Najima
by Kanaya Ozora
Diterbitkan 2020
Disunting oleh Fairuza H. Razak & Yasmine Mulholland
Novel, 175 halaman
dalam Bahasa Inggris
ISBN: 978-623-90383-3-5
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Kinasih is the Princess of Bumi. Kareem is the Genius of Ardtoprak. Their worlds are forced apart, years of communication and influence buried under the government's secrecy. After taking drugs, Kinasih finds a whole new world with metal birds, metal mice, and flying carpets. She thought she’s delusional until a star lands in Kinasih’s bedroom and the grandson of a mad scientist tells a whole different story. To clear her name, to restore her honor, Kinasih fights to prove that the other world exists, only to be sentenced to a sacrifice in the name of their ancestors, while Kareem fights to end a war in his world. Both must join together and work to end their problems in the segregated worlds history created — with the help of the Star.
Ozora criticises global politics, culture and history erasure, and international communications within this debut novella of hers, while putting together a story that bridges two people of different worlds.
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I lifted my hands up in elegance and the gamelan music started to play again, with its beautiful sounds made by the bonangs guiding my movements. I looked over to the band of our Javanese gamelan, all guided by the rhythmic clacks of the kendhang. I can’t afford messing this up, I thought as I wondered over the likeliness of my failure.
I gathered up my courage and started singing in a high-pitched, lilting voice. So far so good, I thought. I watched the audience for any reactions — I was hoping for positive ones. My relatives looked at me in confusion, and some even grimaced. I saw a little kid closing his ears, and a couple of people were facepalming as well. Sweat broke out on my forehead and my voice became shakier. I looked at my parents’ high-chairs, but at their vacancy, I realized that they had left their seats. Everything was blurry and I closed my eyes, anticipating for time to speed up.
The audience suddenly started shouting at me, and I ogled them until I realized I had completely stopped singing and was frozen in place. I threw my hands in the air while I felt the tears filling up my eyes, which completely blotched my face with mascara. I never even got to the praying part of the ceremony.
“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore,” I sobbed and hastily stood up.
Out of nowhere I felt the back of my skirt rip open, and the audience behind me gasped and started laughing. I heard boos echoing through the room. I had enough. I rushed from the circle and out of the little house, to the paddy fields. My head hurt, as if something was squishing it like a stress ball.
I ran, without sandals, toward my house at the heart of our enormous village. My feet crunched each pile of leaves I stepped on. The afternoon’s orange glow was covered by the oak trees that loomed above me. The smell of cow droppings was an indication that I was close to Panggonan Wong.
I ran past pastel-coloured houses with metal roofs, keeping their little farms beside them. I enjoyed this part of Panggonan Wong whenever I cycled away from my house, because this area usually gave me a cool vibe. Not this time though, because every thought I bore in the moment was blurry. The people that passed me by could only wonder why the daughter of Wonopati was running through soil-padded streets without her sandals and her beautifully-crafted batik torn open at the back.
After nearly half an hour of running, I finally reached my house. Flower patterns had been chiselled on the fringe of the roof, and a garden surrounded the front part of the house. My maid suddenly came running to me.
“Mbak Kinasih!” she called with her hands cupped around her mouth. “Wha-what is happen to you? You look like bloody mess!”
I stopped in my tracks and sucked in a breath. “Do I really look like a bloody mess to you?” I asked, panting. My maid observed my condition.
“Messy hair,” she noted. “Broken skirt. Scary face. Mbak Kinasih, you know skirt cost lot of money?”
“Mbok!” I shrieked. “Maybe stop shouting at me especially after I failed my twenty-eighth chance of leading a ceremony? Don’t you feel bad?”
My maid rolled her eyes and slapped my back.
“Poor kid, everything bloody mess. Now go into house and take bath!”
* * *
After taking a shower, I silently walked into my room wishing no one would bother me. Unfortunately, my parents were already sitting on my duvet-covered bed, arms crossed over their chests. Their faces were incomparable to a bull’s. My father clenched his jaw tightly, while my mother looked down at the floor.
“Kinasih Wonopati, sit down,” my father instructed.
I sat down in front of them, and I could feel the burning tension between my parents and me. Everything was quiet at first as I knew they were giving me the silent treatment like they always did before giving me the low blow.