The Forbidden Sandals of Earth, Longed for in Heaven
"Because after love leaves, all that remains are missing sandals and absurd prayers that were never returned."
---
That day, the pesantren felt like it had lost its sun.
Not because of rain, but because I decided to pack my things and leave the place that had become too full of memories, wounds, and mismatched flip-flops.
It wasn't an easy decision.
But after Putri Aliya left, everything felt hollow.
Even teaching felt like preaching to an electric fan—my voice kept spinning, but nothing really landed.
The students still greeted me with enthusiasm:
"Assalamualaikum, Ustadz Absurd!"
"Waalaikum salam, my little Absurd ones!"
But every time they said the word absurd, it felt like getting slapped with the past.
Because back then, only Putri could say that word without making me feel weird about it.
That night, I wrote in my pesantren notebook:
Ustadz Absurd's Notes, Day 210:
"Sometimes, we leave not because we hate,
but because too many things make us remember."
---
A Resignation Letter That Wasn't Serious… Yet Was Very Serious
The next morning, I handed my resignation letter to the head of the pesantren, Buya Kholid.
He read it slowly, then snorted.
"Are you sure you want to leave, Nuel?"
"InshaAllah, Buya. I… want to整理 my heart."
"To tidy your heart? Did your heart fall in the school clinic?"
I froze.
"You… knew?"
"Every student knows. The clinic has become a place of pilgrimage every afternoon."
I gave a bitter smile.
Buya continued:
"Then may your hijrah not be because you're running away,
but because you realize that wounds are also part of dakwah."
I nodded. But inside?
I was definitely running.
Running from Putri's shadow, from the memory of sweet tea at dusk, and from the scent of alcohol wipes that still lingered in my mind.
---
The Announcement: A Kinda-Sad, Kinda-Silly Pesantren Panic
That afternoon, news of my departure spread faster than gossip about missing sandals in the prayer hall.
Students were in chaos:
"Ustadz Nuel is leaving?"
"For real?"
"No more Friday-night lectures with random pantun jokes?"
One student, Faiz, burst into tears.
"Tad… if you leave, who's gonna give us absurd advice every Friday night?"
I patted his head.
"Relax, Faiz. Absurd isn't me. Absurd is all of you who believe I'm a real ustadz."
They laughed while sniffling.
Another student asked for my autograph on his sarong:
"For memories, Tad! Who knows, the sarong might become blessed someday!"
Others asked for my clothes, caps, even my pen.
One student even stole my flip-flop.
"This is ustadz's sandal—the one he always wore to the clinic. Very sacred!"
I could only shake my head.
"Oh God… even my sandals have become relics."
---
A Farewell Night That Was Supposed to Be Sad… but Ended Up Hilarious
That night, the students held a farewell ceremony.
Hanging lamps lit the veranda, the smell of fried snacks filled the air, and an old speaker played "Pergi untuk Kembali"—a romantic song that became horribly off-tune when sung together.
I sat in front, wearing the last decent white shirt I had.
A student came forward and read a poem:
"For our beloved Ustadz Absurd…"
"Your service can't be replaced…
unless we get a new ustadz who's funnier."
Everyone burst out laughing.
I smiled too, though my heart felt like it was being ironed.
Then Faiz came forward with his guitar.
He sang a song he composed himself, titled "Spiritual Anemia."
The lyrics:
"You said anemia comes from not being smiled at enough…"
"But now we're actually anemic,
because you're leaving us behind…"
The students cried and laughed at the same time.
I covered my face with my cap, pretending to scratch my head so they wouldn't see my eyes turning red.
---
The Last Shirt and the Absurd Inheritance
After the event, I returned to my room to pack my things.
But before I even entered, the students had already crowded around.
"Tad, can I have one of your shirts? For memories!"
"I want your sarong!"
"I want your cap!"
I laughed.
"If I give you all that, I'll go home naked."
"That's okay, Tad. As long as your blessings stay here."
In the end, I gave them my clothes.
One student got my long shirt.
Another got my cap.
Another somehow got the right sandal, because the left one had already been stolen earlier.
When everything was done, I realized—my suitcase was empty.
Only Putri's old clinic notebook remained, plus a stray mukena that somehow got mixed in.
I shook my head, amused.
"I guess I'm really leaving without worldly possessions."
---
The Last Dialogue at the Gate
Early in the morning, I stood at the pesantren gate.
A small suitcase in hand, and a handful of prayers in my chest.
Faiz ran up to me.
"Tad, when you become successful, don't forget to come back!"
I smiled. "Success isn't about money, Faiz."
"Then what is it about, Tad?"
"It's about being able to laugh even when you lose something."
He fell silent.
Then he handed me something—the missing left sandal.
"Tad, here's your sandal. I found it on the clothesline."
I laughed softly.
"So now it's a pair again."
"Yes, Tad. Just like your heart… hopefully no longer limping."
He waved goodbye, and I took my first step.
And sometimes, the first step is the heaviest—
especially when behind you are prayers and laughter still hanging in the air.
---
A Strange, Quiet Journey Home
On the bus home, I thought:
Maybe I didn't leave the pesantren…
Maybe the pesantren is the one slowly leaving my chest—
making room for something else, though I don't know what yet.
In the bus, an old man sat beside me, holding a live chicken.
The chicken crowed loudly.
It reminded me of Putri.
"If love could crow like that, maybe I wouldn't stay up all night," I muttered.
The old man stared at me.
I smiled. "Sorry, sir. I'm suffering from spiritual anemia."
He nodded, pretending to understand.
---
Home, Memories, and an Unsent Letter
After an eight-hour trip and three cups of instant coffee, I finally arrived home.
An old house, dusty, but peaceful.
I put the empty suitcase in a corner, opened the clinic notebook from Putri, and wrote:
Ustadz Absurd's Notes, Day 230:
"I came home without clothes,
but returned with memories.
Maybe that means what we truly bring back from the pesantren…
are lessons, not belongings."
On the next page, I wrote a letter—not for Putri, but for my students.
"My absurd little children,
Don't be afraid to fall in love,
but don't pretend to be sick because of it.
Because sometimes, the cure isn't the clinic—
it's sincerity."
I folded the letter, but never sent it.
Let them wonder,
the same way I used to guess at Putri's feelings.
---
Nostalgia and a Prayer
Weeks later, a message came from the pesantren:
"Tad, your sandals are kept in the prayer hall. No one dares wear them. They say it's haram… afraid it brings misfortune."
I burst out laughing.
"Wow… even my sandals have become sacred."
Faiz added:
"But when a student gets sick, they put your sandal on their chest and make a prayer, Tad. They say it helps them heal."
I fell silent.
Maybe that's the most absurd form of love—
to turn something so simple into a reminder of someone who once brought laughter in the middle of pain.
---
An Unexpected Letter from Kalimantan
One afternoon, while I was hanging donated clothes (because I no longer had any), a small beige envelope arrived.
I recognized the handwriting.
From: Putri Aliya
To: Ustadz Nuel
I opened it gently.
Inside was only one paragraph:
"Ustadz, I just finished my clinic internship. A patient said he missed the ustadz who taught him patience like soap. I immediately knew that had to be you.
Never stop writing—your words heal more people than my alcohol wipes ever could."
I smiled.
Suddenly, all the exhaustion, all the losses, all the missing clothes—felt worth it.
---
Ending — Sandals, Wounds, and Heaven's Delay
That night, I prayed alone.
Beside my prayer mat lay my right sandal.
The left one wasn't there.
But strangely, I felt at peace.
"Maybe in heaven, my sandals will finally be complete," I whispered.
"And maybe Putri will be in the angelic version of the clinic."
I laughed at myself—absurd as always.
Then wrote my note for the day:
Ustadz Absurd's Notes, Day 250:
"I left without complete clothes, without complete sandals,
and without complete love.
But I returned with faith, laughter,
and wounds that have finally become tame."
"And if someday the pesantren calls me back,
I promise: I won't pretend to be sick again—
I'll just pretend to be strong."
---
To be continued…
Chapter 6 — "The Pesantren, Coffee, and a Letter from the Sky"
> For sometimes, what is lost doesn't truly leave...
sometimes God simply hides it,
so we learn to write without expecting to be read.