a girl on the road
anak jalanan, perempatan pasteur
I see a child from a distance. Girl. She’s not far physically from my daughter. Maybe older. Five years old or something
I remembered when I was 12 years old, I drove a Fiat on this road for the first time. My father had found me riding a motorbike so he got his driver tutoring me hoping I could forget motorbikes. It was exciting -even though it was not stopping me riding bikes, cousins’ or teacher’s. This road was not completed yet at that time. Another end of this road heading the city center was still under construction, so it was a perfect track for a first timer. Several years ago they built a fly over to connect end of this road which is in a west part of the city crossing the Cikapundung river to the city center and all the way to the east. Seems that the fly over relieves much of traffic congestion, even though it sowed many critics from urban planners and environmental activists when the plan was announced. I remembered it also stopped for some years due to financial difficulties. I was also sorry my grandmother’s house underneath was one to be banished.
The queue started to move approaching the intersection before it stopped again. The red lights only allow less than a minute for cars going right. I was pulling the hand brake when I saw a child. A girl. She’s not far physically from my daughter, Danika. Maybe older. Five years old or something. As most cities in Indonesia, it is very usual you find beggars from old-middle-young men and women, teenagers, to babies carried (rented) by “the mother”.
I sighed.
I was expecting her to come closer. I wondered how much time she spend on the roads everyday? how did she eat and sleep? How a five year old kid could really survive? I took a deep breath knowing surely that she would never survive. Most abandoned kids like her are prone to sexual crimes, many of them are also drugs addict with sexual diseases, and some were death by illegal abortion. I think I was kind of maniac (looking at a showcase of poverty and social illness) by expecting her to come closer. But she came to a standstill.
She stared to the north. Maybe she looked at some people or cars or advertisement billboards or maybe mountains. I could not guess what was in her mind. I realized that she probably had different cognition with us. She might not see a nice car as our kids’ whom wish their father could bring them out with such nice cars -as in ‘uneducated’ TV commercial. She might simply think if those car could give her more coins today. Or maybe she had thinking of step into the roaring car. Suicide. She probably were waiting for somebody from a car giving her clothing or doll. Or she was just hungry?
The traffic light was going red to traffic from the north. It woke her from her dream as she down barefooted to the hot asphalt knocking car doors for coins, I assumed. I did not remember whether she got coins from cars in front of me. I saw her approaching me as I grabbed two one-thousand-rupiahs left in the coin box. I sometimes feel sorry for not having breads ready to share with them as two thousand rupiahs would only add up her boss’ satisfaction a bit. But absolutely not hers.
I lowered my window, called her, she took it and that was it. No thanks no smile no blinking eyes. No nothing.
And I was so embarrassed hoping for such idiocy.
I stared to the rear view, saw her stopped from one car next to the others. She did not mind. No passion. And no option. Since she dead already. Did we have option?
The thinking swept straight away by horn blown by unmannerly drivers, the green light blinked.
