On My Way Home

I bike through kampung streets close to dusk. My mind zones in. There's me, riding over a speed bump. Me, weaving around a motorbike. Boys playing on a road filled with potholes. A man pushing a cart filled with meatballs. Two mothers carrying their babies. The road is bumpy, not smooth.

I see a grandpa riding a city bicycle, and I pass him on the left, saying, "Permisi, Pak," with a huge grin. He nods his head, smiling back, "Ya, monggo! Monggo!" I laugh to myself at the politeness of the situation, and I'm happy, just happy. It's a different kind of friendly back home.

And then, as I'm passing the rice paddy that I've passed many times before, I feel the wind and I stretch my back. I notice the skies: blue with purple clouds, not dark enough yet for rain. I'm about to continue on as usual, but when I look to my left, I see the rice paddy stretch out, houses in the distance. It's beautiful, drawing me stop, and so I do.  I stand there for a while, just staring.

Then, when something inside me sparks, I decide to take a picture. My phone is off, having died during the last hour of work, but I force it back on, squeezing the last bit of battery.  It works! and so I take a picture, quickly saving it before my phone shuts off once more.

It's a routine ride home, and my body guides my bicycle, having long memorized the path. Years ago, in Delft, I also memorized the path -- of course, I forget it now. And I know that one day, like with Delft, I'll forget the way to my home in Jogja. But until then, I'll live it.

As I turn into an alley seconds away from home, voices fill the air, and the prayers begin.