Bujin rented a small room above a tyre shop on the edge of the city. This was circa the late 1960s and early 1970s.
The room was barely large enough for a mattress and a few belongings. It had one narrow window that looked out over a row of rusted rooftops, and a thin old mattress on the floor covered by a patched-up sarong.
At night, the smell of burnt oil drifted up from the garage below. Mechanics often worked late, and the sounds of metal striking metal echoed through the floorboards long after sunset. Sleep rarely came easily.
Still, whenever he lay awake listening to the city, Bujin reminded himself that he was fortunate.
At least he had work, a roof over his head, and at least he could send something home.
Back in the village, things were much harder.
His parents farmed a small patch of paddy land that had belonged to the family for generations. When Bujin was a child, the fields had provided enough rice for everyone. There had never been abundance, but there had always been enough.
His father’s knees had weakened after decades of bending over muddy fields. The old man still worked from dawn until evening, but each year his movements became slower. His mother coughed more frequently now. Whenever anyone asked about her health, she smiled and insisted she was fine.
Yet everyone could see she was tired more easily than before.
His younger brother had stopped attending school for nearly a year because there was not enough money for books and uniforms. His little sister still studied, but only because she borrowed old uniforms from relatives and wrote in exercise books whose pages had already been partly used.
The family survived from month to month. That was why Bujin had left.
When he first arrived in the city three years earlier, he believed life would improve quickly. He imagined earning enough to repair the leaking roof, buy medicine for his parents, and keep his brother and sister comfortably in school.
Reality was different.
He worked as a labourer in a hardware warehouse, unloading deliveries, stacking heavy boxes and carrying supplies all day. The work was exhausting, and the wages barely covered his own expenses.
To save money, he walked forty minutes to work instead of taking the bus. Most mornings he drank only plain tea before beginning his shift. His worn shoes leaked whenever it rained, leaving his feet wet for the rest of the day.
At lunchtime, while his colleagues bought rice with chicken or fish, Bujin often settled for plain noodles or a piece of bread. Sometimes he simply claimed he was not hungry.
No one needed to know the truth.
At the end of every month, he followed the same routine. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he counted his wages.
Rent.
Food.
A little for emergencies.
Then the money for the home.
That portion was never negotiable, even when it left him with almost nothing.
His mother never directly asked for money. Instead, she mentioned that the rice jar was nearly empty, his father’s medicine had run out, the roof had leaked again, or his sister needed school supplies.
After sending what he could, Bujin survived on eggs and instant noodles. Hunger was unpleasant, but guilt was worse.
Whenever he spent money on himself, he thought of home.
If he bought a new shirt, he wondered whether his brother and sister had eaten properly. If he purchased medicine, he imagined his father working through pain. If he treated himself to a decent meal after payday, he pictured his mother carefully measuring rice so it would last until harvest.
The guilt followed him everywhere.
Gradually, another feeling crept in.
Resentment.
After long days of lifting heavy loads, he sometimes found himself wondering why everything seemed to depend on him. Why did every family problem end up resting on his shoulders?
The thoughts frightened him because he loved his family and hated himself for feeling that way.
One evening, after an exhausting shift, a friend who had visited the village handed him a note.
His younger brother needed money for school essentials.
His mother said they could not manage that month.
Bujin stared at the paper until the words blurred. Rent was due in a few days, and what remained in his wallet was meant to cover food until payday.
For the first time in years, he felt trapped.
The city demanded money simply to survive.
The village needed money simply to endure.
He belonged to both worlds and neither.
That night, lying beneath the rattling fan, he seriously considered returning home. At least he would be with his family. At least he would not have to pay rent or face the loneliness of city life.
But he knew there was no work in the village. The paddy field already struggled to feed those living from it. If he returned, he would become another mouth to feed.
The village offered comfort.
The city offered a possibility.
Weeks passed, and the pressure continued to build.
Then one afternoon, the warehouse foreman called him to the office. His father was on the telephone, speaking from a Chinese shop near the village.
“Are you eating properly?” his father asked.
Bujin forced a laugh.
“I’m fine.”
There was a pause.
“Your mother worries about you,” his father said quietly.
Something inside Bujin finally broke.
“She worries?” he replied sharply. “I’m the one worrying every month.”
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Silence followed.
He immediately regretted speaking so harshly.
But his father did not sound angry.
Instead, he sighed — a tired sigh that carried years of hardship.
“We know,” he said softly.
“What do you mean?”
“We know you are struggling.”
The words struck Bujin harder than any rebuke.
“Your mother cries sometimes because she feels guilty whenever we ask for help,” his father continued. “She knows how hard you work. We all do.”
Bujin stared at the peeling paint on the wall, unable to speak.
“We never wanted your life to become this difficult,” his father said. “You left because you wanted your brother and sister to have opportunities we never had. We are proud of you.”
His throat tightened.
“Even when you can send very little, we are grateful.”
Until that moment, Bujin had believed he carried the family’s burdens alone.
He had never realised they carried burdens too.
His parents worried about him. They felt guilty for depending on him. They suffered in silence, just as he did.
Then his father said something Bujin would never forget.
“You must also look after yourself. If you collapse, all of us collapse together.”
After the call ended, Bujin stood motionless. Then he hurried to the toilets, where, hidden from his workmates, he quietly wept.
The tears carried months of exhaustion, loneliness, fear and relief. For the first time in a long while, he no longer felt invisible.
Nothing changed overnight.
His wages remained low. The village was still poor. Bills still arrived, and medicine still cost money.
But something important had shifted.
His family began speaking more honestly. His mother stopped hiding problems behind gentle hints. His father encouraged the younger children to help where they could. His brother returned to school part-time while working weekends at a workshop. His sister earned small amounts by helping neighbours after classes.
Everyone carried part of the burden.
Bujin also stopped pretending to be invincible. Sometimes he admitted he could not send much. Sometimes he allowed himself small comforts—a proper meal after payday, a new pair of shoes when the old ones finally fell apart, or an occasional bus ride when he was simply too exhausted to walk.
The guilt never disappeared completely, but it became lighter.
He realised that supporting those he loved did not mean destroying himself.
Several months later, Bujin stood beneath the warehouse awning watching rain fall across the city. The lights shimmered on the wet streets like scattered stars.
In his pocket was a money transfer receipt. The amount was modest, but it would help pay for rice, medicine and schoolbooks.
That was enough.
Beyond the city lay his village, with its muddy fields and leaking roof. His mother would be preparing supper beneath a dim lamp, while his father would still rise before dawn despite aching knees.
They were all still struggling.
So was he.
Yet they were moving forward together.
Bujin realised that life rarely offers perfect solutions. Most people walk a narrow path between responsibility, hope, fear and necessity. Some carry families. Others carry dreams. Most carry both.
The challenge is not to live without burdens, but to choose which ones are worth carrying.
As the rain continued to fall, he reflected that people often mistake strength for facing everything alone. Yet true strength may lie in allowing others to share our worries, failures and fears. A single thread snaps easily, but many woven together become strong.
The future would always be uncertain. The fields would still need planting, the city would still demand hard work, and money would always come and go. But as long as people helped one another, there would always be a reason to keep going.
Perhaps that is life’s quiet truth: every step taken with love gives meaning to the journey, even when the destination remains uncertain.
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Nietzsche
‘He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.’ — Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900), a German philosopher, cultural critic, and writer whose ideas have had a major influence on philosophy, psychology, literature, and modern thought. He is known for challenging conventional beliefs about morality, religion, truth, and human purpose.
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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.
