the collapse of our small mosque

If a few years ago you came to my hometown by bus, you would stop by the market. So roughly a kilogram of the market will come to you in my driveway. At the small intersection to the right, the fifth intersection, turn to the narrow road. And at the end of the road you will meet an old surau. In front of it there is a fish pond, whose water flows through four baths. And in the left courtyard of the small mosque you will meet an old man who usually sits there with all his aging behavior and obedience. It has been years for him as garin, the small mosque guard.

 

People call him Grandpa. As the surau's arranger, Grandpa got nothing. He lives out of the charity he picks once every Friday. Once in six months he got a quarter of the harvest from the pond. And once a year people pass the Fitrah to him. But as garin he was not very well known. He is best known as a knife sharpener. Because he was so proficient at his job. People love to help him, while he never asked for anything.

 

Women who ask for a knife or scissors, give her a kiss in return. The man who asked for help, gave him a cigarette reward, sometimes money. But most often it is thanksgiving and a little smile.

But this grandfather is no longer present now. He's dead. And the small mosque remains without his guardian. Until the children use it as a playground, play everything they love. Women who run out of firewood, often like to take a wall board or floor at night.