Golden light dripped softly onto the leather sofa, the cold marble floor, and the heart of a young santri who was slowly losing his way…
I sat among my foster family, wearing a clean white shirt and neatly-pressed black trousers. In front of me, Mom Gabriella was decorating the dining table with candles and cookies. Dad Joseph rested a guitar on his lap, his smile warm… yet strangely foreign.
"Come on, Nuel," he said. "You're good at guitar. Play O Holy Night, let's make the atmosphere cozy."
I smiled, but my lips were stiff. My heart was pounding.
Inside my head, instead of melodies… I heard the echo of my old kyai's voice back at the pesantren:
"Nuel, don't let worldly pleasures erode your faith. Sometimes, the gentlest temptations are the most binding."
The guitar felt heavy… unbearably heavy.
Not because of the wood, but because each string felt like a rope testing my heart, pulling me between faith and comfort.
I plucked the strings slowly.
Gentle notes flowed. Everyone smiled.
But each lyric of Holy Night felt like a tiny blade carving into my conscience.
I glanced at the flickering candle before me — the flame looked like it was mocking me, someone who once memorized Al-Fatihah but now almost forgot the prayer before eating.
---
When the song ended, they clapped.
"Amazing, Nuel!" Mom Gabriella said. "You're so talented. God must be proud to have a child like you."
I smiled again… that empty smile people use when they've lost their way but still want to look fine.
I excused myself and went to my room.
Once the door closed, I lay down on the soft mattress.
My hands were still trembling — not from nervousness, but from a guilt I couldn't explain.
"Ya Allah… am I still a Muslim?"
The question was soft, but its echo filled the wide room.
My reflection in the mirror stared back at me — neatly dressed, clean face, but eyes clouded by tears.
---
I remembered the pesantren.
The room was small, yet the heart felt spacious.
Only two roommates, but every night it felt like having ten brothers.
We drank cheap coffee behind the musholla, discussing Sanusiyah, which sometimes felt more complicated than teenage love.
And Hafidz — that 'ustadz-wannabe' — usually hid in a corner playing PUBG.
"Bro, life is like a match — you need strategy," he once said.
I laughed then. Only now do I understand: my life now feels like a player who entered the wrong server — not knowing who the team is, not knowing who the enemy is.
---
One morning, Mom Gabriella knocked on the door.
"Good morning, dear. Breakfast is ready. We're having whole-wheat bread and bacon."
Bacon.
I froze.
My tongue went dry.
"Uh… I'll eat later, Mom," I said nervously.
"Oh, you're on a diet?"
"Yes… a faith diet," I whispered under my breath, and she chuckled, thinking I was joking.
---
Days passed like that.
I lived in a luxurious house, yet every night I just wanted to return to the old musholla of the pesantren.
There, when the electricity went out, we lit candles while reading Safinatun Najah.
Here, when the power went out, the generator switched on — but my heart remained dark.
Sometimes I pretended to be asleep during their evening prayers.
But in truth, I would cry silently.
I missed the call to prayer, the smell of the musholla carpet, the laughter of my fellow santri, and the kyai who always said:
"Don't be proud of worldly pleasures, Nuel. A grand house doesn't mean it's a true home."
I used to think it was just a proverb.
Now I feel the weight behind every word.
---
One night, Dad Joseph sat on the terrace smoking.
"Nuel, are you happy here?" he asked.
Such a simple question — yet it pierced deeply.
I nodded. "Yes, Pa… I'm happy."
But inside, I screamed: No.
He patted my shoulder. "You're like our own child. We're proud of you."
I replied softly, "Thank you, Pa," but inside, I felt like an actor in the wrong story.
---
A few weeks later, I received a message from an old pesantren friend:
"Kyai's been asking where you went, Nuel. He said you were the most diligent note-taker."
The message struck me like a slap.
I opened my closet and searched for an old notebook — filled with Arabic scribbles, tafsir notes, and the absurd poems I used to write during breaks.
On one page, I had once written:
"Don't let the world make you forget who you are."
I closed the book slowly.
Tears fell onto that same page.
---
The next evening, during family prayer, they asked me to join.
Dad Joseph said gently, "Let's pray for our family's safety, and so that Nuel grows closer to God."
I bowed my head.
But suddenly, my lips whispered:
"Amin… ya Rabbal 'alamin."
Silence.
They glanced at me, puzzled.
But I didn't care.
Because that night, I realized something:
Even in this grand house, my faith was still breathing. Weak, yes — but not dead.
---
The next morning, I left early.
I rode my motorbike aimlessly, until I stopped in front of a small mosque.
The call to prayer echoed from inside.
I couldn't hold it anymore.
I stepped down, eyes wet.
My legs shook as I entered, and the moment my forehead touched the ground, it felt like returning home after being lost for so long.
"Ya Allah… I'm back. I know I'm not a good servant… but please don't push me away."
There, I cried — not out of weakness, but from the relief of finally finding myself again.
---
That night, I returned home.
Mom Gabriella asked, "Where did you go, Nuel?"
"To a place that brings peace, Mom," I said.
She smiled, not suspecting anything.
But in my room, I knew — starting tomorrow, I would live with two faces:
The santri hidden behind a polite smile of an adopted son,
and the soul fighting desperately not to lose its direction.
---
Before sleeping, I checked my phone.
A message from Kang Solikin:
"Bro, Hafidz got caught working at a PS rental. Says he quit PUBG and is repenting."
I laughed through tears.
Funny how the one who used to care least about religious classes was the first to repent.
And me — the 'diligent one' — ended up the most lost in luxury.
I closed my phone and lay down, staring at the ceiling.
"Ya Allah," I whispered, "if Hafidz could repent… how could I lose to him?"
And I fell asleep.
In my dream, I returned to the pesantren.
Buya smiled, my memorization was fluent again, and my friends joked while sipping coffee.
And in my hands — not a guitar, but a thin book filled with prayers and hopes.
Somewhere in that dream, I heard a soft azan…
A voice that pierced the heart, the sins, and even time.
---
Rain drizzled that dawn like the sky shedding tears.
I sat on the balcony of the big house, staring at the calm fish pond…
Calm on the surface — but inside, my soul was drowning.
For weeks, I'd been hiding my unrest.
Whenever my foster family prayed, I felt like someone standing between two worlds.
They called the name of God, but my lips wanted to say Allah.
Whenever religious music played, in my mind I heard the azan instead.
That morning, the call felt stronger…
A call to return — not to a physical home, but to the place I once called pondok Ngasem.
---
I went down to the dining room. Mom Gabriella had prepared breakfast.
"Nuel, you look pale. Are you alright?" she asked gently.
I looked at her — her face full of kindness — but my heart was being pulled elsewhere.
"Mom… I need to leave for a few days," I said quietly.
"Leave? Where?"
I swallowed hard. "To… a place I once left behind."
She stared, confused. "What place?"
"The pesantren, Mom."
Her expression changed. "Are you sure, Nuel? Life there is so simple. You're used to comfort now."
I smiled, though my eyes burned.
"That's the problem, Mom. I'm afraid this comfort is making me forget who I am."
She fell silent.
Then whispered, "If that's what's best for you… go. But promise me one thing, Nuel… don't hate us."
I bit my lip. "I won't. You were too kind. That's why I'm afraid of losing my way."
---
The journey began with nothing but a backpack and a trembling heart.
The car drove slowly away from the large gate.
Through the window, I saw Mom Gabriella waving — tears in her eyes.
I held back mine, not only from sadness…
But from the realization that sometimes, human kindness is the softest test of all.
I almost lost Allah — not from hatred, but from comfort.
---
The trip to Ngasem was long.
The old bus rattled. Passengers were scattered like instant noodles in a shop.
A man beside me slept snoring with his head tilted onto my shoulder.
Another lady brought a live chicken in a box.
Absurd — yet warm in its own way.
Perhaps because each shake of the bus brought me closer to the right path.
Passing Pare, I saw the "English Course" signs.
Once, I dreamed of studying abroad.
But now I realized:
To return to God, you don't need TOEFL —
only sincere repentance.
---
In Ngasem, I stepped onto a muddy roadside.
The damp air, the smell of wet soil, the chorus of crickets…
The orange sky of late afternoon felt like an old friend whispering, "Welcome back."
I walked through the small alley toward the pesantren.
Every step was a memory:
Bu Rukanah's tiny coffee stall,
the communal bathroom that sometimes ran out of water,
and the musholla that once held all my confessions.
But when I reached the gate…
I froze.
It's harder to return to a place you abandoned
than it is to leave it.
---
A few young santri were sweeping the yard.
They didn't know me.
One whispered, "Eh, who's that? Kyai's guest?"
I smiled awkwardly.
"Yes… a guest. I used to study here."
He blinked, then smiled politely. "Oh, alumni? Please come in, Sir."
Sir?
I almost laughed.
Gone a few years and suddenly I'm a 'Sir.'
At least they didn't call me "honored guest of the mosque."
---
I walked into the main yard.
The rambutan tree was still standing — even fuller now.
From the musholla, I heard soft Qur'anic recitation.
And at that sound, my chest tightened.
This was the voice I missed most — raw, honest, unpolished.
"Alladziina yu'minuuna bil ghaibi wa yuqiimuunas sholaah…"
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
It was more beautiful than any hymn, more precious than any guitar.
---
I knocked on the kyai's room.
His familiar calm voice sounded from inside:
"Come in. Who is it?"
I opened the door.
"Assalamu'alaikum, Yai…"
He stared long.
"Nuel…?" His voice was a soft disbelief.
I lowered my head. "Yes, Yai. It's me."
He stood up, walked over, and patted my shoulder.
"Subhanallah… this child is still alive."
I bowed deeper, tears falling again.
"Forgive me, Yai… I left without saying goodbye."
"It's alright," he replied gently. "What matters is that you returned with awareness."
---
We sat in the small living room.
He looked at me deeply.
"I once thought you'd continue preaching. But instead, you followed the world."
I swallowed. "I slipped, Yai. I thought happiness meant comfort."
"And now you understand?" he asked softly.
I nodded. "Yes, Yai. The world is tempting… but it never gives true peace."
He smiled faintly. "Alhamdulillah. Sometimes, Allah lets us get lost… so we can taste the sweetness of finding our way back."
His words stung — but lovingly.
I felt like the little santri who got scolded for misreading a harakat.
---
That evening, he ate with me in the kitchen.
Simple food — rice, chili sambal, fried tempe.
Yet it tasted better than any expensive steak.
"Yai," I joked, "this sambal tastes like it's mixed with homesickness."
He chuckled. "Maybe longing is the best seasoning."
I laughed while wiping away tears.
---
That night, I joined the santri in their lessons.
When I opened my kitab, my hands trembled.
Not from fear — but from relief
that a part of my old self was still alive.
Their voices reading Jurumiyah were messy but honest:
"Al-kalamu huwa… lafzhun murakkabun mufidun bil wadhi'i…"
I grinned.
"That was my favorite memorization… now it feels like hearing an old song that brings back memories."
---
After class, I sat on the veranda.
The night sky sparkled with stars. The village breeze carried the sound of insects.
I stared at the dim musholla.
"Ya Allah… I almost lost myself. But You pulled me back anyway. I'm ashamed… yet grateful."
A little santri passed by carrying a bucket.
"Ustadz, want to make wudhu? The water's fresh!" he said innocently.
I froze. "Ustadz? Who?"
He replied, "You, of course. Kyai said you'll help teach again."
I was speechless.
Shocked, touched, and mildly panicked because I hadn't taught in years.
But inside… something warm bloomed — the warmth of being accepted again.
---
Weeks passed.
I settled into a rhythm.
Woke up for Subuh.
Taught Jurumiyah.
Helped clean the yard.
Drank coffee with Kang Solikin at night.
He joked, "Bro, you disappeared like MH370. And came back like a religious drama protagonist."
I laughed so hard my coffee spilled.
"That's life, Kang… sometimes faith needs a reboot."
He nodded. "But seriously, you're calmer now."
I smiled. "Yeah… because I finally know that peace isn't about where you are — but where you're heading."
---
One night, I sat alone in the musholla.
I opened the book I had brought from the foster home.
It contained hymn lyrics, including O Holy Night.
But this time, I didn't sing that.
Instead, I hummed softly:
"Longing for the pesantren, longing for the musholla,
Longing for sins washed away,
Ya Rabb, thank You…
for guiding me home."
Tears fell — not from sorrow,
but from gratitude.
Because I was truly home.
---
Since that night, I no longer searched for happiness in luxury or wealth.
Because I had found the most precious place in the world —
a place where I could bow down without fear of losing direction.
I am Nuel —
who once got lost in the glitter of the world,
but finally returned to being an ordinary santri of Pondok Ngasem.
And in that simplicity,
I discovered the truest luxury of all:
A peaceful heart —
something no riches could ever buy.
---
To be continued…