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 responsibility to “jaga silaturahmi” had quietly passed to me.

So there I was—city boy in jeans and sneakers, bumping along a muddy path, holding onto Toni’s shoulders as he weaved through the sawah.

“Masih inget jalan ke rumah Mbah Tiyo?” Toni shouted over his shoulder.

“Enggak sama sekali,” I replied.

“Tenang, sinyal hati selalu kuat kalau mudik,” he laughed.

We finally arrived at a modest wooden house shaded by two towering bamboo trees. There was no gate, no paved driveway—just a simple open porch and the familiar scent of woodsmoke and fried shallots.

An elderly man stood up from a bamboo bench. His white hair was thick, his shirt tucked neatly into a worn sarong.

“Lho, iki sopo?” he said, squinting.

Toni grinned. “Iki Mas Bayu, Pakde. Anakmu dari Surabaya.”

The old man’s eyes widened, and then he smiled. A slow, sun-warmed kind of smile. “Alhamdulillah. Bayu, cucune Taryo?”

“Iya, Pakde,” I said, bowing to kiss his hand.

We hugged. His arms were wiry but strong. The kind of strength born from planting, harvesting, and surviving.

Inside, the house was sparse but clean. A woven mat stretched across the floor. A small TV sat in the corner, and the walls were lined with photos—mostly faded black-and-white ones of weddings, graduations, and soldiers in uniform.

We sat and talked for hours. About my father, whom he hadn’t seen in ten years. About his own children, most of whom had moved to cities. About the village, where only the elderly and the very young remained.

“Istriku sudah meninggal lima tahun lalu,” he said. “Sekarang cuma tinggal sama cucu, si Rina. Tapi hidup itu begini ya, sederhana. Panas, hujan, panen, tidur.”

Rina appeared not long after. She was around twelve, shy but curious. She brought us glasses of hot sweet tea and joined us later for lunch: nasi jagung, sayur lodeh, and ikan asin fresh from the nearby river. I was halfway through my plate when a boy peeked in through the window. Then another. Then a third. Soon there were five or six village kids clustered outside, giggling.

Toni waved them in. “Mas Bayu dari Jakarta, lho! Ayo kenalan!”

They entered slowly, barefoot, eyes wide. I was suddenly the center of attention. They asked me questions about Jakarta like it was another planet.

“Beneran ada lift di rumah?”

“Mas kerja di komputer ya? Bisa bikin robot?”

“Jakarta banjir terus ya?”

I laughed and did my best to answer. At some point, I pulled out my phone and showed them photos—of my office, of the city skyline, of my cat. Their reactions were priceless.

Then one of them—his name was Yoga—asked something that hit deeper than expected.

“Mas betah tinggal di kota? Enggak kangen sawah?”

I paused.

No one had asked me that before. Not even myself. That afternoon, Toni and I went walking. He showed me the fields he used to help his father plow. The old prayer house where everyone still gathered for subuh. The warung near the irrigation canal that sold fried cassava for 500 rupiah.

At one point, we passed a plot of land overgrown with wild grass.

“Dulu di sini rumahnya Mbah Taryo,” Toni said quietly. “Waktu kecil, kita sering main di situ. Sekarang tinggal puing.”

I stood there for a while, trying to picture it. Trying to feel the echo of a home I’d never known. I imagined my father as a boy, running barefoot through the mud, climbing trees, getting scolded for playing too long. There was a strange ache in my chest—a longing for something I’d never lived but somehow missed.

That night, Pakde Tiyo insisted we stay over.

“Rumah kosong banyak,” he said. “Tapi suasananya jangan dibiarkan kosong juga.”

We slept on woven mats in the main room. The village was quiet. No traffic, no phones ringing, no AC humming. Just the chirping of crickets and the soft rustle of bamboo in the wind.

The next morning, Rina woke us at dawn with a tray of hot kopi tubruk and boiled cassava.

“There’s a pengajian at the surau,” she said. “Kakek wants you to come.”

We walked there together, joining about twenty villagers, mostly elders. The ustadz was a soft-spoken man with kind eyes. His khutbah was simple: about forgiveness, about remembering your roots, about not forgetting those who raised you.

At the end, we did something unexpected. The ustadz asked each of us to stand, one by one, and say a few words—our name, where we were from, and one thing we were grateful for this Lebaran.

When it was my turn, I stood awkwardly, unsure of what to say.

“Nama saya Bayu,” I began. “Dari Jakarta. Tapi… Lebaran ini, saya bersyukur bisa pulang. Bukan cuma ke rumah, tapi ke asal. Ke tempat di mana ayah saya dibesarkan, di mana saya merasa… connected lagi.”

There was a quiet nodding from the others. A few smiled. A few had tears in their eyes. That afternoon, Pakde gave me a gift—his old peci, a little frayed at the edges but still black and strong.

“Ini punya bapakmu dulu,” he said. “Waktu dia pulang terakhir. Simpan ya. Supaya ingat jalan pulang.”

I took it with both hands. Held it like something sacred. Before we left the next morning, Rina slipped me a folded note. She had drawn a map of the village—complete with landmarks like “warung Bu Darmi,” “pohon jambu,” and “rumah Pak Lurah.” In the corner, she wrote:

“Mas Bayu, jangan tunggu Lebaran berikutnya. Pulanglah kapan saja.”

And just like that, I realized something I had forgotten:

Mudik isn’t just about fulfilling a yearly obligation. It’s a reconnection—to land, to people, to the version of ourselves that we bury under city dust. It’s not always comfortable. There are mosquitoes. There’s no Wi-Fi. The rice field paths are slippery. The nights are too quiet.

But in that silence, there’s room to remember who you are.

Not your job title.

Not your Instagram.

Just… your roots.

And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need most.