“It’s not what happens to you but how you react to it that matters.”
– Epictetus (50-135 CE), a Greek Stoic philosopher who was born a slave, but later gained his freedom and became one of the most influential teachers of ancient philosophy.
EVEN in a small, remote paddy-planting community like ours in the 1950s through the 1960s, life still managed to cough up unpleasant people the way the jungle coughs up leeches: quietly, frequently, and always in the exact place you didn’t ask for.
We’ve got grumpy ones who wake up angry at the sun for shining the wrong way. We’ve got schemers who can turn “Good morning” into a land dispute. We’ve got the real annoyances – those rare souls who treat every conversation like a competition they must win.
Naturally, you might think, ‘Right. I’ll just avoid them.’ Lovely plan. Except we were a tight-knit paddy farming community, which meant there were only three possible places to be: the paddies, the footpath, or someone else’s business.
So, don’t drive unpleasant people away.
Not because they deserve kindness. Please. Let’s not go mad. But where would they go? They’d just lurk around the edge of things, sulking, and then you’d have the same problem with added resentment. Like a mosquito you offended.
Also, unpleasant people are unwitting teachers in the school of difficult experiences. You can’t sack them. You can’t transfer out. And the tuition is paid in your patience.
If you pay attention, you’d be surprised by what you can learn. Added benefit: the lessons are free.
Lesson One: The Grumpy Ones teach you emotional waterproofing
We had Old Man Picha. He had been grumpy since before I was born in 1953. He complained about the weather when it was dry, and when it rained, and especially when the weather had the nerve to be moderate. He once blamed a poor harvest on “the way young people breathe these days”.
When I was younger (in the early 1960s), I tried to be nice to him. I greeted him politely. During a village gathering, I offered him tea.
He glared at the tea as if it had insulted his ancestors.
“This is coloured water,” he said, looking at it suspiciously. “I like it stronger.”
So, I brought him a stronger one.
“This can kill a man,” he said. “Is someone trying to poison me?”
That was when enlightenment arrived, not like a bell, but like a slap: some people are not unhappy because you did something wrong. They are unhappy because they have taken up residence in unhappiness and now charge rent.
Old Man Picha taught me emotional waterproofing. You stop trying to keep everyone dry. You learn to put on your own raincoat and carry on. His grumpiness became background noise, like frogs at night. Loud, constant, and not actually aimed at you personally – just generally offended that you exist.
Benefit: You waste less energy begging for approval. You become steadier. You stop treating someone’s sour mood as a weather report about your worth.
Lesson Two: The Schemers teach you to read the fine print of human nature
Then there was Niran. He smiled the way a snake might smile if snakes had lips. He was always “helping”. Always had a suggestion.
He once came to our house with a plan.
“You should swap plots with me,” he told my father. “Your land would be closer to the river. You’d get better water flow.”
This sounded generous, like a man offering you shade under a tree. Unfortunately, the tree was on fire.
Father said, “Why would you want my land?”
He laughed. “Oh, I don’t. I’m thinking of you.”
That was the moment I learned: when someone says they’re thinking of you, check where their other hand is.
So, Father asked questions. He asked about the water flow and why he hadn’t swapped with someone else. He asked Niran to explain it slowly, as if he were five. Niran’s smile twitched.
Later, Father asked a neighbour quietly. Turned out a new canal was being discussed, and our plot – ours, specifically – would be right beside it. Niran had ears everywhere. He’d smiled his way into information like it was soup.
Father didn’t swap. Niran acted wounded for a week, like Father had cancelled a wedding.
Benefit: Schemers sharpen your thinking. They teach you to verify, to ask, to pause. They make you realise trust is not a default setting; it’s a bridge you build after checking the river isn’t full of crocodiles.
Lesson Three: The Annoyances teaches you the art of boundaries
We also have Mali, who was not evil. That would be too dignified. Mali was annoying. She believed every thought she had was a community announcement. She narrated everything.
“Oh, you’re walking to the paddies. I knew you would. You always walk like that. You walk like your father. Your father walked too much. That’s why he had knees.”
She’d ask you a question and answer it before you opened your mouth.
“How’s your mother? She’s fine, isn’t she? Yes, she’s fine. I saw her looking fine.”
She’d invite herself into your life like smoke in a kitchen.
At first, I tried to be polite. I listened. I nodded. I smiled. I let her talk until my spirit left my body and went to live in a quiet cave.
Then one day, she followed my mother all the way to the paddy, talking about the price of salted fish and the morals of a cousin’s girlfriend and the tragedy of someone’s hairline.
Mother snapped.
Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just … tiredly.
“Mali,” Mother said, “I need quiet now. I’m working.”
She blinked. “Oh. Are you angry?”
“No,” Mother said. “I’m busy.”
She looked offended, the way a cat looks offended when you stop stroking it.
But she left.
She actually left.
And the world didn’t end. The sun didn’t fall out of the sky. The paddies didn’t dry up because Mother had refused to be held hostage by small talk.
Mali taught me boundaries: those magical invisible fences that keep your life from becoming a public market.
Benefit: You learn that you can be firm without being cruel. You learn that peace often begins with a sentence you’ve been avoiding.
Lesson Four: The Loud Righteous teach you humility (through irritation)
There was also Brother Ahai, who acted like he had a direct line to the universe, and the universe had asked him to correct your behaviour.
He told me (and others) what we should eat, how we should plant, when we should sleep, and why our laughter was “too loud for an honest soul”.
When we disagreed, he sighed deeply, as if we had disappointed not just him but the concept of goodness itself.
Once, during a community meeting, he announced, “We must be united. We must stop gossip.”
Then he turned to a woman and whispered loudly, “Of course, some people can’t help themselves.”
The woman’s eyebrows nearly reached the clouds.
Ahai taught me humility, which sounds like a lovely lesson until you realise it arrived wrapped in irritation. Because when someone is loudly righteous, your first instinct is to prove them wrong, to win, to show you’re smarter.
But then you catch yourself. You notice the heat rising in your chest. You notice how easily you could become the same kind of person – just with different opinions. So, you breathe. You choose not to perform your ego in public.
Benefit: You become aware of your own weaknesses. You learn to step back from arguments that only exist to feed pride. You get better at being quietly decent instead of loudly correct.
Now, you might be thinking: This is all very helpful, but I still don’t want these people in my life.
Fair enough. Wanting peace is not a character flaw. Wanting quiet is not selfish. But in a small community, there’s a certain realism you must accept: you can’t curate your social circle like a playlist.
You’re going to share paths, water, weather, weddings, funerals, and the same tired jokes told by the same uncles for the next fifty years.
So, the question becomes: what do you do with the unpleasant people life gives you?
You can treat them like obstacles – things blocking your happiness.
Or you can treat them like weights at the gym. Heavy. Annoying. Possibly dangerous if you’re careless. But useful if you learn how to lift them without dropping them on your foot.
Here’s the strange thing I’ve noticed, after years of paddies and people:
Unpleasant people often show you your own edges.
They reveal where you’re too eager to please. You’re too naive to have any boundaries where you crave approval. Where you confuse politeness with self-erasure.
And yes, it’s unfair. It would be nicer if we learned life lessons from kind mentors who smelled of clean laundry and spoke in gentle metaphors. But we don’t always get that.
Sometimes we get Old Man Picha, who hates your tea.
Sometimes we get Niran, who wants your land.
Sometimes we get Mali, who wants your time.
Sometimes we get Ahai, who wants your obedience.
In the end, that’s what makes me – against my better judgement – philosophically positive.
Because a community isn’t a collection of perfect personalities. It’s a patchwork of flaws that somehow holds together. It’s the daily choice to cooperate with people who irritate you.
And maybe, just maybe, the point isn’t to escape unpleasant people.
Maybe the point is to become someone they can’t easily poison.
To learn, for free, the hard lessons: to be steady, to be clear, to be firm, to be humble, to be calm.
Not saintly. Not submissive. Just solid.
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
