The Runner
About running, pessimism, and the power of dreams - an excerpt from the novel The Dreamer by Andrea Hirata that inspires.
I always ran. I loved running. The dock coolies were runners. Sharks and rays often reaching two meters long would swing the carrying pole like a dangdut singer swaying, and the force of the swing could only be stabilized by carrying those long fish while running. It was no trouble for me to be chosen as the sprinter of SMA Negeri Bukan Main.
I ran to school. Oh, how I loved running through the rain, like a scarf passing through layer upon layer of water curtains. I was never exhausted from running. My body was light, small, and slender, with long curly hair and often-missing shirt buttons. When I ran, I felt like a Native American, I felt like a colorful paper kite, I felt like a work of art gliding swiftly through the wind.
I always ran home from school, but this afternoon, in front of the boiled noodle restaurant, my steps halted. I was startled to see three people inside the restaurant: myself, Arai, and Jimbron clearing dozens of dirty plates scattered across the table. I ran again, gazing at those three people I knew until they were far behind me.
I stopped again upon seeing three battered passenger cars in front of the harbormaster's office. Their three conductors -- Arai, Jimbron, and myself -- stood in a daze waiting for passengers to Tanjong Pandan. I was terrified watching someone else morph into me. I fled in a panic. By the time I reached the rented room, I was out of breath. And over there, on the Ayah Peninsula, I shuddered to see Arai, Jimbron, and myself dressed in rags, carrying sacks of kweni mangoes on our shoulders.
For days I pondered that strange occurrence. And this afternoon I found the answer. Because this afternoon I managed to uncover a secret. Now I understand why the law allows people aged eighteen and older to bury themselves in all sorts of depravity -- because at that age, humans can already be realistic. That was the secret I discovered. It is remarkable how humans progress from one moral state to another. Today, small wings sprouted on the caterpillar's cocoon body. I metamorphosed from adolescence to adulthood. I was forced by the power of nature to leap across the line from dependence to independence. I was forced to learn to be responsible for myself. A thin layer seemed to peel away from my eyes, revealing the philosophical truth of becoming an adult: life grows ever harder.
The versions of myself, Jimbron, and Arai that I witnessed cleaning tables at the restaurant, working as conductors, and selling kweni mangoes were none other than manifestations of my newly realistic outlook -- because I had turned eighteen. Now I realized that after graduating from high school, my fate would be the same as that of my two friends from middle school: Lintang and Mahar. Lintang, who was brilliant, never even got to finish middle school. How unfair this world is; a frontline student and agile curly-haired runner would end up as a dishwasher at a boiled noodle restaurant.
Being among Malay teenagers who toiled all day long, hearing their views on the future, and watching how they ended up one by one gradually influenced me to assess my situation realistically. Yet I never realized that being realistic actually harbored danger, for it had a linear relationship with pessimism. Being realistic was nothing but a brake pedal that often hindered people's hopes.
Now, every time Pak Balia lulled us with beautiful French poetry, I would just look down, counting the remaining days to carry fish and save money. And back at the rented room, peering into my piggy bank that was full -- full of small coins -- the fire of my youth slowly died out. I understood perfectly well that my savings would never be enough to take me off this small, rust-smelling island of Belitong. For us, the hope of studying in France was like a night bird yearning to be embraced by the full moon -- like a frog wanting to be kissed by a princess to become a prince. The sacred altar of the Sorbonne, exploring Europe all the way to Africa -- these were merely tricks to deceive our exhausted bodies into standing firm at two in the morning to carry fish. We were nothing more than people who had mortgaged all the pleasures of youth to the harsh life of the docks, living without choice or compassion.
Now I had become a pessimist. Lazy about studying. My runs to and from school were no longer swift. The positive energy in my body evaporated, carried away by pragmatic whispers. What was the point of racking my brain studying the binomial theorem to measure infinite numbers, when what was infinite for me was the likelihood of being unable to continue school after high school -- when all I would be measuring was the number of fish I had carried to earn a few coins from the captain? What was the point of straining my neck debating complex Euclidean spatial geometry in class, when all that remained for me was a cramped 2 x 2 meter room at the docks? My proverb now was the absurd proverb of broken-spirited Mexican laborers: tell your dreams, so that God can laugh.
But on the other hand, by God, my friend Jimbron was truly an extraordinary creature. Although his academic improvement was quite impressive -- he had just gifted Pastor Geo seat number 128, up from seat number 78 the previous semester -- he was incredibly optimistic.
This afternoon, he was already standing tall at the dock, waiting for the cargo. Last week he had ordered something from the ship's boatswain, his friend.
"Pak Cik, please buy me a horse-shaped piggy bank in Jakarta."
Jimbron had become the boatswain's friend after helping him iron his tattoo. After growing old and wanting to pray, the boatswain had only then realized the foolishness of tattooing his body in his youth.
"Two of them, Pak Cik, two..."
"Isn't one enough, Bron?"
"Two, Pak Cik, if possible one white and one black."
Already knowing his obsession with horses, the boatswain did not bother asking why one horse piggy bank was not enough. One horse piggy bank is what we would call normal; two horse piggy banks we call obsessive-compulsive. Abnormality was the perfect label for Jimbron. And today he was overjoyed because the piggy banks, each the size of a baby goat, had arrived. "Piggy banks for continuing my education!!" he shrieked enthusiastically. We examined the clay horses in his arms. Not interested in discussing it further, but Jimbron was already like someone desperate for the bathroom, unable to hold back his horse story.
"Ah, these are just local horses, friends, but they're beautiful too, aren't they?"
As if we had asked, as if we cared, as if we were deeply interested.
"This one is clearly a Sumbawa horse... and the white one, if I look at its nose, ah, this is a sandel horse, its population is large in West Java, typically used for entertainment pulling delman carriages around town..."
His voice was proud, his heart was happy, and his face was bright. He sauntered over, transferred his savings from under his mattress, and divided them equally in two. Each portion was placed into the black horse and the white horse. Later, each time he received wages from the captain, he would divide it evenly between the two horse piggy banks. We could only shake our heads.
"Even if you fill piggy banks the size of real horses, my dear friend Jimbron, those small coins will never be enough to fund your schooling in France..." -- so said my heart. And hear that, friend. The overtones of cynicism from a pessimist. How venomous is the sting of pessimism. It is a poisonous ghost. That attitude extrapolates a curve that goes downward and will keep going downward, and it had turned me into a dark and narrow-minded person. A bad attitude that breeds more badness: pessimism breeds cynicism, then envy, then spite, then perhaps slander. And hear this, friend, the consequences of that bad attitude were real.
"Seventy-five! Once more, 75! That is your father's seat number now..."
I was summoned by Pak Mustar. In true Malay fashion, he berated me mercilessly.
"Only one more semester until high school graduation, shameful! Absolutely shameful!"
"Outrageous! Someone like you deserves to be penned up with Malin Kundang! That's the kind of person you are, in case you want to know! Who do you think you are? Pythagoras? In this fiercely competitive high school, did you think you could keep your seat by studying whenever you pleased?"
His voice was heavy with regret. He was indeed fierce, but everyone knew that deep down he was full of concern -- only his manner was harsh.
"Now you've been knocked far from the front line?"
He glared at me furiously. Angry, unable to comprehend, with a flash of disappointment -- a deep, painful disappointment far within his heart. He gazed out the window into the distance. Silence. Then he turned to look at me, his voice restrained: "Do you know, young man? All this time I have dreamed of my own child sitting in that front-line seat..."
I was moved seeing Pak Mustar's eyes glistening with tears.
"Now he goes to school in Tanjong Pandan, at a school where even a monkey could be accepted if it enrolled! And you -- you squander the honor of the front line? Why did you stop dreaming, young man? Do you understand -- to stop dreaming is the greatest tragedy in human life!"
I bowed my head in silence, contemplating words of such profound meaning. Those words pierced my every pore.
"I've already posted the invitation letter to your father. Can you imagine how he feels right now?"
And when my father's name was mentioned, I was jolted awake. Pessimism had thoroughly betrayed me. I was disappointed -- a deep, painful disappointment within my heart.
"I am willing to bet your father will not deign to come."
I shrank, drained, stabbed by guilt.
"An underachiever! A broken promise! A child unable to fulfill his parents' hopes! Do you not know, young man? There is nothing that brings your father more joy than receiving your report card?"
My heart ached, it stung terribly.
"You are his one and only hope, Ikal."
All the water in my body surged to my head.
"Ah, your father, Ikal -- even when invited to a regent's inauguration, he would not take out his safari jacket. Only for you, Ikal, the best of him is always only for you..."
That water spilled, streaming through my eyes. Night descended on Magai as if only for me. Pak Mustar's words were like darkness binding me tightly, tormenting me second by excruciating second, as long as the changing of seasons. Would my father come tomorrow? I cursed myself.
Not a wink of sleep came. I was deeply devastated. Never had I experienced a night that would not end like this one. In the lowest moral state, painful old memories seemed to come alive, assaulting me without mercy. Those images were like a film spinning around me, dancing like ghosts. I saw Arai -- a small child waiting for me in the middle of a cornfield. I remembered the parting with my friend Lintang that shattered my heart. I remembered the pitiful fate of a man named Bodenga. And I realized how since childhood, we had endured a hard life for the sake of education.
Very early in the morning, Arai and I waited for my father with the thinnest of hopes that he would come. And we would understand if he were unwilling to trouble himself, departing before dawn to pedal his bicycle thirty kilometers, crossing two hills and a field, only to be humiliated.
Since learning that I had been knocked from the front line by my own narrow-mindedness, Arai had hardly spoken to me. I watched anxiously as parents streamed toward the hall. My eyes were fixed on the road beyond the school gate. My father had not arrived. Arai looked at me with contempt.
My heart was empty.
But suddenly my eyes were dazzled by the white aluminum lamp cap of a bicycle being pedaled by a man in a four-pocket safari jacket. He pedaled his bicycle wearily, staggering, and sped up when he saw us. Stopping in front of us, the man wiped his sweat. I was stunned, and my chest filled with remorse seeing the crisp folds of his jacket, and his neatly trimmed mustache and hair. He would be sitting in seat number 75, yet he still took two days off, and still followed the same routine, with the same feelings, to collect my report card. The fragrance of pandan leaves from my father's safari jacket made my tears flow. Even though I would bring him shame, my mother had still soaked pandan leaves overnight to iron my father's safari jacket. And my father had happily come from far away to collect my report card in his finest clothes, in his most fragrant outfit. I could not speak when he greeted us with a gentle "Assalamu'alaikum," smiled, and patted our shoulders with pride -- exactly the same as always.
Imagining what my father endured inside the hall, I felt as though the sky was cursing me and the school building was crumbling down upon me. No longer did I hear applause when my father's name was called to collect my report card. All I heard was people whispering, asking why my grades had plummeted so badly. How would my quiet father answer the barrage of questions that would only wound his heart? I was drowning in regret. What a worthless child I was! How could I do this to my father?
Those seconds weighed unbearably as I waited for my father to emerge from the hall. And finally, he left the hall. His steps were as calm as they had been when I was still excelling. He approached us and smiled. That smile was his trademark smile of pride, not diminished in the slightest -- exactly like when I was still in the front line. When he looked at each of us, it was still clear that no matter what happened, however we turned out, we were still heroes to him. He would always accept us as we were. I bowed my head in silence, my heart shattered, and my tears flowed once more. As was his habit, he gently patted our shoulders and uttered a soft greeting. I sobbed watching my father mount his bicycle and pedal away from me with difficulty.
My chest wanted to explode watching my father's back slowly leaving the schoolyard.
"Are you satisfied now?" Arai unleashed his anger at me.
I turned my back to him.
"Is that what you wanted? To hurt his feelings?"
I still had my back to Arai because I did not want him to see that my cheeks were wet.
"What happened to you, Ikal? How did your schooling come to this? Where is that spirit? Those dreams?"
Arai was furious. He could not comprehend me at all.
"Let me tell you, Kal, people like us have nothing except spirit and dreams, and we will fight to the death for those dreams!"
I was jolted and stood transfixed, watching my father until he disappeared into the distance. Arai's shouts rang in my ears, setting my heart ablaze.
"Without dreams, people like us will die..."
I felt frozen, as if doused with a bucket of ice water.
"Maybe after graduating high school we'll only pan for tin or become coolies, but here, Kal, in this school, we will never get ahead of our own destiny!"
Getting ahead of destiny! Two words that answered my mistake in interpreting the direction of my life. Pessimism was nothing more than the arrogance of getting ahead of destiny.
"We do our best here! And we will journey across Europe all the way to Africa! We will study in France! We will set foot on the sacred altar of the Sorbonne! No matter what happens!"
Arai shouted. His voice rang out, filling the vast field of our school, piercing through the dark chambers of narrow-mindedness in my head. His words were like a spark plug charging the battery inside my body.
In an instant, my eyes opened to see the great hope hidden within my father's heart. My father, who was always silent, who never demanded anything. I trembled. I looked at the straight road before me, stretching dozens of kilometers toward my village. I wanted to catch up with my father, and I began to run. I crossed schoolyards, the office complex, and the market. I ran through small villages until I was past Magai, but I could not see my father. He was far ahead. The sun had already tilted; I ran on hot asphalt in a nonstop marathon. I refused the offers of passing vehicles. I was exhausted but I would run and keep running until I found my father. Now I reached a long road that looked like a black line splitting the vast savanna. The shrubbery swayed golden in the sunlight, rolling in waves churned by the wind blowing free. There, at the end of that lonely line, I saw a dot -- my father! I ran faster, like a colorful paper kite, like a Native American. I ran until my feet ached. I caught up with my father as he was in the middle of the Lenggang bridge. As I ran alongside his bicycle, my father was startled and smiled -- a gentle smile full of pride.
"Ikal...," he said.
I took over pedaling his bicycle; he sat in the back. His rough, old laborer's hands embraced my waist. My quiet father: the number one father in the whole world. The warm afternoon sun mixed with the cool wind, caressing us across the wooden bridge. Below us, the ancient Lenggang River flowed slowly. Dark and deep. Its headwaters hold the sorrowful history of poor Malay people; its tributaries are mysteries carrying mystical power; and its ripples, splashing day and night, are the quiet song of my boundless love for my father.
Excerpted from the novel The Dreamer (Sang Pemimpi), by Andrea Hirata.