I just finished baking a batch of brownies when I realized, I don’t have anyone particularly worthy to receive them at the moment. So i let the brownies just lie there, cooling itself. The top crystalizing beautifully as the crushed pecans and walnuts gathered moisture from the eggs.

I never really eat the stuff I cook. I somehow always become full during the process. The only times I cook is upon impulse. Whenever a colleague pisses me off, I end up trying a new recipe.

What’s worse is whenever my incompetent boss yells at me, I go home and I start doing excessive cleaning, which I seldom complete until past midnight. And causes me to be late and decide not to go to work the following day. Only giving more fuel for my boss’ to despise me.

I’m sure Aunt Maggie and Gramps were waiting for a slice of my brownies, but they weren’t going to have any. No sir. Especially, not after they shared their degrading opinions of my decision to cover up. I’m not gonna call them bigots just yet, I’ll stay calm and wait till they’ve gathered enough decency to know what they did was wrong and try to respect other people’s choices.

I decided to cover up. Like Moslem women do. Only revealing my face and my hands to the world. I work for a call centre company, which doesn’t really require looks. Heck, I can come to work without showering and answer calls from 9 to 5 without anyone complaining. Well, except that incompetent boss I mentioned earlier. Who’s sole purpose in life is to find other people’s mishaps. So, it seems.

I was inspired by a picture of a Moslem women in The Sartorialist. She looked so sharp wearing her black abaya and the contrasting orange scarf she used to cover her hair. A pair of pearl earrings dangled beautifully as if they were trying to compete with her exuberant smile. Then on, I began blog walking, and found out that the real hijab was not a form of male coercion towards female Muslims. The women choose to cover up to achieve God’s approval. So how are they different from nuns who do the same thing? Nuns cover up and they are respected as holy beings. Muslim women cover up and we assume they’re being coerced to? Talk about dual standards, America.

Of course, I’m an American. Born and raised in Portland, Oregon. My late father was a well-known carpenter and my late mother designed and sold silkscreen fabrics. My two immediate links to the world, who died climbing the Himalayas when I was twelve. Exactly then, I denied God’s existence. I knew that was the highest form of hatred one can have for a god. I hated him for not letting my parents live.

The night I saw that photo on The Sartorialist, I went to Target and bought several pashminas. They were cheap, only 12 bucks for a pack of three. Silk Pashmina made in Turkey, said the label. I could care less, if it was real silk or not. The color coordination of the 3pack was very convenient though. Silver, dusty pink and black.

I remember walking home so excited that night. And immediately logged into YouTube for hijab tutorials when I was finally in my room.

I forgot about the inners. The fabric underneath the hijab so it wouldn’t slip off your hair. Thank goodness someone posted a video on cutting up old t-shirts for inners. In an instant, I had 3 or five inners PLUS a bundle of rags for cleaning whenever my boss pisses me of again.

I repeat, I’m not a Muslim. I just wanted to know what it is like being covered. Not having to worry about people checking out my boobs. I have D cups, and boys find it hard looking for my eyes due to such distraction. But wearing a hijab distracts them even more, I found out. Especially the needle-brained boys. Some even called me a “sand-ni***r” me? Someone as white as an albino? A “ni***r” I would’ve slapped his mouth if I didn’t remember I was representing a religion that wasn’t even mine with that outfit. So I simply walked up to him and gave me a piece of my mind without raising my voice. Telling him I wasn’t even a Muslim, that I was as American as his mother and that covering up for me was just a matter of style preference.

I soon realized that I no longer have to worry about my jiggly thighs or muffin tops over my jeans. I now buy my tunics and abayas from a nearby Pakistani home business. They mainly sell saris and Hindi ceremonial stuff but their Muslim relatives drop off their products too. I told them I’m not a Muslim, but after wearing hijab for almost one month, I feel ‘naked’ when I go out not covering myself. Ms. Singh simply smiled, a knowing smile and said nothing. I blushed. As pink as the pashmina I was wearing that day.

Aunt Maggie and Gramps, did disapprove at first before finally giving in. She said, “Beats having you cut up yourself like you used to. At least this destructive behavior of yours doesn’t involve bloodshed.” “So, any Moslem suitors under 70 come to propose for you yet?” Gramps chuckled after making his remark. “Not yet, but I’m quite sure Ms. Singh’s brother-in-law is looking for a third wife.” Gramps pretended to hold his 81 year old chest as if he was having a heart attack. We laughed and they were allowed to have some of my famous chocolate chip cookies.

********

It was my 40th day of covering. I wanted to treat myself to some ice cream for having come this far. I stopped by a used book store and found a copy of A. Yusuf Ali’s Holy Qur’an. The shopkeeper kept throwing suspicious glances over his gold-rimmed eyeglasses and kept inching towards me pretending to arrange books. I decided to purchase the copy and left him with his prejudice.

The ice cream shop was just about to open, but already a long line of customers were waiting. Just before me were two Muslim women. Casual light cottony clothing yet covered and still elegant. They were Middle-Eastern and they probably thought I was Bosnian or something due to my Caucasian features. They politely said their Salam when I stood behind them, I simply nodded back, not knowing how to reply correctly yet. Was it “wassalama” or “walaikumsalam”, rather than making a fool of myself, a smile was a way better option.

The shop was opening. I could hear the buzz. A summer buzz, filled with children’s squeals, beach balls and bicycle bells. I was feeling a lot more cheerful lately. Perhaps it was because of the abaya. Perhaps it was the feeling of having more control of my body and how I ‘protected’ and ‘respected’ myself. I remembered the book I bought. In it must be an explanation about the veil. So I took it out and began to read from the front. “In The Name of God, Most Gracious, Most Merciful.” my heart sank to this. I was confused but happy.

All of a sudden, I felt a sharp sting in my temple, then everything went black.

Minutes later, I could see again. I saw my body drenched in blood. Next to me, the two Muslim women’s bodies were covered in blood too. We were all shot precisely in the head by a sniper down the street from a window on the fifth floor. He was aiming for just the two, who he knew always had ice creams on bright sunny days like this. I just happened to be there and dressed like them.

“Come.” I heard a voice.
It was the lady in front of me, showing me the way.

Nothing big
Nothing grand
Nothing useful
Nothing planned
Nothing smart, or at least not very
Nothing revolutionary
Nothing urgent
Nothing hot
Maybe quiet
Maybe not
Nothing hard
Nothing wet
Nothing naked, well not yet
Nothing witty
Nothing wise
No big deal
No first prize
Nothing solemn
Nothing set
Nothing much to give or get
Nothing now but me and you
Nothing more, thanks, that’ll do

http://hitrecord.org/records/396112

Tanpa disadari langkah kaki kita saling mendekat. Di sela kesibukan hari, terdapat rumus sederhana. Pada setiap perbuatan baik, kita mendekat sedepa. Di kala ingkar, kita mental terjungkal. Maka tak pernah lupa kupintakan pada Tuhan, bimbinglah kami dalam kebaikan.

*kami: aku dan siapapun dia.

“She’s so high!! High above me, she’s so lovely!! Like Cleopatra, Joan of Arc and Aphrodite!!”

Sandra was singing from the top of her lungs. Screaming to be more exact. In the shadowy room I could make out a tear rolling down her cheek.

I sat quietly next to her and let her have her release. She’s too proud to ask for my shoulder and this is what she does whenever she gets her heart destroyed by some foolish bloke.

I’m among the few who is allowed to see her getting drunk and reckless like this. She’s on her way into finishing one whole pint on her own. I make sure she doesn’t bump into things.

“Kiss me…” all of a sudden Sandra was straddling me. “Jaka… please?” her head was aligned with mine and just as her lips were about to land on mine, I turned my face away. Allowing her lipstick smear my cheek..

“Sandra, don’t be like this. Let’s go home, shall we?”

That said, she went limp on my lap.

She finally reached her limit. She wrapped her arms around my neck and began to sob. I automatically hugged her close. It looked and felt as if I was a father carrying his child. I hoped the waiter wouldn’t come and catch us like this. But still I hugged her close, begging God to have the ability to squeeze out all her pains.

Brian was supposed to be on a business trip to Japan, because that’s where he’s posted to manage Palm Oil exports from Indonesia. Instead, Sandra was able to follow him to a massage parlor in the northern part of town. The type that offers ‘extra treatments’.

Not wanting to ruin the Picture Perfect Marriage, Sandra as always, keeps her poise. The doting wife, delightful daughter-in-law. The ever-smiling mother and daughter. I often fear for her sanity. To me she is Aphrodite. Full of love, elegance and forever worthy of affection and praise.

Finally she fell asleep crying on my lap. The sniffles have not subsided yet. Sniffles of intense crying that reminded me of my little sister whom —as a child— I used to tease till she cried.

I sat Sandra down gently in the passenger’s seat. She mumbled a lyric from one of the songs she just sang. I wipe dthe sweat from her forehead and give it a gentle kiss. “I’m gonna drop you off at Nikita’s place, okay? Your daughter musn’t see you like this. Nikita will call up your parents and tell them you worked overtime tonight.”

As I drove into the traffic-free Jakarta, I pictured what it would’ve been like if I was into girls instead of guys. Wouldn’t I and Sandra be one of the happiest couples alive?

Aphrodite did marry Ares a fellow God. Also she married Anchises a mere human being. I cannot recall any Greek mythology of Aphrodite falling in love with a queer being like me. Even so, I love my Aphrodite, with the light of million galaxies. A different kind of love.

Dengan susah payah kuputar kunci sepeda di tengah hujan. Belanjaanku di keranjang depan sudah kuyup dan payung plastik 100 yen ku hampir koyak ditiup angin. Prakiraan cuaca tadi pagi sudah mengingatkan tetapi aku tetap saja bandel dan mengambil shift sore di restoran.

Jarak pandang tinggal 1 meter. Bahkan untuk membuka kunci pintu utama apartemen aku harus meraba-raba posisi tombol kombinasi, kacamataku buram terkena tempias hujan. Setibanya di dalam, karpet anti slip sudah digelarkan dan payung-payung terlihat memenuhi tempat penyimpanan. Aku menghela nafas lega, bersyukur sudah berada di bawah hangat lampu lobi terselamatkan dari hujan angin barusan. Kembali berhadapan dengan deretan tombol agar tiba di lantai tujuan.

Dalam remang lorong, di depan kamar 403, seberang kamarku, seorang nenek duduk menunggu. Aku mengangguk sopan saat melewatinya. Ia membalasku dengan anggukan dan “Konbanwa”. Otomatis aku membalas sapaannya dengan ucapan yang sama.

“Mind your own business, Dear.” tegurku pada diriku sendiri. Yang tiba-tiba ingin tahu apa yang dilakukan nenek itu di Kamis malam bertopan ini. Apakah ia datang sebelum datangnya topan? Sudah berapa lamakah ia menunggu di sana? Sudahkah ia makan? Aku meletakkan belanjaanku ke lantai agar bisa membuka tas mencari kunci apartemen. Suara kaleng mengetuk lantai, menggema sepanjang lorong. Nenek itu ternyata sedang memperhatikanku, aku dapat merasakan tatapannya pada punggung dan tengkukku.

Ia rupanya sedang duduk di atas kursi lipat kaki tiga yang biasa dipakai orang-orang tua untuk memancing atau duduk-duduk di taman menikmati pemandangan.

Penghuni kamar 403 adalah seorang mahasiswi sepertiku. Setidaknya aku menduganya begitu. Di sini, antar tetangga tak saling mengenal. Saling menghargai, mengangguk bila berpapasan di lorong atau kebetulan menumpang lift yang sama. Mungkin Yuuji bisa jadi pengecualian, kenalanku di lantai 5. Ia cukup asik dan kami lumayan akrab. Beberapa CDnya aku pinjam dan beberapa CDku ada padanya. Karena kampus kami yang kebetulan berdekatan. Namun demikian, privasi dan saling menghargai ‘wilayah’ masing-masing adalah hal yang sangat penting di sini.

Aku mengunci pintu apartemenku, menyesal karena tidak menawarkan apapun bagi nenek-nenek yang duduk seorang diri di lorong tadi. Apakah tidak sebaiknya aku menawarkannya minuman hangat atau menunggu di dalam saja? Tapi bagaimana kalau Kishino-san tidak pulang-pulang? Hujan badai ini kabarnya akan berlangsung sampai besok malam. Kulirik jam di pergelangan, 20.31. Sudah cukup larut. Untungnya pengelola apartemen ini baik hati, sampai-sampai lorong-lorong masih dialiri udara penghangat. Namun, akan sangat kasihan bila nenek-nenek tersebut ternyata kebelet ke belakang.

Perasaanku serba tak enak mengingat nenek. Sambil memasukkan belanjaanku ke dalam kulkas kemungkinan-kemungkinan baru muncul dalam benakku. Imajinasiku memang tak bisa dikasih hati. Mulai dari kemungkinan-kemungkinan menyedihkan sampai kemungkinan-kemungkinan mengerikan. Yang menyedihkan, bisa saja nenek itu melarikan diri dari panti jompo hanya untuk melepas rindu pada putrinya yang menghuni kamar tersebut. Yang mengerikan, bagaimana kalau besok pagi nenek itu ditemukan sudah meninggal karena terkena angin duduk? Pasti aku akan sangat menyesal tak menawarkannya masuk dan menunggu di apartemenku saja.

Aku berjingkat ke arah pintu. Menempelkan sebelah mataku pada lubang pengintip. Nenek itu masih di situ. Matanya tertuju pada lift di sebelah kananku, sebelah kirinya. Duduknya tegak ditopang gagang payung yang juga berfungsi sebagai tongkat jalan. Ia mengenakan blazer berbahan tweed berwarna salem dan rok setengah betis dari bahan yang sama. Stoking transparan membalut tungkainya yang kurus, ditambah sepasang flats berwarna krem. Tiba-tiba saja ia melirik ke arahku. Aku terperanjat, sampai harus berpegangan pada gagang pintu yang justru berbunyi klik dan malahan terbuka. Sepersekian detik aku panik, dan sepersekian detik sisanya aku mengambil keputusan. Aku menguak pintu perlahan.

Nenek itu tersenyum melihatku.

I lay my head on the arm of the sofa. I can see the sky from this position. The window looms tall above me. I felt quite dizzy. But nice dizzy. The soft clouds were drifting lazily. How come everything moves so slowly on Sundays? I wondered. Time seems to be taking her time. Slower than Saturday when I was busy eating cereal with my eyes glued to Spongebob. But this apartment is too quiet. I’d like to let in sounds from the street but the chilly autumn air is most likely to come in as well.

I figure such a slow Sunday needed a soundtrack. So I reached for my iPod on the coffee table and started browsing through artists. A.. B.. Bruni. Carla. Ah.. quelqu’un m’a dit.. Ah. You must be wondering, interesting taste in music for a 10 year old. You better thank my sisters for that.

Speaking of witch (intended typo), my sisters are nowhere to be seen. For them Sunday is a sacred day. Not because of Church. But because tomorrow they’ll have to go back to corporate prison. So they make every second of their Sundays count. I on the other hand, have run out of my pocket money. Besides, even if I had any they wouldn’t let me tag along. You see, they already took me for a treat to the cinemas last night. They need their privacy. I bet they’re busy kissing their boyfriends at this moment. Yuck!

I put the song on endless repeat. I picked at my nails. The cuticle that hurts when I pull them but I pull and bite at them anyway. Nervous little thing, I guess. I realized the sun was already sending slanting shadows on everything around me. Dad’s book shelves. Mom’s colorful paper lanterns. It must be around 4 now. Monday is like a decade away. I think of things to do. Blogging? Did that last night. Uploaded photos of us at the cinema too.

I closed my eyes and tried picturing what Jakarta would be like right now.

Leilani’s Musings. Birmingham. 11/11/11. 4.11 PM