“neng and the wind” a solo exhibition by hai rembulan

Bulan september masuk musim penghujan, beberapa pohon-pohon yg berbunga mulai menerbangkan kelopak-kelopaknya ke udara, ke tanah, ke aspal, ke paru-paru. Di antara hari-hari di rumah ibu dan di rumah tua di Jatinegara, aku harus duduk sendirian di kebun raya dan di kampung halaman yg tak lagi sama. Tahun ini adalah tahun semua duka hadir di atas tanah. Tapi entah mengapa, tahun ini juga membuatku memperhatikan lebih seksama pohon randu (ceiba pentandra) yg setiap hari aku lewati : dari mulai berbunga, isi kapuknya mekar, tertiup angin, cangkang kapuk menggantung, lalu di hari-hari sisanya, kapuk itu bisa ditemukan di tanah, di aspal, di antara tanaman pembatas jalan, di paru-paru. Saat relasi dengan manusia terasa tidak mudah dicerna, aku banyak memperhatikan pohon-pohon di sekitarku, pohon yg tersisa. Saat aku pulang kampung untuk menyelesaikan zine tentang masa kecilku, aku menemukan pohon bungur (Lagerstroemia) di surau depan area pemakaman, gerimis sedikit, aku kedinginan dan aku ingat saat usia sebelas.

“Neng” adalah nama panggilan anak perempuan sunda saat masih kecil, semua orang memanggilku Neng, lalu mereka berhenti memanggilku Neng saat usiaku memasuki dua puluh, tapi Bapak dan nenek tidak. Saat hari-hari mendung dan hanya ingin memperhatikan pohon saja, aku suka mengajak ngobrol diriku dengan panggilan “Neng”. “Neng, apa yg kamu rasa hari ini?” “Neng, kamu aman.” Pada saat aku menyebut kata neng untuk diriku sendiri, seperti ada udara yg harum dan penuh rasa kasih sayang, seperti saat asmaku kambuh dan bapak menggendongku “neng berobat ya”, saat aku dipanggil Neng oleh teman sebaya sambil berenang di sungai, saat nenek memanggilku yg sedang main untuk makan siang pepes tahu dan kacang panjang, saat aku hanyalah anak perempuan di kampung kecil ini yang sedang mencari tahu semuanya, saat Neng adalah angin yg diterima dengan sama.

Pertemuan narasi Neng dengan perempuan Jepang–yg menawarkanku sebuah ruang untuk angin yg hadir di paru-paruku, angin yg juga dihirup oleh Neng masa itu–bukanlah kebetulan. Di ruang itu, ada buah belimbing yg berguguran di tanah nenek buyut, ada kucing ajaib yg aku beri nama Kasih, ada Dewi Kwan In, ada Maria Fatimah, ada Duyung dan Upit Sarimanah, ada hasil bumi Subang 2000, ada impian Neng, ada ketakutan Bulan, ada angin yg penuh kasih sayang dan kita semua diterima dengan ringan dan senang-senang. Ada Neng dan Bulan yg bilang “Kita sudah melewati banyak hal, dan kita masih di sini, hidup sekali lagi”.

September is the beginning of the wet season; some flowering trees have flown their petals to the air, land, the asphalt, and our lungs. In between days at my mom’s house and in an old house in Jatinegara, I have to sit by myself in a botanical garden and my hometown that no longer feels the same. This year is the year where all sorrow appears from the surface. Yet, somehow, this year has also made me pay closer attention to the kapok tree (Ceiba pentandra) that I pass by everyday: from when it starts to bloom, the kapok floss blossoms, blown by the wind, the kapok shells hanging, and on the remaining days, the kapok can be found on the ground, asphalt, in between the plants on the road divider, and in our lungs. When my relationships with others feel hard to digest, I often pay attention to the trees around me, the ones that are left. When I went back to my hometown to finish a zine about my childhood, I found a Bungur tree (Lagerstroemia) in front of a small mosque in a graveyard; it was drizzling, I felt cold, and I remembered when I was eleven.

“Neng” is a nickname for a young Sundanese girl. Everyone called me Neng, but they stopped when I entered my twenties; my father and my grandmother didn’t. When the days are gloomy and I just want to watch the trees, I like to talk to myself by calling myself “Neng.” “Neng, what do you feel today?” “Neng, you are safe.”
When I addressed myself with “Neng,” it’s like the air is fragrant and full of compassion. Just like when my asthma would act up and my father would carry me, saying, “Neng, let’s go to the doctor.” Or when my friends called me “Neng” while swimming in the river, or when my grandma called me to come for lunch with “pepes tahu” and long beans while I was playing outside, when I was just a little kid in a small village, trying to figure out everything. Neng is the wind.

The meeting between Neng’s narrative and the Japanese lady -who offered me a space for the wind that is present in my lungs, the wind that was also inhaled by Neng at that time- is not a coincidence. In that room, there is starfruit that has fallen to my great-grandmother’s land, there is a magical cat that I called Kasih, there is Kwan Im Goddess, there is Maria Fatimah, there is Duyung and Upit Sarimanah, there is the Subang harvest of 2000, there is Neng’s dream, there is Bulan’s fear, and there is a wind that is full of compassion. We are all accepted with a light heart and with happiness. There are Neng and Bulan who say, “We have been through a lot, and we are still here, living once more.”