After all those inner storms finally calmed…
from the luxurious house, the "Holy Night" guitar, to the tears of repentance in that small musholla… at last, I — Nuel — officially returned to Pondok Ngasem.
It felt like coming home to my village after getting lost for years in the chaos of the city.
Even the smell of cheap bar soap in the pondok bathroom made me nostalgic.
Even the sound of santri dragging their flip-flops down the corridor felt like a soft rhythm of dhikr in my ears.
Kyai welcomed me with his signature smile — gentle, yet sharp.
"You've come home, Le?"
I nodded, bowing my head.
"Yes, Yai. I… I want to live in the pondok again."
He chuckled softly.
"Heh, you want to live here again? Fine then. I'll give you a teaching duty. Teach Jurumiyah… But remember, don't use any foreign style. Just make sure the kids enjoy it and understand."
I blinked. "Kids? How old, Yai?"
"Most are ten years old or younger," he said casually.
Ten and under?
I thought I'd be teaching older students.
Turns out I got assigned to the "elementary battlefield."
But it's okay. Knowledge is meant to be shared with anyone willing to learn.
And indeed — my first day in class felt like watching a crossover between Upin Ipin, SpongeBob, and a wildlife documentary in a tiny room filled with 6 magical gremlins:
1. Ipan — the quietest kid alive, extremely innocent, Javanese accent thick as tempe.
2. Alvario — the most handsome boy in class, but sleeps anywhere like a stray cat.
3. Intan — sweet face, chaotic answers.
4. Wina — the diligent one, but overthinks diacritics.
5. Rahma — class clown with chaotic logic; an agent of pure entropy.
6. Silvi — silent assassin; rarely speaks, but every answer is comedy gold.
---
I entered with renewed spirit.
Chalk in hand, pure intention in my heart.
But the moment I stepped inside, I realized… good intentions weren't enough.
The class was noisy.
Not just noisy — it was fish market during lele discount noisy.
Rahma was singing an Arabic children's song remix:
"Tholabaaaa… yaa tholabaaa… come on let's studyyy~"
Ipan was flicking rubber bands like a sniper.
Alvario… for some reason… was sleeping under the table while munching bread.
I clapped loudly. "Hey! Assalamualaikum, kids!"
They replied in unison,
"Waalaikumussalaam, Ustadz Nuel!"
Silence for three seconds.
Then Rahma squinted and asked:
"Ustadz, why does your hair look like a shampoo commercial?"
Here we go…
I held my laugh. "Because this is a shampoo wakaf from the neighboring pondok."
The whole class exploded in laughter.
Okay.
Ice breaker: successful.
---
I started teaching.
"Today, we're learning Jurumiyah. Does anyone know what that is?"
Wina raised her hand.
"It's a Nahwu book, Ustadz!"
"Good! Now… what is Nahwu?"
Rahma answered proudly,
"Nahwu is… the science of controlling fi'il!"
I stared at her.
"Controlling fi'il?"
Rahma grinned. "Yes. Because Bu Nyai said fi'il must be kept in order. If not, it might run away from a sentence."
The class erupted.
I facepalmed while laughing.
"Rahma… fi'il is a verb, not a runaway goat!"
---
Day two, I tried a new method:
Nahwu riddles.
I wrote on the board: ضَرَبَ
"Can this word be given i'rab?"
Silvi raised her hand.
"Yes, Ustadz!"
"Why?"
"Because the word won't complain if we do!"
The class exploded again.
I literally dropped to the floor laughing.
"MasyaAllah… even the teacher loses to you kids."
Silvi looked proud.
Meanwhile, Ipan mumbled:
"Ustadz… if I stay quiet like that word, can I be given i'rab too?"
I replied,
"Yes, Ipan. Your i'rab is: marfu' because of laziness."
---
The next day, I made a lottery for choosing who comes to the board.
Kids wrote their names on tiny papers.
When I collected them…
Every paper said: Ipan.
"Ipan. Ipan. Ipan. Ipan. Ipan…"
I looked up slowly.
"Who wrote Ipan's name on ALL the papers?"
Rahma raised her hand, trying not to laugh.
"Me, Ustadz… so Ipan goes up every time. I don't want to go."
I burst out laughing.
"Rahma! You're smart… but dangerously crafty!"
Rahma replied calmly,
"Ustadz said fi'il must be controlled. So I'm just controlling the turns."
I could only laugh harder.
---
That evening I walked back to the dorm with a wide smile.
I used to feel empty teaching older students — too serious, too stiff, like they were preparing for a thesis defense.
But these kids?
Teaching them felt like therapy.
They made me laugh in the middle of exhaustion…
and without realizing it, they made me feel alive again.
That night I sat alone in the musholla corridor.
The hanging lamp flickered softly.
Crickets outside sang in chorus.
I remembered the past — the fancy house, the guitar, the long wanderings…
And now here I was, sitting on a cement floor, wearing a sarong, hands covered in chalk dust.
Strange, yet… peaceful.
---
The next day, chaos level increased.
I was about to open the kitab when suddenly Alvario yelled:
"Ustadz! Silvi hid my eraser!"
Silvi shouted back, "He's lying! He sat on it himself!"
Sure enough — the eraser was stuck to his backside.
The whole class laughed.
I tried to stay serious.
"All right, enough. Let's focus. Today is about Isim and Fi'il."
Ipan raised his hand.
"Ustadz… is isim a boy or a girl?"
I blinked. "Why do you ask that?"
"Because my friend said fi'il does the action. So isim must be the one who waits… like girls waiting to be proposed to."
I collapsed in laughter.
"Oh dear, Ipan… this isn't a marriage book; it's Nahwu!"
But honestly… his logic was terrifyingly sound.
---
One afternoon, Kyai passed by the classroom.
He peeked through the window.
I was holding a quick quiz.
"Give an example of fi'il madhi!"
Wina said: "كتبَ" — good.
Silvi said: "ضربَ" — great.
Rahma said:
"Eat fried rice!"
I froze.
"Rahmaa… that's Indonesian!"
"But it's an action too, Ustadz!"
Even Kyai chuckled outside.
He shook his head and walked away.
And only then I understood what he meant:
Teach with joy.
Lessons taught with laughter stay longer than lessons forced with pressure.
---
Days passed like scenes from an Islamic comedy movie.
Sometimes they fought over markers.
Sometimes cried because ink spilled on their books.
One day, Ipan confessed he couldn't do his homework.
"Why, Pan?"
"Because I gave it to my cat. He said he wants to learn Jurumiyah too."
I inhaled deeply.
"Wonderful. Next time tell the cat to memorize kaana wa akhawatuha as well."
---
Every evening, I sat on the veranda watching them play.
Sometimes Silvi led an Arabic word-guessing game.
Sometimes Rahma sang her Arabic–Javanese remix:
"Fi'ilun means doing things~
Ismun means name of peeeople~"
And I smiled.
In this fast-moving world, small joys like that… are priceless.
---
One evening, Kyai summoned me.
"How's the teaching, Le?"
I smiled. "Incredible, Yai. Sometimes I feel like a kindergarten teacher… sometimes like a clown… but they're amazingly clever."
Kyai laughed.
"That's how pondok kids are. Their answers are strange, but their hearts are pure."
I nodded.
Then he looked at me deeply.
"Le… you look happier now. Not like a man lost and searching. This… is the face of someone who has found his path."
His words pierced my heart.
And that night, for the first time in a very long time…
I prostrated in a long, peaceful sujud —
not out of guilt, but out of gratitude.
---
Days continued.
Rahma brought a baby chicken, claiming it for "fi'il experiment."
"Ustadz, this chicken is for the fi'il qatala! It will be the object!"
I panicked.
"No, Rahmaaa! Qatala means killing!"
The class exploded again.
Silvi added,
"Ustadz, does that mean the chicken is manshub?"
I replied dramatically,
"Yes. Manshub is my heart watching all of you."
More chaos. More laughter.
---
Weeks passed.
The class grew closer.
They even asked for a "graduation exam game show."
I made a quiz with candy prizes.
"What are 3 signs of i'rab marfu'?"
Alvario answered,
"Dhammah, sukun, and… prayer."
I laughed so hard I nearly cried.
"Prayer? Why?"
"So the answer is guaranteed correct, Ustadz."
I patted his shoulder.
"Now that… is true wisdom. Knowledge and prayer must walk together."
---
On the last night of class, I gave each kid a small note:
"Knowledge is not about who understands first,
but who keeps searching the longest."
Silvi read it loudly and grinned,
"So Ustadz must be super patient to deal with us every Thursday night?"
I laughed.
"Patience and strong intention, Silvi. Otherwise I'd have run away to the furniture warehouse again."
The class fell silent.
Rahma suddenly spoke softly,
"Ustadz… don't leave again, okay?
If you leave, Jurumiyah will be empty… like a bookshelf with only covers."
Her words stunned me.
Even the most chaotic child… can touch your heart.
I smiled, eyes warm.
"InsyaAllah, Rahma. As long as you keep learning… I won't leave."
---
And just like that,
my days in the pondok regained their colors.
Not from luxury, not from praise,
but from the laughter of children who unknowingly healed me.
They taught me that knowledge isn't just letters in a book.
Knowledge lives in jokes, in patience,
and in every moment we choose to smile instead of snap.
In that small classroom,
I wasn't just teaching Jurumiyah…
I was relearning life.
---
That night, after all the kids fell asleep,
I sat on the terrace, looking at the calm sky.
The night breeze brushed softly against my face.
I smiled, whispering:
"Thank You, Allah…
for bringing me back ..
not to the fancy house,
but to the place where children's laughter could heal my heart."
To be continued…