Hiduplah dan Maknalah Hidup…

An adaptation of Oscar Wilde’s “The Nightingale and The Rose”

“If only I had a red rose, she will come with me to the ball tomorrow and dance with me. Where can I find one? Oh, God! I’m so in love with her! I’ll do everything!

“But I don’t know what to do now. In this winter, where can I find a red rose? Where?”

The student was sad. He saw no hope to find any red rose to give the girl.  He was desperate, and wept alone on the grass field. Then suddenly, a Nightingale, peeking from her nest on the oak tree said, “Who said the word ‘love’? Who said the song that I sing every second, the one that I adore?”

“It’s the boy on the grass field,” said the oak tree. “He is crying down there.”

“WHAT’S THE USE OF THOSE PHILOSOPHIES!? BLOODY METAPHISICAL!” The student started to curse. “Every day I read those books. I learn, memorize, but where does it brings me? I’m lonely as in a solitude hell! I can’t even give a red rose to the one I love! ARRGH!!”

The Nightingale pitied the young student. She wanted to help him, because she love human’s love for each other. “Boy! Don’t you know that love is wiser than any philosophy, and stronger than any power!? Here I’ll help you find the red rose,” said she, chirping loudly.

“Shut up you bird! Even your chirping sounded like a mockery to me!” The boy threw a stone to the Nightingale. He couldn’t understand what she said; then he cried on the grass.

The nightingale flew through the forest, seeking for a red rose tree. She came across a white rose tree, and the tree said that the red rose tree grew beneath the boy’s window. So the nightingale flew back, and went to the boy’s house. She found the tree beneath the window, and found no rose. She asked the tree, “Could you give me a red rose, please; I promise if you could, I’ll sing the most beautiful song you’ll ever heard.”

            “Can’t you see,” said the tree, “I can’t bloom anymore. The winter had made me blossomless.”

            “Oh, no! Where can I find a red rose for the boy, then?”

            “Maybe on another part of the world that doesn’t have a winter,” answered the tree. “Or… I think I know the way to get it fast. But you aren’t going to like it.”

            “Tell me,” said the Nightingale.

            “I can bloom a red rose, the brightest one, if only you can sacrifice yourself. Tonight, when the full moon shines brightly, you should stab your chest to my thorn here. Then you should sing as lovely as you can before the dawn come, so that a white rose may bloom. When the sun almost rises, you should push my thorn so it will touch your heart. Once it gets the blood from your heart, your blood will fill my veins and colored the rose to red. Then you will die.”

            The nightingale thought for a moment. Then she said, “What’s the bird’s life means, compare to a man’s love. Although I love to see the sunrise, to sing about love, and make others happy, I prefer to see a man gives his love and get his happiness. Alright, I’ll sacrifice.”

            That night, when the full moon was shining bright, the Nightingale stabbed her self to the rose tree’s thorn. She was in so much pain, that blood flows through her chest. Then she sang the song of compassion and love. She kept singing, ignoring the pain. She thought about the student, and the girl he loved. She thought about the wonderful things that happened in her life, her love for nature; her love for human. Then suddenly, a white rose was blossoming from the tree.

            Then the sun was almost rising. “Quick!” said the tree. “Push yourself deeper. Let my thorn touch your heart, let your blood flow through my vein!”

            The Nightingale pushed herself. She let the thorn touched her heart. She can’t bear the pain any longer. She stopped singing and fell down to the earth. The sun had risen. The rose was red. And the nightingale was dead.

            In the morning, the boy looked through his window and found the red rose. He was so happy and he picked it up then ran to see the girl.

            “Here it is. You’ve promised to dance with me if I give you a red rose.” The boy said.

            “Sorry,” replied the girl. “Yesterday evening the duke’s son came to my house and gave me lots of diamonds. So I will go with him. You can keep your red rose for other girl.”

            The student was disappointed. “Damn! This love stuff is just a waste of time. I rather go back to my study. This is useless.”

            He threw the rose to the street. Then a carriage went by and ran it over. It was over then: the life of the Nightingale, the Rose and

the Love.

…is it?

for tamie

Aku adalah pakaian yang dijemur di waktu malam. Pemilikku memakaiku beberapa hari sampai entah debu, kotoran, keringat daki atau apa lagi yang sudah menempel lekat padaku. Aku ditaruh di ember, direndam dengan deterjen selama setengah jam, lalu dikucek-kucek oleh si mbok, pembantu pemakaiku. Di ember aku sempat bertemu beberapa kawan seperti celana jeans, jaket, kaos oblong, dan pakaian dalam.

             Kawan-kawanku tidak mengalami nasib yang sama denganku. Si celana jeans misalnya, ia dipakai oleh adik perempuan pemakaiku. Per empuan itu sangat menjaga kebersihan pakaian, kata si celana jeans. Ia selalu menaruh cucian setiap hari. Tidak seperti pemakaiku yang jarang pulang dan malas, jangankan mencuci, untuk menaruh pakaiannya di bak cuciannya pun ia malas.

Si Jaket beludru lain lagi ceritanya. Ia adalah milik ayah pemakaiku. Ia penuh noda cat minyak karena ayah pemakaiku adalah seorang pelukis yang tak pernah membuang percuma inspirasi. Begitu ia mendapat ide, ia langsung menuju studio lukisnya dan mulai melukis. Kata kawanku si jaket beludru, pemakainya benar-benar kesetanan begitu bertemu seorang perempuan cantik. Ia langsung membawanya ke studio lukis, melukisnya lalu bersenggama dengan perempuan itu.

Mungkin yang paling kasihan adalah  nasib si pakaian dalam. Pakaian dalam itu milik adik perempuan pemakaiku. Seperti sudah kubilang, pemakai pakaian dalam itu sangat peduli akan kebersihan pakaiannya, apalagi pakaian dalam. Tapi, kata si pakaian dalam, si BH dan celana dalam, mereka sempat kesal ketika masih ditaruh di bak cucian kamar mandi. Karena pemakaiku suka membuka ember pakaian dan mengambil mereka, lalu masturbasi dengan menghirup-hirup si BH dan si celana dalam. Nasib kalian kawan…

***

Aku adalah pakaian yang dijemur di waktu malam; sehelai kaos bergambar bibir merah pemberian seorang perempuan untuk pemakaiku. Hari itu si mbok yang sudah tua nampak kelelahan dengan segala pekerjaan rumah tangga dan masih memaksakan diri untuk mencuci di waktu malam sebelum tidur. Aku digantung dan dijepit dua jepitan. Tetapi itu tak lama…

Pemakaiku tiba-tiba datang ke atap tempat aku dijemur, menariku dan langsung mengenakanku yang masih basah. Ia turun ke bawah, mengambil tas dan memasukan semua pakaian di lemarinya ke dalam tas ransel itu. Seorang perempuan masuk ke kamar. Ibu pemakaiku. Ia menangis sambil marah-marah. Ia mencaci maki pemakaiku, menamparnya. Aku mendengar semuanya. Aku lihat semuanya. Si pemakaiku membanting ibunya. Ia menelanjanginya, membuka celana, mengeluarkan kelaminnya lalu memperkosa ibunya. Ia tampar ibunya berkali-kali. Ayahnya datang dan menghajar pemakaiku, aku berlumuran darah yang mengucur dari mulut pemakaiku.

Pemakaiku menggapai tas ranselnya dan mengambil suntikan yang ada di saku tas. Cepat-cepat ia membuka pelindung jarumnya dan menusuk ayahnya. Pertama di leher, lalu di mata, dan ia mematahkan jarum itu di mata ayahnya. Ayahnya berteriak-teriak, dan meronta kesakitan. Ibunya pun berteriak-teriak. Si pemakaiku keluar kamar, berjalan melewati ruang tamu dan di sofa ruang tamu, aku lihat adik perempuan pemakaiku telanjang tanpa busana, kedua tangannya diikat ikat pinggang dan dari mulutnya keluar busa.

Ia keluar dari rumah bersamaku malam itu. Ia berlari menuju jalan raya. Ia lalu berlari kearah kiri, berlawanan arah dengan jalan raya. Di depan kami sebuah truk melaju dengan cepatnya, dan pemakaiku menabrakan dirinya pada truk itu.

Aku adalah pakaian yang berlumuran darah di waktu malam. Kalian pasti bertanya-tanya apa yang sedang terjadi. Jangan tanya aku, akupun tak tahu. Aku pun tahu pasti bahwa tuhan yang mengetik cerita ini juga tak mengerti. Mungkin itu yang harus kurenungi kalau aku masih bisa berstatus pakaian; bukan sampah, bukan pel, tapi pakaian. Entahlah.

This is the end. My only friend: the end…JM