And The Rest Is History (catatan selembar loose leaf)

Sabtu, 12 July 1997
10.43
Pelajaran Sejarah
Bu Nainggolan
Posisi: Bangku paling belakang.

1. Mungkin. Ini baru dugaan. Mungkin ada trigger khusus di otak manusia yang otomatis membuatmu memejamkan mata saat bibirmu dihampiri oleh bibir lain. Semacam refleks defensif ketika sesuatu dikibaskan persis di depan mata?

2. Lalu. Ijinkan aku bertanya. Lalu bagaimana caranya bernafas saat sedang berciuman? Meski kata dasarnya juga memiliki arti ‘endus’. Saat sedang berciuman bernafasnya lewat hidung atau mulut? Manusia harus bernafas, kan? Lalu bagaimana mungkin aktor-aktor itu bisa berciuman lebih dari 3 menit tanpa bernafas? Apakah orang yang jago ciuman otomatis jago menyelam?

3. Apakah? Sekedar memastikan saja. Apakah bentuk bibir kita akan berubah bila sudah pernah berciuman? Apakah Ibu, Bapak dan Kakak bisa tahu, cukup dengan menyuruhku menyebut angka ‘tujuh puluh tujuh’?

4. Terakhir. Ini pertanyaan terakhir. Ciuman ngga bikin hamil kan?

==================================================================

Oke gue jawab dari sudut pandang orang yang berpengalaman.

1. Mungkin. Ini cuma dugaan gue. Bisa jadi, seperti yang lo bilang, mata kita tertutup karena refleks melindungi bola mata dari benda luar yang mendekat. Tapi menurut gue, mungkin aja mata kita menutup untuk mengurangi jumlah indera-indera aktif agar indera perasa bisa lebih menikmati sensasi. Lo tau kan, kalau kulit bibir memiliki reseptor saraf paling banyak? Super sensitif. Test pack kalah.

2. Lalu. Yang kedua ini pertanyaan yang sulit. Soalnya gue ngga pernah merhatiin apa gue bernafas atau ngga pas ciuman. Lupa bernafas adalah kemungkinan yang paling memungkinkan pas lagi ciuman. Mau coba? :p

3. APAKAH! *ngakak sampe kuburan belakang* Teori mana lagi nih? Kalau ngomong ‘tujuh puluh tujuh’ mungkin ngga ketahuan. Coba ngomong ‘tujuh juta tujuh ratus tujuh puluh tujuh ribu tujuh ratus tujuh puluh tujuh.” baru deh ketahuan kalo udah pernah ciuman.

4. Terakhir. Gue pastikan: CIUMAN BISA BIKIN HAMIL (KALAU KETERUSAN).

P.S. Lo tuh lugu banget sih, bikin pengen banget nyium. *wink*

Advertisements

Peluk

“Kamu mirip temanku. Tapi dia sudah meninggal.”

Aku terpaku menatapnya. Cairan menggenang di balik kacamatanya, bibirnya yang merah bergetar lantaran dipaksa tersenyum. Terlepas dari pantas tidaknya mengatakan hal seperti itu pada seseorang yang baru pertama kali bertemu, tiba-tiba saja aku ingin memeluknya. Menjadi substitusi pelukan untuk temannya yang mirip denganku tapi sudah tiada. Berharap tubuhku tak hanya dipinjam untuk dipeluknya, tetapi juga dirasuki oleh ruh sang sahabat itu. Menjadi sarana.

Semenit yang sejam, kami saling diam. Genangan itu sudah membentuk dua buah sungai. Mengalir turun dari pinggiran mata, melewati tulang pipi, pinggir bibir dan terjun dari ujung dagu untuk pecah di ujung sepatu. Sepatu kiriku melangkah maju dan ia sama sekali tak menghindar saat kupeluk.

Peluk. Dekap. Rengkuh. Butuh dua untuk menjadi satu. Saat memberi dan diberi menjadi satu. Sulit menemukan titik tengahnya. Seperti yin & yang. Seperti nafas yang ditarik-embus ibu saat berlatih taichi. Lingkaran udara. Saling hirup. Saling menghidupkan. Saling meringankan beban.

Bisa jadi ia menjadikanku substitusi temannya yang meninggal. Merasakan hangat yang menjalar dari lengan, ke dada, ke hati, ke pipi. Dan dengan menutup mata, mematikan satu indera, dekap ini lebih terasa. Kusadari manusia selalu butuh dipeluk. Tak ada pertimbangan yang terlewat manakala Tuhan menciptakan manusia, tubuh kami begitu ergonomis pun untuk berpelukan.

Embrace. Hug. Clasp. Cuddle.

Fajar Utama di Kala Senja

Kereta berhenti di tengah-tengah sawah. Kulirik jam, masih 17.07. Di hadapanku, Henry menggeliat. Terbangun oleh matahari senja yang mendarat tepat di mukanya. Aku menendangnya pelan sambil menyuruhnya bangun. Matanya memicing, mencicil kadar cahaya agar tak terlalu menyakitkan.
“Sampai mana?” kubaca gerak bibirnya. Suara Morrissey yang kudengar menelan suaranya bulat-bulat. Menjawabnya aku hanya mengangkat bahu.
Ia melengos kesal, diambilnya topi dan kacamata hitam dari kantong samping ranselnya. Dikenakannya, lalu ia kembali bersidekap dan menekuk dagunya ke dada. Kembali tidur.

Pelan-pelan, untuknya kunyanyikan lagu yang bermain di telingaku.

“If a double decker bus, crashes in to us, to die by your side, is such a heavenly way to die.”

Di hadapanku bibirnya melengkungkan senyum.

Baju Cinderella

“Mama!” suara cemprengnya memecah hening.
Kupalingkan wajah dari adonan pancake, mencari asal suaranya.
Begitu menemukannya, spatula yang kugenggam terlepas begitu saja. Cipratan adonan pada kaki piyama tak terhindarkan.
“Keisha? Kenapa pakai baju Mama, Nak?” aku sengaja menggunakan kata baju, bukannya lingerie.
“Baju Mama ya? Keisha kila baju Cindelela.” sahutnya lugu.
Kepanikanku buntu ketika kulihat wajah suamiku melongok dari balik kusen pintu.
Tatapanku mungkin terlalu memelas, suamiku menahan tawa sampai perutnya mulas.
Setelah puas, a lalu merengkuh Upik Abu kecilku dan dalam sekejap berhasil membujuknya untuk mengembalikan ‘bajuku’ dengan iming-iming baju peri lengkap dengan sayap kupu-kupu.
Tak luput ia melempar kedipan genit ke arahku yang masih saja terpaku dengan adonan pancake di depanku.

Gadis Tanpa Kerudung

Kepala-kepala berkerudung itu tak ada bedanya dengan anjing-anjing yang mereka najisi.
Sebab seperti itu mereka menatapku siang ini dan kemarinnya lagi.
Aku yang kegerahan, karena belum terbiasa berkerudung, berharap pada sejuk pendingin ruangan bersekat ini. Tapi yang kudapat hanya kudapan biji-biji mata penuh benci dan jijik.

Aku ke sini hanya hendak melaksanakan ibadah tengah hari.

Semua mendadak memasang kembali kerudung mereka. Kecuali dia, yang memang kutahu tak berjilbab.
Rambutnya lurus dan panjang. Dengan tenang ia menghampiriku sambil mengembangkan mukenah biru langitnya.

“Mau sholat Dzuhur juga?” tanyanya lembut.
Aku hanya bisa mengangguk.
“Kamu yang jadi imamnya ya?” usulnya dengan senyum sesejuk wudhlu.

Tak ada yang membaca qamat.
Ketika kulirik, makmumku ada empat.

Sosial.

“Selamat Pagi, epribadiiii!” aku merasa lucu memainkan bahasa asing seperti itu. Padahal Ayah paling anti melihat kesalahan dalam berbahasa apalagi yang disengaja.

Itu status Facebook ku lima menit yang lalu. Kurang sreg kuhapus dan kuedit dengan sesuatu yang durasinya bisa lebih lama, “Selamat berakhir pekan, semaunya!”
Puas dengan status itu aku ke laman home, sekadar stalking sekaligus blogwalking.

Kusapa pacar dan teman-teman lewat Twitter sambil membahas hendak kongkow ke mana lagi hari ini.

Kulirik jam sudah pukul 10 pagi dan aku belum mandi. Menginjakkan kaki ke luar kamar juga belum. Tapi kok rasanya lapar?
“Bunda?” panggilku manja sambil berlari-lari kecil menuruni tangga. “Bunda masak a–”
Di dasar tangga, Bunda tergeletak tak bernyawa.

Twins!

-SONYA-

Waktu masih gadis, Ibu sangat mengidamkan anak kembar. Ia selalu takjub pada fenomena itu. Ketertarikannya pada segala hal yang berhubungan dengan kelahiran ganda dipupuknya sejak SMP, sampai Ibu bertemu Ayah di bangku kuliah. Ayah yang setelah Ibu ketahui merupakan separuh dari sepasang meski bukan pasangan identik, tak pernah lagi dilepaskannya. Ibu semakin yakin bahwa pikiran bisa mengendalikan nasib. Dengan keyakinannya itu, ia berhasil melahirkan kami berdua sekaligus, setidaknya itu menurut Ibu.

****

“Jam berapa mulainya?” tanya Ayah yang tanpa perlu berkata telah menggusurku dari singgasana alias kursi malas paling nyaman di ruang keluarga kami.
“Jam 8 waktu Bangkok,” sahut Ibu sambil membawa semangkok penuh popcorn dari pantry. “setengah jam lagi.”
Aku dan Sofi masing-masing mengambil satu lengan ibu untuk dipeluk. Kebiasaan sejak balita yang tak mau hilang. Tepatnya tak mau kami hilangkan. Pun, tempat paling strategis untuk mencomot popcorn instan bikinan Ibu.

Sepanjang tayangan kami menonton dalam diam, sesekali terdengar “aah..” dan “ooh..” dari entah siapa yang disertai anggukan-anggukan tekun bak murid kesayangan guru. Masing-masing dari kami begitu terkesima pada simulasi kehidupan di dalam rahim yang demikian nyata diciptakan oleh tim National Geographic. Semua yang di ruangan ini pernah mengalaminya tapi tak ada yang ingat. Kecuali Ibu. Ia mengalaminya, tapi sebagai ‘pihak luar’. Tanpa sengaja aku melihat setitik air menetes lalu ditangkap daster batiknya.

“Kok Ibu menangis?” tanyaku memeluk lengannya lebih erat.
“Ah? Masa?” karena tangannya tak mampu bergerak, ibu merundukkan kepala dan menyeka matanya dengan bahunya. “Ibu juga ngga ngerti kenapa.”
Aku dan Sofi saling pandang. Heran. Mengedikkan bahu bersamaan.
“Dasar kembar.” komentar ibu sambil terkekeh serak.

****

-SHANIA-

“Babe? You up?”
“Hm..” was all I could muster. My sniffles must have woke him.
He checks the time. It’s eight forty five. We’re late for church again.
“Are you crying again, dear?”
I do not answer. Because I have no further explanation if he finds out I was crying, and he asks me why. I cry for no reason sometimes. I hope I didn’t come off as a person in need of anti-depressants to him. That’d be the worst.
So I told him what has been bothering me for several weeks now.
“You know how I was adopted and stuff?” I began carefully.
“H-hm..” he wrapped his arms around me.
“By Mom and Dad.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Griffin.” he corrected me.
“Mr. and Mrs. Griffin. During their research in South – East Asia.”
“And you were the blooming baby girl raised by flowers and rare exotic butterflies.” he kissed my bare shoulder, trying to turn me on. Couldn’t have picked a better spot to kiss, if I must say.
“May I finish?” I gave him a pointed look over my shoulders.
“Please, do. But hurry.” as he snuggles his head in between my hair. Hiding from my stare.
“I can’t help but think about my family back in Indonesia. Or if I still have any.”
“Why don’t you ask them?” his words muffled behind me. His five o clock shadow tickling my back.
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful.”
“For crissakes, Shania, you’re 35. You’re old enough to know. Above all else, they should be the ones grateful to have such a loving daughter.”
I laughed at his last comment, and finally said. “Okay, I will. Besides, we do owe them a visit.”
“Great, I’ve been craving for your Mom’s apple pie ever since. Next Friday we’ll drive up to the Hamptons.”
“Plus, I have to break the good news to them too.”
“What good news?” suddenly Grant was straddling me. Which caused me to automatically protect my belly.
The look in his eyes was priceless. An ocean of joy, love and awe overflowed within them as a warm tear of his rolled out and landed on my chin.
“We’re having a baby?” his voice was coarse with tears.
I put up a peace sign. Victory. Two. Whatever, he can count.
“Twins?” he was practically crying by now. As he rolled on his back and pulled me on top of him.
“Twins!” he cried out loud and we both laughed as the sun bathed us with the glory of morning.

******

Reblogged : A Letter From A Christian to Muslim Women

A letter from a Christian to Muslim women

March 7th, 2007

By Joanna Francis
Writer, Journalist – USA

Between the Israeli assault on Lebanon and the Zionist “war on terror,” the Muslim world is now center stage in every American home. I see the carnage, death and
destruction that have befallen Lebanon, but I also see something else: I see you. I can’t help but notice that almost every woman I see is carrying a baby or has children around her. I see that though they are dressed modestly, their beauty still shines through. But it’s not just outer beauty that I notice. I also notice that I feel something strange inside me: I feel envy. I feel terrible for the horrible experiences and war crimes that the Lebanese people have suffered, being targeted by our common enemy. But I can’t help but admire your strength, your beauty, your modesty, and most of all, your happiness.

Yes, it’s strange, but it occurred to me that even under constant bombardment, you still seemed happier than we are, because you were still living the natural lives of
women. The way women have always lived since the beginning of time. It used to be that way in the West until the 1960s, when we were bombarded by the same enemy.
Only we were not bombarded with actual munitions, but with subtle trickery and moral corruption.

Through Temptation

They bombarded us Americans from Hollywood, instead of from fighter jets or with our own American-made tanks. They would like to bomb you in this way too, after
they’ve finished bombing the infrastructure of your countries. I do not want this to happen to you. You will feel degraded, just like we do. You can avoid this kind of
bombing if you will kindly listen to those of us who have already suffered serious casualties from their evil influence. Because everything you see coming out of
Hollywood is a pack of lies, a distortion of reality, smoke and mirrors. They present casual sex as harmless recreation because they aim to destroy the moral fabric of the societies into which they beam their poisonous programming. I beg you not to drink their poison. There is no antidote for it once you have consumed it. You may recover partially, but you will never be the same. Better to avoid the poison altogether than to try to heal from the damage it causes.

They will try to tempt you with their titillating movies and music videos, falsely portraying us American women as happy and satisfied, proud of dressing like prostitutes, and content without families. Most of us are not happy, trust me. Millions of us are on anti-depressant medication, hate our jobs, and cry at night over the men
who told us they loved us, then greedily used us and walked away. They would like to destroy your families and convince you to have fewer children. They do this by presenting marriage as a form of slavery, motherhood as a curse, and being modest and pure as old-fashioned. They want you to cheapen yourself and lose your faith. They are like the Serpent tempting Eve with the apple. Don’t bite.

Self-Value

I see you as precious gems, pure gold, or the “pearl of great value” spoken of in the Bible (Matthew 13: 45). All women are pearls of great value, but some of us have
been deceived into doubting the value of our purity. Jesus said: “Give not that which is holy unto the dogs, neither cast your pearls before swine, lest they trample them under their feet, and turn again and rend you” (Matthew 7: 6). Our pearls are priceless, but they convince us that they’re cheap. But trust me; there is no substitute for being able to look in the mirror and seeing purity, innocence and self-respect staring back at you.

The fashions coming out of the Western sewer are designed to make you believe that your most valuable asset is your sexuality. But your beautiful dresses and veils are
actually sexier than any Western fashion, because they cloak you in mystery and show self-respect and confidence. A woman’s sexuality should be guarded from unworthy eyes, since it should be your gift to the man who loves and respects you enough to marry you. And since your men are still manly warriors, they deserve no less than your best. Our men don’t even want purity anymore. They don’t recognize the pearl of great value, opting for the flashy rhinestone instead. Only to leave her too!

Your most valuable assets are your inner beauty, your innocence, and everything that makes you who you are. But I notice that some Muslim women push the limit and try
to be as Western as possible, even while wearing a veil (with some of their hair showing). Why imitate women who already regret, or will soon regret, their lost
virtue? There is no compensation for that loss. You are flawless diamonds. Don’t let them trick you into becoming rhinestones. Because everything you see in the
fashion magazines and on Western television is a lie. It is Satan’s trap. It is fool’s gold.

A Woman’s Heart

I’ll let you in on a little secret, just in case you’re curious: pre-marital sex is not even that great. We gave our bodies to the men we were in love with, believing that that was the way to make them love us and want to marry us, just as we had seen on television growing up. But without the security of marriage and the sure knowledge that he will always stay with us, it’s not even enjoyable! That’s the irony. It was just a waste. It leaves you in tears.

Speaking as one woman to another, I believe that you understand that already. Because only a woman can truly understand what’s in another woman’s heart. We really are all alike. Our race, religion or nationalities do not matter. A woman’s heart is the same everywhere. We love. That’s what we do best. We nurture our families and give comfort and strength to the men we love. But we American women have been fooled into believing that we are happiest having careers, our own homes in which to live alone, and freedom to give our love away to whomever we choose. That is not freedom. And that is not love.

Only in the safe haven of marriage can a woman’s body and heart be safe to love. Don’t settle for anything less. It’s not worth it. You won’t even like it and you’ll like yourself even less afterwards. Then he’ll leave you.

Self-Denial

Sin never pays. It always cheats you. Even though I have reclaimed my honor, there’s still no substitute for having never been dishonored in the first place. We
Western women have been brainwashed into thinking that you Muslim women are oppressed. But truly, we are the ones who are oppressed; slaves to fashions that degrade us, obsessed with our weight, begging for love from men who do not want to grow up. Deep down inside, we know that we have been cheated.

We secretly admire and envy you, although some of us will not admit it. Please do not look down on us or think that we like things the way they are. It’s not our fault. Most
of us did not have fathers to protect us when we were young because our families have been destroyed. You know who is behind this plot.

Don’t be fooled, my sisters. Don’t let them get you too. Stay innocent and pure. We Christian women need to see what life is really supposed to be like for women. We
need you to set the example for us, because we are lost. Hold onto your purity. Remember: you can’t put the toothpaste back in the tube. So guard your “toothpaste”
carefully!

I hope you receive this advice in the spirit in which it is intended: the spirit of friendship, respect, and admiration. From your Christian sister – with love…

* This article is republished with the kind permission of the author. The original can be found on Crescent and the Cross. Joanna Francis is a writer and journalist. She
manages her own blog.