Homecoming to the Grave

A poet who saw the dog lying down immediately picked him up. The dog's eyes are dying.

RAHARDI HANDINING

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In the waiting room of the hospital, we sat together, occasionally coughing, gazing at the sleepy people: bored of waiting in line for our turn to enter the examination room. It feels like we're also seeing Death hiding in the dark corner, wearing a dingy cloak, like a clever thief in disguise. But perhaps that's just our illusion.

The clock on the wall seems to be so tired of constantly picking up seconds and stringing them together for who knows what purpose, making everything feel slow and making us more impatient to wait for visiting hours. Ah, waiting truly cannot be understood by time. We hear the sound of the bell when the metal door is opened by the guard, and we quickly get up.

“Sorry,” said the guard, “no dogs allowed in.”

She looked sad, mumbled softly, and her small tail wagged as if protesting. I could understand her disappointment. We had traveled a long way to get to this hospital. The poor dog was only prevented from visiting someone she loved so much.

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A poet who saw the dog lying helpless immediately picked it up. The dog's eyes were dying. The poet stroked it gently. "You know, Njing, not many people are brave enough to admit that they are more like a dog than a dog like you..." The dog whimpered. Since then, they became friends. They often played in the graveyard. The dog once asked in wonder why the poet enjoyed being in the graveyard so much. Was he looking for inspiration?

"The poet did not answer. “I'm looking for my childhood pants, which are probably tucked away in a grave.”

I was so moved to hear their conversation.

"Do you really love me, even though I'm just a bitch?"

"I want to love you simply, with words that wood could not express to fire that turns it to ashes... Do you understand, my dear?"

The dog's eyes looked shiny.

”Thank God, you understand poetry even though you are an asu. You are nobler than humans who never worship poetry."

We went to the hospital because the dog wanted to visit the poet. For months, the poet had not appeared at the graveyard, causing the dog to be curious. Then he heard the news that the poet was sick and hospitalized. He asked me to accompany him in visiting the poet.

"I don't want her to suffer - it feels like she's been suffering for too long because of bearing the burden of words. Can you take away her pain? Or just give it to me instead. Because what hurts her, hurts me too. Will you share the pain with me?"

”Sorry, Njing. "Sickness is not social assistance that can be easily distributed."

The hospital guard seemed impatient and almost kicked the dog. "I will pass on your greetings to your beloved poet," I said, hoping to provide a little comfort.

The dog gradually moved away limping. It reminded me of the dog that accompanied Yudhistira when King Amarta made his final journey to heaven.

***

Lying on the bed, he looked at me. The quiet little ward made him appear as if lying in a coffin. An infusion bottle hung, oxygen tubes and hoses attached to his nose.

"Thank you, Sakit, for being willing to visit my body that has been too busy all this time." He smiled. "Among all those I know, you are indeed a friend who is diligent in maintaining relationships, but I often didn't care. Lying in this bed, I now understand that my body is like a memory healing its own wounds."

I stood by the bed, looking into his eyes that were still filled with bitter and satirical humor. Those eyes lit up instantly when I conveyed greetings from the dog that couldn't come to visit due to the guards' prohibition.

"Truly, I am always curious and wondering why humans like to belittle other creatures? They even enjoy belittling each other, just because of different beliefs. 'What is your religion?' I like to answer, 'My religion is the tears that erase your questions'. Can we only love each other in times of pain? Only you, Pain, who never discriminate: old or young, poor or rich, famous or ordinary people, those who live orderly or don't care about sleeping time, whatever their religion or political choices; you always give your share of the pleasure of your pain. So that I become stronger, mature, and love you more. Only you, Pain, a lover who can come anytime without being rejected."

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I touched his wrinkled fingers. I often sought shelter in his body. When he was choked by coughing in the middle of the night, he still thought about his childhood pants. When his legs trembled with pain, he was busy admiring himself in front of the mirror, trying on his newly bought pants and patting his sagging bottom while muttering, "These pants fit and are suitable to show off in the cemetery."

I also often find him spending long periods of time in the bathroom, always locking it even when he is alone. Perhaps because he is always afraid every time he goes to the bathroom. For him, going to the bathroom is like walking in a dark and silent path while visiting his own body. Or maybe he is afraid that, when in the bathroom and opening his pants, he will find that his caged bird has escaped somewhere.

When he sits lost in thought on the porch of his house, smoking incessantly and conversing with hidden poetry in the silence, I often admonish him for struggling to breathe. But he is stubborn like most poets. I often wonder, why do some people love poetry so much that it seems to surpass their love for their own life? What is so valuable about poetry? Other than being half illusion. It is something that will eventually crack, but he persists in making it Eternal.

I once hid as the pain in his heart when one day in the month of May he sobbed, holding back tears, walking alone through a rainy alley. Behind him, the shadow of a city ablaze could be seen. He had witnessed the flames engulfing the beautiful and fresh May moon after taking a bath. A body that writhed and melted in flames, until its contours were obscured. Truly terrifying, haunted by a body that was burned constantly.

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She wanted to remember that May as a month of purification by fire. Purification of lies. Purification of violence and cruelty. Although she knew that it was all just a hope. And hope often is nothing but a way for us to learn to make peace with disappointment.

I remember, as the city was hit by riots, he had prepared himself for all possibilities as a gang of killers surrounded his house to confiscate his words. The killers had already prepared to search his house since the afternoon, while the rain seemed to prepare to witness his death. He tried to remain calm, wearing all-white clothes with neatly combed hair and a clean face, trying to be relaxed and peaceful. He even had time to finish the remaining coffee in the purple mug while occasionally humming a not-so-melodious song. When the killers broke into the door, he said, "I have prepared everything that you will seize and destroy: words, voices, or anything that you fear but actually I don't have."

"Very well, allow us to seize and bring the very words that you have willingly prepared. As much as possible, we will destroy them."

I slowly shifted, not wanting to wake him. A nurse came in. I motioned to him.

”Shh. Wait a moment, don't be disturbed. He has never tired of worshiping with poetry, so now he is devoted to worshiping with his pain."

The nurse nodded. I was just about to leave the ward, when I saw the poet smiling as he opened his eyes.

"I'll say goodbye first. It feels like the dog has been waiting outside for too long.”

"Send my regards to him." His hands were unable to wave. "With words, I have traveled a lot. Whether it's enjoyable, tiring, or boring. The only path I have yet to discover is the Path of the Dog. I know we cannot find the Path of the Dog until we understand sangkan paraning dumadi. The true path of solitude."

***

I escorted the dog back to the grave. The echo of the funeral prayer could be heard. The quietest place on the night of Eid al-Fitr is the cemetery. People who are busy with the takbir, circling around, never stop by the cemetery. A pressing silence weighs down heavily. The trees stand tall and stiff. Everything is waiting. As if the fate of each person's loneliness is written on those tombstones. Unlike in poetry, there is no moon above the cemetery.

The dog that had been sitting quietly suddenly lifted its head. It felt that someone was coming. And someone emerged from the darkness, approaching the dog.

"You must be waiting for your beloved poet. Can I leave something with you?" The person offered a package. "I want to thank him. In the past, he gave me his pants, which he left with Maria, my mother. Thanks to his pants, when I rose from my death, I could comfortably go to Heaven. Please, give him back his pants when he comes here."

On the streets, a line of vehicles is scattered. They must be on their way home for Eid al-Fitr. Looking at the man's package, the dog seems to understand. The cemetery is the best place to go home.

Yogyakarta, 2024

Agus Noor, this short story writer lives in Yogyakarta, but works mostly in Jakarta. In 1987 his short story, "Cockroach", was published in Kompas for the first time and since then his short stories have appeared in Kompas Sunday. Agus's short story "Fireflies in the Sky of Jakarta" together with "Salawat Dedaunan" (Yanusa Nugroho) was the Best Short Story in Kompas 2012.

Rahardi Handining was born in Semarang, February 27. Lives in Jakarta. 2004-2018 worked as a graphic designer and illustrator at the daily Kompas. Active in the arts until now. Received several awards, including, Selected, The Osten Biennial of Drawing, Macedonia, 2016; Biennale, The 4th Shanghai International Contemporary Art, China, 2019; Special prize Mellow Art Award, Japan, 2020; and Finalist for UOB Painting Of The Year 2021, Professional Category.