Among Cups and Stories: Becoming Part of Samata House
I. Samata Houses
I always love riding motorcycle from my house to Samata House in the late evening
. The streets of Surabaya are crowded at that hour, yet each step toward the café feels like stepping out of the city’s rush. From afar I can already smell the aroma of coffee mixed with the scent of wooden furniture and the perfume of passing people. Samata House stands simply—a former old house turned into a café and art space. Its signboard is small, just white paint with black letters: Samata House.
As soon as I step inside, the world seems to slow down. Soft jazz music floats through the air. The smell of freshly brewed espresso fills my lungs. Its walls are covered with paintings by local artists, some still marked “for sale.” In one corner stands a bookshelf filled with unusual titles—poetry collections, art magazines, even old theater scripts. The self-service system here is unique: after drinking, guests return their cups to a special rack. To many it may be trivial, but for me there’s a sense of respect that grows out of that small habit.
Here I often feel like a regular visitor yet also a stranger. I come almost every day, but only sit in a corner, open my laptop, and drown in my assignments. Among the coffee cups, I feel like an observer of a small society living inside this café.
II. Daily Life at Samata House
Raka, the barista who usually works in the afternoons, always greets me with a smile. “The usual? Jagana latte?” he asks, naming the drink I always order. The menu names here are unique—Sanskrit words that make each item feel as though it has its own story.
I nod and smile. “Yes, the usual.”
While waiting, I watch the customers come and go. There are students like me bringing laptops and notebooks. Young mothers with children. Couples busy photographing their drinks for Instagram. An old man in a fedora hat sits alone, writing in a small notebook.
“Here’s your Jagana latte,” says Raka, placing the cup on my table. Steam rises, drawing thin patterns in the air. “Busy with your thesis?”
I chuckle softly. “Not yet a thesis. Creative writing. My lecturer gave us an assignment to write a narrative about the feeling of being part of society. I’m looking for inspiration.”
Raka raises his eyebrows. “Samata House is like a miniature society. Lots of unique people. Just write about it.”
I smile, letting his words sink in. Maybe he’s right. Maybe Samata House isn’t just my escape from the city’s noise but a small space where I learn about others—and about myself.
III. Meeting Unique Characters
That afternoon I sit at the table by the window, my favorite spot. From there I can see the small street outside and almost the entire café inside. Next to me sits a short-haired woman sketching in her notebook. Occasionally she glances at me, then bows again, her pencil dancing quickly across the paper.
I dare myself to speak. “Your drawing is beautiful,” I say softly.
She gives a faint smile. “Thank you. Just practice. I’m a freelance artist. Samata House is the calmest place to work.”
I nod. “I come here often too. It feels… I don’t know, like a second home.”
We talk briefly. Her name is Nisa. She often runs small drawing classes for children on weekends. From our conversation I discover that Samata House has a livelier side than what I had seen. It’s not only a place to drink coffee but also a space to meet and share.
At another table, a foreign man with a large backpack is staring at a map on his phone. I hear him asking Raka about city buses. A woman sitting nearby helps translate. I smile to myself. People from different backgrounds meet here, like dots on a map suddenly connecting.
I look back at Nisa. “Sometimes I feel like just an observer here,” I say, more to myself. “I come, sit, work, then leave. But I never really become part of it.”
Nisa shrugs. “Maybe being an observer is also part of it. Everyone has their own way.”
Her answer is simple yet strikes me gently. Could it be that by observing I have already become part of it?
IV. Inner Conflict: Being Part or Just a Spectator?
In the following days I keep coming to Samata House. The more often I sit there, the more I feel connected yet also isolated. Raka grows more familiar; Nisa sometimes greets me. Yet an invisible distance still separates me from them. Perhaps that distance is one I create myself.
I write in my notebook: “I’m in the middle of this small society, yet why do I feel outside the circle?”
Sometimes I imagine Samata House not as a café but as a magical place that stores people’s stories. Every cup of coffee holds a secret; every chair keeps a memory left behind. Maybe that’s why I always come back—I’m searching for pieces of myself among the fragments of other people’s tales.
One quiet afternoon I talk to Raka while the café is empty. “Have you ever felt like just a spectator, Rak? Like you’re in the middle of a crowd but not really there?”
Raka chuckles. “Often. But I think it’s just a phase. Sometimes we need to be spectators first to understand the story, then we dare to play.”
His words make me reflect. Maybe it’s time for me to stop merely observing and start “playing” on this small stage.
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