.Malioboro

Yogyakarta, Indonesia.

Malioboro. That's what this place is called. They say it's a milestone of literature and culture, a long trace of Yogyakarta's history from the Sultanate era, colonialism, to the struggle for independence. Now, this place is nothing more than a cultural and economic icon.

In the past, it was indeed the main route for the Sultan and nobles. Important royal processions were held here; welcoming esteemed guests, celebrating Sultanate events. But that was then. Malioboro began to change drastically with the arrival and influence of the Dutch East Indies colonial government in the 19th century. And so it went. Everything changed.

At some point during that era—no one knows exactly when—European buildings began to pierce the sky. Government buildings, official residences, grand colonial-style shops—all of them mushroomed, transforming Malioboro into a landscape filled with a blend of architectures.

This blend, they say, created a unique identity. The road, once only traversed by horse-drawn carriages and royal servants, slowly became a center of trade and activity. It was both a collaboration and a conflict between Java and the West. A living gallery, they say, that tells the story of Yogyakarta's historical evolution.

I walked there, 3.5 kilometers from south to north. Trying to enjoy, to remember, to bid farewell to a place considered special by the locals. But for me, this place... Malioboro is just where I buried all the wounds of the past. And every step, every breath there, felt like digging up that grave again.

Under the soft glow of the streetlights, I walked slowly, letting my steps dissolve into the crowd.

In my hand, I held a warm package of kue pukis. A cake I'd originally wanted to give and eat with someone. Someone who, unbeknownst to me, was going through an engagement ceremony tonight.

A quarter of the way through my walk. Right at a street corner, the usual spot of an old beggar I often gave my change to, I approached him. A frail old man, lying weakly on a tattered mat as if waiting for death to claim him.

Without a word, I handed over the warm kue pukis that I'd been holding, along with a few hundred-thousand rupiah left in my wallet.

Seeing the amount of money I'd slipped beside him, the old man jolted from his slumber. His dim eyes slowly widened, then looked at me hesitantly. "T-This is too much..." he stammered, his voice hoarse and faint.

His hand trembled as he reached out, trying to return the money. But before his hand could fully extend, mine gently held it back. I simply replied with a thin smile, then nodded slowly.

Seeing my quiet, restrained expression, the old man slowly withdrew his hand. With a raspy, barely audible tremor, he said, "M-May what you wish for come true, and may you be granted a long life... Amen..."

I could only lower my head; my eyes narrowing—trying to hold back the sting that was welling up. There was a fear, perhaps that if I allowed that irony even for a moment, tears would surely fall before I even realized it.

From there, I continued walking, tracing the increasingly quiet road until I reached the halfway point. My feet stopped at a familiar spot—the place where street theater performances used to be held.

I was quite surprised to see that the theater was still there, though in a different form. The format of the performance had changed, becoming simpler and almost not as attractive as before; even the audience was now just a handful of people.

My guess—based on the costumes of the master and the servants—was that they might be performing the story of "Cinderella," or perhaps "Bawang Merah Bawang Putih." It was hard for me to be sure just by glancing at it.

Honestly, I myself wasn't too certain, as both stories share a very similar pattern as a folktale: a kind girl oppressed by her stepfamily, who then receives a miracle as a reward. In fact, people often unconsciously mix elements from both, blurring the lines between Western and local fairy tales.

From across the street, I sat for a moment—letting myself be absorbed by the ongoing play, if only briefly. For a few minutes, I let time stop. There was something about the performance that pulled me back to the past, as if opening old pages I'd kept tightly sealed for a long time.

The memory just came; the times when I often watched this play with my parents, on the same day, in the same place, with smiles and laughter now vaguely drawn. Before everything changed. Before separation altered everything.

No—I never hated them. Not even a little. I still loved them, always. Even though lately they rarely asked how I was, or even called just to talk about small, perhaps trivial, things.

But I understood. I really did. They now had their own lives—new families that needed their full attention. Their time and priorities had shifted, and I didn't want to blame anyone for that.

The older I got, I started to realize something I perhaps never wanted to admit. That maybe my presence in this world was merely a remnant of their long arguments—a lingering trace of a love that grew without foundation, a marriage unprepared with emotional maturity or spiritual wisdom.

And when that love collapsed—the fruit of a couple's selfishness, failing to set aside their egos for wholeness, choosing instead to cling to an illusory happiness like a mirage; plucked prematurely before it was fully ripe, then left to slowly rot, trapped in a dark, empty space.

Now, I was just a leftover piece in the diagram of their love—a small part that once held them together, but now felt like a bothersome remnant. I was in the middle, not fully belonging to anyone, stuck in a nameless gray space.

I was lost in deep contemplation... too immersed in thought to notice someone's presence nearby. A female street musician, playing a kalimba with soft notes that slowly seeped into my awareness.

When I finally snapped out of it, my body gave a small jolt of surprise. Reflexively, I turned and looked towards her. And as if realizing I was watching her, she instantly met my gaze.

"Sir, do you want to request a song?" she asked with a friendly smile, her voice gently blending with the soft, lingering chime of the kalimba.

I gave a faint smile and slowly pulled my wallet from my pocket. My hand hesitated slightly as I opened it. Fortunately, there were still a few fifty-thousand rupiah tucked inside, and I pulled one out, giving it to the woman.

"Whoa... What song would you like to request, Sir?" she asked cheerfully, a moment after receiving the money.

Without waiting for an answer, the woman immediately took a seat beside me. She sat quietly, bringing her legs together, then rested the small kalimba on her lap—as if ready to play the melody of any song I might choose.

"Sir?"

She asked again, this time with a slightly softer voice, trying to get my attention. But I just stayed silent, looking straight ahead at the street theater that was still playing in front of us.

To be honest, at that moment, I didn't want to talk to anyone. It wasn't because I was apathetic... it's just that sometimes, one wishes to be alone amidst a crowd. Not to isolate myself, but to find the fine line between loneliness and peace.

Noticing my focused gaze, the woman seemed perceptive enough to implicitly grasp everything I felt. She didn't say much, just glanced briefly, then calmly began moving her fingers across the kalimba, trying to fill the space between us with notes that perfectly blended with the atmosphere.

"Do you like that theater, Sir? I'll play a song that I think fits the scene they're performing now," she said softly.

Sure enough, her fingers began to dance on the kalimba's keys, playing notes that immediately felt familiar. The song was "Dealova," popularized by Once Mekel.

Whether it was a coincidence or not... this song was a melody my mother often hummed while knitting mini-dolls from the leftover yarn of her cardigans.

I smiled faintly. In my heart, I began to think that this woman's musical taste was no joke. She wasn't just good at reading situations, but also knew how to synchronize sound with emotion—something not all street musicians can do.

What silenced me even more was how harmoniously the rhythm accompanied the ongoing theater scene. It instantly transformed the mood into such a powerful melodrama, slowly seeping into my chest.

Each echoing chime of the kalimba carried bitterness, there was pain in the unspoken lyrics, and somehow, my eyes began to sting. Everything... the diction, the emotions, the memories—converged at once, and I could only sit there, holding back the tears that were starting to well up.

A scene where the prince knelt before a servant—who turned out to be the princess he had been searching for all along. That scene should have felt ordinary. But for some reason, as the soft melody played alongside it, I found myself getting even more engrossed. Something constricted in my chest.

There was a sort of similarity in roles between that servant and me. We both stumbled through life, walked on silent wounds, and endured suffering we never truly chose.

Behind forced smiles, we still tried to move forward, holding similar hopes—hopes of experiencing happiness that would one day, somehow, arrive.

But that's where the difference lay. In that story, the servant had found her happiness. As for me… I wasn't even sure I truly understood the meaning of happiness itself.

It felt abstract, unattainable, and almost impossible. Perhaps my heart had been frozen for too long, or maybe it was already dead.

That’s how the world seems to work—if you're born a man, you are expected to grow into a prince: handsome, valiant, established, and full of charm. Only then, it’s said, are you worthy of love.

But what about an ordinary man? A man with no charming face, and no abundance of wealth? An ugly and poor man like me? I, too, wanted someone—someone who could make me feel at peace, someone who could make me feel whole. Someone who would appear, not to save, but merely to accompany.

But once again, I knew it was a clichéd fantasy, too beautiful to be believed, yet somehow still loved, especially by those who preferred living in the shadows of dreams rather than facing reality.

Even so, I thought there was nothing wrong with holding such fantasies. As long as they remained as flowers of imagination in one's head, never forced into reality, then it was perfectly fine.

Everyone has the right to a small space in their mind to dream, even if their dreams come from stories that may never truly exist. After all, sometimes fantasy is the only place where the world feels fair.