This morning, when i woke up with so much fears lie ahead. When the latest footstep makes the story start. When the last second, that everything will be different. When ambition is so passionate, hunt time just for the sake of a penny of money that must be achieved to fulfill desires.
This morning. When I was riding a motorcycle to campus. Tried to abort an obligation which is always a task for a Child to his parents. Burden that always be borne in order to pay the sweat from the people who never stopped squeezed their sweats, just for a book as thick as newspaper. For the sake of pencils and erasers which I often wasted in school. For the sake of correction-pen which used to scribble the school desk.
I saw an old wagon with four jars in front of it. Contained brown sugar and coconut milk. Contained fresh cendol sealed. Contained almost melted ice cubes.
An old man who patiently pushed toward the bustling street with bunch of motorcycles. Only the old man. Who wore a shabby gray shirt with black lines were not rubbed. Paved with red flip flops which are not white anymore. Training pants torn at the knees. Wore a hat filled with soils.
He pushed the old wagon to a place where he could get a dime rupiah. That may be, will never be enough to live in the world today.
Blue sky, with a canopy of teak trees which all leaves were almost fall. Turn brown and give the impression of fall season in a tropical country.
I look to my right. An old woman carried a basket of vegetables. Hair with green veil that has been crumpled. Old purple clothes with flowers that did not match the color of her veil at all. Face drenched with sweat that has not dried up. Carried a basket full with vegetables, corn and sugarcane.
Motorcycle walked through the crowd with students who pursue late morning class.
The wind was still blowing cold while hour showed at 8 am. The horn sounded as the streets filled with red light.
I pinched the motor brake. Stopped between rows of expensive cars with unseen passengers.
As I still saw a big volcano stood firmly without clouds. Framed with 3-story buildings that lined along the street.
I saw an old woman with traditional clothes of Java. Took along the bike on the roadside. An old woman with shabby brown dress and a cloth around her shoulders. Took along rusty bicycle with basket full of herbs. Patiently waited in line at a red light together with motorcycles and cars.
When the sun’s heat was not overpowering, but it was crowded with exhaust fumes.
I saw faces.
That made me asked, has it enough for my life today?
When I realized that every rupiah and the food I ate were not came from my own sweats. That I do not have to worry when running out of money at the end of the month and I only need to call my parents for a few hundred thousand more. The fact I was just happy to hang out and pretend like i have lot of money when everything is not the result of my own.
I watched again the old man with the wagon which his cendol was not all sold. Sat quietly behind the wall of the great mosque with the falling leaves.
I saw the jar was full. With ice almost completely melted. It’s been seven hours since I saw him this morning. He was sitting on a red plastic chair that one leg was broken and had to be attached using black duct tape.
Red towel around the neck. He tapped his foot to see people passed by, and he said, “Buy the Cendol, Ms., Buy the cendol, sir” with no one cared.
Maybe just one or two glasses sold.
This afternoon. An old woman with a bike that contained herbs sat under a big tree beside pole for shelter. Circular cloth drenched with sweat on her body. I did not know how many glasses were sold.
In the present, I do not know whether there are still people who want to drink herbs. I remember when I was little, my mother used to always buy herbs from a lady that always passed in front of the house. But It was a long time ago, 16 years ago.
I do not know, or maybe I’ll never understand. How big were their dreams used to be, or how big they are now for them.
Maybe not as big as my dream to study abroad. Maybe not as big as my dream to go to the highest school level and to get a good job and buy anything I want.
Perhaps, it’s only as big as selling cendol until the end. Or sell the herbs until the last drop.
Or, see the smiles from the mouths to feed this afternoon.
I don’t know,
Maybe I’ll never understand how it feels to take along bike with herbs around the city, under the scorching sun burns the fontanel. Or tired pushing the old wagon when your age has reached 70 years.
The world may not be their goal. Because I’m sure they remain happy over what they have now.
I almost forgot about it. Yes, true happiness is not seen from how high you now or how many things you can buy. That life on earth is the only the facility to get you closer to God.
That when I woke up and was always afraid of the dreams of the world. Made me lose the intrinsic joy that should be gained from each long-prostration in five times everyday.
Or, from a glance of smile that always makes them feel worth in this world.
The world just as simple as that.
Dream, just as simple as that.