Coming Home: A Father's Tale of Joy, Longing, and Togetherness

It was already evening when I sat on the porch of my parents' house in my hometown. The air still retained the warmth after a day of exposure to hot sun, but there was relief from cooling breezes in the evening.The house is still as I remember it-the walls are made of adobe, painted blue and white, with teak wood accents on the doors and windows. There was a small roof in the courtyard where motorbikes were parked outside to repel the rain. There is a takbir sound coming from the distant mosque, which is indeed far away, punctuated by the ringing laughter of children playing in the compound.

Every now and then, there is a deafening explosion of firecrackers in the air accompanied by the explosive laughter and the shrieks of excitement. The scent of "opor ayam" and "rendang" wafted from the kitchen, combined with the fresh aroma of just-steam-cooked "ketupat". Already, the pretty large, lively wooden dining table is decorated with glass containers filled with homemade cookies - "nastar", "chookies", "putri salju" and etc, all set to be served to tomorrow's visitors. 

This terrace has witnessed so many late-night talks over the years when those who live far away finally come home. The creaky wooden chairs add a nostalgic element, as if not ready to let go of the memories they have formed. My father occupied that place, sipping a hot cup of tea and welcoming a passing neighbor every now and then. His eyes twinkle as he sees the house come back to life with the sounds of his children and grandchildren's laughter. 

"Homecoming is always a different experience, but it continues to make you miss it," he said, putting his cup down on the little wooden table beside him. "Wherever you're going, home is home."

I smiled, knowing what he was saying. There is some solace in returning to a place that has shaped your childhood, a place where memories of past Eid celebrations still remain. Looking around, I see my mother inside the house, preparing the food and cleaning the plates, making sure that everything is ready for tomorrow to be eaten together.

This year's Eid wasn't too crowded, just the occasional sound of laughter from the neighborhood kids and those of us gathered around who were busy with our respective jobs, while the mothers and sisters gathered in the kitchen to help prepare the food for tomorrow, chatting about the preparations for Eid and what to do tomorrow when we get together. Usually they also like to gossip about the neighbors if there are problems, this makes them busy in the kitchen.

The atmosphere in the area felt somewhat empty and quiet. This year’s Lebaran was not too lively, with only the occasional laughter of the neighborhood children and the sound of firecrackers they often set off. Meanwhile, the mothers gathered in their kitchens to prepare food, chat about Lebaran preparations, and discuss various other topics. In front of the house, there were only rice fields and a fairly dense cluster of trees. Anyone passing through without a light would find it difficult, as there were no streetlights in the area.

As I observed everything, my father began to share stories of his own experiences traveling back home for Eid in the past. Compared to our time, when highways and travel facilities have lessened the efforts of traveling, his journeys used to be a long and fatiguing endeavor. He informed us about how in the early years he needed to undertake numerous types of journeys—trains, buses, and private transportation along with passengers to arrive at home before Eid prayers.

"Travel itself was an adventure in those days," he chuckles. "People would even travel home by bus back then. We didn't have online tickets. You had to arrive early at the terminal, fight the crowds, and race against time to book tickets.".

Listening to his stories made me realize just how much times had progressed. Today, people can book flights or bullet trains with the push of a button, but the spirit of "mudik"—the former annual journey of people returning to their hometowns—is the same. It's not merely going back physically; it's returning to be reunited with family, with heritage, and with environment.

I asked my dad what homecoming meant to him, not just the journey.

"It's a time of reflection," he said thoughtfully. "You work all year, chasing your dreams, building a life somewhere else. But then you come back, and you are reminded of where you started. You see old friends, you see familiar places, and it makes you feel grounded."