Chapter 2:
Sunlight in the Corner of the Old Town
~An original masterpiece by Fendi S~
The girl casually seated herself on Bima's small folding stool. Her demeanor was completely devoid of awkwardness. When she spoke, her voice was crisp and clear, effortlessly cutting through the deafening noise of the bustling crowd surrounding them in the Old Town.
"Please make my face look a little bit more cheerful, won't you, Mister?" she requested with a playful, slightly flirtatious tone.
Her slender hand moved gracefully, tucking a stray strand of hair that had fallen across her forehead behind her ear.
Bima offered a faint, subtle smile. His calloused fingers gripped the thick charcoal pencil tightly. His sharp eyes intensely studied the contours of the face in front of him. She had beautifully curved, delicate eyebrows. Her large, round eyes sparkled with an undeniable warmth. A small, charming dimple appeared on her left cheek every single time her lips curved into a smile.
The black conté pencil began to dance nimbly across the pure white sketching paper. Bima slowly shaded the canvas, perfectly capturing the soft illusion of the late afternoon shadows hitting the girl's face. His strokes were spontaneous, yet incredibly firm and confident.
"Your natural face is actually cheerful enough as it is, Miss," Bima provoked mildly, initiating their afternoon conversation. He glanced up briefly from behind the edge of his sketchbook.
The girl let out a soft, melodic laugh. Her eyes narrowed into delightful crescents as she looked back at him.
"Well... that means the great artist doesn't have to work too hard this afternoon," she replied easily. She rested her hands on her knees, leaning her body slightly forward to peek at the drawing process.
Bima sharpened his gaze. His absolute focus shifted rhythmically back and forth from the girl’s sparkling eyes to the texture of the sketch paper. The elegant line of her jaw began to form flawlessly. His shading grew denser, brilliantly capturing the silhouette of the golden sunlight resting on the face of his special customer.
"Miss, I need to write a name down in the corner of this sketch. It is a mandatory requirement for all of my artwork," Bima lied smoothly, using a classic tactic to fish for her name.
The girl tilted her head slightly to the side. Her right eyebrow raised in mock surprise.
"Oh, really? The customer before me wasn't asked for his name at all. I was watching you very closely from across the street, you know."
Bima smiled, breaking into a slightly wider grin. His clever street tactic had been dismantled far too quickly. He paused his pencil strokes for a fraction of a second, returning the girl's deep, knowing gaze.
"I give very special treatment to my customers with dimples, Miss," Bima countered, absolutely refusing to back down. His voice was low, yet packed with the undeniable, gritty confidence of a young man shaped by the streets.
A faint, beautiful rush of crimson red spread across the girl's cheeks. She was definitely flustered. She quickly turned her face away, pretending to admire the row of old, colonial-era Dutch buildings across the street to hide her sudden nervousness. Her fingers nervously twisted the end of her shoulder bag's strap.
"Just write down Wanda," she said softly. She turned her face back to Bima, this time offering him the absolute sweetest smile in the entire Old Town.
"A beautiful name. It perfectly matches your smile this afternoon," Bima praised sincerely.
There was not a single ounce of a lie in that compliment. Bima looked back down at his canvas. His hands moved rapidly, working like a flawless printing machine. He masterfully captured the glimmer in Wanda's eyes, reflecting the beautiful glow of the setting sun. The intricate strokes of his Joyko 12B pencil were perfectly completed in just under fifteen minutes.
"It's finished," Bima announced, gently extending the sheet of sketch paper toward her.
Wanda received Bima's artwork delicately. Her eyes widened in absolute awe. Her fingertips carefully caressed the surface of the paper. Those black charcoal lines did not merely copy her face; they somehow captured the very aura of her soul.
"This is unbelievably beautiful. The pencil strokes feel so alive," Wanda praised earnestly, her eyes locked on the portrait. "You have an extraordinary talent, Mr. Artist."
She unzipped her shoulder bag and pulled out several crisp banknotes. Unlike the other customers, Wanda did not place the money on his plastic mat. Instead, she reached out and pressed the money directly into the rough, calloused palm of Bima's hand.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Artist. My name is Wanda. And you are?"
"Bima... Miss."
"Okay. I will see you again, Mas Bima."
The girl stood up. Her footsteps moved gracefully, slowly blending into the dense crowd of afternoon visitors. Bima watched her back shrink until she completely disappeared behind the row of vintage buildings.
A strange, vibrating spectrum of emotion settled deep within his chest. That afternoon, the banknotes given by Wanda felt incredibly different. Bima folded them neatly and tucked them away into the deepest pocket of his faded flannel shirt.
The Screech of Tires
One entire week passed by agonizingly slowly. Bima went through his grueling daily routines as usual. He started his harsh mornings carrying heavy sacks of rice at the traditional market to earn his meals, and then prepared to paint as the afternoon approached.
The midday sun was brutally scorching, practically roasting the top of his head. Bima walked along the dusty sidewalk toward his usual spot to set up his street stall. His faded canvas backpack felt heavy against his spine. His right hand tightly gripped a sturdy wooden drawing board.
Bima's footsteps came to a halt at the edge of a chaotic, heavily congested intersection. The traffic light finally turned red. A massive flock of pedestrians immediately began to cross the wide asphalt road.
Suddenly, amidst the sea of passing strangers, Bima's sharp eyes caught a very familiar silhouette. A plaid white shirt. Bright blue denim jeans. A brown shoulder bag.
It was Wanda.
The girl was crossing the street, walking with a relaxed, easy pace.
Suddenly, the high-pitched, deafening roar of a 2-stroke engine pierced the air from the right side of the intersection. A reckless motorcycle was speeding wildly, completely running the red light! The rider panicked when he saw the wall of pedestrians in the middle of the road. He slammed on his brakes, violently swerving his handlebars to the right.
The disaster unfolded in a fraction of a second. The peaceful afternoon instantly transformed into a chorus of panicked screams.
SCREEECH! CRASH!
The horrific sound of skidding tires grinding against the burning asphalt echoed loudly. The heavy iron body of the motorcycle violently slammed into Wanda’s hip. The girl was thrown backward. Her delicate body fell hard, crashing against the unforgiving street. The reckless rider nearly fell himself, but he immediately hit the gas, cowardly fleeing the scene and leaving nothing but a cloud of dark exhaust smoke behind.
"Aaaahh!" Wanda shrieked in absolute agony. Both of her hands immediately grabbed her left leg.
Bima dropped his wooden drawing board onto the pavement without a second thought. His precious charcoal pencils and erasers scattered wildly, rolling into the dirty gutter. He did not care at all. His legs sprinted at full speed, violently pushing through the crowd of shocked bystanders to cross the street. His heart hammered wildly against his ribs.
"Miss, are you okay?!" one of the gathering locals asked in a panic.
Bima forcefully tore through the dense crowd. His eyes widened in horror as he saw Wanda curling into a ball, clutching her ankle. The girl’s face was as pale as a ghost. Cold sweat, as large as corn kernels, drenched her temples.
"Wanda!" Bima called out, his instincts taking over as he dropped to both knees onto the burning asphalt.
Wanda looked up. Her beautiful eyes were brimming with tears, fighting against an excruciating amount of pain. Her breathing was heavy, ragged, and mixed with quiet sobs.
"Mas Bima... my leg hurts so much. I can't move it," Wanda whimpered, her trembling fingers gripping tightly onto the sleeve of Bima's faded shirt.
Bima quickly examined her left ankle. It was already swelling and turning a terrifying shade of dark blue. The position looked slightly unnatural. It was definitely a bone injury. Bima’s survival instincts instantly took full control. He did not waste a single second.
"Hold on. Take a deep breath. We are going to the clinic right now," Bima stated firmly. His deep, steady voice provided an extraordinary sense of calm, immediately piercing through Wanda's overwhelming panic.
Bima slid his left arm under the fold of Wanda's knees. His right arm firmly supported the girl's back. He scooped Wanda's body up slowly, lifting her powerfully into his embrace. The faint, sweet scent of jasmine perfume assaulted his senses once again, but this time, it was tragically mixed with the bitter smell of street dust and asphalt.
Bima carried Wanda straight through the parted crowd. He stood at the edge of the busy road, waving his hand frantically to flag down a passing blue taxi. He laid Wanda down incredibly gently on the backseat, before quickly climbing in to sit right beside her.
The taxi sped off, slicing through the notorious traffic of the capital city. Wanda winced in terrible pain throughout the entire journey. Her exhausted, dizzy head rested weakly against Bima's broad shoulder. The young man sat perfectly still, allowing his worn-out shirt to be soaked by the girl's quiet tears.
The Clinic and the Sacrifice
The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic liquid violently stung his nostrils. The emergency room of the local clinic felt freezing cold, chilling him straight to the bone.
Bima stood leaning against the white wall right next to the examination bed. His eyes stared anxiously at the middle-aged doctor who was carefully wrapping Wanda’s left leg in a thick cast.
"There is a minor hairline fracture in the lower calf bone. You are very lucky the impact wasn't severe enough to tear the muscle tissue," the doctor explained calmly while putting away his medical tools. "This cast must remain on for a few weeks. Do not force yourself to walk."
Wanda nodded weakly. Her face still held a lingering, sickly pallor. After the doctor left the room, she looked over at Bima, who was standing awkwardly in the corner. The young man's clothes were filthy, stained with street mud and dust. Sweat drenched his entire face.
"Mas Bima, I am so incredibly sorry. I became such a huge burden to you. Your painting equipment must have been lost or stolen on the side of the road," Wanda said, her voice hoarse. Her eyes radiated a massive, overwhelming sense of guilt.
Bima simply shook his head slowly. He walked toward the bed, pulled up a cheap plastic chair, and sat down directly beside Wanda.
"I can easily look for my painting equipment again tomorrow morning. Your life is far more important. Stop apologizing."
Wanda looked down at the heavy white cast on her leg. "The clinic bill must be incredibly expensive. And my wallet was left behind at my salon."
"I already paid for it in full at the administration desk. You just need to focus on resting and healing your leg."
Wanda stared at Bima in absolute disbelief. She knew exactly how a street artist lived. The nominal fee for an emergency clinic bill was easily equivalent to weeks, perhaps even months, of sweating on the sidewalk. Bima must have just completely drained every single rupiah of his life savings to save her.
"I will pay you back every single cent, Mas Bima. I promise you," Wanda whispered, her heart aching with guilt.
Bima only answered her with a very faint, reassuring smile. Money meant absolutely nothing to him. Just seeing this girl sitting here safe and sound was enough to let him breathe a massive sigh of relief.
The Walls of Class and Caste
As the late afternoon slowly faded into dusk, Bima escorted Wanda home in another taxi. The destination address led them to a lush, elite residential area in Central Jakarta.
The taxi stopped smoothly in front of a large house with a massive front yard. Bima carefully helped Wanda out of the vehicle. Wanda’s parents immediately ran out of the house, welcoming their injured daughter with overwhelming panic and relief.
Wanda’s mother cried as she hugged her daughter tightly. Her father looked at Bima with profound, undeniable gratitude. They warmly invited Bima into their home. The living room was decorated with high-quality, upper-middle-class furniture. A crystal chandelier radiated a warm, yellowish light—the absolute undeniable hallmark of a wealthy family.
Wanda’s family came from a highly privileged background; her parents were native to Jakarta. Her father owned a highly successful cargo expedition company. This level of luxury felt incredibly familiar to Bima. The sight instantly reminded him of his own childhood mansion in Surabaya. The very house where his father used to scream at him every single night. But Bima quickly and forcefully buried those dark memories deep inside his mind.
Bima politely but firmly declined the family's warm invitation for dinner. He chose to excuse himself, walking away and disappearing back into the dark, unforgiving streets of Jakarta.
Two Different Worlds, One Shared Soul
The following days marked the beginning of a brand-new chapter in Bima’s life.
Every single morning, before setting up his painting stall, he made the time to visit Wanda. Sometimes he would visit her large house. Other times, he would go to the small commercial building where Wanda was stubbornly building her own beauty salon business.
The towering, invisible walls of social caste slowly began to crumble. Wanda’s parents welcomed Bima with incredible warmth. They did not care at all about his rugged, unkempt street appearance. They purely admired the profound sincerity of the street artist who had saved their only daughter.
One rainy afternoon, just outside the glass windows of Wanda’s salon, the downpour was incredibly heavy. Customers were scarce. Wanda sat stretching her legs on the waiting room sofa, her left leg still wrapped in the thick white cast. Bima sat across the table, deeply engrossed in dragging his newly purchased conté pencil across his sketchbook.
"Why did you choose to live on the streets, Mas Bima?"
Wanda’s sudden question pierced through the roaring sound of the rain. The girl rested her chin on her hands, staring deeply at Bima’s intensely focused face.
Bima paused the movement of his hand. He looked up, staring deeply into Wanda’s round, beautiful eyes.
"The streets are honest. The people there are exactly who they are; they never fake their reality," Bima answered with absolute tranquility. "I don't have to protect a family's fake reputation. There is no hypocrisy. I survive solely on what I can create with my own two hands."
Wanda fell silent, trying desperately to process the profound weight of his words.
"You possess a massive, incredible talent, Mas Bima. Your paintings are breathtaking; they feel so incredibly alive. It would be a tragic waste if that beautiful talent only ended up dying on a dusty sidewalk forever."
Bima offered a bitter, knowing smile. He looked down, wiping the remaining black charcoal stains from the tips of his fingers.
"I don't know, Wanda... to me, that dusty sidewalk is exactly what gives me the breath of life."
Bima deliberately kept his true identity a buried secret. He never once mentioned the undeniable fact that his father was a high-ranking, incredibly powerful prosecutor in Surabaya, possessing wealth that far exceeded even Wanda's family's current assets. But in the eyes of Wanda and her family, Bima was simply a humble, free-spirited street painter searching for his true identity.
Their conversations flowed deeper and deeper as the rain poured. With nothing left to hide, Wanda began to pour her heart out, revealing her ultimate dreams.
"I completely refused to work and take over my father's company," Wanda said, staring at her own reflection in the salon's mirror. "Everyone assumes I am just a spoiled rich girl. They think I can just live comfortably by begging for a monthly allowance."
Bima listened with absolute, undivided attention. His hand slowly began to shade his drawing once again.
"I recklessly rented this small building. I built this beauty salon from the ground up, purely using my own savings from my university days." Wanda's voice trembled with passion. "I want to prove my own capabilities. I want to stand firmly on my own two feet. Free from the massive shadow of my parents' wealth."
Wanda’s declaration struck Bima's ears like a sudden bolt of electricity! The exact similarity in their life visions was like an invisible red thread perfectly weaving their souls together. They originated from entirely different worlds, yet they were ultimately swimming toward the exact same ocean.
Bima’s deep admiration for Wanda’s fierce independence instantly metamorphosed. The undeniable seed of true love began to grow, taking deep, unbreakable roots at the very bottom of his heart.
The Vow of Sincerity
Three years passed by in the blink of an eye. The love between Bima and Wanda grew stronger and more unshakable, weathering countless storms and trials as they moved toward a far more serious commitment.
Bima stubbornly refused all offers of financial assistance from Wanda’s wealthy family. He also absolutely forbade himself from crawling back to the massive shadow of his father's wealth in Surabaya. His pride and dignity were far too expensive to be bought. He was absolutely determined to build their marriage purely from the sweat of his own brow.
Wanda deeply respected Bima’s honorable decision. The brave girl willingly left the comfort of her father’s grand mansion to stand by the man she chose, ready to start their life together from the absolute lowest point.
Their wedding was held in the simplest way imaginable. It was far from luxurious. There was no extravagant reception in a five-star hotel ballroom. There were no endless rows of expensive flower boards from high-ranking officials decorating the streets. The sacred ceremony took place quietly at the local Religious Affairs Office. It was attended only by Wanda’s close family and a few of Bima's loyal friends—street buskers and fellow pavement artists.
Bima recited his wedding vows with absolute, resounding firmness. His rough, calloused hands gently slid a very simple ring onto Wanda’s ring finger. He had purchased that modest ring using the hard-earned money from painting hundreds of faces on the scorching sidewalk over many grueling months. An eternal, beautiful smile was flawlessly carved on both of their lips that day.
Bima hugged Wanda incredibly tightly. His tears of pure, overwhelming gratitude spilled over, wetting the collar of his traditional wedding batik.
The young man was still completely unaware of the dark secrets destiny had in store for them. He did not know that the future arrival of two little angels would serve as the initial spark of a catastrophic storm—a devastating hurricane that would one day shatter the fragile walls of their little palace to pieces.
To be continued in Chapter 3...
