Reflection from the couch: Masterchef Indonesia

It’s another evening in front of the TV, the room lit only by the flickering images from ‘MasterChef Indonesia Season 11’. It was the finale, and as the hosts build up the suspense for Belinda and Kiki’s final cook-off, I find myself less captivated by the culinary drama and more by the unspoken narratives unfolding before me.

Belinda, with her background from Le Cordon Bleu, and Kiki, whose roots are in a local culinary school in Medan, bring more than just their cooking to the table. It’s like their backgrounds are ingredients in a recipe that the show itself doesn’t realize it’s cooking. There’s a subtle, maybe unintended, narrative about race and education.

Then there’s the appearance of Ganjar Pranowo and his wife. It feels out of place, like a plot twist that doesn’t quite fit the story. Why are they here? Is this a culinary show or a political campaign in disguise? It dawns on me that the show might be serving a dual purpose – entertainment and subtle political campaigning. I, many other viewers, question the neutrality of the event and people may be picking up on this underlying agenda.

The Compass of Adulthood

In the quiet aftermath of a conversation with my best friend, a dialogue riddled with laughter and sighs, I find myself lingering over a cup of tea, lost in thought. We talked of the future, of the heavy mantle of personal responsibility, and the realization that the structured guidance of our youth has gently slipped away.

Adulthood – this enigmatic landscape where the support systems we once knew, the comforting scaffolding provided by our parents, fades into the backdrop of our lives. Here we stand, on the precipice of independence, with the daunting task of navigating a world that no longer hands us a map.

This journey of working to live, often paycheck to paycheck, presents its own labyrinth. We find ourselves questioning, ‘At what point do we stop? At what point does this get easier?’ There are moments when it feels as though the saying ‘tomorrow will be better’ is a distant echo, a promise that hovers just beyond reach. It’s in these times that the weight of ‘grown-up’ life bears down the hardest when the simpler, carefree days of youth seem like a lost paradise.

Between Freedom and Paradox

Have you ever felt the walls closing in, not because of a tangible barrier, but due to a lack of options? This question floated through my mind today as I sat, pondering the intricate dance of choice and freedom in our lives.

I recall moments when the absence of choice felt stifling – like being in a job with no exit in sight, the monotony of each day blending into the next, leaving a taste of yearning for something different. Or simpler times, like looking out at the pouring rain, stomach rumbling, and realizing there’s nothing in the fridge, the normal ease of popping out to a store suddenly a distant dream.

In these moments, the lack of choice feels like a heavy chain, a reminder of how critical freedom is to our well-being. It’s in the ability to choose – be it in our careers, our daily routines, or even our meals – that we find a sense of control and a way to navigate the unpredictability of life.

To My Younger Self, and Those Who Walk in Her Shoes

Once, I thought beauty was in the eyes that followed me, in the unwanted whispers and stares. Each one felt like a star I collected, not seeing they were just fleeting sparks in the night.

I remember the days, suffocating under the weight of gazes that undressed my spirit, mistaking objectification for admiration. Each whistle, each unwelcome word, I counted as a trophy, not realizing I was collecting thorns.

But time, that relentless and unyielding teacher, showed me the fallacy of my beliefs. With each year, as the fervor of those eyes dimmed, a liberation began to stir within me. I learned that my essence was never meant to be a spectacle for the hungry eyes of passersby.

The Unseen Battlefields of Home

As I sat today, the world outside bustling in its usual rhythm, my eyes fell upon a story that gripped my heart – a tale of a doctor, a healer by profession, yet a victim in her own home.

She thought to surprise her husband with midnight cake on his birthday, a gesture of love, only to be met with fury, not smiles. His hands, which should have held her with care, struck her instead. The news recounted how he turned violent, how he hurt her, a woman carrying their child, in ways that tear at the fabric of what love should be.