FIZAH (Female Kolong Garbage)
PART 10 “Kesirrian Love”

*Rabi’ah Al-Adawiyah

In mid June.

People call me Ala. Plus mbak front of him. No one dared to call me nameless even though I was actually ordinary. I'll take it. From the beginning they knew who I was. But, I'm not comfortable being called other than by my direct name, mbak, or deck. That's because I'm not very mature yet, still twenty-one years old. Many seniors with ages four to five are above me.

I've been living and staying in this cottage for four years. The cottage I was most in love with after having been three times nomadic from one city to another. In fact, the pesantren that I entered before was even a famous and large pesantren. Finally in October of 2017, I stayed here and rarely went home. Only four times, once a year.

Abah and Umi are proud that I am no longer a problem. I'm kerasan. The deserted pesantren. Dominated by local students with the same background. Not much noise because I prefer silence. Armed with five juz memorization, I was accepted without a test because of my family background. Ummik Nur Fatimah herself was convinced reading taught me already shahih. And after being found, it turns out that the scientific reading of the Qur'an Ummik Nur and my abah are the same. That's where, at first I made a match in this pesantren until now.

This pesantren is located in a half-rural village even though it is not mountainous. Melt in one neighborhood with housing residents. In the morning, there will be heard many small children playing jumping rope, hide and seek, swing, play marbles, or chase. Sometimes I feel that this pesantren is not a pesantren, but it is not like my own home. I have never felt imprisoned in the holy grail. If the celebration event arrives, some of us are asked to join in the cooking event or at the time of the main event to be special invited guests with Ummik Nur.

Not infrequently anyway, I in particular, sent to snack Gus Afif play to the neighboring house. While accompanying play and feeding. So, chatting with the neighbors is very common. And, I also openly accept their questions about santri activities or those who talk a lot about family and community.

In addition, if the window of my room has been opened, it will appear the house of residents who sell vegetables every day. Sister Santri also often buy there or next to the cottage gate. According to confessions, they really like it if the santri-santri who buy. In fact, mbak-mbak will get a bonus piece of tofu tempe or rice added—from one entong into two entong.

“Mbak Ala has rarely played at home Mother to,” said Bu Asri.

“Sayurnya added, yes, Bu.”

Ma Asri smiled. Get me more. Sambal pecelnya also shed more than four spoons. Memorize that I like spicy.

“So, these two weeks Mbak Ala is busy?” ask again.

“Mboten, Mom. Kinda speeding.” I'm giving you a smile.

“Her rote memorization?” While wrapping the rice.

I took out a piece of money five thousand from my black skirt pocket.

“This, Bu As.”

“Ndon't do it, Ma'am. This is Bu Asri kangen Mbak Ala.”

Ms. Asri still forced me to accept it without paying.

“Bu As definitely gini same me.”

“Ndak nothing. May his rote quickly khatam continue to marry. Ms. Asri was invited, Ms. La.”

“Much is fine, Bu?”

“It's okay. Kan, Mbak Ala is like a child himself.”

I went back to the room. I was confronted by Ms. Zuja in the office.

“Why, Ma'am?”

“Loh practice what is this?”

“Tilawah. Mr. Nizam just chat manager, if you can practice time, must be smooth. Suggest with Mr. Nizam if we are still difficult to teach even though Mr. Nizam wants to move.”

“Yeah? How did I know, Ma'am?” Kulepas. I hold it with my left hand. I put it on a sandal rack. I'm in the room.

I'm klemahan (bed on the floor). Zuja's mother asked permission to open my passage.

“How was it?”

“I ate a little lo.” He's saying goodbye again.

“Iya open aja.” I focus on what he's going to talk about.

While chewing a piece of tempe he replied, “Pak Nizam actually already told after the change of maqra’ yesterday. But the story is only to me.

“Kamuuuu..”.

“Eh, no. I used to be with Mr. Nizam. Don't think of anything weird, Ma'am Al.”

“Emang I think what hayo?”

“Malah ngetes lo, Ma'am Ala, ni.”

“So, move to where?”

“To Tulungagung.”

“Pindar also means.”

“Definitely. He didn't say what the reason was. But, that is clear maqra’ this last maqra’. Must mateng even though the meeting is short.”

“Iya, huh. God willing, tonight we practice together in the hall.”

“No on musala?”

“Yes. In musala only.”

I as the manager moves the students so that the spirit of the reading and the ladder of the tone. More than an hour we study in musala after isya’. After a night of nariyah prayer activities, which is usually used barzanji events, for tonight focus on maqra’ Ustadz Nizam. Unfortunately, they complained hard on the song bayyati answered. In addition to the tone is also high, I admit the variation of Ustadz Nizam in maqra’ is much more detailed than the previous maqra’. I can personally imitate even in daily practice, especially when open reading exercises, I rarely use it. And, in fact, the santri-santri gave up and chose to end the training on the song.

I allowed myself to whine (murmuring) at the musala. Exercise with falseto sound. Just a little bit of a song. It's just not going to be too updated. The fear is not even mature and will ruin the appearance on the day of the performance not next October.

Then, I suddenly remembered the transfer of Ustadz Nizam. It's been two years that he and I have studied in one assembly. At first I heard that the tilawah teacher would be replaced, I thought the replacement would still be a woman. I think that me and the other students will be awkward because the teacher is young and a lecturer as well. Yes, even though we have been taught by Gus Ridwan, Ummik Nur Fatimah's husband, and other old teachers at the yellow book learning meeting. It turns out that after two meetings, I honestly like how to teach him. That may also be because he gives us freedom of expression and free to choose the maqra’ we like, he also does not hesitate to open a light conversation that has nothing to do with the field of law. The point is I'm amazed at him.

Then, the awe condenses into points of love in my eyes when the day comes when we will meet. The most special day for me is Sunday. Unfortunately, the admiration I had to let go on the way had reached a count of four hundred days. I like it a year more in my silence. The chest that would initially tremble upon hearing his name called, then the lips would be moved arcing the most everlasting smile, the most immortal, now deep in my heart I still want to feel the same way without any chaotic requests from my parents.