The sky was a deep, glowing amber as the sun dipped behind the paddy fields, casting long shadows across the kampung. The familiar scent of lemongrass, smoke, and the earth after rain hung heavy in the air. After a gruelling ten-hour drive from the city, Aiman stepped out of the car, stretching his stiff legs. His wife, Nadiah, busied herself unloading bags, while their three children, Badrul, Tarmizi and Cahaya, ran off toward where opah and atuk stood waiting. Their faces—weathered, kind, and quietly hopeful—lit up at the sight of the children. They had waited all year for this moment, hearts swelling with the kind of love that never faded, only waited patiently.
In the backyard, a makeshift shack made from zinc sheets and old canvas had been set up, just like old times. The entire family was already there, their laughter echoing into the evening air. Pak Rahim, now retired, had taken charge of the dodol, his arm rhythmically stirring the heavy, sticky mixture in a giant kawah. Sweat trickled down his brow, but his smile never left. Beside him, cousin Farah chopped onions and garlic, her fingers moving fast despite teary eyes. Pak Long Azmi, ever meticulous, was in the garden clearing fallen coconut tree leaves, creating space for tomorrow’s family photo. In one corner, Mak Ngah Lina was washing the chicken, her sleeves wet, humming old Hari Raya tunes as if no time had passed.
The scent of rendang filled the air, blending with laughter and the occasional hiss of something hitting hot oil. Aiman finally rolled up his sleeves and joined his younger brother, Faiz, in cutting cubes of beef for the gulai. Their hands worked in rhythm, falling into the same childhood patterns—bickering, teasing, forgiving. Every now and then, someone would call out for opah’s advice, and she would answer from her stool under the mango tree, her voice gentle but firm, just like how she used to guide them when they were children. Atuk, though slower now, carefully watched over the grandchildren, occasionally telling them stories from his younger days, stories they had heard countless times but always listened to again.
As the night deepened and the stars began to shimmer above the old kampung roof, silence gently crept into their gathering. The fire crackled, the dodol thickened, and tired limbs moved slower now. Aiman looked around—the faces he loved, the voices he had missed, the place he had once seen as kampung but now realised was home in its truest form. In the quiet, he noticed opah watching them all with glassy eyes, her wrinkled hands clasped together as if holding the moment in her palms. No words were needed; he understood. This—this once-a-year gathering—was her joy, her reward, her reason.
Somewhere in that silence, a guilt settled in Aiman’s chest. All these years, balik kampung had felt like a duty. He had forgotten the longing in atuk’s stories, the way opah had folded clothes months ahead in anticipation, the quiet nights they endured alone waiting for the echoes of laughter that filled the house only once a year. As the breeze rustled the coconut leaves above, he made a silent vow—this wouldn’t be just an annual visit anymore. It wasn’t just a journey back; it was a return to love, to memory, to roots. A blessing not to be overlooked, but to be embraced, cherished, and never forgotten again.
