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His name is Hangga Brian Maladi. I frankly don’t recall how we finally became very close friends. (I remember many things but lost far more as I grew older.)
I knew Hangga from junior high school, but even then we were in different classes, barely interacting. And so it was in high school. And we went to different universities, cities apart.
But that’s what’s peculiar about friendship: what’s close in proximity may not always be close at heart. And vice versa. We started to nongkrong together, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Hangga and our group of friends are amongst the people who welcome me home on holidays, the people who can help me forget the toils and wretchedness of Jakarta.
Between us were countless sessions of billiard and nongkrong in angkringan (almost always include playing Capsa or Uno). And how can I forget? Our group often go east, to the direction of Lawu Mountain (where Hangga's home is also located). Tagging him along for angkringan at the feet of Lawu, for bakso bakar, and sate kelinci, and jagung bakar, and Kopimix, and the fresh, cold mountain air, and the serene view, and Capsa or Uno games, and the conversations. The friendship. Always the friendship. A simple, unassuming, yet very valuable friendship.
As I grow older, I realize that the most fulfilling of friendship does not correlate with how many friends you have. And I am lucky to count Hangga as one of my close friends.
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I’ve lost a father who’d been battling chronic illnesses. As such, I had prepared my grief long before my father finally departed.
The thing with accident is that its suddenness gives you no time to grief.
On that fateful day Hangga departed, 8 January 2024, I was just having my dinner after working overtime. As I was driving home, only disbelief was with me – stunned by the fact that a dear friend whom I had just talked with only days ago, was no longer with us.
The grief came a little later.
You see, Hangga was a math teacher. And I often teased him with some advanced mathematical concepts that he had no familiarity of, despite him having more formal math education than me. (I know this is very silly of me, but close friends always tease each others for the silliest of reasons.) Nevertheless, we both share a similar concerns, on the declining mathematical aptitude of students, on the general state of education systems, on life, even on the not-so-serious stuff like the Premier League team we chose to support. (It’s Manchester United, to the woes of both of us.)
A few days after Hangga’s passing, Hangga’s wife, Anggi, shared us a story.
Amongst Hangga’s last moment in life was cleaning his bookshelves and his book collections. I forgot exactly what I said to him during our last meet up just before 2023 ended. According to Anggi “[Hangga] suddenly wanted to read more, to learn more.” Hangga then showed Anggi the books which I bought for him, which our friend Ndaru bought for him.
Thus came the first grief.
Up until that moment I forgot I even ever bought him a book. (The last gifts I remember giving him were souvenirs from Old Trafford.) Knowing how much he actually treasured our friendship, our silly banters – what perhaps comes as a throwaway comment in my declining memory capacity – really teared me up.
In a way, I am envious of him. I am envious that he rediscovered his love of reading while I am losing mine; that he approached books with perhaps child-like curiousity, while I grew more cynical, like a grumpy old man who thinks reading books in a world which does not appreciate intelligence is a vanity. It breaks my heart knowing that it is I who will still be able to read some (even if only for a while, who knows). I can only hope there is a library in heaven, much bigger than that of Alexandria, so that he can spend the rest of eternity reading things that he loves. Perhaps this was also his last hope for me, even if only indirectly: that I must find again the joy of reading.
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We didn’t meet as often as that time when we were all still single. Long holidays such as Idul Fitri or Christmas now become an exercise in juggling between families and in-laws. So it’s not often that our group of friends can gather as a full squad. Sometimes it’s just the three or four of us.
This moment, today, where I walked uphill to his grave was the time our group of friends could finally meet almost as a full squad. Almost, as everyone was there, except Hangga.
And thus came the second grief. And it teared me up once again.
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Hangga was a good person, a good husband, a good father, a good teacher, and a good friend. He was loyal, honest, hardworking, and eager to learn. His only flaw is perhaps in supporting a goofy club like Manchester United. And now I’ll be alone weathering the mockery amongst Liverpool and Southampton supporters that make up our group of friends.
I hope you rest in peace, Hangga, always, forever.
(These were the last photos that we took. Hangga was on the left most in the top photo, center in the bottom one. So mundane, so unpretentious. I didn’t even give two seconds to fix my ugly hair. It pains me that we will never know that each photo we take could be the last.)
