Today, I'm reminded again how this life is but a stepping stone to the afterlife. Covid took away my thesis supervisor, my professor. Our most recent conversation took place just a few days ago. We got Covid around the same time in early August, but he's old and could only handle herbal remedies. We talked a lot during that time. Even in sick, he wrote research articles with his colleagues and me. He told me at the end of August that he was starting to feel better.
When I heard the news, I didn't quite understand how to react. It was clearly shocking, and I just froze as my brain struggled to process what was going on. Later that afternoon, I looked him up on Google and found his channel. He wrote his last poetry 2 weeks ago, narrated it with photographs of his house and garden, entitled it "going home". As I listened to his voice, that's when the feeling hit. Nothing could stop my tears for a good 20 minutes.
He was a quiet man who kept to himself. Never talked more than necessary. His voice was soft and he spoke slowly. But when he read poetry on stage, he was a completely different person. His voice loud, saying each word as if it’s the soundtrack of a battle he’s fighting. His passion has always been literature (sastra). I could say he lived up to his name, as he looked most alive when he talked about the power of words.
Losing a good teacher feels like losing a good friend. When you lose someone, you often realize how much they meant to you. Then the worst part came: the regrets. Of not being able to do enough, or to do more.
The researches we're doing, that I keep postponing. The articles we're writing - I wish I could contribute more words and more grand ideas. The gift I wanted to give his family, but never had the chance to due to pandemic.
He repeatedly told me that we're gonna make an amazing team of researchers, along with my friend and his colleagues in Bali. We're gonna study male and female brains and how much the physiological differences alone contribute to how both think and act. Now I don't know what to do with the drafts. Sometimes I wish I knew he was sick so I could do more, give more.
I've been going through his Facebook photos and notes. He lived an amazing life and raised wonderful daughters who will carry on his legacy. Three bright young women who, just like him, appear shy yet are all incredible writers.
But life… it goes on whatever happens. The hundreds of condolence messages in the university group have stopped coming, replaced by another online seminar info to attend. People move on, only a few still mourn.
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There will come a time when you and I and all we love will be dust, buried underground and forgotten. Our names will not be written down in any history book. But if we measure our lives by what the world does when we’re gone, we’re all insignificant and life seems pointless.
Instead, take a look at the few people we will leave behind, who still say our names in their prayers, who carry on pieces of us forever. Our action, our voice, our character matter. Our influence matters, even when small.
Rest in Peace, Pak… Years from now, I may forget everything you said, but I will always remember your voice and character.
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