ADPARA>I've received some emails asking about why my column went AWOL last week. The reason, darlings, was that I needed to take time off. It's been a series of unfortunate events this past couple of weeks, topped off by the passing away of my good friend Dimas on the first of May.

May Day, or Labor Day to some, is a day that I always look forward to every year since joining the workforce. Be it marching the streets, organizing a free buffet in the parks, storytelling for little children, to harmless mischief, every year my May Days have always been extraordinary. I have this na*ve utopian dream of someday seeing everyone from bus drivers to bankers, teachers to strippers, mingling and enjoying May Day together in the spirit of equality.

But this year I lost appetite for my utopia, as I received the grim news of my friend's passing away. At the young age of 25, he died of a heart attack. Such a shock. He was one of the smartest people, if not the smartest, I've ever known. It's as if he had read every book ever published, watched every movie ever made and listened to every album ever released, and knew every little detail by heart. Yes, he was a prodigy. And I would do anything to have that one last chat we had planned but never had because we were both too busy.

Busy. That's the keyword for the day. I have been complaining about Jakarta's traffic, its density, and its people's ignorance; you're probably sick of it already. Jakartans are not the type of people to occasionally stop and smell the flowers. We're always on the move when we're not stuck in traffic, cussing and honking away. But I didn't think we'd reached a point where we were too busy to pause even for death.

The thing that's been bothering me about dear Dimas's passing was the fact most of his friends, my friends, were absent at his funeral. I expected to see more familiar faces when I and the four pals I rode along with arrived at his parents' home just minutes before Dimas was taken to his final resting place.

I keep recalling the moment when his aunt asked me if his other friends were coming and should we wait for them. It was my fault for assuming and telling her they were on the way. On the way to anywhere but there. When I called to check on them, one of them was still in his office because the boss was having one of those days. Another friend lied about being 10 minutes away. He said he was in the car with the guy who clearly was still stuck in his office. Another one was at a mall for a meeting when I called. She said to not expect her, because it was rush hour and she would never make it there in time anyway.

If any of my friends are reading this, I want them to know this isn't a personal attack on them as much as it is my disbelief of what this city and our society have come to. We are all running around frantically, trying to go places, reach targets, meet deadlines, that nothing - not even the death of a close friend - is reason enough for our culture to let us take a pause and pay our respects. And so our Dimas was lowered into his final resting place, his soul at peace, unlike those of his frenzied friends that he left behind. Myself included.

When I got home later that day, just to reminisce, I visited Dimas' Facebook page and found a long row of comments on his wall. Familiar faces expressing their condolences in melancholic words. I smiled bitterly. Call me old-fashioned, but I find those digital condolences rather ironic. But hey, maybe it's the way of the modern world. Why should we bother battling traffic to go to funerals when we can just send cyber prayers and best wishes for the afterlife through Facebook?

But my morbid contemplations were captured days later. On my way to work, I passed the house of a certain high-echelon government official who had passed away that day. Cars and chartered buses lined the streets, causing a jam. The sidewalk was lined with flower arrangements for a whole block. They bore big letters saying, "Our Deepest Condolences", and company logos beneath. Even in death, they managed to slip in a little branding. Outside the deceased's house, several men in silk batik were smoking cigarettes, laughing, exchanging business cards. None of them looked like they were mourning in any way.

The death of a VIP versus the death of a young prodigy. Aside from the grief of the loved ones left behind, both carry their own disappointment in the perspective of friendship, sincerity and humanity. When the prodigy dies, the friends fail to pay respects because they have important things they can't leave behind. So they plaster their condolences on his Facebook wall instead. When the VIP dies, he gets the royal treatment: the flowers, the hundreds of mourners. Perhaps some of them didn't really mourn, but had they not come to pay their respects, their multimillion dollar projects would be at stake.

I remembered the day I sat with Dimas one afternoon, and as always, he quoted from some film, "The beauty of death is the undivided attention you get from the people you leave behind." My dear, I hate to tell you this, but in this darned city, the only thing that gets our undivided attention is money. But my dear, your true friends, whether they made it to your funeral or not, are sincerely praying for you. And I can picture you now, chatting away up there with the great writers, musicians and other great minds that you always quoted in your lifetime. Cheers, buddy.

- Kartika Jahja

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