Tangan Kecil, Batu Kasar | EPS 4
Episode 4: Tangan Kecil, Batu Kasar
Dua hari sudah berlalu sejak rapat darurat yang mencekik itu. Dua hari sejak jatah makanan dipotong empat puluh persen. Dua hari sejak keluarga Rasiman dirampok dan semua orang saling curiga. Tapi bagi Aryan, dua hari ini adalah tentang hal lain: keinginan untuk membantu, meski tangannya terlalu kecil untuk memegang beban yang ia impikan.
Di balik rumah panggung mereka, di bawah bayang-bayang anyaman bambu yang mulai lapuk, tersimpan rahasia kecil yang tak ingin diketahui siapa pun. Tumpukan pecahan batu berserakan di tanah lembap, sebagian tertutup daun kering. Empat kali percobaan. Empat kali kegagalan. Aryan duduk bersila dengan celana digulung hingga lutut, lututnya kotor oleh lumpur kering. Di hadapannya, sebongkah batu sungai berwarna abu-abu kebiruan, sebesar kepalanya sendiri. Di sampingnya, batu lain yang lebih bulat dan keras—batu pemukul yang sudah ia gunakan sampai tangannya lecet.
Ia mengamati dengan saksama benda yang menjadi obsesinya sejak kemarin: cangkul batu milik salah satu warga, yang sempat ia pinjam sebentar saat pemiliknya lengah. Bentuknya sederhana. Sebuah batu pipih yang ujungnya diasah hingga runcing, diikat ke tangkai kayu dengan serat rotan yang kuat. Batu itu hitam keabu-abuan, tidak istimewa. Tapi di mata Aryan, itu adalah benda paling berharga di dusun ini. Dengan cangkul itu, orang dewasa bisa membalik tanah keras, membuat ladang baru, menanam sesuatu yang mungkin bisa menyelamatkan mereka dari kelaparan.
"Aku juga harus bisa," bisiknya pada diri sendiri.
Tangannya yang kecil menggenggam batu pemukul. Diangkatnya tinggi-tinggi, lalu dihunjamkan ke tepi batu besar yang ingin dibentuk. DEG! Guncangan keras menjalari lengannya hingga ke bahu, membuat giginya gemeretak. Batu besar itu hanya meninggalkan bekas putih tipis di permukaannya, seperti garam yang ditaburkan. Aryan menggigit bibir bawahnya—bibir yang sudah kering dan pecah-pecah karena kurang makan—lalu mengatur ulang posisi batu. Pukulan kedua. DEG! Kali ini, serpihan kecil seukuran kuku jarinya terlepas, melayang dan jatuh di samping pahanya. Jauh dari kata cukup. Ia butuh puluhan, mungkin ratusan serpihan seperti itu untuk membentuk satu cangkul.
"Satu pukulan lagi," gumamnya, berkeringat meski matahari tidak langsung menyinari kolong rumah. Keringat ini keluar karena tegang, karena frustrasi yang menggerogoti.
Pukulan ketiga mendarat dengan sudut yang salah. CRACK! Batu besar itu tidak pecah sesuai keinginan, tapi membelah menjadi dua bagian tak beraturan, seperti telur yang jatuh. Napas Aryan memburu. Matanya menatap dua belahan batu itu dengan perasaan getir yang sudah terlalu sering ia rasakan belakangan ini. Gagal lagi. Yang kelima kalinya.
Ia melempar batu pemukul ke samping, tidak peduli ke mana jatuhnya. Dengan gerakan kasar, ia menyusun kedua belahan batu itu bersama empat pecahan lainnya, mendorongnya masuk lebih dalam ke kolong rumah. Menyembunyikan bukti kebodohannya. Biarkan semuanya membusuk di sana, bersama mimpinya yang juga ikut membusuk.
Tiba-tiba, dari kejauhan, terdengar suara riuh rendah. Bukan suara panik seperti beberapa hari terakhir. Ini berbeda. Ada kegembiraan di dalamnya—kegembiraan yang sudah lama tak terdengar di Dusun Karang. Aryan mengernyitkan dahi. Ia merangkak keluar dari kolong, mengucek matanya yang perih karena debu, lalu berjalan mengitari rumah menuju arah suara itu berasal.
Matanya membelalak.
Di tengah lapangan desa, di bawah pohon beringin mati yang menjadi saksi bisu rapat mengerikan dua hari lalu, Baran berdiri dengan bahu terangkat bangga. Posturnya yang tinggi, meski kurus, tampak seperti pahlawan dari cerita-cerita lama. Di kakinya, terbujur seekor rusa kecil. Bulunya cokelat kemerahan, masih basah oleh darah di bagian leher. Tombak Baran—dengan mata batu yang ia buat sendiri—tertancap tepat di sana, ujungnya mencuat keluar.
"Baran! Baran!" teriak beberapa pemuda, berusaha menepuk pundaknya meski harus berjinjit. Wajah mereka, yang selama berhari-hari kusut dan muram, kini bersinar seperti mendapat sinar matahari pertama setelah musim hujan panjang. Para wanita sudah berkumpul dengan pisau-pisau batu di tangan, siap menguliti dan memotong daging. Anak-anak berlarian, berteriak kegirangan, sesuatu yang sudah lama tak terdengar.
Kepala Desa Teguh, yang sedari tadi mengawasi dari beranda rumahnya dengan kaki palsu dari kayu yang berbunyi tiap kali melangkah, turun dengan langkah mantap. Kerumunan langsung membuka jalan, memberi hormat secara otomatis meski dua hari lalu mereka hampir menggulingkannya.
"Warga Dusun Karang," suara Teguh berat tapi jelas, menggema di lapangan yang tiba-tiba sunyi. "Baran telah membuktikan diri. Di saat kita semua hampir putus asa, ia pulang dengan membawa harapan. Hasil buruan ini bukan untuknya seorang. Ini untuk kita semua. Bagi rata."
Sorak-sorai pecah. Yang paling keras berasal dari keluarga Rasiman—yang semalam kehilangan semua persediaan makanan mereka. Wajah mereka yang semalam hancur, pagi ini basah oleh air mata lega. Mungkin tidak semua, mungkin hanya sementara. Tapi cukup untuk membuat mereka tersenyum lagi.
Aryan melihat ayahnya tersenyum lebar, dielu-elukan seperti pahlawan. Dadanya tiba-tiba membuncit oleh rasa bangga yang asing. Cangkul batu yang ia buat—meskipun hasilnya tidak sebagus punya orang dewasa, meskipun ia harus merahasiakannya—telah memungkinkan semua ini. Ayahnya bisa memburu karena senjatanya tajam. Dan senjata itu buatannya.
Tapi di balik bangga, ada perih yang menggerogoti. Perih yang diam-diam merayap masuk seperti akar ke celah-celah batu. Semua orang memuji Baran. Semua orang senang dengan daging rusa. Semua orang melupakan bahwa dua hari lalu mereka hampir saling bunuh. Sementara ia, si pembuat senjata, hanya bisa berdiri di pinggir kerumunan, dengan tangan kotor dan sepuluh jari yang mulai lecet dan kapalan. Tangannya yang terluka, yang berdarah, yang menangis dalam diam—tak ada yang melihat. Yang mereka lihat hanyalah hasil akhir. Yang mereka puji hanyalah ayahnya.
"Aryan!" Laras muncul di sampingnya, menariknya ke dalam pelukan. Wajah ibunya basah. "Lihat, Nak. Ayahmu berhasil. Kita makan malam ini."
Aryan memeluk ibunya, tapi matanya masih tertuju pada Baran yang dikerumuni orang. Ia tersenyum—demi ibunya—tapi di dalam, ada tekad yang mengeras. Ayah sudah melakukan bagiannya. Sekarang giliranku.
***
Malam harinya, aroma daging bakar memenuhi seluruh penjuru Dusun Karang. Aroma yang sudah lama tak menggelitik hidung, aroma yang membuat perut keroncongan meskipun baru saja makan. Warga duduk melingkar di lapangan, di bawah pohon beringin mati yang kini dihiasi obor-obor. Masing-masing mendapat bagian—tidak banyak, tapi cukup untuk membuat pipi mereka merona.
Suasana hangat. Canda tawa mulai terdengar lagi setelah berhari-hari diliputi kecemasan dan kecurigaan. Tawa paling keras berasal dari Baran, yang duduk di dekat api unggun, bercerita dengan gaya dramatis tentang bagaimana ia memburu rusa itu sendirian. Tangannya bergerak ke sana kemari, menirukan saat ia melempar tombak, saat ia mengejar, saat ia berteriak. Orang-orang tertawa, bertepuk tangan, memintanya bercerita lagi.
Aryan duduk di pojok, memeluk lutut, menggigit daging rusa yang alot. Rasanya hambar di mulut. Ia terus mengunyah, menelan, tapi tak merasakan apa-apa. Matanya beralih ke tangannya sendiri. Di balik gelap malam, ia bisa merasakan perih di telapak tangan. Lepuh-lepuh kecil mulai terasa, beberapa sudah pecah dan mengering. Ia sembunyikan tangannya di balik paha, tak ingin ada yang melihat.
Keesokan harinya, saat desa masih diliputi rasa kenyang dan malas—keadaan yang aneh dan langka—Aryan kembali ke tempat persembunyiannya. Kali ini, ia membawa batu baru. Lebih kecil, lebih pipih. Mencoba pendekatan berbeda. Alih-alih memukul dengan keras dan berharap batu itu patuh, ia memukul dengan pelan dan terukur di bagian tepi, berusaha mengikis sedikit demi sedikit. Tak-tak-tak. Suara ketukan kecil itu seperti detak jantungnya sendiri—stabil, berusaha tenang, meski di dalam dadanya api frustrasi terus membakar.
Satu jam. Dua jam. Matahari bergerak tanpa ia sadari. Keringat membasahi punggungnya, membuat baju lusuhnya basah dan lengket. Tapi batu itu mulai menunjukkan bentuk dasar. Seperti cangkul, tapi masih sangat kasar dan tebal. Ujungnya tumpul, tidak akan bisa membelah tanah. Tapi setidaknya—untuk pertama kalinya—bentuknya menyerupai cangkul.
Aryan tersenyum tipis. Senyum pertama dalam berhari-hari. Ia terus memukul, terus mengikis. Konsentrasinya begitu dalam hingga ia tak sadar posisi jari telunjuk kirinya terlalu dekat dengan area yang dipukul.
DUK!
Bukan suara batu pecah. Ini suara lain. Suara daging terbanting batu. Suara tulang yang mungkin retak. Rasa nyeri yang menyayat langsung menjalar dari ujung jari, melewati lengan, menusuk hingga ke ubun-ubun. Aryan menahan teriakan dengan menggigit bibirnya sendiri hingga hampir berdarah. Ia menarik tangannya. Darah segar mengucur deras dari ujung jari telunjuknya, menetes deras ke tanah. Kukunya hancur, daging di ujung jarinya terbuka seperti buah delima yang pecah.
Untuk beberapa detik, dunia berhenti. Rasa sakit itu begitu nyata, begitu menusuk, begitu... hidup. Ia menekan lukanya dengan ibu jari tangan satunya, berusaha menghentikan darah yang tak mau berhenti. Tangannya gemetar hebat. Dadanya naik turun dengan cepat, cepat, terlalu cepat. Air mata—yang sedari kemarin ia tahan dengan susah payah—kini menggenang di pelupuk mata, siap tumpah kapan saja.
Tapi ia tak mau menangis. Ia anak laki-laki. Ia harus kuat. Kata-kata itu berulang di kepalanya seperti mantra. Tapi mantra itu tak mampu menghentikan rasa sakit, tak mampu menghentikan rasa frustrasi yang memuncak, tak mampu menghentikan perasaan tidak berguna yang selama ini ia pendam.
Dengan napas tersengal-sengal, ia meraih kembali batu yang hampir jadi itu. Darah dari jarinya menetes, membasahi permukaan batu yang kasar. Batu itu menyerap darahnya, meninggalkan bercak merah yang cepat mengering. Ia mencengkeram batu itu dengan tangan kiri—tangan yang tidak terluka—dan dengan tangan kanan yang terluka parah, ia mengambil batu pemukul lagi.
Tak.
Pukulan kecil. Rasa sakit menjalar dari jari, naik ke pergelangan, ke lengan, ke pundak. Ia menggertakkan gigi.
Tak.
Pukulan lagi. Air mata kini jatuh tanpa bisa dibendung lagi, membasahi pipinya yang kotor oleh debu dan darah kering. Ia menangis dalam diam, sesenggukan, dadanya terasa sesak, sambil terus memukul batu itu dengan lemah.
Tak... tak... tak...
Batu itu tidak berubah. Tepinya tetap tumpul, bentuknya asal-asalan, permukaannya tidak rata. Ia memukul sekali lagi, lebih keras, dengan seluruh sisa tenaga yang ia miliki.
CRACK!
Batu yang hampir jadi itu kembali pecah. Kali ini menjadi tiga bagian. Satu bagian besar yang seharusnya menjadi mata cangkul, dua serpihan kecil yang tak berguna. Aryan terhenti. Ia memandang pecahan-pecahan itu, lalu ke jarinya yang berlumuran darah, lalu kembali ke pecahan batu.
Pada saat itu, rasa sakit di jari tak ada apa-apanya dibanding rasa hancur di dadanya. Ia bukan hanya gagal. Ia bukan hanya tidak berguna. Ia adalah bocah bodoh yang terus mencoba sesuatu yang di luar kemampuannya, dan hasilnya hanya luka dan pecahan batu.
Aryan menyandarkan kepala ke tiang rumah panggung, membiarkan air mata mengalir tanpa suara. Ia tak lagi peduli siapa yang mendengar. Ia tak lagi peduli siapa yang melihat. Yang ia rasakan hanyalah kekalahan yang begitu total, begitu dalam, hingga tenggelam di dalamnya terasa seperti satu-satunya pilihan.
Di atasnya, suara warga yang masih bergembira sisa pesta kemarin terdengar samar. Mereka tertawa, bercerita, menikmati hidup. Sementara di bawah rumah panggung, di tempat gelap dan kotor ini, seorang anak menangis sendirian.
***
Malam telah larut. Pesta kecil semalam membuat sebagian besar warga terlelap lebih cepat dari biasanya. Lampu-lampu minyak di setiap rumah mulai redup satu per satu, padam oleh kekurangan minyak dan rasa kantuk. Di rumah panggung kecil milik Baran, Aryan berbaring di atas tikar anyaman, memunggungi ibunya. Tangannya yang terluka ia selipkan di bawah ketiak, bersembunyi. Rasa sakit masih berdenyut-denyut—bukan lagi sakit tajam, tapi nyeri tumpul yang terus mengingatkan pada kegagalan.
Ia tak tidur. Matanya terbuka lebar di gelap, menatap dinding bambu tanpa melihat. Pikirannya berputar-putar di tempat yang sama: Kenapa aku tidak bisa? Kenapa semudah itu bagi orang lain? Apa yang salah denganku?
Laras, dari balik kegelapan, mengamati anaknya. Sejak sore tadi ia sudah merasakan ada yang tidak beres. Aryan tidak makan malam—padahal itu daging rusa, barang mewah yang tak pernah mereka nikmati. Ia hanya menggeleng, bilang tidak lapar, lalu berbaring membelakangi semua orang. Laras tahu anaknya. Tahu kapan ia sedih, kapan ia marah, kapan ia menyembunyikan sesuatu.
Dan saat Aryan menggeliat gelisah, tanpa sengaja menggeser posisi tangan, Laras melihatnya. Sekilas—hanya sekilas—di bawah sinar rembulan yang masuk lewat celah dinding bambu, ia menangkap semburat merah di tangan anaknya.
Perlahan, tanpa suara, Laras bangkit. Ia merangkak mendekati Aryan, lalu meraih lengan anaknya dengan lembut. Aryan tersentak, mencoba menarik tangannya, tapi Laras menggenggam lebih kuat. Dengan hati-hati, ia menarik tangan kecil itu ke hadapannya.
Di bawah cahaya lampu minyak yang hampir padam—yang sempat ia nyalakan kembali dengan jari gemetar—Laras melihatnya. Jari telunjuk yang bengkak, kuku yang hancur berantakan, luka menganga yang masih mengeluarkan darah segar meski sudah di sembunyi berjam-jam. Dadanya serasa diremas oleh tangan raksasa.
Tanpa berkata sepatah kata pun, tanpa bertanya apa pun, Laras bangkit. Ia mengambil kain bersih dari bungkusan kecil satu-satunya milik keluarga itu—kain yang seharusnya untuk persiapan jika ada yang sakit parah. Ia juga mengambil botol air, satu-satunya yang tersisa. Kembali duduk di samping Aryan, ia mulai membersihkan luka itu dengan hati-hati. Telaten. Lembut. Jari-jarinya yang kasar karena bekerja keras, bergerak dengan kelembutan yang hanya dimiliki seorang ibu.
Aryan menggigit bibir, menahan perih saat kain basah menyentuh lukanya. Tapi bukan itu yang paling sakit. Yang paling sakit adalah saat ia menatap wajah ibunya yang tertunduk. Ia mencari amarah, mencari umpatan, mencari kekecewaan—sesuatu yang pantas ia terima karena kebodohannya. Tapi tak ada. Yang ia lihat, di bawah cahaya temaram lampu minyak yang hampir mati, mata ibunya berkaca-kaca.
Bukan tangis yang meledak. Bukan isak yang keras. Tapi genangan air di mata yang tak tumpah—dan itu lebih menghancurkan daripada teriakan apa pun.
Laras membalut jari anaknya dengan kain. Ikatannya rapi, tidak terlalu kencang, tidak terlalu longgar. Dengan sisa kain, ia membersihkan darah kering di sela-sela jari lain, di telapak tangan, di pergelangan. Setelah selesai, ia masih memegang tangan kecil itu. Tak dilepaskan. Ia menatap Aryan—bukan tatapan iba yang membuat orang merasa kasihan, tapi tatapan seseorang yang tahu persis apa yang diperjuangkan anaknya.
Ia tahu. Tanpa penjelasan, tanpa pengakuan, Laras tahu. Tahu tentang batu-batu di kolong rumah. Tahu tentang tangan yang terluka. Tahu tentang keinginan besar di balik tubuh mungil itu untuk membuktikan sesuatu. Mungkin pada ayahnya. Mungkin pada dirinya sendiri. Mungkin pada dunia yang terus membuatnya merasa tidak berguna.
Aryan ingin bicara. Ingin menjelaskan. Ingin mengatakan bahwa ia hanya ingin membantu, bahwa ia sudah berusaha, bahwa ia gagal lagi dan lagi. Tapi lidahnya terasa kelu, kaku, tak mau bergerak. Yang bisa ia lakukan hanyalah membalas tatapan ibunya. Dalam keheningan malam yang pekat, hanya ada suara jangkrik dari luar dan suara napas mereka yang beradu.
Laras akhirnya mengangguk pelan. Sebuah anggukan yang berarti seribu kata: Aku tahu, Nak. Aku tahu usahamu. Aku tahu sakitmu. Aku tahu kamu lelah. Ia mengelus kepala Aryan sebentar—hanya sebentar, tapi terasa lama—lalu kembali ke tempat tidurnya. Meninggalkan Aryan dengan perasaan yang campur aduk, yang menggunung, yang tak bisa ia jelaskan.
Aryan memandangi jarinya yang terbungkus kain. Rasa sakit masih ada, masih berdenyut. Tapi ada kehangatan aneh yang menyelimutinya sekarang—kehangatan yang bukan berasal dari balutan, tapi dari sesuatu yang lebih dalam. Ia berbaring lagi, menatap langit-langit rumah yang hanya berupa anyaman bambu dan daun kelapa kering. Air mata yang tadi kering, kembali menggenang. Tapi kali ini, bukan karena frustrasi semata.
Di sudut ruangan, di luar jangkauan mata, di bawah kolong rumah panggung, tumpukan batu pecah dan satu cangkul batu kasar yang retak dan tumpul terbengkalai dalam gelap. Simbol bisu dari tangan-tangan kecil yang berusaha menggapai sesuatu yang mungkin terlalu besar untuknya. Tapi di dalam dadanya, untuk pertama kalinya sejak lama, ada sesuatu yang tumbuh. Bukan harapan akan keberhasilan. Tapi keyakinan bahwa setidaknya—setidaknya—ada satu orang di dunia ini yang melihat perjuangannya tanpa perlu penjelasan.
Aryan memejamkan mata. Balutan di jarinya terasa hangat. Napasnya perlahan teratur. Dan di luar, angin malam berdesir pelan, membawa janji bahwa esok adalah hari baru untuk mencoba lagi.
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. ☕️
Episode 4: Small Hands, Rough Stone
Two days had passed since that suffocating emergency meeting. Two days since food rations were cut by forty percent. Two days since Rasiman's family was robbed and everyone suspected each other. But for Aryan, these two days were about something else: the desire to help, even though his hands were too small to hold the burden he dreamed of.
Behind their stilt house, under the shadow of decaying bamboo weaves, a small secret was hidden that no one should know. Piles of stone fragments were scattered on the damp ground, partly covered by dry leaves. Four attempts. Four failures. Aryan sat cross-legged with his pants rolled up to his knees, his knees dirty with dry mud. Before him, a bluish-gray river stone, as big as his own head. Beside it, another rounder and harder stone—the hammer stone he had used until his hands were blistered.
He carefully observed the object that had become his obsession since yesterday: a stone hoe belonging to one of the villagers, which he had briefly borrowed when the owner was distracted. Its shape was simple. A flat stone with its edge sharpened to a point, tied to a wooden handle with strong rattan fibers. The stone was grayish-black, unremarkable. But in Aryan's eyes, it was the most valuable object in this hamlet. With that hoe, adults could turn over hard soil, create new fields, plant something that might save them from starvation.
"I have to be able to do it too," he whispered to himself.
His small hand gripped the hammer stone. He raised it high, then struck it against the edge of the large stone he wanted to shape. THUD! A strong shock ran through his arm to his shoulder, making his teeth clench. The large stone only left a thin white mark on its surface, like sprinkled salt. Aryan bit his lower lip—lips that were already dry and cracked from lack of food—then readjusted the stone's position. Second strike. THUD! This time, a small flake the size of his fingernail came off, flying and landing beside his thigh. Far from enough. He needed dozens, maybe hundreds of such flakes to shape one hoe.
"One more strike," he muttered, sweating even though the sun didn't directly shine under the house. This sweat came from tension, from the frustration gnawing at him.
The third strike landed at the wrong angle. CRACK! The large stone didn't break as desired, but split into two irregular pieces, like a dropped egg. Aryan's breath quickened. His eyes stared at the two halves of the stone with a bitter feeling he had felt too often lately. Failed again. The fifth time.
He threw the hammer stone aside, not caring where it fell. With rough movements, he arranged the two stone halves together with four other fragments, pushing them deeper under the house. Hiding the evidence of his stupidity. Let it all rot there, along with his equally rotting dreams.
Suddenly, from a distance, a commotion was heard. Not panicked sounds like the past few days. This was different. There was joy in it—joy that hadn't been heard in Dusun Karang for a long time. Aryan frowned. He crawled out from under the house, rubbed his eyes stinging from dust, then walked around the house towards where the sound came from.
His eyes widened.
In the middle of the village field, under the dead banyan tree that had been a silent witness to the terrible meeting two days ago, Baran stood with his shoulders raised in pride. His tall posture, though thin, looked like a hero from old stories. At his feet, lay a small deer. Its fur was reddish-brown, still wet with blood at the neck. Baran's spear—with the stone tip he himself had made—was embedded right there, its tip sticking out.
"Baran! Baran!" shouted some young men, trying to pat his shoulder even though they had to stand on tiptoe. Their faces, which for days had been wrinkled and gloomy, now shone like receiving the first sunlight after a long rainy season. The women had gathered with stone knives in hand, ready to skin and cut the meat. Children ran around, screaming with joy, something long unheard.
Village Head Teguh, who had been watching from his house's porch with his wooden prosthetic leg that creaked with every step, descended with steady steps. The crowd immediately made way, automatically showing respect even though two days ago they had almost overthrown him.
"Residents of Dusun Karang," Teguh's voice was heavy but clear, echoing in the suddenly silent field. "Baran has proven himself. When we were all almost desperate, he returned bringing hope. This hunt is not for him alone. It's for all of us. Divided equally."
Cheers erupted. The loudest came from Rasiman's family—who had lost all their food supplies the night before. Their faces, shattered last night, were wet with tears of relief this morning. Maybe not all, maybe just temporary. But enough to make them smile again.
Aryan saw his father smiling broadly, being hailed like a hero. His chest suddenly swelled with a strange sense of pride. The stone hoe he made—although the result wasn't as good as the adults', although he had to keep it secret—had made all this possible. His father could hunt because his weapon was sharp. And that weapon was his making.
But behind the pride, there was a gnawing pain. A pain that silently crept in like roots into rock crevices. Everyone praised Baran. Everyone was happy with the deer meat. Everyone forgot that two days ago they had almost killed each other. While he, the weapon maker, could only stand at the edge of the crowd, with dirty hands and ten fingers starting to blister and callus. His injured hands, his bleeding hands, his silently crying hands—no one saw. All they saw was the end result. All they praised was his father.
"Aryan!" Laras appeared beside him, pulling him into an embrace. His mother's face was wet. "Look, Son. Your father succeeded. We eat tonight."
Aryan hugged his mother, but his eyes were still fixed on Baran surrounded by people. He smiled—for his mother—but inside, determination hardened. Father has done his part. Now it's my turn.
***
That night, the aroma of roasted meat filled every corner of Dusun Karang. An aroma that hadn't tickled nostrils for a long time, an aroma that made stomachs growl even though they had just eaten. Villagers sat in a circle in the field, under the dead banyan tree now decorated with torches. Each got a portion—not much, but enough to make their cheeks blush.
The atmosphere was warm. Laughter began to be heard again after days of anxiety and suspicion. The loudest laugh came from Baran, who sat near the bonfire, telling dramatically how he hunted the deer alone. His hands moved back and forth, imitating when he threw the spear, when he chased, when he shouted. People laughed, applauded, asked him to tell it again.
Aryan sat in a corner, hugging his knees, chewing the tough deer meat. It tasted bland in his mouth. He kept chewing, swallowing, but felt nothing. His eyes turned to his own hands. In the darkness of the night, he could feel the sting in his palms. Small blisters were starting to be felt, some had burst and dried. He hid his hands behind his thighs, not wanting anyone to see.
The next day, while the village was still enveloped in fullness and laziness—a strange and rare state—Aryan returned to his hiding place. This time, he brought a new stone. Smaller, flatter. Trying a different approach. Instead of striking hard and hoping the stone would obey, he struck slowly and measuredly at the edge, trying to chip away little by little. Tak-tak-tak. The sound of those small knocks was like his own heartbeat—steady, trying to be calm, even though inside his chest the fire of frustration kept burning.
One hour. Two hours. The sun moved without him noticing. Sweat soaked his back, making his tattered clothes wet and sticky. But the stone began to show a basic shape. Like a hoe, but still very rough and thick. Its edge was blunt, wouldn't be able to split soil. But at least—for the first time—its shape resembled a hoe.
Aryan smiled faintly. The first smile in days. He kept striking, kept chipping. His concentration was so deep he didn't realize the position of his left index finger was too close to the area being struck.
THUD!
Not the sound of breaking stone. It was another sound. The sound of flesh struck by stone. The sound of bone that might be cracked. A searing pain immediately spread from his fingertip, through his arm, stabbing up to his crown. Aryan held back a scream by biting his own lip until it almost bled. He pulled his hand back. Fresh blood gushed profusely from the tip of his index finger, dripping heavily to the ground. His nail was destroyed, the flesh at his fingertip split open like a burst pomegranate.
For a few seconds, the world stopped. The pain was so real, so piercing, so... alive. He pressed the wound with the thumb of his other hand, trying to stop the blood that wouldn't stop. His hands trembled violently. His chest rose and fell quickly, quickly, too quickly. Tears—which he had been holding back with great difficulty—now pooled in his eyes, ready to spill at any moment.
But he didn't want to cry. He was a boy. He had to be strong. Those words repeated in his head like a mantra. But the mantra couldn't stop the pain, couldn't stop the mounting frustration, couldn't stop the feeling of worthlessness he had been suppressing.
Gasping for breath, he reached again for the almost-finished stone. Blood from his finger dripped, wetting the rough stone surface. The stone absorbed his blood, leaving red spots that quickly dried. He gripped the stone with his left hand—the uninjured hand—and with his severely injured right hand, he took the hammer stone again.
Tak.
A small strike. Pain spread from his finger, up to his wrist, to his arm, to his shoulder. He gritted his teeth.
Tak.
Another strike. Tears now fell uncontrollably, wetting his cheeks dirty with dust and dried blood. He cried silently, sobbing, his chest feeling tight, while weakly continuing to strike the stone.
Tak... tak... tak...
The stone didn't change. Its edge remained blunt, its shape haphazard, its surface uneven. He struck once more, harder, with all the remaining strength he had.
CRACK!
The almost-finished stone broke again. This time into three parts. One large piece that was supposed to be the hoe blade, two small useless flakes. Aryan stopped. He stared at the fragments, then at his bloodied finger, then back at the broken stone.
At that moment, the pain in his finger was nothing compared to the devastation in his chest. He wasn't just failing. He wasn't just useless. He was a stupid child who kept trying something beyond his ability, and the result was only wounds and stone fragments.
Aryan leaned his head against the stilt house post, letting tears flow silently. He no longer cared who heard. He no longer cared who saw. All he felt was a defeat so total, so deep, that drowning in it felt like the only option.
Above him, the voices of villagers still celebrating from yesterday's party were faintly heard. They laughed, told stories, enjoyed life. While under the stilt house, in this dark and dirty place, a child cried alone.
***
Night had fallen. Last night's small party had made most villagers fall asleep faster than usual. The oil lamps in each house began to dim one by one, extinguished by lack of oil and drowsiness. In the small stilt house belonging to Baran, Aryan lay on a woven mat, turning his back to his mother. He tucked his injured hand under his armpit, hiding it. The pain still throbbed—no longer sharp pain, but a dull ache that kept reminding him of failure.
He wasn't sleeping. His eyes were wide open in the dark, staring at the bamboo wall without seeing. His mind circled in the same place: Why can't I? Why is it so easy for others? What's wrong with me?
Laras, from the darkness, observed her son. Since this afternoon she had felt something was wrong. Aryan didn't eat dinner—even though it was deer meat, a luxury they had never enjoyed. He just shook his head, said he wasn't hungry, then lay down turning his back on everyone. Laras knew her son. Knew when he was sad, when he was angry, when he was hiding something.
And when Aryan shifted restlessly, accidentally moving his hand, Laras saw it. Briefly—just briefly—under the moonlight coming through the gaps in the bamboo walls, she caught a glimpse of red on her son's hand.
Slowly, silently, Laras got up. She crawled towards Aryan, then gently reached for her son's arm. Aryan startled, trying to pull his hand back, but Laras gripped tighter. Carefully, she pulled that small hand towards her.
Under the light of the nearly extinguished oil lamp—which she had relit with trembling fingers—Laras saw it. A swollen index finger, a completely destroyed nail, a gaping wound still oozing fresh blood even though it had been hidden for hours. Her chest felt squeezed by giant hands.
Without saying a single word, without asking anything, Laras got up. She took clean cloth from the family's only small bundle—cloth meant for preparation if someone was seriously ill. She also took a water bottle, the only one left. Returning to sit beside Aryan, she began to clean the wound carefully. Meticulously. Gently. Her rough fingers from hard work, moved with the gentleness only a mother possesses.
Aryan bit his lip, holding back the sting as the wet cloth touched his wound. But that wasn't the most painful. The most painful was when he looked at his mother's bowed face. He looked for anger, looked for curses, looked for disappointment—something he deserved for his stupidity. But there was none. What he saw, under the dim light of the almost-dead oil lamp, was his mother's eyes welling up with tears.
Not explosive crying. Not loud sobbing. But a pooling of water in eyes that didn't spill—and that was more devastating than any scream.
Laras bandaged her son's finger with cloth. The binding was neat, not too tight, not too loose. With the remaining cloth, she cleaned the dried blood between his other fingers, on his palm, on his wrist. After finishing, she still held that small hand. Didn't let go. She looked at Aryan—not a pitying look that makes people feel sorry, but the look of someone who knows exactly what her child is fighting for.
She knew. Without explanation, without confession, Laras knew. Knew about the stones under the house. Knew about the injured hand. Knew about the great desire behind that tiny body to prove something. Maybe to his father. Maybe to himself. Maybe to a world that kept making him feel useless.
Aryan wanted to speak. Wanted to explain. Wanted to say that he just wanted to help, that he had tried, that he failed again and again. But his tongue felt numb, stiff, unwilling to move. All he could do was return his mother's gaze. In the thick silence of the night, there were only cricket sounds from outside and the sound of their breathing together.
Laras finally nodded slowly. A nod that meant a thousand words: I know, Son. I know your effort. I know your pain. I know you're tired. She stroked Aryan's head briefly—just briefly, but it felt long—then returned to her sleeping place. Leaving Aryan with mixed feelings, mounting feelings, feelings he couldn't explain.
Aryan looked at his cloth-wrapped finger. The pain was still there, still throbbing. But there was a strange warmth enveloping him now—warmth that didn't come from the bandage, but from something deeper. He lay down again, staring at the ceiling that was just woven bamboo and dried coconut leaves. The tears that had dried, pooled again. But this time, not from mere frustration.
In the corner of the room, out of sight, under the stilt house, piles of broken stones and one rough, cracked, blunt stone hoe lay abandoned in the dark. Silent symbols of small hands trying to reach for something maybe too big for them. But in his chest, for the first time in a long while, something grew. Not hope for success. But a belief that at least—at least—there was one person in this world who saw his struggle without needing explanation.
Aryan closed his eyes. The bandage on his finger felt warm. His breathing slowly steadied. And outside, the night wind rustled softly, carrying a promise that tomorrow was a new day to try again.
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