Eid in Hometown

There's something about the way the wind feels in our hometown—Kediri. It's softer there. Slower. The kind of wind that doesn't rush through you like the city wind, but instead brushes gently against your arms like it knows you. It smells like morning soil, lodeh, and laundries. Like burning trash from someone sweeping their yard too early, or banana leaves swaying without purpose. And in between all that, it carries the whispers of memories—ones you thought you’d forgotten until they knock gently in the back of your mind. I hadn't visited in months. Probably close to a year, to be honest. We always say we'll come more often, but life happens, and then suddenly it's almost Eid again and you're cramming six giant bags into a car for a five-day trip like it's a survival mission.

The trip itself was... classic mudik. Hours of traffic, cramped limbs, toll booths that stretched into infinity, and a questionable bathroom stop in the middle of nowhere that I'm still trying to erase from my memory. But all of that—the stiffness, the bickering, the sleeping-with-your-neck-at-a-weird-angle part of the journey melted away the second we stepped out of the car and into the dust and quiet of Kediri's neighborhood.

I took one deep breath and instantly, it hit me.

"Oh my God," I said, turning to my brother as I looked around. "It smells the same, never changed at all."

He sniffed the air, shrugged, and said, "Smells like smoke and chicken poop."

The houses still had that low, sun-faded look. Someone was burning dried leaves nearby. There was a motorbike parked sideways in front of someone else's house. Chicken crowed, and a cat darted across the path with the exact same energy as someone stealing fried tofu.

Then we saw it—Grandma's house.

Exactly as I remembered it. Faded paint, peeling here and there. The metal gate squeaked when we opened it, just like always. The small, square fish pond near the side wall still stood in its spot—except this time, it was just water. No fish. I used to sit on that edge when I was a kid, watching some catfish dart around like they had something urgent to do. Now it was just mossy water and dead leaves floating lazily like retired fish ghosts.

But somehow, it was still comforting.

The yard had been swept. Not a single leaf in sight. The rambutan tree in the corner looked taller than ever, probably because I hadn't stood next to it in ages. Chickens strutted confidently across the yard. One of them stared me down, and I had to look away first.

And then we heard it, grandma's voice that called our names.

She didn't even wait for us to knock on the door. She had already hobbled out in her green daster, her hair tied in that same bun she always wore, her voice stronger than someone half her age.

"Why do you look so thin??" she said as she questioned me as her hands rubbing my shoulders.

I only let out an awkward laugh at her.

"You need to eat a lot after this." She said sternly.

She pulled me into a hug that smelled like eucalyptus oil. Her arms were bony but warm, the kind of hug that doesn't say much but still makes you feel like you’re not lost in the world. Inside the house, everything looked the same. The same old television in the middle room, the same calendar from a pipe company hanging slightly crooked in the kitchen, and the same fancy glass table in the living room.

She didn't ask too many questions about the rest of the family.

And neither did we.

There were... gaps now. You could feel them. Names that used to be part of every conversation were skipped. Events from the past were mentioned carefully, like navigating a minefield with slippers on. But we didn't push. No one really does, not on the first day.

Instead, we just let the silence sit. Not awkward—just quiet. A mutual understanding that sometimes, distance makes things less messy. At least for a while.

And so, we sat. We watched the chickens outside start pecking at the fallen leaves. We listened to the neighbor's child cry over something we wouldn't know, and the motorbikes zooming past like the world hadn't stopped for our homecoming.

When I was younger, visiting the hometown was the highlight of Eid.

It meant chaotic reunions, cousins swarming every corner of the house, the smell of opor and ketupat wafting from the kitchen, and aunties who handed out crisp pocket money before pinching your cheeks like they were kneading dough. I used to run across the house or try to climb the pillar on the terrace before my mom shouted at me to come down.

But over the years, things changed.

Arguments happened. Misunderstandings brewed in silence, never truly addressed. Some visits ended in quiet tension. Others didn't happen at all. People stopped calling. Group chats died down. And just like that, the big family I used to know slowly unraveled into polite distance.

Now, the only person we ever visit in Kediri is my grandma.

And even that... feels kind of sad.

Instead of the usual chaos, pots bubbling over, voices shouting across rooms, and too many people trying to chop onions at the same time, it was just us now. My mom and I helped Grandma in the kitchen, though most of the time it felt like we were just watching her do things her way. She had this rhythm, one she'd repeated for years.

"Don't cut the garlic like that," she scolded gently, taking the knife from my mom's hand and doing it herself with trembling fingers.

"It's not Eid without homemade ketupat," she said with a half-smile.

I watched her hands as she wove the young coconut leaves into tight little diamond shapes. Her fingers weren't as steady as they used to be, some of the edges were uneven but her movements were confident. Familiar. Her muscle memory, it seemed, still remembered even if her joints protested.

I wanted to tell her that it was okay if we bought ketupat from the stall down the street. No one would care. Eid was still Eid. But I didn't. I let her hold onto the things she knew, the routine that gave her a sense of control in a world that kept changing around her.

Later that evening, as the sun dipped below the rooftops, painting the sky a dull orange, I stretched out in the middle room in front of the old TV. The remote had to be smacked a few times before it worked. I yawned dramatically, twice, maybe three times before I finally opened my laptop.

So, there I was, half-laying, half-sitting, with my knees bent and laptop balanced on a thin pillow. Typing lazily. My eyes kept drifting to the TV screen where a rerun of some gossip show was playing. I didn't even know the name. It just felt like something that only aired around Eid.

Outside, the night began to bloom, slowly and softly.

The first takbir came from a nearby mosque. Then, like a domino effect, another followed. And another. The whole village began to echo with the sounds of takbiran—some calm and solemn, others lively and fast, mixed with the occasional beating of drums or the hum of loudspeakers crackling at full volume. But we didn't go out. No parading through the village or banging on tambourines like some neighborhoods. We stayed in.

The six of us gathered in the living room.

My grandma was wrapped in a thin jacket on the couch, her feet tucked beneath her. My dad sat beside her, sipping hot tea from a ceramic mug and talking in a casual low tone. My mom is with me, scrolling through e-commerce platforms, looking for anything.

My two younger brothers had claimed both ends of the carpeted floor and were glued to their phones, occasionally showing each other a meme or a short video and laughing under their breath.

After a while, I leaned back and let my eyes wander to the open window. Outside, the night air smelled faintly of smoke and grass. The lights from a neighboring house blinked through the banana leaves. Somewhere in the distance, a group of kids were shouting takbir in sync, their voices high and excited.

It's nice to be young.

On Eid morning, the village stirred early.

The azan crackled through old speakers, and the road outside filled with people in their best clothes, heading to the mosque. We dressed quietly. My cream-colored blouse was a little crumpled, probably from moving and adjusting it for a little too many times.

The mosque wasn’t far, just a 5 minute walk. It was the same one I used to visit when I was younger, though the paint had been redone. We spread out our mats in the open field, the paved ground still damp from the small rain last night. During the sermon (khotbah), I watched my grandma. She looked peaceful. And for a second, I wished the rest of the family was there too—not for me, but for her.

After prayer, most people went around hugging neighbors, exchanging apologies, and making plans to visit each other’s homes. We also did that as a formality before heading back home, preparing for upcoming guests.

Back at the house, we did our own sungkem. Sungkem or sungkeman itself is a deeply rooted cultural tradition in Indonesia, particularly among Javanese people, observed during Eid. It symbolizes respect, humility, and the act of seeking forgiveness from elders, making the celebration more solemn and meaningful.

The sungkem was simple, no lines of children, no piles of pocket money envelopes. Just me, my dad, my mom, my brothers and my grandma. I knelt before her, took her hands, and pressed my forehead to them.

"Mohon maaf lahir batin, Grandma," I whispered.

She paused, then patted my head gently. "You're grown up now, I hope you find a job soon, so you can help your father."

That was all she said, I just grinned at her awkwardly.

We spent the day mostly indoors. My mom reheated the opor and sambal goreng, and we ate together, talking about the little things—how school had been, how bad the traffic was, how my grandma still didn’t like the neighbor’s antics which were still her relatives too.

Around noon, someone knocked on the door. It was one of our close relatives, my father's younger brother to be exact. He brought his wife and his children which makes them my cousin whom I hadn’t seen in years. He dropped by to deliver some gifts and say hello. The visit was pretty long,  I could hear my dad and mom, my grandma, and my uncle's laughter in the living room. 

After they left, I noticed my grandma's gaze lingered at the door for a moment, watching them walk away.

Later that evening, I sat outside, watching the sky turn orange. The village was slowly settling into that familiar evening hush. From a distance, I could hear kids laughing, someone lighting fireworks, and the clatter of dishes from houses filled with more people than ours.

My mind went back, thinking of what we used to have when Eid came. The crowded living room, the noisy dinners, the way we used to hang out and talk on the floor in one big pile of cousins, uncles, aunts, and even other guests. But I also knew things don’t always stay the same. And maybe that’s okay.

Because even though it was just the six of us this year, it still mattered. The food still tasted like Eid. The prayers still felt sincere. And the quiet had its own kind of comfort.

When I went back inside, I saw my grandma had set aside some ketupat in a small container. "For the neighbors," she said. “It feels incomplete if we didn't give any.”

And somehow, that made me smile.