LET’S READ SUARA SARAWAK/ NEW SARAWAK TRIBUNE E-PAPER FOR FREE AS EARLY AS 2 AM EVERY DAY. CLICK LINK
IN the sprawling wetlands several miles from our village – where lush paddy fields stood tall for half the year in each farming cycle – there lived Beh Bijon: a farmer, a prankster, and, by his boastful accounts, a man who had cheated death so many times that even he had lost track of the number.
I first found myself drawn into his family’s lively orbit when I was about ten years old. Bijon, one of his grandsons and my close friend, would often invite me to their home.
It was there, in the warmth of their modest abode, that I’d find myself doubled over with laughter, captivated by the sharp wit and razor-edged humour of the old man.
Beh Bijon was larger than life – his words as precise as a well-honed ‘parang’ and his humour twice as cutting. He was a natural entertainer, magnetic in his charm, and undeniably unforgettable.
But one morning, the unshakable Beh Bijon met an unfamiliar foe. He woke up feeling far less invincible than usual. With an aching head that seemed swollen to twice its size and stomach cramps that left him weak, he was confined to his bed for the first time in years. Even his legendary bravado couldn’t mask the toll the illness was taking.
In those days – the mid-1960s – our village was a world unto itself, hemmed in by dense forests and miles of wetlands. With no motorable road connecting us to the Kuching-Serian Road at Mile 27 or Mile 32, reaching the nearest doctor in town felt as implausible as travelling to the moon.
For Beh Bijon, whose life had been a series of near-miraculous escapes, even he seemed to recognise that this time might be different.
The sickness must have been grave indeed, for the man who had laughed in the face of danger now lay still, convinced that his time had come. The final act, he called it – the curtain falling on a life lived in full, with more stories than most men could dream of telling.
The ‘Deathbed’ Performance
Beh Bijon’s wife, Tung Bijon – five years his junior but with twice as many grey hairs, thanks to him – rushed to his bedside, her face a picture of panic.
“Beh Bijon, what’s wrong? You look like a ghost!” Tung Bijon cried, clutching his hand.
Beh Bijon groaned dramatically. “Tung Bijon, it’s happening. I’m dying. Call the kids and grandkids. Call the neighbours. Heck, call the carpenter and tell him to get my measurements. I want a coffin that screams style.”
Tung Bijon frowned, her concern quickly morphing into annoyance. “You’re not dying. You probably just ate too much fried rice last night.”
“No, Tung Bijon, this is serious. I can feel the Angel of Death breathing down my neck. And let me tell you, his breath smells like rotten durian,” Beh Bijon said, waving his hand as if to ward off death itself.
The Grim Parade
Word of Beh Bijon’s “impending demise” spread like a bad smell on a hot day. Soon, his house was a revolving door of visitors, each one eager to say their goodbyes – or, more likely, to confirm whether Beh Bijon was kicking the bucket this time.
First to arrive was Mada, his perpetually grumpy neighbour, who entered the room with all the enthusiasm of a man forced to bury his friend.
“Beh Bijon, you look terrible,” Mada said, crossing his arms.
“Mada, coming from you, that’s rich. You’ve looked like death warmed over for the last 20 years,” Beh Bijon shot back, grinning weakly.
Mada smirked. “If you’re dying, can I have your sledge hammer? It’s the only decent one around here.”
“Sure, Mada. But don’t blame me when it breaks – you’ve got the strength of a wet noodle,” Beh Bijon quipped.
The Daughter’s Dilemma
Next came Nana, Beh Bijon’s town-dwelling daughter, who entered the room like a tornado of tears and high drama.
“Amang (father)! You can’t die! I haven’t even gotten married yet!” she wailed, collapsing near his feet.
Beh Bijon sighed. “Nana, if I had a sen for every time I told you to settle down, I’d be rich enough to buy a coffin for myself. But no, you had to wait until I’m on my deathbed to bring it up.”
“But what will I do without you? Who will be my suitors?” she cried.
“Oh, don’t worry, Nana. Just pick the one who cries the loudest at my funeral. That’s how you know he’s a keeper,” Beh Bijon said, rolling his eyes.
Mortality and Meaning
Beh Bijon’s childhood friend, Buling, was next to visit. He stood by the bedside, shaking his head.
“Beh Bijon, you’re too stubborn to die. Seriously, what’s going on?” Buling asked.
Beh Bijon leaned in, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Buling, I’ve realised something important.”
“What is it?” Buling asked, his face serious.
Beh Bijon smirked. “Life is pointless. You work, you eat, you sleep, and then one day you drop dead. And if you’re lucky, someone might remember to plant flowers on your grave.”
Buling blinked. “That’s … depressing.”
“Depressing? I call it honesty. But hey, at least I’ll finally get some peace,” Beh Bijon said, cackling.
Snacks for the Road
Rabi, Beh Bijon’s younger brother, turned up next, carrying a packet of newly fried tapioca chips and a bottle of soda.
“I brought snacks. You’ll need energy for the journey to … well, wherever you’re going,” Rabi said, grinning.
Beh Bijon raised an eyebrow. “Rabi, you think I’m going to the afterlife with a bag of chips? If I’m lucky, I’ll end up in Heaven. If not, I’ll be roasting marshmallows in Hell. Either way, I’ll be fine.”
“Just don’t forget to save me a seat,” Rabi joked.
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll leave you a front-row ticket to the fiery pits,” Beh Bijon replied, laughing.
Tung Bijon’s Meltdown
As the day wore on, Tung Bijon returned, her patience wearing thin.
“Beh Bijon, stop joking around. You’ve cheated death so many times before, but what if this is it?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“Tung Bijon, I’ve made peace with my fate. If I go, I’ll finally get to meet the Collector of the Dead. I’ll shake his hand and say, ‘Nice curved parang you hold. Can I borrow it to clear my fields?” Beh Bijon said, grinning.
Tung Bijon groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it,” Beh Bijon replied, winking.
The Grand Announcement
By evening, Beh Bijon decided it was time to address the little crowd in his house. With as much effort as he could muster, he sat up in bed and cleared his throat.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming to witness my final moments. I hope you’ve enjoyed the show,” Beh Bijon began, a sly smile on his face.
“Papa, this isn’t funny!” Nana protested.
“Oh, but it is, Nana. Life is a joke, and death is the punchline. Speaking of which, if I do die, make sure my coffin is comfortable. I don’t want to spend eternity with a sore back,” Beh Bijon said, earning a mix of laughter and groans from the crowd.
The Plot Twist
“Wait a minute,” he muttered, sitting up straighter. “I don’t think I’m dying after all.”
As the sun dipped below the forested hills to the west, something miraculous – or, depending on how you looked at it, inconvenient – happened. Beh Bijon began to feel … better.
The room fell silent as everyone stared at him.
“False alarm, folks! Looks like I’ll be sticking around to annoy you all for a few more years,” Beh Bijon announced, grinning from ear to ear.
Postponed Goodbye
From that day forward, Beh Bijon continued to farm, joke, and remind everyone that life is short, so you might as well laugh at it.
As he often said, “When I do die, don’t cry for me. Just make sure to bury me with a bottle of ‘tuak’, or beer if you can afford it, and a bag of banana chips. I’ll need something to snack on while I haunt you all.”
What Beh Bijon Gave Me
Years later, as a young man, I decided that the most resonant takeaway from this tale lies in Beh Bijon’s spirited perspective on life and death. Through his playful theatrics on what he believed to be his deathbed, he imparted a profound message about the transient nature of existence and the importance of embracing humour and levity in the face of mortality.
Despite his seemingly impending demise, Beh Bijon maintained a lighthearted and jovial demeanour, using his wit to confront the inevitable with grace and laughter.
Moreover, Beh Bijon’s unexpected recovery underscores the unpredictability of life’s twists and turns, highlighting the resilience of the human spirit and the capacity for hope even in the darkest of moments.
Marjorie Hinckley
“The only way to get through life is to laugh your way through it. You either have to laugh or cry. I prefer to laugh. Crying gives me a headache.” – Marjorie Pay Hinckley, the wife of Gordon B. Hinckley, who served as the 15th President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS Church) from March 1995 until his death in January 2008. Marjorie Pay Hinckley was known for her wit, humour, and wisdom, and she often shared inspirational and uplifting quotes during her lifetime.
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
