Aksara Taste (For Flavors That Will Not Be Perfect)
CHAPTER Nine

What scent do you like best?

Luckily there was still a supply of potpourri that I had packed in a glass jar. Complete with gauze as a cover and decorative ribbon to make it look classy. I just put it near the window glass, the distinctive aroma of cinnamon instantly spread. Fulfill the whole room. Replace the parfume of the room that is usually used by many people.

When I was young, no matter what age, while still living in Yogya, I had a new neighbor. Uncle Zainal and Bi Hanum - once I called them - had a cinnamon plant growing around the yard.

At the end of each rainy season, mothers routinely get one large jar containing cinnamon that is still wet. It has not been dried because it has to wait for the sun to shine brightly. Once the dry season arrives, the mother immediately dried the cinnamon in the yard of the house. Mother said that in order to dry evenly, the cinnamon must be often turned back and forth.

Not infrequently, after returning to school I was flipping cinnamon under the hot sun. Besides not having homework, I also refused to take a nap. Want to help mom in the kitchen also do not have expertise. Just approaching the father who finished the customer's order shirt, I was told to play cooking. Dad said he couldn't ignore me while he was at work.

Although the heat of the sun made my face red with sweat pouring out, I never mind. Moreover, I am not alone either. There's always an Arfian. We flipped through the cinnamon at about the same time. Although mother's property was only large setoples and Arfian's a sack of onions, he always finished first. His deft hands made his work never fall apart.

My memory is pulled back. Stopped at a time when Arfian and I were still little snot boys. A time when we were just friends. The time where we enjoyed the beginning of the dry season in the grounds.

If time could go backwards, there would be a lot of flavor that could be cultivated.

***

“*You are there?!” arfian shouted while running towards me. The boy was still wearing a uniform. Complete with school backpack and black shoes.

“Candy cinnamon!” sahutku brief. The heat makes me lazy to talk.

“Why not wear a hat?” the friendly question once it arrived in front of me.

I want to look up, I want to look at him. But it's a little difficult to be able to face the sparkle of the sun.

“No cap make my head size at home. Everything is great.” murmured me potluck.

I grumbled in my heart when Arfian just looked at me without helping. The shadow of his body was reflected before my eyes. Stand up like a foreman monitoring.

“If you just want to see me, you mending go aja.” I grunt annoyed.

A second later I heard the sound of branches breaking. Arfian school shoes also stepped on the dried leaves that fell. His steps moved, following the rhythm of the movement of my feet on the ground.

I felt the naung that made me look up. My two bolamates looked at him without any problems. His tall body was blocking out the sunlight. Covering the reflection of light that spreads everywhere.

And at that moment I realized, I was never alone*.

***

The sky has its own secrets.

Although it rained all night, this morning the sun did not want to budge. Between the rain and the sun there is actually nothing weak. But nature always has a choice. Nature has provisions. There's a regularity cycle. And that is God's rule.

At the steering wheel Mas Zifran was agitated. Many times he questioned the correct direction of the Google Maps guide to me. We were made to gawk in disbelief as we passed through narrow alleys and densely populated settlements. I myself even doubt, whether Mas Zifran knows what place we want to go. Or maybe he just moved around?

After being wracked by prolonged confusion, finally the office sedan pulled over.

Instead of rushing down, I looked at Mas Zifran who was looking at me worriedly.

“Al, really, right? This is the place?”

I swallowed it many times. Trying to convince ourselves that this large orange fence in front of us is the entrance of the PBSI Platnas building. But I have no decision. My eyes found no signs of life. So, I can't answer Mas Zifran's question.

“Feelings, Mas Zifran also lives in Cipayung, deh.” reply I smiled fake.

Lazy argue, finally Mas Zifran relented down. He approached the guard post and talked to the officers there. It didn't take long, the gate was finally opened. A giant shuttlecock welcomed our arrival. In the courtyard of the entrance were trembesi trees. The orchid garden around it looks neat and beautiful. I can hardly believe Arfian lives here. In precisely where everyone has to fight alone. There was only a strong determination and great conviction to realize all the dreams they had.

***

Sunardi Panji.

Best friend Mas Rudi welcomed us with a big smile. I barely recognized him who was wearing sportswear at the time. Although this is the first time we met after five years have passed, Mas Panji can still name my full name. It turns out that the physiotherapist's memory never lost time.

With Mas Zifran, I was invited to tour the PBSI Platnas building complex. Mas Panji guided us while sharing information. About the brief profile of PBSI, details of the room we passed, achievements already owned, and tournament plans next month. He also showed the facilities in Platnas such as fitness room, therapy room, swimming pool, clinic, and band tools. Mas Panji said the athletes here should not be bored. They are given the time and opportunity to do some activities outside of hours of exercise.

Finished walking around, Mas Panji led us through the corridor behind the glass door.

“This is the most sacred place in Platnas.” said Mas Panji on the doorstep.

I'll bet this place is a training hall for athletes that Arfian told us about when we were dating.

As Arfian said, the badminton hall was no ordinary place. Not everyone is capable of being in it. The high roof towering with makeshift air vents make many people unfamiliar. There is only heat and stuffiness that fills the head. And that's what I feel now. The green color of the walls of the hall and the field I was looking at also couldn't make me survive.

As if being in a sauna, sweat and sweat kept me from talking much. My feet are wobbly to step. Even my sense of smell started to be helpless. My brain is determined to ask to lift a foot from the hall.

“It's the scent of glory, Al.” Mas Panji bright when I saw me overwhelmed breathing.

I nodded lightly. A little uncomfortable. “Iya, Mas.” reply me while smiling wryly.

I saw Mas Zifran looking at me in wonder. He asked silently, only through his mouth that formed a series of words, “Why?”

“That's weak. How the hell, Al.” whispered Mas Zifran with a annoying tone.

I'm shaking funny. Little shy. “Partially I don't know if it's going to be this bad.”

“Your boyfriend, will stay here. You should know what condition-“ is

Before Mas Zifran continued what he wanted to say, I glared at him first. I looked into his eyes with a hunting rage.

“Not my word. But, that word ahead, nih.” Mas Zifran moved his ball towards Mas Panji who was walking in front of us.

“Hoooaaahhh!” me and Mas Zifran flinched. We blink our eyes while wetting our throats many times. Not understanding what kind of situation is going on.

“That's the shout of the candidates for the champion if you give smash.” explained Mas Panji while laughing lightly. Makes Mas Zifran a little clumsy. “I-iya, here, Alya. Kasian he was shocked, so.”

Lazily serving the guyonan Mas Zifran, I followed Mas Panji's steps out of the hall. While aiming at the camera lens, I noticed one of the male single players in front of me. His footwork makes the shuttlecock soar perfectly. He chases the ball here and there. To the front, to the back, to the right, to the left, like dancing.

My memory penetrated through space and time, stopping at what Arfian had once said. “Posting PBSI Plates is not an easy matter. If the wrong steps of the dreams that have been built can immediately become garbage. We can't let our guard down. Do not despair and do not give up easily. Because we only have two choices, must win or must not lose.”

“Fian! How fugitive? Kan, not out?!” a player protested because his opponent let the shuttlecock fall just like that.

My bolamata moves following the dictates of the heart. As soon as I turned back to the back court, I found Arfian looking at me mute. I saw the sweat make his face wet. The blue t-shirt looks heavy with sweat. His black hair was a mess. His feet remained in place. While there was only a sweet smile behind her thin lips.