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. No taxis in sight. I stood at the roadside under a thin umbrella, soaked and praying for a miracle.

When I finally got to Soekarno-Hatta, panting and dripping, the departure gate had just closed. I stood there, catching my breath, feeling the weight of all my careful planning dissolve like sugar in rainwater. The airline staff offered the standard scripted apology, but no matter how much I pleaded or waved my ticket, the flight was gone. I wasn’t just late—I was grounded. For ten minutes I just sat on a bench in Terminal 2, staring at the floor. Families rushed by me, luggage wheels clattering, children shrieking in excitement. That should have been me. Heading home. Reuniting with the chaos of our big Surabaya family. The idea of calling my mother and telling her I’d missed my flight filled me with dread—not because she’d scold me, but because she’d be disappointed.

Then I remembered: the train. With trembling fingers, I opened the KAI Access app. Most tickets were sold out—no surprise—but then, like a lifeline, I saw it: one last seat left on the Jayabaya train from Pasar Senen to Surabaya Gubeng. Economy class. Gerbong 9, kursi 18B. Right at the back. I didn’t even check where the seat was near—I just bought it. Later that evening, I made my way through the crowds of Pasar Senen. The station was a human sea—parents with clingy toddlers, couples carrying boxes of oleh-oleh, grandmothers clutching thermoses, and the smell of fried tahu from the warung outside lingering in the air.

I found Gerbong 9 and squeezed my way through the narrow aisle. My seat was, predictably, next to the bathroom. Waiting for me was an older woman, her batik shawl faded but clean, and a large green plastic bag on her lap.

“Permisi, Bu,” I said with a small smile. She looked up, eyes bright despite the deep lines on her face. “Silakan, Mas. Mau ke Surabaya juga?”

“Iya, Bu. Lebaran di rumah.”

 

She nodded approvingly. “Bagus. Anak muda masih mau pulang. Banyak yang lupa sekarang.” We made small talk as the train lurched forward. Her name was Bu Sumarni, and she had been living in Bogor with her youngest daughter, but this year she insisted on spending Eid with her eldest in Surabaya. “Naik kereta lebih enak,” she said. “Lambat, tapi hati tenang. Bisa lihat sawah, bisa tidur sambil goyang-goyang.”

Despite the long day and my earlier disaster, I found myself smiling. She had that comforting, familiar energy—like many ibu-ibu from my childhood neighborhood. Soon, we were sharing rempeyek and a container of serundeng she brought. I offered her some of my brownies. “Wah, manis banget,” she laughed. “Cucu saya pasti suka ini.”

As the train sped through the outskirts of Jakarta, the windows turned dark, reflecting the fluorescent lights inside. Bu Sumarni told me about her late husband, who had passed away two years ago. She spoke softly, sometimes pausing to collect her thoughts.

“Lebaran dulu ramai,” she said, her gaze distant. “Anak-anak lari-lari, suami saya yang selalu masak sambel. Sekarang… ya, hidup harus jalan terus.”

I nodded. I knew that kind of ache. My own father had passed away last year, just after Ramadan. It was sudden—a stroke. Eid hadn’t felt the same since. The house still had his sarong folded neatly on the prayer mat. His peci hanging behind the bedroom door. We sat quietly for a while, the sound of the train filling the silence. The rocking motion, the chatter of families around us, the warm scent of packed food—it was oddly soothing. It wasn’t comfortable, not by any stretch. My knees were stiff, my back ached, and the bathroom smell wafted in waves. But there was something real about it all. Honest. Human.

Around midnight, somewhere near Cirebon, the train stopped briefly. Outside, the platform was nearly empty except for a vendor selling kopi sachet and instant noodles. I got down to stretch and buy two cups of coffee.

“Wah, Mas baik sekali,” Bu Sumarni said, accepting the cup. “Tapi malam-malam kopi bikin susah tidur.”

“Lah, kita di kereta, Bu. Mau tidur juga susah,” I joked.

She chuckled. “Benar juga.”

As the train rolled on, she began to doze off, head nodding gently to the rhythm of the tracks. I stayed awake, staring out the window into the blackness. My phone had no signal. It felt like a brief pause from the world—a space between places, between identities. I wasn’t the son-who-arrived-late yet, nor the professional from Jakarta. I was just… a traveler. A man on a train heading home.

Morning arrived gradually. As we passed into East Java, I saw fields bathed in soft golden light. Farmers already out, scarecrows swaying. Villages zipped by—some familiar, some not.

Bu Sumarni woke up slowly, blinking at the sunlight.

“Sudah dekat, ya?”

“Masih dua jam lagi, Bu.”

She nodded, then leaned back and closed her eyes again, lips moving slightly in quiet prayer. I felt something shift inside me then—a kind of peace. The disappointment of the missed flight had faded. Maybe this was how it was meant to be. Maybe we needed the slower route to really feel the journey.

At 9:30 a.m., the train finally pulled into Surabaya Gubeng. I helped Bu Sumarni with her bag, which was heavier than it looked. At the station gate, a woman in her 40s waved excitedly. I guessed it was her daughter. They embraced tightly, the kind of hug that comes only after too much time apart.

Before she left, Bu Sumarni turned to me. “Terima kasih ya, Mas. Sudah jadi teman perjalanan yang baik.” “Sama-sama, Bu. Semoga Lebarannya penuh berkah.” She smiled. “Jangan lupa pulang tiap tahun, ya. Orangtua itu hanya ingin anak-anaknya datang. Bawa senyum, bawa cerita. Itu cukup.”

I watched her disappear into the crowd, her batik shawl fluttering like a flag of gentle resilience. My younger brother arrived a few minutes later, honking from across the street. I climbed into our old car and tossed my bag into the backseat.

“Lo beneran naik kereta ekonomi?” he said, eyes wide.

“Darurat, bro,” I laughed. “Gue ketinggalan pesawat.”

“Gila. Jadi cerita Lebaran, tuh.”

“Banget.”

As we drove through the Surabaya streets—past warungs, billboards, and rows of kampung houses—I felt a quiet gratitude settle in my chest. I was home. I’d taken the last train, sat next to a woman who reminded me of everything good and simple, and in that cramped, noisy gerbong, I’d found something I didn’t even realize I needed.

Sometimes, Lebaran doesn’t begin when you arrive.

Sometimes, it begins when you learn that the journey—no matter how bumpy—is the point.