Yusuf Blogspot

  Name: Muhammad Yusuf Aimar H.P Nim: 1612200049 Last Train to Surabaya Lebaran 2025 was supposed to be my smoothest mudik yet. After years of chaotic last-minute planning, I finally thought I had it together. I booked a flight from Jakarta to Surabaya a month in advance—promo fare, perfect timing, and even a window seat. My oleh-oleh for the family was neatly packed: boxes of brownies, coffee blends from a hipster cafe in Kemang, and a bundle of skincare for my younger sister who had become a TikTok beauty guru. For once, I was ready. Or so I thought.The day of departure, I woke up not to the sound of my alarm, but to the thunder of heavy rain and the frantic buzzing of my phone. A string of missed calls from my brother lit up the screen. It was 6:43 a.m. My flight was at 8:00. I shot out of bed like a man possessed, grabbed the nearest pair of jeans, and threw my bag together in a frenzy. The streets outside my kost in Blok M were already flooded. Ojol prices had surged. ...

  Name: Muhammad Yusuf Aimar H.P        NIM: 1612200049 Ketupat in the middle of rain The rain had followed me since I left Jakarta. From the moment the bus pulled out of Kampung Rambutan Terminal, the sky was grey. It wasn’t the kind of gentle drizzle you romanticize—this was full-blown monsoon season. Windows fogged up, passengers huddled in damp sweaters, and the scent of wet earth mixed with the unmistakable aroma of fried snacks in plastic bags. This wasn’t my usual way of going home for Lebaran. In years past, I had taken the train, or occasionally flown when I had extra money. But this year, I felt something pulling me back to basics. Maybe it was the memory of my late grandmother, or maybe I was just tired of Jakarta’s glossy artificiality. I wanted to arrive in my kampung, Wonosari , the same way I had as a child—by bus, through winding mountain roads, watching the landscape shift from city to village, like watching time reverse. The ride took...

Name: Muhammad Yusuf Aimar H.P        NIM: 1612200049 Terminal That Brings You Home I had never planned to spend the night at a bus terminal, much less during Lebaran. But that’s exactly where I found myself—sitting cross-legged on the cold cement floor of Terminal Giwangan in Yogyakarta, surrounded by the faint scent of diesel, cigarette smoke, and the slightly burnt aroma of fried tempe from a nearby warung. It was the 28th of Ramadan, and I’d just arrived from Bandung. My plan was simple: take a connecting bus to Pacitan, my father’s hometown, where my extended family was waiting. I hadn’t seen many of them since before the pandemic. This Lebaran was supposed to be special. Reunions. Forgiveness. Shared memories. But as always, plans rarely survive contact with reality. When I reached the terminal, the woman at the loket looked at me with the kind of pity you reserve for the unprepared. “Maaf, Mas. Semua tiket ke Pacitan sudah habis sejak kemarin.” “...

  Name: Muhammad Yusuf Aimar H.P NIM: 1612200049   Silaturahmi in the Middle of the Rice Fields There’s a particular silence you only find in the middle of a rice field. It’s not the absence of sound, but the presence of peace. The wind rustling through stalks of padi, the distant cluck of a chicken, the slow rhythm of life moving unhurried. After years in Jakarta, with its never-ending noise, I had forgotten what that sounded like. It was the second day of Lebaran 2025, and I was on the back of my cousin Toni’s motorbike, cruising down a narrow dirt path through the fields of Tulungagung. I hadn’t been back here since before COVID. The family had always gathered in Surabaya, but this year, my uncle insisted we return to our asal usul —the village where my late grandfather was born. I wasn’t excited at first. I didn’t know anyone there. It felt like one of those things people did just to honor tradition. But I was the eldest son now, and with my father gone, the re...

  Name: Muhammad Yusuf Aimar H.P         NIM: 1612200049 Crying in the Village Mosque The sun was setting as I arrived at the small village mosque in Gresik, a quiet place tucked between rice fields and narrow dirt roads. I had been in the area for a few days, visiting relatives and reconnecting with the roots of my family. But there was something about this mosque that I hadn’t expected—something that pulled me in, just as it did when I was a child. The mosque, Masjid Al-Hidayah , stood at the edge of the village, its tall minaret barely visible over the coconut trees. From a distance, it seemed unassuming—simple white walls with a green dome that had seen better days. It wasn’t much to look at, but I knew this place held a kind of peace I couldn’t find anywhere else. I’d come here for the evening prayer, Maghrib , after a full day of visiting family and friends. The hustle and bustle of Lebaran—the laughter, the food, the endless “Sela...