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 ten hours. There were chickens in boxes, a baby that cried for five of those hours, and a driver who played 2000s dangdut non-stop. I didn’t care. I was going home. By the time we arrived in Gunungkidul, the rain had intensified. I stepped off the bus and was instantly soaked. My bag, full of oleh-oleh for the family, was drenched, and I had to wrap it in a spare kaos oblong just to protect the kue nastar inside.

There were no ojeks. No angkot. Just the sound of water gurgling in the gutters and my own shoes squishing with each step. So I walked. Down the narrow, muddy path between the rice fields, past houses with tin roofs and banana trees heavy with fruit. My grandmother’s house was just up the hill, a modest joglo tucked between two large mango trees. I knew it by the smell—the scent of cloves, damp teakwood, and burnt coconut husks. The same smell that had greeted me every Eid of my childhood.

I reached the gate and pushed it open. The familiar creak made something in my chest tighten. For a second, I forgot the rain entirely.

“Assalamu’alaikum!” I called out. A moment later, the front door opened and my aunt appeared, wrapped in a faded blue selendang. “Wa’alaikum salam, lho! Kamu basah kuyup!” she laughed, pulling me inside.

The living room hadn’t changed. The same sepia-toned photo of my grandparents hung on the wall, next to an old calendar with a picture of Mount Merapi. A thin layer of dust clung to the furniture, but everything felt warm.

“Inikah oleh-olehnya?” my aunt asked, poking the bag.

“Ada brownies, ada kopi, dan… nastar,” I said proudly.

She clucked her tongue. “Pasti basah semua. Tapi nggak apa-apa. Yang penting kamu pulang.” I changed into dry clothes and made my way to the back of the house—the dapur. The scent hit me immediately: coconut milk, lemongrass, and something slightly sweet. There, sitting on a low stool, was my grandmother.

“Nek!” I said, approaching with a grin.

She turned slowly. Her face lit up with that rare, quiet joy only the elderly possess—the kind that doesn’t need words.

“Kowe teko, Le,” she said softly.

“Iyo, Nek. Kulo mulih.”

Her hands were busy weaving ketupat from coconut leaves. Dozens of them were already piled beside her, their green strips glistening in the kitchen’s lamplight. She looked smaller than I remembered, her back a little more hunched, but her fingers still moved deftly, as if guided by muscle memory more than thought.

“Masak sendiri, Nek?” I asked, squatting beside her.

“Mbokde-mu bantu tadi pagi. Tapi ketupat, Mbah masih yang bikin. Biar rasa Lebarannya nggak hilang.”

I watched her fingers fold, twist, and tuck the leaves into the familiar diamond shape. I’d tried learning when I was younger, but mine always came out lopsided.

“Masih ingat caranya?” she asked with a wink.

I smiled sheepishly. “Pernah nyoba, tapi jelek.”

She handed me two palm leaves. “Ayo, latihan lagi. Biar kalau Mbah nggak ada, kamu bisa lanjutin.”

I hesitated. The rain tapped gently on the roof. Outside, mist curled through the trees. I sat down beside her and began weaving. It took me five tries to get one right. My grandmother watched patiently, correcting my technique with the gentlest touch.

“This part should fold into the corner, not over it. Like this—lihat. Kalau salah, nasi-nya nanti bisa keluar pas dimasak.”

“Kayak hidup ya, Nek. Harus rapi dari awal.”

She laughed. “Betul. Hidup juga harus dirapikan dari niatnya.”

We talked as we worked. About my job in Jakarta, the long hours, the deadlines. About my cousins who had gone abroad and wouldn’t be home this year. About the neighbors, many of whom had passed away since my last visit.

At some point, I asked her why she still insisted on making ketupat by hand. Why not buy the plastic ones, or just cook rice like everyone else?

She looked at me with eyes that held years of stories.

“Ketupat itu bukan cuma makanan. Itu simbol. Simbol berakhirnya puasa, simbol kesabaran. Nasi-nya dipadatkan, dikukus lama-lama. Tapi dalamnya bersih. Sama seperti kita habis Ramadhan—dibersihkan dari dalam.”

I nodded slowly. I’d never really thought about it that way. To me, ketupat was just a side dish. Something that went with opor ayam and sambal goreng ati. But for her, it was a ritual. A prayer woven into leaf and steam.

That night, after the ketupat had been boiled and cooled, I stepped outside. The rain had finally stopped. The air smelled like damp earth and clove smoke. Fireflies danced near the banana trees.

I remembered sitting on this same porch as a child, holding a sparkler in one hand and a piece of lemper in the other. My grandfather used to tell stories about ghosts and warriors. My cousins would run barefoot in the dark, chasing the flickering lights.

It was different now. Quieter. Smaller. But no less sacred.

The next morning was Eid.

We woke early, bathed, dressed in our best clothes. I wore a new white baju koko and black peci. My grandmother wore a batik kebaya with a delicate brooch—probably older than me. We walked to the masjid, joining a sea of neighbors in white and pastel. The air was crisp, the sky a soft gold. Children tugged at their sarongs. Women adjusted their kerudung. The imam’s voice echoed through the loudspeaker, calling us to prayer.

As we stood in long rows, bowing and rising in unison, I felt a deep sense of belonging. Not just to this place, but to a rhythm older than me. A cycle of fasting, forgiveness, and return.

After prayers, we visited graves—my grandfather’s, a cousin I barely knew, a childhood friend who died too young. We cleaned the stones, offered prayers, left flowers. My grandmother stood longest at her husband’s grave, lips moving in silent conversation.

Back home, the house filled with visitors. Cousins, neighbors, children with outstretched hands whispering, “Minal aidin wal faizin.” Plates of food covered the table—opor ayam, sambal goreng, rendang, and of course, our handmade ketupat. Everyone said it tasted better this year.

Maybe it did.

Later, I sat beside my grandmother again. She was tired but smiling.

“Terima kasih ya, Le,” she said. “Sudah pulang. Sudah bantu.”

“Sama-sama, Nek. Tahun depan aku pulang lagi.”

She patted my hand. “Ingat, hidup itu seperti ketupat. Nggak selalu rapi, tapi kalau niatnya baik, hasilnya juga enak.” And as I looked around—at the family, the laughter, the food, and the quiet comfort of being home—I understood.

Lebaran wasn’t just a holiday.

It was a homecoming. A returning. A remembering.

And sometimes, it began with two strips of coconut leaf and a pair of wrinkled hands in a smoky kitchen—teaching you how to weave love into shape.