Chapter 2: Paper and Dust
Bima didn’t leave. He stood frozen by the exit, his hand hovering over the rough-hewn doorframe. The sounds of Rangga’s heavy, agitated movements in the inner office were fading into a low, defeated silence. Bima looked back at the mountain of folders on his desk, then at the grey filing cabinet in the corner.
"There’s no way the answer isn't in there," Bima whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cicadas outside.
He walked back to his desk, his heart thumping against his ribs. He wasn't naturally a rebel; his entire career in the city had been built on following protocols to the letter. But protocols hadn't stopped the impending seizure of this plantation, and Rangga’s desperation had been palpable through the thin walls.
Bima began to sift through the 2018 ledger he had been working on earlier. Something about it had felt off, the spine was thicker than the others, the binding slightly askew. He ran his fingers along the inside of the back cover and felt a hard, cold bump. With a cautious glance toward Rangga’s door, he pried the loose fabric away.
A small, tarnished silver key fell onto the desk with a sharp clink.
"Bingo," Bima breathed.
He didn't wait. He crossed the room to the chained cabinet. The rust on the lock was stubborn, biting into his skin as he forced the key into the slot. With a agonizingly loud snap, the lock yielded. He unwrapped the chains as quietly as possible, the heavy links clumping into his palm.
The drawer slid open with a screech that sounded like a scream in the quiet office. Bima winced, waiting for Rangga to come charging out, but only the forest’s rhythmic noise answered him.
Inside, the folders weren't manila. They were heavy, bound in dark blue leather, their edges crumbling into fine dust. These were older, decades older. He pulled one out, coughing softly as a cloud of ancient paper-skin hit his face.
"Okay, let's see what you’re hiding," Bima muttered, flipping the pages. "Dutch... of course it’s in Dutch."
He scanned the headers. He didn't speak the language fluently, but he recognized the legal terminology from his training. Grondrechten. Grensbepaling. Land rights. Boundary determination. He spread the records across the floor, kneeling in the dirt.
"This doesn't make sense," Bima said, tracing a hand-drawn line on a yellowed map. "If this is the main river bend, then the boundary isn't at the ridge."
He pulled out his phone, using his flashlight to illuminate the fine print. For hours, he worked in a trance, cross-referencing the coordinates in the Dutch records with the current tax permits he had sorted earlier. His mind, trained for logistics and fine details, began to see the ghost of a massive discrepancy.
"What are you doing?"
Bima nearly jumped out of his skin. He scrambled to cover the map, but it was too late. Rangga stood in the doorway, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, his eyes bloodshot and dangerous.
"I... I was just..." Bima started, his voice cracking.
"I told you that cabinet was off-limits," Rangga said, his voice low and vibrating with a slow-burning fuse. "I told you specifically to leave it alone."
"I know you did," Bima said, standing up and trying to find some semblance of city-bred dignity. "But I heard you on the phone. You’re losing the place, aren't you?"
Rangga’s jaw tightened. "That’s none of your business. You’re an assistant. You organize receipts. You don't play detective with my family’s history."
"Rangga, look at the map," Bima said, ignoring the threat in the older man’s posture. "I know you're angry, but look at this."
"I've looked at it for years!" Rangga stepped into the pool of yellow light, looming over Bima. "My father looked at it. My grandfather looked at it. We checked every line. The bank says we're over the limit. They say our lease expired because the new boundaries don't cover the main groves anymore."
"They're wrong," Bima countered, his confidence growing as he pointed to a specific seal at the bottom of the ledger. "Look at the stamp. This isn't a lease. It’s a sovereign grant."
Rangga paused, his gaze flickering down to the document. "A grant? That’s impossible. Everything here was converted to leases in the seventies."
"Not everything," Bima said excitedly. "Look at the wording here. 'In perpetuity.' This document is the original title. It covers the 'protected zone' that they’re trying to seize. According to this, that zone isn't just a buffer for the trees—it’s actually double the size modern records show. You don't just lease this ground, Rangga. You own it."
Rangga knelt slowly, his boots crunching on the dusty floorboards. He took the map from Bima, his calloused fingers trembling slightly. "Are you sure? I mean, really sure?"
"The bank is using the 1984 survey," Bima explained. "But that survey ignored the natural spring coordinates listed here. If you use the spring as the anchor, the boundary pushes out another five kilometers. That covers the entire dispute area. They can't seize it if you have the underlying deed."
Rangga stared at the paper for a long time. "I thought this was just an old tax archive. My father told me the deed was lost during the fires in '98."
"It wasn't lost," Bima said, gesturing to the filing cabinet. "It was just buried under forty years of apathy and dust. You were looking for a digital solution to a paper problem."
Rangga let out a short, jagged breath that might have been a laugh. He looked up at Bima, his expression shifting from suspicion to a bewildered kind of respect. "You stayed up all night for this?"
"Well, you said the city boy couldn't handle the chaos," Bima said, a small smirk playing on his lips despite his exhaustion. "I had to prove you wrong."
"You’re an annoying, stubborn pain in the neck," Rangga said, standing back up and offering a hand to help Bima off the floor.
"I'll take that as a thank you," Bima said, grunting as he rose.
"It is. Don't let it go to your head." Rangga wiped the sweat from his eyes, looking back at the map. "If this holds up in court, I can tell those suits in Jakarta to shove their seizure notice where the sun doesn't shine."
"We’ll need to get it notarized in the morning," Bima noted. "And we should probably call a surveyor who isn't on the bank’s payroll."
"I know a guy," Rangga said. "He’s a drunk, but he knows these hills better than God. We’ll get him out here by noon."
"Good. Then maybe I can actually get some sleep?"
Rangga clapped him on the shoulder, a heavy, solid weight. "Maybe. I might even buy you some boots that don't look like they were made for a dance floor."
Bima laughed. "I’d appreciate that. Seriously."
The silence of the room was suddenly shattered. Rangga’s satellite phone, resting on the desk, erupted into a shrill, insistent ring. Both men jumped, the sudden sound vibrating through the metal desk.
Rangga looked at the caller ID. The color drained from his face. "It’s Hendra. The corporation’s head counsel."
"Answer it," Bima urged. "Tell him we have the documents."
Rangga picked up the phone, clicking it open. "What do you want, Hendra? I told you we were still reviewing the—"
He went silent, his expression turning to stone as he listened to the voice on the other end. His eyes darted to Bima, full of a new, sharp panic.
"What do you mean 'at the gates'?" Rangga growled into the receiver. "It's three in the morning! No, you stay right there. You don't have authorization to enter the main compound yet."
He snapped the phone shut, his breathing coming fast now.
"What happened?" Bima asked, his heart sinking. "What did they say?"
"They aren't waiting for the morning deadline," Rangga said, grabbing his heavy canvas jacket from the chair. "The lawyers and the bailiffs, they're already here. They’ve brought equipment to chain the gates."
"But we have the proof!" Bima cried, gesturing to the map.
"It doesn't matter what we have if they lock us out before we can show it," Rangga said, his eyes flashing with a renewed, fierce energy. "Get the folders. Pack them into your bag and hide it. If they see those papers, they might 'lose' them before we ever get to a judge."
"Where are you going?" Bima asked as Rangga headed for the door.
"I’m going to go talk to them," Rangga said, his voice dangerously calm. "Or at least buy you enough time to get that map somewhere safe. Stay inside. Don't come out unless I tell you."
"Wait, Rangga!"
But the office door slammed shut, leaving Bima alone in the dim, yellow light with a map that could change everything, and the distant sound of heavy vehicles grinding their way up the muddy jungle road.