It’d been a while since the last time I entered Eyang’s green-painted room—she was already at the hospital then, probably a few weeks left before she’d pass over to the other side. It was weird, to say the least: being in this room without her. It feels wrong. She had been bed-bound for roughly 6-7 years, so ‘visiting Eyang’ is practically a synonym for going to this room.

Today, May 13th, is Eyang’s birthday. It is also a few days after the first-year mark of her passing. If you didn’t already know, she was a parent figure for me, one who shaped me into the woman I am today. I could not have overstated this even if I wanted to. My existence, everything I have achieved in life—it was all her (well, other than my parents, of course).

And it recently dawned on me how I never fully shared her story.

1. She helped me discover my permanent love of learning
   Legend has it, we were walking home when I saw a Majalah Bobo on a stall, and how I wouldn’t go home without it. So she got me one—it’s the origin story of how I was able to read since I was barely three years old. Reading, as it turns out, is a key that opens the gate to the abundance of knowledge that I have been soaking myself in for the past 30 years. It was the lens through which I inch closer to understanding the world, a well that fuels my journey. But the ‘force’ didn’t happen as a defining ‘moment’, no—rather, throughout my childhood and teenage years, she has consistently guided me through every curiosity, question, idea, and opinion. She never told me to shut my ever-ticking brain. She loved singing to her grandchildren (we know today that it helped stimulate our brains). She made loving learning alright.
   
2. She showed me how to be badass
   After I got divorced, she didn’t rush into telling me to find another man ASAP. She casually said, “Nggak apa-apa juga kalau sendiri,” which was not what I expected. Indeed, since her husband (the late Eyang Ngget) passed in 1992, she never remarried. She said she’d rather channel all her love to raising her grandchildren. She didn’t make our existence as a woman to revolve around the men in our lives, that we could lead the life we want. In her more productive years, she was Ketua RW who made changes to how things were done, and she led many of ‘penyuluhan’ sessions for the women in her hometown (and where I was born), Cianjur. Even after she couldn’t walk and had to use wheelchair everywhere, she didn’t want to depend on others if she could afford it.
3. She introduced me to a God who’s reasonable
   I’d like to think that everyone’s spiritual journey is unique, and largely depends on who first introduced us to God. I was extremely lucky to have done so through Eyang. While I don’t always share her conservative views, in the big picture, she always told us that God would understand. Yes, we shall pray five times a day and fast during Ramadhan, but if we weren’t able to, God would not be petty about it. We could do it later, combine them, or pay in lieu of doing so. When I was 16 and told her I wanted to wear hijab, she asked if I were sure and that it’s okay if I weren’t. She told me I could always do it later, when I would understand better about what it meant, along with all the consequences. (Although she’s very adamant about not wearing sleeveless shirts, because Islam fundamentally required women to dress modestly.)
4. She enabled me in being competitive
   For every math, language, cerdas cermat, debating, model UN, and what-have-you competition I went to, she would wake up at four, do her shalat subuh, and prayed into a glass of water for me to drink. She wasn’t superstitious per se—she simply believed that prayers matter in determining the outcome, and this ritual manifest the spiritual into the physical world. She’d make sure I drink that glass of water before I left the house. Yes, I ended up winning many times but I also lose; it’s not quite about that—it was more about how I understood that these competitions mattered to her. Even more important than the prayers, she would come with me to the event and sat through it all. It was like she held my hand when I was answering the math sheets, or on the stage, all the way to the end. Her presence made a huge difference.
5. She taught me to share
   Every family has a different relationship with money. Ours had been one where we didn’t have that much to waste any of it, but also that it was imperative to share and help others when we can. As a child, I have observed her be responsible with every Rupiah that she has, she would note her expenses down and all before the age of excel or apps—but she also never hesitated to share. Whenever we have a little more rezeki, she would allocate ahead for different members of the family. It’s how I knew gift giving was her primary love language. She was always full of gratitude whenever I bought her things—not because she was materialistic, but because she understood the effort that goes into it.

Above anything else, I learned the importance of being consistent. In learning, in being self-reliant, in worship, in working hard, and in sharing. Way before James Clear, my grandmother taught me how creating systems and habits made all the difference. She would know exactly where things are stored and made sure that we put everything back. She always wakes up early, and had a whole routine every single day.

She was the matriarch we all respect, look up to, and love.

I miss you her much, to the extent that I badly hope the afterlife is real because I really want to hug you and kiss your forehead again.

At the risk of sounding ultra cliche, I know that she will live on in our hearts. I know that every now and then, I will ask myself, “What would Eyang do?”

Happy birthday lagi, Eyang sayang. I hope I have done you proud.

I see the irony, all right.

This post was written out of a cafe at the heart of bustling South Jakarta. To my left is a case of youth camaraderie—it was someone’s birthday so there was a (white and pink) cake involved. To my right, are two female best friends giggling while taking each other’s picture just because. Oh, buzzing friendships. Sparks of connection.

For a brief moment, from where I sat, it seemed like there was no such thing as loneliness. But of course there is, because how else would you explain this growing, hollowing feeling inside my chest?

What I know for sure is that it has nothing to do with being alone.

I have loved spending time with myself since I was a little kid. I would always prefer to be left alone with my Kumpulan Cerpen/Dongeng Majalah Bobo than playing with my friends. Growing up, I spent a lot of time being inside my head and was never scared of it. It’s when I am alone that I could be free, exploring every single corner of my mind. A healthy dose of being alone fulfills my soul.

So, is it a byproduct of rejection(s)?

Is it possible that, as a child, I was wholly and utterly protected by my parents’ love, that I thought of the world as this ever-accepting place? Then adulting hits: the inevitability of making mistakes that hurt others, who sometimes forgive, but other times leave. It often means wanting to be with someone(s) who may not see you the way you see them. Who chooses—or is forced—to not be with you. It’s discovering that people have expectations that you do not always meet.

Each time that happens, my heart’s corner chips away, bit by bit, perhaps slowly taking into a whole new shape that fits better with solitude.

Don’t get me wrong. I know we will never be able to please everyone—even ice cream can’t do that. But it does not necessarily mean that I don’t feel a pang of pain after each ‘no’; some cut deeper than others. Not to mention the losses that happened beyond our control: the deaths that took our beloved away.

Ultimately these things lead me to the sobering awareness that during those times I went into my cave of solitude, the world is not always there with open arms when I got out of it. At some point, the cave might have stopped being an option and started becoming an unescapable dead end.

Not having a constant—someone or something to go home to, to belong to—kind of puts the nail in the coffin.

As a child, my first constant was of course my parents and brothers, even today, I know that they will always be there, and I am forever grateful for that. When I entered my teenage years, it became my friends at school and university. Then it became work, what I thought was a lifetime of craft that I love. Then it became, of course, my ex-husband. But since last year, I don’t quite have anything. I was suddenly untethered. Afloat, with no anchor to ground me.

Maybe I lost faith that I could ever belong to anything ever again. Or maybe I’ve gotten too acquainted with the hurt that comes with it.

Now I live in an oscillating state of being afraid—both of belonging and of not belonging.

What will come after this? It feels overwhelming just to hypothesize.

[Just to clarify: it’s not like I don’t have friends who are there for me, whom I cherish and appreciate. But the kind of loneliness I’m talking about runs deeper than just lack of (even really great) companionship.]

Here’s a prescription that a wise friend gave me:

1. Embrace loneliness as an inseparable part of being. Maybe, just maybe, loneliness has always been sitting there in the corner of your heart (we were born alone after all). It’s just that only as adults do we have the courage, or maybe mental space, to observe and acknowledge it.
   
2. Do not take connection with someone for granted, celebrate even the most impermanent/short-lived ones. Once we accept the above, we will see the beauty in those rare moments of being understood. We will treasure those relationships—romantic or otherwise—as memories that make life worth living. When they end, do not resent them, but be grateful that you got to experience them.
   
3. Find that constant within you. While everyone would come into and out of your life as they please, know that you could always count on yourself. We have been conditioned, through fairy tales, that we were supposed to find that someone-ever-after, who will complete our soul and being. Speaking from experience, you certainly could still feel lonely while being with someone. Heck, you might be sharing a bed with them and still feel unseen. So here’s to appreciating yourself for being there for you.
   
4. That said, let others in, still. Give chance for that spark and connection to happen. I know that putting a heart on your sleeve is scary because you will find yourself hurt. But it’s the only way to make life worth living—by giving friendship, or any other kind of relationship, a shot. You will bleed, from time to time, but every once in a blue moon, you will come out victorious, and it will all be worth it.

Thank you for making my lonely world a little less lonely by reading this. I love you guys so much.

Wijaya IX, 16 Oct 2022

Katanya, seseorang yang tiada akan tetap hidup dalam memori mereka yang terus mengenangnya. Maka sesungguhnya Eyang Iib akan abadi, karena bukan hanya saya dan keluarga kami, tapi begitu banyak orang yang telah disentuh kebaikan hati beliau insya Allah akan senantiasa mengingat.

Dalam mengingat Eyang, saya terkenang sosok yang senantiasa berdoa. Begitu khusyuk, begitu setia, dan begitu konsisten. Saya mengingat Eyang yang mengenakan mukena yang selalu beliau pakai sejak saya kecil, menengadahkan tangannya untuk meminta dari Allah—dulu pada sajadah beludru birunya, lalu setelah sudah tidak bisa berjalan di atas tempat tidurnya yang ditegakkan—bukan dari ego atau rasa berhak, bukan pula dari ketamakan.

Eyang justru meminta agar bisa lebih banyak memberi.

“Ya Allah, berikanlah kami rejeki agar bisa beribadah lebih baik lagi di jalan-Mu, agar bisa membantu orang di sekitar kami…”

Begitulah hidup Eyang, sebisa mungkin agar menjadi manfaat bagi orang lain.

Dari cerita saudara-saudara, saya belakangan tahu bahwa dulu setelah menikah, Eyang diminta Eyang Husein (suaminya) untuk berhenti mengajar. Tapi siapapun yang mengenal Eyang Iib tahu bahwa mustahil membuat beliau diam di rumah. Meski tidak bekerja, Eyang kemudian aktif berorganisasi di desa, memimpin penyuluhan bagi perempuan-perempuan di Cianjur, bahkan sampai menjadi Ketua RW (pun setelah tulang kaki Eyang patah dan harus menghabiskan banyak waktu di tempat tidur, beliau terus berkegiatan ini-itu). Bagaimana tidak, kalau ibunya dulu juga seorang aktivis pejuang kemerdekaan.

Kalau hari ini saya juga aktif memperjuangkan isu lingkungan dan berorganisasi, itu karena darah mereka mengalir pula di nadi saya.

Eyang selalu membanggakan prestasi cucu-cucunya. Eyang banyak bercerita ke para penjenguknya selama beberapa bulan terakhir hidupnya tentang saya yang sempat diundang ke Istana Bogor untuk ikut diskusi bersama Jokowi. Yang Eyang tidak ceritakan, adalah betapa gigihnya doa-doa beliau untuk kami, dan bahwa aliran doa-doa itu pula lah yang membawa saya, anak-anak, serta cucu-cucunya sampai bisa sejauh ini.

Salah satu memori terawal sekaligus terkuat saya adalah Eyang yang bangun jam 4 pagi untuk berdoa bagi kemenangan saya di lomba-lomba sejak SD—baik itu matematika, IPA, cerdas cermat—tidak ada hari kompetisi di mana saya berangkat meninggalkan rumah tanpa meminum ‘air doa’ dari Eyang.

Ketika sudah tidak tinggal bersama pun, setiap ada kesempatan di mana saya membutuhkan keberuntungan—baik itu lomba, wawancara, atau aplikasi beasiswa maupun kesempatan apapun itu—saya pasti akan telepon Eyang untuk meminta doa beliau.

Hari ini, tanpa Eyang dan doa-doanya, saya merasa lemah—seperti prajurit tanpa baju zirah.

Dari banyak doa yang Eyang sering sampaikan, yang paling berarti dan membekas di hati saya adalah doa agar “Nenk Dhita banyak yang sayang.” Saya sering didoakan orang untuk senantiasa bahagia, atau sukses, atau banyak rezeki. Tapi cuma Eyang yang mendoakan agar banyak yang sayang. Mungkin Eyang tahu bahwa hidup pada akhirnya adalah tentang rasa sayang dan cinta kasih di antara sesama manusia.

Maka beruntunglah kita yang hidupnya telah disentuh cinta kasih Eyang.

Semoga kita bisa meneruskannya ke lebih banyak orang, sebagaimana Eyang harapkan.

Amin ya Rabbal Alamiiin.

Selamanya cucu pertama Eyang,
Nenk Dhyta