Cats Don't Eat Grass

“Grandpa, do you want to hear a story?”

I was staring blankly out the window when my grandchild suddenly asked a question. I remembered a similar question from decades ago by Ayesha. I can still hear the voice of that girl. I liked her voice. A low voice, almost like a murmur.

Memories are like fine dust on window glass that always sticks even after cleaning.

“Do you want to read my story?” Ayesha asked.

At that time, we were in front of the magazine editorial building after working hours. I was the literary editor, and Ayesha was an intern at our office. That evening, she was waiting for her father to pick her up, who, for some reason, was running late.

The lights were glowing, but all those illuminations could not outshine Ayesha's radiance in my eyes. A radiance that made me abandon my intention to head to the parking lot, instead approaching her and keeping her company as she waited; hoping to linger longer, or even for time to freeze.

“Of course,” I replied.

“But don’t laugh.”

"No."

Ayesha took out several sheets of paper from her bag that were stapled and folded in half.

“Just read at home,” he said.

“About what?” I asked.

"About a girl who only wants to marry a man who can tell her stories every night," replied Ayesha while busily checking her watch and glancing at the street as if impatiently waiting for a ride that had yet to arrive.

“Like a lullaby?” I asked.

“Yes, like a lullaby.”

“Like Scheherazade?”

“In the male version.”

“But why does the girl want that?”

"Because the girl's whole life was filled with stories. Stories have become her breath that must continue to exist to live."

“It seems interesting.”

“Don’t laugh,” he repeated. I nodded.

Then she was silent. She remained silent, without turning to look at me as I continued to gaze at her from the side. I was silent too. I admired her face as if only now realizing its beauty, even though Ayesha had been interning here for two weeks.

Ayesha's ride arrived, and she turned to me, saying something I couldn't quite catch. She got on the back of the motorcycle, and we waved goodbye to each other as if we were parting for a long time, even though we would meet again the next morning and continue to see each other throughout her internship. In reality, even after Ayesha's internship ended, we were never separated, except by death.

I put the paper given by Ayesha into my bag and headed to the motorcycle. At home, in my room, I read the story written by Ayesha and laughed out loud; Ayesha did not know about it. I also did not know why I laughed like that. Perhaps, sometimes the body does something beyond control.

"Grandpa..." My grandchild's voice stirred memories of Ayesha. I turned my gaze away from the window, looked at my grandchild, and found Ayesha's face. Her face was round and shiny, like a pan after being used for frying. Her eyes sparkled behind her glasses. I forgot her exact age, but I knew she was still in the fifth grade of elementary school.

The boy faced the laptop. His lips were curved downward, a sign of sulking. Ayesha was the same when she sulked.

“What?” I asked.

“Grandpa, do you want to hear a story?” My grandson repeated his question.

"Want to."

The boy smiled broadly and moved his chair in front of me, sitting facing me like a kindergarten teacher.

“One day,” he said, beginning the story, “the cats were eating grass.”

“Yes, cats do eat grass sometimes,” I said, interrupting. “That’s to throw up when they eat something wrong.”

“Not that kind,” my grandson snapped. “It actually eats grass like a goat.”

“Why do cats eat grass like goats?” I asked.

“Because there are no fish,” replied my grandson.

“Why are there no fish?”

“Because no one is fishing anymore.”

“Why isn't anyone catching fish anymore?”

"Because ...."

In the short story written by Ayesha, the story-loving girl then married a man who agreed to tell her stories every night. Thus, every night before going to bed, the husband told his wife stories. They lived happily, until one day the woman found out that the stories her husband told her were not his own. Her husband was a literary editor and he only told stories that he got from people who sent him work.

Ayesha's story wasn't funny, but I laughed out loud. I still don't know why I laughed when I read it. Was it because I was a literary editor? Was it because I thought Ayesha had written the story for me? Were those two thoughts worthy of my laughter? I don't know.

As far as I know, the short story written by Ayesha has no ending. After the climax, the story just stops. There is no anger from the wife. There is no disappointment for being fooled. There is no fight that breaks out. The story just stops like a car that suddenly breaks down. Did she do it on purpose?

Maybe; like Shahrazad who delayed the completion of the story to satisfy her husband's curiosity, Ayesha deliberately made me curious and waited for the completion the next day.

That night I slept like Shahryar who was curious, but the next day Ayesha did not come to work. I asked the editorial secretary and she said Ayesha sent a doctor's certificate for a routine check-up for her illness.

“What hurts?” I asked.

“Not explained.”

Feeling anxious, I called, but Ayesha's phone was switched off. That made me restless all day.

Towards the evening, Ayesha sent a text message; I am not coming to work today. Why did she feel the need to send such a message? I must have known about her absence. However, the text message made me feel relieved and I called her later.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked, after some casual conversation.

“Lupus,” he replied.

"Critical?"

“Not really. Just need regular health checks.”

"Get well soon."

Ayesha laughed. I don't know why she laughed.

We didn't talk long, but Ayesha promised she could go to work tomorrow.

I think, in life, everyone has their own job, and an editor is not tasked with creating stories.

When we met the next day, I complimented her on the storytelling style of the short story she had written, and asked why it didn’t have an ending. I forgot about her illness. Besides, Ayesha seemed healthy at the time. And I never found out about lupus.

Ayesha looked at me, and asked, “Is that man worthy of forgiveness?”

“Because you don't have your own story?”

"Yes."

“I think, in life, everyone has their own job, and an editor is not tasked with creating stories.”

“But, the girl wanted a story that was truly created by her husband himself.”

We stared at each other. I wanted to ask if this was about me and him, but I felt it was too early, because we weren't dating.

“Is there no compromise?” I asked.

“Maybe there is a compromise,” he replied.

Thus Ayesha finished her short story; a compromise, a promise from the husband of the female character who loves stories that one day he will write a story for his wife himself.

It was a short story, it was fiction, and it wasn't about us, but beyond that short story, beyond that fiction, it was me and Ayesha who got married three months later, with a promise that one day I would give Ayesha a story that I had made up myself.

I promise I'll write a story for him when I'm free later.

Then Ayesha became pregnant, gave birth to a boy, while in the world, changes in civilization were taking place at that time, and my attention was sucked up by all this and that so that I forgot my promise to write my own story for Ayesha.

At that time, digitalization hit the media industry, and the literary magazine where I worked was in a state of limbo. Many online media were published and digitalization became a trend in society; so too in literature.

Our magazine circulation declined sharply as digital media grew. Management decided to switch from print to online.

The problem is, our company's income can no longer be sufficient. My workload has increased due to employee reductions. Management has lowered the honorarium for writers; I cried for that.

I can't do anything. The company has to compromise anyway, even if it hurts.

The emergence of online media that makes it easier for manuscripts to be published makes writers reluctant to look for new things because the honorarium is increasingly pathetic. I realized that in the end many of the manuscripts that came in seemed careless and I was in a dilemma when selecting.

I had to compromise, management said, and lower the quality of the work published. I cried for the second time.

I was swept away by technological advances, but I know that writers are rejoicing in the ease of publication. I am just a few pawns of the past who will eventually be eliminated by the new civilization.

I can't stand reading those scripts and loading them without reading them. Loading them only based on the names I know. Loading them only by random selection.

At that time, Ayesha went to heaven after her illness worsened. I was hit by the hardest wave of grief. I quit my job and opened a shop.

At that time, I still occasionally looked at the stories published. I hope that literature will return to seeking aesthetic achievements after the euphoria. However, I am an ancient human who is horrified by the digital age.

The emergence of artificial intelligence applications changes the way stories are written. Writers are no longer gods for their works, but merely workers who pursue many works for many incomes.

Since then I have left literature. I am skeptical. I am apathetic.

Time passes; I grow old.

One thing I remember now, I haven't written a single story for Ayesha.

My grandson had finished telling his story and asked if it was good. I was frantic, pulled from the past, feeling like worlds were colliding.

So you have to do it! You have to catch fish. The cats have to eat fish!

I confronted the boy, as I had confronted Ayesha after reading her short story, long ago, long ago, and I praised the boy's imagination, but I told him that cats shouldn't eat grass.

“Someone has to catch the fish,” I said.

“Nobody wants it, Grandpa,” said my grandson.

“Then you have to do it! You have to catch fish. The cats have to eat fish!”

“It’s just a story, Grandpa!”

“Even if it's just a story, cats shouldn't eat grass!”

The boy stamped his foot on the floor, like Ayesha when she was upset.

From the window I could see my son's car entering the garage. My grandson rushed to meet his father—mine and Ayesha's only child—who had just come home from work. I followed, walking slowly, but I had something important to say.

“What’s wrong, Dad?” my son asked while holding the child who was still sulking with his face bent; like Ayesha.

“I will publish a literary magazine,” I said.

“Nobody writes literature anymore, Dad. That's the past.”

“But cats can't eat grass.”

"What is the relation?"

“I will catch fish.”

"Father ...."

“I will write a story every day for Ayesha.”

The wind from the window swayed the curtains. The afternoon light refracted, falling on the floor. I felt Ayesha's presence in the room.

“Do you want to read my story?”

"About what?"

Aveus Har lives in Pekalongan. He works as a chicken noodle seller while experimenting at the Idea and Story Laboratory (LABITA). His short stories have been published in various media. He has published several books and won several national competitions. His short story entitled “Istri Sempurna” was selected as “Kompas’s Selected Short Story 2023”.

Fatih Jagad Raya Aslami, a graduate of Fine Arts from Bandung Education University who is engaged in 3D animation. Has exhibited at least 26 times both domestically and abroad.