Sedang saya mengupas bawang untuk memasak rendang cendawan tiram raja pagi ini, saya mencari ilham untuk sepucuk surat yang belum saya tulis. Tapi yang terlintas di fikiran saya adalah pelbagai persoalan tentang penjodoh bilangan “sepucuk surat”.
Kenapa surat saya di pucuk? Kenapa bukan di kuntum? Kalau isinya datang dari hati yang berbunga, apakah ia akan menjadi sejambak, sejambangan? Tak bolehkah saya menulis sekuntum puisi yang wangi dan bukan sebuah puisi yang manis untuk si buah hati? Bukankah sebuah hati itu, kalau hancur akan berkeping-keping jadinya?
Akhirnya yang membawa saya kembali ke realiti adalah sepohon selasih yang baru saya beli. Saya tanam semula dalam pasu cantik di sudut jendela. Bukan di hujung halaman. Dan bukan lambang percintaan.
Tak ingat langsung pantun ini. Lupa betul. Lupa terus. Kalau tak kerana Edrick mengemas aras satu Mesra, tempat saya berkubang mengusahakan Airwings dari tahun 2012 sampai ke tahun 2019, memang pantun ini akan jadi bahan artifact saja. Bahan peninggalan sejarah dan bahan bukti kejiwangan saya. Habis semua buku catatan saya dibawa naik si Dedek. Buku catatan yang masih banyak halaman kosong, tak ada satu pun penuh. Kadang-kadang jiwang saya ini hangatnya cuma sekejap.
Bila diamat-amati maksud pantun saya, tak dapat juga saya imbas kembali siapa yang saya maksudkan. Siapa yang saya pandang. Dan siapa yang menggoncang jiwa saya di Disember 2010 dulu. Sewaktu saya kembali ke tanahair bertiga dengan anak-anak, jiwa saya kacau, hidup saya galau. Bumi Rasputin terlalu dingin. Dan terlalu ramai perempuan menjual kehangatan untuk lelaki-lelaki yang konon mahu mengisi sepi. Akhirnya saya sedari, di mana-mana pun… ada saja lelaki yang jiwa sepinya tak terisi oleh anak-anak dan isteri-isteri.
Atau mungkin saya menulis pantun ini untuk cerita-cerita dalam pembayangnya saja. Tentang rindu pada sepohon kundang tepi perigi tebing rumah Wan yang rajin berbuah di hujung tahun, cuti sekolah. Ada galah yang selalu tersandar di penjuru kandang kerbau sengaja ditinggalkan Aki. Tahu cucu-cucunya cuma rajin mengait kundang berbuah rendang, makannya jarang. Tentang pohon selasih yang rajin saya tanam di San Donato Milanese, tanpa tahu namanya selasih. Allora conoscevo solo il basilico. Tentang betapa berbulunya saya dengan sambal bacang yang berbulu.
Dan tentang Mimosa Pudica dengan cerita lamanya yang lama saya tinggalkan saja di Lorong Tengah, Kampung Pinang, Taiping. Tak bawa ke mana-mana. Hanya terbawa ke 2010.
This post has nothing to do with Pensacola, or Pensacola Beach where I was 20 years ago. I was just looking for words that start with ‘pen’ to describe what I spent a good three hours on tonight. After 40 years of being a fountain pen user, today I learned how to clean them nibs, from my seventeen-year-old son. We are big fans of LAMY!
And as I was thinking to use Pensacola as the title of this post, I realized how I was disekolahkan perihal pens. Pen sekolah. Just when I thought I knew what to do and I was going to do it my way… here I was, on the receiving end of knowledge and guidance from a boy who has only been using fountain pens for five years. I had my TIL moment today.
Other than that, I am back into writing. Both blogging and hand-writing. The few hours last Sunday that I voluntarily surrendered myself to be kept captive at Stickerrific did awaken this old soul inside of me somewhere, to be someone, somehow. Maybe writing is my calling. The next something I should get are the reading glasses. I need them for writing.
Funny how we compartmentalize our heart and put people in each one (compartment) according to the way we love them. Or the way they love us. Either or. I don’t know how many compartments my heart has. I don’t count. But there are certain people, not many of them though, who almost always make me cry when I think of them.
These are the people I kinda shouldn’t love, the people I don’t know why I love, but I love anyway. And in fact, I love them harder than some people I should. There is no explanation for that. Just like there isn’t any logic for compartmentalizing my heart. I just do because I just am. Like that. Questa è Enida.
And just so you know if you too have a compartmentalized heart, the crying comes from loving them hard. Nothing else. We know they are always there. They know they’re always there. Wherever there is. So when one says, “You, I’ll love on a plane where you know how to find me.” you know you are loved. You know, if that is not love, nothing else is.
Lama saya tak makan hati. Bukan tak ada hati, tapi jadi tawar hati sebab dua tiga kali yang terakhir saya membeli, banyak hati yang tak bersih. Termasuklah semalam. Hati yang sampai masih ada hempedu nya. Mempedal yang saya terima terlalu banyak lemaknya.
Saya berkecil hati.
Sudahnya saya buang saja semua mempedal, jantung dan limpa kerana tak sanggup nak membelah mempedal untuk membuang tahi, membelah jantung untuk membuang darah beku. Limpa pula cuma ada satu. Lupakan saja! Saya bersihkan hati dari segala kehijauan hempedu, ketulan darah beku, lemak-lemak yang menempel. Lalu saya garam-kunyit dan serbuk ketumbarkan dia dan goreng sesuka hati saya.
Mempedal yang bertahi mengingatkan saya… Sekitar penghujung tahun 70an, my parents tried rearing a couple of chicken. It was most likely 1977 — I remember the year because I was still the youngest child then. Tapi bila tiba-tiba we had an unexpected guest, somebody high-up in the Cekak Harimau association who was coming for lunch, my parents had to sacrifice their chicken. Seemed to me it was the first time my mother had to clean chicken she reared herself. She cried, threw up and obviously was not happy.
I can’t recall apa yang mak saya masak untuk hidangan makan siang menjamu tetamu kami hujung minggu itu. Saya cuma ingat, mak saya tak sentuh langsung masakannya sendiri. She made us (my Irish twin sister, Mas and I) watch how she siang the ayam. She specifically dissected the mempedal to memburaikan tahi dan segala isi di dalamnya. The chicken’s throats were still full of jagung, she cleaned that too. Her face was red and wet with tears and sweat. She gagged and muntah a few times, but the chicken dishes were ready in no time.
While our guest, I had no idea what his name was, makan dengan sangatlah berselera nya, mak saya sambung konon sibuk di dapur rumah kecil kami di Kampung Jana Baru itu memotong semangka. She didn’t eat anything at all. Selepas makan dan basuh tangan, since we didn’t have any serviette or tissue back then, our guest showed me how he dried his hands pahlawan style! Itu saya ingat sampai sekarang. I do it almost every time saya makan di restoran yang tak menyediakan tisu berdekatan dengan tempat cuci tangan. Pahlawan sangat!
My parents never reared any more chicken after that foodful day. I never saw any mempedal (gizzard) full of tahi again until yesterday. Looking back, I am not sure if my mom actually sedih having to cook ayam yang dibela sendiri or she genuinely geli having to gut the gizzards. She let everyone makan ayam puas-puas that day. Us kids especially. Di tahun-tahun 70an dulu, ayam adalah lauk orang kaya. It was a meal to brag about! I heard that the Cekak Harimau guy was a rich man, so my parents must have been segan kalau hidang lauk ikan sepat masin atau telur masak kicap saja.
We did not have any chicken meal for quite a while after that special lunch. But less than a year later, ada telur baru menetas in our family. My Irish twin sister and I got ourselves a little sister.
Questa è Enida 