Dusk crept slowly across the sky, spreading an orange glow over the courtyard of the Islamic boarding school. From far away came a call that split the silence.
“Grandpa!!!”
A young man came running at a light but hurried pace, like a child whose longing could no longer be held back. It was Fathan, who immediately rushed forward and embraced the elderly figure on the veranda. That was Kyai Rahmatullah—the teacher, the guiding light. They were not related by blood, but his love had taken root as deeply as the ocean.
He hurriedly set the yellow-paged religious text on a teakwood table. The Kyai welcomed him, his face radiating a soothing serenity.
Fathan pressed his lips to the back of the Kyai’s hand. In return, the Kyai kissed Fathan’s hand and cheek, warm and full of affection.
“How are you doing, Grandpa?” Fathan draped an arm around the Kyai’s shoulders and guided him into the residence, filled with the scent of wood and memories.
“Alhamdulillah, I’m well. It’s just that... my chest feels a little sore right here.” His old fingers pointed to his chest, to where his heart resided.
In an instant, Fathan’s expression changed. Worry crept in. “Why didn’t you say so sooner, Grandpa? Come on, let’s go to the hospital right now!”
The wrinkled palm gently patted Fathan’s back.
“That isn’t the cure, son. Even a healer wouldn’t be able to cure it.”
Fathan’s heart sank. He wondered inwardly how deep the wound could be for the medicine of this world to surrender. “Don’t say that, Grandpa. If we have to, we’ll go abroad. Anywhere. As long as you get better.”
But what came from the Kyai’s lips was laughter—crisp, pure, and soothing. His row of teeth was still complete, white and gleaming, with traces of siwak from his daily use. Even in his twilight years, his face still held remnants of his youthful handsomeness, tranquil as the light of dawn.
“You got pranked.”
Fathan immediately narrowed his eyes. “You lied, Grandpa? It’s Monday. You’re fasting. Lying invalidates your fast, you know. Go on, get me something to drink from the kitchen.”
The Kyai rubbed his chest again. This time, it wasn’t a joke.
“This is real chest tightness, Fathan.”
Fathan guided him to sit down. Silence settled for a moment. “If it isn’t your body that hurts, then it must be your feelings. Tell me. What do you want, Grandpa?” He understood. Behind every complaint was a hidden hope.
The Kyai raised both hands and gently rocked them through the air, as if cradling something invisible. “When will I get to hold my great-grandchild?”
“Astaghfirullah.” Fathan slapped his forehead. “Ummi told me to pick some kaffir lime leaves from the female boarding-school students’ garden. I’ll go there first, Grandpa. I’m afraid it’ll get too late. I might run into the place’s spirit. A beautiful one, too. That would be a whole lot of trouble.” He stood, about to leave.
But the turban wrapped around his neck was suddenly yanked. “There are some in the backyard, too. Don’t look for excuses to avoid this.”
From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of stifled laughter. “Fathan is seriously the best at getting the Kyai worked up.”
“Watch where you look. We’re here to cook, not stare at people.” The voice was firm and cold. It belonged to Hafizah, the girls’ dorm security officer. Her features were beautiful and her speech polite, but her boundaries were as clear as a wall.
Back in the living room, the Kyai got straight to the point. “Is there a girl you’re interested in?”
“Not yet, Grandpa. And I don’t want to be set up.”
“If you don’t want to be set up, then find someone yourself. A girl who guards her modesty and is steadfast in her faith.”
“I just haven’t thought about it yet, Grandpa.”
The Kyai’s gaze sharpened. “You’re old enough. Your business is already up and running. What else are you waiting for?”
“I’m waiting until I’m ready, Grandpa.”
“Are you waiting until you’re ready, or waiting for a beard to grow?”
Fathan rubbed his smooth chin. “It’s grown, Grandpa. I just keep shaving it so I can look young longer.”
“Don’t you love your Grandpa?”
“Of course I do.”
“Prove it. Get married. Bring me a daughter-in-law.”
Fathan took a step back. “Don’t make me go first, Grandpa.”
“Then who? Your younger sister is still in high school.”
“Then let her go first. I’ll be last in line.”