What is Burried Doesn't Always Still Dead

The three young men sat separately on the veranda of Pak Kosim’s modest house.

Sagara and Niskala sat side by side on an old wooden bench. The wood had darkened with age, its surface worn smooth from years of use.

Their uninvited guest, meanwhile, had made himself comfortable on the floor.

Ujang Belegug sat there as though the veranda belonged to him, calmly devouring several pieces of steamed cassava while enjoying a cup of coffee.

One leg was bent casually in front of him. One hand rested on his knee, holding half a piece of cassava with a fresh bite taken out of it. His back leaned against the wall, where most of the faded paint had peeled away, revealing the rough surface beneath.

The three of them had come to Pak Kosim’s house for different reasons.

Yet somehow, they had ended up sitting together.

The simplicity of the house stood in sharp contrast to the two houses on either side of it.

Those houses were considerably larger.

Their walls were solid and well-maintained. Their yards were spacious. Tall fences surrounded them, creating an unmistakable boundary between those who had more and those who had less.

Pak Kosim, however, did not seem bothered by any of it.

He appeared content.

Perhaps even grateful.

From the way the man spoke about his life, Sagara sensed something different about him. Pak Kosim’s way of thinking was simple, but it moved straight ahead.

He did not complain much.

He did not spend his time comparing his life to other people’s.

His life was simple, but his mind was not narrow.

That was different from some of the people in Getihan who seemed obsessed with making as much money as possible without ever thinking about how to preserve what they already had.

Ujang Belegug slowly sipped his coffee.

A freshly peeled piece of steamed cassava rested in his hand.

He looked at Sagara.

Then at Niskala.

Back and forth.

“Do you two know why cassava grows underground?”

Sagara frowned.

“Because... if it grew above the ground, it wouldn't be called cassava, Kang.”

Ujang fell silent.

For a moment, he simply stared at Sagara.

Then he let out a small laugh.

“Hahaha... Fair enough, young man.”

He took another bite.

“My name is Sagara, Kang. I am still young, after all. You can call me Saga.”

Sagara took a sip of the coffee served by Bu Halimah, Pak Kosim’s wife.

Ujang nodded thoughtfully.

“But think about it.”

He lifted the piece of cassava in his hand.

"Cassava grows in darkness. Nobody sees it. Nobody applauds. Nobody says, ‘Wow, that cassava is growing beautifully.’”

He pointed toward the soil in the yard.

“But... it keeps growing, doesn't it?”

Niskala, who had been mostly silent, began paying closer attention.

“Exactly.”

Ujang leaned back.

“That's how people are, too.”

He took another slow sip of coffee.

“Sometimes life puts us in the dark. Keeps us away from people. Makes us feel unappreciated. Makes us feel invisible.”

He shrugged.

"That doesn't mean we're not growing.”

A faint smile appeared on his face.

“It just means the process can't be seen.”

Sagara fell silent.

He listened carefully to every word that came out of Ujang's mouth.

The man's words often sounded like the meaningless ramblings of someone who had lost his way.

And yet, somehow, there was always something inside them.

Something difficult to argue against.

Ujang raised his cup.

“Coffee is different.”

“How so, Kang?”

Niskala shifted his position.

Now he was sitting directly across from the eccentric young man.

For some reason, the longer he spent around Ujang Belegug, the more curious he became.

“There is something coffee beans have to go through before they release their aroma.”

Ujang smiled faintly.

“They have to be roasted first.”

He raised one finger.

“Exposed to heat.”

Another finger.

“Burned.”

He smiled.

“Almost charred.”

Sagara frowned.

“Poor coffee.”

“Exactly!”

Ujang pointed at Sagara with the piece of cassava in his hand.

“That is what humans often fail to understand.”

His gaze shifted toward the simple stove in the yard.

A small fire was still burning beneath a pot where Bu Halimah was boiling vegetables for the *bacakan* meal they were preparing.

The couple had planned to serve their guests a simple lunch.

Nothing extravagant.

Just food prepared with what they had.

The presence of the three young men, each carrying his own story and purpose, made the usually quiet house feel strangely alive.

Pak Kosim and Bu Halimah were among the few people in Getihan who welcomed Ujang Belegug without judgment.

Most villagers preferred to look down on him.

They laughed at him.

They considered him strange.

Some even treated him as though he had nothing worthwhile to say.

But perhaps they had simply never listened long enough.

“We often think the heat in our lives is punishment.”

Ujang's voice became quieter.

He lifted his cup slightly.

“But maybe... life is trying to bring out the best aroma inside us.”

Niskala stared at him.

There was genuine amazement in his eyes.

He had never expected that someone most people considered crazy could possess such a clear way of seeing the world.

Perhaps clearer than those who were always busy placing ambition above their heads and profit inside their hearts.

“So when life gets difficult... we just have to be patient?”

Niskala asked.

Ujang smiled.

“Not just patient.”

This time, he placed his cup down.

“We have to believe that the process has a purpose.”

He picked up another piece of cassava.

“Cassava teaches us to keep growing even when nobody is watching.”

Then he pointed toward his coffee.

“Coffee teaches us... not to curse the heat of life too quickly.”

Ujang chuckled in his peculiar way.

“Who knows? Maybe afterward, you'll smell wonderful.”

Sagara smiled.

Ujang reached into the pocket of his beloved loose kulot pants.

He pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

He took one cigarette, lit it with a gas lighter, then returned both the cigarette pack and lighter to his pocket.

He had once claimed that those kulot pants were sacred to him.

No one knew what that meant.

Sagara smiled to himself.

“Kang Ujang...”

“Hmm?”

“Sometimes, what you say actually makes sense.”

Ujang immediately looked offended.

“Sometimes?!”

He slapped his chest dramatically.

“This is a village philosopher you're talking to!”

Niskala and Sagara burst into laughter.

Pak Kosim and Bu Halimah, who had heard them from inside, laughed as well and shook their heads.

Ujang laughed with them.

Then he took another sip of coffee.

For several seconds, everything felt ordinary.

Warm.

Almost peaceful.

Then Ujang spoke again.

“But remember...”

His voice suddenly became softer.

“Cassava that's buried for too long can rot.”

He looked at Sagara.

Then Niskala.

“So when life is ready to be harvested...”

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

“Don't be afraid to come out of the ground.”

The laughter disappeared.

Silence settled over the veranda.

Sagara studied Ujang's face.

For the first time, the eccentric young man did not look as though he were joking.

“So if your life is dark...”

Ujang pointed toward the cassava in Niskala's hand.

“Remember cassava.”

Then he lifted his coffee cup.

“If your life is burning hot...”

He smiled.

“Remember coffee.”

Sagara frowned.

“Then what if our lives are a complete mess?”

Ujang thought for a moment.

He looked down at the cassava in his hand.

“Well...”

He picked up the last piece from the plate.

“Don't become a cassava stalk.”

“What?”

Sagara and Niskala asked almost simultaneously.

Ujang shrugged.

“Don't know.”

He popped the cassava into his mouth.

“Just wanted it to be different.”

Niskala laughed.

Sagara shook his head.

“What are you actually talking about, Jang?”

Ujang did not answer immediately.

His smile slowly faded.

His gaze shifted toward the quiet village road.

For several seconds, he remained silent.

Then he spoke softly.

“Sometimes something really does have to be buried first...”

Sagara and Niskala followed his gaze.

“...so nobody finds it.”

Silence.

Niskala's expression changed.

“What do you mean?”

Ujang took another sip of his coffee.

“Nothing.”

His familiar smile returned.

“Ujang's just talking about cassava.”

But his eyes remained fixed on an old house at the far end of the road.

It was a house that had somehow felt different since they arrived.

Old.

Quiet.

Almost forgotten.

Yet there was something about it that made Niskala feel as though the house was watching them.

Ujang lowered his cup.

“If you two plan to stay in Getihan...”

He turned toward them.

This time, his expression was serious.

“Don't get too curious about things that were deliberately buried.”

Sagara said nothing.

A chill crawled slowly up the back of Niskala's neck.

Ujang gave a small laugh.

“Unless you really want to know...”

He looked down at the last crumbs of cassava in his hand.

“...what's underneath the ground.”

His smile widened.

“But once you find it...”

He stopped.

His eyes returned to the old house at the end of the road.

“...you may not be

able to bury it again.”

For a moment, nobody moved.

Even the crackling fire in the yard seemed strangely distant.

Sagara continued staring at Ujang.

Niskala stared at the old house.

And somewhere beyond the road, behind walls covered in age and silence, something remained hidden beneath the earth.

Something that had been buried for a reason.

Something that, perhaps, had never truly died.