5 - my precious pearl

In the early chapters of my life, my first two girl best friends were Teteh and Mama. 

And the third spot was reserved for someone with no blood ties. 

Her name was Mutiara. 

It means Pearl in English. 

We first met during our kindergarten days. 

Our shared love for Sailormoon was what brought us closer. 

Our school days were inseparable. 

We had our favorite, secret spot in the backyard, away from the hustle and bustle of other kids.

We would play swings there and talked and laughed and talked again and laughed again. 

Once, at recess, there were twins who kicked me in the stomach just because they didn’t want to wait for their turn.

Mutiara came to my rescue, checking on me.

Then she ran to Bu Yani to report it while I still remained frozen in shock.

She then declared that she no longer wanted to play with the troublesome twins ever again. 

How could I not love her?

Our friendship extended beyond the school gates. 

Living just 500 meters apart, we’d visit each other’s house at least twice a week.

Our playdates were filled with showing off our collections of hologram Sailormoon cards.

Whenever I visited Mutiara’s house, we’d always turn her bak mandi into our make-believe bathtub.

We’d soak there and wouldn’t get out, not until our fingers got all wrinkly. 

Then with those temporary wrinkled skin, we’d talk as if we were toothless grandmas.

Our bathroom creativity also included the soap sledding on the bathroom floor.

We would spread the liquid soap all over the floor and add some splash of water. 

If the floor had been slippery, falling was a must.

We'd both laugh when one of us took a tumble.

Post-bath, it was Sailormoon time.

In the late '90s, Sailormoon aired on TV.

And our afternoons were always dedicated to watching it.

We couldn't miss an episode. 

Following the show, we’d engage in activities like coloring or reading magazines.

Mutiara subscribed to Ina, while I was a loyal reader of Bobo. 

Beyond playtime, Mutiara and I shared similar interests, including participating in traditional dance classes.

We practiced together in the school auditorium, gearing up for our first performance at Taman Mini Indonesia Indah.

On the big day, Mutiara looked so stunning with makeup.

I, too, had makeup on. But I had shed some tears earlier because I felt like a walking ondel-ondel with my red lipstick.

I remember Teteh laughing at my makeup as well.

Although Mama & Ayah insisted otherwise, I couldn't shake the feeling that they were just being kind.

Ayah had been reminding me since morning to look in his direction & to smile while dancing because he had his camera ready.

A directive I completely forgot in the middle of the crowd.

When the dance finally started,

Mama gestured for me to smile and pointed to her own lips, showing me how.

I didn't realize that I had a frown on my face throughout the dance.

Well, I was sweating bullets!

The heat and the uncomfortable traditional attire had caused rashes on my skin. 

My eczema had flared up on my neck, arms, hands, legs, and feet.

And to make matters worse, the eczema ointment was in Mama's bag.

She couldn't come backstage before the show. 

Another reason for my frown was the overwhelming number of audience. 

Maybe there were thousands of them. I’m not kidding. It was so crowded. 

During rehearsals at school, only a few boys in the class watched us, never more than ten.

After the dance, I took a photo with my group of dancers. 

I stood next to Mutiara, and we held each other’s hands, but it wasn't visible in the picture. 

Time flew. 

After graduating from kindergarten, Mutiara and I entered the same elementary school but found ourselves in different classes. 

Unfortunately, her time at the school was brief, not lasting more than one Caturwulan.

Mutiara’s family moved far away to Jogja, or some other places they called Jawa. 

We promised to keep in touch, and for a while, we did.

But, life took over.

Our calls slowly faded away. 

No more long phone calls. 

Not even quick stroll-by hellos.

Several years later, when I was 10 and armed with a new handphone, I attempted to reconnect.

I dialed her home phone number, only to find out Mutiara had moved again… leaving me with no way to reach her. 

Now, the idea of reconnecting with Mutiara via social media crossed my mind. 

Should I tweet, “Twitter, please do your magic”?

Is there really a chance for magic to bring us back together?