LITTLE BY LITTLE
They say a tree will not die suddenly. The tree will continue to grow until the last moment of its life—allowing its roots to creep beneath the surface of the ground and its branches to reach the sky with ever wider spans. The death of a tree can be seen by its leaves; watching how they fall, piece by piece, until there are no more leaves left on any of the branches. When I was in elementary school, I once saw a tree that had just been cut down. I don't remember exactly what tree it was. Maybe a flamboyant tree, maybe a banyan. However, I remember the leaves of the tree were so green and full of life as if they had just been doused with rain; The tree trunk is strong, and also how neatly the tree is split. Something stirred in my heart that day, when I saw people separating the tree trunk from the stump. Sadness, perhaps. Or pity—I don't know. What is clear, just like almost all the memories of my childhood, the memory of this tree being cut down is also buried along with other memories, refusing to be remembered before its time. Today, when I was about to watch my elementary school building being torn down, I remembered the tree that was cut down. There were at least three dozen people coming today. It feels natural because everyone has their own busy lives. Reading messages forwarded via WhatsApp regarding plans to demolish our old school building may not be a strong reason to cancel their other plans. I myself don't know what made me so called to witness this demolition. Maybe because I hope to meet my old friends. Maybe it was also because I just wanted to come and witness the building in my memory one last time, engrave it in my memory before the building was destroyed. At eight in the morning, the demolition workers were lined up neatly in front of the school gate. There was a dredging machine parked not far from where they held their morning assembly. Seeing such a big machine in the middle of a residential area on the outskirts of Jakarta like this feels strange. It was like seeing a single pencil pine towering so high in the middle of the bushes. However, this pencil pine is bright yellow, made of iron, and is capable of destroying buildings with its strong arms.
"Bayu," a voice greeted me. "It's been a long time?" When I turned towards the source of the sound, I found Angga walking slowly towards me. His light green shirt was rolled up and his dark red tie was tucked in his pocket. The soles of his leather shoes made a raucous dragging sound every time they rubbed against the asphalt. "Just arrived," I answered simply, returning my attention to the building which would soon be destroyed. Angga. We first met at this school about fifteen years ago. It was like watching a documentary, I could see the figure of little Angga clearly, complete with his red and white uniform, also with a red tie with a rubber strap hanging loosely around his neck. His tan skin shines and reflects the sunlight every time he plays futsal on the field. Angga lit a cigarette, then smoked it slowly. Suddenly the smell of cigarettes wafted out. Usually, I don't like the smell of cigarette smoke. But for some reason my day didn't feel disturbed. "Is anyone else coming?" I asked, trying to break the silence between us. Angga shook his head, then took out his cellphone and started checking the incoming messages. "I've asked everyone I can contact. Rudi, Adrian, Melissa, Rina… but no one could come.” "So from our class, there are only two of us?" He shrugged his shoulders, but answered with a "yes". We fell silent again, watching how the officers who had just finished their morning assembly went to their respective positions. One of them climbed onto the dredge and started the engine. Immediately the sound of a very loud motorbike exploded like firecrackers exploding non-stop. The buzz of people talking around us also changed—from what had been muffled whispers to half-sentences to counteract the noise of the engine. Angga's fingers continued to play nimbly on his cellphone screen. The cigarette was still stuck to his lips without being smoked. Honestly, I don't remember the last time I talked to him. Trying to summarize time into a series of words felt as if I was trivializing its duration. “Fifteen years ago,” for example, is a series of words I can say in less than two seconds. However, there is an invisible weight that I feel when I remember it; a time that feels so far from everything that exists in the present.
Angga and I used to be friends. We spend a lot of time together. At every recess, we would jog down the stairs, racing to the school cafeteria before the other kids invaded the place like an army of ants swarming a piece of candy that had fallen to the ground. After class, when we had about forty minutes to rest before starting our respective extracurriculars—futsal for Angga and drawing for me—we would usually play hide and seek. The rules were simple: we could hide anywhere as long as we were inside the school. My favorite hiding place was under the teacher's desk in the 3D classroom—a classroom whose blue-painted door was never exposed to sunlight. Maybe that's the reason the blue color of the classroom door looks so clear, unlike other classroom doors whose blue paint turns pale because of the sunlight every day. I didn't always hide there, partly because I was afraid Angga or the others would find me if I kept hiding in the same place. Also because sometimes I could smell a very strong smell of wind oil when hiding there, usually after Mr. Anton—our Indonesian teacher who had a habit of slapping his waist lightly while walking—taught the last lesson in 3D class. I imagined him applying wind oil to his temples, and always wondered why the smell of wind oil could be smelled under the table. I don't know what happened between us—Angga and me. We were still good friends when we went to middle school. However, when we were in the 1st year of high school, it was as if the closeness that had existed between us never existed. As time went by, I realized that memory is something that is very selective. I can remember many things from middle school to high school: how hot the field where we held the flag ceremony during new student orientation week, the coolness of standing under the shady ketapang ketapang that lined up in front of the school gate, the exams when I got very low grades, the school wall magazine which first published an article I wrote, was also the night of our farewell.
But when I try to remember what happened in between those special moments, I can never remember it clearly. It was like remembering the melody of a song without remembering what the accompanying music was like—or remembering the tune without remembering the lyrics of a song. Maybe the reason Angga and I weren't as close friends as before was something much simpler than I imagined. We could find new friends, new activities, and new interests. I believe change never comes suddenly. Slowly, like seconds turned into minutes, then into days, months, and years. Like flowers that cannot bloom overnight, or trees that need time to wither. Just because we notice the change suddenly, doesn't mean the change happened suddenly. "Do you know the reason why our school was demolished?" I asked, half exclaiming. "A lot," he answered quietly. “The biggest reason is money. There are many factors: number of students, building location…” “Building location…?” as surprised. "Our school was built in a housing complex," answered Angga, throwing away his finished cigarette butt carelessly. “It seems like the residents around here haven't changed much compared to before. You can imagine for yourself... we, who used to study here, are now adults. I don't think there are many children living around here anymore. Can you imagine who still lives in housing this old?"
I approached the cigarette butt that Angga had thrown away, then stepped on it to make sure the embers were extinguished. Seeing that I didn't answer his question, Angga continued. “Seniors; retired. What is clear is that people no longer need school." I nodded slowly, then looked back at the officers who were now preparing to demolish the building neatly. I don't even understand half of what they do. One of them wearing bright orange work clothes gave instructions to several spectators to move back further. People who came to watch, whether wearing casual clothes or formal clothes, who came alone or in groups, stood in a line behind the safe boundary line determined by the officers. Seeing them lined up like that made me think of a group of birds that often perched on the branches of the tree in front of my house. One by one they would perch there, staring back at me as if we could communicate in silence. I never knew what kind of bird I saw, but they were always there without the slightest chirp or sound other than the occasional flapping of their wings that could be heard through the cracks in the window. I was wondering when the dredging machine would start doing its job when Angga spoke again. "Do you remember when we used to play hide and seek at school?" I'm laughing. "Why? There is something funny?" Angga's expression looked a little offended. "No," I answered quickly. “I also just remembered the same thing.
Angga snorted, but then smiled. "Honestly, I don't know why. But since coming here, I remember a lot of things.” He took another cigarette out of his pocket, but then froze for a moment and put it back. "I remember playing hide and seek with you and the others. I remember Pak Anton who always carried wind oil everywhere. I also remember the taste of the chicken soup sold in the canteen, which—” "—which is sold so cheaply that our mother suspects they don't use real chicken meat," I said while laughing with amusement. "Do you remember that someone used to sell chicks next to the school gate?" Angga asked. “Chicks whose feathers are gilded with colors. I remember buying the blue one because I thought it was cute." He turned to me, then laughed sadly. “Poor chick. Not three days later he died. I remember I buried the chick in the park. Where exactly, I've forgotten." I listened to Angga's story silently. Just like his memories of that bright blue chick, I also have many memories of this place. It's funny how we can remember so many things about a place when we are about to leave them. I also responded to Angga's story with my own stories. It didn't take long before we had a great conversation. Memories of a spider making its nest in a class 3A window, for example. Or memories of our library which was closed for a year for no apparent reason. All these stories keep rolling endlessly. I don't want the stories to stop, because for me, and maybe also for Angga, these stories about the past are what still connect us—a pair of friends who haven't seen each other for a very long time. However, all stories have an ending. And when the dredging machine started destroying the roof of the building, we were silent again. Our stories ended, the momentary joy that emerged from reminiscing about the past slowly faded like the setting sun. "You know," said Angga then. "I was thinking... if all of us - all the alumni of this school, contributed a little money... maybe our school wouldn't have to be torn down like this." I nodded. Unfortunately, reality speaks differently. If they don't want to see our school demolished, I doubt they will be willing to spare the money to help maintain the survival of this school. After all, sooner or later this school will be closed. A monetary contribution from us might allow them to operate for a few days, months, or a year longer. However, as long as there are no new students who want to go to school, this building will lose its purpose.
