KESALAHAN POHON PEPAYA

Sebatang pohon pepaya tumbuh di pojok
Kuburan Cina. Berbuah ranum, matang kulitnya,
kuning terang kehijauan--seperti pipi.
 
Akarnya menembus tanah, memeluk mimpi
dari mayat yang menyimpan bahagia. Hingga
lelaki bermata jalang yang tidur di bantal nisan
menatapnya penuh
gairah.
 
Kuburan ini berdinding megah.
Temboknya kokoh, lantai halus dijilat purnama. Ada
patung Dewa Penjaga Kubur yang setia. Ada harum dupa
dan bunga jika tiba ziarah keluarga. Sebatang pepaya
tumbuh, tempat angin berlabuh. Datanglah ke mari.
Di sini hidup terlalu mewah, untuk lelaki dan perempuan
yang rindu
rumah.
 
Ada perempuan yang rindu rumah.
Ada lelaki yang rindu rumah. Jika perempuan
dan lelaki memilih nisan untuk berbagi, maka birahi
bisa dibeli demi harga diri.
 
Kuburan adalah
tempat berbagi tiada rugi. Sebatang pepaya tumbuh,
berbuah ranum kuning terang kehijauan--seperti pipi.
Maka di mata lelaki, ia menelusup bagai mimpi:
“Dulu, di kota kami terjadi prahara. Segala toko dan makanan
boleh dibawa tanpa harus membeli. Ada lautan api,
yang mengusir pergi gadis sipit kuning di pipi.
Ai, rasanya seperti mimpi. Kapan lagi bisa bertemu
bencana seperti ini? Makanan tak perlu beli, segala barang,
bahkan birahi. Kutemukan gadis tersedu sendiri. Pahanya
putih enak
sekali.”
 
Tidur sajalah di sini, Abang,
bersama kami. Cukup telentang di bawah langit, rasanya
pasti nikmat berbeda. Jika dari prahara tak dapat birahi,
maka setubuh saja dengan kami, di kuburan mereka
yang mati lantaran bencana. Rasanya
pasti sama.
 
Bayangkan saja pipinya
Bayangkan saja kakinya
Bayangkan saja ia, sebelum mati
 
Sebatang pohon pepaya tumbuh. Buah ranum--kuning kehijauan
seperti pipi. Akarnya menembus mimpi dari mayat
bahagia. Setiap gerimis tiba,
air meresap ke lubang tulang, ke lunak daging mati, yang kelak
menjelma tanah. Menjadi sari mayat yang dihisap akar. Menjelma subur,
mencipta gembur. Tumbuhlah pohon! Tinggilah batang! Suburlah daun!
Jika mayat rindu matahari, lewat daun
kita buka jendela: melihat langit masih terbentang.
Jika mayat rindu dingin, kita rasakan angin
telah memiuh dan berlabuh.
 
Sejak itu, tak boleh ada kesedihan
Sejak itu, tak boleh ada ingatan
 
Tapi pohon pepaya itu berbuah. Seorang lelaki jalang
memandang pipi pada kulit matangnya yang ranum.
Ia mengelus batang, memanjat pohon sambil bernyanyi.
 
Alangkah manis pepaya yang tumbuh
dari rasa mayat bahagia. Perempuan-perempuan memuji. Lelaki
jalang berteriak girang, “Betapa manis ini pepaya, semanis
gadis Cina yang disenggama dalam bencana.”
 
Dari jendela daun, cakrawala tetap terbuka. Langit begitu luas.
Tak pernah tahu di mana kelak ia akan
bertepi.

THE FAULT OF A PAPAYA TREE

A papaya tree grows at a corner
of a Chinese graveyard. Its fruits are ripe,
the fruit skin is greenish yellow – like a dream.

Its roots penetrate the earth, like a dream
of a dead body that cherishes happiness,
until a man with a wild gaze whose head is on the gravestone
stares at her
passionately.

The graveyard’s walls are refined.
They are strong, shining under the full moon.
There is a statue of God, the faithful caretaker. Smells of incense
and flowers emerge when pilgrims come. A papaya tree
grows and the wind freely rests there. Please come over.
Here life is so luxurious for man and woman
who are badly in need of
home.

There is a woman who needs a home.
There is a man who needs a home. If they
decide to share a gravestone, passion
can be acquired for the sake of self respect.

Grave is a place
where we can share without loosing anything.
A papaya tree grows, its fruits are bright, yellowish green – like cheeks.
It slips into a man’s eyes like a dream;
“Once upon a time there was calamity in our city. Everything
were taken away free from the stores. There was a great fire
that expelled slanting-eyed girls with yellow cheek.
Wow, it’s like a dream. Will this disaster
happen again? Food and everything else were free,
even more than that, lust was free. I found a lonely girl cried.
Her thigh was white
and very tasty.”

Please sleep here, brother,
with us. Just lay your body under the sky,
you’ll feel good, it’s different. If you didn’t have a chance
to have sex during the disaster,
let’s make love in the graveyard
of those killed then. The taste
is certainly the same.

Just imagine her cheek
Just imagine her legs
Just imagine her, before she died.

A papaya tree grows. Its fruits are bright, yellowish green
like cheek. Its roots penetrate the dream of the happy
dead body. When drizzle comes
water oozes through the bones, through the
decaying flesh that will soon
be one with soil. Becomes the essence. Creates fertility
and luxuriance. And the trees grow! Grow taller! The leaves are green!
When the dead body wants to see the sun, push aside
the leaves: the sky still spreads out.
When the dead body longs for cool air, we feel the breeze
that comes by to take a rest.

Henceforth, no sadness is allowed.
Henceforth, no memory is allowed.

But the papaya tree bears fruits. A wild man
stares at the ripeness of the papaya fruit skin.
He caresses the tree, climbs it and sings.

How sweet is the papaya
with the taste of the happy dead body. The women praise.
The wild man shouts happily, “How sweet is this papaya,
as sweet as a Chinese girl raped during the calamity.”

Through the leaves we see the horizon, it’s still there. The sky is vast.
It never knows whether it ever comes to
an end.

Singkawang, 27 October 2010, übersetzt von Sapardi Djoko Damono