Aksara Taste (For Flavors That Will Not Be Perfect)
CHAPTER Two

What taste do you like best?

I don't know how many flavors there are in this world. Some say the taste consists of four kinds; sweet, sour, salty, and bitter. There are also those who say that there are only two feelings, namely pleasure and sadness.

So what about savory taste? Feeling happy? Disappointed? And other feelings we've known all along. I don't know, there will always be flavors that can't be translated in word form. A taste that has no name.

But, if someone asks what flavor I like the most, then without a doubt I will answer, “Sweet Feel.”

Yeah, I like sweet. It's up to as sweet as what. Either as sweet as sugar, as sweet as syrup, or as sweet as colorful gulali. For me sweetness is synonymous with happiness, with everything that can make us smile.

Same with the letter I just read. It still feels sweet even though I have read it again for the third time. A simple letter that made me feel at home sitting for a long time to repeat each word.

“Yogya will bring me back to you. And Yogya will also make you come back to me. I don't know why I always wanted to go home to Yogya after I was so sickened by the sickening fatigue. I do not understand why when I arrived in countries that are the destination of many people, I actually missed Yogya. I miss her busyness, her night of crowds, her special food, and someone there. Someone I had longed for so deeply, that I will always remember, and will never be lost from memory. Someone who made me want to go home. A warm embrace of a person created from the dust of stars in the universe. She is charming and makes me fall in love.”

Mail without a sender and that destination goes into the APIC broadcast email inbox. Mas Zifran asked me to choose the best three of the twenty-two letters that came in to be broadcasted by radio later in the afternoon. Actually, this is the duty of Ms. Cynthia who routinely done every month. However, I don't mind replacing. I hope Mas Zifran will also be pleased to give me additional duties like this. Besides being easy to do, the task is also very fun. It keeps me connected to outsiders even through messaging.

After careful consideration, I finally chose the letter and the other two letters on behalf of Fira and Sandi. For a letter without a name and sender's address it is unfortunate, indeed. Though the sender whose letter is read by APIC will receive a beautiful mug as a form of thanks from the editor. But, how else? If it happens like this, then the editor can only store the beautiful mugs in the glass cabinet of the broadcast room.

“Udah, Al?” tanya Abas, the editor's flagship radio broadcaster. One of APIC's valuable assets is its million talents in journalism and radio broadcasting.

“This.” I said while handing over the letters I had printed to him.

“Still, yes, Al.” Abas accepted it and went to the broadcast room.

I resumed the script I had put aside, titled Mother's Beloved Butterflies. Written by an elementary school boy named Fathia, the little girl who became a prima donna on the news desk.

“Al, if you want to leave, where is the permission, yes?” asked Rayhan while enjoying the sky of Jakarta through the window glass.

“Prepared to finish Mas Zifran if taking a leave now.” reply me a little laugh.

“Kok, so?” Rayhan approached me while moving his office chair.

“It's not the homecoming season, Ray. The editor is chasing a lot of targets this year.”

“Sunday time can not?” urged Rayhan, as if not accept.

I took off my glasses and took a deep breath. “No, Ray.”

Rayhan looks disappointed. His face was bent and his mouth muttered something as he returned to the workbench. I understand how he feels. But, how else. Asking permission to leave Mas Zifran is not something that is easy to do.

The sun was shining brightly, its light entering haphazardly through the rift vents. Stabbing my body that was still curled lazily on the bed. Enjoying his presence as one of all the gifts of God in the world. I love the warm sun. It was as if there was a transfer of energy when the sunlight hit my body. Making my consciousness slowly converge and my nerves of motion move without having to be commanded.

I went down the stairs with a smile. The weekend is a day of revenge. There are lots of fun activities on the weekends, right? Take a shower once a day, watch TV at will, take a nap, eat a lot, listen to radio broadcasts, or just accompany my two twin nieces and nephews playing toy cars.

Hanif Mahendra and Alif Mahendra. My two favorite grandchildren are my mom and dad who are very funny. At the age that will soon turn five years, there are still many people who often exchange to recognize them. It is difficult indeed to distinguish Hanif and Alif given their differences are not so striking.

Hanif and Alif also have the same posture and similar haircuts. They both love cold drinks and love sports. Very fanatical on toys that resemble means of transportation, such as cars, motorcycles, buses, trucks, airplanes, ships, bicycles and no matter how many more are stored in the cardboard under the stairs.

No one knows for sure where the twin genes in Hanif and Alif came from. In my own family, there are no genealogies or twin descendants. Not from my father, not from my mother. From Aina herself, too. There are no twin lineages and couple births.

Says Ma'am Aina, this is called God's destiny. Where anything can happen even if there is no definite reason.

“Alya!”

I turned my head when I heard Mas Rudi's scream from the yard of the house.

Ma'am Aina approached me who was busy tidying up the tablecloth. “Bemo seems to be craving again, Al.”

I let out a long breath, putting on a wry smile.

“I don't have to push the bemo to Mas Surya's workshop this morning either, right, Ma'am?” tanyaku. Greeted by the smile that made me give up.

Actually I agree with Mas Rudi's proposal to replace a new car without having to sell bemo. But you would be very disappointed if you knew that. You said, however, we must keep using bemo as long as it can still be used. And unfortunately again, Mas Surya can always repair the car within three to five hours. There is no reason to replace it with another.

“Why else, Mas?” askaku while stepping lazily outside the terrace.

Actually I already know why, just a stale base.

“No need to turn on, Al.” said Mas Rudi while trying to start the engine.

I stayed in place, trying to accept the situation and prepare to push the car into Mas Surya's workshop. This morning too.

“We push out breakfast.” said Mas Rudi while passing in front of me.

Scroll a glance of the bemo engine hood that opened, black smoke billowing in the air.