Pembagian Jatah | EPS 4

PEMBAGIAN JATAH

Matahari baru naik setinggi tombak, tapi balai desa sudah penuh. Warga asli duduk di sisi kiri, pengungsi di sisi kanan, ada jurang tak terlihat di antara mereka. Pak Teguh berdiri di tengah dengan kertas lontar di tangan—kertas itu berisi angka-angka yang sudah dihitung ulang puluhan kali. "Mulai hari ini," suaranya serak, "jatah makanan akan dibagi rata. Setiap jiwa mendapat porsi yang sama, tanpa kecuali." Darman langsung bangkit. "GILA! Kau tahu berapa persediaan kita, Teguh? Dua belas hari! Dan kau bagi sama rata dengan mereka?" Dia menunjuk ke arah pengungsi. Kusno menunduk. Wati memeluk perutnya. Anak-anak pengungsi duduk diam dengan mata kosong. Darman melanjutkan, "Kita punya hak lebih! Ini desa kita! Leluhur kita!" Beberapa warga asli mulai bersorak mendukung.

Pak Teguh memucat. Tangannya gemetar. Dia sudah begadang tiga malam, menghitung ulang persediaan, memikirkan cara terbaik. Tapi tubuhnya tak sekuat dulu. Sebelum dia sempat bicara, Baran melangkah maju dari barisan belakang. Semua orang menoleh. Baran bukan tipe orang yang banyak bicara di forum. Tapi kali ini, matanya menyala. "Darman." Suaranya datar, tapi berat. "Kau bilang ini desa kita. Leluhur kita. Lalu kau biarin anak-anak itu mati kelaparan di depan matamu?" Darman membelalak. "Jangan membalikkan keadaan, Baran! Mereka pengungsi, bukan keluarga kita!" Baran mendekat. "Mereka manusia. Dan mereka punya tangan, punya kaki, punya otak. Kau tahu Kusno? Dia petani terbaik di desanya. Dia bisa ngajari kita tanam padi di lahan miring. Kau tahu Wati? Dia jago menenun, bisa bikin kain yang laku di pasar. Mereka bukan beban, Darman. Mereka aset. Tapi kalau kau terus ribut, kalau kau paksa mereka pergi, kita sendiri yang akan kelaparan saat musim tanam karena tak cukup tenaga."

Darman terdiam. Kata-kata Baran menusuk. Di belakangnya, para petani yang tadinya bersorak mulai bergumam ragu. Baran menambahkan, "Kita hitung lagi. Buka lahan baru dengan tenaga mereka. Hasil panen nanti dibagi. Mereka kerja, mereka makan. Kalau tak kerja? Baru kita bicara. Tapi sekarang, mereka butuh makan dulu supaya punya tenaga kerja." Pak Teguh menghela napas lega. "Baran benar." Dia mengangkat kertas lontar. "Ini bukan sedekah. Ini investasi. Mereka kerja di ladang kita, mereka dapat jatah. Siapa setuju?" Tangan mulai terangkat. Satu per satu. Darman melihat sekeliling, menyadari dia kalah. Dia mendengus, duduk kembali dengan wajah merah padam. Tapi tak ada lagi teriakan.

Sore harinya, suasana ladang berbeda. Sepuluh pengungsi—termasuk Kusno—mulai bekerja di lahan yang selama ini terbengkalai. Mereka mencangkul, membersihkan rumput, menyiapkan tanah. Warga asli yang bekerja di samping mereka masih canggung, tapi setidaknya tak ada lagi caci maki. Kusno berkeringat, tapi matanya bersinar. "Tanah ini bagus," katanya pada Baran yang lewat. "Kalau dikelola benar, bisa panen dua kali setahun." Baran mengangguk. "Kau yang paham. Aku serahkan urusan ladang padamu." Kusno terkejut. "Tapi aku pengungsi, Pak." Baran menatapnya datar. "Kau juga petani. Itu yang penting."

Di bengkel kecil di belakang rumah Nini, suasana berbeda. Nini duduk di depan tungku tanah liat, tangannya memegang cangkul biasa. Di sampingnya, tumpukan batu-batuan kecil yang sudah dihaluskan. Mbok Ranti menuang air ke dalam cobek, mencampur serbuk tanaman dengan arang. "Konsentrasinya harus pas," gumam Nini. "Kalau terlalu kuat, alatnya bisa meledak." Dia mulai mengoleskan campuran itu ke mata cangkul. Tangannya bergerak pelan, penuh perhitungan. Lalu dia memejamkan mata, bergumam pelan. Udara di sekitar terasa bergetar. Cahaya redup muncul dari ujung jarinya, merambat ke campuran di cangkul. Cairan itu menyala sebentar—biru kehijauan—lalu meresap ke dalam logam. Cangkul itu kini tampak berbeda. Ada kilau redup di permukaannya. "Satu lagi," desah Nini, mengusap peluh di dahi. "Cangkul sihir untuk lahan baru."

Laras datang dengan membawa kendi air. "Nini, istirahat dulu." Nini menggeleng. "Tak bisa. Kita butuh banyak alat. Lahan baru butuh cangkul, sabit, pacul. Setiap hari harus produksi minimal dua." Mbok Ranti menambahkan, "Aku bantu. Tapi Nini, kau tahu kita tak bisa terus-terusan begini. Kita perlu asisten. Yang muda, yang bisa belajar." Nini mengangguk. "Nanti kita cari. Tapi sekarang, fokus dulu." Laras meletakkan kendi di samping Nini. Matanya menatap cangkul-cangkul yang sudah jadi. Ada rasa kagum bercampur cemas. Kekuatan Nini, kekuatan sihir ini—semakin sering digunakan, semakin besar risiko ketahuan. Tapi untuk bertahan hidup, tak ada pilihan lain.

Malam tiba. Pak Teguh belum pulang dari balai desa. Bayu datang mengantarkan makan malam, menemukan ayahnya sedang duduk dengan kepala tertunduk di atas meja. "Yah?" Bayu mendekat. Pak Teguh mengangkat wajah. Matanya merah, lingkaran hitam di bawah mata tampak jelas. "Ayah capek," gumamnya. Bayu meletakkan bungkusan daun pisang. "Ini makan malam, Yah." Pak Teguh tersenyum tipis. "Terima kasih, Nak." Dia mencoba bangun, tapi tiba-tiba pandangannya gelap. Dunia berputar. Bayu berteriak, "YAH!" Tubuh Pak Teguh ambruk. Kertas-kertas lontar berhamburan. Bayu berlari keluar, berteriak memanggil bantuan.

Kabar cepat menyebar. Pak Teguh pingsan. Warga berkumpul di depan rumahnya. Nini datang, memeriksa denyut nadi, memeriksa mata. "Kelelahan," katanya. "Stres berat. Dia perlu istirahat total." Baran mengerutkan dahi. "Siapa yang memimpin sekarang?" Semua orang saling pandang. Darman membuka mulut, tapi Baran lebih cepat. "Sementara Pak Teguh sakit, aku yang koordinasi keamanan. Tapi urusan desa... Kusno, kau bisa bantu urus logistik?" Kusno terkejut. "Aku? Tapi aku pengungsi, Pak." Baran menghela napas. "Kau yang paling paham soal hitung-hitungan persediaan. Dan kau tak punya kepentingan pribadi di sini. Lagipula, Pak Teguh percaya padamu." Kusno menunduk, lalu mengangguk pelan. "Saya coba, Pak."

Malam semakin larut. Di bengkel Nini, lampu minyak masih menyala. Dua cangkul sihir baru selesai, ditambahkan ke tumpukan. Tiga alat hari ini—sedikit meleset dari target, tapi cukup. Nini meregangkan punggungnya. "Istirahatlah, Nini," kata Mbok Ranti. "Besok kita lanjut." Nini mengangguk, melangkah keluar. Di kejauhan, dia melihat lampu di rumah Baran masih menyala. Mungkin Laras belum tidur, menemani Aryan yang belakangan sering mimpi buruk. Nini menghela napas. Banyak yang harus dijaga. Desa, rahasia, anak itu. Tapi tubuhnya tak lagi muda. "Berapa lama lagi aku kuat?" bisiknya pada angin malam.

Di bengkel yang mulai sunyi, Mbok Ranti membereskan peralatan. Tiba-tiba dia mendengar suara di luar—derap kaki pelan, lalu suara pintu bambu digerakkan. "Siapa?" Dia meraih tongkat, melangkah hati-hati. Pintu bengkel terbuka sedikit. Mbok Ranti melihat bayangan seseorang membungkuk, tangannya meraih cangkul sihir yang baru selesai. "HEH!" teriak Mbok Ranti. Bayangan itu berbalik, tapi tangannya masih menggenggam cangkul. Baran, yang kebetulan masih di sekitar, langsung berlari. Dalam hitungan detik, dia sudah mencekal lengan pencuri itu. Lampu minyak dinyalakan. Wajah pencuri itu terungkap—seorang lelaki pengungsi, kurus, dengan pakaian lusuh. Matanya liar ketakutan. "Jangan... jangan pukul saya, Pak!"

Baran menahan tangannya. "Kau tahu ini cangkul sihir? Ini benda berharga!" Lelaki itu menangis. "Saya tahu, Pak. Tapi saya... saya hanya ingin kerja lebih keras. Jatah makanan tak cukup buat anak saya. Dia masih kecil, dia selalu nangis kelaparan. Dengan cangkul ini, saya bisa kerja lebih cepat, buka lahan sendiri, tanam sendiri—" Baran terdiam. Tangannya masih menggenggam lengan lelaki itu, tapi cengkeramannya melonggar. Lelaki itu melanjutkan dengan suara tersendat, "Saya tak mau mencuri. Tapi saya tak tahu harus bagaimana. Anak saya..." Air matanya jatuh. Baran memejamkan mata. Di sekeliling, warga yang mulai berdatangan diam seribu bahasa. Mbok Ranti menatap Baran. Menunggu keputusan.

Di balik kerumunan, Aryan diam-diam muncul. Dia melihat lelaki pengungsi itu—ayah dengan mata sembab, tubuh kurus, tangan gemetar. Lalu dia melihat ke arah rumah, di mana Bayu menjaga ayahnya yang pingsan. Dan dia mendengar, samar-samar, apa yang dirasakan lelaki itu: ketakutan, putus asa, cinta pada anaknya. Seperti ada bisikan di kepala Aryan: "Dia sama seperti ayahku." Aryan menarik baju Laras. "Ma... lepaskan dia." Laras menunduk, menatap anaknya. "Aryan, ini urusan orang dewasa." Tapi Aryan menggeleng. "Dia bukan pencuri jahat, Ma. Dia ayah yang takut anaknya mati." Laras tertegun. Bagaimana Aryan tahu? Pertanyaan itu kembali menghantuinya. Tapi kali ini, dia tak sempat berpikir panjang. Baran sudah membuka suara.

"Lepaskan." Baran melepas cengkeramannya. Lelaki itu jatuh berlutut, terisak. Baran mengambil cangkul dari tangannya, meletakkannya kembali di tumpukan. Lalu dia berkata, "Besok kau ikut Kusno kerja di ladang. Aku akan tambah jatahmu setengah porsi, tapi kau harus kerja lebih keras dari yang lain. Setuju?" Lelaki itu mengangkat wajah, tak percaya. "Saya... saya setuju, Pak. Terima kasih, Pak. Terima kasih." Dia menyembah, menangis. Baran menoleh pada warga yang berkumpul. "Siapa yang keberatan?" Tak ada yang bersuara. Bahkan Darman, yang ikut datang melihat keributan, hanya menunduk. Baran menghela napas. "Sudah, bubar. Besok kita kerja lebih keras. Pak Teguh butuh kita semua."

Malam itu, Aryan tidur dengan pertanyaan baru di kepalanya. Tapi satu hal yang dia tahu pasti: ayahnya, Baran, adalah orang yang baik. Dan mungkin, hanya mungkin, dia juga ingin jadi orang baik seperti ayahnya. Di luar, angin malam bertiup lembut. Dusun Karang, untuk pertama kalinya dalam beberapa hari, terasa sedikit lebih tenang. Tapi di balik ketenangan itu, ancaman masih mengintai. Dan di dalam bengkel, di balik pintu tertutup, Nini dan Mbok Ranti duduk dengan wajah tegang. "Dia mulai bertanya, Ranti," bisik Nini. "Anak itu. Aryan. Dia mulai bertanya siapa dirinya." Mbok Ranti mengangguk. "Maka kita harus siap. Karena ketika dia tahu, tak akan ada yang bisa menghentikannya."

THE RATION DIVISION (English Version)

The sun had just risen to spear height, but the village hall was already full. Natives sat on the left, refugees on the right, with an invisible chasm between them. Pak Teguh stood in the center with a palm leaf document in hand—a paper filled with numbers recalculated dozens of times. "Starting today," his voice hoarse, "food rations will be divided equally. Every person gets the same portion, no exceptions." Darman immediately stood. "CRAZY! Do you know our supplies, Teguh? Twelve days! And you're dividing them equally with them?" He pointed at the refugees. Kusno looked down. Wati hugged her belly. Refugee children sat silently with empty eyes. Darman continued, "We have more rights! This is our village! Our ancestors!" Some natives began cheering in support.

Pak Teguh paled. His hands trembled. He'd been up for three nights, recounting supplies, thinking of the best way. But his body wasn't as strong as before. Before he could speak, Baran stepped forward from the back. Everyone turned. Baran wasn't one to speak much in forums. But this time, his eyes blazed. "Darman." His voice was flat but heavy. "You say this is our village. Our ancestors. Then you'd let those children starve before your eyes?" Darman's eyes widened. "Don't twist things, Baran! They're refugees, not our family!" Baran approached. "They're human. And they have hands, feet, brains. You know Kusno? He was the best farmer in his village. He could teach us to plant on slopes. You know Wati? She's an expert weaver, could make cloth that sells in markets. They're not burdens, Darman. They're assets. But if you keep arguing, if you force them to leave, we'll be the ones starving come planting season because we won't have enough hands."

Darman fell silent. Baran's words stung. Behind him, farmers who'd been cheering began murmuring uncertainly. Baran added, "Let's recount. Open new fields with their labor. Future harvests will be shared. They work, they eat. If they don't work? Then we'll talk. But now, they need food first so they have strength to work." Pak Teguh sighed in relief. "Baran is right." He raised the palm leaf. "This isn't charity. It's an investment. They work our fields, they get rations. Who agrees?" Hands began rising. One by one. Darman looked around, realizing he'd lost. He snorted, sat back down with a red face. But no more shouts came.

That afternoon, the fields felt different. Ten refugees—including Kusno—began working on previously abandoned land. They hoed, cleared weeds, prepared soil. Natives working beside them were still awkward, but at least no more insults. Kusno was sweating, but his eyes shone. "This land is good," he told Baran, who was passing by. "If managed properly, could harvest twice a year." Baran nodded. "You understand. I leave field matters to you." Kusno was surprised. "But I'm a refugee, sir." Baran stared flatly. "You're also a farmer. That's what matters."

In the small workshop behind Nini's house, the atmosphere was different. Nini sat before a clay furnace, holding an ordinary hoe. Beside her was a pile of finely ground stones. Mbok Ranti poured water into a mortar, mixing plant powder with charcoal. "The concentration must be precise," Nini murmured. "Too strong and the tool might explode." She began applying the mixture to the hoe's blade. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately. Then she closed her eyes, murmuring softly. The air around vibrated. A faint glow emerged from her fingertips, seeping into the mixture on the hoe. The liquid flared briefly—blue-green—then absorbed into the metal. The hoe now looked different. A faint shimmer on its surface. "One more," Nini sighed, wiping sweat from her brow. "A magic hoe for the new fields."

Laras arrived with a water jug. "Nini, rest." Nini shook her head. "Can't. We need many tools. New fields need hoes, sickles, mattocks. We must produce at least two daily." Mbok Ranti added, "I'll help. But Nini, we can't keep this up forever. We need assistants. Young ones, who can learn." Nini nodded. "We'll find them later. But now, focus." Laras placed the jug beside Nini. Her eyes looked at the finished hoes. There was awe mixed with anxiety. Nini's power, this magic—the more it was used, the greater the risk of discovery. But to survive, there was no choice.

Night fell. Pak Teguh hadn't returned from the village hall. Bayu came bringing dinner, finding his father sitting with head bowed over the table. "Dad?" Bayu approached. Pak Teguh looked up. His eyes were red, dark circles prominent. "Dad's tired," he mumbled. Bayu placed the banana leaf package. "Dinner, Dad." Pak Teguh smiled weakly. "Thank you, son." He tried to stand, but suddenly his vision darkened. The world spun. Bayu screamed, "DAD!" Pak Teguh's body collapsed. Palm leaves scattered. Bayu ran outside, shouting for help.

News spread quickly. Pak Teguh had fainted. Villagers gathered outside his house. Nini came, checking pulse, checking eyes. "Exhaustion," she said. "Severe stress. He needs total rest." Baran frowned. "Who leads now?" Everyone exchanged glances. Darman opened his mouth, but Baran was faster. "While Pak Teguh is sick, I'll coordinate security. But village affairs... Kusno, can you help manage logistics?" Kusno was shocked. "Me? But I'm a refugee, sir." Baran sighed. "You understand supply calculations best. And you have no personal interest here. Besides, Pak Teguh trusts you." Kusno looked down, then nodded slowly. "I'll try, sir."

Night deepened. In Nini's workshop, the oil lamp still burned. Two new magic hoes were finished, added to the pile. Three tools today—slightly off target, but enough. Nini stretched her back. "Rest, Nini," said Mbok Ranti. "We'll continue tomorrow." Nini nodded, stepping outside. In the distance, she saw light still on at Baran's house. Probably Laras still awake, accompanying Aryan who'd been having nightmares lately. Nini sighed. So much to protect. The village, the secret, that child. But her body was no longer young. "How much longer can I hold on?" she whispered to the night wind.

In the now-quiet workshop, Mbok Ranti was tidying tools. Suddenly she heard a sound outside—soft footsteps, then the bamboo door being moved. "Who's there?" She grabbed her staff, stepping carefully. The workshop door opened slightly. Mbok Ranti saw a figure bending, hand reaching for a newly finished magic hoe. "HEY!" she shouted. The figure turned, but still gripped the hoe. Baran, still nearby, ran immediately. Within seconds, he'd grabbed the thief's arm. Oil lamps were lit. The thief's face was revealed—a refugee man, skinny, in tattered clothes. His eyes were wild with fear. "Don't... don't hit me, sir!"

Baran held him firmly. "You know this is a magic hoe? It's precious!" The man cried. "I know, sir. But I... I just wanted to work harder. Rations aren't enough for my child. He's small, always crying from hunger. With this hoe, I could work faster, clear my own land, plant myself—" Baran fell silent. His hand still gripped the man's arm, but his hold loosened. The man continued with broken voice, "I didn't want to steal. But I didn't know what to do. My child..." Tears fell. Baran closed his eyes. Around them, villagers who'd gathered were silent. Mbok Ranti looked at Baran. Waiting for a decision.

Behind the crowd, Aryan appeared silently. He saw the refugee man—a father with swollen eyes, thin body, trembling hands. Then he looked toward his house, where Bayu watched over his unconscious father. And he heard, faintly, what that man felt: fear, despair, love for his child. Like a whisper in Aryan's head: "He's just like my father." Aryan tugged Laras's clothes. "Mom... let him go." Laras looked down at her son. "Aryan, this is adult business." But Aryan shook his head. "He's not a bad thief, Mom. He's a father afraid his child will die." Laras was stunned. How did Aryan know? That question haunted her again. But this time, she couldn't think long. Baran was already speaking.

"Release him." Baran let go. The man fell to his knees, sobbing. Baran took the hoe from his hands, placed it back on the pile. Then he said, "Tomorrow you'll join Kusno working the fields. I'll add half a portion to your ration, but you must work harder than the others. Agreed?" The man looked up, disbelieving. "I... I agree, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you." He bowed, crying. Baran turned to the gathered villagers. "Anyone objects?" No one spoke. Even Darman, who'd come to see the commotion, just looked down. Baran sighed. "Go home. Tomorrow we work harder. Pak Teguh needs all of us."

That night, Aryan slept with new questions in his head. But one thing he knew for sure: his father, Baran, was a good man. And maybe, just maybe, he also wanted to be a good man like his father. Outside, the night wind blew softly. Dusun Karang, for the first time in days, felt a little calmer. But beneath that calm, threats still lurked. And in the workshop, behind closed doors, Nini and Mbok Ranti sat with tense faces. "He's starting to ask, Ranti," Nini whispered. "That child. Aryan. He's starting to ask who he is." Mbok Ranti nodded. "Then we must prepare. Because when he knows, nothing will stop him."

Terima kasih sudah mampir! Jika kamu menikmati konten ini dan ingin menunjukkan dukunganmu, bagaimana kalau mentraktirku secangkir kopi? 😊 Ini adalah gestur kecil yang sangat membantu untuk menjaga semangatku agar terus membuat konten-konten keren. Tidak ada paksaan, tapi secangkir kopi darimu pasti akan membuat hariku jadi sedikit lebih cerah. ☕️

☕ Buy Me Coffee

Share :