Kandi and Armein

"Stop laughing! when your laughter run out, you'll cry to death; for you have no more rightful laughter left!" Dada's round face; my grandfather in his mustache and peasant turban like a shining Buddha head statue; haunted my head, with the words echoing in the background.

Don't be afraid to continue to languish, because you will find your happiness at any time… but you also can't be happy all the time, later you will be helplessly unhappy because you have run out of your share of happiness, then die. It's Dada, my grandfather; who put those words in my head since childhood. Sometimes I think it is just because he is jealous of me and Nana who often show our happiness by singing together, or exchanging jokes, and laughing together. Dada is just very jealous of my and Nana's happiness.

But sometimes Dada used that magic words to punish me. A kind of justification for my suffering when he sentenced me for my stubbornness or my stupidity. I was forced to limit my own happiness; feared suddenly dying if I was too happy, or having too much fun, or if I laughed too long. I became worried that suddenly something would happen that would make me cry sadly.

Actually, it wasn't as difficult as Dada thought; because I stayed with my grandparents since I was 4, turning laughter into tears was very easy for me. I just went into my room and took photos of my parents and sister from the suitcase. The thought of the three of them being happy without me in the city can already make me forget all the reasons I laugh and smile. I would cry immediately, endlessly, until I fell asleep.

As a grown man who makes a living off singing and performing for public consumption, I'm grateful to be used to doing that particular habit. I mastered it. On the other hand, it also makes it easier for me to act in films. On the bad side, I got used to drama; and easily change my expressions from happy to sad and vice versa; which make people accuse me of being a heartless celebrity.

After more than 5 years of not living at Dada’s home as well as with my parents and sister, the dream of my Dada's head with his echoing words still visits my nights, and it is unavoidable. Sometimes I even purposely summon it before going to sleep. It became a kind of my personal headache remedy; my way of relaxing after a hectic day of show or recording all day.

My singing career didn't come with a silver spoon, I climbed every rocky steep step without complaining one bit. I burn my own windpipe with dozens of hours of singing practice every single day, just to make sure my singing is not just a musical work of art, but each and every note can touch the hearts of my listeners. It's not easy at all. I tortured my own body too seriously to do everything.

If I hadn't been so serious, I probably wouldn't have been as successful and famous as I am today. There won't be 3 smartphones of mine to take care of every day. One of them is a cellphone containing an endless work schedule—seems without any pause; serious messages I can't afford to ignore for a second, and usually, it’s coming from Simon. He will ask if I have taken vitamins before bed, eye packs, put on a face mask, vitamins, and what I want to eat tomorrow morning, tomorrow afternoon, he will also determine which brand of clothes and what color I should wear tomorrow morning, which of course he already prepared it in my dressing room, complete with a schedule of where I'll be tomorrow and what to do or whom I meet with. That's my mighty red phone.

Then there was the family phone, which I only used for close family: Papa, Mama, and Carra, and only my limited close friends—like maybe 3 persons in that status, and someone who's not just a close friend, nor a blood bound family member, but much more than all of that; Binar. A singer my age, who Simon thinks should be my biggest rival, but we're actually a very…very close friend. If that's what people see as a friendship. I prefer to carry this blue cell phone with me everywhere, sort of my personal virtual space for "happy hours," of course not as happy as I would like it because Simon can also contact me on the blue cell phone—that evil dominator. The last one is a yellow cell phone, which I call my tiny weeny money machine. It contains social media communications and is completely fan service thingis only.

What do I do with this yellow phone? It's my celebrity mask—my work desk. How I worked so hard to retain a perfect image with all the imperfections Simon engineered in the heads of my fans. Phones that sometimes make me feel very tired in taking care of. Exhausted from exerting all power and energy to become a perfect figure in the eyes of the world. This yellow phone shouts "No free meal, Armein! No free meal!" Every second I feel tired of it.

Replying to their messages, simply liking their comments about my appearance, or once a week I turn on LIVE Video to be able to directly answer their questions—just a few of the most logics. This is my toughest struggle because they—people who don't really know the real me—see all these fabricated works as their reality about me. The look on my face, the look in my eyes, where the corners of my lips turn when I laugh, or what accessories I wear. Everything in my body and face that shows up on my fans' mobile screens is so important during those minutes of my toughest job. Anything as small as a pimple on the tip of my chin could affect my career and the digits in my and Simon's accounts. Talking about selling yourself out.

"Wooaaaah! They're glad you let your mustache grow 3 mm, Arm! Give it a couple of days, after that, you'll shave it off again, okay!" Simon could suddenly yell at me like that like he was yelling at SIRI or Cortana. And from the business perspective, I can hardly complain about that command.

Simon and his team will watch the LIVE run like an army of wardens watching over their most dangerous captive. As if everything I did was a matter of their life and death.

"Get out of the car, but take off that yellow jacket, Arm! There are a lot of your fans who criticize you for wearing that animal torment designer product! Don't wear those red glasses anymore, your fans said it doesn't match your hairstyle! Oh yeah, don't forget to give that 3-finger gesture as proof of your concern for today's Human Rights Day, Arm!"

Of course, there was Simon on all three phones. He's just liked my shadow. But he's pretty good, he always cheers me up, sends short messages with pictures of hearts or flowers, and compliments my hard work. Sometimes all his special attention to me seems a bit too much to some extent. But for me, the amount of what he did for me was a conversion of the amount of income he earned from taking care of me. I just hope it's pretty fair for both of us.

Of course, he also always said yes to all my shopping wishes. I just say what I want to buy, he will buy it, I just wait for the goods to arrive in my room. When I was in the mood to choose what I wanted to buy myself, Simon would work harder to disguise my appearance, come to the store with Simon's bodyguard, and pretend I wasn't myself. Or he and his team will pay more just to have that particular shop or boutique open at a certain time just for me.

And he wasn't going to let all those extra expenses go for nothing. Simon set up the cameras to record everything. Sometimes without my consent. At first, I enjoyed it all too—selling my daily life for a few extra digits in my account, until one day three years ago...

I wanted to see for myself how one famous mooncake was made by an old woman who had lost her sight. It's viral. Simon made my wish as my video content. He looks even more excited than me. Simon prepared my disguise to come there and paid to witness the whole process of making it. The concept is, that they record the reactions of people I meet without knowing who I am. Once it was done and done, I took the cake home to the studio, making a new video of how I tasted the famous mooncake. The audience who saw me in disguise will be very surprised and love to see the show, Simon said.

A few days after the video went viral, the baker's son told my grandmother Nana about that sort of reality show. Nana came to my apartment crying, blaming me for not greeting the baker who turned out to be the same woman who helped Nana raise me when I was a child; Grandma Karsih. Damn me.

Nana was troubled. "Has being a famous celebrity made you forget the smell of that nice woman? She was the one who helped me take turns carrying you on our backs as a baby. We took you in our arms to the woods and gardens. You inhaled the scent of affection from our bodies for years until you entered school. How could you forget it?"

I don't know how to answer Nana's protest. She's so right, I was wrong. I was too busy obscuring my identity when I came to Grandma Karsih's workshop, thinking about all of Simon's scripts and instructions for tv content, that I didn't have time to breathe in the important scent of my childhood in that place.

Nana was so disappointed in me that it hurt me too. Even though I later bought a new shop and kitchen for Nek Karsih and her grandchildren so they have a better market. At first, Nana sounded happy to hear that news, so I was very happy to hear her voice.

"Did you hug her, Mein? Nek Karsih… Did she kiss you?" she asked with her soothing smiling voice. I replied that it was Simon's employees who handed over the keys, and completed the paperwork, etc. because I was on my flight to America at that time. Then Nana replied with one short remark, "Oh..." no smiling voice this time.

One particular syllable alone made me unable to concentrate on everything since. Nana who used to nag at length at me while ruffling my hair, or squeezing my cheeks; is my heaven on earth. And one word "Oh..." from her, with that chest-piercing disappointed tone, feels like the hell gate of my world. I feel like the 'oh…' from Nana's mouth is a sign of the biggest mistake I've made in my entire life, because after that heart crusher remark from her, and I didn't know how to respond to her, Nana was run to the hospital.