The classroom was so silent you could hear the rhythmic tack-tack-tack of the ceiling fan. Mr. Surya's hand, still holding the chalk, hovered inches from the blackboard. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing behind thick, square-framed glasses.
In 1982, a student didn't ask about "educational reform" or "the rules of the game." You memorized the formula, you passed the exam, and you became a cog in the machine.
"Aris Wijaya," Mr. Surya said, his voice dropping an octave. "Do you find the curriculum of this national institution... inadequate?"
Hendra, sitting next to Aris, looked like he wanted to vanish into the floorboards. He frantically kicked Aris's leg under the desk, a silent plea to shut up.
But Aris didn't flinch. The "old" Aris would have apologized and looked at his shoes. But this Aris had seen the 1998 riots. He had seen the entire education system fail a generation. He felt a strange, detached calm.
"Not inadequate, Sir," Aris replied, his voice steady and polite, but firm. "Just... outdated. We are calculating the height of a flagpole using shadows, while the world outside is starting to use satellites. I'm simply wondering if we are being trained for the world that was, or the world that is coming."
A soft "Ooooh" traveled through the back rows.
"Aris, enough!" Mr. Surya slammed the chalk into the tray. "If you are so concerned with the 'world that is coming,' perhaps you can predict your own future. For the next week, you will stay after school to clean the library. Since you love 'future knowledge' so much, you can spend time with the old archives.
As the bell rang for recess, the tension broke into a roar of whispers.
"Are you crazy?" Hendra hissed as they walked into the hallway. "Mr. Surya is friends with the Principal. You keep talking like that and they'll call your father. Do you want to get a 'Red Report'?"
"A Red Report is just paper, Hendra," Aris said, watching Denny Subagja walk past them.
Denny paused, flanked by two of his cronies. He leaned against the wall, a cruel smirk on his face. "Nice performance, Wijaya. My father says people who question the system usually end up 'disappearing' in the middle of the night. Maybe you should stick to your rusty bicycle and stay quiet."
Aris looked at Denny. He didn't see a bully; he saw a spoiled child whose world was built on sand. "Your father is right, Denny. People do disappear. But usually, it's because they didn't see the tide coming until they were already underwater."
Denny's smirk twitched. He didn't have a comeback for that. He just spat on the floor and walked away.
The punishment was exactly what Aris needed.
The SMA 8 library was a treasure trove of old government gazettes, economic reports, and regional newspapers that no student ever touched. While other kids were playing football or headed to the cinema, Aris was buried in the back stacks.
It was here, amidst the smell of decaying paper and dust, that he found it: The Brother Typewriter.
It was sitting in a corner of the librarian's office, half-covered by a tarp. The school librarian, a sleepy woman who didn't care as long as Aris was quiet, let him use it "for his punishment essay."
Clack. Clack. Ding.
Aris didn't write an apology. He didn't write about biology.
He wrote a three-page analysis of the Southeastern Asian Currency Peg. He used the library's old records to find historical data points, then plugged in his "memory" of the 1983 crash.
By the time he finished, his fingers were stained with ink and his back ached. He looked at the finished pages. This was his first "product."
"Aris? You still here?" the librarian called out.
"Just finished, Bu," Aris said, tucking the typed pages into his bag.
He didn't have the money for a stamp yet. He was still broke. But as he walked out of the school gates, he realized that Mr. Surya's "punishment" had given him exactly what he needed: a quiet place to work and the tools to begin.