It was a day before the pandemic hit Indonesia. The first day of March 2020.
I still remember because I re-read my diary entry on that very day and captured a summary of my conversation with a fellow writer. Simply call him Iye.
I was at the time working as a full-time copywriter and Iye was a copywriter, too.
But the difference was I wrote in English for an internationally-labeled educational institution and he wrote in Indonesian for a national newspaper owned and operated by a tycoon cum politician (a fact he is never comfortable with).
Iye is an idealist. Despite his lack of higher education diploma, I am positive he has got more knowledge and wisdom than recent graduates of university. He reads a lot and talks a lot with literary folks. Yes, he is a self-educated writer and author. He penned some books and short story collection, some achievements I’ve been dreaming of a lot until this second.
As we sat together — unmasked — that day at an empty coworking space in the pre-pandemic Jakarta, we talked about Sri, a male friend of his from Pekanbaru, Sumatera. This Sri went to Jakarta to work as a scriptwriter at a production house. He was held responsible for producing instant scripts for soap operas on local television stations. He worked like a slave. Pretty much a wordwhore. A slut trading his skills of writing for some financial rewards. Too bad, the working conditions were miserable. Sri couldn’t stand it and quit only after a month or so of typing his scripts in a windowless rented room in South Jakarta. A not-so-sustainable kind of lifestyle fuelled by tobacco and caffeine.
Iye told me it was Sri’s decision to leave soon because it drove Sri crazy. He wasn’t psychologically and mentally prepared to work like a showbiz slave.
“They definitely offered Sri a higher salary but who cares if you can’t sleep soundly at night?” Iye told me, justifying Sri’s reason to come back to Pekanbaru, living a more decent life as an educator and writer.
As we were on this topic, Iye asked me if my salary hit the fantastic sum he always dreamed about having.
I refused to tell him the exact sum of my monthly income but I was extremely surprised to hear him complaining: “I just earn Rp 4 million a month…”
In his 40s, Iye has been stuck in a financial issue back in his hometown. Yes, he lives alone in Jakarta because his children and spouse are living in a small town 200 km away from where he still works at the moment.
“My family really needs extra money right now.” Iye kept making me feel guilty of asking whether purchasing a newly-launched Samsung S20 or iPhone 11 was worth the money or not.
“Are you happy with a salary that high?” he kept asking.
I shrugged my shoulders. I was clueless as to how I answered his sensitive query.
Is our salary really everything?
I now know that it is NOT.
Money helps us free ourselves from all restrictions due to lack of financial resources.
But as we hit a certain milestone in our income increase, we may not be getting more happiness. After a given threshold of income, our happiness curve simply flattens. No significant improvement occuring regardless of how much extra money we make. That was something I knew from my lecture on happiness and wellbeing with Prof. Laurie Santos.
For the time being, I think I’ve hit that milestone.
I feel content and well-fed.
So to sum up, should you just shut up and keep the humblebrag about the money you make to yourselves?
Probably.
And you’d even better refrain yourself from doing so in the pandemic when people may look okay but they bury burdens deep down inside.
Be wise and sensitive.
Because you’ll never know what they really feel and go through.
Love,
Akhlis
(Photo credit: Thomas Franke on Unsplash.com)