JAMIN, a lean and weathered young farmer, had just finished a gruelling day’s work tending his paddy field. The soft dirt of the well-worn path home caressed his calloused bare feet, and while his body ached from the day’s labour, a peculiar sense of restlessness stirred within him.
He couldn’t say how he knew, but Jamin felt that something significant was on the horizon. Something important was coming, though he couldn’t quite place what it was.
As he rounded the last bend on the path home, his eyes caught sight of two figures standing in the fading light in front of his hut. One was a young and delicate woman, with long, flowing dark hair that seemed to drink in the twilight.
Dressed in a vibrant, floral sarong and adorned with a strip of black fabric draped over her shoulders, there was an air of mystery about her.
Beside her stood a man, older and wiry like Jamin, yet his face bore the marks of time, etched by sun and wind, telling tales of a life lived outdoors. He stood silently.
The woman was the first to speak, her voice soft and musical, like a lullaby carried on the breeze. “We’ve been waiting for you,” she said, her words as unexpected as rain during a drought.
Jamin stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowed. “Waiting for me?” he repeated, unsure whether to be flattered or alarmed.
“Yes,” she replied as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
There was a pause, the kind that stretches long enough for doubt to creep in. Jamin scratched the back of his neck, trying to make sense of it all.
“Well,” he said finally, “I suppose you must be tired, coming all this way. Please, let’s go inside. The mosquitoes will feast on us if we stay here much longer.”
In those days, hospitality wasn’t just a nicety; it was a necessity. The wetlands were no place for wandering strangers to find an inn or lodging house. If someone arrived at your door as the sun set, you took them in. That was the way of things.
The Stranger’s Tale
Later that evening, after a modest dinner of rice and vegetables, and with cups of steaming tea and ‘tuak’ – a sweet rice wine – warming their hands, the woman began to speak. Her name was Bigel, she told him, and she was from a village far away in West Kalimantan, across the border.
“This may sound strange,” she said, trembling slightly, “but I’ve been dreaming about you. I knew your name before I came here. I even knew this place – your hut, the banyan tree, everything.”
Jamin blinked, unsure if he’d misheard. “Dreaming about me?” he echoed, his voice tinged with disbelief.
She nodded. “Yes. At first, I didn’t understand it either. My father and I thought it was just my illness playing tricks on my mind. But the dreams wouldn’t stop. They told me that you …,” she paused, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment, “… that you held the cure for my sickness.”
The older man, her father, sat quietly, nodding in agreement but offering no further explanation. His silence was heavy, like a locked chest full of secrets.
His curiosity piqued, he asked, “And how could I cure you? I’m no healer, no shaman. I’m just a farmer, just like many others around these wetlands.”
Bigel smiled shyly. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “The dreams didn’t explain that part. They only told me to find you.”
A Love That Grew
In the weeks after that, as Bigel and her father stayed with Jamin, they fell into an easy rhythm. The older man busied himself with various tasks, lending a hand where he could. Between essential chores on the farm, Jamin and Bigel spent countless hours exploring the wetlands, sharing stories of their lives, hopes, and fears. Jamin found himself drawn to her in a way that was both exhilarating and terrifying. It was as if she’d brought a new kind of light into his life, one he hadn’t realised he’d been missing.
As weeks passed, Jamin realised he was falling in love. Although Bigel never spoke of it, he could see it in her eyes and in the way she lingered close to him. Her laughter was like music, making the world feel more vibrant.
There were moments, while doing his work, when Jamin would pause to watch her, her hair catching the sunlight as she moved across the fields, her voice carrying softly on the breeze. He would find himself smiling, his heart swelling in a way that felt almost foreign.
And yet, beneath the joy that Bigel brought into his life, Jamin felt a quiet ache – a fear that the fragile happiness might be fleeting. He couldn’t shake the thought that one day, she and her father would leave and take with them the warmth that had so filled his once-lonely existence. But for now, he savoured every shared smile, every accidental brush of her hand. It was in those fleeting, tender moments, that he sensed something he hadn’t dared to feel in years – hope.
One evening, as the sun disappeared below the tree line to the west and painted the sky with streaks of orange and red, Bigel broke the news Jamin had been dreading.
“I have to go back,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “My father and I never meant to stay. Things are waiting for us back home. We must take care of them.”
Jamin’s heart sank like a stone in a pond. “What about your illness? I haven’t done anything to heal you,” he protested.
She smiled, her face glowing with a quiet strength. “You’ve done more than you know,” she said. “I feel strong now – stronger than I’ve ever felt. Maybe the cure wasn’t something you had to give me. Maybe it was just … you.”
Her words lingered long after she and her father had gone. Jamin tried to carry on, but life seemed hollow without her. The days were long and empty, and the nights were worse.
Sometimes, when the emptiness in his hut was too much to bear, he would light a bonfire outside and cook on it. Then he would lie on a pile of firewood nearby, staring at the stars, wondering if she was looking at the same sky.
The Return
Months passed, and Jamin resigned himself to the idea that Bigel was gone for good. But one day, as he was tending to his crops, he heard a voice behind him – a voice he thought he’d never hear again.
“Jamin,” she said. Her tone was as soft and musical as he remembered.
He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat. There she was, standing in the blazing sunlight, her smile brighter than anything he’d seen in months. For a moment, he thought he must be dreaming.
“Am I dreaming?” he asked, his voice trembling.
She laughed. The sound melted the last ice around his heart.
“No,” she said. “I’m here. For good, if accept me.”
She explained that the dreams had returned, stronger than ever. They told her that her cure wasn’t just about healing her body – it was about healing her soul. And her soul, she realised, couldn’t be whole without him.
Jamin didn’t need any more explanations. He took her hand in his, and they walked back to the hut together, the weight of the past months lifting with each step.
A Life Well Lived
Jamin and Bigel tied the knot shortly after her return. Together, they crafted a life that, while uncomplicated, overflowed with love. They worked side by side in the fields during the day, and their evenings were filled with laughter, conversation, and storytelling. They had children who, in turn, had children of their own. The love that united them became the bedrock of a family destined to thrive for generations to come.
Years later, Jamin often found himself sitting beneath the banyan tree where he first saw her, reflecting on the winding journey of his life. He couldn’t tell if it was fate, destiny, or something else entirely that had brought Bigel to him, but he felt grateful, nonetheless. Ultimately, it wasn’t dreams or stars that had healed her – it was love – the kind of love that transforms everything.
A Family Tale
Jamin’s story was passed down through the generations, told and retold like a favourite song. My mother’s favourite cousin, Uncle Sulas, was the one who told it to me, and though I suspect he might have embellished a detail or two, I believe the heart of it is true. Jamin, my great-great-great-granduncle, lived before Sarawak’s first white Rajah, James Brooke, arrived in 1839. By my reckoning, he must have lived in the early 19th century.
Some might label it a mere coincidence – the way Bigel’s dreams intertwined with his life. Others might argue it was destiny at play. But for me, it feels like something deeper, an undeniable force that clutches at your heart and refuses to release its grip. It was love, the kind that seeks you out in the chaos, wrapping around you tightly even as everything else crumbles away.
“Love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation.” – Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931), a Lebanese American poet, writer, and philosopher, best known for his book ‘The Prophet’, a collection of poetic essays covering various aspects of life, love, and spirituality.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
