The Curse
by Muna Masyari

Translated from Indonesian into English by Ahmal Azwar

My body is wrapped in mori. My hair is loose. I’m kneeling on the ground, like a statue of a prince, facing a prince’s final resting place. I take a handful of soil from the ground, gripping it tightly, letting the dirt crumble through my fingers, from my trembling hands. My vision was blurred, but I could see the mound of red earth, the slices of fresh pandan. Slowly, I closed my eyes, trying to recall the hopeful voice that had beckoned me to follow this ritual.

“If... if you don't want to… do this for... for yourself... at least, do this... for me and mother.”

I swallowed hard. At the end of the grave, a pottery has been placed next to a ladle. On the surface of the water, petals floated, like the remains of a strength I have held on to for too long.

"If only you hadn't rejected Dulaksah's proposal...” my mother said, stopping herself, as if there was a fish bone stuck in her throat. Her eyes were as dim as a moon, swept away by the clouds.

....of course you would not have become a sangkal.

I thought, finishing her sentence. This was the first time I caught the deep regret in the corner of my mother's eyes. Regret and anxiety, like a thread of rope, ensnaring, intertwining within herself. As if she could not find sleep before she witnesses me walk down the aisle.

I was only 13 years old when the Dulaksah family came, carrying a basket of promises, to ask for my hand in marriage. It was only 41 days after my father passed away. The kitchen utensils we had just used for the 40th day of mourning has just been washed. My mother was still not allowed to wear makeup, clothing, or perfume when receiving guests. She would be in morning for four months and ten days. She was not allowed to leave the house, unless she wanted the villagers to start speculating that she had already begun to look for a new husband.

At the end of August, when heat filled the air and the wind carried clouds of dust to our backyard, Dulaksah’s parents arrived without notice. I had just returned from school and I was still wearing my uniform. I felt my throat dry when they knocked on the door. My mother rushed to open the door as she lowered her sleeves. There was soot at the tips of her kebaya. A faint scent of dish soap on her hands.

Without changing her clothes, my mother received the guests. I placed my ear on the bedroom door to eavesdrop on their conversation. I was a little suspicious of the unusual visit. Even though they were still considered as our relatives, they rarely visited, except for weddings and funerals.

I was right. Their conversation quickly led to the topic of an arranged marriage. They briefly asked about my education, my adopted older brother, and my younger sister who had just started elementary school. They told her that they come to propose to me in order to strengthen the family ties.

Puih!

I felt my soul rise and rebel, like a tiger that had just awoken from sleep. I had the exact same feeling when I first learned my father was sending me to an Islamic boarding school. I didn’t want to be imprisoned, to follow the rules of others. ‘The holy prison’. It was a term that I learned after accompanying my cousin to a boarding school.

Without waiting for my mother’s respond to their proposal, I rushed outside. I looked at them with a gaze of fury.

"I don't want to get married. I still want to go to school!" I barked.

"Maysara!" exclaimed my mother with surprise. My mother has always taught us to behave. To be modest in front of guests.

"I don't want to get married!" I yelled, ignoring my mother's look, as I stared at the guests with contempt.

They looked at each other. There was a look disappointment on their faces.

“Maysara, go to your room!”

It was the only time my mother had ever yelled at me harshly. If my father was still alive, he would've beat me with a broom stick after the guest had left.

Within three seconds, someone had dragged me into the kitchen. I saw the anger flash across my brother’s face, like a hen trying to protect its children.

“You have no manners!” he hissed, his eyes widening.

“They want to put me in an arranged marriage!" I glared.

"You could’ve talked to Mother after they’ve left!"

"You mean after Mother accepts the proposal?" I answered, half-mockingly.

Without waiting for an answer, I turned to my room, and closed the door.

"If Mom accepted the proposal, I will leave the house!” After the Dulaksahs left, my mother barged into my room. I immediately made a vehement refusal and threats before my mother had the chance to speak.

My mother's lips trembled with anger and shame, unable to say a word.

Of course, my threat was real. I had left home when my father tried to send me to boarding school and my whole family was unable to find me.

"If you refuse the proposal, you'll become a sangkal.” My mother said later that evening, as she began to persuade me. Her voice was soft, as if her chest was pressed down by a heavy boulder.

“This is the first proposal you’ve ever received!" My brother continued.

"I don't care. Marriage is a matter for later. I still want to go to school!” I replied firmly.

"It's just an engagement."

"It's the same thing! Next year they will definitely come again to talk about marriage, and I’ll still be in school by then,” I said.

"But..."

"If you insist, I will leave the house!"

"You’re always acting out!" my brother yelled.

I walked away and left them with my refusal.

Finally, we rejected their proposal. I continued pursuing my education until I graduated. By way of getting approval from my brother, I expressed my desire to study out of town. My mother had no choice but to let me go. She didn't ask me what my goals were. She thought that no matter how long a woman's journey takes, she will end up as a housewife.

If someone had asked me what I wanted then, I would not have the answer. I only had one wish: to explore the outside world.

Before I left, my mother asked me a question; when will I get married?

"I will never be in an arranged marriage. I will make my own choices." This was my response every time I was asked the same question, even when I was on my journey.

Perhaps my mother thought I would find a husband in the city. Whenever I tell her that I would be coming home to visit, she would ask me: who are you coming with?

I made time to come home whenever there was a long holiday. I always came back alone. I never brought a man, planning to ask my hand in marriage. Each time, my mother would receive me with disappointment. It was the same case when I came home three months ago.

Before inquiring about my own plans to marry, my mother told me that Dulaksah's wife had just given birth to her second child. She added that my sister was already a teenager.

“If Rupah wants to get married, she can get married. There's no need to wait for me to marry first.” I responded to my mother's concerns with calm.

"It's not about Rupah's marriage, it's about you!" my brother interrupted with anger.

Since my father died, he has been taking care of the family. Now, he was the head of the family, who worked to support Rupah's education and my college tuition. He was the one who quelled my mother's anxiety when neighbours started spreading rumours, saying that I had become a sangkal.

"I don't want to get married. I don’t think women are required to marry, let alone bear children!" I replied with defiance.

"You mean..." mother looked surprised.

"Yes, I’ve already made my decision to not get married forever!" I said.

My mother threw herself on the chair in despair. Meanwhile, my brother just stared blankly towards me in disbelief.

Both of them know how stubborn I am.

"If only you hadn't rejected Dulaksah's proposal..." My mother said, after a long silence. Again, she stopped before finishing her sentence, as if there was a fish bone stuck in her throat.

"That's what happens when you refuse the first proposal!" My brother said with regret.

My lips curved into a sinister smile. The decision to live independently without marriage for me was my own choice. It had nothing to do with the village curse. It was bullshit!

"How many times have I told you not to turn down Dulaksah's proposal? You refused to listen," My brother said, his voice weakening.

"Refusing his proposal has nothing to do with my decision." I said.

"As a matter of fact, no one has proposed to you, until now!" My brother said, raising his voice.

"If I wanted to, I could bring a hundred men, tell them to kneel at Mom's feet, and propose to me!" I said, feeling offended. "The problem is, I do not want to marry any of them!"

My voice was rising. There were several male friends who had persistently courted me. Some of them still continued, while some of them had retreated in frustration.

However, my decision was firm. I would not be getting married. There will be no wedding held at my home. Being a housewife would be my prison. A thread, binding my hands and feet. Here, a wife is not allowed to leave the house without her husband's permission. Even until the husband died, they would have to stay at home for four months and ten days.

I still remember that late afternoon. The rain was bathing our village when a motorcycle abruptly stopped in our front yard. The driver walked towards us as he shivered and told us that my grandfather – my mother’s father – was ill. My mother panicked. My father was deep in contemplation as he watched the rain fall from the darkening sky. The messenger left, but my father still had not decided anything.

Restless and holding back her tears, my mother looked at my father, and begged for his permission to go see my grandfather. However, my father asked her to stay at home instead, to take care of Rupah and I, while he went to see my grandfather with my brother.

My mother wanted to protest, but stayed quiet. My father argued that Rupah was still too young to be carried in the rain. The trip was quite far and we did not have a raincoat. I was only 9 years old. I saw my mother sobbing on the edge of her bed the entire evening as she cradled Rupah in her arms.

I never saw my mother challenge my father. He was her master.

I came home when I received a call, informing me that my brother was gravely ill. I found him lying weakly in his bed. His face pale. His lips chapped. His sternum was protruding. His neck like a dry, rotting log.

He stared at my face, forcing a weak smile. I held his hand, covered with bulging veins. He looked much older than his age. His skin was wrinkly and dry.

"He hasn't eaten for a week. He can barely drink water," My mother gently sighed. There were dark circles around his sunken eyes.

"You should have told me earlier," I said with regret.

"He forbade me. He didn’t want to bother your studies."

My mother told me how his chest had been hurting for the last two months. He lost his appetite. His body tired quickly. My mother only found out that he was vomiting blood when she was cleaning his room and found a sarong covered in blood under the bed.

"The doctor said there might be a tumour or cancer in his stomach. He had to be examined, but because his condition was so severe, he had refused.

I looked at my brother's face with a look of regret.

"We’ll go to the hospital tomorrow!" I said.

“I have been forcing him since yesterday. He said the money is better used for your studies." My mother said, wiping the tears in her eyes with the tip of her kebaya.

"The most important thing is that you recover. Don't worry about anything else!"

"I'm ... all right," he whispered, stammered.

In the evening, we took turns looking after him. My mother prepared a small pot, with ash placed in its base, in case he vomited blood. I prepared a small towel, warm porridge, and a glass of water in the hopes that I could convince him to eat his meals and his medicine.

"Wear this. I’m proposing to you."

In the second half of the evening, it was my turn to look after him. He held out a ring. My drowsiness disappeared, like mist swept away by the wind.

It was a gold ring that he had shown me when I was a child. He told me that he would give it to the future mother of his children. As far as I know, that was the only valuable left by his parents, besides the old empty house where they used to live. The house was neglected. And then it collapsed.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

I thought of him as my own brother. He was my father's nephew when he became an orphan. He was a bit hotheaded, but I knew his heart was as soft as cotton. My father held him with pride, in a way that he never did with my sister and I.

“If I… die as your fiancé, you can… take a flower bath over my navel to… ward off sangkal.” He struggled to finish his sentence. A broken, barely audible voice. He coughed occasionally.

I glanced at the corner of the room. The two hangers were empty. Maybe my sister or my mother had washed it while he was sick. When I came home to visit, I always took care of his dirty, musty clothes, its collar full of sweat stains.

“Promise me,… you will get married… and have children!” he asked with hope, a bitter expression flashed across his face. "Otherwise who... will... send me prayers?"

“You'll get better and you’ll be able to pray on your own. Then you can give the ring to another woman! Didn’t you say you wanted to have ten children so you can have your own football league?" I said lightheartedly.

"What if I don't get better?"

"You must!" I said firmly as I tried to calm my beating chest.

"What if I don't?" He asked quietly. His eyes were half closed, as if he was only going to sleep.

I took a deep breath. For a moment, I stayed silent. "I will always pray for you." I said softly, almost whispering.

"I'm not... sure that the prayers of a rebellious... and a stubborn girl like you... would come true." He says, attempting to smile mischievously. He opens his eyes. He still thought of me as a child he used to play with, even though I was now 27.

"Promise me!" he pleaded. He looked at me with hopeful eyes. He took my hand. I didn't answer.

“You… only see marriage… from one… perspective.”

Before I came home, three months ago, he had asked me the reason why I didn’t want to get married.

“Every rule… a wife follows… is a way to protect her.” His breath quickened and his face grimaced with pain. As one hand gripped his stomach, the other offered the ring that I still hadn’t accepted.

I lower my head and move closer to the centre of the grave. Slowly, I pour the flowered water that I had prayed to. On my hair, on the grave of my brother, my fiancé, who I had taken a moment before his last breath. Rose, jasmine, magnolia champaca, ylang-ylang, and tuberose petals, tangled in my hair. When the water ran out, I looked up and saw my mother’s face. Beneath the cloud, I saw rainbows in her eyes. This ritual, this myth, will never change me.

Madura, 2021 

Sangkal

Dalam balutan mori dan rambut tergerai panjang aku bersimpuh bagai patung putri menghadap pusara sang pangeran. Kuraih tanah di depanku, menggenggamnya erat sampai tanganku sedikit bergetar dan butiran-butiran tanah memburai dari celah jemari. Gundukan tanah merah bertabur irisan pandan yang masih segar itu sedikit mengabur dari penglihatanku.

Perlahan aku mengatup mata, mencoba mencari suara yang tempo hari memintaku penuh harap untuk melakukan ini semua.

“Kalau ... kau tak ingin ... melakukannya untuk ... dirimu, setidaknya lakukanlah ... untukku dan ibu.”

Kutelan ludah.

Di kaki pusara, gerabah diletakkan dengan gayungnya. Kelopak beraneka bunga yang mengambang di dalam bagai puing-puing keteguhan yang selama ini kupertahankan.

“Kalau saja dulu kau tidak menolak lamaran Dulaksah....” suara ibu terhenti seperti tulang tersangkut di tenggorokan. Sorot matanya seredup bulan tersapu awan.

....tentu tidak akan sangkal.

Lanjutku dalam hati. Bukan sekali ini aku menangkap penyesalan mendalam di ceruk mata ibu. Sesal dan cemas berkelindan menciptakan temali yang menjerat kegelisahan, seolah tidurnya tak pernah nyenyak sebelum aku naik ke pelaminan.

Waktu itu, usiaku baru menginjak 13 tahun ketika keluarga Dulaksah datang menawarkan seutas tali pertunangan dan sekeranjang janji pernikahan. Tepat 41 hari setelah kematian ayah, dan perabot dapur bekas kenduri memperingati 40 hari semalam baru dicuci, sementara ibu belum dibolehkkan menyentuh bedak dan mengenakan baju bagus serta wewangian untuk sekadar menyambut tamu, sebab masih dalam masa berkabung selama empat bulan sepuluh hari. Selama itu pula dia tidak boleh keluar pagar kecuali ingin dapat gunjingan; hendak mencari suami lagi.

Di akhir Agustus yang terik dan angin menerbangkan debu-debu di halaman, Ayah-ibu Dulaksah datang tanpa memberi kabar sebelumnya. Seragam sekolahku belum dibuka dan leherku serasa tercekik kering ketika mereka menguluk salam. Ibu tergopoh-gopoh membukakan pintu sambil menurunkan singsing lengan baju. Ada noda jelaga di ujung kebayanya. Sementara di tangannya masih tersisa bau sabun colek.

Tanpa berganti baju ibu menerima kunjungan mereka dan aku menguping pembicaraan dengan menempelkan telinga ke pintu kamar. Aku sedikit curiga atas kunjungan yang tak biasa itu. Meskipun masih terhitung kerabat, jarang sekali mereka datang kecuali ada keluarga yang meninggal atau ada acara mantenan.

Ternyata benar. Pembicaraan mereka mulai mengarah ke perjodohan setelah sempat menanyakan perihal sekolahku, soal kakak angkatku dan adikku yang baru masuk Sekolah Dasar. Katanya, mereka datang hendak melamarku untuk memperkuat simpul ikatan kekeluargaan.

Puih!

Perlahan jiwa berontakku bangkit seperti macan bangun tidur, persis sewaktu dulu mendengar ayah hendak mengirimku ke pondok pesantren padahal aku paling tak suka hidup terpenjara dengan segala macam peraturannya. Istilah penjara suci sudah kukenal sejak mengantar kakak sepupuku ke sana.

Tanpa menunggu ibu menanggapi lamaran mereka, aku bergegas keluar. Tatapanku seolah hendak menerkam.

“Saya tidak mau menikah, masih ingin sekolah!” tolakku seperti suara anjing menyalak.

“May!” seru ibu terkejut. Selama ini dia memang selalu menekankan arti kesopanan pada anak-anaknya.

“Saya tidak ingin menikah!” tanpa peduli tatapan ibu, aku masih menatap dua tamu dengan rasa tak suka.

Keduanya saling pandang satu sama lain. Ada kecewa menyemburat di wajah mereka.

“May, masuk ke kamar!”

Baru sekali itu kudengar ibu membentak kasar. Seandainya ayah masih hidup tentu betisku tak akan luput dari sapu lidi setelah tamu pamit pulang.

Dalam tiga detik tanganku ada yang menyeret ke dapur, dan kulihat kemarahan di wajah kakak angkatku seperti marahnya induk ayam melihat anaknya diganggu.

“Tidak tahu tatakrama!” desisnya geram. Matanya melebar.

“Mereka mau menjodohkanku!” balasku melotot.

“Bicarakan baik-baik dengan Ibu setelah mereka pulang!”

“Atau setelah Ibu menerimanya?” kejarku setengah mengejek.

Tanpa menunggu jawaban aku berbalik ke kamar, lalu menutup pintu dengan kasar.

“Kalau Ibu menerima lamarannya, aku akan pergi dari rumah!” Setelah keluarga Dulaksah pulang dan ibu menerobos masuk ke kamar, aku langsung mengajukan penolakan keras disertai ancaman sebelum ibu menumpahkan kemarahan.

Bibir ibu bergetar menahan amarah dan malu, tak mampu berkata-kata.

Tentu ancamanku tidak main-main. Sebelumnya, aku pernah menghilang gara-gara dipaksa masuk ke pesantren dan seluruh keluarga kebingungan mencari ke mana-mana.

“Kalau lamaran mereka ditolak, kau bisa sangkal.” Bujuk ibu pada malam harinya. Suaranya lirih seolah dadanya pipih tertindih.

“Iya, karena ini pelamar pertama!” sambung kakak angkatku.

“Aku tak peduli. Soal menikah urusan nanti. Aku masih ingin sekolah!” jawabku ketus.

“Ini hanya bertunangan.”

“Sama saja! Tahun depan pasti mereka akan datang lagi untuk membicarakan pernikahan, dan saat itu sekolahku belum lulus.” tukasku.

“Tapi....”

“Kalau Ibu memaksa, aku akan pergi dari rumah!”

“Kau selalu begitu!” sergah kakak angkatku kesal.

Aku bangkit meninggalkan mereka berdua dengan satu penolakan yang tetap tidak bisa ditawar.

Akhirnya, lamaran terpaksa ditolak dan aku melanjutkan sekolah hingga tamat. Dengan membujuk persetujuan kakak angkatku, kuutarakan keinginan untuk kuliah ke luar kota, dan ibu terpaksa membiarkan tanpa mampu berbuat apa-apa. Dia tidak menanyakan cita-citaku, karena menurutnya, sepanjang apa perjalanan seorang perempuan, ujungnya tetap pulang ke dapur.

Kalaupun ditanya, aku sendiri juga masih bingung mau jawab apa waktu itu. Keinginanku hanya satu; ingin mengenal dunia luar.

Sebelum berangkat, hanya satu yang ibu tanyakan; kapan akan menikah?

“Jangan pernah menjodoh-jodohkan karena aku sudah memiliki pilihah sendiri!” jawabku, ketika pertanyaan yang sama sering diulang selama aku berada di tanah rantau.

Barangkali ibu menyangka aku sudah memiliki calon pasangan di tanah seberang. Sebab,  bila sudah berencana pulang, ibu kerap bertanya; dengan siapa?

Setiap kali libur panjang memang kusempatkan diri pulang kampung. Tetap sendirian. Tidak ada pemuda yang ikut hendak melamar ke hadapan orang tua, dan itu membuat ibu menyambut dengan wajah kecewa. Demikian juga kepulanganku tiga bulan lalu.

Sebelum menanyakan soal pernikahan sebagaimana biasa, ibu sempat bercerita bahwa istri Dulaksah baru saja melahirkan anaknya yang kedua dan menambahi kalau adikku sudah menginjak remaja.

“Kalau Rupah ingin menikah, menikah saja. Tak perlu merasa melangkahiku!” aku menanggapi keresahan ibu dengan tenang.

“Ini bukan soal pernikahan Rupah, tapi tentang dirimu!” potong kakak angkatku gusar.

Sejak ayah meninggal, dia yang menggantikan perannya menjaga keluarga, termasuk membiayai sekolah Rupah dan kuliahku. Dia juga yang selalu menceritakan kegelisahan ibu dan gunjingan tetangga yang menilaiku sebagai perempuan sangkal.

“Aku tidak ingin menikah, dan bagiku perempuan tidak diharuskan menikah apalagi melahirkan anak!” balasku tak mau kalah.

“Jadi....” ibu tampak kaget.

“Iya, aku sudah memiliki pilihan untuk tidak menikah sampai kapanpun!” tandasku.

Ibu menghempaskan punggung ke sandaran kursi seperti tubuh kehilangan ruh. Sementara kakak angkatku hanya melongo bengong, tak percaya.

Keduanya tahu seberapa keras kepalaku.

“Kalau saja dulu kau tidak menolak lamaran Dulaksah....” pada saat itulah kalimat ibu terhenti seperti tulang tersangkut di tenggorokan, setelah lama terdiam.

“Itulah akibatnya kalau menolak lamaran pertama!” dengus kakak angkatku, tak henti menyalahkan masa lalu.

Bibirku melengkungkan senyuman sinis. Keputusan untuk hidup mandiri tanpa pernikahan bagiku merupakan pilihan yang memang sudah kehendak tanpa anggapan bahwa itu akibat menolak pelamar pertama dulu hingga menjadikanku perawan tidak laku. Mitos itu omong kosong!

“Sudah berapa kali kubilang, jangan menolak lamaran Dulaksah, tapi kau tak mau dengar.” tambah kakak angkatku. Suaranya melemah.

“Aku mau menikah atau tidak, menolak lamaran dia tidak berpengaruh apa pun pada keputusanku!” tetakku.

“Kenyataannya hingga sekarang memang tidak ada yang melamarmu!” kembali kakak angkatku meninggikan suara.

“Kalau mau, aku bisa mendatangkan seratus lelaki dan bersujud di kaki Ibu untuk melamarku!” aku tersinggung. “Masalahnya, aku memang tidak berkeinginan untuk menerima lamaran mereka!” nada suaraku mendaki.

Beberapa teman lelaki yang pernah gigih mendekatiku berkelebat satu demi satu. Sebagian masih ada yang bertahan, lainnya mundur tak teratur memeram kecewa.

Akan tetapi, keputusanku sudah bulat. Tidak akan ada janur kuning melengkung di pintu pagar. Tidak akan ada kursi pelaminan bersandar di teras depan. Bagiku, rumah tangga adalah penjara kedua bagi perempuan. Setiap peraturan di dalamnya adalah temali yang mengikat kaki dan tangan.

Seorang istri dilarang keluar rumah tanpa ada izin suami. Bahkan sampai suami meninggal pun peraturan itu tetap berlaku selama empat bulan sepuluh hari.

Masih lekat di dinding kepalaku, ketika hujan mengguyur deras menjelang petang, sepeda motor tiba-tiba berhenti di halaman rumah. Dengan tubuh menggigil si pengendara memberi kabar bahwa kakek, ayah ibuku, sedang sakit parah.

Ibu langsung panik. Sementara ayah tampak berpikir sejenak, menatap deras hujan dan langit yang mulai gelap. Hingga si penyampai kabar pamit pulang, ayah belum memutuskan apa-apa.

Dengan gelisah dan menahan tangis ibu menatap ayah, memohon untuk segera pergi melihat keadaan kakek. Akan tetapi, ayah justru memintanya diam di rumah, menjagaku dan Rupah, sementara dia berangkat bersama kakak angkat.

Ibu sempat protes tanpa kata, namun ayah beralasan karena Rupah terlalu kecil untuk dibawa hujan-hujanan, sementara perjalanan cukup jauh dan tidak ada jas hujan. Saat itu usiaku baru 9 tahun, dan kulihat ibu tersedu di tepi ranjang sepanjang malam sambil menidurkan Rupah dalam gendongan.

Tak pernah sekali pun kulihat ibu membantah perkataan ayah, seolah dia adalah tuan bagi budaknya.

Kali ini aku pulang setelah ditelpon bahwa kakak angkatku sakit parah. Aku mendapatinya terbaring lemah dengan wajah pucat dan bibir pecah-pecah. Tulang dadanya menonjol dan lehernya seperti batang kayu kering yang sudah lapuk.

Dia menatap wajahku, menarik sudut bibir dengan sulit. Kugenggam tangannya yang dipenuhi tonjolan urat. Dia tampak jauh lebih tua dari usianya. Kulitnya kering kisut.

“Sudah sepekan dia tidak mau makan. Menelan air saja susah,” desah ibu lirih. Ada lingkaran hitam di seputar matanya yang cekung.

“Seharusnya Ibu memberithuku sejak awal,” sesalku.

“Dia yang melarang, takut mengganggu kuliahmu.”

Kata ibu, dua bulan terakhir ini dadanya sering sakit. Nafsu makannya menurun. Tubuhnya cepat lelah. Ibu baru tahu kalau dia muntah darah ketika menyapu kamarnya dan menemukan kain sarung penuh darah di kolong ranjang.

“Saat diperiksa ke dokter, kemungkinan ada tumor atau kanker pada lambung, dan harus rawat inap untuk dicek dan mengetahui kepastian penyakitnya, apalagi kondisinya sudah parah, tapi dia menolak.”

Kutatap wajah kakak angkatku dengan tatapan menyesal.

“Besok kita ke rumah sakit!” tegasku.

“Sudah Ibu paksa dari kemarin-kemarin, tapi dia bilang lebih baik uangnya digunakan untuk biaya kuliahmu!” ibu mengusap matanya dengan ujung kebaya.

“Yang paling penting kau sembuh, jangan pikirkan yang lain!”

“Aku ... tidak apa-apa,” lirihya, terbata.

Malam itu kami menjaganya bergantian. Ibu menyiapkan ember kecil berisi abu tungku jika dia muntah darah. Kusiapkan handuk kecil, bubur hangat, dan segelas air putih. Siapa tahu bisa dipaksakan untuk makan dan minum obat.

“Pakailah ini, aku melamarmu.”

Ketika tiba giliranku menjaganya di separuh malam terakhir, dia mengulurkan sebuah cincin padaku. Sisa separuh kantukku menghilang seperti kabut tersapu angin kencang.

 Cincin emas itu pernah diperlihatkan sewaktu kecil dan dia bilang akan dihadiahkan pada calon ibu dari anak-anaknya. Setahuku, itulah satu-satunya harta peninggalan orang tuanya selain rumah kuno yang dibiarkan kosong dan kemudian ambruk dimakan rayap.

“Apa-apaan kau ini!” tepisku.

Aku sudah menganggapnya sebagai kakak kandung. Dia keponakan ayah yang dipungut karena terlahir piatu. Orangnya memang sedikit keras, tapi aku tahu hatinya selembut kapas. Bahkan ayah lebih membanggakan dirinya daripada aku dan adikku.

“Jika aku ... mati sebagai tunanganmu, kau bisa ... mandi air kembang di atas pusaraku untuk ... menangkal sangkal.” Susah payah dia menyelesaikan kalimatnya dengan suara patah-patah dan nyaris tak terdengar. Sesekali diselingi batuk.

Kubuang tatapan ke sudut kamar. Dua gantungan bajunya kosong. Barangkali adikku atau ibu sudah mencucinya selama dia sakit. Jika pulang liburan, aku yang selalu menurunkan baju-baju kotornya yang apak dan kerahnya penuh daki.

“Berjanjilah, nanti ... kau akan menikah ... dan punya anak!” pintanya penuh harap, “kalau tidak, siapa ... yang akan ... mengirimiku doa?” tersenyum getir.

“Kau akan sembuh dan bisa berdoa sendiri, lalu memberikan cincin itu pada perempuan lain! Bukankah kau ingin punya anak sepuluh agar bisa diajak main bola?” aku kembali menatapnya dan mengembalikan ucapan-ucapannya sewaktu memperlihatkan cincin itu pertama kali.

“Kalau tidak sembuh?”

“Harus!” dengan nada menekan dan menahan getar di dadaku.

“Kalau ... tidak?” lirih. Matanya setengah terpejam seperti orang mengantuk.

Aku menelan ludah. Terdiam beberapa detik. “Aku yang akan selalu mendoakanmu.” Seperti orang berbisik.

“Aku tak ... yakin doa anak bandel ... dan kepala batu sepertimu ... bisa terkabul.” Kembali berusaha tersenyum sebagaimana biasa sedang melucu. Kelopak matanya sedikit terbuka.

Dia masih menganggapku anak kecil seperti dulu. Padahal usiaku sudah 27.

“Berjanjilah!” pintanya lagi. Menatap penuh harap. Meraih tanganku.

Aku tak menyahut.

“Kau ... melihat pernikahan ... dari satu ... sudut saja.”

Sebelum aku kembali, tiga bulan lalu, dia sempat menanyakan alasanku kenapa tidak mau menikah.

“Sejatinya, setiap peraturan .... untuk seorang istri ... justru demi melindunginya.”

Napasnya mendadak sengal dan wajahnya meringis menahan sakit. Sebelah tangannya mencengkram perut, sementara satunya masih memegang cincin yang belum kuterima.

Kepalaku sedikit menunduk dan dijulurkan ke perut pusara. Segayung demi segayung air kembang yang sudah dibacakan doa sebelumnya disiramkan perlahan. Membasahi rambut dan pusara kakak angkat yang sudah kuterima sebagai tunanganku sebelum mengembuskan napas terakhir. Kelopak-kelopak mawar, melati, cempaka, kenanga, dan sedap malam tersangkut di rambutku.

Setelah air dalam gerabah habis, aku mendongak menatap wajah ibu. Dalam mendung wajahnya, kulihat pelangi di kedua matanya.

Akan tetapi, kulakukan ritual ini hanya untuk memenuhi janji, tidak akan mengubah apa pun pada keputusanku selama ini.

Madura, 2021