke hadapannya. Tapi saat jemariku nyaris menyentuh kertas itu, sudut bibir pria itu sedikit terangkat sebelum pandangannya bertemu denganku.
“Lucu, ya?”
Bahu pria itu bergetar karena tawa.
“Hey?!”
“Kamu rela membuang kertas ujiannya, tapi malah mengejar gambar di baliknya?” sela pria itu.
“Bukan urusan Bapak. Kembalikan, itu punyaku!”
Pria itu meluruskan lipatan kecil di sudut kertas, sebelum mengulurkan kembali kertasnya padaku.
“…Aku cuma nggak mau gambar itu ikut kehujanan.”
Dengungan pelan terdengar darinya, matanya memperhatikan sketsaku hampir terkesan berlebihan.
“Garis-garisnya berani,” celetuknya. “Kamu menggambar tanpa menghapus banyak.”
Sesaat, tatapan mataku kembali bertemu dengannya. Mulutku terbuka hendak berkata.
Namun terhenti oleh suara riang dari seberang trotoar.
“Bu, hari ini aku dapat nilai tertinggi di kelas, loh! Aku dapat hadiah tidak, Bu?”
Di seberang sana, seorang anak laki-laki tersenum lebar dengan lembaran kertas bercoretkan tinta merah di tangannya. Dadanya membusung saat ia memegangnya dengan bangga.
“Wah, anak Ibu hebat! Kamu mau minta apa, Sayang? Buku komik yang kamu minta minggu lalu?”
Suara ibu itu lembut, sangat lembut. Betapa sayangnya tangannya mengusap kepala anak laki-laki itu.
“Tidak, Ibu. Aku ingin pensil warna baru! Yang warnanya ada banyak!”
Kedua tangan anak laki-laki itu terangkat, mengayunkannya dengan penuh semangat, menunjukkan berapa banyak yang ia maksud.
Ibu itu tertawa kecil dan mengangguk menyetujuinya.
Mataku mengikuti langkah mereka, suara mereka terdengar keras, seperti dunia di sekeliling memudar. Terlampau keras… cukup keras untuk menjadi tamparan.
Uap terbentuk saat aku menghela napas. Cukup.
Ujung sepatuku yang terpercik air menggenang tak lagi kupedulikan. Samar-samar masih tertangkap suara pria itu di belakangku.
“Hey, masih hujan! Jika terburu-buru, bisa kupinjamkan payung!”
Suaranya memudar meski pria itu berteriak ketika langkahku berbelok di pertigaan jalan. Bus selanjutnya terasa lebih lama sampai. Pakaianku terasa berat sebanyak air yang menetes karena tak mampu lagi ditanggung.
Kuputar kenop pintu dengan tangan yang dingin gemetar. Di dalam senyap, kontras dengan gemuruh tetes air yang memukul apa yang dilaluinya di jalan.
Meski gelap, setiap rak di rumah seolah bergelimang cahaya karena ditempati oleh berbagai bentuk piagam yang berjejer rapi. Tapi tak ada satu pun yang terukir atas namaku, meski yang berdebu sekalipun.
Setiap foto yang membingkai sosok pria yang dulunya mengenakan cincin yang sama dengan Ibu dibalik menghadap ke dinding yang dingin.
Di rumah pun tak ada bedanya.
Tunggu… kenapa kamarku tak terkunci?
Mataku menatap sekeliling dengan liar. Aku melangkah cepat mengitari setiap sudut ruangan. Di mana? Itu ada di mana? Kenapa tidak ada?
Ruangan yang biasanya hangat kini terlihat terlalu rapi. Di mana kanvasnya? Di mana paletnya? Di mana kuasnya? Ke mana warna-warna itu pergi?
Tubuhku membungkuk, mengintip kolong kasur, berjinjit, memeriksa atap lemari. Tapi… nihil.
Bahkan gambarku yang menempel di tembok pun tak tersisa. Aku berdiri mematung di tengah kamar.
Kali ini dunia terasa lebih sunyi. Hingga… Click… Disusul derit pintu yang terbuka, aku menghampirinya dengan kertas berisi sketsa yang kini setengah basah dan kusut di genggamanku.
“Ke mana Ibu membuangnya?!”
Seorang wanita berdiri di ambang pintu dengan alis yang menukik tajam ke bawah.
“Ibu baru pulang bekerja seharian dan beginilah anak yang dibesarkannya menyambutnya?” Wajah Ibu memerah ketika mengucapkan setiap jengkal kata dengan jengkel.
“Sudah Ibu buang!” imbuhnya.
“Ke mana Ibu membuangnya?” Aku tersentak, suaraku bergetar.
“Di luar. Di tempat sampah.”
Dan begitu saja, rasa nyeri menerjang bertubi-tubi, seperti hujan yang akhirnya turun setelah sekian lama mendung. Tetesan hangat pun mengalir ke pipi.
Kulewati sosoknya tanpa sapaan lebih lagi. Kertas yang padat kini melebur bak bubur, goresan di atasnya hancur diterjang hujan.
Tak semua dapat kembali kugenggam. Bibirku bergetar, suaraku terhenti lebih dulu sebelum lepas keluar.
“Memangnya buat apa? Kamu sudah kelas dua belas. Berhentilah bermain-main!” Suaranya kembali datang dari belakang.
Rambutku meluncur turun bak tirai yang tertutup. Masih kudekap sebagian warna yang ia buang. Setidaknya… aku masih memiliki pegangan.
Kuselamatkan serpihan diriku yang tersisa. Kutumpahkan seisi tong sampah, mengais-ngais coretan warna di atas kertas yang tersisa. Hingga, ujung jariku menyentuh kanvas dengan sapuan kuas terakhir yang kubuat.
Tetesan dingin menetes dari ujung kanvas yang kini berkerut di bagian ujungnya karena tekanan tanganku. Setengahnya telah terlukis cokelat lumpur, serta robekan di kiri dan kanan.
Mulutku terbuka, namun hanya bisa bergetar. Napas yang membawa isak tangis kini tercekat di tenggorokan. Merintih pun aku tak sanggup.
Air mata menggenang di pelupuk mataku, bersiap membasahi pipi lebih deras. Hanya gelengan kepala pelan yang mampu kubuat.
Tidak. Jangan yang ini…
Pintu yang memunggungiku sudah tertutup sedari tadi, menyisakan diriku sendiri dengan upaya setiap malam yang kini tercecer di tumpukan sampah.
Deru hujan terasa lebih tajam dari biasanya, menyamakan jumlah tangisan yang keluar. Rasa asin yang dingin mendarat di bibirku yang bergetar.
Apa yang harus kubawa esok?
Keesokan harinya di jam yang sama, di mana langit yang sudah jingga meredup, dan sang mentari kian merebah.
Tap… tap… tap… Derap langkah pelanku menepuk trotoar yang sepi, lampu lalu lintas di setiap pertigaan berkedip seirama. Tak ada isi di tas yang kupanggul, namun pundakku teramat berat.
Halte itu lengang lagi, masih tersisa bus terakhir yang akan berhenti. Dedaunan kering membentur ujung sepatu, terseret oleh angin yang pulang lebih dulu.
“Haa…” Uap putih terbentuk di setiap helaan napas. Lampu jalan di dekatku mulai berpijar menyinari beberapa petak trotoar di dekat halte.
Ponsel di sakuku senyap sedari tadi. Apakah tak ada yang khawatir?
Derap langkah ringan di atas trotoar menyadarkanku dari lamunan, maka kutolehkan kepalaku ke sosok yang semakin mendekat ke halte.
Rupanya pria yang kemarin. Ia ikut duduk di sampingku, masih menyisakan jarak di antara aku dengannya. Aku tersentak saat pria itu membalas tatapanku sambil tersenyum ramah.
“Kamu baik-baik saja? Kamu yang kemarin kehujanan, bukan?”
Aku hanya mengangguk pelan. Sementara itu, tanganku sibuk memilin ujung seragam abu-putih yang kukenakan sambil menunduk.
“Kenapa? Kalau tidak kuat, kamu bisa menceritakannya.”
Aku mengangkat kepalaku, kini menatap lalu lalang kendaraan di jalan yang bergantung pada sorot lampu.
“Aku tidak tahu lagi harus bagaimana…”
“Hari ini, di sekolah, adalah kesempatan terakhir yang kupunya. Tapi semuanya hancur lebih dulu kemarin sore.” Aku tersenyum kecil sebelum melanjutkan, “Aku didiskualifikasi, karena tidak ada kanvas yang kubawa.”
Kedua kakiku mengayun seirama di bawah bangku halte, menciptakan riak angin kecil yang menerbangkan beberapa daun kering di dekatnya.
“Apa maksudmu kesempatan terakhir?” sahut pria itu yang kini sedikit mencondongkan tubuhnya lebih dekat ke arahku.
Aku meliriknya sembari tertawa kecil. “Karena jika aku gagal kali ini, aku tidak boleh menggambar lagi. Tapi… meskipun tak dilarang, aku juga akan berhenti. Catnya sudah tidak bisa digunakan lagi.”
Kemudian hening, hanya diisi dengan deru kendaraan yang lewat dan suara napas masing-masing. Hingga setelah beberapa saat sunyi, pria itu beranjak dari bangku halte, dan berjalan menjauh tanpa alasan.
Sudut bibirku kembali turun, berubah menjadi senyum getir. Benar juga, kenapa aku berharap ia tetap tinggal untuk mendengar sesuatu yang bukan urusannya?
Ponselku menyala saat notifikasi dari media sosial muncul di layarnya: “Yeyy menang lagi! Bisa lanjut ke tingkat provinsi!”
Sentakan perih yang menyengat datang saat aku menggigit bibir bawahku. Ponselku bergetar saat cengkramanku mengencang tanpa sadar. Tidak ada gunanya.
Tuk!…
Segelas kopi yang masih mengeluarkan uap putih tergeletak di sampingku. Dan juga, pria itu sudah duduk di tempatnya tadi. Kapan ia kembali?
Pria itu menyesap segelas kopi di tangannya sambil menatap langit dengan tenang, seolah-olah tak ada beban yang ia bawa.
“Terima kasih…” Aku mengambil gelas kopi yang ia tawarkan, kemudian ikut menyesapnya.
“Lebih baik?”
“Hah?” Sebelah alisku terangkat.
“Setelah menceritakannya, bagaimana perasaanmu?”
“Ah, itu…” Tak terasa bahwa ketegangan yang sedari tadi bersarang di pundakku telah luruh.
“Terkadang kita juga harus mengungkapkan perasaan kita agar orang lain dapat mengerti. Karena mereka bukan cenayang,” pria itu terkekeh.
“Lagipula tidak ada yang mendengarkan, untuk apa aku mengatakannya?” Aku mendengus kesal.
“Itu karena mereka tidak tahu apa yang kamu rasakan. Ataukah kamu sudah pernah berbicara, tapi mereka tak mendengarkan?”
“Kamu tahu? Terkadang pikiran manusia sering menyimpulkannya sendiri.”
“Kata siapa? Aku tidak—huh, lupakan.” Kupalingkan wajahku darinya.
Rambutku berkibar saat hembusan angin menerpa trotoar. Aku beranjak dari bangku halte dengan masih menenteng segelas kopi.
Aku melangkah ke dalam bus. Aroma pengharum kendaraan yang familiar menyapaku lebih dulu. Kududukkan tubuhku ke kursi kosong di dekat jendela yang kini menampilkan halte bus dan trotoar yang kabur saat bus melaju.
Derit pintu yang didorong terbuka menampakkan ruang tengah. Di salah satu sofa, terduduk seorang anak laki-laki dengan tumpukan buku materi dan lembaran kertas penuh rumus teori.
Dialah sang pemilik setiap piagam yang berjejer rapi di lemari. Yang namanya terukir di setiap kata pujian dan perbandingan dari Ibu.
“Ibu di mana, Dek?” ucapku sembari menghampirinya.
“Tadi di dapur, gak tahu sekarang di mana.”
Aku mengangguk kecil sebelum berbalik masuk ke kamarku.
Kamar itu sekarang asing, entah milik siapa, jejak dari pemiliknya terhapus.
Detak jarum jam berputar tak kenal waktu, sudah dua jam aku berguling-guling di atas kasur tak tentu arah. Mataku sama sekali tidak menunjukkan rasa kantuk. Aku menghela napas panjang sebelum bangkit.
Rasa dingin merambat dari telapak kakiku yang menyentuh lantai. Aku pergi menuju dapur untuk menuntaskan dahaga.
Hingga di tengah jalan langkahku terhenti, mataku melirik untuk memastikan.
“Ibu masih belum tidur?” gumamku lirih. Lampu kamarnya masih menyala. Aneh, biasanya lampu kamarnya mati saat ia sudah tertidur atau sedang tak ada di sana.
Aku berjingkat mendekati pintu kamarnya, tidak dikunci rupanya. Kudorong sepelan mungkin pintunya, dan berhenti setelah ada sedikit ruang untukku bisa mengintip ke dalam.
Di sana, Ibu duduk bersila di atas kasurnya. Tangannya sibuk menghitung lembaran kertas bernominal di tangannya, dengan lihai mengelompokkannya menjadi beberapa tumpukan. Rasa nyeri menyeruak di dadaku saat gerakannya melambat seiring lembaran kertas di tangannya menipis.
Kulihat bahunya yang terkulai, rambutnya yang kusut, dan tangannya yang kini mulai terasa kasar saat kusalami.
Bu… kantung matamu kini terlihat jelas. Ingin rasanya aku ikut berjalan di sampingmu, namun Engkau bersikeras memintaku tetap di belakangmu…
“Bu…”
Ibu mengalihkan perhatiannya padaku yang kini menghampirinya.
“Aku ikut kerja, ya?”
Belum sempat kalimatku tuntas, Ibu lebih dulu menyela dengan suara tinggi.
“Tidak boleh!”
“Belajarlah yang rajin! Lihat adikmu, ia memenangkan banyak lomba dan dapat uang. Kalau ingin membantu, maka fokuslah belajar!”
“Tapi kan, Bu—”
“Daripada hanya melukis, memangnya kamu yakin bisa hidup sendiri nanti hanya dengan melukis?”
“Kan nanti aku bisa sukses, Bu. Ibu tolong percaya sekali aja sama aku—”
“Iya, mungkin kamu memang bisa sukses, tapi jalannya gak semudah bayanganmu! Jangan buang-buang waktu, carilah mimpi yang pasti-pasti saja, apa susahnya?”
Kedua tanganku terkepal erat hingga bergetar di sisi tubuhku. Tak lagi kutatap matanya, hanya ubin dingin yang kulihat.
Pintu yang menjadi ujung dari tangga yang kudaki sedari lama seolah terbanting tertutup, bahkan ujung tanganku belum menyentuhnya sedikit pun.
Selaras dengan pintu kamarku yang tertutup di belakangku, kedua lututku lemas. Tubuhku yang bersandar di pintu merosot hingga kini aku terduduk di lantai.
Semua rasa yang mendobrak pintu yang sama tak mampu kukenali lagi satu per satu. Baru sekali ini mulutku tak meminta isak, dadaku terasa nyeri yang teramat hingga air mata turun tanpa menyapa.
“Apa aku harus?…” tanyaku entah pada siapa pun yang mendengar.
Aku menatap sosok dengan mata kosong pada cermin di depanku. Tak ada lagi jejak warna yang tersisa di kamarku. Kamarku yang kemarin telah sunyi, kini menjadi senyap.
Lukisan diganti jadwal, kanvas diganti buku, kuas diganti pena, dan warna yang tersisa berganti kelabu. Kertas bercoretkan tinta merah kini mulai memiliki nilai yang bertambah seiring hari yang terlewat.
Tapi langkahnya ke mana? Sebenarnya untuk apa? Tanpa sadar langkahku membawaku kembali ke halte. Kali ini halte masih ramai karena aku datang lebih awal, lagipula tak ada lagi yang bisa kulakukan di sekolah.
Meski ramai, pikiranku tetap lebih ramai. Aku sungguh merasa seperti anak yang hilang dengan tatapan mata kosong.
“Sekarang aku harus gimana…” gumamku.
Tubuhku tersentak saat sebuah tangan menepuk pundakku. Astaga, pria itu lagi? Kenapa selalu ada dia?
“Eh? Sepertinya sudah takdir kita selalu bertemu di sini. Ngomong-ngomong, tumben jam segini sudah mau pulang, kenapa?”
Aku memutar mataku sambil mendengus kesal.
“Hey, ayolah, kamu masih kesal?” Tatapan pria itu jatuh ke tasku, yang kini tak ada gambar atau sketsa lagi di sana. “Kamu sudah berhenti menggambar?… Kenapa?”
“Aku cuma mau berhenti, memangnya kenapa?” Alisku berkerut saat terus-menerus disuguhkan berbagai pertanyaan darinya.
Saat menatapnya, mataku tak sengaja melirik tas besar di tangannya. Tas itu penuh sesak. Apa yang ia bawa?
Sadar akan pandanganku yang terus tertuju pada tasnya, sudut bibir pria itu terangkat. Tangannya membuka tas yang ia bawa, menampakkan berbagai jenis cat dan warnanya, juga beberapa kanvas putih yang terselip di antara kotak cat.
“Saya juga suka melukis. Dan kebetulan saya pelukis. Mau ikut? Nanti saya pinjamkan peralatannya,” ucap pria itu dengan wajah berseri-seri menanti tanggapanku.
Aku melirik bus yang kini sudah terlihat di ujung jalan, lalu mengadah menatap langit yang masih cerah. Barulah kemudian dengan cepat beralih ke tasnya lagi yang masih terbuka.
“Hahh…”
“…Oke.”
Senyumnya makin lebar hingga matanya ikut menyipit.
Barulah kemudian pria itu memanggil dengan lambaian tangan sebelum mulai berjalan lebih dulu menyusuri trotoar. Aku pun ikut beranjak dari bangku halte. Bus berhenti di depan halte sesaat setelah aku berdiri, bersamaan dengan orang lain yang ikut berdiri untuk masuk ke dalam bus.
Dengan susah payah aku menembus kerumunan yang kian memadat agar bisa menghampiri pria itu. Tidak boleh terlalu lama, nanti bisa saja ia ikut berpaling.
Tanganku terulur tanpa kusadari, tapi kali ini benar ada yang meraihnya. Genggamannya yang erat membebaskanku dari kerumunan. Tatapanku merambat mencari sang pemilik tangan itu, dan sampailah ke sosok pria itu lagi.
Tatapannya terasa teduh, hingga mampu menaungiku hingga ke sosok kecil di dalamku yang hampir tercerai-berai. Mataku berkaca-kaca, namun dengan cepat aku mengelapnya bahkan sebelum menetes.
Pria itu tertawa kecil sambil terus menggandengku menuju tempatnya. Di sepanjang jalan, mulutnya tak tertutup lebih dari lima detik. Meski kesal, sesekali aku juga ikut tertawa oleh leluconnya yang bahkan tidak lucu, tapi itulah yang membuatnya lucu. Sepanjang jalan ia berceloteh tentang pekerjaannya.
“Kamu tahu alasan kenapa ada orang-orang yang berdiri lama di depan lukisan?” tanyanya tiba-tiba yang sontak dibalas gelengan kepala dariku. Tapi pria itu malah tersenyum lebar.
“Kamu akan tahu dengan sendirinya nanti.”
Mulutku terbuka hendak bertanya, namun terhenti saat langkahnya juga berhenti tepat di depan alun-alun kota yang penuh lalu lalang.
Samar-samar aroma rumput segar dan harum dari berbagai makanan menyambut penciumanku, bahkan sebelum kakiku menginjak hamparan hijau alun-alun.
Suara tawa mengalun di udara yang dihembuskan angin. Mataku menyapu setiap sudut alun-alun. Anak-anak berlarian ke sana kemari, sementara yang lainnya ada yang bercanda gurau dengan teman, ada keluarga yang piknik bersama, ada yang melepas rindu dengan orang yang lama tak berjumpa, dan masih banyak lagi.
Setiap dari mereka memiliki kisahnya sendiri.
Mataku terus terpaku pada mereka sebelum akhirnya tanganku kembali ditarik oleh pria itu ke bangku di tengah alun-alun. Barulah kemudian ia membuka tasnya, mengeluarkan setiap warna dan menyodorkan kanvas kosong ke arahku.
“Ini, kamu boleh melukis apa pun yang kamu mau.”
“Ah, tapi… aku tak begitu pandai melukis.”
“Loh? Siapa yang memintamu untuk pandai dahulu? Kamu bebas mencoret-coret kanvasnya.”
“Um… oke.” Aku mengambil kuas dari tasnya, kemudian mengisi palet dengan beberapa warna sebelum menumpahkan warna itu dalam bentuk sapuan di atas kanvas.
Aku mulai sibuk dengan setiap goresan warna, begitu pula dengan pria itu. Sesekali aku mencuri pandang ke kanvas miliknya yang juga mulai dipenuhi sapuan warna.
“Wah, bagus banget. Gimana cara Kamu bikinnya?”
Pria itu menoleh dan tersenum tipis. Bukannya menjawab, pria itu malah balas bertanya, “Mau saya ajari?”
Aku mengangguk dengan penuh antusias. Dan begitulah pria itu mulai menjelaskan berbagai teknik yang ia kuasai pada setiap pertemuan kami.
Lama-kelamaan, mampir ke alun-alun selepas bel pulang berbunyi menjadi rutinitasku: mendengarkan setiap penjelasannya, melukis bersama, dan baru pulang ketika langit berubah jingga. Juga akhirnya kuketahui bahwa ia seorang pelukis jalanan yang sudah banyak menjadi buah bibir di masyarakat.
“Pak Damar!”
Aku berlari menghampirinya yang saat ini masih berkutat dengan kuas dan cat. Pria yang dipanggil namanya itu pun menoleh.
“Loh, tumben? Biasanya kalau hari libur begini kamu tidak datang. Ada apa?”
“Aku diminta Ibu buat ngasih ini ke Pak Damar.” Aku mengangkat rantang di tanganku agar ia bisa melihatnya. “Sekalian mau nyelesain lukisanku yang kemarin.”
Pak Damar menerima rantang dengan senyum lebar. “Wah, terima kasih, loh!”
“Ngomong-ngomong, bagaimana ibumu sekarang?”
Tanganku yang hendak mengambil lukisanku terhenti. Aku menatap Pak Damar sambil tersenyum kecil. “Lumayanlah. Sekarang waktu pulang, cat dan lukisanku masih ada di sana.” Aku tertawa kecil.
“Hey, itu harus dirayakan! Nanti saya belikan kanvas yang besar untukmu!”
“Eh, Pak, gak usah—”
“Permisi?”
“Eh?”
Saat menoleh, kujumpai sosok wanita berpakaian rapi berdiri di depanku, dan matanya mengamati kanvas di pangkuanku.
“Apakah kamu yang melukis ini?”
Aku melirik Pak Damar sebentar sebelum kembali menatap wanita dengan senyum profesional di wajahnya. Aku mengangguk pelan.
“Kamu berbakat, Nak. Saya bisa melihatnya dari sapuan kuasmu. Dari siapa kamu belajar?”
Aku menunjuk Pak Damar sebagai jawaban.
“Ah, saya tidak mengajari banyak hal, hanya mengarahkan saja,” Pak Damar tersenyum semakin lebar.
Wanita itu mengangguk kecil sebelum mengulurkan kartu namanya padaku. “Kebetulan saya seorang pemilik galeri seni. Kamu bisa memajang karyamu di sana. Hubungi saja jika kamu setuju dengan tawarannya.”
Aku tertegun. Tanganku meraih kartu namanya dengan gemetar, jantungku berdegup kencang hingga rasanya pindah ke perutku.
“T-terima kasih banyak!”
Wanita itu mengangguk sambil tersenyum sebelum melenggang pergi.
Pak Damar menyenggolku dengan sikunya, alisnya naik-turun dengan seringai menyebalkan di wajahnya. “Wahh, tak kusangka! Percayalah, ini takdirnya! Kamu tidak boleh menyia-nyiakannya!”
“Tapi… apa aku bisa?”
“Bicara apa kamu? Tentu saja bisa, bahkan mungkin lebih dari bisa! Saya percaya kamu mampu.” Pak Damar menepuk pundakku dengan mantap. Sorot matanya yang penuh keyakinan membekalkan semangat ke dalam diriku.
Tangannya yang mendorongku maju sambil tetap berjaga di kedua sisi jalanku, tangannya yang selalu siap mengulurkan bantuan.
Sepulangnya ke rumah, aku bergegas menelepon nomor yang tertera di kartu namanya, dan langsung menyetujuinya setelah dijelaskan dengan beberapa patah kata.
Segera kukumpulkan semua cat yang kini diganti baru. Meski uang sakuku menjadi lebih sedikit, tapi ini sepadan!
Matahari telah terbit dan tenggelam genap empat belas hari, dan tenggelamnya matahari malam ini adalah penentu apakah lukisanku akan siap saat fajar nanti.
Namun… malam ini tak berjalan mulus. Lampu di seluruh kompleks perumahan yang kutinggali padam saat menjelang malam. Tapi ini sudah tidak bisa ditunda lagi.
Semalaman aku berkutat dengan kuas dan palet penuh cat. Kukorbankan baterai ponselku untuk penerangan sementara, hingga makan malam terlewat tanpa kusadari.
Sesaat kemudian terdengar suara ketukan dari pintu kamarku.
Tok… tok… tok…
“Masuk saja.”
Pintu kamar terbuka, memperlihatkan seorang wanita dengan sebatang lilin yang menyala di tangannya, diikuti seorang anak laki-laki di belakangnya yang membawa sepiring makanan.
Diletakkannya lilin itu di sampingku.
“Masih lama? Jangan begadang.”
“Kakak, ini. Kakak belum makan, kan?”
Kedua sudut bibirku terangkat membentuk senyum kecil. “Makasih, ya,” ucapku, disusul tawa kecil di belakangnya.
Derap langkah kaki dan gumaman pelan kurasakan di setiap sudut dari ruangan tempatku berdiri saat ini.
“Sudah kuduga, kamu ini terlalu meremehkan dirimu sendiri, tahu!” Pak Damar merangkul bahuku dengan mata berbinar menatap kanvas besar yang terpajang di depannya.
Di sana terlukis sebuah halte bus yang berdiri sendiri, tanpa ada bangunan lain di dekatnya. Yang ada di sekelilingnya hanyalah hamparan rumput hijau yang meliuk-liuk mengikuti angin, juga langit yang cerah di atasnya. Di sampingnya berdiri sebuah pohon besar dengan dedaunan yang menaungi atapnya.
Dari dasar hingga atap halte ditumbuhi tanaman rambat yang bersemi, sementara tempat untuk rute bus yang tertera beralih fungsi menjadi sebuah dinding yang dipenuhi berbagai lukisan yang terpajang berdampingan. Di bangku, terdapat dua cangkir kopi dengan hanya satu yang mengepul, sementara di bawah bangku tergeletak tas besar yang terbuka, menampakkan isinya yang penuh cat berbagai warna.
“Hey, lihat ini! Cantik sekali, ya!” ucap seorang wanita yang kini menarik temannya ke depan lukisan di depanku.
“Wah, iya lagi! Apa, ya, nama lukisannya?”
“Sebelum Pulang,” sahutku dengan sedikit lantang untuk dapat mereka dengar.
Pak Damar tertawa sambil menepuk-nepuk pundakku. “Ya ampun, andaikan mereka tahu kalau pelukisnya di sampingnya sekarang!”
Aku ikut tertawa bersamanya.
“Sekarang aku mengerti apa alasan orang bisa berlama-lama menatap sebuah lukisan.”
–
PECALUNGAN, BATANG JATENG,
Agustus 2026
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Tentang Penulis – Selaras
Ainina Mulia Salaras atau lebih dikenal dengan nama pena SELARAS duduk di bangku kelas IX -A SMP Negeri 1 Pecalungan Kabupaten Batang Jawa Tengah.
Saat ini mendalami dunia tulis menulis di ekstrakurikuler jurnalistik di sekolahnya.
Dukungan penuh dari Drs. Bambang Santoso selaku Kepala Sekolah dan Adhi Bhaskoro selaku Camat Pecalungan serta restu orang tua semakin memantapkan niat Selaras untuk eksis menulis.
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Tentang Penerjemah – Leni Marlina
Leni Marlina adalah penyair, penulis, penerjemah, dan dosen pada Departemen Sastra Inggris, Fakultas Bahasa dan Seni, Universitas Negeri Padang, Indonesia, sejak 2006. Karya kreatif dan akademiknya meliputi puisi, fiksi, esai, kritik sastra, penerjemahan, dan kajian literasi.
