FROM THE MUD TO THE MARBLE

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I stepped off the yellow bemo, clutching my backpack as the late afternoon sun painted Jetis Kulon 3 in dull gold. The scent of fried tofu from a nearby stall clung to my fingers — leftover from the quick bite I grabbed at the campus canteen. I hadn’t had lunch. Again. But my stomach wasn’t growling. My mind was too busy replaying a conversation I overheard at the library earlier.

“She just bought the new iPhone Pro. Her dad owns three minimarkets now. Crazy, right? Last semester, she was still using a cracked Oppo!”

I smiled. It was always something like that. These stories of sudden wealth floated around campus like perfume — sweet, strong, and sometimes a little suffocating.

They called them the new rich. People who once stood in the same muddy lines as the rest of us but now wore perfume from department stores and carried designer tote bags. Their houses used to have bamboo fences. Now, they had smart locks and marble tiles.

And then there was me.

At twenty-two, I didn’t own anything fancy. My kos-kosan room had the basics — a plastic shelf, an old mattress, a creaky fan that groaned every time it rotated. I washed my own clothes, made fried eggs with too much kecap, and kept a careful notebook of my expenses.

Every rupiah mattered.

My family still lived in Bojonegoro, in a small house tucked behind the puskesmas. My dad fixed motorcycles. My mom sold keripik. They didn’t understand what I studied exactly — “Sastra Inggris” sounded glamorous to them — but they supported me in every way they could.

Sometimes I felt like I was walking between two worlds.

Some of my classmates, who used to wear faded shirts and ride beat-up motorbikes, were now talking about Bali vacations and weekend brunches. I wasn’t jealous. Not exactly. But I did wonder how things changed so fast — and why people changed with them.

One Thursday evening, I got a message from Nanda.

“Sis, are you free this Saturday? I’m having a small gathering. Would love to see you.”

Nanda was one of the kind ones. Her family used to run a warung in Jombang. Now, they owned a cafe and a homestay. She dressed modestly, always smiled, and never once made me feel out of place.

Still, I stared at the message for a good ten minutes before replying.

“Thanks for the invite. I’ll be there.”

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go — I just wasn’t sure what version of me would fit in.

Saturday came. I took a bus, then an ojek to Nanda’s house — or rather, her villa — in the outskirts of Surabaya. I knew her family had done well, but I wasn’t prepared for the smooth white walls, the towering gate, or the smell of cinnamon in the air.

Inside, people were laughing, eating, chatting like they belonged there. I walked carefully, afraid my worn-out shoes would dirty the glossy floor.

“Siska! You came!” Nanda pulled me into a hug. She looked radiant — not in a rich way, but in a genuinely warm way.

She introduced me to her cousins, made sure I ate (I did, a lot), and even gave me a tour of her small bookshelf.

“I remember you quoting Chairil Anwar in class,” she said. “I’ve been reading him since.”

I blinked. “You remember that?”

She nodded. “Of course. You say smart things, Siska. I wish I had your brain.”

It was such a kind thing to say — and so unexpected. I didn’t think people like Nanda noticed people like me. But maybe I’d been wrong.

After that, I started seeing things differently. Not everyone who became rich forgot where they came from.

Nanda didn’t.

Arif didn’t, either — even though his family had started a food franchise and he now had two smartphones. He still rode his old Supra and shared his tahu isi with me when I forgot lunch.

But others... changed.

One girl in my class once laughed loudly and said, “People who’ve never flown just don’t understand real freedom.”

I had never flown. I had never been on a plane, or stayed in a hotel with air conditioning, or eaten brunch with avocado.

But I understood kindness. I understood dignity. And I understood that real freedom wasn’t about money — it was about staying true to yourself when no one’s watching.

During the semester break, I went home to Bojonegoro. Our house was the same — zinc roof, old fan, cracked tiles. But it felt like a warm, familiar hug.

My dad showed me the radio he was fixing. My mom gave me fried tempeh still hot from the wok. My little cousin Evi asked to borrow my laptop for school assignments.

I took a walk that evening. A few blocks down, I saw a newly built house with a big gate and a black car. I heard someone say, “They used to live near the market, now they have two rice mills and a TikTok channel.”

Even in Bojonegoro, things were changing.

But the smell of wet earth, the sound of azan from the surau, and the sight of kids chasing each other barefoot — all of that remained. And in that moment, so did I.

Back in Surabaya, I started writing a blog. Quiet at first. I called it “Letters from the Middle Ground.”

It was a space to breathe. I wrote about life between poverty and privilege. I didn’t write to complain — just to reflect.

One post got shared more than I expected: “When Your Friends Become Rich, and You Don’t.”

I wrote about how strange it felt. How some friends changed. How others didn’t. And how I was learning to be okay with where I stood — not behind, not ahead, but somewhere in between.

The response overwhelmed me.

Strangers messaged me. Old classmates emailed. Nanda shared the post on her Instagram story with the caption: “She gets it.”

For the first time, I realized that honesty could connect people more than status ever could.

One night, while sitting cross-legged on my kos-kosan floor eating mie rebus, I got an email.

A small independent publisher wanted to turn my blog entries into a printed chapbook. Nothing fancy — 100 pages, softcover, local bookstore only.

But to me, it felt like gold.

I whispered to myself, “Mbu... Pak... I think your daughter just became an author.”

No one heard it. But I imagined them smiling from Bojonegoro.

That night, I updated my blog with one final line:

“Maybe being rich isn’t about what you wear or where you sleep. Maybe it’s about the people you hold close, the stories you tell with honesty, and the courage to be kind even when the world changes around you.”

THE END

 

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