Abdul Razak Ahmad – Only one road leads to the house of Pramoedya Ananta Toer and I am not on it. Lost instead in a maze of back lanes in the Javanese village of Desa Waringin Jaya, I am driving around in circles trying to find the house of the man generally regarded as the greatest living writer in Indonesia.

The village, a mere 60km from Jakarta, is a ramshackle community of the suburban poor. Some dwellings have electricity, many do not. Open toilets and wells are the norm. Groups of begging children erect makeshift "roadblocks" hoping for spare change from passing motorists. They correct my bearings, and I soon arrive at my destination, nervous and unannounced.

Pramoedya's house, a white bungalow nestled snugly against a small hill, marks a stark contrast to the meagre village surroundings. A wall, decorated with spray-painted graffiti of political slogans, separates the house from the railway track behind it. Workmen completing an unfinished section of the house welcome me. The foreman tramples upstairs to summon the master of the house.

In a short while he appears, a smiling and grandfatherly figure clad in a short-sleeved collared T-shirt and sarong. Pramoedya, 76, projects a humble and polite demeanor that puts visitors quickly at ease with him. His gentle bearing conceals a harder aspect of his personality, one which is tempered by painful experience.

A supporter of the country's founding father President Sukarno's doctrine of Guided Democracy, Pramoedya was already a renowned writer when he was detained for fourteen years in the notorious Buru Island from 1965 for suspected communist sympathies. His works were banned, his property confiscated, and he was confined to Jakarta after his release from Buru Island for a long time afterwards.

Pramoedya has suffered this and much more from the New Order administration of President Suharto, which took over the reins of administration from Sukarno in 1966 following an allegedly botched communist coup.

In 1975, when he was allowed to write again, Pramoedya began work on his famous Buru Quartet, a four-volume epic consisting of Bumi Manusia (This Earth of Mankind), Anak Semua Bangsa (Child of All Nations), Jejak Langkah (Steps Forward) and Rumah Kaca (House of Glass).

The ban on his works was officially lifted in May this year. He has also received numerous awards, including the Ramon Magsaysay Award in 1995 and the New York Foundation of the Arts Awards last year. Pramoedya now leads a quiet life. With the assistance of a Spain-based literary agent, he oversees the worldwide publication of his previously censured books.

We exchange niceties. He warns me that I would have to speak loudly, close to his ear, because his hearing is not what it used to be. I later learned that his near-deafness was the result of an old injury – a rifle butt to the head. The 14 years in detention appears to have taken its toll on him. He tells me that he is in poor physical condition, and that he can no longer write.

I ask about the appointment of Megawati Sukarnoputri as President which took place two days before, following the impeachment of Abdurrahman Wahid by the People's Consultative Assembly.

Pramoedya replies by saying that he views Megawati's ascension as a coup. "As her father [Sukarno] faced a coup by the New Order, now she is the beneficiary of one. I do not know Megawati's capabilities. What I do know is that Megawati is no Sukarno." I ask him about the graffiti on the wall outside. He chuckles, and says that it was most probably "the kids", referring to the many groups of university students who congregate at his house as a sort of pilgrimage, to seek his advice on their struggle.

I ask him about the advice he is giving them. "They come here often, and I always tell them to forget their studies for the next two years. Go on and continue with the demonstrations until the New Order is totally wiped out. They are now doing this," he adds matter-of-factly.

"I tell them that questions regarding the good and bad of this I leave to them to determine. "But you," Pramoedya intones, suddenly addressing me as the third person collective of the student movement. "You, who have been accused of not having experience, how could you have managed to bring down a dictator without the assistance of the armed forces? "So don't act naive with me because you know how to do it," he says, staring into the distance and waving a clove cigarette in the air.

Pramoedya's uncompromising opposition to what he believes is the tyranny of the unjust makes him one of several influential figureheads of the country's splintered student movement. Since the fall of their common enemy Suharto, the once collective force of the student demonstrators have dissipated into various squabbling groups.

Many are disillusioned with the shortcomings of Reformasi. Many of its goals are yet unfulfilled. Golkar, the much-despised former ruling party of Suharto, is the second largest in parliament. The military, blamed for numerous gross violations of human rights during the New Order, remain a deciding political force.

Pramoedya acknowledges the flaws. "As it is, 50 per cent of those currently in power are from the New Order. They can do whatever they want. Even New Order stalwarts like [former ruling party Golkar chairman] Akbar Tanjung is now Speaker of Parliament. How could this have been allowed to happen?" The solution, according to Pramoedya, lies with the younger generation and the masses. Some of the dissatisfied students have already sensed the need to re-energise their movement. Some call this imminent uprising "Reformasi Part Two", others, "Revolusi".

Pramoedya says it is all part of a social revolution, which Indonesia is at the threshold of. "Farmers whose land was confiscated by the New Order must now reclaim their property, forcefully, using arms, if necessary. Although these people are most likely to lose in an open conflict, if they can create leaders in this early stage of our social revolution, the resistance movement will step up in intensity," he says.

Few take Pramoedya's dire predictions of a bloody social revolution seriously, although the land-grab incidents Pramoedya cited did occur in the countryside in the months before the country's 1999 elections.

A social revolution was one of the possible scenarios resulting from the political volatility. However, many mainstream political figures including Abdurrahman dismissed such a possibility and called for a rejection of it. Pramoedya's critics allege that his words are merely aggravating an already difficult situation while others dismiss him as a spent force. In either case he offers no apologies.

"Reformasi is just part of a bigger social revolution, just a beginning which many do not realise," he reasons, citing what he believes is Indonesia's unavoidable destiny. What actions his words will lead to only time will tell. He remains an influential figure nevertheless.

The embattled Abdurrahman himself paid a courtesy call on Pramoedya at his home several weeks before he was impeached. Observers say Abdurrahman, desperate for his political survival, realised the influence Pramoedya wields over the student movement and was hoping for some respite to his troubles.

In an earlier meeting with Pramoedya in Jakarta, Abdurrahman had even gone so far as to apologise to him for all the injustices that he had suffered at the hands of the New Order. I ask about the apology. "I cannot forgive. No. If the supremacy of law really exists, then these people must be judged accordingly. I don't need empty talk," Pramoedya says. There is no anger, but sorrow in his eyes as he says this.

Pramoedya's public refusal to accept the apology has made him the target of severe criticism by several well-known cultural figures. He responds to such criticism by relating his 1965 detention. "Even back then, those who were involved in polemical arguments against me used my detention as their means of getting back at me, my so-called detractors," he says, shaking his head.

I ask about the essence of what he has been fighting for. He says it is for Indonesia to be free, modern, and democratic. I ask how he defines democracy. "Democracy is only a word. But where it needs to be taught most is at the family-level, more than in the schools, because then it would just be living skills and not democracy in the true sense of the word.

He provides an example, explaining why, despite his past ordeals, there is no longer any anger, no burning desire for revenge. "In fact I pity them, how can their culture be so low, what did their parents teach them? Doesn't that go to show that the whole problem is essentially due to a lack of culture, and not political in nature?" The interview is soon concluded and Pramoedya escorts me to the gate.

I notice an uncompleted swimming pool with a kiddie slide being bolted on to the side by one of the workmen. "For my grandchildren," he says, and I ask how many there are. "Sixteen, and you wouldn't want to be here when they all come over in one go," he replies with a laugh. On the drive back, I discovered that the road to his house was not as complicated as I had earlier thought.