Credit: Tomislav Tikulin

Ahmad Daud bin Kasim lived alone. His wife had passed away almost 10 years ago, and his only son spent more time mining Helium-3 on the Moon than at home.

And because Daud insisted on living alone, his son Jamil bought him an advanced household android when the model came out.

RX-718 had cost him three years’ income, paid in monthly installments. The old man, a relic from early 21st century, at first thought the robot was a nuisance.

When he woke up for his predawn prayer – Subuh – to find a full breakfast plate (with reduced salt and carbohydrates to control his hypertension and diabetes) on the kitchen counter, he sat down, scratched his leathery chin, and stared hard at the tall, androgynous and immobile robot.

“If I have to live with you, I cannot call you ‘Eh’.”

The android remained standing in the corner, unflinching. Its outer shell of white aluminium and grey carbon-reinforced polymer gleamed in the automated built-in ceiling lights.

“What about Sallehuddin? I always liked that name. Even though you’re a robot, I can’t give you a woman’s name. It’s just wrong, you hear?” He wagged his finger at RX-718. “Do you like that name?”

“Voice-command recognition, Ahmad Daud bin Kasim, acknowledged.” His voice was clear, with a slight metallic edge, just like in advertisements.

“Call me Abah.”

Sallehuddin cocked his head a fraction. “Abah is a common term for ‘Father’. That is what Jamil bin Ahmad Daud calls you. Are you certain you want me to call you Abah?”

Daud flapped his olive-hued hands in dismissal. “Yes, yes. Less confusing for me. And call my son Jamil. Can you talk like a normal person?”

“I am sorry, I am unable to comprehend the question.”

“That. Less of that, and more of talking like a real person.”

Sallehuddin remained silent for almost a minute. “I have the capacity to adapt and learn, and I have wireless connection to the worldnet. In time, I will learn to talk like a human being would.”

“Hmm. You do that.” Daud poked the genetically engineered chicken breast with his fork and took a tentative bite. “Hey, this is good!”

Jamil leaned back against the aluminium bench at the edge of his father’s aeroponic garden and smoked his cigarette – good, old fashioned tobacco, none of that subcutaneous nicotine-releasing implant.

For a long while he sat in silence, with the rustle of the flowering plants and the crackle of his cigarette. Sallehuddin stood beside him in the moonlit garden, just as silent.