Mother called me Ayatullah Nurjati—two words I made into a blind map for this ever-heavier life.
Back then, I thought only she strung them together.

“Ayatullah,” she said, “Sign of Allah.”
I learned to read it in the wrinkles of my father’s brow,
in prayers stumbling from our mouths too busy complaining.

“Nurjati,” she whispered, “Light of the Teak.”
I thought it an old metaphor,
until I realized: teak isn’t valued in its youth.
It waits.
Grows slowly, under hard soil,
patiently enduring all temptations to be useful too soon.

But only now do I grasp an older trace:
from a Sheikh in Java’s land,
a spreader of Islam whose name I carry.
“Nur Sejati,” he said. “The True Light.”
Because Javanese tongues simplify the sacred,
“Nurjati” is what endured—dense and charged,
like a mantra buried for hundreds of years.

Now, at an age no longer young,
I’ve quenched those wild ambitions.
They think I’m late,
but I’ve just understood the map the saint gave—
not just a sign, but also light.
Not just a patient teak,
but the true light that must stay bright
even as times change.

I am only a teacher and a poet.
My task is clearer now than words:
To pass on that light, through poetry and teaching.
To bind the earthly to the divine.

Mother, the Saint,
the name you gave is no longer a prayer,
but a trust I accept with an open heart.
I am the sign.
I am the true light.
I am the teak.
And I will never forget where this light began.