5,5 Jam di Jalan, 8 Jam di Kantor: Hitung-Hitung yang Tak Pernah Masuk Akal

5,5 Jam di Jalan, 8 Jam di Kantor: Hitung-Hitung yang Tak Pernah Masuk Akal

Kalau dihitung, aku habiskan 27,5 jam dalam seminggu hanya untuk berpindah-pindah. Bukan duduk manis di satu kendaraan. Tapi turun-naik, ganti moda, lari ke sana ke sini, nganter istri dulu, baru pulang ke rumah. Itu lebih dari satu hari penuh. Dan itu belum termasuk macet. Tapi kalau aku pilih yang dekat, gajinya tidak cukup untuk membayar kontrakan, apalagi ngirim ke orang tua. Jadi pilihannya bukan antara nyaman atau tidak nyaman. Pilihannya adalah antara bertahan atau tenggelam.

Aku pernah berdiri di parkiran motor sekitar jam setengah lima pagi. Masih gelap, tapi parkiran sudah mulai rame. Ada bapak-bapak dengan jas lusuh yang buru-buru nyalain motor, ada ibu-ibu yang mukanya masih ngantuk sambil megang helm, ada juga anak muda seusiaku yang matanya merah—kayak habis nangis atau belum tidur, tapi mana tahu, kadang dua-duanya.

Di parkiran itu, kita semua bergerak cepat. Nggak ada yang saling sapa. Seolah-olah kalau kita mulai ngobrol, kita bakal sadar betapa absurdnya ritual ini: bangun sebelum ayam berkokok, naik motor ke stasiun, parkir, lari ke kereta, berdiri atau duduk kalau beruntung, turun di stasiun Jakarta, naik motor lagi ke kantor, dan di sore hari melakukan semua itu terbalik—ditambah jemput istri dulu di barat, baru balik ke stasiun, lalu motor lagi ke rumah.

Motor pertama. Dari kontrakan ke stasiun kereta sekitar dua puluh menit. Jalanan masih sepi, tapi aku tahu dalam sejam ini akan berubah jadi lautan besi. Angin pagi menusuk jaket, menerobos sampai ke tulang. Kadang hujan gerimis, kadang kabut tipis. Aku sudah hapal setiap lubang di jalan ini. Setiap polisi tidur, setiap belokan, setiap lampu merah yang suka tiba-tiba mati. Tubuhku bergerak otomatis, tanpa pikir, seolah-olah motor dan aku adalah satu mesin yang sama.

Sampai stasiun. Parkir motor di tempat langganan. Bayar dua ribu. Lari ke peron. Kereta masih beberapa menit lagi. Aku berdiri di pinggir rel sambil megang ransel, ngeliat orang-orang dengan wajah yang sama: datar, lelah, dan sabar. Sebuah kesabaran yang nggak diajarkan di sekolah mana pun. Kesabaran yang lahir dari paksaan.

Kereta datang. Gerbong penuh. Aku masuk karena nggak punya pilihan lain. Badan berdesakan. Bau keringat, parfum murahan, dan nasi uduk dari bekal seseorang menyatu jadi aroma khas pagi hari di kereta commuter. Aku berdiri di dekat pintu, memegang tiang besi yang dingin. Mata setengah pejam. Kepala sedikit menunduk. Ini adalah posisi bertahan yang paling optimal: cukup tegak untuk nggak jatuh, cukup santai untuk nggak terlalu lelah.

Di dalam kereta, kadang pikiranku melayang. Aku bayangin istri di rumah yang juga harus bangun pagi, siapin anak, berangkat ke tempat kerjanya di arah barat. Aku bayangin ibu di kampung, yang mungkin saat ini lagi menanak nasi sambil mikirin kirimanku bulan ini. Aku bayangin anakku yang belum sepenuhnya ngerti kenapa ayahnya pulang saat dia sudah tidur dan pergi saat dia masih tidur.

Aku coba hitung lagi di kepala: motor ke stasiun 20 menit, kereta 40 menit, motor ke kantor 15 menit. Total 75 menit sekali jalan. Kali dua, 150 menit. Ditambah jemput istri: motor dari kantor ke barat 25 menit, jemput, balik ke stasiun 20 menit, ketemu kereta yang biasanya sudah lewat, nunggu kereta berikutnya 15 menit, naik kereta 40 menit, turun, motor lagi 20 menit ke rumah. Total sore: 120 menit. Gabung pagi dan sore: 195 menit. Tiga jam seperempat. Dikali 5 hari: 975 menit—atau 16,25 jam seminggu. Tapi angka itu bohong. Karena angka itu nggak ngitung capeknya ganti helm, ganti jaket, lari ke peron, nunggu kereta yang telat, dan perasaan kesal ketika gerbang stasiun macet di jam pulang.

Matematika ini nggak pernah masuk akal. Tapi hidup di pinggiran Jakarta mengajarkanmu satu hal: kau tidak perlu memahami angka-angka untuk bisa merasakannya. Tubuhmu akan mengerti duluan. Sendi-sendimu, punggungmu yang pegal karena membungkuk di motor, lehermu yang kaku karena terlalu sering menoleh ke belakang di kereta. Itu semua adalah hitungan yang tak perlu kau tulis di kertas.

Aku ingat, suatu kali aku nyaris jatuh di stasiun. Bukan karena apa-apa, cuma karena setelah seharian kerja dan perjalanan panjang, kakiku tiba-tiba lemas. Aku baru turun dari kereta, kaki terasa seperti karet, dan aku hampir tersungkur di eskalator. Untung ada tangan orang asing yang nahan. Aku nengok, dia cuma angguk, lalu pergi. Nggak ada kata-kata. Kami saling mengerti tanpa bicara.

Sore hari adalah pertarungan yang berbeda. Setelah jam lima, kantor mulai kosong. Aku buru-buru tutup laptop, sikat barang, langsung ke parkiran. Motor pertama buat ke barat, jemput istri. Jalanan macet parah. Motor menerobos di antara mobil-mobil yang diam. Ini skill yang nggak diajarkan di kursus mengemudi. Ini skill bertahan hidup. Kau belajar kapan harus mendahului, kapan harus diam, kapan harus menerima bahwa kau akan telat dan tidak ada yang bisa kau perbuat.

Di barat, istri sudah menunggu di depan gerbang. Mukanya lelah juga. Kami nggak banyak bicara di perjalanan balik ke stasiun. Cuma sesekali dia bertanya, "Lelah?" dan aku jawab, "Biasa." Itu adalah dialog paling sering kami ulang. Dua kata yang menampung semua kelelahan yang tidak sempat kami ceritakan.

Sampai stasiun, kami cari tempat duduk di kereta. Kalau beruntung, kami dapat kursi. Kalau nggak, kami berdiri berpegangan pada tiang yang sama. Kadang anakku telepon, minta dibelikan jajan. Aku bilang iya, padahal di kepalaku aku udah hitung sisa uang di dompet. Tapi aku iyain aja. Karena anakku belum ngerti bahwa perjalanan ini bukan cuma soal waktu, tapi juga soal pilihan: uang ini buat bensin atau buat jajan? Buat tiket kereta atau buat susu? Buat parkir motor atau buat bayar les?

Di kereta malam, sering kali aku melihat orang-orang seperti kami: pasangan muda yang berpegangan tangan, ayah yang menggendong anaknya yang tertidur, ibu yang bersandar di bahu suaminya. Kami semua berasal dari daerah yang sama, menuju rumah yang berbeda-beda, tapi dengan satu kesamaan: kami semua pulang. Dan pulang, dalam perjalanan sepanjang ini, adalah sebuah pilihan yang harus diperjuangkan.

Kereta tiba di stasiun daerah kami. Kami turun. Motor kedua menunggu di parkiran. Malam sudah gelap. Lampu jalan temaram, menerangi aspal basah. Istri naik di belakang, memegang pinggangku. Perjalanan dari stasiun ke rumah memakan dua puluh menit lagi. Udara malam dingin, angin berhembus, dan di antara deru motor, aku bisa mendengar suara istri yang bergumam pelan: "Nanti malam makan apa?"

Aku tertawa kecil. Di tengah semua hitungan yang tak masuk akal, di tengah semua pergantian kendaraan dan jarak yang tidak manusiawi, di situlah kita bertahan. Di pertanyaan sederhana tentang makan malam. Di sentuhan tangan di pinggang. Di suara anak yang menunggu di rumah.

Setiap pagi, ketika tubuh masih ngantuk dan motor sudah menyala di parkiran, aku tahu ini adalah salah satu fragmen yang tidak akan pernah masuk dalam buku motivasi mana pun. Tapi ini adalah bagian paling nyata dari hidup—yang hanya bisa dimengerti oleh mereka yang juga pernah menghitung jarak bukan dengan meter, tapi dengan berapa kali keringat mengering di tengah jalan, dengan berapa kali berpisah dan bertemu lagi, dengan berapa kali motor dinyalakan dan dimatikan dalam sehari.

5.5 Hours on the Road, 8 Hours at the Office: Math That Never Adds Up

If you do the math, I spend 27.5 hours a week just moving from one place to another. Not sitting comfortably in one vehicle. But getting on and off, switching modes, running here and there, picking up my wife first, then finally going home. That's more than a full day. And that doesn't include traffic jams. But if I choose the job closer to home, the salary won't even cover my rent, let alone send money to my parents. So the choice isn't between comfort and discomfort. The choice is between surviving and sinking.

I once stood in a motorcycle parking lot around 4:30 in the morning. It was still dark, but the lot was already busy. There were men in worn-out suits rushing to start their bikes, women with sleepy faces holding helmets, and young people my age with red eyes—like they'd been crying or hadn't slept, but who knows, sometimes it's both.

In that parking lot, we all moved fast. Nobody greeted anyone. It was as if starting a conversation would make us realize how absurd this ritual was: waking up before the roosters, riding a motorcycle to the station, parking, running to the platform, squeezing onto the train, standing or sitting if lucky, getting off at the Jakarta station, riding another motorcycle to the office, and in the afternoon doing it all in reverse—plus picking up my wife in the west first, then back to the station, then the motorcycle home.

First motorcycle. From the rented room to the train station, about twenty minutes. The roads are still quiet, but I know they'll turn into a sea of metal within the hour. The morning wind cuts through my jacket, seeping into my bones. Sometimes it drizzles, sometimes there's a light fog. I know every pothole on this road. Every speed bump, every turn, every traffic light that suddenly dies. My body moves automatically, without thinking, as if the bike and I are the same machine.

Arrive at the station. Park the bike at the usual spot. Pay two thousand rupiah. Run to the platform. The train is still a few minutes away. I stand by the tracks holding my backpack, watching people with the same faces: flat, tired, and patient. A kind of patience that isn't taught in any school. A patience born from necessity.

The train arrives. The carriage is packed. I get on because I have no other choice. Bodies pressed together. The smell of sweat, cheap perfume, and someone's rice breakfast blend into a distinct commuter train aroma. I stand by the door, gripping the cold metal pole. Eyes half-closed. Head slightly bowed. This is the optimal survival position: upright enough not to fall, relaxed enough not to be too tired.

Inside the train, sometimes my mind wanders. I imagine my wife at home, who also has to wake up early, get the child ready, head to her job in the west. I imagine my mother back in the village, maybe cooking rice right now while worrying about this month's remittance. I imagine my child, who still doesn't fully understand why his father comes home when he's already asleep and leaves when he's still asleep.

I try to do the math again: motorcycle to the station 20 minutes, train 40 minutes, motorcycle to the office 15 minutes. Total 75 minutes one way. Times two, 150 minutes. Plus picking up my wife: motorcycle from the office to the west 25 minutes, pick her up, back to the station 20 minutes, catch the train—which is usually already gone—wait for the next one 15 minutes, train 40 minutes, get off, motorcycle 20 minutes home. Total evening: 120 minutes. Morning and evening combined: 195 minutes. Three and a quarter hours. Times 5 days: 975 minutes—or 16.25 hours a week. But that number is a lie. Because it doesn't count the exhaustion of switching helmets, changing jackets, running to the platform, waiting for delayed trains, and the frustration when the station gate is jammed during rush hour.

This math never makes sense. But living on the outskirts of Jakarta teaches you one thing: you don't need to understand the numbers to feel them. Your body will understand first. Your joints, your back sore from hunching over the motorcycle, your neck stiff from constantly looking back on the train. Those are the calculations you never need to write down.

I remember one time, I almost fell at the station. Not because of anything dramatic—just that after a full day of work and a long commute, my legs suddenly gave out. I had just stepped off the train, my legs feeling like rubber, and I nearly collapsed on the escalator. Fortunately, a stranger's hand held me steady. I looked at him, he just nodded, then walked away. No words. We understood each other without speaking.

Evenings are a different kind of battle. After five, the office starts emptying. I quickly shut down my laptop, pack my things, head straight to the parking lot. First motorcycle ride to the west, to pick up my wife. The traffic is terrible. The motorcycle weaves between stationary cars. This is a skill no driving school teaches. This is a survival skill. You learn when to overtake, when to wait, when to accept that you're going to be late and there's nothing you can do about it.

In the west, my wife is already waiting at the gate. Her face is tired too. We don't talk much on the way back to the station. Occasionally she asks, "Tired?" and I answer, "The usual." It's our most repeated dialogue. Two words that hold all the exhaustion we never have time to tell each other.

At the station, we look for seats on the train. If we're lucky, we get them. If not, we stand, holding onto the same pole. Sometimes our child calls, asking us to buy snacks. I say yes, even though in my head I'm already counting the remaining money in my wallet. But I say yes anyway. Because my child doesn't yet understand that this commute isn't just about time—it's about choices: money for gas or for snacks? For train tickets or for milk? For parking or for tutoring?

On the evening train, I often see people like us: young couples holding hands, fathers carrying sleeping children, mothers leaning on their husbands' shoulders. We all come from the same region, heading to different homes, but sharing one thing in common: we're all going home. And going home, on a journey this long, is a choice that must be fought for.

The train arrives at our station. We get off. The second motorcycle is waiting in the parking lot. The night is dark. Streetlights cast a dim glow on the wet asphalt. My wife gets on behind me, holding my waist. The ride from the station to home takes another twenty minutes. The night air is cold, the wind blows, and amidst the roar of the motorcycle, I can hear my wife mumbling softly: "What are we having for dinner tonight?"

I laugh quietly. In the midst of all the calculations that don't add up, in the midst of all the vehicle changes and inhuman distances, this is where we survive. In simple questions about dinner. In the touch of a hand on my waist. In the sound of a child waiting at home.

Every morning, when my body is still drowsy and the motorcycle is already running in the parking lot, I know this is one of those fragments that will never make it into any motivational book. But this is the most real part of life—one that can only be understood by those who have also measured distance not in meters, but in how many times sweat has dried halfway through the journey, in how many times we've parted and reunited, in how many times a motorcycle has been started and turned off in a single day.