Sejengkal Tanah Abu | EPS 1
Sejengkal Tanah Abu
Matahari pagi merangkak naik di ufuk timur, menyinari Dusun Karang dengan cahaya jingga yang tak lagi hangat. Tiga puluh rumah panggung reyot berjejer tak beraturan, beberapa miring, beberapa hanya bertahan karena diikat dengan rotan. Atap-atap ilalang kering menganga di sana-sini, memperlihatkan langit kelabu yang enggan menurunkan hujan.
Dusun ini dulu subur, kata orang-orang tua. Tapi itu sebelum Aryan lahir. Sekarang, yang tersisa hanya tanah kering berdebu, sungai yang menyusut menjadi kali keruh, dan pohon beringin besar di tengah lapangan yang mati lima tahun lalu—batangnya tetap berdiri, seperti monumen keputusasaan.
Di salah satu rumah panggung paling pinggir, seorang anak laki-laki berusia lima tahun terbangun bukan oleh ayam—karena ayam sudah lama habis dimakan—tapi oleh suara perutnya sendiri yang keroncongan keras. Aryan membuka mata, menguceknya dengan tangan kotor, lalu menatap langit-langit anyaman bambu. Untuk sesaat, ia masih berada di dalam mimpi. Mimpi tentang meja panjang penuh makanan: nasi putih mengepul, daging panggang berlemak, ubi jalar yang merekah. Ia baru saja hendak meraih paha ayam goreng saat suara perutnya membangunkan.
Aryan duduk, merasakan kepalanya sedikit pusing. Ia sudah terbiasa. Di sampingnya, tikar anyaman masih kosong—ayahnya, Baran, belum pulang dari hutan. Atau sudah pulang dan pergi lagi? Ia tak tahu. Di dapur kecil yang hanya berupa tungku tanah liat dan periuk retak, Laras, ibunya, sedang menyalakan api dengan sisa-sisa kayu bakar.
“Aryan,” panggil Laras tanpa menoleh, suaranya lembut meski serak. “Kau bangun? Kemari, Mama mau bicara.”
Aryan merangkak turun dari tikar, berjalan mendekati ibunya. Laras berjongkok di depan tungku, wajahnya pucat, matanya sayu. Usianya baru dua puluh enam, tapi kerutan di keningnya membuatnya tampak lebih tua. Ia menatap anaknya dengan senyum tipis—senyum yang biasa ia pakai untuk menyembunyikan segalanya.
“Dengar, Nak. Hari ini Mama minta tolong. Ladang belakang, dekat sungai kecil, masih ada sisa-sisa umbi liar mungkin. Tapi kau harus hati-hati, jangan terlalu dalam masuk hutan. Hanya di tepi saja. Paham?”
Aryan mengangguk. “Paham, Ma.”
Laras mengelus rambut anaknya yang kusut. “Mama akan masak air dulu. Nanti kalau kau dapat umbi, kita rebus untuk makan siang.”
Ia tak bilang bahwa itu mungkin satu-satunya makanan hari ini. Ia tak bilang bahwa persediaan di rumah hanya cukup untuk dua hari lagi. Ia tak bilang bahwa ia sendiri sudah dua hari hanya makan satu kali sehari, porsi setengah dari biasanya. Aryan terlalu kecil untuk memikul beban itu. Atau setidaknya, itu yang Laras yakini.
***
Ladang di belakang desa adalah hamparan tanah kering yang dulu ditanami ubi dan singkong. Sekarang, yang tersisa hanya batang-batang mati dan rumput liar yang juga mulai mengering. Aryan berjalan menyusuri tepi ladang, matanya awas memindai tanah. Ia sudah sering melakukan ini—sejak umur empat tahun, ibunya mengajarinya mencari umbi liar, akar-akaran, apa pun yang bisa dimakan.
“Lihat daunnya,” pernah Laras mengajarinya sambil menunjuk tanaman liar. “Kalau daunnya lebar dan menjalar ke tanah, di bawahnya mungkin ada umbi. Tapi jangan harap besar, biasanya kecil saja.”
Aryan berjongkok di dekat semak-semak kering. Daun-daun lebar menjalar, tapi layu. Ia meraba tanah di bawahnya—keras, tapi sedikit gembur di permukaan. Dengan hati-hati, ia menggali dengan tangannya. Kotoran masuk ke sela-sela kuku, tapi ia tak peduli. Tanah digali sedikit demi sedikit, hingga jarinya menyentuh sesuatu yang keras.
Umbi. Kecil, seukuran dua ruas jarinya, kotor oleh tanah. Tapi umbi.
Aryan tersenyum. Ia memasukkan umbi itu ke dalam kantong anyaman yang ia bawa, lalu melanjutkan pencarian. Satu jam kemudian, ia menemukan dua lagi—satu sebesar kepalan bayi, satu lagi lebih kecil dari jempol. Tiga umbi liar. Bukan banyak, tapi cukup untuk membuat ibunya tersenyum.
Ia sedang membersihkan tanah dari umbi ketiga saat suara gemerisik dari semak membuatnya menoleh. Seekor tikus besar—sebesar lengan bayi—melompat keluar dan berlari ke arah hutan. Aryan terkejut, hampir jatuh. Tikus itu, mungkin juga kelaparan, mencari makanan di ladang yang sama tandusnya.
“Dasar tikus,” gumam Aryan, lalu kembali ke umbinya.
***
Baran pulang menjelang sore. Langkahnya berat, bahunya turun, dan dari kejauhan Aryan sudah bisa melihat ada yang tidak beres. Lengan ayahnya—lengan kiri—berlumuran darah kering. Cakaran panjang, seperti kena binatang buas. Tapi tak ada rusa. Tak ada babi hutan. Tak ada apa pun.
“Baran!” Laras berlari menyambut, wajahnya panik. “Kau kenapa? Luka itu—"
“Cakaran macan tutul,” Baran memotong, suaranya serak. “Aku lihat jejaknya, ikuti sampai ke sarang. Tapi saat aku mendekat, ia kabur. Terlalu cepat. Luka ini kena ranting waktu aku kejar.”
Laras menarik suaminya masuk ke rumah, segera mengambil kain dan air bersih. Aryan hanya bisa memandang dari ambang pintu, melihat ayahnya yang perkasa kini tampak rentan. Darah itu—darah ayahnya—membuat perutnya mual. Tapi ia juga lega. Ayahnya masih hidup. Luka, tapi hidup.
Baran menoleh, melihat anaknya. Matanya melembut. “Aryan, kemari.”
Aryan mendekat. Baran mengelus rambutnya dengan tangan kanan—yang tak terluka. “Kau dapat umbi? Ibu bilang kau ke ladang.”
Aryan mengangguk, mengeluarkan tiga umbi kecil dari kantongnya. “Tiga, Yah. Kecil-kecil.”
Baran tersenyum—tapi senyum itu menyimpan kesedihan yang tak terucap. “Kau anak hebat.” Ia menarik napas panjang. “Ayah tak dapat apa-apa. Hutan makin sunyi. Hewan-hewan pergi lebih dalam, atau mati.”
Laras diam, terus membersihkan luka suaminya. Tak ada yang perlu dikatakan. Semua sudah tahu. Musim kemarau berkepanjangan, hutan meranggas, hewan-hewan bermigrasi atau mati kelaparan. Di dusun, persediaan makanan menipis dengan cepat.
***
Malam itu, api unggun kecil dinyalakan di tengah lapangan dekat pohon beringin mati. Kepala Desa Teguh, pria tua dengan kaki palsu dari kayu, memanggil semua warga. Tiga puluh kepala keluarga berkumpul, duduk di tanah kering, wajah-wajah kurus dengan mata cekung.
Teguh berdiri dengan tongkat di tangan, tubuhnya yang renta tampak lebih kecil dari biasanya. “Warga Dusun Karang,” suaranya berat. “Kita harus bicara soal persediaan makanan.”
Keheningan mencekik. Beberapa anak merengek kelaparan, segera dibungkam oleh ibu mereka.
“Aku sudah hitung,” lanjut Teguh. “Rata-rata keluarga di dusun ini hanya punya persediaan untuk tiga hari ke depan. Tiga hari. Setelah itu, kita tak tahu harus makan apa.”
Seorang wanita tua menangis tersedu. Yang lain mulai berbisik-bisik, curiga pada tetangganya sendiri. “Mungkin ada yang sembunyikan makanan,” bisik seseorang, cukup keras untuk didengar. “Mungkin keluarga kaya itu punya lebih.”
“Diam!” bentak Teguh. “Tak ada yang kaya di sini! Kita semua sama-sama susah. Kalau mulai saling curiga, kita akan hancur sebelum lapar membunuh kita.”
Tapi peringatan itu mungkin sudah terlambat. Mata-mata mulai saling menghindar. Beberapa keluarga pulang lebih awal, mengunci pintu rapat-rapat. Suasana dusun, yang tadinya hangat meski miskin, mulai membeku oleh kecurigaan.
***
Di rumah mereka, Laras memasak tiga umbi kecil itu. Ia merebusnya hingga empuk, lalu membaginya—satu untuk Baran, satu untuk Aryan, satu untuk dirinya sendiri. Tapi porsinya tak sebanding dengan perut kosong seharian. Aryan menghabiskan umbinya dalam tiga gigitan, masih lapar, tapi ia tak berani minta lagi.
Baran makan pelan, mengunyah lama-lama. Lukanya sudah dibalut, tapi rasa sakit mungkin masih ada. Atau mungkin yang lebih sakit adalah kenyataan bahwa ia tak bisa memberi makan keluarganya.
“Besok aku akan coba lagi,” katanya akhirnya. “Lebih dalam ke hutan. Mungkin ada rusa yang tersesat.”
Laras memegang tangannya. “Hati-hati, Baran. Jangan terlalu dalam. Banyak binatang buas.”
“Binatang buas lebih baik daripada pulang dengan tangan kosong,” jawab Baran getir.
***
Malam itu Aryan tak bisa tidur. Perutnya keroncongan terus, keras, seperti ada sesuatu yang meronta di dalam. Ia berbaring di samping ibunya, menatap gelap, membayangkan meja makan dalam mimpinya tadi pagi. Nasi putih, daging panggang, ubi jalar merekah. Ia bisa membayangkan rasanya, hangatnya, bagaimana makanan itu mengisi perut hingga kenyang.
Ia hampir tertidur saat mendengar suara ibunya bangkit. Aryan memicingkan mata, melihat bayangan Laras bergerak ke dapur. Beberapa saat kemudian, ibunya kembali, duduk di sampingnya. Lalu, tangan lembut itu menggesek-gesek rambutnya.
Aryan pura-pura tidur. Ia ingin tahu apa yang ibunya lakukan.
Laras duduk lama, sangat lama. Lalu, ia berbaring. Aryan menunggu hingga napas ibunya teratur, lalu perlahan membuka mata. Di bawah sinar bulan yang masuk lewat celah dinding bambu, ia melihat piring kecil di samping ibunya. Kosong.
Tapi di mulut ibunya, ada sisa-sisa umbi. Sedikit, hampir tak terlihat. Aryan mengerutkan dahi. Lalu ia ingat—ibunya belum makan umbinya tadi malam. Ia menyimpannya. Dan sekarang, di kegelapan malam, ibunya makan sendiri? Itu tidak masuk akal. Laras selalu berbagi. Laras selalu memastikan Aryan dan Baran makan dulu.
Aryan baru sadar saat fajar tiba.
***
Pagi itu, Laras tak bangun.
Aryan menemukannya masih berbaring di tikar, matanya terpejam, napasnya lemah. Ia coba membangunkannya, tapi Laras hanya mengerang pelan. Baran, yang baru bangun, langsung panik. Ia meraba dahi istrinya—dingin, berkeringat dingin.
“Laras! Laras, bangun!” Ia menepuk-nepuk pipi istrinya, tapi tak ada respons berarti.
Aryan berdiri di samping, gemetar. “Yah, kenapa Ibu? Kenapa Ibu tak bangun?”
Baran tak menjawab. Ia melihat piring kosong di samping Laras. Lalu ia ingat—tadi malam, Laras tak makan. Ia memberikan porsinya pada Baran, bilang sudah kenyang. Tapi Baran tak tahu. Tak tahu bahwa istrinya berbohong.
“Dia... dia kasih makanannya untuk kita,” bisik Baran, suara pecah. “Dia tak makan semalam.”
Aryan membeku. Kata-kata itu masuk, perlahan, seperti air meresap ke tanah kering. Ibunya tak makan. Ibunya memberikan porsi untuknya. Dan sekarang ibunya pingsan.
“IBU!” Aryan menjerit, melompat ke samping Laras, memeluk tubuh ibunya yang dingin. Air mata meledak, tak terbendung. Ia menangis, menangis, menangis, sambil memeluk ibunya yang tak sadarkan diri. “Ibu kenapa? Ibu jangan mati! Ibu jangan tinggal Aryan!”
Baran segera menggendong Laras, membawanya keluar. “Aryan, tinggal di sini! Ayah bawa Ibu ke dukun!”
Tapi Aryan tak bisa tinggal. Ia berlari mengikuti, menangis terus, tubuh kecilnya gemetar oleh ketakutan. Di luar, matahari pagi bersinar terang, tapi dunia Aryan terasa gelap. Gelap oleh ketakutan kehilangan satu-satunya orang yang selalu memberinya kehangatan, meskipun perutnya kosong.
Baran berlari ke rumah dukun desa, diikuti Aryan yang terus menangis. Beberapa warga keluar, melihat, ikut cemas. Di antara mereka, ada yang berbisik, “Kasihan... itu keluarga Baran? Istrinya pingsan karena lapar.”
Aryan mendengar itu. Karena lapar. Ibunya lapar karena memberi makan dia.
Ia berhenti menangis. Bukan karena tak sedih, tapi karena sesuatu yang lain—rasa bersalah yang begitu berat, begitu dalam, begitu menghancurkan, hingga air mata tak lagi bisa keluar. Ia hanya bisa berdiri di depan rumah dukun, memandangi pintu tertutup, berharap ibunya selamat.
Di dalam hatinya, sebuah tekad kecil mulai tumbuh. Tekad yang tak akan ia ucapkan pada siapa pun, tapi akan ia buktikan pada dirinya sendiri: Aku tak akan biarkan ibu lapar lagi. Apa pun yang terjadi.
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. ☕️
A Handful of Ash Land
The morning sun crawled up the eastern horizon, illuminating Dusun Karang with an orange light that no longer felt warm. Thirty rickety stilt houses stood in irregular rows, some tilting, some held together only by rattan bindings. Dried thatch roofs gaped here and there, revealing the gray sky reluctant to let rain fall.
This hamlet used to be fertile, the elders said. But that was before Aryan was born. Now, all that remained was dry, dusty land, a river shrunk to a murky stream, and the great banyan tree in the middle of the field that died five years ago—its trunk still standing, like a monument to despair.
In one of the outermost stilt houses, a five-year-old boy woke not to the sound of chickens—because the chickens had long been eaten—but to the loud growl of his own stomach. Aryan opened his eyes, rubbed them with dirty hands, and stared at the woven bamboo ceiling. For a moment, he was still inside his dream. A dream about a long table full of food: steaming white rice, fatty roasted meat, bursting sweet potatoes. He was just about to reach for a fried chicken thigh when his stomach woke him up.
Aryan sat up, feeling his head slightly dizzy. He was used to it. Beside him, the woven mat was still empty—his father, Baran, hadn't returned from the forest. Or had he come home and left again? He didn't know. In the small kitchen that was just a clay stove and a cracked pot, Laras, his mother, was lighting a fire with the last bits of firewood.
"Aryan," Laras called without turning, her voice soft though hoarse. "You're up? Come here, Mama wants to talk."
Aryan crawled down from the mat, walking towards his mother. Laras squatted in front of the stove, her face pale, her eyes weary. She was only twenty-six, but the wrinkles on her forehead made her look older. She looked at her son with a thin smile—the smile she always used to hide everything.
"Listen, Son. Today Mama needs your help. The back field, near the small river, there might still be some wild tubers left. But you have to be careful, don't go too deep into the forest. Only at the edge, understand?"
Aryan nodded. "Understand, Ma."
Laras stroked her son's messy hair. "Mama will boil water first. Later if you find tubers, we'll boil them for lunch."
She didn't say that might be the only food for the day. She didn't say the household supplies would only last two more days. She didn't say she herself had only been eating once a day for two days, half her usual portion. Aryan was too young to carry that burden. Or at least, that's what Laras believed.
***
The field behind the village was an expanse of dry land once planted with yams and cassava. Now, only dead stalks and weeds, also beginning to dry out, remained. Aryan walked along the edge of the field, his eyes carefully scanning the ground. He had done this often—since the age of four, his mother taught him to look for wild tubers, roots, anything edible.
"Look at the leaves," Laras once taught him, pointing at a wild plant. "If the leaves are wide and creep along the ground, there might be tubers underneath. But don't expect them to be big, usually they're small."
Aryan squatted near some dry bushes. Wide leaves crept along, but wilted. He felt the ground beneath—hard, but slightly loose on the surface. Carefully, he dug with his hands. Dirt got under his nails, but he didn't care. He dug little by little, until his fingers touched something hard.
A tuber. Small, about the size of two of his fingers, dirty with soil. But a tuber.
Aryan smiled. He put the tuber into his woven bag, then continued searching. An hour later, he found two more—one the size of a baby's fist, another smaller than a thumb. Three wild tubers. Not much, but enough to make his mother smile.
He was cleaning the dirt off the third tuber when a rustling sound from the bushes made him turn. A large rat—as big as a baby's arm—jumped out and ran towards the forest. Aryan was startled, nearly falling. The rat, probably also starving, was looking for food in the equally barren field.
"Stupid rat," Aryan muttered, then returned to his tuber.
***
Baran returned towards evening. His steps were heavy, his shoulders slumped, and from a distance Aryan could already see something was wrong. His father's arm—his left arm—was smeared with dried blood. Long scratches, like from a wild animal. But there was no deer. No wild boar. Nothing.
"Baran!" Laras ran to greet him, her face panicked. "What happened? That wound—"
"Leopard scratches," Baran cut in, his voice hoarse. "I saw its tracks, followed them to the den. But when I got close, it ran away. Too fast. Got scratched by branches while chasing."
Laras pulled her husband inside, immediately fetching cloth and clean water. Aryan could only watch from the doorway, seeing his once-mighty father now looking vulnerable. That blood—his father's blood—made his stomach queasy. But he was also relieved. His father was still alive. Wounded, but alive.
Baran turned, seeing his son. His eyes softened. "Aryan, come here."
Aryan approached. Baran stroked his hair with his right hand—the uninjured one. "Did you get tubers? Mother said you went to the field."
Aryan nodded, pulling out three small tubers from his bag. "Three, Dad. Small ones."
Baran smiled—but the smile held unspoken sadness. "You're a great kid." He took a long breath. "Dad didn't get anything. The forest is getting quieter. The animals are going deeper, or dying."
Laras was silent, continuing to clean her husband's wound. Nothing needed to be said. Everyone already knew. The prolonged dry season, the withered forest, animals migrating or starving to death. In the hamlet, food supplies were dwindling fast.
***
That night, a small bonfire was lit in the middle of the field near the dead banyan tree. Village Head Teguh, an old man with a wooden prosthetic leg, called all the residents. Thirty heads of families gathered, sitting on the dry ground, gaunt faces with sunken eyes.
Teguh stood with a staff in his hand, his frail body looking smaller than usual. "Residents of Dusun Karang," his voice was heavy. "We need to talk about food supplies."
Strangling silence. Some children whimpered from hunger, quickly silenced by their mothers.
"I've calculated," Teguh continued. "The average family in this hamlet only has supplies for the next three days. Three days. After that, we don't know what to eat."
An old woman sobbed. Others began whispering, suspicious of their own neighbors. "Maybe someone is hiding food," someone whispered, loud enough to be heard. "Maybe that rich family has more."
"Quiet!" Teguh snapped. "No one is rich here! We are all equally poor. If we start suspecting each other, we'll be destroyed before hunger kills us."
But the warning might have come too late. Eyes began avoiding each other. Some families went home early, locking their doors tightly. The atmosphere of the hamlet, once warm despite its poverty, began to freeze with suspicion.
***
At their home, Laras cooked the three small tubers. She boiled them until soft, then divided them—one for Baran, one for Aryan, one for herself. But the portions weren't enough for stomachs empty all day. Aryan finished his tuber in three bites, still hungry, but he didn't dare ask for more.
Baran ate slowly, chewing for a long time. His wound was bandaged, but the pain might still be there. Or maybe what hurt more was the reality that he couldn't feed his family.
"Tomorrow I'll try again," he said finally. "Deeper into the forest. Maybe there's a lost deer."
Laras held his hand. "Be careful, Baran. Don't go too deep. Lots of wild animals."
"Wild animals are better than coming home empty-handed," Baran replied bitterly.
***
That night Aryan couldn't sleep. His stomach growled continuously, loudly, as if something was struggling inside. He lay beside his mother, staring into the darkness, imagining the dining table from his dream this morning. White rice, roasted meat, bursting sweet potatoes. He could imagine the taste, the warmth, how the food filled the stomach until full.
He was almost asleep when he heard his mother get up. Aryan squinted, seeing Laras's shadow move to the kitchen. A moment later, his mother returned, sitting beside him. Then, that gentle hand stroked his hair.
Aryan pretended to sleep. He wanted to know what his mother was doing.
Laras sat for a long, long time. Then, she lay down. Aryan waited until his mother's breathing was steady, then slowly opened his eyes. Under the moonlight streaming through the gaps in the bamboo walls, he saw a small plate beside his mother. Empty.
But on his mother's lips, there were remnants of tuber. A little, almost invisible. Aryan frowned. Then he remembered—his mother hadn't eaten her tuber last night. She saved it. And now, in the darkness of the night, his mother ate alone? That didn't make sense. Laras always shared. Laras always made sure Aryan and Baran ate first.
Aryan only realized when dawn arrived.
***
That morning, Laras didn't wake up.
Aryan found her still lying on the mat, eyes closed, breathing weakly. He tried to wake her, but Laras only moaned softly. Baran, who had just woken up, immediately panicked. He felt his wife's forehead—cold, clammy with cold sweat.
"Laras! Laras, wake up!" He patted her cheeks, but there was no significant response.
Aryan stood beside him, trembling. "Dad, what's wrong with Mom? Why isn't she waking up?"
Baran didn't answer. He saw the empty plate beside Laras. Then he remembered—last night, Laras didn't eat. She gave her portion to Baran, said she was full. But Baran didn't know. Didn't know his wife had lied.
"She... she gave her food to us," Baran whispered, his voice breaking. "She didn't eat last night."
Aryan froze. The words sank in, slowly, like water seeping into dry ground. His mother didn't eat. His mother gave her portion to him. And now his mother was unconscious.
"MOM!" Aryan screamed, jumping to Laras's side, hugging his mother's cold body. Tears exploded, unstoppable. He cried, and cried, and cried, while hugging his unconscious mother. "What's wrong, Mom? Don't die! Don't leave Aryan!"
Baran immediately lifted Laras, carrying her out. "Aryan, stay here! Dad is taking Mom to the shaman!"
But Aryan couldn't stay. He ran after him, crying continuously, his small body trembling with fear. Outside, the morning sun shone brightly, but Aryan's world felt dark. Dark with the fear of losing the only person who always gave him warmth, even when her stomach was empty.
Baran ran to the village shaman's house, followed by Aryan who kept crying. Some villagers came out, watching, also worried. Among them, someone whispered, "Poor thing... that's Baran's family? His wife fainted from hunger."
Aryan heard that. From hunger. His mother was hungry because she fed him.
He stopped crying. Not because he wasn't sad, but because of something else—a guilt so heavy, so deep, so devastating, that tears could no longer come out. He could only stand in front of the shaman's house, staring at the closed door, hoping his mother would survive.
In his heart, a small determination began to grow. A determination he would not say to anyone, but would prove to himself: I will not let my mother go hungry again. No matter what.
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