Neighbor

He moves into the next room next to mine. His head is balding but a thick mustache covers his upper lip. Even when he smiles, there is no indication on the lips to express his pleasant feeling. When he talks, the voice seems to appear from the fingers on his left hand as they twitch every time he speaks. That's how thick his mustache is. Then, he burns incense every day where the smell of the smoke enters my room, choking me to oblivion. He knocks at my door and gives me that invisible smile, saying "I hope you don't mind the smell. It's the gods." I watch the fingers on his left hand rapidly flickering on his palm as he talks. I swear, the voice comes from there. I look up to his mouth, to see if it's some kind of a visual trick that he's playing on me. If only he had a puppet on his left hand, I would have believed it talks. But his own self, minus the left hand, must be the puppet while this left hand takes control. "No, it's fine with me", I tell him while staring at his mustache, trying to find a hint of voice or expression behind it.

Storyteller

Next year, he says he will be 60 years old. And he expects us to come up with a huge birthday cake for him, complete with a stripper popping out of the cake after he blows the candle. This is his typical wittiness, a storyteller with stories that pleasantly doesn't make sense. White, short hair defines he age but his smile, fast-talking mouth and eventual laughter betrays the years of an aging man. He says he was there when the famous first white colonizer landed his huge ship on this shore. He was 26 years old then and the year was 1841. Or he would tell a story of ants that came from Cirebon. All the while, he keeps his laughter at a minimum expecting me to figure it out myself.

Move

"They tell us to move so they can build the dam. We do not want to move out!" As he says this, his tone is tinged with anger but full of spirit. His eyes glare defiance, echoing the thoughts of his people and all the angels of justice. I am sitting with them, me -- again -- being a stranger in a land that is tucked in one's imagination of paradise. A paradise that is threatened by systematic lies and sowers of insecurity. What is the rationale of moving out from one's own home into an alien land just because someone else, the Powerful One, needs to build something nearby? This man is angry, he is frustrated and vulnerability is his -- and their -- only companion. And yet, his voice is soft and cold at the same time. The rest nod in agreement, murmuring assuring words of solidarity. Then, there is a long silence. Their thoughts are amplified by this silence. I can only vaguely understand.

Little

A little boy comes up to me and utters words that I do not understand. It's not that he can't speak well for a four-year old. I just can't understand the language. He then grins, his mouth decorated with the absence of teeth. How is it possible that one can lose so many teeth at a young age? He squints his eyes with glee as he sees the puzzlement expressed in my face. He understands that expression yet there is little that I know about what goes on in his mind.

Maybe

She has a long vertical scar on the right side of her face. She touches my index finger, gently pressing it until I pull it from her touch. It hurts. "Maybe it's infected", she casually remarks. Maybe. And that's it. Nothing else. Maybe.