Dian Septi Anifa Husna and the Painful Akad
(Because sometimes, the most devout ones are the best at pretending to be sincerely letting go.)
---
After Novi left for Türkiye, my life felt like a cooperative store that ran out of flavor.
Everything looked complete...books, students, schedules...
but my heart was empty, like a receipt without a price.
I, Pak Nuel, the supposedly wise ustadz who always trips when it comes to love, resumed my absurd days at Pondok Darul Kenangan.
Even the pondok's name felt like a jab: Kenangan.
Because here, memories never graduate..
they stay and lodge in your chest.
Until one day, she arrived: Dian Septi Anifa Husna.
A long name, yet every letter sounded like a prayer whispered gently by an angel.
---
She came to the girls' wing not as a regular student, but as a new teacher.
The daughter of Ustadz Yasin Turjaun and Ustadzah Laila Majanun—
a senior couple known for being both pious and firm.
Her father, a master of Mantiq.
Her mother, a teacher of Balaghah.
And me?
A master of frying tempe and tofu—
and a heart that's always over-boiled.
---
The first time I saw Dian, I almost messed up the opening dua of class.
She walked in wearing a white gamis, a soft blue hijab, and a calm, dignified stride.
She carried an Al-Hikam in her hand, her face clean like a freshly opened mushaf.
> "Assalamu'alaikum, Ustadz," she greeted softly.
"Wa… waalaikumsalam," I replied, my voice wobbling like an off-key adzan.
I tried to act normal, but deep down I knew:
A new disaster had just been born.
---
In the days that followed, I often met Dian in the pondok library.
She would read quietly in a corner, while I pretended to look for a tafsir—
when in truth, I was looking for an excuse to sit across from her.
Sometimes we talked about light things—books, students, the meaning of patience.
> "Ustadz," she asked one afternoon, "how far do you think patience should go?"
I thought for a moment.
"Until the heart can't take it anymore… but still refuses to complain."
She smiled.
"So patience is like love, then?"
"Why?"
"Both keep you waiting, but you never know whether the ending is joy… or a wound."
And right there, I fell in love again.
This time not because of her smile, but because of her meaning.
---
I began writing new entries in my little notebook:
> Absurd Ustadz Notes – Day 160:
"The third love didn't come through my eyes,
but through a sentence that made my chest join in dhikr."
---
Dian was different.
She wasn't like Rahmania—sweet and spontaneous.
She wasn't like Novi—gentle and playful.
Dian was the quiet version of love: calm, deep, and unpredictable.
Every time she spoke, it felt like she was teaching me lessons that weren't written in any book.
> "Ustadz," she once said, "life is like the mutasyabihat verses—
not everything needs interpretation. Some things are meant simply to be believed."
I looked at her for a long moment.
"Does that include love?"
"That depends on the mufassir, Ustadz," she answered with a small smile.
And from that moment, I knew—
I was lost in a tafsir I could never explain.
---
Days passed, and our closeness became obvious.
The students began teasing quietly.
> "Ustadz Nuel, be careful… you might fall for the new teacher."
I only smiled, but inside, I knew:
I had already fallen.
And I still hadn't found the floor.
---
One night, rain poured heavily.
I sat on the mosque veranda when Dian approached with two cups of warm tea.
The lamp's dim glow made her face look soft—simple, yet soothing.
> "I made tea, Ustadz. Afraid you might catch a cold."
"What if it's the heart that catches a cold?"
She looked at me. "There's a cure. It's called sincerity."
We laughed softly.
But even in that laugh, I knew—
there was something held back, like a sentence forbidden to be spoken for fear it might become a sin.
---
Dian told me about her family.
Her strict father, her firm yet tender mother.
How every decision in their home went through discussion and prayer.
> "My father always says," she whispered,
'Don't love someone just because you feel comfortable beside them.
Love them because you believe they'll bring you closer to Allah.'
I went silent.
That sentence felt like an ayah that gently slapped my face.
---
From that night on, I realized:
I loved Dian not because she was beautiful,
but because she brought peace.
With her, I didn't want to be funny or poetic—
I just wanted to be the best version of myself that God would accept.
---
But fate, as always, enjoys mocking those who take love too seriously.
---
One afternoon, news came from the staff office:
Dian was being proposed to.
And not by just anyone.
His name was Kang Sobri—
a tahfidz teacher, my senior, and the favorite student of Dian's father, Ustadz Kusnandana.
Polite, devout, and financially stable.
A full-package dream son-in-law.
I heard the news from Sobri himself, over coffee at the warung in front of the pondok.
> "Pray for me, Nuel. If everything goes well, the akad will be next month."
I almost choked on my coffee.
"With… with who?"
"Dian Septi Anifa Husna."
The world stopped.
Even the wind seemed stuck in my throat.
I forced a smile—
one more bitter than sugarless black coffee.
> "MashaAllah… congratulations, Bri."
"You know her?"
"Yeah… but only as far as tafsir."
---
That night, I sat for hours on the veranda.
It rained again.
And I wrote a long note in my worn-out notebook:
> Absurd Ustadz Notes – Day 180:
"True love sometimes comes not to be held…
but to be proven.
And God created rain so humans would know—
even crying can be beautiful when accepted as a prayer."
---
A few days before the akad, Dian came to see me.
Her face was calm, but her eyes were swollen—
as if holding back something heavy.
> "Ustadz," she whispered, "I want to apologize… for any feelings that shouldn't have existed."
I looked at her deeply.
"Feelings aren't your fault, Vi.
Sometimes Allah gives them not to unite us… but to test us."
She lowered her gaze.
"Please pray for me. For everything to go smoothly."
"Of course," I answered, my voice almost breaking.
"The best prayers don't always come from the happy."
Before leaving, Dian handed me a small folded note—
like a secret wrapped in silence.
---
After she left, I opened it.
Her handwriting was soft and delicate,
but every word struck my chest:
> "Ustadz,
I know we can't be together.
I was born from a line that obeys too much,
and you from a heart that endures too long.
But allow me to keep one thing:
the way you listen without judging,
and the way you love without promising."
— Dian Septi Anifa Husna
I folded the note and slipped it into my Al-Hikam,
on the page that speaks about ridha.
Because maybe, true love isn't about owning—
but surrendering to a farewell you cannot refuse.
---
The day of the akad arrived.
The entire pondok buzzed with joy.
Lights lit up the hall, carpets were laid out, jasmine garlands hung at the entrance.
And I sat in the corner, pretending to be part of the documentation team.
But what I was documenting wasn't the event—
it was my own collapse.
Sobri sat proudly at the front.
Dian across from him, her face veiled in white,
but I knew that smile—I had memorized it.
The ijab qabul echoed softly,
but to me, it sounded like a prayer that had never reached acceptance.
> "I accept the marriage of Dian Septi Anifa Husna…"
That sentence pierced my heart like a knife wrapped in dua.
---
After the ceremony, I slipped outside.
The evening sky was dark orange—
like an old wound not yet healed.
Little Rahma ran toward me holding a leftover balloon.
> "Pak Nuel, Ustadzah Dian got married?"
"Yes, Rahma."
"Are you sad?"
"No.
It just feels like losing my favorite ayah."
"You can memorize it again, right?"
I smiled faintly.
"I can.
But the voice reciting it… won't ever be the same."
---
That night, I sat alone in my room, staring at my Al-Hikam.
Dian's letter was still tucked inside.
I opened it and wrote beneath her final line:
> "Dian,
may your marriage become a field of blessings.
And may there always be a little space in your sujud
for the ustadz who once taught you the meaning of losing."
---
I looked up at the ceiling and wrote my final note for the night:
> Absurd Ustadz Notes – Day 200:
"Sometimes, love is like an akad—
some words are spoken aloud,
and some are only whispered in silence…
as an amen."
---
Dian's Poem (her final letter)
> "If one day you miss me,
don't look for my name inside your prayers.
Look for me in the air after rain—
in the scent of earth and memory—
for that's where I hide the fate
that love could never rewrite."
— Dian Septi Anifa Husna
---
End of Chapter 3
> "In the pondok, love often loses to blessings.
Yet perhaps that is where the beauty lies—
when we learn to love not to possess,
but to release."
And maybe—
if heaven hosts a study circle someday,
I hope to sit beside Dian.
Not to continue a love story—
but to finish the prayer that once trembled inside my chest.
---
To be continued…
Chapter 4: "Putri Aliya and the Letter from the School Clinic."
Because in the pondok, sometimes the healer isn't time..
but someone who shows up with a bandage… and a sincere smile.