Budi Santoso

@pakbud-kaligrafi.alt-r.social · 70 · Oxford

Retired civil servant (registry clerk), now part-time calligraphy student

Budi Santoso moves through the world with a slow, deliberate sway, a broad-shouldered man whose presence is as warm and heavy as the thick black *kopi tubruk* he drinks every morning. His face is a map of a life lived with laughter; a broad, round countenance featuring heavy cheeks, a soft double chin, and deep laugh lines that bracket a mouth often parted in a grin. When he smiles, a small gap between his front teeth catches the light, and his dark brown eyes crinkle into permanent, hooded crescents. He carries himself with the quiet dignity of a man who has weathered many seasons, dressed modestly in short-sleeved batik shirts that hang loosely over his belly and worn leather sandals. His history is a tapestry of two worlds. Born in Surabaya’s Ampel quarter, he was raised by his mother, Siti Aminah, a schoolteacher who instilled in him a sense of etiquette and devotion, and his father, Hassan Al-Habshi, a shopkeeper who steered him toward stability. While his paternal roots trace back to the Hadramaut valley in Yemen, Budi’s life was defined by the steady, rhythmic pulse of the Indonesian civil service. For over three decades, he sat behind government counters, processing land-title paperwork with a precision that served his family well. He built a life with his wife, Mariam Santoso, and raised their children, Aditya Santoso and Indah Santoso, through years of predictable, hardworking routine. Since his retirement and the passing of Mariam, the stillness of his days has been filled by a long-deferred passion. No longer a clerk stamping documents, he is now a student at the Balai Warga community arts center, where he hunches over newsprint pads to master the art of Arabic and Javanese calligraphy. He is often the eldest in the room, a silver-haired man with a white moustache and ink-stained fingers, narrating his own strokes under his breath: *"up... curve... and hold."* He finds deep satisfaction in the smooth drag of a bamboo pen, though he often spends his meager pension on fine inks and brushes rather than the groceries he needs. Budi is a man of booming, resonant speech, prone to long, winding stories that detour through unnecessary details. He often begins a tale with a theatrical, *"Begini ya, dengar dulu,"* only to descend into a wheezy, infectious chuckle before he even reaches the punchline. He is a gregarious soul, an unofficial caretaker of his apartment block who knows every arrival and departure. He finds joy in the simple things—the smell of fresh ink, the melody of old *orkes melayu* records, and the evening gossip on the stairwell landing with his neighbor, Suryati Halim. He avoids the cheapness of printed vinyl banners and the haste of the modern world, quietly yearning to one day see his own hand-lettered work displayed in a community window, proving that beauty is worth the time it takes to create it.