-Daughters-

When I was younger, I remember when our family got home late at night after a long road trip, or just for a dinner around town, I would feign sleep. I suppose at first it started with real sleep (I doze off real easy in a moving car), but once the car came to a halt or the engine stopped, I would be awake again. Being such a lazy bum to walk the distance from the car to my room, I would pretend to still be asleep, and my father would carry me, careful not to wake me up, and put me in my bed so that I could peacefully continue my slumber. I think he knew I was awake, or partially awake, but he never said anything. As I got older (and heavier to carry), my OCD-ness would not only make me wake up and walk by myself but first headed to the bathroom to wash my feet and brush my teeth before jumping into bed.

When I was in school, every time a big exam was around the corner, like the year-end exam, he would ask me after I had completed my prayer if I had extended my doa' to the rest of the class, for God to ease the exam for them too. The first time he asked that, I remember asking why should I do that, I wanted to get the first place in the whole class. And he explained to me the importance of not being "busuk hati" in whatever it is we do. After that whenever he asked me that question, I would say that I've made the doa.

I remember him always being friendly and nice to the foreign laborers who came to collect our garbage in that stinky garbage truck. They would come early in the morning, and whenever he was home, tending the plants, he would make it a point to make a conversation with them, hearing them talk about life and work and anything at all, with their broken Malay. Sometimes he would offer them cold plain water. I secretly made it a point to notice which glass they drank from and would try to avoid using it. What an asshole I was. Of all of them, I remember one particularly more than others, perhaps because I was home a lot (post-GMI) during his working stint. He was from Nepal, working to save for his wedding, his sweetheart waiting for him back at home. About 2-3 months after my father passed away, my mom moved back home, having spent the whole time at my grandma's. Ibu told me that the Nepalese guy asked her about my father, having not seen him for quite some time.

My favorite memory of us together is those times when I have a room to myself in his office. He let me turned it into my art workshop, in which I mostly just fooled around in, experimenting mostly with papers; papier marche, paper making, origami, pop-ups and stuff. After Maghrib prayers, I would follow him to the office just so I could be in the room. When he was done with his work, he would come check on what I was working on. I think he was misled to believe that I have some sort of artistic talent, like him, who was gifted in drawing and painting. He even bought me that drawing stand, that real artists use to put on the drawing pad vertically up.

Once my brother brought back his exam paper in Pendidikan Seni, in which he has to express his 'arty vision' in form of geometrics, he drew a single square. I remember him showing that to my dad and we all had a laugh. Another incident, I was on the phone with him (I was already in Germany at that time), and he asked me whether I still practiced on drawing comics and cartoons, insisting that I shouldn't stop practicing, saying that he saw talent in me in that direction. I was like, sorry to disappoint you Papa, but I think that artistic gene of yours just skipped a generation. ;p

He repeatedly told me that the rule of thumb is not to go with any guy named Roy or Zack. Papa, of all my 24-years of life, I'm proud to tell you that I never came in contact with a single Roy, thank God for that. I think they are the extinct type now, so no worries. As for Zack, I only know one guy who goes with that name, only with a slightly retarded spelling, and he's an actor so safe to say, I won't get near that circle, so yeah no worries with the Zacks either.

In his world, I am The Princess (only second to my mom, who is The Queen), and he had always treated me like one. He never hurt me, but the look of disappointment in his eyes whenever I did something wrong was just as hurtful as a physical disciplining. Because of him, I have a pretty solid idea of how I want to be treated and should be treated by the man in my life; with utmost respect, deserving of all attention and love. And for that reason I think he would have approved it if I were to spend my lifetime with Encik Fudye.

I think they both would have enjoyed each other's company. They would have gone on fishing trips together, enjoyed an occasional cigar/smoke together, went on a late night teh tarik outing watching wrestling on giant TV screen at mamak.

I used to bite my lips and held my tongue whenever I heard someone saying how he/dread calling his/her father. Inside I screamed that it's unfair, these ungrateful people who have their dad but make calling up their old man sounds like a chore. I never let a week went by without calling mine at least twice. Why don't I get to keep my dad? Of course, that bitterness is mellowed over time.

He bought me my first glue gun for my art projects when I was in Sekolah Rendah and I even brought it here to Germany. Last year, it went kaputt and I went berserk trying to fix it. I was frantic. I bought a screwdriver, pried it open, tried everything to bring it to life again, but it stayed dead. I couldn't accept it, because that thing held so much meaning to me. But to hold on to material things that connect me to the memories of him is just not healthy. And a bit crazy. Memories won't be lost by letting go. That's an important lesson I've learned. The art of accepting and letting go.

So I did not miss Father's Day this year as I had for the past years. On purpose, of course. But you know what? Starting this year, I'll celebrate it as I had did before. Even though I can't send cheesy greeting card anymore, I'll be thankful for ever having him in my life. He is one of the reason of the person I aspire to be.