My love is Like a Red, Red, Rose….

It always starts with the guys that are keen on helping you with your research. I met him at a nasyid event, and he’d been eager to take me to Islamic universities around Bandung. His “I have a little girl crush on you” text messages had begun simply, straightforwardly, and very cliché. “Kenapa saya ingat kamu terus?” How come I can’t stop thinking of you? One of my friends told me that I should answer in the form of a joke. Something to the effect of, “Did you borrow one of my things, and that’s why you keep thinking of me?” I decided that the safer thing to do would be just to ignore the text message.

Three weeks passed. After my typhoid fever had reached stage four, (the first time), the fellow visited me at my house with one of his friends. He wanted me to speak Spanish for a segment of a video he was making for an event that celebrated speaking your mother tongue. He already had another American to help him out, so he didn’t need to me to speak English. And he remembered me telling him that the left half of my body was Puerto Rican, descended from my lovely Camuy-born mother. Unfortunately, I seemed to have missed out on learning Spanish from her. I assured him that I really couldn’t speak Spanish, so he settled for me saying “Me llamo Dorcinda. Wilijeng melimping Hari Bahasa Ibu 2007!” A little Spanish, and a little Sundanese! We could both be happy.

That night, I received another text message. “Cinda, tadi kamu tampil cantik sekalih! Aku jadi suka…” Cinda, earlier, you appeared very beautiful. I like…”

So, he hadn’t given up quite yet. I waited until the morning to text him back, deciding to try the “laughing it off” technique.

“O tentu, memang cantik. Semua orang mengatakan begitu! ” Well sure, of course I’m beautiful; everyone tells me so!

He didn’t respond. I thought I’d conquered, by my pompous, full-of-myself attitude. The day passed uneventfully. My new drum arrived, and I had a lesson with my friend and teacher, Cecep. He’s only two years older than me, and we have a lot in common; especially in that we forget things all the time, and we have a tendency to be running behind schedule. We’re both Virgos; his birthday is two days before mine, September 9. His wife’s hair is died bright red, which surprised me some reason, as both Cecep and his wife speak flawless Sundanese. I guess I imagined she would be very traditional.

During the lesson I got another text message from my admirer, but as it was very poetic, and I decided to leave translating it for later. I didn’t remember it again until later that evening when I was eating dinner with the Muharam-Laksmi family.

Dunia mempesona
semakin senja, semakin manja…
Adakah di sana cinta untukku,
wahai bidadariku?

The interesting world, as the afternoon grows late, become more spoiled. Alas, is there a possibility of love for me in your heart?

After confirming that I understood the meaning, all three of us (Pak Muharam, Ibu Laksmi and I) pondered over the correct response. It had to be poetry, and it had to be clear. I had already tried the methods of ignoring and joking my way through it. Now I would have to be delightfully indirect at being direct!

Pagi terlihat cerah,
tetapi hatiku tidak secerah pagi ini.
Ternyata ada yang hilang,
Cintaku tertinggal jauh di sana.

The morning seems bright, but my heart is not as bright as this morning. Something is lost. My love is left behind, far away.

Not great poetry, but then again, verse was never my strong suit. I was more concerned with the content than lyrical language. I hoped he would choose to take my meaning as a boyfriend in America, although I am actually rather single at the moment. Meanwhile, I would choose to interpret it as my love for my family. Such is the beauty of poetry! Before half an hour had passed, a new poem awaited me—his response:

Harum Bunga yang mekar di taman itu,
Aromanya telah merasuki jiwaku…
Alangkah beruntungnya dia
Dan aku hanya pemuja cinta…

The flower that blossoms in the garden, its aroma possesses my spirit.
How lucky is he, and I only, a worshiper of love.

I smiled. He’d gotten the message, as indirectly as it had been given.

Later that evening, he apologized, once more via text message for speaking so honestly, if it disturbed me. I told him not to worry about it—that I enjoyed his poetry. Although I didn’t let him know, in fact, I was more flattered by the attention than disturbed, although quite truthfully unwilling to let the situation get out of hand. This was in fact, the first time that someone attempted to woo me with poetry. He responded with another round of flowery poetry, more difficult for me to understand.

Cinda, Kubisikan namamu dengan kalbu penuh rindu, ketika senyummu makin bersinar dalam kbut n gerimis. Tapi suaraku tigal gema memantul didinging sepi!

Cinda, I whisper your name in my heart, full of longing. When your smile shines again, it is within mist and showers. And my voice is but an echo, resounding back to me from the silent walls.

I had to look a few of the words up in the dictionary, but once I understood his meaning, I had to smile. We had now entered into the realm of friendly ridiculousness. The situation was under control. I settled down on the couch to watch my favorite Indonesian telenovela with Ibu Laksmi and her terror of a child, and smiled. We would be friends.