A call for my father

By: Agus Budiman

at annida online

His maroon hairy peci was still hanging on the nail behind the door of our little home, next to his Moslem clothes. I still felt his thick moustache caressing my cheek every time he kissed me. I still breathed in the strong odour of tobacco that lingered in his clothes.

Abah was an energetic, powerful and hard-working man that invited admiration from everyone; but when it came to fighting his bad habit of smoking, he was utterly powerless. He once said he was about fifteen when he started puffing cigarettes; no wonder, giving up that habit would take tremendous will and effort.

I was alone in our house. Ghifari, my only four-year-old son, would turn up and hug me again at around ten. Every 6.40 in the morning, a blue minibus would pull over in front of our house to pick up my boy to the kindergarten.

I needed a friend. I needed to talk to someone, and I needed the warmth of my father’s eyes and his comforting words. Everything was easy when he was around. But, there was no one. My husband was in his office; and that television on the living room only made me sick and lazy. My memory was wondering off to the place where I was born.

#

About seven years ago, I left Lampung for this city of Jakarta. I’d got nothing with me except a high school diploma and a little bit bravery of a young and naïve girl, searching for a job for the inexperienced.

Earlier that time, my sisters had left for another town in Java, serving their husbang and family. It’s sad, since we used to live together in our large house with many rooms and a tiny musholla inside.

As the youngest of six sisters, I thought I was the child my parents loved the most. But it didn’t seem that way. Abah always talked about an unborn son. Yes, a son. And it made me wonder why six girls weren’t enough for him.

I’d never got any idea of going to college like one of my sisters. My father’s business was not good at that time. And to make things worse, unlike my sisters who mostly passed every exam with flying colours, I didn’t do well in high school. So, the idea of sending me to university sounded like a waste of time and money. That’s why I went to Jakarta.

Oh my, it had always been a very tough effort to find a job in Jakarta. It took me more than a year of “wandering around” in the city before ending up at a garment outlet in a department store close to Bekasi bus terminal. And it was at that place and in this period that I met a good man who asked me to be his wife.

I remembered the time I called Abah about my would-be husband’s proposal of marrying me. He said, “Anything makes you happy, girl, makes me happy too.”

“Really Abah?”

“Yeah, why not? But I believe you don’t make stupid mistakes, do you?”

“Abah, what do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s—what’s his name?”

“Arif Wahyudi, Abah,” said I.

“Yeah, Arif Wahyudi—he’s and obedient Moslem, right?”

“Sure, Abah. No doubt about that.”

“Good, shen is he going to see me?”

note: Sungguh short story yang mampu mengingatkanku pada bapakku....

I remembered how stressful-but-excited Abah was preparing my wedding back in Lampung. Despite our financial difficulties, he insisted to make the wedding of his youngest daughter as merry and big as possible. This helped me to realize how my father actually loved me.

I said, “No, Abah, you don’t need to do this for me. I know Abah loves me, but…”

“Shh, daughter, let your Abah keep his promise. Besides, it is my obligation to make every wedding ceremony in this house big. Just be happy, that’s the only thing you ought to do,” he said tapping at my shoulder, and smiling broadly. I said nothing and my mother could only shrug her shoulders, for we all knew that nothing could stand in his way.

#

I heard the familiar sound of the humming minibus from which Ghifari would jumped out of and run to me. Right, Abah, your smart grandson was home from school.

“Assalaamu ‘alaikum,” exclaimed my boy.

I hugged and kissed him and led him to the living room and suddenly we were by the telephone. Out of the blue, I felt a rush to call up my father.

“Wa alaikumussalam. Oh-ho-ho, what brings you to call me up, Fitri?” was the answer—my mother’s.

“Oh, mom, I … I … just miss you. Uh, I’d like to talk a little to Abah, please. Is he there? Mom, could you …?

I heard a deep sigh at the end of the line. And at that instant, I wanted to cry and I wish I could withdraw those stupid lines that would surely hurt my mother. I hugged my son tightly; tears welled up my eyes.

I couldn’t understand how come I forgot that Abahhad passed away more than a year ago from lung cancer.