That lonely feeling in sadness

Among all the participants of the course, particularly the females, she is eye-catching for her fair skin. Fair for Indonesian standard; light and spotless. Other physical characteristics are just sweetly ordinary; wide eyes, neither calm nor loud, warm smile, and a pointed out canine tooth.

At first, I guessed she is my age. Which turns out wrong. She’s four years older than me, a fact I discover along with other facts about her. Also, that sad story.

My first chat with her was about transportation. She lives in the same district as me. What better conversation to talk about with someone who lives near you, than the best route to take to avoid the traffic in metropolitan Jakarta?

So I said about the possibility of living in a boarding house nearby. But she said she can’t. I don’t remember her reason exactly. She mentioned kids, I guess. Which made me ask the question; oh, you live with your family? She nodded lightly and continued talking about the transportation. Then we talked nothing more of her. I didn’t ask further. Getting married and having kids are too normal that I didn’t think further interesting story would follow.

We didn’t chat a lot after that. We’re not in the same class. Often her class has break time later than mine.

But one day, before class, I ran into her at the canteen. She was eating alone. No other participants in sight. So I immediately sat in her table.

We had much time before the class started. So we started asking each other’s history.

Where do you work? Where do you come from?

During her life, she had moved from place to place. The last time, she moved from Bandung to Jatibening, because something happened.

I didn’t ask what “something” is. Well, when someone said “something” instead of explaining clearly what the thing is, it means he/she doesn’t want to let you know the thing, right?

But not long after that, I got the answer. I asked where his husband works.

She stopped short and let out an unusual laugh. And the story just came out. That one morning, she had waved at her husband going to work, saying “bye!”, and not an hour later, received a phone call saying he had a traffic accident and he had gone.

Shoot. She makes my breakup story looks like cerita cinta monyet enggak ada apa-apanya.

I couldn’t say a word at first. But my curiosity beat. How? When? Where? How old was he? How old were you? How were your kids?

It was three years ago. Their second child was only seven months. She was 29. Her husband was 32. Discovering the facts, I could only squeaked weakly the word “I’m sorry”.

She smiled. “People might say I ‘m hyperbolic, but the precise words to describe the feeling are indeed kayak petir di siang bolong, thunder in a sunny day. I was waving at him that morning he went to office, saying be careful, as usual.”

I said I understand. Not the feeling of losing a husband, though. I never experienced one. I meant, I understand the feeling of appearing lebay, or hyperbolic to anyone else who doesn’t know exactly how she feels.

That’s true. Death happens all over the world, but you won’t understand fully her feeling because it doesn’t happen to you, although you feel so sad listening to her story. You might later forget that she has to cope with the trauma and the remembrance of the loved one. Millions of people are terrified watching the news of deadly earthquakes in Japan, Indonesia, and New Zealand and give donation to show they care, but few remember that the trauma lingers after the quakes. I told my friends of how I had been trapped with hundreds other people who fought to go out of a hall through only two glass doors during a 7.9 SR quake, but they won’t really understand the importance of emergency exit as much as I do. After the quake, I—and maybe the other people who were also trapped during that quake—have a new habit of counting doors and emergency exits when entering a building. Lebay, isn’t it?

So that’s the best way I understand her sadness. That all people are sad for her, but I know that she is alone in her feeling of lost. She has a nice family who helps her taking care of her children, nice in-laws who support her to remarry. “Why waiting for someone who won’t come back?” they said. Not that she still waits, she said. She’s still recovering from the shock.

And she said again about how she still waved at him that morning. And again about the feeling of kayak petir di siang bolong.

Come to think of it, I had been a bit surprised when I first found out she was married, although I hadn’t known why and had pushed the curiosity away. When I knew the story, I realized why. There is no ring in her finger.

When did she decide to wear off the ring? Or is there any rule for a widow to take off their ring after their spouse’s death? A week? A month? Three months? Did she take it because it’s useless or hurts her? The ring is one thing. What about the trauma? Will she ever wave again at other people going out, fearing that an unexpected phone call will follow? Or what about the phone call? Maybe a phone call from a number with the same area code with that particular phone call will remind her of that day?

So are you okay now? I asked. Is it getting better by the years? She said that she’s fine. I’ll do the cry in the toilet later, she jokes.

So I changed the topic. I should’ve called you mbak, then, I said. I thought you are my age. She replied—as most women given the question of whether she should be called mbak—with that warm smile; no need, just call me by my name.