LIFE ON CAMPUS: A NEW CHAPTER BEGINS

-

LIFE ON CAMPUS: A NEW CHAPTER BEGINS

Author: Siska imaniar putri

The scorching midday sun beat down on the streets of Surabaya as Siska kick-started her old motorbike, weaving through the busy lanes near Universitas 17 Agustus 1945. Her backpack bounced slightly with each movement, filled with books, notes, and her loyal old laptop—decorated with literary quote stickers from Virginia Woolf, Edgar Allan Poe, and even a cheeky “Grammar Police” label.

It was the beginning of her sixth semester, and somehow, the campus felt different this time. Not because the red-brick buildings had changed, but because she had. The once-shy freshman who used to take notes quietly in the corner of the classroom was now a confident participant in academic debates, known among English Literature students for her interest in foreign cultures and psychoanalysis.

“Morning, Sis!” shouted Dewi, her classmate and fellow coffee addict, waving from the campus gate with two iced coffees in hand.

Siska parked her bike under a big tree near the Faculty of Cultural Sciences building and smiled. “You know my weakness.”

“Caffeine,” Dewi grinned.

“Exactly.”

They walked together toward Room I211, where today’s class was Pop Culture. Siska had been looking forward to it. Their lecturer, Mr. Muizzu, was known for his relaxed, Gen Z-style teaching that made literature come alive. Siska loved how the line between fiction and reality blurred in his class.

But Siska wasn’t just growing academically. Campus life was a whirlwind of responsibilities. As the secretary of the Creative Literature Club, she constantly had to juggle writing workshops, theater rehearsals, and volunteering for the faculty’s cultural festival. Just last week, she had moderated a discussion titled “From Austen to Netflix: The Evolution of Romance Tropes.”

That session had sparked something in her—a growing curiosity about how consumer culture shapes love and identity. She had started jotting down ideas for a possible paper, or maybe even a short story. Perhaps she’d call it “Swipe Left on Soulmates.”

…

That afternoon, in the old library with its creaky floors and rows of dusty literary journals, Siska sat cross-legged between shelves of postcolonial studies. She was reading Let Them Eat Cake, an experimental digital literature piece by Alicia Morote. The flickering screen, fragmented texts, and chaotic design fascinated her. She made a note to analyze it for her final paper in Digital Literature class.

 

Her thoughts drifted. As she gazed out the large window, she imagined herself a few years from now—perhaps doing research abroad, or even teaching. But she also knew she was still in the process of discovering herself, just like the characters she analyzed.

“Siska, you need to come to rehearsal,” a voice called out.

It was Riko, her classmate and the lead actor in the campus theater group. They were rehearsing a new play titled "When Life Gives You Tangerines", a satirical drama about modern romance and social media. Siska was working on the script, especially the character of Gwan-sik—a quiet young man obsessed with appearances. She was pouring her thoughts into shaping him as a symbol of how love could be commodified in the age of TikTok trends.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes,” she replied, standing up, her head still swirling with words and images.

…

That night, under the campus amphitheater lights, Siska watched Gwan-sik’s lines come to life. She observed how the audience—mostly students—laughed, applauded, even gasped. This was the beauty of campus life. Ideas didn’t just stay trapped in notebooks or lecture slides. They breathed, walked, even danced.

As she sat with Dewi afterward, munching on salty satay from Pak Darmadji’s street stall across the campus, Siska realized something important: life on campus wasn’t just about preparing for the “real world.” It was the real world. A small universe where identities shifted, friendships blossomed, and dreams began to take form.

“Do you ever feel like we’re characters in someone else’s story?” she asked Dewi.

Dewi blinked. “If you’re the author, then maybe yes.”

They both laughed.

And maybe, Siska thought, she was

…

Rain poured down in Surabaya like an explosion of poetry—sudden and full of emotion. Siska ran from the coffee stall to the main building of the Faculty of Cultural Sciences, shielding her laptop with her favorite cream-colored hijab. Her shoes splashed through puddles, and she muttered softly, “Surabaya, please—I’m not waterproof!”

She had just finished a consultation with her Digital Literature lecturer, Pak Izu, and her mind was still spinning.

“I like your analysis, Siska,” said Pak Izu. “But you need to push it further. What does Morote’s fragmented narrative say about you as a reader in the digital space? How do you experience meaning in a non-linear text?”

His words echoed in her mind like a refrain she couldn’t ignore.

To be honest, Siska was overwhelmed. Between class assignments, theater rehearsals, student club meetings, and her freelance translation job to earn extra cash, she barely had time to think—let alone feel. Lately, she felt like she was living on autopilot, performing the role of the “model student” so convincingly that even she forgot when she started pretending.

That night, she sat in the campus theater. Alone on stage, with only the spotlight and the lingering scent of sweat and paint, she recited her favorite monologue from Gwan-sik:

“If I could package my feelings in cute fonts and pastel filters, would they still mean something? Would I still mean something?”

She paused. Was Gwan-sik just a character—or a reflection of herself?

That same evening, she had to attend an emergency meeting of the Creative Literature Club. There was conflict—members were arguing over the content direction of the next edition of their zine. Some wanted light, romantic poems; others pushed for more radical and political content.

As always, Siska stepped in as the mediator, trying to find a middle ground.

“I think we can include both,” she said. “We live in a time where love is also political. Choosing softness, choosing to love in an era of detachment, is also a form of resistance.”

It was an idea she had picked up in her feminist theory class, but now it felt real—in the middle of a heated debate about poetry and narrative.

The conflict was resolved. But Siska went home feeling more confused than before.

…

Back at her boarding house, Dewi found Siska sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by open books: Roland Barthes, Judith Butler, Edward Said.

“Sis, are you okay?” Dewi asked.

Siska sighed. “Do you ever feel like… you’re trying to make sense of a thousand things at once? Like your brain is a tabbed browser—everything’s open, but nothing’s fully loaded.”

“Every day,” Dewi replied, handing her a warm Milo. “But that’s just campus life. Messy, but brilliant.”

Siska gave a faint smile. “I’m writing a short story about a girl who’s so consumed by narratives—academic, romantic, digital—that she forgets who she really is.”

Dewi chuckled. “Sounds like someone I know.”

…

A few days later, Siska presented her idea for her final paper: “Identity Transformation and Gender Roles in ‘The Little Mermaid’: From Andersen to Disney and Beyond.”

Bu Tri nodded approvingly. “Good job connecting folklore with modern adaptations. But be careful—don’t just compare plot points. Look for ideological shifts. What cultural values drive each version?”

As she walked out of the room, her phone buzzed. A message from Kak Silvy, her senior. She invited Siska to attend a seminar and panel discussion on representation in pop culture. Siska hesitated—her schedule was already packed—but eventually replied, “I’m in.”

The following week, at the cultural center across from campus, Siska sat in the audience. Across from her, Kak Silvy was already on standby at the front seat along with a few of their classmates.

“We live in a world where stories shape behavior. The way love is sold to us—through ads, through streaming dramas—affects how we see ourselves. Sometimes, love isn’t about connection, but about aesthetic.”

The room fell silent.

Then, applause.

…

 

That night, back at her boarding house, Siska sat by the window, watching the rain return. She opened her laptop and began writing a new piece for the zine.

“This is a love story,” she typed. “Not the kind that ends in a kiss, but the kind that begins when you finally sit with yourself and say: I am enough.”

She hit save.

[To be continued]

 


Postingan populer dari blog ini

THE PORTRAIT OF ME

-
Gambar
I always woke up before the alarm. I didn’t need the chime. The light from my small window always crept in around 5:30, washing the walls with a soft gray before the world made noise. At twenty-two, I’d become used to getting up early—not because I loved mornings, but because I was afraid of being late. And being late meant being wrong. Being wrong meant being a disappointment. That feeling haunted me more than any nightmare. My apartment was nothing special—just two rooms and a bathroom, with a leaky faucet and walls thin enough to hear my neighbor’s late-night guitar. But it was mine. I paid the rent. I cleaned the windows. I called it home. I studied Fine Arts at the local university. Sometimes I wondered whether I had chosen it freely or if it was just the only thing I was good at. My father, a carpenter, never quite understood what I did. “You draw faces, right?” he would say. “Maybe draw mine one day.” But I never did. I was afraid I wouldn’t do it justice. That morni...
Baca selengkapnya

DON'T JUDGE THE BOOK FROM THE COVER

-
Gambar
     Siska adjusted her backpack and stepped off the bus, shielding her eyes from the late morning sun. The campus gate loomed ahead, familiar yet still intimidating. She had been here for three years now, studying English Literature, but somehow, this day felt different. She walked through the crowded pathway toward the faculty building, her steps slow, uncertain. Most students rushed past her in casual clothes—T-shirts, sneakers, messy buns. In contrast, Siska wore a neat navy blouse and beige trousers, her black hair tied back with a clip. Her look, quiet and reserved, often made her invisible. People didn’t really talk to her much—not because she was rude, but because she didn’t try to stand out. She preferred to sit in the back during lectures, take notes quietly, and avoid attention. Her world revolved around books, especially Victorian novels and postcolonial essays. She liked listening more than speaking, and thinking more than debating. Today, however, wa...
Baca selengkapnya