The days that followed at the Indonesian Literature Department of the Faculty of Humanities demanded a far more disciplined work rhythm than usual. For Aisyah, these weeks were filled with stacks of postcolonial literature, sheets of library-loan notes, and a succession of drafts of chapter three that demanded methodological precision. Her academic consultations with Dr. Jonathan Wijaya, M.A., were no longer mere formalities for approving chapters, but an arena of intellectual examination that tested both the mental resilience and theoretical depth of every student he advised.
That afternoon, the wall clock in the lecturers' waiting area showed a quarter past three. Aisyah sat on a varnished wooden chair near the window in the east-wing corridor, straightening each page of her undergraduate thesis proposal, which had been temporarily bound with a transparent cover. Inside the folder was an in-depth analysis of the deconstruction of cultural identity in novels from the 1990s, a topic she had chosen from the beginning because of her interest in the dynamics of social change among urban communities.
"Aisyah Humaira?"
The calm yet authoritative baritone shattered Aisyah's concentration. She looked up and found Dr. Jonathan standing in the doorway of his office. He wore a light-gray long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, revealing a black leather watch wrapped around his wrist. Thin-framed glasses rested low on the bridge of his nose, giving him an unmistakably academic air.
"Yes, Professor," Aisyah answered quickly, immediately rising from her seat with her thesis manuscript held against her chest.
"Come in," Jonathan said briefly. He then turned and walked into his office, leaving the door half open behind him.
Aisyah entered with measured steps. As usual, the room's distinctive scent—a blend of new book paper, warm green tea, and the faint trace of cinnamon—welcomed her sense of smell. She took a seat in the cushioned chair across from the large teak desk where Jonathan usually reviewed his students' manuscripts.
Jonathan sat down and straightened several sheets of notes in front of him before looking up at Aisyah. Without much preamble, he immediately pulled the undergraduate thesis proposal she had placed on the desk toward himself.
"Let's dissect your chapter-three draft," Jonathan said as he began today's advising session. His voice was flat and firm, leaving no room for doubt. "The methodology chapter and theoretical framework are the primary foundation of your research. If this section is unstable, the entire stylistic analysis in chapter four will collapse."
Aisyah nodded, scooting forward in her seat and preparing to write down every important comment.
Jonathan opened the manuscript to the first page, his sturdy fingers holding a black-ink pen. His eyes moved quickly down each neatly typed line of Aisyah's paragraphs. From time to time, his brow furrowed slightly, signaling that he considered certain parts of her argument to require greater conceptual precision.
"On page forty-two," Jonathan said, pointing to one of the paragraphs with the tip of his pen, "you quote Homi Bhabha's view of the third space in the context of identity hybridity. But your use of this quotation feels too general. You can't simply pluck a postcolonial theory out of context without connecting it specifically to the narrative structure of the main character in the novel you're studying."
Aisyah listened carefully and nodded slowly. "Yes, Professor. What I mean is that the third space manifests through the character's inner conflict, as she is caught between traditional values and the modernity of the city."
"Exactly," Jonathan continued, fixing Aisyah with a sharp look through his glasses. "That's what you need to clarify here. Don't make the reader guess where your argument is going. Explain how that hybridity is reflected in the author's choices of diction, the dialogue between the characters, and even the settings the original writer selected. Dissect the text down to its roots."
For nearly the next hour, the office filled with the sounds of intense academic discussion. Jonathan did not offer excessive praise, but every correction he made was accompanied by additional references—the titles of international journals and the latest literary criticism books Aisyah needed to read. The way he dissected the manuscript demonstrated an exceptionally deep command of modern literature and postcolonial theory. For Aisyah, every advising session with this young lecturer brought fresh insight, expanding her intellectual horizons beyond the boundaries of the required textbooks in her regular classes.
"Overall," Jonathan finally said as he closed the manuscript and straightened it on the desk, "your writing progress is very satisfying, Aisyah. The theoretical framework in this chapter three is much more solid than the initial draft you submitted last month. You have a sharp analytical sensitivity to literary texts."
At the veiled praise, a warm sense of relief spread through Aisyah's chest. Praise from a lecturer as famously critical and perfectionistic as Dr. Jonathan was not easily earned.
"Thank you very much for your guidance and corrections, Professor," Aisyah said sincerely. "I'll revise these notes right away before the deadline for submitting the next chapter."
Jonathan nodded slowly. He removed his reading glasses and leaned back in his office chair, looking at Aisyah for a moment with softened eyes, though his aura remained professional. "Don't push yourself too hard, Aisyah. Literary research requires perseverance, but your physical and mental health are just as important. Make sure you get enough rest amid all this research."
"Yes, Professor. I'll remember that," Aisyah replied with a faint smile.
"All right, then. We'll end today's advising session here. Continue revising chapter three, and we'll schedule our next meeting for next week to evaluate your data-analysis draft," Jonathan concluded as he organized the documents on his desk.
Aisyah gathered her stationery, put the undergraduate thesis proposal back into its orange folder, and rose from her seat. She gave him a respectful gesture before taking her leave.
The dark-varnished wooden door closed behind her once more, leaving Aisyah in the faculty's east-wing corridor, which was growing dim beneath the slowly fading afternoon sunlight. She walked out of the building with her head held high, carrying a stack of valuable revision notes and a new conviction that, under the guidance of such a dedicated scholar, her path toward graduation was becoming more real with every passing day.