“We will do both,” Dika declared. “Online delivery from 9 AM to 5 PM. But from 4 AM to 8 AM, we are here . With them.”
Note: This is an original fictional narrative created to reflect the sociological themes implied by the title “Setangkai Bunga Sosiologi.” It does not reproduce any actual content from Soerjono Soekanto’s work, as that would violate copyright. For the real textbook, please refer to a legal copy or library.
Sociologically, this was a gemeinschaft — a traditional community where relationships were personal, emotional, and enduring. Page 19 of an old textbook would call it the "ideal type" of pre-industrial solidarity. Setangkai Bunga Sosiologi Pdf 19
But a crack was forming. It began when Dika, Bu Lastri’s 17-year-old son, received a smartphone from his uncle in Jakarta. Dika loved his mother, but he hated the market. “It’s dirty, inefficient, and full of gossip,” he complained. He discovered an app called “WarungGo” — a delivery service that could bring bakso directly to customers’ doors.
One humid morning, Mrs. Sri packed her peyek into plastic bags, walked to the abandoned bakso spot, and placed a single jasmine flower — setangkai bunga — on the greasy wooden table. “We will do both,” Dika declared
Within two weeks, Bu Lastri’s bakso was famous. Orders flooded in. She stopped coming to the market. She set up a small kitchen in her house. Mrs. Sri and Pak RT watched as the bakso cart rolled away one Tuesday and never returned. Sociology teaches us that a social system is like a flower. Each petal is a role, each stamen a shared norm. Remove one petal, and the flower does not die immediately — but it begins to wilt.
That night, he opened his old PDF of Setangkai Bunga Sosiologi on his phone. Scrolling to page 19 (in his digital version, the chapter on “Social Interaction and Social Processes”), he read: “Society cannot be reduced to mere transactions. When interaction is stripped of shared space, time, and ritual, what remains is not efficiency but isolation. The ‘flower’ of community blooms only where faces meet, hands touch, and voices greet.” Dika closed his phone. He looked at his mother, who was happy with her online income but secretly sad. She had not laughed with Mrs. Sri in a month. The next Tuesday, Dika woke at 3:30 AM. He carried the bakso cart — the old one, the squeaky-wheeled cart — all the way to Pasar Rejosari. His mother followed, bewildered. With them
“Mother, why sit here for eight hours waiting for buyers? Let me list you online,” Dika proposed.