The Second Flight of Garuda

The bus rumbled along the Trans-Sumatra highway, cutting through misty morning hills and patches of oil palm trees. Jakarta was long behind them now — the noise, the marble halls, the applause — replaced by the sway of the road and the scent of damp soil through the cracked window.

Rakha sat by himself, cheek resting on his palm, eyes watching the blur of countryside roll by.

Tari leaned across the aisle.

"Sleep at all?"

He shook his head. "Didn't want to miss the clouds."

Alvino chuckled from the seat behind them. "Of course. Philosopher boy."

They weren't rivals on this bus. Not anymore.

They were teammates — tired, triumphant, and proud.

A lull settled between them, soft like the wind outside. Rakha closed his notebook, then glanced at them both.

"Can I ask you something?"

Tari raised an eyebrow. "You? Ask something? That's a first."

"Where are you two from? Not just the city. I mean… what shaped you?"

Alvino leaned back, folding his arms.

"My father's a lawyer. Mother teaches public health. They argue at dinner — about justice and hygiene. I grew up reading courtroom transcripts and old biology notes."

Tari laughed. "No wonder you're so intense."

"Says the girl who wins arguments with a smile."

She shrugged, then turned to Rakha.

"My mom's a widow. She sells textiles at Pasar Raya. I help when I can. She taught me how to read people — how to listen to what they don't say. I don't come from big names. Just big hopes."

Rakha nodded quietly. "That's… good."

"And you?" Tari asked. "The golden boy from Agam?"

He looked out the window again — green fields, low hills, a cow grazing near a fence.

"Sugarcane and silence," he said. "My father teaches me work. My mother teaches me warmth. The rest… the rest I'm figuring out."

They sat in silence for a moment. Not awkward — just full.

At the next rest stop, Rakha stepped off the bus, feet pressing into the Sumatra soil. He crouched, letting his hand brush the ground. There was something about this earth — heavy, ancient, stubborn.

"Back to work soon," he whispered.

Behind him, Alvino watched with a curious expression.

"You really believe in this… fixing the country thing?"

Rakha stood, brushing dirt from his palms.

"I have to," he said. "Someone has to."

They didn't laugh.

This time, they understood.

By the time they reached Padang, the sun was high — casting golden rays across the courtyard of SMA Negeri 1 Padang.

The school was buzzing.

A banner stretched over the gate, bold and fluttering in the wind:

"WELCOME BACK, WEST SUMATRA CHAMPIONS!"

Students lined the entrance with drums and angklung. Teachers stood in rows like a welcoming committee. Some parents even came — just to see "the boy from Agam" who had stood toe-to-toe with Jakarta's elite.

Rakha stepped off the bus and froze for a second.

It wasn't noise that greeted him — it was recognition.

Teachers clapped. Students whistled. Even Pak Ramlan, the usually composed principal, was smiling from ear to ear in his brown civil servant uniform, eyes glassy behind his thick glasses.

"Naik, Nak Rakha! Ayo!" someone shouted.

Rakha was nearly swept off his feet as a group of juniors lifted him up and helped him onto a wooden bench. Cameras clicked. Someone shoved a microphone in his hand. He glanced around — students on walls, teachers by windows, everyone watching.

"Say something, genius!""Tell us what you told Jakarta!""Is it true you quoted Hatta?"

He blinked, half-stunned. Then slowly, a soft smile curved on his lips.

"Jakarta was loud," he began, voice clear but modest. "But this—" he looked around at the courtyard, the sea of familiar faces, the waving hands, "—this is warmer."

That got them cheering again — louder this time.

Tari gave him a side-hug from below the bench, her laugh catching the moment. Alvino stood with his hands in his pockets, nodding quietly — not defeated, but impressed.

"He's not just smart," Alvino muttered to no one in particular. "He's magnetic."

Later, in the teacher's lounge, Bu Yuni handed Rakha a thick certificate bordered with gold trim.

"This isn't just for your speech," she said gently. "It's for carrying us. With heart."

He bowed slightly, receiving it with both hands.

"They'll talk about this class for years," she continued. "And you — maybe longer."

Outside, in the courtyard where the crowd was slowly thinning, a few first-year students stared up at the empty bench Rakha had stood on.

One of them whispered:

"I want to be like him."

Another replied:

"You mean smart?"

The first one shook their head.

"No. Brave."

The weeks that followed were quieter.

No competitions. No newspaper headlines. No sudden debates or travel forms.

Just the rhythm of school: chalk dust, rice lunches wrapped in banana leaves, and the familiar scrape of chairs at the end of each class.

Rakha didn't waste the silence.

He borrowed a chess set from the dusty corner of the school library — an old one, with a cracked white bishop, missing queen, and a board so worn the center squares were almost invisible. He replaced the queen with a capped pen and carried the whole thing to the school garden during breaks.

At first, no one paid attention. They thought he was playing against himself.

Then he beat three seniors in a row.

Then the math teacher — a part-time lecturer who swore he'd "taught this game for twenty years."

Then Tari, who only pretended to care… until she almost won.

"You were bluffing," she said after her king fell.

"No," Rakha replied, smiling. "You just got too confident when I let the rook go."

"You let it go?"

"Sacrifice changes the board."

It wasn't about proving superiority. Rakha didn't gloat. He didn't even record his wins. He simply reset the pieces and played again — sometimes in silence, sometimes mid-conversation.

One afternoon, Pak Doni, the economics teacher, sat down beside him during recess.

"You treat this like it's more than a game."

Rakha moved a pawn forward, then looked up.

"It is more than a game," he said. "It's everything. Movement, timing, structure… And sacrifice. Always sacrifice."

Pak Doni raised an eyebrow. "And who are you in the game?"

Rakha's eyes flicked toward the center of the board — not to the pieces, but to the grain of the wood beneath them.

"The board," he said simply. "So everyone else can play better."

That answer stuck with him — and with Pak Doni.

Soon, students began gathering to watch him play. Not because he was unbeatable, but because he made the game feel important. Like every move mattered.

Chess became more than a pastime — it became training.

Training in patience. In planning. In letting go of what you like, to protect what you need.

That December, when the school holiday calendar was pinned on the notice board, Rakha circled the first week in red ink.

Not for vacation.

But because he had something to build.

Something new.