IN our eyes, as children in the early 1960s, our fellow villager, Lunas, was an enigma wrapped in solitude. While other farmers returned to the village after each farming cycle, joining in the laughter and camaraderie of off-season life, Lunas chose the quiet company of the wetlands over the bustle of human interaction.
As it is now, our village, Kampung Ta-ee in the Serian District, about forty miles from Kuching, lies more than ten miles south of the wetlands where most of the paddy farms were. The area was accessible only by a winding, narrow jungle path, yet Lunas rarely felt the pull to journey back.
Whenever his name came up in conversation, someone would inevitably remark, “Lunas just doesn’t like people”. It became an unspoken truth in the village – he was antisocial. He rarely visited anyone, nor did others seem inclined to see him. To us children, he was a mystery, a figure both fascinating and puzzling.
Yet whenever I encountered him during my fishing trips around the wetlands where the paddy farms sprawled – including my family’s – Lunas was nothing but cheerful and polite.
To my surprise, he was chatty during our brief encounters, his weathered face lighting up with genuine warmth.
For someone the adults claimed disliked human company, he had an uncanny knack for engaging with curious children like me. It was only with adults that he seemed to raise invisible walls.
The Early Years
I first became aware of Lunas and his family when I was seven years old, a Year 1 pupil at our village’s mission school. Back then, he appeared to be an ordinary young man in his late twenties – unremarkable, even. He still lived with his parents, which was typical at the time, and dutifully helped them on their farm.
On weekends, he roamed the wetlands with friends, fishing, hunting, or trapping wild animals. He was firmly woven into the rhythm of village life, blending in like everyone else.
Nobody – neither his parents nor his friends – could have foreseen the gradual transformation that would define him. It began subtly when he was about nineteen.
Slowly, imperceptibly, Lunas withdrew. The lively outings with his peers became rare, then ceased altogether. Instead of indulging in the carefree pursuits of youth, he devoted himself entirely to farming.
By then, he had carved out a small plot of land adjacent to his parents’ farm. It started as a modest venture, but Lunas approached it with the seriousness of someone building an empire.
He toiled tirelessly, from the first light of dawn to the fading glow of dusk, long after others had laid down their tools for the day.
Public holidays, celebrations, and rest days held no significance for him – his hands were always busy tending, building, or creating. At first, his parents were proud.
“Such a good boy,” they would boast. “He’ll make something of himself.”
But as the seasons passed, pride gave way to concern. Lunas had no friends anymore and showed no interest in girls, a fact that deeply troubled his parents.
“If he goes on like this, we’ll have no grandchildren,” his mother fretted one evening, wringing her hands.
Subtle hints were dropped in conversations, and names of prospective matches were mentioned. But Lunas remained unmoved. To him, the world beyond his farm seemed to matter less and less.
A Solitary Life
By the time I turned ten, Lunas had become a recluse in every sense of the word. He no longer came to the village – not even for church or festivals.
His parents, resigned to his ways, stopped trying to coax him out of his shell. Instead, they trekked the long jungle path to his farm with necessities. He had ample rice but was always glad to have salted fish, salt, sugar, lard, and other essentials.
“He’s not harming anyone,” his father said one day when I overheard the adults discussing Lunas. “If he’s happy, let him be.”
But was he happy? The question lingered in the air, unspoken yet palpable.
Whenever I saw him in the wetlands, he seemed content enough. There was a quiet satisfaction in the way he moved through his fields, checking irrigation ditches, pruning plants, or repairing his modest farmhouse.
He had transformed his small farm into something remarkable – a patchwork of paddy fields, vegetable plots, and fruit trees, all thriving under his meticulous care. He even built a fish pond stocked with tilapia and catfish.
To us children, his farm was a wonderland. On weekends, we often sneaked over, peeking through the bushes to watch him at work.
He was like a magician, conjuring life from the soil with his bare hands. Occasionally, he’d catch us spying and wave us over, offering guava or a handful of freshly dug peanuts.
In those moments, he didn’t seem like the antisocial man the adults described. He seemed kind and genuinely appreciative of the brief, occasional human contact.
The Rumours Begin
As the years passed, some villagers began weaving stories around Lunas. Living so far removed from society, both physically and metaphorically, his life became fertile ground for speculation.
Some whispered that he had been jilted by a lover in his youth and had sworn off women forever. Others suggested he was harbouring a terrible secret, perhaps even a crime. The crime bit was, of course, rather far-fetched considering his gentle, peaceful nature.
My favourite explanation, born of my overactive imagination, involved jungle spirits. My uncle Sulas, a master storyteller, claimed Lunas had made a pact with the spirits. But with a glint in his eye, it was hard to take him seriously.
“They granted him extraordinary farming skills in exchange for his companionship,” he said one evening. “That’s why his crops grow so well.”
Some of the tales were plausible, while others tickled the imagination and gave people pause. On the whole, though, I cannot say that we truly believed them, although they added to the mystique of Lunas, turning him into a figure larger than life.
A Meeting at Dusk
One late afternoon, when I was around twelve, I decided to visit Lunas alone. I had caught a large fish that day and thought he might appreciate it.
The path to his farm was narrow, the jungle pressing in from all sides. By the time I arrived, the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the fields.
I found Lunas mending a net. He looked up as I approached, his face breaking into a smile.
“What brings you here, young man?” he asked, his voice warm and welcoming.
I held out the fish awkwardly. “I thought you might like this.”
He took it with a nod of thanks, examining it appreciatively.
“A fine catch,” he said. “What’s the occasion?”
“I’ll be leaving the village for boarding school next month,” I replied. “I won’t be back for several months.”
We sat by the pond, silence stretching between us, broken only by the croaking of frogs and the hum of cicadas. Summoning my courage, I asked the question that had lingered in my mind for years.
“Why don’t you come to the village anymore?”
Lunas paused, his hands stilling on the net. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he sighed – a deep, weary sound.
“I tried, once,” he said softly. “But I didn’t belong there. The village … it’s full of noise and expectations. Here, it’s just me and the land. I can breathe.”
The Legacy of Lunas
As I grew older, my visits to the wetlands became less frequent. Life pulled me in other directions – school, work, family. But Lunas remained a constant in the landscape of my childhood memories.
Years later, when I returned to the village, Lunas was gone. He had passed away as he had lived – alone.
His abandoned farm had merged with the encroaching jungle, but traces of his presence remained: a rusted hoe leaning against a tree, a crumbling fish pond, a lone guava tree heavy with fruit.
Standing there, I remembered Paulo Coelho, a Brazilian author who wrote: “The greatest thing in the world is to be able to live on one’s own and not be afraid of solitude.”
Lunas had not been afraid of solitude. In it, he found confidence, self-reliance, and a deep contentment that seemed to elude the rest of us.
Those of us who had frequent but brief contacts with him noticed how competent he was in taking care of himself and making decisions without relying heavily on others.
He cooked, cleaned, and maintained a comfortable living space. In doing almost everything by himself, he developed practical skills that ensured a functional lifestyle.
He never articulated the reasons for his choices – perhaps he did not know how – but it was clear to me that solitude gave him space for introspection and self-understanding. Free from the noise of societal expectations, he achieved a peace that many of us spend our lives searching for.
To this day, I think of Lunas whenever I reminisce about the wetlands. He was a man who defied convention to live a life uniquely his own. Some said he must have been lonely, but I like to believe he found a kind of peace that few ever achieve.
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.
