Rahmania and the First Boarding School Rumor
(Because in the pesantren [boarding school], sometimes it's not the signal that travels fast, but the gossip that might not be true.)
That morning, Darul Kenangan Islamic Boarding School was business as usual—loud, noisy, and spiritual.
Spiritual, because every morning I had to find patience seeing lost sandals, fighting over the ladle, and the well water that came out like a post-thesis college student: weak but struggling.
I am—Pak Nuel, the young ustadz (religious teacher) who is supposedly "smart but frequently loses focus."
My loss of focus isn't due to sin, but due to a love that I haven't had the chance to "interpret" yet.
And that love was named Rahmania.
I first saw her in the women's Tafsir (Qur'anic Exegesis) class.
She sat in the middle row, holding a copy of the Jalalain scripture whose pages were filled with neat annotations.
Her hands were delicate, her face serene, and her voice… Mashya Allah (What God has willed), it was like the Subuh (dawn) call to prayer during a heavy rain.
Calm, yet stirring faith.
"Assalamu'alaikum, Ustadz," she said the first time she greeted me.
I was startled, because it's rare for a student to greet their teacher with such bright eyes.
"Wa... waalaikumsalam," I replied, but my voice came out like an azan (call to prayer) with the wrong note.
Since that day, my heart officially registered as a new student in the class of love.
My days at the pesantren became absurd.
I, who was usually serious about teaching, now often read the wrong text.
While supposed to be reading the Jurumiah (a classic Arabic grammar book), I accidentally read the Umriti (another religious text).
The male students laughed, but internally, I recited istighfar (asking for forgiveness)—really loudly.
Rahmania was strange.
Not because of her behavior, but because she could make me embarrassed without saying anything at all.
If she walked past, not only my mind but even my sandals would get nervous.
Once, I was sweeping the front yard of the female student block, pretending to be doing community service.
But the real reason was just one: I wanted to make sure Rahmania came out exactly at break time.
And sure enough.
When she passed by, I immediately swept with more enthusiasm, until the broom snapped.
"Be careful, Ustadz, you might get pricked by a thorn," she said, smiling.
"Yes, a thorn… it's not you, is it?"
"Hehe, I am not a thorn, Ustadz. I am a mercy (rahmat)."
"Yes, but a mercy that sometimes stings."
I regretted saying that.
But her smile only grew sweeter.
And from that moment, I knew—love in a pesantren can sprout from a simple broomstick and a brief glance.
I started frequently writing small notes in my worn-out book:
The Absurd Ustadz's Notes, Day 7:
"If seeing a student's smile makes the heart tremble, perhaps it's not ordinary love.
It's love with a legitimate chain of transmission (sanad), but without a diploma (ijazah)."
Day after day passed.
Our conversations became more frequent, even if only for a moment.
Sometimes in the communal kitchen, sometimes in the library, sometimes just greeting each other in the ablution corridor.
But it was enough to make me excited to teach.
Even when a student slept in class, I didn't get angry.
Because in my heart, there was only one name:
"Alfiyaturrahmania."
One afternoon, the rain poured down hard.
I took shelter under the common kitchen's roof, sipping on bitter coffee.
Suddenly Rahmania appeared, carrying a bucket of water and a small smile.
"Ustadz, the rain is really heavy, isn't it?"
"Yes. As heavy as the gossip in this pesantren."
She chuckled softly. "Ustadz is joking."
"I can only joke, but I can't do anything when I see you."
She lowered her head, pretending to wipe the bucket.
But from that, I knew—her heart might not be as calm as the rainwater.
Days turned into weeks.
That feeling grew—silent, but real.
Until one day, the absurd incident that changed everything occurred.
At that time, a female student fainted on the field.
I, who was passing by, immediately rushed to help.
By reflex, I carried her to the infirmary (UKS), gave her water, and called the duty Ustadzah.
Everything happened fast—but not as fast as the gossip.
By night, the news had spread throughout the entire pesantren:
"Pak Nuel was holding hands with a student!"
"They say it was so romantic, he even wiped the female student's sweat!"
"Some even claimed he fed her water!"
In reality, I was only wiping my own sweat, because I was tired from carrying her.
But that's how a pesantren is:
Help once, be accused a thousand times.
The next morning, the atmosphere felt different.
The female students who were usually friendly now only greeted me half-heartedly.
Some were even whispering while looking down, like watching a free drama show.
And the most hurtful thing—Rahmania was cold too.
She walked past without a smile, without a greeting, without a glance.
It felt like being greeted with a brick.
I waited for a moment to explain, but I didn't get the chance.
Until late afternoon, I deliberately waited in front of the library.
The evening sky was old orange, like stale tea.
The wind blew slowly, and my heart pounded like a hadrah (drumming competition) drum.
Rahmania arrived.
I held my breath.
"Rahmania," I called.
She stopped, but didn't look at me.
"I know you heard the gossip. But I swear, it's not true."
She remained silent.
"I was just helping. I didn't cheat."
Finally, she spoke softly, her voice trembling.
"I believe you, Ustadz. But others don't."
"So why should we care about them?"
"Because your good name could be damaged. I don't want to be the cause of it."
"Rahmania…"
She finally looked at me—but it wasn't a warm gaze, but a cold one full of logic.
"I'm sorry, Ustadz. I think we should stop. Before everything gets more complicated."
I fell silent.
The wind stopped.
And at that moment, the sound of rain began to fall again, as if joining in mourning an ending that hadn't even had the chance to begin.
That night I wrote in my little book, sipping stale coffee:
The Absurd Ustadz's Notes, Day 30:
"Gossip in the pesantren is like a lost sandal.
The thief is unseen, but the accused walks with a limp."
A few days later, I heard news that Rahmania had moved rooms.
They said she wanted to focus on memorizing the Qur'an.
But I knew what she was avoiding wasn't the temptations of the world—it was me, who was seen as the source of the gossip.
And a week after that, the news arrived:
Rahmania was engaged to a visiting Ustadz from outside the city.
They said he was pious, gentle, and owned a new automatic motorbike.
As for me? I was still loyal to my onthel (classic bicycle) whose brakes often failed.
My friend, Kang Sobri, just commented when he heard the news:
"Nuel, be patient. Love in a pesantren is like fried tempeh in the common kitchen: delicious, but not everyone gets to eat it."
I gave a wry smile. "Yes, Sob. But the difference is, fried tempeh can be reheated. Love cannot."
A few days later, little Rahma the bocil (kid) came to my room.
She was a small female student, her hair messy, but her tongue was as sharp as a spiritual razor blade.
"Pak Nuel, they say you were accused of cheating?"
I was surprised, where did this kid get the fastest info?
"Yes, Rahma. But it's not true."
"Oh, so what's true is… the Ustadz can't move on?"
"Hey, kid! What do you know about moving on?"
"I know. I once lost my favorite chicken. But I didn't cry, I raised a duck instead. Sometimes, losing teaches us to change direction."
I was stunned.
And in my heart, I made a note:
The Absurd Ustadz's Notes, Day 45:
"A pesantren kid can be wiser than a heartbroken Ustadz."
That night I went to the mushala (prayer room), alone.
The lamp light was dim, and the scent of the wet prayer mat was still lingering.
I stared at the Taqrib scripture that I often used to teach Rahmania.
The middle page still had a crease—the last place we stopped.
I wrote the final note that night:
The Absurd Ustadz's Notes, Day 50:
"First love is like a pesantren sandal—often disappears without saying goodbye,
but its footprint remains in the heart."
"If Rahmania is happy, so be it. Because maybe her task wasn't to accompany me,
but to teach the meaning of a loss that doesn't make us lose faith."
I closed the book, blew out the lamp, and smiled faintly.
First love doesn't always have to belong to us,
sometimes it's enough to be a lesson:
that even an Ustadz can be defeated by gossip.
End of Chapter 1:
"Love in a pesantren is simple.
It comes through the first glance,
disappears through the second accusation,
but lives on in the third note."
And perhaps, if Heaven has an infirmary, I'll pretend to be sick again—
who knows, maybe I'll run into Rahmania there.
To be continued…
Next Chapter: "Novi — The Cooperative, Coffee, and a Ticket to Turkey."
Because after losing the first love, sometimes what you find is a love that smells of coffee and a pile of student IOUs.