TANGLED

Maybe one day, when we are finally living in the same country, you’d tell me why a long-distance call from you always left a big lump in my throat.
Maybe one day, you will miss me enough to fly home.
Maybe one day, I will miss you enough to let go of my life.


Across thousands and thousands of miles, across vast lands and gigantic ocean, your voice flew to me. I imagined cables –thousands of miles of them, some extended up above our heads, some buried deep in the bed of the Pacific ocean– and I imagined microwave antennas –standing alone on top of tall buildings, or somewhere atop a mountain– all of them carried your voice to me. Your voice ran to me, from South Pole where it was almost midnight, to Jakarta when it was dusk, through many barriers. Through dust and water and air. I wonder why your voice can push through all barriers and find my ears, and why you yourself cannot push through all barriers and find my person back home.

I wonder why those cables and antennas and the air and the land and the ocean can bring me your voice, every word, every comma, every breath, every pause you take. I wonder why they cannot bring you home to me.

“Is it you?” you had said, and I wondered whether it could be anybody else.
“Are you coming home for the holidays?” was what I asked. I know you are tired of that question, tired of saying ‘no’ all the time. I’ve asked you whether you are going home for summer holiday, winter holiday, spring holiday, Lebaran holiday, Christmas holiday, Chinese New Year holiday, anything, any reason I could find, just so that I finally can hear you say ‘yes.’

“I will, in February,” you said. “I can’t wait”, I told you. In English. Because I can’t say that in Indonesian. You know how I speak in Indonesian, think in English and Indonesian, and feel in English. Anything I feel is expressed in English. You, held close to my heart, I have so many English words for you. I know you have yours for me too.

“What was that?” you said, and through millions of kilometres of cables I could hear a tiny laugh came out of your mouth, tiny ringing laugh, as if you wanted to say “Please say that again, though of course I heard you the first time, I just wanted to hear you say that again because I’m this giant-walking-ego and I need you to feed that ego.”

“I can’t wait,” said I.
“Pardon?”
“Cannot wait.” said I obediently.
“Apa?” you persisted.
“Forget it,” I told you. Then I heard that tiny ringing laugh of yours again, satisfied because you’d made me say how much I wanted you three times in a row.

“So have you sent out your research proposals to universities here?” you asked urgently.
“Uh, I, it’s too difficult.”
“Of course it is. So where did you send them to?”
“I made only one, and it’s not good.”
“Where did you send it to?”
“Uh..Auckland.” I lied again. I simply couldn’t bear saying I didn’t make any efforts to go there.
“That’s very good. Oh that’s very, very good. Superb.”

Then I told you some technical aspects which made it not too good, at least to my pessimistic eye. And you told me things would be less difficult if I could study in Wellington instead. And whether I could for just one tiny second forget my pride and let you take care of me for just awhile, let myself be financially-dependant to you for just one itty-bitty moment.

“And then,” from across the Pacific Ocean where you stood, you whispered into my ears: “you can find a job here. I promise you, you can find one here.”

Oh dear God in heavens, how could you be so sure? Have you forgotten how I spent six years, six long miserable goddamn years doing monkey jobs, in my own country, where I speak the language fluently and know how things are done, with two university diplomas all legal and valid, in my own country, with two academic transcripts showing six and a half years of hard work, how I finally landed a job I love, which to some people are still a monkey job, only with more responsibilities? Do you want me to clean tables in South Poles, they don’t acknowledge my diplomas, do you have the heart to see me, one female version of you, me who has an ego as big as yours, if not bigger, do you have the heart to see me doing monkey jobs all over again, just to finally be with you?

“Find a job? You mean like selling myself on the street?” I tried to laugh.
“No, selling yourself will make you ineligible for a permanent-residency permit.”
I laughed all right, but at the same time tears came out of my eyes and I swore to God I didn’t mean to cry. I didn’t know where those tears came from; maybe, maybe some dust got into my eyes.

“We will find a way. There will be a way,” you said. Through thousands of miles of cables, through microwaves tapped by antennas faraway, I could hear your unsure tone.

“Do you pray for us? Do you pray that one day you’ll be here?” you asked suddenly.
“Praying is useless.” I said, not stating the obvious. The obvious being that of course it had been a long time since I stopped praying, since I stopped hoping that things would be okay between us.
“No. Praying is never useless. So pray. Hard. I never stop praying.”
And I almost laughed out loud, because here was a man who got drunk religiously (except during the fasting month) telling me to pray, telling me how he never stopped praying. But then I remembered that I was worse than him, so his preach was actually acceptable.

Oh and it started to grow. The lump. It started to grow so big, so big, inside my throat. “I will pray then,” was what I told you next, hoping it wouldn’t be another lie.

“You sound funny, are you crying?”
“No I’m not.”
“Okay..now..what are you doing at home?”
“Nothing, you?”
“Nothing.”

It was quiet for a long time, I could hear you breathe in another place, another time. Another galaxy away.

“Let’s talk again soon.”
“Yes, let’s.”

And with that, with a click of a phone, I was, once again, shut away from you.
The land is vast between us, the ocean enormous and impossible to cross.

Now the only thing left for me to do is opening my mouth, and letting that lump out of my throat. In the form of, yes, big gulps of tears.

With or without praying, dearest, I hope there will be a day when we are finally living in the same country, and you’d tell me why a long-distance call from you always left a big lump in my throat.
I hope there will be one day, when you miss me enough to fly home.
Or, or this: there will be one day, when I miss you enough to let go of my life.