Living Memories

March 22nd, 2014

Ah, Fitria. Outside my own family, here is someone whom I’ve known the longest (we met at our first day of elementary school) When I drew my River of Life, my relationship line with her was almost as long as my own lifeline. We’ve known each other for 22 years. It’s impossible to go that long without ups and downs. There had been fights and competitions. She’s lived in US, Cambodia, Singapore, and spent a year in Eastern Indonesia for Teach for Indonesia. I always felt she’s ahead of me, in terms of personal growth. She started dating first. She was popular when I was still shy, and by the time I found my social stride – I believe we were about 24, 25 – she had seen it all and knows what really matters.

Our biggest difference is men. She has a weakness for very kind men. I gravitate towards the extremely confident ones. This is a blessing, for we never found ourselves attracted to the same man (well, except for that one time. There’s always a “one time”.)

We’re similar in our tendency to get bored with work easily. Like me, she’s always working on something else. Unlike me, she likes to initiate things on her own, instead of involving a community. Her latest thing is a travel business. She travels like a bat (do bats travel?) and is currently in love with history. She started a travel company – visits to sites in Java and Bali, with trips designed to teach tourists about history. She has asked me about storytelling and building ambiance. Her counterparts are struck by her idealism. She knows what she wants.

When I was in Hawaii, she went through a major phase, something that passes the mind of every Indonesian girl, but only seriously considered for some: “Should I start wearing a hijab?” More than a cover for your head, there are serious social considerations. Would men still find me desirable? What would my colleagues think? Does this mean I have to be super religious? Can I still go out?

I met Fitria yesterday, the hijab-ed version of her. She looks pretty. I took her to meet Arief, whom I met in Hawaii. The kicker: I was trying to set them up. No idea if it will work out, but they both carry themselves so well in presence of strangers, it seemed like a good idea. Though neither will admit it, I know both are ready to settle down. I’ve never met Arief in Jakarta before, and he did not yet have a place in my definition of home. It was surreal to see him here, at the mall I often roamed, speaking with someone I’ve known forever.

What grounds a person? Whenever I go home, there’s constant reminders of life as I know it. It’s not just about longevity of relationships, but also the trove of memories spent together.

***

My grandmother called home. Why didn’t I tell her I was back? “Oma,” as I usually call her, “I just arrived last night.” “Well, OK. Could you bring me some pens?” Oma lives at her own house, about 30 mins away from our home. The top floor of her house is rented out as a dorm for a nearby university. Girls only. When I was a child, I used to watch the residents and think of them as living such a glamorous and exciting life. I used to sleep at my grandmothers’ house every weekend. Once in a while, Fitria would join in for sleepovers. Why not bring her now?

To my surprise, this made both Fitria and Oma very happy. They chatted and happily ignored me. Last time they met was at my sister’s wedding, Oma recalled, and Fitria was hijab-less. Fitria was impressed by Oma’s memory. How old are you, anyway? Oma is 86. She has forgotten that Fitria and I are the same age, which is understandable. When you’ve lived for more than 80 years, I imagine the trove of memories must be monumental. I was taken aback, not only because I had forgotten how old my grandmother is, but also because I was watching two women, separated by 58 years and zero blood relation, connect with such sincerity.

When I drove Fitria home, she spoke about how happy she was to be at Oma’s again. She saw pieces of herself there, and as a recent history buff, she was taken aback when faced by her own history. She saw the rooms where we used to play, and the very same dolls she used to play with. She saw old pictures of family, my family, but our lives have been so intertwined that she recognized the stages of life as if she were there. We were both there, and now we are here. How many more memories will we have here?

 May 12th, 2014

Dear MCK,

My grandmother passed away today. She entered hospital the same night I arrived home, on Thursday. I got to speak with her the next day, where she asked me various questions about Brunei and their new sharia law. Her condition deteriorated in the next 48 hours and it all happened very, very fast.

I wanted to thank you for letting me capture some of her memories during our writing challenge (March 22). I’ve never really written about the important people in my life, and I wasn’t sure how they popped up in my head for that day’s writing, but there you have it. The writing was really, majorly a gift; something I was excited to open and reopen and show to others. I showed it to Fitria, the friend I mentioned in the writing, and she took it like a gift as well. It allowed me and Fitria to remember my grandma the way we knew her all our lives.

So, thank you.