Hijrah to Ngasem .. Between Dzhikir and Pilgrimage to Old Wounds
After months of wrestling with the shadow of Putri Aliya...who somehow appeared everywhere, from the economy bus to the spout of my coffee kettle..I finally decided:
I needed to enter a pesantren again.
But not a modern, fancy one.
Not the kind where students own iPads and recite Qur'an while sipping lattes on a rooftop.
I chose a pure old-school salaf pesantren—the kind where electricity frequently dies, and lessons are still taught under the glow of kerosene lamps.
Its name was Pondok Tahzibul Faqih in Ngasem Village,
a place so remote even Google Maps sometimes gives up.
When I told a friend:
"I'm moving to a pesantren in Ngasem."
He simply said:
"Nuel, that's not hijrah.
That's running away—with spiritual intentions."
And honestly, he wasn't completely wrong.
---
2. The Welcome of a Saintly Scholar and Very Religious Mosquitoes
When I first arrived at the pesantren, the atmosphere was…
Subhanallah, but also extremely subuh.
Because I arrived at three in the morning, greeted by crickets and a falsetto adzan.
The caretaker, Kiai Mahfudz, came out in a sarong with a wide smile.
"So you're the one from the city?"
"Yes, Yai. I want to mend my heart."
"Good. Here we tidy your heart—
and your wallet learns to surrender too."
I laughed, but also cried a little inside
because… there was no phone signal.
And the first night in Ngasem?
Legendary.
The mosquitoes weren't ordinary.
These were mosquitoes that had memorized their wirid.
Each bite began with bismillah,
and every time I slapped one, it flew away shouting,
"Astaghfirullah!"
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3. Santri Ngasem and Their Unusual Habits
Most students there were farmers and carpenters.
Their spirit in studying was impressive,
but their quirks were equally absurd.
Every morning after Fajr, they had a tradition:
drinking coffee while listing their sins from the previous night.
They said it helped them remember what to repent for.
I once asked a student, Kamal:
"Why do you write down your sins every morning?"
He answered casually,
"So when I repent later, nothing gets left behind, Tad."
Then he showed me his list.
It said:
"Fell asleep during lessons."
"Picked my nose while making wudu."
"Glanced at the kiai's daughter while sweeping the yard."
I could only nod and say:
"MashaAllah… honesty level: afterlife."
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4. A Letter From the Sky (The Real Version)
One night I sat on the veranda, sipping coffee,
with only a kerosene lamp and the sound of students chanting Alfiyah Ibn Malik.
The wind blew, and suddenly—an envelope landed on the window.
I swear, just like in a movie.
The paper was slightly damp, but the writing was clear:
"To Ustadz Nuel,
from someone who still believes that loss can heal."
I froze. When I opened it, I saw familiar handwriting:
"Tad, they say you went to Ngasem to heal.
I hope your healing doesn't come from forgetting,
but from accepting.
Sometimes those who leave don't need to be found—
they just need to be prayed for,
so they don't shiver in someone else's destiny."
(Putri Aliya)
I sat silently.
The rain tapped on the tin roof,
and I felt like God was joking using letters.
From the sky? Probably not.
From Kalimantan? Quite possibly.
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5. Coffee and the Kiai: The Most Absurd Wisdom
One afternoon, I drank coffee with Kiai Mahfudz.
He was wise, but his humor was the classic style of elderly salaf scholars.
"You like your coffee bitter?"
"Yes, Yai. To stay realistic."
"Hehe… bitter coffee is like love, son.
Add sugar, and it tastes sweet—
but not honest."
I sipped slowly.
"Yai… sometimes I still think about her…"
"The one who's a doctor?"
I stared. "How did you know?"
"In Ngasem we don't have gossip, son.
But matters of the heart… sometimes travel through prayers."
We both laughed.
Then he continued:
"If love brings you closer to God, it's a gift.
But if love makes you forget Who sent the feeling—
you're still a student who hasn't passed."
I fell silent.
And suddenly, that bitter coffee felt like zamzam water—
calming but electrifying.
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6. A Night of Reflection and the Second Sandal
Three months passed.
Life in Ngasem taught me that simplicity has its own voice.
One night, while sweeping the veranda,
I found something in the back storeroom that made me freeze:
my left sandal.
Yes.
The left sandal that disappeared back at the old pesantren.
I laughed half-crying.
I asked a student:
"Whose sandal is this, bro?"
"No idea, Tad. Found it stuck in a rice sack."
I held the sandal tightly and realized…
God is never random.
Even a sandal can be a sign:
"Whatever leaves will return one day—
in a form you never expected."
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7. Failed Preaching and the Meditative Goat
One morning I was asked to give a sermon to the students.
Topic: "Sincerity and Patience."
Sounds noble.
But five minutes in, the pesantren goat walked past bleating loudly.
Instinctively I muttered:
"Even the goat is protesting…
what about my future spouse?"
The students burst out laughing.
Then, exactly at that moment, the microphone died.
The only thing still working was the fan making "krek krek krek."
I shook my head.
"Ya Allah," I whispered,
"even my sermon loses to a goat."
But later I realized—
maybe it was a gentle reminder:
sometimes the most sincere creatures
are those who never ask for applause.
---
8. Night of the Second Letter From the Sky
One stormy night,
the students were asleep and I was writing my absurd notes.
A page of Ta'lim Muta'allim flew open in the wind.
When I picked it up, I found another small paper beneath it.
The handwriting was the same as before.
"Tad, if someday you meet someone new,
don't compare her to me.
I'm not perfect,
but I was once the reason you learned sincerity.
That's enough for me."
Putri, from Kalimantan
(by mail or by fate—who knows?)
I didn't cry.
But this time,
I truly felt healed.
Because healing isn't when you forget someone—
it's when you can pray for them without hurting.
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9. The Final Test: The Sandal Trial
A few weeks later, the pesantren held a big cleaning day.
I was assigned to carry water from the well.
Halfway through, my sandal slipped off again.
The students burst out laughing.
"See! Ustadz's sandal is never meant to stay complete!"
I smiled and said softly:
"If a sandal can get lost twice,
how much easier for a heart?
But the difference is—
a heart can grow back,
as long as you don't lock it with memories."
They went silent.
Then one student whispered:
"But Tad… what if your sandal enters heaven before you?"
I answered calmly:
"Then I'll just follow it later—
bringing my underwear so I won't be embarrassed."
Everyone cackled.
And strangely,
that laughter felt warm—
like a hug from the past.
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10. Final Notes From Ngasem
On the night before Ramadan, I wrote again in my notebook.
The pages were nearly full, the ink fading.
Ustadz Absurd's Notes, Day 300:
"Sometimes God doesn't replace pain with happiness right away.
He gives us silence first—
so we learn what it feels like
to talk to our own soul."
I closed the book gently.
Through the window, Ngasem's sky was dark yet peaceful.
Coffee in hand,
one sandal missing,
but my heart finally felt whole.
---
"Maybe heaven isn't a place without loss," I wrote,
"but the place where we finally laugh
with the people who once made us cry."
I smiled, then whispered:
"And I hope in heaven,
there's an infirmary too—
so I can pretend to be sick one more time,
but this time from a healthy kind of longing."
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To be continued…
The Absurd Reasons of Ustadz Hafidz,
and How the Wooden Floor Became the Silent Witness of Our Sins.