Nu did not mourn yet. He was fascinated by the process. He watched the modin lead the chant, his thumb tracing the beads of a tasbih with mechanical precision. He watched his father, Arman, who had cried only once—a single, choked sob at the pemakaman —and then turned into a pillar of stone.
He looked at his father. Arman was frowning at his watch. tahlil nu
Not a groan. Not a complaint.
The kopi smoke, which had been swirling in lazy spirals, suddenly straightened into vertical columns. The lights—the single, naked bulb hanging from a wire—flickered. Nu did not mourn yet