LOVE IN TASBIH DETAILS
CHAPTERS. 3 CRY
Bram fell asleep for some time on the floor of the mosque, physically and mentally exhausted. His life changed in one night. He had completely lost everything, whether it was sally or Diah. Love feels distant, somewhere no one understands about its emptiness.
But, in her gloom of sadness there was something warming in the corner of her heart. As he gathered in the cold dawn to say do’a, under the guidance of Mr. Sharif, that gentle old man, that gentle marbot, there was a warmth that slipped filling the empty places in his soul.
“Nak, wake up.” The warm fingers touched Bram's shoulder. Heavy, Bram opened his eyes, he fell asleep in the corner of the mosque with his legs bent and head propped up on his knees.
“This, it's morning. How about Bram to your father's house.”He bargained with a smooth voice.
“Oh, I'm sorry sir, I'll just go home. I don't want to trouble mr.” Bram replied with a hint of hesitation, rubbing his eyes and wiping his frowny hair in shameless pias.
“It's okay, son. I am happy if I can bring my Bram to my father's house. The cottage is behind this mosque, we can walk there. The father's daughter may have boiled cassava, of course very good if eaten with hot coffee steeping in the morning like this.” Mr. Syarif tidied up the pecans with a friendly smile.
“But..”.
“Mari follow mr.”
It seems that Mr. Sharif did not accept Bram's refusal, he went first to signal for Bram to follow his steps.
Mr. Sharif's house is not big and if you can say it is very simple. The house, on the front there is a large terrace, with a floor without ceramics, only a plain floor plastered potluck. On top of that floor in the title mat, it looks like the terrace is often used to gather.
The door of the house is wide open so that it looks like a living room that is not how big where there are chairs and wooden tables that are neatly arranged.
The rest is inward, Bram can not see it anymore because it is limited to curtains.
“Let's in, son..”
“Here alone, I sit outside only.” Bram replied with a rowdy, the hospitality of Mr. Sharif really made him feel uncomfortable. In the modern era and Bram's association, he never felt treated so well.
“Alright..please sit down, son. Just look for a position as comfortable as possible even if only on the floor. Here There is only a mat, usually where children come and learn to teach.” Mr. Sharif said that his aging body seemed to walk with a little swinging.
Bram nodded his head, thanked him and sat cross-legged on the mat while docked to the wall. It felt very comfortable, especially on the outskirts of the house was neatly arranged several flower pots with wide leaves, although Bram did not know what the name was but felt very beautiful in view. In the yard, it is shaded by a flowering mango tree and rambutan tree whose fruit is still small green.
What a rare sight Bram had seen, he felt his breath so comfortable. This place is completely different. Not far ahead, the mosque building that was the place to stop, stood firm even in the paint that slightly faded but when looking at him the soul of Bram felt peaceful.
“Wa’alaikumsalam warahmatullahi wabarakatuh.”An answer came from a small child, before long the plain-sounding child appeared, his face was thin with a faded blue shirt and shorts.
“Grandfather, grandfather has come home.” He greets the grandfather, kissing solemnly the back of the old man's hand. From the looks of it, the 8-year-old had just taken a shower.
“Give greetings to mr Bram.” The tone was asking but very firm on the boy.
The boy stared for a moment at Bram and then extended his hand at Bram who looked at him unblinkingly. Her memories drift on Beni, her dead son. If he was still alive maybe now his age has been the same as this child's age and his size is certainly more or less.
“Tito, Where are you?” Ask Mr. Syarif, while trying to sit on the mat with the help of a child named Tito.
“Umi is washing clothes in the back.”
“Tell umimu, make two cups of coffee for grandfather and grandpa guest.” Said sir Sharif, without waiting twice, the boy ran back, his voice heard until the front, echoing calling um him.
“Nak Bram is his home where? If you could know?” Ask Mr. Sharif. Bram mentioned his home address and Mr. Sharif nodded his head, as if he knew the address that Bram was calling.
“It seems that you are bearing a very heavy burden, son. Men rarely shed tears if not because of the burden that squeezes his chest in such a deep way.” Mr. Sharif looked at Bram, fixed.
“I'm sorry, it has made you see me so crybaby as a man.” Bram said, his face flushed red and then bowed in shame.
“Son, crying does not mean crybaby, weak, fragile and vulnerable. Every creature of God has the right to cry whether male or female, children, old or adult. It is He Who makes man laugh and weep. Who makes people cry? God's answer, with all its rational processes, is that crying is natural. So if we feel claustrophobic and want to cry, cry.don't be shy.” Mr. Sharif threw a faint smile at Bram.
“Not even Bram, verily that Allah is pleased to see his servant weeping. But what kind of crying does God really like? The weeping of a servant filled with repentance and repentance, the weeping of a man who fears Allah. When a man thinks that his life is right between what God has given him and what he has done for God, he weeps, because what he gave in the form of devotion to God was far less, not even visible at all. Crying like this is a noble cry because it affects someone to always want to improve and continue to improve himself before God. The Prophet said, If you knew what I know, you would all laugh a little and cry a lot ”
Bram was silent, his eyes closed staring at the man he knew a few hours ago. How calm it was when he heard the sentence after sentence that came out from the mouth of this kind and kind old man.
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