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.”

“Habis?” I repeated, stunned. “Sama sekali?”

“Iya. Bahkan bus tambahan pun penuh.”

I stepped aside, trying to stay calm. I checked every app, every online booking site. Nothing. I even asked a tukang parkir if there was an off-schedule or freelance bus that might take me halfway. He shook his head.

“Mas-nya mudik telat,” he said simply.

And just like that, I was stranded.

I thought about calling my uncle to pick me up from Yogyakarta, but he lived almost five hours away and didn’t drive at night. My only option was to wait—until morning, or maybe even longer—hoping for a canceled seat or a miracle.

So I found a spot on the edge of the terminal, near a wall where I could lean my backpack, and sat. The terminal was alive. Not loud, but full—of quiet conversations, tired parents with sleeping toddlers, teenagers glued to their phones, and travelers pacing anxiously. A group of college students played UNO near the ATM. A man dozed under the schedule board, using his jacket as a pillow. Nearby, an elderly woman sold hot tea in recycled plastic cups for five thousand rupiah each. I bought one.

She smiled as she handed it over. “Belum dapat bus, Mas?”

“Saya ketinggalan jalur ke Pacitan.”

She nodded knowingly. “Lebaran memang begitu. Yang telat, ya begini. Tapi nanti juga sampai.” Her words comforted me more than the tea. I pulled my hoodie tighter and settled in.

Around 11 p.m., a boy around ten years old sat beside me, holding a plastic bag full of krupuk. His father, a thin man with sunburnt skin, stood nearby smoking.

“Abang mau beli?” the boy asked, lifting the bag.

I bought a pack, not because I wanted it, but because I recognized that look in his eyes—the quiet urgency. He beamed.

“Dari mana?” I asked him.

“Dari Klaten. Mau ke Ponorogo. Tapi belum ada bus.”

I looked at his father, who nodded slightly. “Nunggu dari pagi,” he said. “Tapi masih sabar.” The three of us shared stories. About long journeys, about fathers and sons, about trying to hold on to tradition even when the road makes it hard. The man told me he only went home once a year. The rest of the time, he worked in a furniture workshop in Bekasi.

“Kalau pulang, harus bawa senyum,” he said. “Biar istri di rumah senang.”

Eventually, they moved on, trying their luck with another loket. The hours passed slowly. The lights buzzed. A thunderstorm rolled in, the rain hammering against the tin roof like applause from the sky.

I thought about my father—how he used to take me on these long journeys when I was a child. Back then, he would wake me up at 3 a.m., make sure my clothes were clean, and tell me stories during the ride. He never complained about the crowds or the waiting. He just smiled and said, “Namanya juga mudik, Le. Harus sabar.”

He had passed away six years ago, and yet his voice lingered in my head like a well-worn melody. Around 2 a.m., the crowd thinned. Most travelers had caught their rides or given up. I was about to doze off when I heard footsteps approaching.

A woman in her late twenties, wearing a dark green raincoat and a backpack, sat down a few meters away. She looked around, noticed I was still awake, and gave me a polite nod.

“Ketinggalan juga?” she asked.

“Enggak dapat bus,” I replied. “Pacitan. Kamu?”

“Ngawi. Sama aja, nggak dapat.”

We introduced ourselves. Her name was Rara. She was a nurse in Semarang, trying to get home for just one day before returning to duty.

“Kalau nggak mudik, rasanya kayak Lebaran nggak ada artinya,” she said.

We talked for a long time—about Jakarta, about hospital life during Ramadan, about her stubborn younger brother who had just started a warung kopi in his village. I don’t know why, but it felt easy to talk to her. Maybe it was the terminal. Maybe it was the hour.

Eventually, she leaned back and closed her eyes. I followed suit. Around 5:30 a.m., just as the sky began to blush with early light, I heard the announcement: a canceled ticket for the Pacitan route had opened. One seat. I ran.The loket attendant recognized me. “Mas yang dari kemarin ya? Satu kursi. Langsung naik ya, bus-nya udah siap.” I glanced behind me—Rara was still asleep. A part of me hesitated. But Ngawi and Pacitan were on the same route, and sometimes these buses could drop people near their towns.

I ran back and gently shook her awake.

“There’s a seat—Pacitan. Tapi mungkin bisa lewat Ngawi juga. Mau coba?”

Her eyes widened. “Serius?”

I nodded. “Ayo.”

We raced to the platform and talked to the driver. He scratched his head but eventually agreed. “Ngawi bisa, tapi turun di perempatan, ya. Jalan kaki sedikit.” She didn’t hesitate. We climbed aboard, and for the first time in 24 hours, I felt the warmth of relief spreading through me.

As the bus rumbled to life, I looked out the window. The terminal—our shared little universe for one surreal night—faded into the distance. The ride was quiet. People slept. Children leaned on their parents. The sun rose slowly, casting gold over the fields and small towns we passed.

At the Ngawi junction, Rara stood up, slung her backpack over one shoulder.

“Thanks ya,” she said. “Kalau nggak kamu bangunin, aku mungkin masih di terminal.”

I smiled. “Jaga diri. Selamat Lebaran.”

She nodded, then jumped down, disappearing into the morning fog.

By the time I reached Pacitan, my family was already preparing for Eid. My uncle greeted me at the bus stop, half-laughing when he saw my tired face.

“Kamu beneran nginep di terminal?”

“Beneran,” I said. “Tapi banyak cerita.”

When I walked into our old house, the aroma of ketupat and opor filled the air. My cousin handed me a towel, my aunt pressed a glass of sweet tea into my hand. My little niece hugged my legs. I stood there in the middle of it all—damp, exhausted, and incredibly grateful.

That night, as we gathered around the long dining table, I told them everything. The ticket chaos. The krupuk boy. The tea lady. Rara. The quiet wisdom of strangers in the middle of the night. And as I did, I realized something: the journey wasn’t just the path to home—it was home. A living, breathing part of the Lebaran ritual. One that tested you, humbled you, and sometimes—even if only briefly—connected you to the souls walking beside you.

Not every homecoming begins with an open door. Sometimes, it begins with a long wait, a cancelled ticket, a chance encounter under flickering terminal lights, and the hope that somehow, against all odds, you’ll find your way.

And when you do, it’s not just a return.

It’s a resurrection.