Chapter
23
Alas the sense of community that a common faith brings to
a people spelled trouble for me. In time, my religious doings went from the
notice of those to whom it didn’t matter and only amused, to that of those to
whom it did matter–and they were not amused.
“What is your son doing going to temple?” asked the
priest.
“Your son was seen in church crossing himself,” said the
imam.
“Your son has gone Muslim,” said the pandit.
Yes, it was all forcefully brought to the attention of my
bemused parents. You see, they didn’t know. They didn’t know that I was a
practising Hindu, Christian and Muslim. Teenagers always hide a few things from
their parents, isn’t that so? All sixteen-year-olds have secrets, don’t they?
But fate decided that my parents and I and the three wise men, as I shall call
them, should meet one day on the Goubert Salai seaside esplanade and that my
secret should be outed. It was a lovely, breezy, hot Sunday afternoon and the
Bay of Bengal glittered under a blue sky. Townspeople were out for a stroll.
Children screamed and laughed. Coloured balloons floated in the air. Ice cream
sales were brisk. Why think of business on such a day, I ask? Why couldn’t they
have just walked by with a nod and a smile? It was not to be. We were to meet
not just one wise man but all three, and not one after another but at the same
time, and each would decide upon seeing us that right then was the golden
occasion to meet that Pondicherry notable, the zoo director, he of the model
devout son. When I saw the first, I smiled; by the time I had laid eyes on the
third, my smile had frozen into a mask of horror. When it was clear that all
three were converging on us, my heart jumped before sinking very low.
The wise men seemed annoyed when they realized that all
three of them were approaching the same people. Each must have assumed that the
others were there for some business other than pastoral and had rudely chosen
that moment to deal with it Glances of displeasure were exchanged.
My parents looked puzzled to have their way gently
blocked by three broadly smiling
religious
strangers. I should explain that my family was anything but orthodox. Father
saw himself as part of the New India–rich, modern and as secular as ice cream.
He didn’t have a religious bone in his body. He was a businessman, pronounced
busynessman in his case, a hardworking, earthbound professional, more concerned
with inbreeding among the lions than any overarching moral or existential
scheme. It’s true that he had all new animals blessed by a priest and there
were two small shrines at the zoo, one to Lord Ganesha and one to Hanuman, gods
likely to please a zoo director, what with the first having the head of an
elephant and the second being a monkey, but Father’s calculation was that this
was good for business, not good for his soul, a matter of public relations
rather than personal salvation. Spiritual worry was alien to him; it was
financial worry that rocked his being. “One epidemic in the collection,” he
used to say, “and we’ll end up in a road crew breaking up stones.” Mother was
mum, bored and neutral on the subject. A Hindu upbringing and a Baptist
education had precisely cancelled each other out as far as religion was
concerned and had left her serenely impious. I suspect she suspected that I had
a different take on the matter, but she never said anything when as a child I
devoured the comic books of the Ramayana and the Mahabharata and an illustrated
children’s Bible and other stories of the gods. She herself was a big reader.
She was pleased to see me with my nose buried in a book, any book, so long as
it wasn’t naughty. As for Ravi, if Lord Krishna had held a cricket bat rather
than a flute, if Christ had appeared more plainly to him as an umpire, if the
prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, had shown some notions of bowling, he
might have lifted a religious eyelid, but they didn’t, and so he slumbered.
After the “Hellos” and the “Good days,” there was an
awkward silence. The priest broke it when he said, with pride in his voice,
“Piscine is a good Christian boy. I hope to see him join our choir soon.”
My parents, the pandit and the imam looked surprised.
“You must be mistaken. He’s a good Muslim boy. He comes
without fail to Friday prayer, and his knowledge of the Holy Qur’an is coming
along nicely.” So said the imam.
My
parents, the priest and the pandit looked incredulous.
The
pandit spoke. “You’re both wrong. He’s a good Hindu boy. l see him all the time
at the
temple
coming for darshan and performing puja.”
My parents, the imam and the priest looked astounded.
“There is no mistake,” said the priest. “I know this boy.
He is Piscine Molitor Patel and he’s a Christian.”
“I know him too, and I tell you he’s a Muslim,” asserted
the imam.
“Nonsense!” cried the pandit. “Piscine was born a Hindu,
lives a Hindu and will die a Hindu!”
The three wise men stared at each other, breathless and
disbelieving.
Lord, avert their eyes from me, I whispered in my soul.
All eyes fell upon me.
“Piscine, can this be true?” asked the imam earnestly.
“Hindus and Christians are idolaters. They have many gods.”
“And Muslims have many wives,” responded the pandit.
The priest looked askance at both of them. “Piscine,” he
nearly whispered, “there is salvation only in Jesus.”
“Balderdash! Christians know nothing about religion,”
said the pandit.
“They strayed long ago from God’s path,” said the imam.
“Where’s God in your religion?” snapped the priest. “You
don’t have a single miracle to show for it. What kind of religion is that,
without miracles?”
“It isn’t a circus with dead people jumping out of tombs
all the time, that’s what! We Muslims stick to the essential miracle of
existence. Birds flying, rain falling, crops growing–these are miracles enough
for us.”
“Feathers and rain are all very nice, but we like to know
that God is truly with us.”
“Is that so? Well, a whole lot of good it did God to be
with you–you tried to kill him! You banged him to a cross with great big nails.
Is that a civilized way to treat a prophet? The prophet Muhammad–peace be upon
him–brought us the word of God without any undignified nonsense and died at a
ripe old age.”
“The word of God? To that illiterate merchant of yours in
the middle of the desert? Those were drooling epileptic fits brought on by the
swaying of his camel, not divine revelation. That, or the sun frying his
brains!”
“If the Prophet–p.b.u.h.–were alive, he would have choice
words for you,” replied the imam, with narrowed eyes.
“Well, he’s not! Christ is alive, while your old
‘p.b.u.h.’ is dead, dead, dead!”
The pandit interrupted them quietly. In Tamil he said,
“The real question is, why is Piscine dallying with these foreign religions?”
The eyes of the priest and the imam properly popped out
of their heads. They were both native Tamils.
“God is universal,” spluttered the priest.
The imam nodded strong approval. “There is only one God.”
“And with their one god Muslims are always causing
troubles and provoking riots. The proof of how bad Islam is, is how uncivilized
Muslims are,” pronounced the pandit.
“Says the slave-driver of the caste system,” huffed the
imam. “Hindus enslave people and worship dressed-up dolls.”
“They are golden calf lovers. They kneel before cows,”
the priest chimed in.
“While Christians kneel before a white man! They are the
flunkies of a foreign god. They are the nightmare of all non-white people.”
“And they eat pigs and are cannibals,” added the imam for
good measure.
“What it comes down to,” the
priest put out with cool rage, “is whether Piscine wants real religion–or myths
from a cartoon strip.”
“God–or idols,” intoned the imam gravely.
“Our gods–or colonial gods,” hissed the pandit.
It was hard to tell whose face was more inflamed. It
looked as if might come to blows. Father raised his hands. “Gentlemen,
gentlemen, please!” he interjected. “I would like to remind you there is
freedom of practice in this country.”
Three apoplectic faces turned to him.
“Yes! Practice –singular!” the wise men screamed
in unison. Three index fingers, like
punctuation
marks, jumped to attention in the air to emphasize their point.
They were not pleased at the unintended choral effect or
the spontaneous unity of their gestures. Their fingers came down quickly, and
they sighed and groaned each on his own. Father and Mother stared on, at a loss
for words.
The pandit spoke first. “Mr. Patel, Piscine’s piety is
admirable. In these troubled times it’s good to see a boy so keen on God. We
all agree on that.” The imam and the priest nodded. “But he can’t be a Hindu, a
Christian and a Muslim. It’s impossible. He must choose.”
“I don’t think it’s a crime, but I suppose you’re right,”
Father replied.
The three murmured agreement and looked heavenward, as
did Father, whence they felt the decision must come. Mother looked at me.
A silence fell heavily on my shoulders.
“Hmmm, Piscine?” Mother nudged me. “How do you feel about
the question?”
“Bapu Gandhi said, ‘All religions are true.’ I just want
to love God,” I blurted out, and looked down, red in the face.
My embarrassment was contagious. No one said anything. It
happened that we were not far from the statue of Gandhi on the esplanade. Stick
in hand, an impish smile on his lips, a twinkle in his eyes, the Mahatma
walked. I fancy that he heard our conversation, but that he paid even greater
attention to my heart. Father cleared his throat and said in a half-voice, “I
suppose that’s what we’re all trying to do–love God.”
I thought it very funny that he should say that, he who
hadn’t stepped into a temple with a serious intent since I had had the faculty
of memory. But it seemed to do the trick. You can’t
reprimand
a boy for wanting to love God. The three wise men pulled away with stiff,
grudging smiles on their faces.
Father looked at me for a second, as if to speak, then
thought better, said, “Ice cream, anyone?” and headed for the closest ice cream
wallah before we could answer. Mother gazed at me a little longer, with an
expression that was both tender and perplexed.
That was my introduction to interfaith dialogue. Father
bought three ice cream sandwiches. We ate them in unusual silence as we
continued on our Sunday walk.
Bab 23
Sayangnya, perasaan seiman yang terbentuk antara
orang-orang yang memiliki kepercayaan sama justru menimbulkan masalah bagiku.
Praktek-praktek keagamaanku, yang semula hanya diperhatikan oleh orang-orang
yang sekadar merasa geli melihatnya tapi tidak mempermasalahkannya, lambat laun
menjadi perhatian orang-orang yang mempermasalahkannya—dan mereka tidak senang.
“Kenapa anak Anda pergi ke kuil?” Tanya pastor.
“Ada yang melihat anak Anda di gereja, membuat tanda
salib,” kata imam.
“Anak Anda sudah menjadi Muslim,” kata pandita.
Ya, kenyataan ini akhirnya ketahuan juga oleh kedua
orangtuaku yang terheran-heran. Semula mereka tidak tahu. Mereka tidak tahu
menjadi pemeluk agama Hindu, Kristen, dan Islam. Semua anak umur 16 tahun pasti
punya rahasia, bukan? Tapi nasib menentukan bahwa kedua orang-orang, aku, dan
ketiga orang bijak itu—begitulah aku menyebut mereka—mesti bertemu suatu hari
di tepi pantai Goubert Salai, dan rahasiaku mesti terbongkar. Hari itu hari
Minggu siang yang indah, panas, dan berangin. Teluk Bengal berkilauan di bawah
langit biru. Orang-orang kota pergi berjalan-jalan. Anak-anak berteriak-teriak
dan tertawa-tawa. Balon-balon warna-warni melayang-layang di udara. Dagangan
para penjual es krim laku keras. Buat apa memikirkan urusan serius pada hari
semacam ini? pikirku. Kenapa tidak berjlan lewat saja sambil mengangguk dan
tersenyum? Tapi bukan itu yang terjadi. Kami berpapasan bukan hanya dengan satu
orang bijak, tapi ketiga-tiganya sekaligus, dan bukan bergantian, melainkan
pada saat yang sama. Dan saat melihat kami, ketiga-tiganya memutuskan inilah
saat yang tepat untuk berkenalan dengan orang penting di Pondicherry ini,
direktur kebun binatang yang mempunyai anak lelaki saleh yang patut menjadi
panutan. Ketika melihat orang bijak pertama, aku tersenyum; saat melihat yang
ketiga, senyumanku berubah menjadi ekspresi ngeri. Ketika sudah jelas bahwa
ketiga orang itu hendak menghampiri kami, jantungku serasa melompat naik, lalu
anjlok.
Ketika orang bijak itu kelihatan kesal ketika menyadari
mereka hendak mendekati orang-orang yang sama. Masing-masing pasti menganggap
kedua orang bijak lainnya punya urusan lain di luar urusan agama, dan secara
tak sopan memilih saat tersebut untuk membereskannya. Ketiganya saling melontarkan
tatapan tak senang.
Kedua orangtuaku tampak bingung dihadang tiga pemuka
agama yang tidak mereka kenal, dan ketiga-tiganya tersenyum lebar. Aku mesti
menjelaskan bahwa keluargaku sama sekali tidak ortodoks. Ayah menganggap
dirinya bagian dari India Baru—kaya, modern, dan sekuler seperti es krim. Dia
sama sekali tidak relijius. Dia pengusaha, businessman, atau dlam kasusnya
diucapkan busynessman—profesional, pekerja keras yang membumi, lebih tertarik
dengan urusan kawin mengawin di antara singa-singa daripada mengurusi masalah
moral atau eksistensial. Memang, Ayah minta seorang pandita memberkati semua
binatang baru, da nada dua tempat pemujaan kecil di kebun binatang, satu untuk
Batara Ganesha dan satu lagi untuk Hanuman—dewa-dewa yang jelas disukai pemilik
kebun binatang, sebab yang satu berkepala hajah, dan satunya lagi berwujud
kera. Tapi ini dilakukan Ayah karena pertimbangan bisnis semata-mata, bukan
untuk kepentingan jiwanya; sekadar untuk kepentingan humas, bukan untuk
keselamatan pribadi. Ayah tidak pernah mencemaskan urusan spiritual; urusan
finansialah yang membuatnya cemas. “Kalau ada satu epidemic saja menjangkiti
binatang-binatang ini, bisa-bisa kita mesti tinggal di jalanan, menjadi pemecah
batu,” katanya selalu. Ibu bersikap masa bodoh, bosan, dan netral kalau
menyangkut urusan agama. Ibu dibesarkan secara Hindu dan mendapat pendidikan
Baptis; hasilnya, dia bermasa bodoh saja dan tidak memilih satu pun. Aku
menduga Ibu tahu aku punya pendapat lain mengenai urusan ini, tapi Ibu tidak pernah
mengatakan apa-apa. Waktu masih kecil, aku suka sekali membaca buku-buku komik
tentang Ramayana dan Mahabharatta, juga Alkitab bergambar untuk anak-anak,
serta cerita-cerita lain menngenai dewa-dewa. Ibu juga sangat suka membaca. Dia
senang melihatku asyik membaca buku, buku apa saja asalkan bukan buku yang
tidak pantas. Mengenai Ravi, seandainya Batara Krishna memegang tongkat kriket
di tangannya dan bukan seruling, seandainya Kristus mewujudkan diri di
hadapannya sebagai wasit, dan seaindainya Nabi Muhammad SAW punya hobi bermain
boling, mungkin Ravi bakal lebih tertarik dengan urusan agama, tapi sekarang
ini dia bermasa bodoh saja.
Setelah saling bertukar sapa, mengucapkan “Halo” dan
“Hari yang indah”, timbul keheningan yang canggung. Akhirnya keheningan ini
dipecahkan oleh sang pastor. Dengan nada bangga dia berkata, “Piscine anak
Kristen yang baik. Mudah-mudahan dia mau segera bergabung dengan kelompok
paduan suara kami.”
Kedua orangtuaku, sang pandita, dan sang imam tampak
terkejut.
“Anda pasti keliru. Dia anak Muslim yang saleh. Dia
selalu dating untuk salat Jumat, dan pengetahuannya tentang Qur’an semakin
banyak.” Begitulah kata sang imam.
Kedua orangtuaku, sang pastor, dan sang pandita tampak
terheran-heran.
Sang pandita berkata, “Anda berdua keliru. Dia anak Hindu
yang taat. Saya sering melihat dia dating ke kuil untuk darshan[1]
dan melakukan puja[2].”
Kedua orangtuaku, sang imam, dan sang pastor tampak
tercengang.
“Saya tidak mungkin keliru,” kata sang pastor. “Saya
kenal anak ini. Dia Piscine Molitor Patel, dan dia anak Kristen.”
“Saya juga kenal dia, dan sudah saya bilang dia itu
Muslim,” sang imam menegaskan.
“Omong kosong!” seru si pandita. “Piscine lahir sebagai
anak Hindu, hidup sebagai anak Hindu, dan akan mati sebagai pemeluk Hindu
juga.”
Ketiga orang bijak itu saling pandang dengan tegang dan
tak percaya.
Ya Tuhan, tolong alihkan mata mereka dariku, aku berbisik
dalam hati.
Mata mereka semua tertuju kepadaku.
“Piscine, benarkah ini?” tanya sang imam penasaran.
“Hindu dan Kristen memuja berhala. Tuhan mereka banyak.”
“Dan Muslim mempunyai banyak istri,” balas sang pandita.
Pastor menatap kedua orang bijak lainnya dengan tak
senang. “Piscine,” dia nyaris berbisik, “keselamatan hanya ada dalam Yesus.”
“Omong kosong! Orang Kristen tidak tahu apa-apa tentang
agama,” kata sang pandita.
“Mereka menyimpang dari jalan Tuhan lama berselang,” kata
sang imam.
“Di manakah Tuhan dalam agamamu?” bentak sang pastor.
“Tidak ada satu pun keajaiban Tuhan di dalamnya. Agama macam apa itu, tanpa
keajaiban sama sekali?”
“Agama kami bukanlah sirkus yang mempertontonkan
orang-orang mati melompat keluar dari dalam kubur mereka! Kami, orang-orang
Muslim, berpegang pada keajaiban yang paling dasar, yakni eksistensi itu
sendiri. Burung-burung yang berterbangan, hujan yang turun, hasil-hasil
pertanian—semua itu sudah cukup merupakan keajaiban bagi kami.”
“Burung dan hujan boleh saja, tapi kami lebih suka yakin
bahwa Tuhan benar-benar ada bersama kami.”
“Begitukah? Wah, percuma saja Tuhan ada bersama
kalian—kalian mencoba membunuh-Nya! Kalian memaku-Nya di salib dengan paku-paku
besar. Pantaskah memperlakukan nabi secara demikian? Nabi Muhammad SAW
menyampaikan wahyu Allah pada kami tanpa banyak omong kosong yang tidak pada
tempatnya, dan meninggal dalam usia lanjut.”
“Wahyu Allah? Pada saudagar buta huruf di tengah padang
pasir? Itu bukan wahyu dari Allah, itu omongan orang sakit yang duduk
terguncang-guncang di atas untanya.”
“Kalau
Nabi—SAW—masih hidup, beliau pasti menegurmu dengan keras,” sang imam menyahut
dengan mata disipitkan.
“Tapi dia sudah mati! Kristus hidup, sementara SAW-mu
sudah mati, mati, mati!”
Sang pandita menyela pelan. Dalam bahasa Tamil dia
berkata, “Pertanyaannya sekarang adalah, kenapa Piscine membuang-buang waktu
dengan agama-agama asing ini?”
Seketika sang pastor dan sang imam sama-sama melotot
mendengarnya. Mereka berdua sama-sama orang Tamil.
“Tuhan itu universal,” kata sang pastor.
Sang imam mengangguk-angguk setuju. “Hanya ada satu
Allah.”
“Dan dengan Allah mereka yang satu itu, Muslim selalu menimbulkan
masalah dan memicu keributan. Bukti betapa buruknya Islam bisa dilihat dari
perilaku kaum Muslim,” kata sang pandita.
“Kau sendiri pendukung perbudakan yang menganut sistem
kasta,” kata sang imam. “Orang-orang Hindu memperbudak manusia dan memuja boneka-boneka
yang didandani.”
“Mereka pemuja lembu emas. Mereka menyembah sapi-sapi,”
sang pastor ikut-ikutan.
“Orang-orang Kristen menyembah orang kulit putih!
Merekalah pemuja dewa asing. Merekalah yang merupkan mimpi buruk bagi
orang-orang non kulit putih.”
“Mereka makan babi, mereka kanibal,” sang imam
menambahkan.
Denga kemarahan tertahan sang pastor berkata, “Sekarang
masalahnya apakah Piscine menginginkan agama sejati—atau sekadar mitos-mitos
dan komik kartun.”
“Allah—atau patung-patung,” kata sang imam dengan
sungguh-sungguh.
“Dewa-dewa kita sendiri—atau dewa-dewa asing,” desis sang
pandita.
Sulit dikatakan, siapa yang wajahnya lebih merah membara.
Mereka bertiga seperti akan meledak.
Ayah mengangkat kedua tangannya. “Saudara-saudara,
Saudara-saudara, sudahlah!” dia menengahi. “Saya ingin mengingatkan pada Anda
sekalian bahwa negeri ini menganut kebebasan beragama.”
Tiga wajah marah menoleh ke arahnya.
“Ya! Beragama—satu agama!” ketiga orang bijak itu berseru
serentak. Tiga jari telunjuk terangkat bersamaan, seperti tanda seru, untuk
memberi tekanan pada ucapan mereka.
Mereka tidak senang telah berseru bersamaan, juga telah
mengangkat jari telunjuk serentak secara spontan. Ketiga jari telunjuk itu
dengan cepat diturunkan kembali, lalu mereka mendesah dan mengerang. Ayah dan
Ibu hanya memandangi, tidak tahu mesti mengatakan apa.
Sang pandita yang mula-mula bicara, “Mr. Patel, kesalehan
Piscine patut dikagumi. Pada masa-masa penuh pergolakan ini, senang rasanya
melihat anak yang begitu taat beribadah kepada Tuhan. Kami semua sependapat
mengenai hal itu.” Sang imam dan sang pastor mengangguk. “Tapi dia tidak bisa
menjadi penganut Hindu, Kristen, dan
Islam. Itu tidak mungkin. Dia mesti memilih.”
“Menurut saya, apa yang dia lakukan itu bukan kejahatan,
tapi saya rasa Anda benar,” sahut Ayah.
Ketiga orang bijak itu menggumam sependapat dan
menengadah ke langit, begitu pula Ayah, sama-sama berharap keputusannya datang
dari sana. Ibu memandangiku.
Bahuku terasa dibebani oleh keheningan ini.
“Hmmm, Piscine?” Ibu menyikutku. “Bagaimana menurutmu
pertanyaan itu?”
“Kata Bapu Gandhi, ‘semua agama baik adanya.’ Aku cuma ingin
mengasihi Tuhan,” kataku, lalu aku menunduk dengan wajah merah.
Perasaan Maluku ini menular rupanya. Tidak ada yang
membuka suara. Kebetulan kami berada tidak jauh dari patung Gandhi yang ada di
jalan itu. Dengan tongkat di tangan, senyum nakal di bibirnya, serta binary-binar
matanya, sang Mahatma berjalan. Kubayangkan dia mendengar percakapan kami, tapi
dia lebih memperhatikan apa yang ada di hatiku. Ayah berdeham dan berkata agak
pelan, “Saya rasa kita semua berusaha berbuat begitu—mengasihi Tuhan.”
Menurutku lucu sekali Ayah berkata begitu; sejauh yang
bisa kuingat, belum pernah Ayah masuk ke kuil dengan niat sungguh-sungguh. Tapi
sepertinya ucapannya mengena. Orang tak bisa memarahi anak kecil yang bermaksud
mengasihi Tuhan. Ketiga orang bijak itu mundur dengan senyum kaku dan kesal di
wajah mereka.
Ayah menatapku sesaat, seperti hendak mengatakan sesuatu,
tapi lalu berubah piiran dan berkata, “Ada yang mau es krim?” Kemudian dia
menghampiri penjual es krim terdekat, sebellum kami sempat menjawab. Ibu
memandangiku agak lebih lama, dengan ekspresi lembut bercampur bingung.
Begitulah perkenalanku dengan dialog antar agama. Ayah
membeli tiga es krim roti. Kami memakannya dalam keheningan yang tidak biasa,
sambil melanjutkan acara jalan-jalan hari Minggu kami.
(Teks
Bahasa Inggris dikutip dari file pdf novel Life
of Pi karangan Yann Martel – Teks Bahasa Indonesia dikutip dari terjemahan
novel Life of Pi karangan Yann Martel
diterjemahkan oleh Tanti Lesmana – Kisah Pi,
diterbitkan oleh Gramedia Pustaka Utama, 2004: hlm. 106—113).
