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Oh, my dearest Lintang…

                   
It's truly ironic that with the fall of Soeharto there is, indeed, a good possibility that we pillars here will be able to come home to Indonesia, but that I will be coming home in a coffin (if not in the open-sided
keranda
we Muslims are supposed to be in). But that's all right. Didn't I always say that I wanted my final home to be in Karet cemetery? No need for an expensive plot for me at Père Lachaise in Paris—and don't dare purchase a plot at Tanah Kusir or Jeruk Purut cemeteries in Jakarta. Choose for me a rectangle of earth in Karet. The soil there, with which my body will fuse, has a smell and texture I know.

                   
Don't cry for me. Don't cry.

                   
Scatter cloves and jasmine flowers on my grave so that their scent reaches my body lying there below, silent and alone. I am confident of capturing their fragrance through the spaces in the soil that kindly provide a path for their scent I know so intimately to reach me.

                   
I can picture the ceremony. I can see who will be there to attend my burial alongside you, my life's most shining star, and your mother, the most beautiful and strongest woman I've ever known, who stood at my side through my life's ordeals. I can see my brother Aji and his fine family; Tante Surti and her three children; and the remaining three pillars of Tanah Air. (Try to comfort Om Risjaf, who won't have the strength to hold back the bitter pain of it all. Of the four pillars, he was always the most sensitive, and the one the rest of us always thought of
as a youngest brother. Stay beside him, please.)

             
I can also see Nara and Alam and all of the friends you made at Satu Bangsa among the crowd of mourners. Maybe you will pray for me. Maybe Om Aji will lead the prayer. Maybe the lot of you will be even so wacky as to play Led Zeppelin's “Stairway to Heaven.” But if you want to help console Om Risjaf, let him play his harmonica—as long as he doesn't play “When the Orchids Start to Bloom” because, for me, my orchid withered long ago. Tell him instead to play John Denver's “Take Me Home, Country Road.” And if that does happen, don't be surprised if you hear me humming along from my final place of rest.

                   
There are a few things I need to tell you and I must do it quickly because that foul-humored nurse of mine will be back here soon to jab me with her damned needle. But I can't resist telling you first that a couple of days ago I played a trick on the nurse that almost drove her crazy. I packed up all my belongings, then straightened my bed and found a place to hide. When she came into my room, she must have panicked, because she pushed the blue emergency call button which brought all the other nurses and caused the guards to start a manhunt. Political exile that I am, used to wandering from one country to the next, hoodwinking my minders was easy for me. I found myself a place to hide in a storage closet where they keep sheets and blankets. Even with the commotion in the hallway, it was so nice and warm and soft in there, I ended up falling asleep. In the end, they did find me, of course, and with their hands on their hips marched me back to my room like an apprehended fugitive.

                   
The price I paid for my insurrection was high: ever since
then, Om Nug and Om Risjaf have been on guard duty, taking turns to watch over me, day and night, as if I were a hardcore criminal. And then when your mother comes to see me in the mornings and evenings, before and after her classes, she always has this little smirk on her face, like I've finally been put in my place. Well, just wait! I fully intend to find another way to make a disturbance.

                   
But, anyway, back to what I was saying. This is the most important part of what I want to say to you and it has to do with Alam and Narayana. Though you never said as much in your e-mails to me, I know that something special has happened between you and Alam. It's easy to catch the carefreeness and passion in your words whenever you write about Alam or quote for me something that he has told you. You have been struck by lightning. And that's OK. That's normal. And although I don't know Alam—he was just a baby when I left—I've seen enough pictures of him to know that he's gotten the best physical traits of both Om Hananto and Tante Surti. But I'm sure you're not attracted to him just because of his height or muscular build; such specimens are easily available in Europe. There must be something in Alam that has made you feel at home in Jakarta. It couldn't just be because of your film assignment.

                   
And then we have Narayana who has the good looks of a French actor. Again, of course, I know that's not the reason that you've maintained a relationship with him for several years. I won't say much about this and I won't try to interfere, but what I want to tell you is this: don't play with the feelings of a person until his heart is broken to pieces and scattered everywhere. Be brave enough to make a choice, even with all the
risks it might entail. You're still young. Making a choice doesn't mean having to get married tomorrow. And not choosing either Nara or Alam is still a choice. Whatever it is, make your own choice, for yourself and for your peace of heart.

                   
I don't want you to be a person like me, who was never able to choose. I found myself enchanted by so many things, and wandered from one way of thinking to another without finding one that was enduring. The only thing I was ever sure of was myself and my desire to continue my unending voyage. Or, in your mother's words, to fly like a seagull without ever wanting to alight. As a result of my indecision, life made its choices for me and it was not I who determined my life's course.

                   
Your mother had the courage to choose. She chose to marry me, crazy nomad that I am. And then she chose not to marry again. So, too, Tante Surti, another woman who was brave enough to make a choice. Believe me, even people like my friend Hananto and Aji's son, Rama, are people who made choices. Even if we don't agree with their choices, we must respect their right to choose.

                   
The other thing, Lintang, and this is a question: what did you in the end finally pluck from I-N-D-O-N-E-S-I-A? I'm sure that what you found in your time in Jakarta of just a little more than a month is not enough to explain all of the factors that have shaped Indonesia. Your final assignment will help to explain a small part of the country, will reveal a few of the voices to be found there. I do not use the word “small” disparagingly, because I am confident that your work will have an immense impact. Your documentary will be another voice, a voice from the other side which for thirty-two years has been silenced.

                   
After my burial, think long about whether after your graduation you want to return to Jakarta or to stay in Paris. I force no choice on you. Both Paris and Jakarta are your home and each place has special meaning for you. Wherever you choose to be, you will be close with one part of yourself: with Maman in Paris and with me in Karet cemetery in Jakarta.

                   
Uh-oh… I just heard a bell, which means I must get back to planning some way of tricking my steel-jawed nurse.

                   
“Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream?” John Keats provides the perfect closure for this letter. My death, Lintang, will be but a moment of sleep for me, because when I awake, I will meet you.

                   
Lintang, you gave life to my life and even after I die, you will continue to live in me.

             
Your loving father,

                   
Dimas Suryo

In Karet, even in Karet (my future abode), the cold wind comes…
In the end, Ayah did come home, to Karet, to finally reunite with the soil that he said had a different scent from the earth in the Cimetière du Père Lachaise. The soil of Karet. The land he was destined to come home to.

At the head of his grave, weighted with commemorative floral arrangements, was a plain wooden marker on which Om Nug had written in a simple hand:

                         
For a life full of charm and beauty

                         
For the wanderer now gone forever

                         
For Dimas Suryo: 1930–1998

It was the same image that came to my mind and haunted me the night before I left Paris. It was the image of my father's pending death, the knowledge of which he had persisted in keeping from me.

As my father predicted, Tante Surti, Kenanga, and Bulan scattered jasmine flowers on his grave. Maman sprinkled cloves. Om Aji led the congregation in prayers that sounded to me like music. Tante Retno, Andini, and Rama also scattered jasmine flowers and rose petals too. My father's friend, Bang Amir, and his wife were there. I watched him as he cried silently before the grave. He said a prayer, then covered his face with his hands.

Om Nug and Om Tjai, who represented the larger community of Indonesian exiles in Paris and elsewhere, each gave testimonial speeches. Om Risjaf was too sad to speak; he stood at my left side with a harmonica in his hand, tears falling nonstop from his eyes until finally I took his hand and squeezed it tightly. Pointing with my other hand to the far end of the grave, I whispered: “Look, can you see? Ayah is sitting there laughing at us.” Unable to appreciate my dark humor, he cried all the more. Oh, my father was always right in his predictions.

In the distance I could see Alam seated by himself beneath a frangipani tree. His eyes were on me constantly, centered on me alone, binding me with him. Behind me was Narayana. You're right, Ayah. It would be much easier not to choose and to pretend there were no consequences. But, as you said, to choose requires courage; it is what one must do.

As other mourners said their goodbyes and began to leave Karet cemetery, we continued sitting there listening to Om Risjaf play “Take Me Home, Country Road” in a tempo so slow it seemed to shred the red twilight sky. He played with his eyes closed but tears still issued from his eyelids and he would not allow anyone to approach. I could hear Ayah humming along with Maman, who was singing the song. And then, in the distance, I saw a man of about fifty walking through the cemetery with a girl of about seven years. They were holding each other's hands. Softly, I heard the father tell his daughter about an episode in the
Mahabharata.
I heard the name “Bima” and then “Ekalaya.” After that, I listened as the little girl pestered the man with questions, sometimes in French, sometimes in Indonesian.

The gloaming came slowly, as if giving us a little extra time to spend with Ayah before complete darkness fell. I didn't know whether I was in Père Lachaise or Karet. But I could see Ayah smiling in the distance, happy to be home and for all of us to be with him.

END NOTES

SOURCES OF LITERARY QUOTES

APIN, RIVAI
. Excerpt from his poem “Elegy” (Elegi) in the chapter “Surti Anandari” from
Tiga Menguak Takdir
by Chairil Anwar Asrul Sani and Rivai Apin. Jakarta: Balai Pustaka, 1958. (All translations from the Indonesian, both here and elsewhere, by John H. McGlynn.)

AUDEN, W.H
. Excerpt from “On Installing an American Kitchen in Lower Austria” in the chapter “The Four Pillars” from
The Table Comes First
by Adam Gopnik New York: Knopf, 2011.

BYRON, LORD
. Excerpt from “She Walks in Beauty” in the chapter “Surti Anandari” from
Lord Byron: An Anthology by George Gordon Byron.
Jarod Publishing, 1993.

DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY, ANTOINE
. Quotes from
The Little Prince
in the chapters “Ekalaya” and “Flâneurs” from
The Little Prince
(
Le Petit Prince
). Harcourt Inc., 1971.