sepi dan sendiri aku benci
java, park slope, brooklyn. 5:31 pm, october 5.
this is not terong balado
my auntie said
as she video calls me on whatsapp
and drives her family subaru
out of her elmhurst driveway.
see i live a bajillion train transfers away from awang kitchen and sky cafe and indo java and upi
jaya (rest in peace)
all i have of home, in this tiny brooklyn apartment, is:
ada apa dengan cinta in its fragile plastic box
dian sastro banging the airport window as nicholas saputra leaves her for new york
(at least they kissed, right?)
she read the notebook he left for her and she smiled at the sky
that silly kind of childish love.
i called you on your parents’ landline before i left you for new york.
i wished you would chase me just as dian sastro did
(i embarrass myself just thinking about that sometimes.)
or maybe i’ll go back like nicholas saputra
and take you on an odyssey across jogja
and we’ll eat sate klathak on a stormy night
and you’ll end up leaving your fiancé for me
that kind of childish love.
instead i’m here
eating terong balado that’s not exactly terong balado
but the fake thing will substitute for the real thing
until the fake thing doesn’t seem fake anymore
until the terong balado tastes like my aunt’s terong balado
and your double tastes like you
this is not terong balado
my auntie said
as she video calls me on whatsapp
and drives her family subaru
out of her elmhurst driveway.
see i live a bajillion train transfers away from awang kitchen and sky cafe and indo java and upi
jaya (rest in peace)
all i have of home, in this tiny brooklyn apartment, is:
ada apa dengan cinta in its fragile plastic box
dian sastro banging the airport window as nicholas saputra leaves her for new york
(at least they kissed, right?)
she read the notebook he left for her and she smiled at the sky
that silly kind of childish love.
i called you on your parents’ landline before i left you for new york.
i wished you would chase me just as dian sastro did
(i embarrass myself just thinking about that sometimes.)
or maybe i’ll go back like nicholas saputra
and take you on an odyssey across jogja
and we’ll eat sate klathak on a stormy night
and you’ll end up leaving your fiancé for me
that kind of childish love.
instead i’m here
eating terong balado that’s not exactly terong balado
but the fake thing will substitute for the real thing
until the fake thing doesn’t seem fake anymore
until the terong balado tastes like my aunt’s terong balado
and your double tastes like you
an anger like pyroclastic flow
seated buddha amitabha, java, 9th century
i always return to gallery 247 to see what they stole from us.
a headless buddha greets me by the door.
(do these tourists know
that he is made
from the volcanic rocks of mount merapi?)
i remember that drive down magelang;
palm trees bearing the weight of ashes
endless chores
sweeping balconies like sisyphus
a reminder of the unrelenting want of the earth
humans are too meek to refuse.
meanwhile, buddha sits clean in manhattan
knowingly, separated, disappeared from his birthright
a gift from [insert dutch name here]
donated by [insert japanese name here]
and independence day wasn’t our independence:
the smiling general sold his soul in exchange for a throne in the west.
and where is marsinah? munir? wiji thukul?
who will write the song for the bengawan solo in ‘65, unsung, flowing red with blood?
we have mourned from merapi, from krakatau,
to ‘04 aceh and ‘06 jogja.
in a dream i walked into 247 to an empty room.
none of the buddhas were there.
white linen covering the furniture,
nothing to see but silence.
in manhattan, i wish i was clean
i always return to gallery 247 to see what they stole from us.
a headless buddha greets me by the door.
(do these tourists know
that he is made
from the volcanic rocks of mount merapi?)
i remember that drive down magelang;
palm trees bearing the weight of ashes
endless chores
sweeping balconies like sisyphus
a reminder of the unrelenting want of the earth
humans are too meek to refuse.
meanwhile, buddha sits clean in manhattan
knowingly, separated, disappeared from his birthright
a gift from [insert dutch name here]
donated by [insert japanese name here]
and independence day wasn’t our independence:
the smiling general sold his soul in exchange for a throne in the west.
and where is marsinah? munir? wiji thukul?
who will write the song for the bengawan solo in ‘65, unsung, flowing red with blood?
we have mourned from merapi, from krakatau,
to ‘04 aceh and ‘06 jogja.
in a dream i walked into 247 to an empty room.
none of the buddhas were there.
white linen covering the furniture,
nothing to see but silence.
in manhattan, i wish i was clean
About the Author
Patricia Kusumaningtyas (24, they/she) is an Indonesian director & playwright based in Brooklyn, NY. Their play “Some Things Last a Long Time” received a staged reading at the Drama League in 2022. Previously, they also wrote and directed Al Pacino Eyes (2022) for The Players' Theatre Short Play Festival in New York. Besides working in the realm of theatre and poetry, she is also a tech worker and a film & music critic/writer.