Chapter 1:
The Heat of Surabaya and the Harsh Pavements of Jakarta
~An original masterpiece by Fendi S~
Shattered pieces of a crystal ashtray scattered violently across the marble floor of the luxurious mansion.
"Get out of this house if you still dare to call that street trash a future!" Hari's baritone voice boomed, the sheer volume of his anger bouncing off the massive pillars of the grand family room.
Bima did not flinch. His jaw was locked tight. The twenty-year-old glared directly into his father's eyes without a single ounce of fear. His rugged appearance was a striking contrast to the opulent room around him. His wavy hair was messy and overgrown, partially covering his forehead. A faded flannel shirt wrapped around his broad shoulders. His right hand clenched tightly by his thigh, hiding the dark, stubborn stains of charcoal graphite embedded deep between his fingers.
"You have always judged everything solely by its cover," Bima replied softly. His voice was freezing cold, piercing through the tension. "The Prosecutor's Office taught you how to lock away criminals, Father. Are you trying to imprison your own son inside his own home now?"
Plakk!
A violent, stinging slap landed squarely on Bima’s left cheek. Heat flared across his skin. A sharp, burning pain radiated from the impact, yet Bima absolutely refused to lower his head. His eyes continued to boldly challenge the middle-aged man standing before him in a perfectly pressed official uniform.
"You ungrateful child!" Hari panted, his chest heaving rapidly. He pointed a trembling index finger right in front of Bima’s face. "Endless facilities. Limitless pocket money. A perfectly structured future already prepared for you! Yet you choose to loiter with terminal thugs! Skipping your university classes just to scribble on the filthy, crumbling walls of the slums!"
Bima only offered a cynical smirk. He slowly raised his thumb, wiping away a drop of fresh, warm blood trickling from the corner of his split lip. Slowly, he turned his back on his father.
"Keep all of those facilities, Father. I am sick of them."
That very night, Bima packed his belongings. A faded, olive-green canvas backpack became his only companion. He completely refused to pack a single piece of designer clothing. Instead, he stuffed in a few plain t-shirts, worn-out denim jeans, a tin box of charcoal pencils, and a thick sketchbook bound in faux leather. The premium gold ATM card his father had given him was left abandoned on his study desk.
His footsteps felt incredibly light as he descended the grand, elegantly carved teakwood staircase. From behind his mother's bedroom door, the sound of muffled, restrained sobbing drifted into the hallway.
Bima's footsteps paused for a fraction of a second. A sudden, sharp pang of pain sneaked into the left side of his chest, striking his heart. But his resolve was absolute and unshakable. Surabaya had become far too suffocating for him. The massive shadow of his father's prestigious name strangled him every single time he stepped out of the front gates. He needed fresh air. He needed absolute freedom. Without restraints. Without formal, suffocating rules.
Gubeng Train Station welcomed him right before midnight. The night air began to bite into his bones. The economy-class train bound for Jakarta blew its long, echoing whistle, shattering the midnight silence. Bima stepped up, passing through the rusty iron doors of the carriage. Taking a corner seat near a dull, scratched glass window, he watched the endless rows of city lights slowly move backward, eventually fading into the swallowing darkness.
The heavy iron wheels ground against the rails, grinding out a monotonous, hypnotic rhythm.
Bima's memories drifted back, tracing the lines of his childhood. A massive, three-story mansion. Rows of expensive European cars. A private chauffeur in a neat uniform. An endless parade of private tutors coming to the house. All of those luxurious facilities felt entirely fake to him. He despised the overwhelming hypocrisy of upper-class high society.
As a little boy, Bima would often run away, climbing over the high walls of their elite residential complex. He would join the slum children who lived along the muddy riverbanks. He would steal time, skipping school just to watch cheap action movies in a rundown, foul-smelling cinema. There, amidst the thick cigarette smoke of the economy-class audience, Bima had discovered true honesty. Those people laughed freely, without ever worrying about maintaining a prestigious image.
Now, this iron carriage was carrying him far away. Toward the capital city. Without a solid plan. Without the paid bodyguards his father used to hire.
Twelve hours later, Jakarta welcomed him with the burning slap of the midday sun.
Pasar Senen Station was deafeningly chaotic. The blaring horns of public minivans clashed with the hoarse shouts of porters fighting over passengers. The acrid scent of sour sweat mixed with the heavy dust of the asphalt immediately assaulted his nose. Bima stood tall in the outer lobby of the station. He inhaled the heavily polluted air deeply, filling his lungs to the brim.
This was the scent of absolute freedom.
However, the freedom he was chasing came with an incredibly devastating price.
The first few weeks felt like a live simulation of hell. The cash in his leather wallet shrank drastically in just a matter of days. Bima had to swallow the bitter, unforgiving reality of the streets. He slept exactly like a true vagabond, moving from the cold terraces of closed convenience stores, to hard concrete park benches, to shivering in the dark corners of busway stops. His stomach constantly growled, twisting in the agonizing pain of starvation. There were days when he could only afford a single pack of raw instant noodles, taking tiny bites to make it last throughout the day.
Yet, his male ego restrained his fingers from dialing his family in Surabaya. To go home meant defeat. To surrender meant admitting that his father’s cruel words were the absolute truth. And Bima absolutely refused to lose.
His body grew visibly thinner. His cheekbones protruded sharply. His once fair skin was now deeply tanned, burned by the relentless, scorching sun. His wavy hair grew wild and unkempt, brushing against his collar. But strangely, the look in his eyes burned brighter than ever. Amidst the unforgiving asphalt of Jakarta, his primal survival instinct awoke and rebelled.
Late one afternoon, in a busy corner of the Old Town (Kota Tua), Bima laid out a thin, repurposed plastic tarp he had scavenged from behind a traditional market. His worn-out backpack served as an easel for his sketchbook. He pulled out his favorite dozen charcoal pencils. His dirty, calloused fingers began to dance nimbly across the pure white paper.
His first subject that afternoon was an old, colonial-era Dutch building standing proudly across the street. Line after line was created with firm, absolute confidence. His shading was incredibly detailed, successfully capturing the dramatic, melancholic shadows of the setting sun slipping through the vintage, weathered windows.
A tourist from out of town stopped walking. The middle-aged man, wearing a classic fedora hat, stared at Bima’s artwork intensely.
"How much for a portrait, young man?" the man asked, pointing at a blank sheet of paper.
Bima looked up. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.
"It is entirely up to you, Sir. Pay whatever you feel is right," Bima answered, offering a small folding stool to the man.
Bima’s hands moved at lightning speed, acting like a human printing press. His sharp eyes darted back and forth between the man’s wrinkled face and the blank canvas. His focus was impenetrable. He completely ignored his starving stomach, which was begging for food.
It only took fifteen minutes. The character-filled portrait was perfectly complete. Using the bold strokes of his 12B pencil, Bima had successfully captured the tired, profound lines of his very first customer’s eyes.
The man smiled in deep satisfaction. He nodded slowly, then placed a blue fifty-thousand rupiah bill on Bima’s plastic mat.
The first fifty thousand he had ever earned from his own sweat.
Bima stared at the blue bill for a very long time. An overwhelming, explosive sense of pride erupted in his chest. Back in Surabaya, a bill this small was barely enough to tip the valet at a luxury café. But here, on this dusty sidewalk, fifty thousand rupiah was the absolute difference between life and death. That single bill was undeniable proof that he could stand on his own two feet.
From that day forward, the bustling corner of Kota Tua officially became his second home. The thick street dust, the dark exhaust fumes, and the noisy, chaotic music of street buskers became the daily symphony of his life. His customers grew incredibly diverse. University students looking for a cheap gift, romantic couples celebrating their anniversaries, curious foreign tourists, and exhausted office workers walking by looking for afternoon entertainment.
Sometimes, his peaceful rhythm would shatter in an instant. Bima would have to frantically pack up his small stall and sprint as fast as his legs could carry him whenever the city public order officers (Satpol PP) suddenly arrived for a raid. His feet, protected only by thin rubber sandals, would often accidentally step on broken glass. He would pant heavily, hiding behind piles of cardboard boxes in narrow, suffocating alleys.
Strangely enough, every single time the officers finally left, Bima would burst into uncontrollable laughter.
He genuinely enjoyed every single second of the suffering. There were no more strict rules demanding perfect family etiquette. There were no more suffocating pressures forcing him to wear a fake smile just to protect his father's prestigious reputation. On top of that boiling asphalt, Bima was no longer the golden child of a high-ranking prosecutor. He had completely killed that identity.
He was now simply Bima. The street painter. The charcoal pencil vendor searching for true, unadulterated freedom. Slowly, this metropolitan city began to embrace him, even if it was an embrace filled with sharp thorns.
One late afternoon, the Jakarta sky burned a brilliant, deep copper red.
A pair of white canvas shoes, bearing the Adidas logo, stopped exactly at the edge of his plastic mat. The faint, sweet scent of jasmine perfume subtly overpowered the thick, suffocating smell of exhaust fumes.
Bima looked up. His eyes locked in place.
Standing right in front of him, framed by the beautiful silhouette of the sunset, a young girl was staring deeply into his eyes. A breathtakingly sweet smile was beautifully carved on her face.
At that exact moment, Bima did not realize one crucial thing that was about to change the entire trajectory of his life forever.
He had no idea that this very sweet smile would one day lift him up to touch the most beautiful heaven, only to violently drag him down, crashing into the lowest, most humiliating depths of hell.
To be continued in Chapter 2...
