::Nanuenymous::

I have a father. I do not know how to tell stories so I think I'm just going to describe him, and be honest about it. Good? OK.

I have hated my ayah the most in the family. He's like a puzzle, the jigsawed one. You'd think you know the answer because the answer is right in front of you but you can't seem to complete it because the pieces don't fit. He's a jigsawed father. A puzzly father. Whatever. All I know is, we have issues growing up. You see, him with his grumpy self and his deflated-balloon belly would randomly scowl at me and without a word, wanting me to understand myself why and what he's mad at. This happens all the times. And good Lord, I hated him even more when he wakes me up for Subuh in the mornings with his trademark attempt, (though always ends in failure) : switches off the fan and turns on the light, and innocently walks away; leaving the door opens, purposely exposing to the world my bottomless kaftan.

And if you've ever seen my ayah, you'll think twice before attempting a little conversation with him because you'll automatically develop a tendency to speak sign language because he's that quiet you'd think he's deaf or something. This old man also makes the random-est decision on Earth. He NEVER tells us where we're going for dinner but strangely enough, before each session, we'd be hearing rumours about where we're going that day, of which case I'm still clueless of where those rumours came from. Say, we sort of "heard' him wanting to go to this hotel for dinner, and assuming so, the whole family would dress up all fancy and dandy, thinking that we're going to head off to this whatever-hotel he has in mind. If you live in PD, you'll know that all the hotels are of course, scattered along the beach area. Right at that very moment when you think he'd go making a turn to the right where the beaches are supposed to be from our house, ayah would crash that vision you have in mind and steers into the other direction. And for the next 30minutes, the household would all be fashionably miserable having dinner at a warung or small tom yam restaurant of his choice. And yes, my friend. When we have our warung outfit on and ayah makes a right turn, we would all, (except dear ayah) be eating with gritted teeth and rolled eyeballs. Ayah also hardly ends our phone calls with byes/ love yous/ miss yous and whatnot. He'll just hang up with that toot toot sound trailing behind. I think that's why he stays with mak, because he doesn't make a good boyfriend. He fails miserably at basic relationship etiquette. Like cancer, this still remain an unresolved issue among us. Ayah and his fear of telling us what to do beforehand and his tendency of making impulse decisions. I sometimes think he needs to attend a summer camp of some sort.

I love to hate ayah. For that, I still am a loving daughter, right? Worry not, it's our thing because he knows I love hating him. But he loves me, at least that's what I think. If you see how my ayah treats us, you'll be amazed at how loving he is. That guy never fails to address us with sayang whenever possible, and he would randomly kiss our hair when he passes us from our backs. Even at this age, I still get hair-kisses, you know. I have a feeling that he's never going to stop giving free kisses unless we get hitched. Ayah also thought us how to recite the Quran, even better than my paid teacher. Ayah is also one of the very few persons that I know having a pretty high pain threshold. Both physical, and mental wise. Without that kind of endurance, I don't think our family can be at the level we're at today. In fact, he achieved more than adequate. For the record, I'm an obnoxious being. I seldom talk to my ayah whenever I call home. Why? Because. Because. Ugh. How can oneself endures that very moment when he grabs the phone and yells sayang right to your ears? I always have teary eyes whenever I talk to him because of this. His sentimental self breaks me every single time, unlike my mak. My parents are like Lindt's chocolate. Mak would be the hard coating and my ayah takes the creamy, gooey inside. And they both make an awesome piece of endearing world pleasure that I dearly love to love, and love to hate.

Sometimes I wonder what's the thought processes/machinery behind everything that he does. He's unpredictably wise. His presence radiates love. There's so much negativity in the world and sometimes all you need to hear and see is love, and that's when ayah comes into play, because ayah provides me sufficient supplies of strength and love to last me 4 years living far far away from him and that what makes me a girl I am today. To me, he's significant. To me, he's magic. He can pull rabbits out of his hat just for his children to mouth wondrously. That kind of magic.
At the age of 50, I think my ayah deserves to live better, get whatever he wants and enjoy coffees and teas together with his beloved wife and watch us bloom into a bunch of happy professionals that has long been his dream.

Thank you for everything and Happy Fathers' Day Ayah. Mak, Ina, Nani, Abang, Ya and Adik love you. With every fibre of our beings. We demand you to stay with us for another 50 years, because we have all agreed not to live without each other. Remember?