Sanggar Swara

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Pengurus

PERNIKAHANKU – Rere Suketi
June 14, 2021

Aku tinggal bersama orangtuaku di desa yang lumayan jauh dari keramaian kota, sekitar tiga puluh menit naik ojek baru tiba di terminal angkutan. Bapakku petani dan emakku penjahit, sering juga membantu Bapak di sawah. Di depan rumah kami terbentang sawah hijau, dipagari oleh beberapa batang pohon kelapa di satu sisi, dan kali kecil yang mengaliri persawahan di sisi lain. Jika airnya sedang tinggi, banyak orang mencuci motor di kali itu. Saat matahari terbenam, merah di balik hamparan sawah, aku bisa menatapnya dari teras atas rumah. Setelah malam tiba, yang terdengar hanya bunyi kodok dan serangga. 

Yang aku paling suka dari tempat tinggalku adalah letaknya yang tidak terlalu berdekatan dengan rumah-rumah tetangga, sehingga aku bisa memainkan musik dan karaoke keras-keras tanpa membuat tetangga terganggu. Teman-temanku pun nyaman main ke rumahku, ada banyak tempat kosong untuk parkir.

Yang aku paling tidak suka adalah saudara-saudara dan tetangga-tetangga yang selalu saja tanya setiap bertemu: “Kapan punya istri?” “Kasihan orangtua kamu, kamu anak laki-laki satu-satunya.” “Sekarang kan rambutnya udah pendek, udah gagah, kapan nikah?” 

Dulu rambutku panjang, ke mana-mana aku tidak lupa memakai bedak dan lipstik, siang dan malam. Memang kemudian aku memotong rambut supaya bisa berdandan dengan lebih simpel, tapi bukan berarti aku ingin menjadi laki-laki.

Walaupun orangtuaku selalu berkata, “Kamu mau jadi apa aja terserah, yang penting kamu jadi orang baik,” terus ada keinginan untuk membuat mereka bangga, biar mereka tidak malu anak ‘laki-laki’ satu-satunya menjadi waria, dan untuk memberi mereka cucu supaya keturunan mereka tidak dianggap putus, karena garis keturunan masih ditarik dari anak laki-laki. Aku pun lelah dan bosan selalu ditanya kapan kawin.

Akhirnya, saat berkunjung ke rumah saudara, aku menuruti tawaran menikah, karena perempuan yang dijodohkan denganku itu adalah temanku masa kecil dan ia sudah tahu ekspresiku yang ngondek sejak dulu. Kedua orangtuaku tampak sangat bahagia.

Tanpa proses pacaran terlebih dahulu, lamaran dilakukan dan tanggal pernikahan disepakati. Surat undangan putih berukir tulisan warna merah gelap pun disebar.

Kabar rencana pernikahanku tersiar lezat di lingkungan tempat tinggalku, para tetangga dan saudara tampak sangat berminat. “Wah, si Rere mau menikah, sudah tobat mungkin sekarang, sudah insyaf.” 

Padahal dalam pikiranku saat itu hanyalah: yang penting aku menikah. Aku sudah bekerja, jadi aku bisa memberi nafkah. Selain itu, tidak terpikirkan akan seperti apa nanti setelah menikah.

Pada hari pernikahan, aku mengenakan setelan jas hitam, kemeja putih, dan peci berwarna hitam berhias motif keemasan—jauh dari gayaku sehari-hari yang sering mengenakan kaus feminin. Puluhan orang mengiringi keberangkatanku dari rumah orangtua di Tangerang hingga ke rumah mempelai perempuan di Serang, mulai dari kedua kakakku, saudara-saudara, para tetangga, hingga orang-orang yang sama sekali tidak kukenal. Sepanjang perjalanan di dalam mobil minibus hitam milik saudara, aku sibuk menghafal kata-kata ijab kabul.

Sesampainya di rumah mempelai perempuan, aku disambut dengan dikalungkan rangkaian bunga melati oleh calon ibu mertua. Ia mengenakan baju muslim dan kerudung merah. Seluruh badanku terasa tegang, aku mengatur tiap langkah kaki dan tiap gerak lengan supaya tidak tampak gemulai. 

Syukurlah aku sanggup berjalan sampai duduk di samping mempelai perempuan yang mengenakan kebaya putih berpayet emas dan merah jambu. Ia sangat cantik dan sudah berhias lengkap dengan celak mata biru-abu, pipi berpoles jingga, dan rambut terbalut hijab yang disusun tinggi warna krem dan perak. Rangkaian bunga melati merentang di ubun-ubunnya seperti pelangi. Beberapa kuntum mawar merah diselipkan di balik telinganya. 

Penghulu berusaha mencairkan suasana dengan mengajakku mengobrol, tapi pikiranku terlalu gelisah dan kalut mengingat-ingat kata-kata ijab kabul. Setelah pernikahan divonis sah, aku bersalaman dengan orangtua dan mertua. Saat sungkem kepada Emak aku menangis.

Aku dan istri berganti baju memakai setelan jas dan gaun brokat panjang biru yang serasi, berjalin hiasan keemasan dan keperakan. Di rumah istri telah dibangun sebuah pelaminan dengan karangan bunga berwarna-warni di kedua sisinya. Sepanjang pesta berlangsung, aku hanya duduk di pelaminan. Pikiranku sangat tak keruan sehingga aku pun tak ingat makanan apa yang disajikan. Aku hanya ingat teman-temanku sesama transpuan datang mengucapkan selamat—gembira sekali rasanya melihat mereka, aku ingin menari-nari sambil melompat-lompat, tapi takut ngondekku keluar tak beraturan. 

Sedikit demi sedikit para tamu mulai pulang, hingga tinggal keluarga saja yang masih beres-beres merapikan tempat pesta. Akhirnya, menjelang malam, Emak dan Bapak pun kembali ke rumah, meninggalkanku yang malam itu harus menginap di rumah mertua.

Aku dan istri masuk ke kamar yang sudah dipersiapkan sebelumnya. Seketika suasana terasa sangat hening. Kamar itu luas dengan tempat tidur lebar berseprai pink di dekat jendela. Ada lemari baju yang baru, seserahan dari orangtuaku. Sebuah kipas angin besar menempel di dinding.

Aku seolah berada di tempat yang sama sekali asing—bingung, kaget, bimbang, dan lelah setelah seharian menyambut tamu. Tak henti-hentinya aku bertanya dalam hati, Seperti inikah rasanya menikah? Harus nih aku tidur bersama seorang perempuan? Aku seperti orang yang tersasar dalam perjalanan, tidak tahu harus bagaimana. 

Istriku memelukku, selayaknya seorang istri memeluk suaminya. “Aa…”

Aku menjerit dalam hati.

“Maaf, Neng, badan Aa capek, gerah.”

Berulang kali ia memelukku, dan berulang kali kutolak pelukannya dengan alasan yang sama.

Aku sadar dan paham saat itu perasaan istri pasti kecewa, tapi aku bisa apa? Ya Tuhan, batinku tersiksa.

Malam itu terasa sangat panjang. Semalaman aku tak sanggup memberi nafkah batin kepada istri. Padahal, biasanya aku tidur dengan laki-laki dengan hasrat yang begitu menyala-nyala. 

Keesokan harinya, aku demam tinggi. 

Tapi aku justru senang, karena sekarang aku punya alasan yang sangat kuat untuk tidak memberi nafkah batin kepada istri.

Istriku sangatlah baik dan penyayang—ia merawatku selama aku sakit berhari-hari, mengompres dan memberiku obat, seperti seorang ibu mengurusi bayi yang sedang sakit. Namun, semua itu tidak membuatku bahagia.

Setelah beberapa hari, keadaanku mulai membaik. Tapi aku malah kembali bingung karena harus memberi nafkah batin kepada istri.

Sampai suatu malam ia mengeluh dengan sangat jelas, “Aa gak bisa ya?”

Keluhannya terdengar seperti petir. 

Bagai kuda yang dicambuk dan dipaksa berlari, aku berusaha membangkitkan gairahku dengan berkhayal bercumbu bersama seorang laki-laki. 

Akhirnya aku bisa memberi nafkah batin kepada istri—dengan perasaan yang hancur. Aku merasa sangat kotor setelah itu, seperti seorang anak gadis yang direnggut paksa kesuciannya. Aku sama sekali tidak bahagia, aku hanya bisa merenung diam.

Keesokannya, aku kembali bekerja karena masa cuti nikah sudah habis. Istriku mempersiapkan keperluan suaminya yang akan berangkat kantor, menyiapkan sarapan, merapikan pakaian yang akan aku pakai. Gambaran pasangan yang bahagia jika saja aku tidak berpura-pura menjadi sesuatu yang bukan diriku.

Saat kututup pagar rumah mertua di belakangku, aku seperti menghirup udara segar yang sangat lama tidak kurasakan. Aku bebas! teriakku dalam hati, sambil bernyanyi mengikuti alunan lagu dangdut gembira yang kuputar menemani perjalananku.

Setelah kerja, aku memilih pulang ke rumah orangtua, bukan ke rumah istri. Terus begitu, bahkan saat libur kerja aku mengatakan bahwa aku tidak mendapat libur, pun setelah istriku mengabarkan bahwa ia mengandung. 

Waktu itu sudah genap enam bulan aku menikah. Akhirnya seorang saudara dari istri menelepon orangtuaku, menanyakan kabarku dan kenapa aku tidak pernah pulang.

Sore itu aku sedang berdiri di pintu memandangi persawahan. Bapak sedang menonton teve di ruang tengah.

Emak bertanya kepadaku, “Ada masalah apa dengan istri? Kenapa gak pernah pulang ke sana?”

Aku hanya diam membisu.

Bapak menyambung, “Kalau ada masalah atuh ngomong.”

Akhirnya aku bisa berkata, “Udah, Mak, Bapak, jangan aku disuruh pulang ke sana.”

“Lho kenapa?” tanya Emak.

Aku merasa berbagai emosi mulai meletup dalam diriku. Terlepaslah segala yang selama ini kupendam, “Udah, Mak, udah! Sebenarnya aku gak cinta sama istriku. Aku mah cuma pura-pura. Aku tuh bohong doang. Biar Emak sama Bapak bahagia.” 

Aku menangis menjerit-jerit.

Mendengarnya, kakakku yang nomor dua datang terbirit-birit. Dia bertanya kepada Emak kenapa aku menangis.

“Emak cuma tanya kenapa dia gak pernah pulang ke rumah istri,” kata Emak.

“Kalau gak cinta kenapa atuh istrimu bisa hamil?” tanya Bapak.

Dengan lantang Kakak berkata, “Udah, Mak, Pak, ngapain sih dia disuruh-suruh pulang ke rumah istrinya? Dia itu bencong! Dia gak bisa mencintai istrinya. Jangan dipaksa pulang ke sana. Dia tersiksa harus pura-pura jadi laki-laki di sana.”

Aku kaget sekali Kakak berkata begitu, tapi aku juga merasa ia sebenarnya membelaku, walau ia menyebutku bencong. Emak diam beberapa saat, aku tak berani melihat wajahnya. 

“Kalau alasannya begitu mah, Emak gak bisa memaksa. Semua keputusan di tangan kamu.”

Aku sungguh tak menyangka Emak akan pengertian. Ia yang awalnya menginginkan aku bahagia menikah ternyata lebih tersiksa melihat anaknya menyimpan beban batin sendirian. 

Sejak saat itu aku tidak pernah pulang lagi ke rumah istri, sampai dia pun melahirkan. Hanya Emak dan Bapak yang mendampingi proses persalinannya. Setelah bayi lahir, Emak berkata kepadaku, “Ceraikan saja atuh istri kamu. Jangan dibuat seperti ini. Kasihan dia.”

Dengan dukungan dari Emak, proses perceraian pun segera dimulai. Setelah surat pengantar ditandatangani dan talak cerai dinyatakan sah, aku merasa sangat lega dan bebas, seperti narapidana yang berpuluh-puluh tahun dihukum akhirnya keluar dari penjara.

Aku menangis, tapi dengan air mata yang berbeda—air mata bahagia, tangisan kebebasan.

Setelah beberapa bulan bercerai, aku mendengar bahwa mantan istriku sudah memiliki suami baru, dan sekarang aku, anakku, dan mantan istri berkomunikasi dengan baik seperti sahabat. Dia pun sudah tahu tentang aku dan pasangan laki-lakiku.

Hidupku jauh lebih tenang sekarang. Aku bekerja sebagai penyanyi dangdut dan tinggal bersama Bapak, Emak, dan pasangan laki-lakiku. Mereka tidak pernah mencelaku tiap aku pergi kerja pakai rok mini atau apa pun. Tidak perlu lagi aku membohongi orang lain. Dan yang paling penting, aku tidak lagi tersiksa, berpura-pura menjadi sesuatu yang bukan diriku.

© Rere Suketi



MY WEDDING

Rere Suketi

English translation by Rio Johan

I lived with my parents in a village quite far from the bustle of the city, about thirty minutes by ojek to the bus terminal. My father was a farmer and my mother was a tailor. She often helped him in the fields. In front of our house lay green rice fields stretching into the distance, fenced on one side by several coconut trees, and a small stream running through the rice fields on the other. When the water was high, people would wash their motorbikes at the stream. When the sun went down and a shade of red would appear behind the rice fields, I liked to gaze at it from the upper deck of the house. After nightfall, all you could hear was the sound of frogs and insects.

What I liked the most about the place where I lived was that it wasn’t too close to the neighbours’ houses, so I could play music and karaoke loudly without disturbing them. My friends were comfortable hanging out at my house, as there were a lot of empty places to park.

What I disliked the most were my relatives and neighbours who would always ask me every time I met them: “When will you take a wife?” “Have pity on your parents, you’re the only son.” “Now that your hair is short, now that you’re a man, when’s the wedding?”

Once, I used to have long hair and wear makeup and lipstick everywhere, day and night. True, I cut my hair to simplify getting ready, but that didn’t mean I wanted to be a man.

Even though my parents always said, “Be whatever you want to be. The important thing is that you become a good person,” I still wanted to make them proud—so they wouldn’t be ashamed of their only ‘son’ being a waria. And also to give them grandchildren so their lineage could continue, since ancestry is traditionally passed on through sons. I got tired and bored of constantly being asked when I would marry.

Eventually, when I visited my relative’s house, I agreed to an offer of marriage, for the woman whom I’d been set up with was my childhood friend and knew I was ngondek. My parents seemed very happy.

We skipped the dating phase. The engagement was arranged and the wedding date was chosen. White invitations engraved with crimson writing were distributed.

People in the area greedily ate up the news of my impending wedding. “Wow, Rere is going to get married. Maybe he’s repented. Maybe he’s back to normal.”

Although what was actually in my mind at the time was merely: the important thing is to get married. I have a job, so I can provide for my wife. However, I didn’t think about what it would be like after the marriage.

On my wedding day, I wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a black peci decorated with gold motifs—a far cry from my everyday style of wearing feminine T-shirts. Dozens of people escorted me from my parents’ place in Tangerang to the bride’s house in Serang—my two sisters, various relatives, neighbours, and even people I didn’t even know. The whole way there, sitting in my brother’s black minibus, I was busy memorizing my ijab kabul—my declaration of consent.

When I arrived at the house of the bride, I was greeted with a garland of jasmine by my soon-to-be mother-in-law. She was in Islamic dress and a red hijab. I felt my body gripped with tension, I controlled each footstep and arm movement in such a way so that they wouldn’t look unmanly. 

Luckily I managed to walk to my seat next to the bride, who wore a white kebaya with gold and pink sequins. She was very beautiful and fully decked out in blue and gray eyeshadow, orange-rouged cheeks, with her hair wrapped in a beige-and-silver hijab arranged high on her head. A jasmine wreath framed her head, like a rainbow. Roses were tucked behind her ears.

The penghulu—the imam who was going to marry us—tried to break the ice by talking to me, but my mind was already too nervous, frantically repeating my ijab kabul. After the marriage was declared legal, I shook hands with my parents and in-laws. As I bowed down to my mother, I cried.

My wife and I changed into matching jackets and long blue brocade gowns with gold and silver trimmings. At my wife’s house a wedding tent had been set up, with colourful garlands on either side. I just sat on the wedding couple’s seat throughout the party. My mind was so chaotic that I can’t even remember what food was served. I only remember my trans women friends coming to congratulate me—it gave me joy seeing them, and I wanted to jump and dance, but was afraid that my whacky ngondek side would come out. 

Bit by bit, the guests started to leave, until finally only the family remained, tidying up the party venue. Finally, at nightfall, my mother and father returned to their house, leaving me to spend the night at the house of my in-laws.

My wife and I went into the room that had been prepared for us. All at once, everything was very quiet. The room was large and there was a big bed with pink sheets by the window. There was a new wardrobe too, a gift from my parents. A large fan was attached to the wall.

I felt like I was in a completely foreign place—shocked, confused, uncertain, and tired after a day of greeting guests. I kept asking myself, Is this what being married feels like? Do I really have to sleep with a woman? I felt like someone who had gotten lost on a trip and didn’t know what to do.

My wife caressed me, the way a wife would caress her husband. “Aa…”  She began, addressing me affectionately.

I screamed inside.

“Sorry, Neng, I feel so tired. And boiling hot.”

She cuddled me repeatedly, and for the same reason, I repeatedly rejected her.

I realized and understood how disappointed my wife must have felt at that moment, but what could I do? Oh God, my mind was in torment.

The night felt so long. All night I was unable to provide my wife the pleasure she was entitled to, even though when I slept with men, I’d usually feel such burning desire. 

The next day, I had a high fever.

But I secretly felt relieved, because now I had a very good reason not to provide my wife with what was her right.

My wife was very kind and loving—she took care of me during my illness, putting a wet cloth on my head and giving me medicine, as though she were a mother taking care of a sick baby. Despite all this, I still felt unhappy. 

After a few days, my situation started to improve. But I got anxious again because I still had to give my wife her pleasure.

Then the night came when she complained very clearly, “Aa, you can’t do it, huh?”

Her complaint sounded like thunder. Like a horse being hit by a whip and forced to run, I tried to arouse my passion by fantasizing about making out with a man.

At last I was able to please my wife—at the cost of a broken heart. I felt very dirty after that, like a girl stripped of her chastity. I wasn’t happy at all. I could only brood silently. 

The next day, I went back to work because my wedding leave had ended. My wife prepared everything that her husband needed to go to work, getting breakfast ready and tidying up the clothes that I was to wear. I would have been the very image of a happy spouse if only I didn’t have to pretend to be something that I wasn’t.

When I closed the gate to my father-in-law’s house behind me, I felt like I was getting a breath of fresh air that I hadn’t had for a long time. I’m free! I shouted to myself, singing along to the joyous dangdut song that I played to accompany my journey.

After work, I decided to go home to my parents, not to my wife’s house. It continued that way. Even when I had time off work, I said that I couldn’t get a day off, even after my wife announced that she was pregnant.

And then it was already six months after my wedding. Finally someone from my wife’s family called my parents, asking how I was and why I hadn’t returned.

That afternoon, I was standing in the doorway looking at the rice fields. My father was watching TV in the living room.

My mother asked me, “Is there a problem with your wife? Why don’t you want to go back?”

I remained silent.

My father joined in. “If there’s a problem, say so.”

Finally I made myself say, “Mak, Bapak, please don’t tell me to go back.”

“But why?” asked my mother.

I felt all kinds of emotions starting to erupt inside me. I let out everything that I had been hiding, “Stop, Mak, stop! The truth is, I don’t love my wife. I’m only pretending. I’m lying. I did it so that you two could be happy.”

I cried and wailed.

My second elder sister came scurrying over at the sound. She asked my mother why I was crying. “I just asked why he never returned to his wife’s house,” explained my mother.

“If you don’t love your wife, how could she have gotten pregnant?” asked my father.

My sister responded shrilly, “Mak, Pak, why bother asking him to return to his wife? He’s a bencong! He can’t love his wife! There’s no point forcing him to go back there. He feels tortured at having to pretend to be a man there.”

I was very surprised that my sister had said this, but I also felt that she was actually defending me, even though she had called me a faggot. Mother was silent for a while. I didn’t dare look at her face. 

 “If that’s the reason, I can’t force you,” said Mother. “It’s all up to you.”

I really didn’t expect my mother to be so understanding. She, who at first had wanted me to find happiness in marriage, turned out to be even more hurt to see her child facing his inner struggle alone.

I never returned to my wife after that, even when she gave birth. Only my mother and father were at the delivery. After the baby was born, my mother told me, “Just divorce your wife. Don’t make it hard like this. Have pity on her.”

With my mother’s support, the divorce process began immediately. After the letter was signed and the divorce was declared, I felt very relieved and free, like a convict imprisoned for decades finally getting out of prison.

I cried, but with different tears—tears of happiness, tears of freedom.

Several months after the divorce, I heard that my ex-wife found a new husband. And now my son, my ex-wife, and I have started to build a good relationship, as friends. She also knows that I have a male partner. 

My life is so much calmer now. I work as a dangdut singer and live with my father, my mother, and my partner. They never insult me when I go to work in a miniskirt or whatever else. I no longer need to lie to other people. And most importantly, I no longer feel tortured, pretending to be something that I’m not.

© Rere Suketi

English translation © Rio Johan 


Rere Suketi is a dangdut singer who lives in a village in the province of Banten. She was once a street singer and sex worker to make a living. She loves Rhoma Irama, Rita Sugiarto, and all things pop and dangdut. Rere wants to share her experiences and hopes her story will open minds and make others better able to understand the lives of trans women.

Rio Johan has published three books in Indonesia: a collection of short stories titled Aksara Amananuna (The Alphabet of Amananunna, 2014); and two novels, Ibu Susu (Mother’s Milk, 2017) and Buanglah Hajat pada Tempatnya (Dump Your Business in the Right Place, 2020). He won the 2018 Khatulistiwa Literary Award for the First/Second Book Category for Ibu Susu. His fourth book, a short story collection Rekayasa Buah (Fruit Engineering) is going to be published in June 2021. He has published some of his self-translated stories in MĀNOA: A Pacific Journal of International Writing and Samovar. In addition, he has also translated some works from English and French to Indonesian. He’s now studying cinema in Paris. 

Cindy Saja is a freelance graphic designer and illustrator. Her works are mostly about social issues in Indonesian society. She has been drawing since childhood, and after completing her fine arts degree in 2011 she started working as an illustrator. She has collaborated with writers and artists such as Gouri Mirpuri, Butet Manurung, Erikar Lebang, Rene Suhardono, Rani Pramesti, and many more. Currently, Cindy is freelancing at the book publisher Kompas, and is preparing a personal project.


Story-writing mentor: Eliza Vitri Handayani

Karya ini merupakan bagian dari CERITRANS: Cerita Transpuan Lintas Batas (2021)

This work is part of CERITRANS: Trans Stories Transcending Borders (2021)

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PENGHAKIMAN NAMA – Anggun Pradesha

PENGHAKIMAN NAMA – Anggun Pradesha

Anggun bertekad mengesahkan nama sejatinya dan menghadapi kepungan birokrasi serta pertanyaan kurang ajar…
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Anggun is determined to legalize her true name and faces bureaucratic rigmaroles and impudent questions…