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EBOOK NOVEL EDENSOR

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Edensor is Andrea;s Hirata novel after the best seller novels Laskar Pelangi and. 3 Download You're Mine Vol.2 (Manga Comic Book Graphic Novel) (eBook). Andrea Hirata: Books, Biography, Blog, Andrea Hirata. Edensor 3 Of 3 2 Books Epub - Ebookread, Andrea. Hirata - Edensor - Scribd, Download Novel Andrea. Sebelas Patriot - Ebook Novel Andrea Hirata (ebook Gratis), Cinta Di Dalam Gelas Andrea Hirata Laskar Pelangi Books - Ebookread, Ebook Download Tropa Del Arcoris Andrea Hirata Pages, Download Novel Andrea Hirata Edensor.


Author:SALINA SHOEMATE
Language:English, Spanish, Indonesian
Country:Bhutan
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Pages:651
Published (Last):19.07.2015
ISBN:271-2-25407-868-9
ePub File Size:23.53 MB
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Nov 15, Ambar rated it it was ok Recommends it for: anyone who want to inspire about backpacking Shelves: travel , indonesia I read Edensor after the first tetra-logy of Andrea Hirata Laskar Pelangi LP. Only take few hours I came to conclusions that Edensor was far below my expectation. Compare to LP, Edensor did not have strong character. The flow of building the conflict sound too harsh, too fast. In LP Andrea has capability to bring the reader up and down emotionally through beautiful words, careful sentences and so poetic.

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Ai by Winna Efendi Goodreads Author 3. There are those who never find their own identity and go through life as someone else. Samson was better off than them. He was completely obsessed with body building and crazy about the macho-man imag e.

One day, he lured me in and curiosity got the best of me. He jerked my hand and we ran to the abandoned electric shed behind the school. He reached into his bag and pu lled out a tennis ball that had been split in half. I looked at the two halves with surprise and thought to myself: It must be a great discovery.

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What is he going to do to me? I was hesitant, but I had no other choice. I unbuttoned my shirt. I stumbled back and almost fell. He had caught me by surprise and I was powerles s, my back against some planks of wood.

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To make matters worse, Samson was much b igger than me and was as strong as a coolie. I wriggled around trying to break f ree. And then I understood. The tennis ball halves were supposed to work like that s trange thing with a wooden handle and a rubber cup that people use to unclog toilets. I felt the life being sucked out of my insides—my heart, liver, lungs, spleen, b lood and the contents of my stomach—by the cursed tennis ball halves.

My eyes fel t like they were going to pop out of my head. I choked, unable to speak. I signa led to Samson to stop. Oh man! Darn it! Counting names and parents was our own foolish cre- ation—doing something within t he amount of time it took to say the full names of everyone in our class and the ir par- ents. For example: No way cou ld I endure these things sucking the life out of me for the entire amount of tim e it would take me to count names and parents.

Malay names were never short!

I was a fish trapped in a net. My breaths became short. The su ctioning of the tennis ball halves felt like stings from killer bees. My body s eemed to be shrinking. My legs flailed around hopelessly. The suffer- ing felt a s though it would never end. Then, all of a sudden, one of the wooden planks behind me fell and gave me r oom to gather my strength. Without stopping to think twice, I mustered the last ounce of strength left in my body, and with one roundhouse style move, I kicked Samson as hard as I could right between his legs—just like when the Japanese boxer Antonio Inoki took a cheap shot at Muhammad Ali in their fight.

Samson howled and groaned like a bumble bee trapped in a glass jar.

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I broke free from his grasp, jumped away and bolted off. That genius body-building invention flew up into the air before sluggishly tumbling down onto a stack of straw. I s tole a peek back and saw the boy Her- cules hurl over and clutch his legs before falling down with a thud. For days, my chest was encircled by two dark red cir- cular marks, traces of unb elievable idiocy. Muhammadiyah Ethics class taught us every Friday morning that we were not allowed to lie to our parents, especially not to our mothers.

I was forced to expose my own stupidity. My older brothers and my father laughe d so hard they were shak- ing. Pretty serious, Ikal! But that morning it was quiet. Most of us came to school berkaki ayam—chicken footed, literally, but in othe r words barefooted. Our underprivileged parents deliberately bought shoes that were two sizes too big so they could be worn for at least two school years. By the time the sho es fit, they were usually falling apart.

Malay people believe that destiny is a creature, and we were ten baits of destin y. We were like small mollusks cling- ing together to defend ourselves from the pounding waves in the ocean of knowledge. Bu Mus was our mother hen. Harun with his easy smile, the handsome Trapani, li ttle Syahdan, the pompous Kucai, feisty Sahara, the gullible A Kiong, and the ei ghth boy, Samson, sitting like a Ganesha statue.

And who were the ninth and tent h boys? Lintang and Mahar. What were their stories? They were two young, truly s pecial boys. It takes a special chapter to tell their tales. We were dumbfounded when we heard his reason. In the middle of the road, blocking my way, lay a crocodile as big as a coconut tree. All I could do was stand there like a statue and talk to myself. His size and the barnacles growing on his back were clear signs that he was the rule r of this swamp.

Then suddenly, from the cur- rents of the river beside me, I heard the water rippling. I was surprised. I was frightened! The hair on th e back of my neck stood up as he walked in bowlegged steps in my direction. Not one of us could find the courage to comment. We waited tensely for the s tory to continue.

Then he ap- proached the ruthless animal blo cking the road. He touched it! He petted it gently and whispered something to it—i t was so bizarre!

We were stupefied. It was as loud as seven coconut trees cras hing down! If that an- cient animal had decided to chase me earlier, the only thing people would have found would be my decrepit bicycle. My courage collapsed; with just one pull, he could have drowned me in the water. But he just passed by. Just like that? But I feel lucky. It was true that I had never witnessed Bodenga in action, but I knew him better than Lintang. Bodenga provided me with my firs t life lesson on premonitions.

For me, he symbolized all things related to the f eeling of sadness. His face was scarred with craters and he was in his forties.

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He covered himself with coconut leaves and slept under a palm t ree, curled up like a squirrel for two days and two nights at a time. When he wa s hungry, he dove down into the abandoned well at the old police station, all th e way to the bottom, caught some eels, and ate them while he was still in the w ater. Bodenga was a free creature. He was like the wind. No one knew where he came from. His ears could not hear because one day he dove into the Linggang River to fetch some tin and dove so deep that his ears bled.

And then, he was deaf. Nowadays Bodenga was like a lone piece of driftwood. People say he sacrificed his leg in order to acquire more crocodile magi c.

His father was a famous crocodile shaman. As Islam flowed into the villages, people began to shun Bodenga and his father because they refused to stop worship ping crocodiles as gods.

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His father died by wrapping himself from head to toe in jawi roots and throwing himself into the Mirang River. He deliberately fed his body to the ferocious cro codiles of the river. Now Bodenga spends most of his time staring into the currents of the Mira ng River, all alone and far into the night. Th ey had caught a crocodile that had attacked a woman washing clothes in the Ma nggar River.

Its big m outh was propped open with a piece of firewood. When they split its stomach in half, they found hair, clothes and a necklace. He sat down cross-legge d be- side the crocodile. His face was deathly pale. He pitifully pleaded for th e people to stop butchering the animal. They took the firewood out of its mouth and backed off. They also understood that for Bodenga, this w as the crocodile his father had turned into because one of its legs was missin g.

Bodenga cried. It was an agonizing, mournful sound. Some wept with choking sobs. Bodenga and the incident of that evening created a blueprint of compassion and s adness in my subconscious. Perhaps I was too young to witness such a painful tra gedy. In the years to come, whenever I was faced with heart- wrenching situatio ns, Bodenga came into my senses.

That evening, Bodenga truly taught me about premo- nitions. And for the first ti me, I learned that fate could treat humankind very terribly, and that love could be so blind. Nevertheless, he never missed a day of school. He pedaled 80 kilom eters roundtrip every day.

Thinking about his daily jour- ney made me cringe. Dur- ing the rainy season, chest -deep waters flooded the roads. When faced with a road that had turned into a ri ver, Lintang left his bicycle under a tree on higher ground, wrapped his shirt, pants and books in a plastic bag, bit the bag, plunged into the water, and swam toward school as fast as he could to avoid being attacked by a crocodile. Because there was no clock at his house, Lintang re- lied on a natural clock.