I still remember that afternoon—the sky above Pondok Ngasem was a soft orange, like sweet tea with too much water. A gentle breeze slipped through the roof tiles, carrying the familiar scent of the kitchen: spicy potato stew mixed with tiny anchovies, interrupted now and then by the clang of a ladle hitting a pot.
The atmosphere was peaceful, but somehow my mind was crowded with memories of one particular person.
His name? Well… let's just call him KEPET Al-PUBG.
Not an academic title, not even a real name. But the nickname was born from the one habit he could never escape: playing PUBG day and night until he practically completed every season.
He came to the pondok with this slightly smug face, walking casually like a scholar returning from an international seminar. In his left hand he carried a bag, and in his right… yup, a gaming phone. When he greeted me for the first time, his opening line wasn't "Assalamu'alaikum," but:
"Bro, did you know the M416 recoil is more stable if you use a compensator?"
I froze. Inside my head I screamed,
"Is this a religious boarding school or an e-sports tournament?"
---
At first I thought he was just messing around. But soon his habit became a full-blown lifestyle.
While other students studied Arabic grammar, he was busy looting in Pochinki.
When the Maghrib call to prayer echoed and people headed to the mosque, he was already prone in the Miramar desert.
And the peak moment… during tarawih prayers, when everyone else stood solemnly in the mosque, he sat cross-legged in our room, headset on, expression dead serious, fingers dancing across the screen.
If someone knocked on the door, he whispered:
"Ssst… I'm pushing rank, bro. It'd be sinful if I lose."
Me: "Sinful if you lose?! The real sin is skipping dawn prayers, you clown."
He just grinned.
Sometimes I wonder if, in his mind, reaching Conqueror rank was more noble than the spiritual rank of sincerity.
---
Weeks passed and people started talking about him.
One day, Bu Nyai muttered in the kitchen,
"That Kepet boy… why doesn't he help around anymore?"
Kang Irfan answered casually,
"Maybe he's busy doing jihad in Erangel, Bu."
Bu Nyai stared in confusion.
"Erangel? Where is that? Somewhere in East Java?"
I nearly choked on my tea.
---
But that's just how he was.
In the morning—he slept.
In the afternoon—he gamed.
In the evening—he ate.
At night—he pushed rank.
A tight schedule, yet none of it contributed anything meaningful.
If the pondok held a community cleaning day, he vanished.
If asked to sweep the yard, he'd say:
"I'm on cooldown, bro."
One night I tried advising him,
"Bro, living in a pondok isn't just for wasting time pushing rank. Try joining the study group—it might calm your heart."
He answered without shame,
"Don't worry, I study too. I study map reading."
I held my forehead.
If Ibn Malik's Alfiyah was written as a battle pass, he'd probably finish it too.
---
Humans are funny. They wrap laziness in a "chill but productive" aesthetic.
When in truth—nothing gets done.
Bu Nyai grew increasingly annoyed.
He once promised to help in the kitchen, but every time he came, it was only to charge his phone.
The worst part?
He forced his gaming laptop charger into a fragile socket and blew it up.
Bu Nyai yelled:
"A student shouldn't make a victim out of a power outlet!"
---
The real climax happened during Ramadan.
The pondok was lively with the atmosphere of nightly Qur'an studies.
But Kepet… sat in a corner of the room, giant headset on, like a digital hermit.
One night, the pondok WiFi suddenly died.
Every other student stayed calm—but Kepet panicked.
"What the—lag?! Lag?! Whose sin is this, bro?!"
Bu Nyai barged into the room.
"That's YOUR sin, son. God turned off the signal so you'd repent!"
Strangely, that night became the last night I saw him outside his bed.
After that, he rarely appeared.
He stayed in the room, playing, eating, sleeping.
Sometimes we talked, but he always spoke about himself—his rank, his imaginary fiancée, how "talented" he was as an imam in his neighborhood.
I listened.
But inside I whispered:
"Bro, if half of that were true, you would've bought this pondok by now."
---
Then, a week before Eid, he messaged me.
"Bro… I might not stay here after Eid."
I thought he was joking.
But he wasn't.
He left—no goodbye to the Kyai, no goodbye to Bu Nyai.
Some students thought he got kidnapped, but I knew better…
He simply logged out of real life.
---
A few weeks later, he texted me again.
A simple message:
"Bro, do you know any place where I can pawn a motorcycle?"
I laughed bitterly.
Maybe to top-up games.
Maybe to buy a new headset.
But it didn't matter—I sent the info.
Days later, he disappeared again.
Then reappeared:
"Bro, got any job openings?"
I gave him everything—even my boss's contact.
Whether he worked or not, I have no idea.
He vanished again.
Like an account permanently banned for cheating in real life.
---
His last message came at a strange hour.
He said he needed money—wanted to borrow some.
Not a lot.
But that time I was broke too; my ATM balance could only afford instant noodles flavored "false hope."
I asked Kang Solikin for help, but he sighed,
"Bro, I'm broke too. My sound system rental payment hasn't been paid yet…"
We laughed, but behind the laugh—
there was sadness.
---
From that moment on, Kepet disappeared completely.
No messages.
No trace.
The student group chat buzzed with rumors.
The Kyai asked too,
"That Hafidz boy… leaving without saying a word. Is something wrong?"
We looked at each other.
How were we supposed to answer?
The boy was like a fading 3G signal—untraceable.
The Kyai said quietly, with heavy meaning:
"If one arrives with good manners, one must also leave with good manners. A pondok is not only a place to study—it is a place to learn adab."
The words hit deep.
I stared silently at the corner of the room where Hafidz used to sit gaming.
Now it's empty.
Just a faint scratch on the wall, maybe from him bending over too long staring at the screen.
---
Strangely, sometimes… I miss him.
Not because I miss his arrogance, but because his presence made our days funnier, lighter, more alive.
Now the room is quiet.
No more "One knocked!"
No more "Cover me, bro!"
Only the hum of a fan
and pages of books turning softly.
---
Sometimes I wonder—maybe Kepet is still out there.
Maybe he's working, maybe struggling, maybe still playing PUBG but in the "training mode" of real life—learning from his mistakes.
I don't want to assume the worst.
Maybe he changed.
And sometimes, when I stare at my phone, I secretly hope for one notification:
"Bro, I'm coming back."
It never comes.
But it's fine…
Some people need to get lost first
before they can find their way home.
And despite all his chaos—making Bu Nyai angry, burning the outlets, killing the WiFi—I still consider him my friend.
Because behind all his nonsense, he once said something I never forgot:
"Bro, I know I messed up a lot, but this pondok is the only place that made me feel calm… even though I rarely joined the study sessions."
Funny, isn't it?
The guy who kept disappearing could say something so sincere.
---
Now, whenever I see a new student secretly playing on his phone, I smile to myself.
Inside I whisper:
"Careful, kid… you might be the successor of Kepet Al-PUBG."
And in that tiny smile, there's a quiet prayer:
> "Wherever you are, Kepet…
may you log in again—
not to a game,
but to your real life."
To be continued…
New Arc:
Thinking…
PATIENCE…!!!