A Place to Long For

"Mba Yaya betah di Jakarta. She likes it here." 

"And you don't?"

His eyes diverted somewhere else, looking through the glass window as if he was staring at his life in Jeddah.

"Gimana ya, Fiya." he answered hesitantly, "Kerjaan aku disana."

Then his eyes went back to mine. I smiled, trying to look content with his answer. Anggi is a friend of mine. He's Indonesian but grew up in the Middle East and only come to visit Jakarta every Summer. We were reunited again on his last night before his departure back to Jeddah. And we stumbled upon a conversation about the city we were not meant to stay for the time being and on the contrary, how his sister grew fond of this place. To think of it, I'd like to hide behind work, too, if that helps to settle a place to long for. Anggi was clear upon his answer. He was completely practical sticking to 'I have work, friends and cars there' respond. The only hesitation in his voice was probably he was afraid to offend me because in our position, I was the one in this room that was more attached to this city. And somehow, I also feel obligated to like this city thus at least one of us does. But I am not sure, myself. Even though I know it is my default settings to root for Jakarta, because the thread that tie us both is thicker than blood, but Jakarta isn't the same; and if I have to follow his context, I don't have work or cars to bound me over a place. If the question addressed back to myself: do I like it here? I don't think I have a definite answer. Jakarta has changed since last time I was here.

I have noticed things have shifted into different equation while I was away. Being the one who leaves, I remember better where exactly I left off my life before leaving this city. It was almost like my life was a movie that was on pause, and I'd just need to press play to resume the last scene where it stopped. My high school friends were the ones who dominates the biggest chunk of my life back then. And they were also the scene where my life was on hold. We were young and naive, we'd go anywhere, everywhere after the sun set and home before the sun rise. I didn't realise they have grown and changed. I returned with the expectation I could find them easily, then we could reminisce the good old rebelion days together. I thought they were exactly where I left them. But they weren't. They are now somewhere farther beyond the pine trees. Not all of them, of course, but the changes were so severe in most of them I could tell they were not really laughing, or present for that matter. It seemed I have missed a phase in their lives that even though they were trying to tell me through stories, I didn't think it would be the same as being present while the phase was happening.

For instance, one of my closest friends that used to share each other's darkest secrets and was capable of loving great things, now stood quietly in his shell trying to keep distance as far as possible from love. Maybe that one time he was broken hearted, it traumatised him. We went from hours of talking to short text messaging that lasts no longer than five replies. And another good friend of mine, the joker in the group that I have never recalled seeing him frowned, had changed from the funny happy-go-lucky one to sour, and almost bitter. The loud laugh that used to paint his face bright was absent. They have gone quiet. The flickers of naivety, reckless, and freedom in their eyes were missing. I'd like to tell them, look I'm here. To listen, to laugh at or with. I'm here, let's be young and naive once again. Let's hang out, drive the night away and curse to the sky. I'd like to tell them don't change. But maybe, I have changed too. I can't reach them the way I used to. They used to be a quarter of my life that keeps me longing for this city, but somehow, I felt like I have lost them, though not entirely, to the nature of growing up.

Maybe it's time to get a job, and fancy cars, to get the absolute answer. Just like Anggi did.