Any fool can criticise, condemn, and complain – and most fools do.”
Dale Carnegie, an American writer and self-improvement lecturer best known for teaching people how to communicate effectively, build relationships, and influence others.
WHENEVER I think of Sira, my dear fellow villager, two words immediately spring to mind: chronic complainer. Oh, I’ve tried to be kind, trust me. I’ve attempted to think of him as a “passionate observer of life” or perhaps a “man of many concerns”.
But no! My conscience, that pesky thing, insists on calling a spade a spade – or in this case, a chronic complainer.
Now, don’t get me wrong. Sira wasn’t just a walking megaphone of misery. No, no, no. He was also a man, a father, a husband, a friend, a farmer … a human being, in short. But try as I might, that one defining trait of his overshadowed all else.
When I think of him, I don’t picture his fields, his family, or even his perpetually muddy feet. I think of his unrelenting symphonies of complaints.
It all began, or at least became noticeable to me, in 1959. I was a mere six years old, an age when you’re supposed to be blissfully ignorant of adult oddities. But even then, Sira’s relentless grumbling left an impression. He was one of those adults who frequented our village house or farmhouse, a man who seemed to have made it his life’s mission to complain about everything under the sun – and the sun itself, for that matter.
The Monsoon Monologues
The rain was his favourite nemesis. Too early, too late, too much, too little – it didn’t matter. If the monsoon dared to show its face, Sira would find something to reproach. And honestly, the villagers could only nod along in resigned agreement. After all, paddy farming is no walk in the park. It’s a delicate dance with nature. And nature, being nature, often steps on your toes. Delayed rains? Poor irrigation? Say goodbye to your yields.
But Sira didn’t stop in the rain. Oh no, that would be too easy. He had a bone to pick with floods, droughts, heat waves, and any other meteorological phenomenon that dared exist.
“Damn the monsoons for damaging the crops and planning!” he’d mutter. Not that anyone had a clue what he meant by “planning,” but it sounded serious enough to elicit sympathetic nods.
And then there were the pests. Ah, the pests! Planthoppers, stem borers, and fungus. He’d regale us with tales of their villainy, his tone suggesting he was personally at war with every one of them.
The Farmer’s Lament
If pests and weather weren’t enough, Sira had a laundry list of grievances that could put a bureaucrat’s paperwork to shame.
Rising input costs? Check. Falling market prices? Double check. Labour shortages? Soil health? Post-harvest losses? Check, check, and check.
It was as if he carried the collective woes of every farmer in the region on his weary shoulders. And, naturally, he had to share the burden with anyone who’d listen – or, more accurately, anyone who couldn’t escape in time.
For reasons known only to him and perhaps a capricious deity with a dark sense of humour, Sira developed a peculiar habit of stopping by our farmhouse on his way to his own farm. His plot of land was about a quarter mile upstream from ours, in the stretch of wetland where the villagers’ paddy farms sprawled from September to March or April.
Now, this wetland was quite a trek from the village, several miles at least. Most farmers, including my parents, opted to stay on their farms during the season. It was a practical choice, saving time and energy. But it also meant that we were, quite literally, a captive audience to Sira’s daily monologues.
The Tolerance of Saints
To their credit, my parents tolerated him with the patience of saints. They knew what he was like – everyone did – but they bore his endless complaints with a fortitude I can only describe as superhuman.
“When he’s not complaining, he’s a decent fellow,” they’d say. And, to be fair, they weren’t wrong. Sira had a reputation for being helpful. If someone was in trouble, he was often the first to lend a hand.
But even as a child, I couldn’t help but notice something peculiar. Sira seemed to need to complain. Silence, it appeared, was his greatest enemy. Whenever a conversation lulled, he’d swoop in with a fresh grievance, as if the very act of complaining brought him some strange comfort.
The Daily Dose of Doom
I often wondered what compelled Sira to stop by our farmhouse so frequently. Was it the proximity? The convenience? Or did he enjoy having an audience for his tirades? Whatever the reason, his visits were as predictable as the sunrise – though significantly less pleasant.
He’d arrive, shoulders sagging under the weight of invisible burdens, and plop himself down as if the act of sitting itself was an Olympic-level feat. Then came the sigh, a sound so heavy it could crush the joy out of a room.
“Another day, another disaster,” he’d declare, his tone suggesting he was the tragic hero of some cosmic drama.
And off he went, cataloguing the universe’s latest affronts to his existence. If it wasn’t the weather or the pests, it was the government. If not the government, then the market prices. If not the market prices, then the sheer injustice of life itself.
Occasionally, he’d throw in a pearl of wisdom, delivered with the gravitas of a prophet.
“You know,” he once said, staring into the distance as if contemplating the mysteries of the cosmos, “life is like a paddy field.
No matter how much effort you put in, something will come along to ruin it.”
Profound? Perhaps. Depressing? Absolutely.
The Unwritten Rules of Sira
Over time, we developed an unspoken set of rules for dealing with Sira. Never disagree with him. It was futile, like arguing with the rain. If Sira declared that the sun was too bright, you nodded and muttered, “Terrible, isn’t it?”
Don’t offer solutions. He wasn’t looking for answers. He was looking for agreement. Suggesting fixes only prolonged the ordeal.
Never, under any circumstances, mention your own problems. This was an invitation for him to launch into a competition of misery, which he would inevitably win.
Despite these rules, there were moments when his presence was, dare I say, almost tolerable. On rare occasions, he’d take a break from complaining to share a story or crack a joke. And in those fleeting moments, you could glimpse the man he might have been if he’d chosen to see the glass as half full.
A Life Lived Loudly
As I grew older, I began to see Sira’s complaints in a different light. They weren’t just expressions of frustration; they were his way of connecting with the world. Complaining was his language, his currency, his way of saying, “I exist, and I’m paying attention.”
He wasn’t entirely wrong, either. During my youth, life in our village wasn’t easy. The monsoons were unpredictable, the pests relentless, and the market prices abysmal. Farming was a gamble, and Sira’s complaints were rooted in a harsh reality that all of us shared.
But while the rest of us bore our struggles in silence or sought solace in small joys, Sira chose to broadcast his woes to anyone within earshot. It was as if he believed that by naming his demons, he could somehow tame them.
The Philosophy of Complaining
Here’s the thing about complaints, though. The good things in life are often subtle, quiet, and fleeting. You can count them on your fingers and run out of digits before you’ve even begun. But the bad things? Oh, they’re abundant, loud, and impossible to ignore. They practically beg to be noticed, tallied, and, well, complained about.
Perhaps Sira, over the years, had developed the habit of focusing on the bad. It was easier, after all, more convenient. And once you start down that path, it’s a slippery slope to chronic complaining.
Of course, I could be wrong. Maybe there was more to Sira than I ever understood. But as far as my childhood memories are concerned, he will always be the man who found fault in everything – and then some.
The Irony of Legacy
Years later, long after Sira had passed away, I found myself reminiscing about him. His complaints, once a source of annoyance, had become a peculiar kind of comfort.
I realised that Sira, in his own grumbling way, had taught me something valuable. He’d shown me the absurdity of life’s struggles – how they could seem so monumental in the moment, yet so trivial in hindsight. His incessant complaining had a strange way of putting things into perspective. Yes, the rain was unpredictable. Yes, the pests were a nuisance. Yes, life was unfair. But, so what? We carried on anyway, because what else could we do?
A Philosophical Farewell
In the end, I like to think of Sira as a kind of philosopher. His complaints, for all their negativity, were a testament to his resilience. He saw the worst in everything, yet he never gave up.
There’s a certain beauty in that, isn’t there? To see the world as a broken, chaotic mess and still wake up every day, and trudge to the fields. To complain, yes, but also to endure.
And so, dear Sira, wherever you are, I raise a metaphorical glass to you. Here’s to your eternal battle with the monsoons, your war against the pests, and your endless tirades about life’s injustices.
May you find peace, or at the very least, a celestial audience patient enough to listen to your complaints for all eternity.
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
