04:18 AM
The dawn light had not yet truly broken, leaving a deep navy blue sky over Medika Hospital. Outside, the faint sound of horns blended with the roar of city bus engines beginning to carve through the asphalt. However, inside Room 302, the world seemed to stop spinning on its axis.
The monotonous ticking of the wall clock, the soft hiss of the humidifier, and heavy breaths that gradually turned into sighs of relief.
The room was dominated by warm cream tones. On the bedside table, a vase of white lilies swayed gently in the draft from the AC. The warm white light created soft shadows on their faces.
Suddenly, the silence shattered. A vocal piercing—pure, sharp, and full of life—tore through the air.
The cry of a baby breaking out with a fast, strong rhythm.
Holilah Hiora Pratama lay exhausted. Her long black hair was damp with sweat, clinging to her forehead and pillow. Her face, radiating the distinct beauty of the Dayak Ngaju—high cheekbones and olive skin—looked pale yet glowing. She regulated her breath, staring at the small red bundle in the nurse's arms with a glint in her eyes that was hard to explain.
Abdul Ghofur, with his eccentric style—a flannel shirt with mismatched buttons and slightly messy hair—leaped from his chair. He almost collided with the IV pole in his excitement.
"Ya Allah... Li... do you hear that? Is that our child's voice? That's a real high note, Li! Like a rock singer!" Ghofur approached Holilah, trembling as he kissed his wife's forehead.
"Thank you, Honey. You were amazing. I swear, you're cooler than any movie star today," he continued.
Holilah smiled faintly, her voice hoarse yet soft. "Ghofur... look at him. He's really here."
In the corner of the room, Kusyati—who miraculously looked chic and firm despite just waking up—stood tall. The aura of a former Secretary General of the TNI still clung to her, but her usually sharp eyes were now glassy. She stepped forward, adjusting her expensive shawl.
"Duh, Gusti... Grandma's grandson is so smart. His voice is loud, Ghofur! This is a sign he'll be a great man, not just play the guitar like you!" Kusyati nudged her son's arm, then turned to look at Holilah.
"Lilah, get some rest, dear. Let this Mother take care of our little champion. Oh, look at that nose... thankfully he takes after Lilah, not flat-nosed like his father."
The nurse approached, placing the baby into Holilah's arms for the first time. The baby, Muhammad Rizqi Pratama, slowly quieted his cries as he felt the warmth of his mother's skin.
The recorded heartbeat in the silence, the sound of Ghofur's sigh of relief.
"Rizqi..." Holilah murmured. Her slender finger touched the baby's tiny fingers moving randomly. "Hello, Sweetheart. This is Mommy."
Ghofur leaned down, his face now level with his baby. His humorous nature suddenly shifted into deep emotion.
"Hello, Little Boss. Welcome to Jakarta. Don't worry, once you're a bit older, Daddy will teach you how to win girls' hearts through songs... uh!"
Kusyati immediately pinched Ghofur's ear gently. "Ghofur! He's just been born and you're already teaching him to be a playboy! You'd better tell Aunt Atik or the neighbor's wife; let them know my grandson is born. Let them know who the most beautiful grandmother is now!"
Ghofur chuckled, rubbing his ear. He looked back at his child and wife. Behind the window, the sun began to creep up, illuminating Jakarta's buildings with a golden hue.
Inside, three generations gathered around one new life. A Betawi artist full of laughter, a veterinarian mother who was a thinker, and a tough grandmother—all united in one frequency of happiness.
The world outside might be busy with its own affairs, but inside this room, a new history had just been written.
A minimalist yet optimistic piano melody begins to play, accompanying the visual transition to the cityscape of Jakarta in 2003, still filled with orange buses and growing skyscrapers.
"Another Places On Earth... starts here."
Jakarta, July 2014
06:00 AM
Sunlight enters through the ventilation gaps of an old Colonial-Betawi style house with peeling paint. Small dust motes dance in the air. The camera moves slowly (slow panning) past rows of dusty trophies and a yellowing photo of Ghofur on the cover of a 90s teen magazine.
The sound of a frying pan hissing loudly, the clatter of a spatula against an iron wok, and the sound of an old radio broadcasting Jakarta's total gridlock traffic news.
"My name is Muhammad Rizqi Pratama. Just call me Eki. Today, the first semester of 6th grade begins. To my friends at school, I am the 'Celebrity Kid.' They imagine my breakfast is imported cereal and my departure is in a luxury car. They love to assume, and I let them drown in those assumptions. Because sometimes, a secret is the only dignity left when reality only gives us dregs."
Eki stands in front of a bathroom mirror that is cracked in the corner. He washes his face with cold water from the basin. Water drips from the tip of his chin, falling onto the collar of his white uniform which is starting to yellow at the neck.
drip... drip... drip...
From the kitchen, Emak Kusyati's voice explodes. She is chopping shallots at high speed, as if every slice is a form of protest against the world.
"Ya Gusti, Eki! Don't take too long in the bathroom, water is expensive! Our pump is like a wheezing old man; if it stays on, the electricity will trip!" Emak screams without looking back.
Eki comes out, draping a small towel over his shoulder. On the shaky wooden dining table, there is only a plate of pale fried rice and stale crackers.
Emak slams the spatula onto the table. "Look at this, how much is a kilo of shallots now? Let alone chili; the price is like it's going on a pilgrimage! You tell your Father when he comes home. Don't just send a hundred thousand once every six months. You could leave that much money on the street and no one would even pick it up now!"
Eki sits quietly, eating his fried rice slowly. He is used to this symphony of complaints.
"Dad might be busy filming, Mak," Eki answers flatly.
"Busy filming or busy looking for widows on set?" Emak puts her hands on her hips, her batik housecoat fluttering as she moves restlessly.
"Ghofur... his style is like a big-screen actor, but his wallet is thinner than a screen door! Money wasted on treating random women, while his own son eats rice with only a prayer."
Eki stops chewing. He looks toward the window. Out there, a neighbor has just left for work on a shiny motorcycle. Eki knows that in Tanah Abang, his mother might be getting ready too, doing who knows what. The distance between them is only a few kilometers, but it feels like being on a different continent.
The sound of the wooden chair joints creaking as Eki stands up.
"Ive gotta go , Mak," he says briefly. He grabs his backpack, one of the straps having been hand-stitched by Emak.
Emak Kusyati pauses her rant for a moment. Her aging eyes watch her grandson's back. There is deep care behind her sharp tongue. She reaches into her pocket, pulls out a crumpled ten-thousand rupiah bill, and slips it into Eki's uniform pocket.
"Don't buy random snacks. Save the rest for the angkot if it rains," Emak mumbles, her voice softening though still sounding curt.
"Be a smart kid, Ki. So you don't have to lie about your life to people."
Eki walks out the front gate. The camera follows from behind (tracking shot), showing the posture of a 6th grader who looks older than his years. He walks down a narrow alley, passing the busy morning crowd, heading toward the school where he must again wear the mask of "The Happy Celebrity Kid."
Low cello music begins to play, slowly drowning out the market bustle, creating a silent atmosphere amidst the crowd.
"In Jakarta, everyone has their own stage. And this is mine."
Eki steps out of the mouth of the alley. Here, Jakarta never sleeps; it only snores through the sound of exhaust pipes. The morning sunlight is blocked by puffs of smoke from burning trash at the end of the road, creating a dull orange glow.
"Eki! So diligent, already neat at this hour!" greets the Neighborhood Chief (Pak RT) who is washing his motorcycle with a hose. Water overflows onto the street, forming a small puddle that reflects the sky.
Eki stops, bowing slightly in respect. "Yes, Pak. To avoid the traffic in front of the market."
"Give my regards to your Dad! I saw him on TV last night, playing a cop, right? Very dashing!" Pak RT laughs, proud as if Ghofur were his own brother.
Eki forces a perfect curve of a smile—a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Understood, Pak. I'll tell him if he calls."
(Internal Monologue: "If he calls. If he remembers this house has a phone number.")
Eki continues his walk. He passes a vegetable vendor surrounded by women in housecoats. The scent of basil clashes with the stench of the sewer. He hears small whispers as he passes: "That's Abdul Ghofur's son, the one in the 'Love Above the Clouds' soap opera... handsome, right? Just like his dad."
Eki tightens his grip on his thinning bag strap. They see the "Celebrity Kid." Eki sees "The shoe that needs to be re-glued tonight."
The camera follows Eki's back from a Low Angle, climbing the concrete stairs of SDN Mentas 06 one by one. The atmosphere grows quieter as he reaches the higher floors.
The third floor is a no-man's-land this early. The floor is still wet from the school janitor mopping with cheap carbolic soap. The smell is pungent, stinging the nose, but for Eki, this is the smell of peace.
He arrives in front of Class 6-A. The brown-painted wooden door creaks as it is pushed, breaking the silence of the corridor.
Krieeet...
The sound of the door echoes long in the empty room.
Eki enters. The class feels vast when empty. Wooden desks full of white-out scribbles and carvings of former students' names look like small tombstones in the morning dimness. He walks to his chair in the middle row. He sets his bag down gently, as if afraid of waking the ghosts in the room.
He doesn't sit immediately. He takes out a worn notebook from his bag—a secret book where he draws sketches. But this morning, his hands are still. He needs air.
Eki steps out onto the balcony. The iron railing feels cold and rusty under his palms. He stands there, looking down at the school gate which is starting to swallow the crowd of students.
The noise from below rises to the third floor like the sound of distant sea waves. Horns, balloon vendors shouting, and children's laughter.
From this height, Eki watches a short drama that repeats every day.
A black sedan stops right in front of the gate. A young girl gets out, followed by her father dressed neatly in a tie. The father kneels, fixing his daughter's loose shoelaces, then kisses her forehead. The girl laughs, waves, and runs inside happily.
Eki is stunned. His eyes don't blink. His pupils catch the reflection of the scene below. There is a small tremor in his tightly clenched jaw.
Long ago, when he was very small, he used to dream that Ghofur would pick him up in a car like that. Not bringing a hundred thousand rupiah, but bringing time. Just time.
He remembers his mother, Holilah. Sometimes he wonders if his mother in Tanah Abang is also staring out a window, wondering if Eki has had breakfast or not? Or is his mother too tired of her own life that there's no room left for even a simple longing?
Suddenly, the morning wind blows hard, bringing stinging road dust into his eyes. Or maybe it wasn't because of the dust.
Eki looks down. He sees the tip of his shoe gaping slightly at the front. He takes a long sigh, a sigh far too heavy for a child his age. The weight is like carrying the entire burden of Jakarta on his shoulders.
The sound of footsteps running up the stairs. Shouts of, "Hey! Wait for me!"
His friends arrive. The noise tears through Eki's daydream.
In seconds, Eki's back—which had been slumped—suddenly straightens. He wipes the corner of his eyes with a super-fast motion, then turns just as the corridor door opens.
"Eki! Crazy, you're so early! Studying for the math test?" yells Omar, his seatmate who is always noisy.
Eki puts on a cheerful face—the "Celebrity Kid" face that is the most loved in school. He puts his hands in his pockets, acting cool.
"Math is easy, Mar. I just came here early to enjoy the breeze," Eki jokes.
Rendy laughs out loud while slapping Eki's shoulder. "Look at you! Rich people are free to do whatever!"
Eki joins in the laughter. A loud, convincing laugh. But if someone were observant enough to look at his eyes, they would see a boy who is drowning, screaming soundlessly behind the mask he made himself.
The school bell rings long. Piercing. Painful. Marking the beginning of another day in a perfect lie.
The sound of simultaneous footsteps that slowly stop. An awkward silence envelops the concrete courtyard, which is cracked in several corners. In the distance, the roar of a city bus engine sounds like the snore of a hungry giant.
The sun creeps up, sending heat waves bouncing off the courtyard floor. Eki stands in the front row of Class 6-A. Sweat begins to drip from his temple, down his cheek, and is absorbed into his stiff uniform collar. He does not move an inch. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, on the red and white flag fluttering lazily due to a lack of wind.
On the podium, Pak Burhan, the Principal, stands with his hands clasped behind his back. He does not speak immediately. He looks at the rows of his students one by one with a deep gaze—a mixture of pride and sadness.
"My children..." Pak Burhan's voice breaks the silence, echoing heavily through the old speakers that occasionally emit static crackles.
"Our school might not have a grand basketball court. Perhaps our lab roof still leaks when it rains hard. But..."
He pauses for a moment, his throat visibly moving.
"But before me stand future leaders who cannot be bought with money. You are fighters."
The sound of a gust of wind carrying thin dust across the courtyard. Some students look down, moved by Pak Burhan's unusual tone.
"Next week, we will send representatives to the Nyi Ageng Serang Building. This is not just a competition. This is proof that the children of SDN Mentas 06 Pagi have teeth."
Pak Burhan begins reading the list of names. Every time the name "Muhammad Rizqi Pratama" is mentioned, there is a one-second pause where the world seems to slow down for Eki.
English Debate.
Math Olympiad.
Art & Craft.
Eki steps forward from the line. He feels hundreds of pairs of eyes on him. He hears whispers of envy, admiration, and skepticism. However, in his head, there is only one image: Emak Kusyati.
He remembers seeing Emak last night counting loose change on the dining table with trembling hands. He remembers Emak bowing in front of a neighbor's door, pleading for more time on a debt for rice.
These trophies aren't for me, Mak, Eki whispers in his heart. This trophy is a replacement for every tear of shame you had to swallow just to put me through school.
10:15 AM
The piercing sound of the break bell—Teeeeeet!—followed by the thunderous sound of benches being moved and boisterous shouts exploding from every class.
"Crazy, Ki! You're taking everything!" Omar puts an arm around Eki's shoulder as they walk down the corridor toward the canteen.
"Debate, yes. Math, yes. Making newspaper crafts, yes. How many hands do you have? Eight?"
Eki chuckles, patting Omar's hand. "Just lucky, Mar. I happened to read the material last week."
"Lucky my foot! That's real brains," Omar grins, his thick Betawi accent coming out.
"Hey, let's eat. I'm hungry because that ceremony was too long. I want soto tangkar, what about you?"
Eki's pace slows as they approach the crowded canteen area. The smell of hot fried snacks and the steam of soto hit his senses. His stomach twists painfully. He puts his hand in his pocket, feeling the paper texture of his five-thousand rupiah bill.
That money is his 'last breath' for today. If he uses it to eat, he will have to walk three kilometers to get home later under the scorching sun.
The noisy canteen sounds—the clatter of spoons on ceramic plates, children's laughter, and the shouts of the busy Canteen Lady.
"I'll... I'll just get a drink, Mar," Eki says softly as they reach the food stall.
Omar stops, looking at Eki in surprise. "Just a drink? Didn't you have breakfast?"
"I did. I'm really full, actually," Eki lies, his voice steady and cheerful.
"This morning Emak made special coconut rice (nasi uduk), with leftover rendang from yesterday's wedding. I can still feel it in my throat."
Eki approaches the drink vendor in the corner.
"Bang, one Marimas, please. The 500-rupiah one."
Eki receives the small plastic cup of bright orange liquid. He drinks it slowly, trying to deceive his protesting stomach.
At the long table near the canteen window, Fatimah Az Zahra sits with Nadia and Najwa. In front of her is a pink plastic lunch box. It contains yellow rice neatly decorated with shredded egg.
Fatimah hasn't touched her spoon. Her eyes are fixed on Eki standing in the corner of the canteen, laughing at Omar's chatter while occasionally stirring the straw in his small plastic cup.
"Tim, eat. It won't be good when it's cold," Nadia scolds.
Fatimah only murmurs. She sees Eki's left hand hidden under the table—that hand is clenched tight, as if holding something back. She sees how Eki looks away when someone nearby carries a plate of steaming hot fritters (bakwan).
He's lying, Fatimah thinks.
A pang of pain creeps into Fatimah's chest. As a classmate who often competes for grades, she knows Eki's gestures. She knows Eki always appears perfect, but the boy's eyes can never lie. Those eyes look very tired, even though his lips keep offering laughter.
Fatimah wants to stand up, slide her lunch box over, and say: "Eki, I can't finish this, help me eat it, okay?" But she hesitates. She knows Eki has a pride harder than rock. Offering him food could mean insulting the honor he guards so fiercely.
"Eki is really frugal, isn't he, Mar," Najwa's voice is faintly heard. "Even though his dad is a rich actor."
Omar replies while chewing, "Yeah, he says it's for savings to buy the latest PS. Rich kids are free, they spend 500 but have millions in the bank."
Eki only smiles thinly at that. A bitter smile, one he can only swallow alone along with the remains of the cheap orange water in his cup.
03:00 PM
The sound of low howling wind, carrying the scent of dry earth and the remains of burning trash. The friction of the glass-coated string on an old biscuit tin creates a rhythmic ngung... ngung... sound.
Behind the school, the world feels wider for Eki. His white uniform now has brown stains on the knees, and sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead. He doesn't care. His eyes are fixed on a small red dot in the pale blue sky. His kite.
"Eki! Keep letting it out! Don't let it go slack, that bald kid is trying to strike!" yells Omar, his face bright red, hands busy holding his own string reel.
Eki takes a deep breath. The afternoon air feels hot in his lungs.
"Let it be, Mar. A kite is just a kite; if it breaks, it's gone, just find another. But if pride breaks, what do you use to fix it?"
Omar turns for a moment, frowning.
"What are you talking about, Ki? So heavy, like carrying a bag full of stones. Just play!"
Eki chuckles, but the laugh doesn't reach his eyes. He feels the roughness of the string against his fingers. Sometimes he wishes he were that kite—just a piece of paper and bamboo controlled by the wind. No need to talk, no need to pretend to be an actor's son wallowing in wealth.
05:45 PM
The light of a flickering 5-watt neon bulb in the house hallway. The camera follows Eki's steps past piles of Emak's relatives' belongings that seem to want to squeeze their living space. The smell of rotting wood and laundry soap greets the senses.
Eki reaches his "palace"—a 5x10 plot divided by forced partitions. In the narrow middle room, Emak Kusyati sits cross-legged. The light from the tube TV reflects on her wrinkling face.
"Assalamualaikum, Mak," Eki's voice is soft, almost a whisper.
"Waalaikumussalam. Finally showing your face," Emak replies without looking away from the screen showing a dramatic soap opera scene.
"I thought you were adopted by a film producer because you took so long with your group project."
Eki approaches, kissing Emak's hand which feels rough and warm. "Sorry, Mak. The competition prep took a bit long at Omar's house."
Emak turns off the TV with a remote held together by rubber bands. She looks at Eki, noticing the dirt stains on her grandson's uniform. She isn't angry. She only takes a long sigh—a sigh that holds thousands of stories of patience.
"Go take a bath. I've drawn the water, it's fresh. After that, eat. There's tempeh and tofu bacem on the table. I cooked it with heart, so you'll be smart," Emak says, her tone curt in the typical Betawi style but her eyes radiate pure love.
Eki sits on the kitchen floor, right in front of the bathroom without permanent walls, separated only by zinc sheets and a view of the neighbor's garden. The guava tree there sways gently as if to say hello. He eats rice with his hands, enjoying the sweet-savory taste of the tofu bacem that seeps into his soul.
"Mak," Eki calls out mid-chew.
"When I win the competition at Nyi Ageng Serang later, what gift do you want?"
Emak falls silent. She stares at the bedroom wall covered with Eki's study notes. "I don't need a trophy, Ki. I just want to see you succeed, so none of my relatives dare to look down on us anymore. So they know, the child they said was 'thrown away by his father' can become a great person."
Eki stops chewing. His throat suddenly feels tight. He can only nod slowly, hiding his face that is starting to redden behind the plastic plate.
At the same time, several kilometers away... A dim room with poor ventilation. The light of a small candle in the corner casts terrifying shadows on the walls. The sound of mosquitoes buzzing constantly.
Holilah Hiora Pratama curls up on a thin, musty mattress. Her once-strong body is now withered. The pain in her breasts feels like being stabbed by thousands of hot needles, while the virus in her blood slowly shuts down every cell of her defense.
"Mom... drink?" little Nur Aini's voice breaks the silence. The girl born in 2009 offers a plastic cup of plain water.
Holilah tries to sit up. Every movement is a struggle against death. "Thank you, Aini... smart girl."
"Lilah! You're always sleeping! Do you think this is a hotel?" a scream from the living room tears through the peace.
"You're a squatter, you're sickly, and you don't bring any money! If I had known, I would have forbidden you from marrying that fake actor!"
Holilah closes her eyes tight. Tears fall down her thin cheeks. Those insults have become her daily bread. Her family doesn't see her as a human, but as a failure who brings shame and financial burden.
"Mom, why is Auntie always angry?" Aini asks innocently.
"Auntie is just tired, Sweetheart," Holilah whispers, trying to smile even though her soul is screaming.
Her mind drifts to Eki. She misses her son terribly. She wants so much to touch Eki's face, kiss his forehead, and apologize for leaving him in uncertainty. But she knows her sickly presence would only destroy Eki's future. She chooses to rot in silence, letting Eki believe his mother is fine somewhere.
"Eki... forgive Mommy," she murmurs in her heart, as the pain again pierces her chest.
The camera shifts quickly (Intercut) between Eki washing his face with cold well water, and Holilah wiping cold sweat from her forehead. Two souls separated by distance and secrets, yet united by one thing: Suffering neatly hidden.
The sound of faint thunder in the distance, signifying a storm will soon sweep across Jakarta.
"In this city, love sometimes has to give way to shame, and honesty is often a luxury we cannot afford."