THE ABSURD REASON OF USTADZ KEPET
Ramadan at Pondok Ngasem felt like living in a parallel universe:
somewhere between hunger and faith, between the call to prayer and the smell of fried snacks.
Santri who usually get sleepy in class suddenly get sleepy everywhere during fasting month.
Even the prayer mats in the mushalla already memorized the shape of our foreheads.
That morning, I sat on the porch waiting for iftar even though it was only eight a.m.
Beside me, Kang Ulin was counting how many days left until Eid.
The dorm mother was polishing spoons that wouldn't be used until Maghrib.
And the other students slept curled in the corner like defeated caterpillars.
And right in the middle of that absurdity… he arrived.
Ustadz Kepet.
A man whose every sentence was half wise, half annoying.
"Do you know why hungry people are actually happy?" he asked out of nowhere,
fiddling with a prayer bead made of salak seeds.
We stared at him.
"Because after hunger, there's food?" guessed a small, innocent santri.
Ustadz Kepet smirked proudly.
"No, no, no… not that. Hunger is tazkiyatun nafs—purification of the soul!
But it depends… is it hunger from fasting or hunger from an empty wallet?"
We exchanged looks.
In my heart I thought, this ustadz talks like a lecturer who just discovered a viral Qur'an quote on TikTok.
Even though at night, I often saw him doing not tazkiyatun nafs… but tazkiyatun PUBG.
Seriously, late at night he wore his headset like a sin attached too tightly to peel off.
His dhikr changed into:
"Rush! Rush! Push!
Astaghfirullah—lost again!"
---
One Friday, I was shocked to find him sitting alone in his room.
I asked quietly, "Tadz, why aren't you going to Friday prayer?"
He calmly replied, "I didn't go because the imam recited Al-Fatihah wrong."
"…What?"
"Yeah. I heard him at dawn. He read maliki yaumiddin with the wrong makhraj.
This is dangerous. If I follow him, will my prayer even be valid?"
I nearly prostrated—not for prayer, but because I wanted to laugh.
It was the most absurd excuse ever recorded in the history of the pondok.
But he wasn't done.
"Besides, the sermon is too long.
Hungry people forced to listen to a one-hour khutbah… that's spiritual oppression."
---
Absurd or not, Ustadz Kepet was surprisingly popular.
Campus girls often whispered,
"Mas Kepet has the aura of the Arabic language—complicated but attractive."
They probably didn't know that behind that aura was a pile of dirty dishes
stacked like the Eiffel Tower.
He had a life motto:
"Don't wash a plate while the leftover food is still wet.
That leftover may contain blessings."
And sure enough, one week later, his dishes filled the entire room.
---
One Ramadan afternoon, Pak Yai asked us to pick up cement at a hardware shop
for building a duck shed.
We were excited at first.
But halfway, our eyes caught the most tempting sight after the Maghrib call:
iced fruit drinks and freshly fried snacks.
Kang pondok nudged me.
"Bro… is this a test or a takjil promo?"
I didn't answer.
Honestly, my faith started cracking.
Finally, one small sip of iced fruit trickled down my throat—
and one big sin trickled into my heart.
We broke our fast.
But the worst part?
That evening we still attended the communal iftar.
Imagine us sitting in the front row, holding bowls of kolak,
even though earlier we already drank iced fruit in secret.
Ustadz Kepet walked by and said,
"MasyaAllah, your faces are glowing. Must be the effects of fasting, yes?"
I almost splashed the kolak onto him.
---
But God never runs out of ways to embarrass His servants.
The next day came the news:
Ustadz Kepet was caught ordering GrabFood at noon.
Imagine—Ramadan noon,
while every santri was sleeping through hunger,
he ordered seafood fried rice!
Worse, the driver got confused because the note said:
"If asked, say this is for Bu Nyai."
And unfortunately… Bu Nyai found out.
A holy explosion shook the pondok.
All the santri whispered,
"Ustadz Kepet has been struck by the Delivery Wrath…"
---
Since then, he rarely left his room.
But strangely, his PUBG volume increased every night.
"Boom! Headshot!"
"Subhanallah—nice kill!"
Sometimes I wondered…
maybe modern jihad happens online.
---
But none of that absurdity beat the strangest moment of my life.
A moment more nerve-racking than waiting for Maghrib while starving.
It was the 17th night of Ramadan.
I had just come back from working late.
The paths of the pondok were quiet, only the sound of crickets
and my slippers dragging their faith on the ground.
At the end of the corridor—I saw her.
Putri Gula Merah.
She sat in the hall, attending Pak Yai's post-Isha' study circle.
The bright lamp above her cast a soft glow on her face—
sweet like melted palm sugar in warm coconut milk.
And then, for some reason, she turned toward the north.
I happened to be coming from the north.
Our eyes met for a moment.
Just a moment—
but it felt like having sahur without actually having sahur:
regretful, but you want to repeat it.
I wanted to greet her,
but the only thing that came out was the sound of my dragging slippers.
Inside, I whispered,
"O Allah, if this isn't love,
at least make it a tadarus of the eyes."
I hurried past her, pretending not to see.
But in my chest, something unfamiliar grew—
a mixture of guilt, sandal-dust, and a fast-breaking kind of longing.
---
That night, I returned to my room.
Kang Ulin was snoring.
Kang Wahab was dreaming of eating Eid ketupat.
Kang Solikin was writing some sort of warning letter
he said he would deliver through Ustadz Kepet
(because "it looks more civilized").
I glanced at the old wooden floor under our beds.
It had witnessed everything:
our accidental sins, our broken fasts, our lies to Pak Yai,
and my one stolen glance toward the south.
But tonight, I didn't feel ashamed.
I just smiled softly
and wrote in my notebook:
"And may Paradise someday have a school clinic too,
so I can fake being sick again—
but this time because of a healthy kind of longing."
---
The End (for now).
Because the absurd chronicles of Pondok Ngasem aren't finished yet.
There's still love misplaced in the sandal rack,
and faith that breaks before the call to prayer.
But as long as laughter exists,
insyaAllah, life will always be lighter.
---
"A Poem for the Palm-Sugar Girl"
When you looked at me,
I swear—I looked back at you too,
but with the attitude of someone pretending to be calm,
while my heart was already calling Maghrib three times in a row.
I'm scared, Putri.
Not scared of rejection—
but scared that if I fall for you,
you might tell me to get up on my own.
The trauma of losing someone
is like weed killer—
once it hits, even the new flowers of the heart
can fall off.
But your sweetness
is like palm sugar in Friday-night ginger tea—
warm, soft, and if too much…
it sends me hallucinating.
You are beautiful without filters,
your smile more honest than motivational TikTok captions.
And I, the absurd ustadz,
can only stare at you from behind my Taqrib book,
pretending to study wudu laws
while all I read is your name.
Sometimes I think—
if seblak were sweet,
surely the cook was inspired by you.
But I know
I'm not ready for Heaven yet—
because every time you smile,
I already feel complete.
And that night, after I looked at you,
I wrote this poem
just for you, Putri Gula Merah.
Not to trap your heart,
but so you'll know:
Among all my absurdities,
you're the only one
who can make me serious—
even if only for five minutes.
After that, I drink coffee again,
daydreaming,
"O Allah… why can't this palm sugar dissolve?"