by Hasya Nindita
The window is open during summer.
It was Friday. Beginning of June. And it was hot. The wind changes, trees turn green, and the grey sky is now colored warm blue. She no longer needs a coat to leave the flat, nor does she need to wear boots. Shorts are spot on, linen shirts are comfortable to wear, and umbrellas are out. The heat has been soaring lately, the sun is entirely out, showering everyone with a sunbeam. Parks are now loaded by people alongside their dogs, bringing mats and snacks, sunbathing, laughing, playing, and eating. Enjoying. Summer.
It was fascinating, she thought. Look at that. People are enjoying the sun, doing their best to absorb the vitamin and tan their skin. In her hometown, they have an endless sunbath. But people there hated the sun. There is not a single day where people are not complaining about the temperature, turn on the air conditioner! Sometimes people sneered and wished for winter. Even a little cold is celebrated. But aren’t we lucky enough? She thought. Enough sunlight is a blessing; we can enjoy beaches every single day without worrying about what season it is, we don’t need to store different types of clothes that only could be worn a few months before the weather changes again.
All year long, it’s always summer.
***
The window is open during summer.
That night she heard people shouting. Five people, at least. She was in bed, reading her current favorite piece, Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi. She closed the book right when she heard someone weeping.
“That boy! The boy goes that way!”
“What happened?!”
“Someone assaulted her.”
Now, she peeked from her window, but couldn’t see anything. They were standing out of her sight. Some people are running, trying to catch the guy. She took a deep breath and wished the victim well.
London is a cold shoulder, never was a warm welcome. The buzzing city took work. She remembered when she was arriving in late September. The wind was so strong, leaves were brown and yellow, falling to the street, and the sky always looked so gloomy, sad, sad, sad.
During her first few days, she took herself for a walk. She went down the stairs, entering the tunnel that led her to a gate with a machine where she needed to tap her card before entering the station. The card needs to be contactless; she remembered her senior warned her before she came to the city. They don’t have that in her home country, yet. Maybe in a year or two, this technology will arrive there.
She arrived at the platform. It didn’t take long until a buzzing yet blaring sound echoes through the walls panel, announcing the train’s arrival before the eye meets a concatenation of somber couches. She gritted her teeth and tightened the black coat she got from a vintage market, low price, good deal.
She got off at Tower Hill station, only took 10 minutes’ walk and she arrived at the iconic Tower Bridge. She walked around until she spotted a small, lovely coffee shop near the Borough Market. A lady with a warm smile welcomed her. She asked for a cup of Chai Latte.
“Where are you from? Philippines? Singapore? Malaysia? Thailand?”
All wrong. I guess we all look the same. She smiled.
“Indonesia.”
***
The window is open during summer.
The smell of marijuana is soaring in the air tonight, hitting her nose hard, through her open window.
Hasya Nindita currently, is finishing her master’s degree in Goldsmiths, University of London under the MA Race, Media, and Social Justice program. After graduating with BA in Political Science from Communication Studies, Universitas Gadjah Mada, Hasya contributed as a writer to www.tirto.id and worked full-time as a digital reporter in Kompas TV before going into postgraduate school. Her first teenage fiction novel, Tersesat! A Misplaced Journey was published in 2015.
Proud.