Ballad Inmates
Ballad Inmates (Part 1)

...The novel "The Ballad of an Inmate" may be an experience of a person undergoing legal proceedings -- or even imagination (fiction) -- its author, then appointed into an interesting novel. Happy reading:  ...

...****    ...

By Dalem Tehang

THE CLOCK shows at 22:40 WIB. Investigators took me from floor II of the jatanras room, to the holding room at the back of the mapolres.

Accompanied by my wife and sister-in-law, I walked in the steps of the investigator. One in front. The other one is on my right.

The atmosphere of the mapolres was silent. Existing guards, more fun with their respective gadgets. As if we didn't care about the five of us passing in front of him.

My wife, Laksmi, continued to hold tightly onto my palm. Smooth vibe, I feel it. Yes, my wife was devastated by what I was about to live. Being a police prisoner. With the suspicion of fraud and embezzlement. 

About 600 meters from the examination room to the detention center, we walked without speaking. 

The mouth does not make a sound, but the heart and mind are humming irregularly. Fierceness burst, brushed aside a very light breeze.

The three guards of the prisoner complex moved quickly when they saw someone coming. Stand firm. Investigators handed me the administrative papers and a small bag of my clothes. Everything in the guard post has no voice.  

“This is who?” ask one of the guards.

“This is my wife and my adek, sir!” I said. My voice's stifled. Tensional.

“Not using a lawyer?” the guard officer said.

I shrugged my shoulders and looked at my wife. We looked at each other. As if it had just dawned, if in fact I had a lawyer. He should, at this moment, be with me. 

But since the evening, before I signed the arrest warrant, my lawyer had left me alone. In the examination room. Reason that something is being taken care of, he parted. Go thrashed. 

Until then, my wife came after fulfilling her duties in her office. With the wife's permission, I finally signed the arrest warrant. With one request to be given a chance to meet my children before being put in a holding cell. Investigators are fulfilling my request.

My wife hurried home. All set up some clothes for me in the cell later. After Maghrib, it came again. With my kids. We gathered in a narrow room.

I tell you what happened and what to do. Also an apology to my wife and children for all the events that in the dream never came this plot. 

Although it seems to understand and accept the reality, but I know exactly how my children feel. They were devastated. His mind screamed, shedding cries. Noiseless, but very soul-blasting.

Before long, I'll have them go home. For I cannot bear to linger in the grips of sorrow wrapped in adversity. Entering a new chapter of life that was never imagined. Being prisoner. 

Unexpectedly, my youngest child who had never cried, when it shed his tears. Yeah, the thunderbolt, my haggard light, even as much as a whim. His body is shaking. 

I hold his head. I put it in my chest. I hugged his body tightly. I put my soul in his soul. The roar of our souls. Shaking up into space. 

I raise his head. I looked into his eyes. The highlight that usually broke through that heart, suddenly dimmed. It might even disappear. I shed tears too. Disarming a taste that so stung half of his soul. 

The only girl I was worried about would be down, turned out to be tougher. The moon, the nduk, even patted my shoulder a few times. Encouraging me and of course strengthening himself. 

There are not a single tear. He whispered in my ear as I hugged, before parting: “This is not the apocalypse, we must be strong. And Dad should also strong”. 

“Kok even on daydreaming. Yes, it is okay without a lawyer, I just ask,” said the guard officer. Removing the memories I had a few hours earlier.

My wife's grip is getting tighter. The vibration is also getting stronger. Tensional. Yes, the procession of my surrender as a prisoner was indeed filled with a tense atmosphere. 

I'm woken. Sighing, I picked up my personal belongings that were thrown from the floor. 

“This scabbard cloth is taken home. These shorts take off first all the rope if you want to be taken to the dalem,” said the officer, without looking at me.

“Why can't I bring a glove, and must I remove the trousers?” ask wife. With a stamped voice. Holding his soul.

“The rules are so, ma'am. Without tolerance,” said the guard with his presence.

“Rules have a reason, sir. We asked to understand,” by my wife. 

The palm of his right hand was removed from my palm. Now holding my left shoulder. Tauter. I know, there's pent-up anger at my wife. 

“So this is yes, ma'am. Why can't a prisoner carry a scabbard and the straps in his shorts should be removed? Because of fear of being used as a tool for suicide. In this mapolres, there have been three cases of prisoners hanging themselves using a sarong and trouser strap. Understand?!” said the officer. 

This time his eyes stared intently at my wife.

I hump my wife. To keep his heart calm and his mind restrained in this very, very unexpected atmosphere.

The guard explained, prisoners placed in this mapolres are not allowed to use mattresses or mats as sleeping mats. Enough on the floor. 

“If you're all, come on in, Mr Mario!” the other guard said to me. 

I'm nodding. I hugged my wife hard. As if to darken his body fused into my body. 

“Mother must be strong. Don't cry yes,” my whisper in his ear.

Wife smiled. Fucked my forehead. Warm full of sincerity love. Spreading throughout my body. Refreshing my soul. 

“Yakin aja, mother and strong children take this test,” said my wife. 

This time with a strong voice. The mental fortitude that had been his strength all along, had slowly returned. I'm taking a breath. Little relieved.

I hugged my sister-in-law. Which his inner closeness exceeds my own.

“Jaga ayukmu. Titip and keep your calls,” my message. Laksa, my wife's younger brother, nodded.   

“That's patient yes, brother. We are sure, big brother,” said Laksa. With a stamped voice. 

We shake. His grip is strong. As if I was putting in my own strength.

Right at the entrance to the detention room complex, I looked back. I saw my wife rubbing her eyes. Call it running water. Falling to the floor of the prisoner's examination room. 

I turned. Approaching wife. Wiping away the remaining tears at the corner of her lips.

“Tegar yes. Nothing to worry about,” I said. I held her two palms tightly.

“Assalamualaikum,” my word later. Without turning and waiting for an answer. I stepped in following the officer, who led me into the detention complex (continued).