‘In family life, love is the oil that eases friction, the cement that binds closer together, and the music that brings harmony.”
– Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), German philosopher, cultural critic, poet and philologist.
MY village, Kampung Ta-ee in Serian District in the 1950s and 1960s, was typical of rural villages in Sarawak – remote and undeveloped in the modern sense.
It was a place where mornings began with the melody of bird calls, crowing of roosters, the rustle of bushes and trees in the breeze, and the distant laughter of children playing in the village streets or among the paddy fields. Life moved in rhythm with the seasons and the heartbeat of the surrounding jungle.
Among the emerald-green rice fields in a stretch of wetland, several miles from the village, lived a man for whom I have created a pseudonym, Sidi, because I don’t have permission to use his real name. Additionally, I have decided to add a few embellishments to his story to obscure his identity, as I fear that the odd descendant might not be pleased that his lineage has become the subject of a journalist’s musings.
Anyway, Sidi was a distant relative, and I want to avoid disrespecting or dishonouring him or his descendants in any way. A favourite uncle, Uncle Sulas, knew him well, and he had pointed out more than once that Sidi was a humble, kind-hearted man who had once thought he would live out his days alone.
Sidi wasn’t a man prone to grand gestures or sweeping declarations. At thirty-four, while I was nine and in Primary Three in our village school, he had built a quiet, contented life for himself. His days were filled with tending to the paddy fields, fishing along the riverbanks, and sharing meals with his tight-knit family, relatives and friends who had raised him. But he had never married, not because he lacked suitors, but because the right person had never come along, or so he thought.
That changed when he met Ida. According to the many conversations on our verandah and in the paddy fields, Ida was in her late teens when she eloped with a man from another village who impressed her with his sleek hair, fancy clothes, and smooth talk. People were unsure if they ever got married. Some assumed they did because when she returned after five years, she had a daughter in tow. The man or “husband”, however, was never seen.
Don’t get me wrong. Ida was not a bad girl. She was just impressionable, a bit hotheaded and rather stubborn. But she had a quiet strength about her.
The villagers whispered about her past – a husband who had walked out one day and never returned, leaving her to raise their two-year-old daughter, Ara, on her own. But Ida never spoke of it, and Sidi never asked. He was drawn to her for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, a pull stronger than the tide that swelled the nearby river.
When Sidi and Ida married, all who mattered to them were overjoyed. They saw in Sidi a man who could bring stability and warmth to Ida’s life, and in Ida, a woman who could fill the quiet corners of Sidi’s heart. But there was one question that lingered unspoken in the air. What about Ara?
Ara was four years old when Sidi entered her life, a bright-eyed child with a laugh that could light up the darkest corners of the jungle. At first, Sidi wasn’t sure how to feel about her. He had grown up helping raise his younger siblings, so he was no stranger to the chaos and charm of children. But Ara wasn’t his sibling, and she wasn’t his daughter. Not yet.
He told himself he would try. For Ida, he would try.
A Bond Born in the Paddy Fields
The first time Ara called him “Papa”, Sidi was bent over, planting paddy seedlings under the hot midday sun. Ara had been trailing after him all morning, her tiny feet splashing in the flooded muddy fields, asking endless questions about why the paddy needed so much water and whether frogs were good or bad for the plants.
When she said, “Papa, can I help?” Sidi froze. He turned to look at her, his heart stumbling over itself. She was standing there with her hands on her hips, her small face set in an expression of determination that was both comical and endearing. Something in him shifted, like the first crack of sunlight breaking through the clouds after a storm.
“Yes,” he said, his voice softer than he intended. “Come here, Ara. Let me show you.”
From that day on, something changed. Ara began to follow Sidi everywhere – into the fields, river and village shops. She would climb into his lap during evenings on the bamboo verandah, resting her head against his chest as he told her stories about the jungle spirits and the ancient legends of their ancestors. Ida watched them with a quiet smile, her heart swelling with gratitude.
“She’s taken to you,” Ida said one night as they lay side by side, listening to the chirping of crickets outside. “I think she loves you.”
Sidi’s throat tightened. Love. The word felt too big, too heavy for him to say out loud. But he nodded, his fingers brushing against Ida’s. “She’s a good kid,” he said. “She’s easy to love.”
The Years That Flew
Time, like the rivers that wound its way past the village and the farms, flowed swiftly and silently. Before Sidi knew it, Ara was no longer a little girl splashing in the paddy fields. She was a young woman with dreams of working in town – to be a teacher or something related – with days filled with books, lessons and plans for the future.
Sidi couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when he stopped thinking of Ara as Ida’s daughter and started thinking of her as his own.
Perhaps it was the time she fell ill with a high fever, and he stayed up all night by her bedside, a cool cloth in his hand and prayers on his lips.
Or perhaps it was when she stood up to a group of boys who had mocked her for having no father, her voice fierce and unwavering as she insisted that he was her father.
“She’s not my blood,” Sidi said one evening, sitting with Ida on the verandah as they watched the fireflies dance in the twilight. “But she’s mine.”
Ida reached for his hand, her eyes glistening. “She’s always been yours, Sidi. Even before you knew it.”
A Father’s Pride
The day Ara left for the city for further studies, Sidi and Ida trekked the miles of jungle path to Mile 27, Old Kuching-Serian Road, where she boarded a bus to Kuching.
Sidi’s heart swelled with pride and sadness as he watched her board the bus.
“Take care of Mama,” Ara called out, her voice carrying over the sound of the bus. “And take care of yourself, Papa.”
Sidi waved until the bus disappeared around the nearest bend, his chest tight. He felt Ida’s hand slip into his, and he turned to see her smiling through her tears.
“She’ll come back,” Ida said softly. “She’ll always come back to us.”
Epilogue: Full Circle
Years later, Ara returned to the village, this time as a mother herself. Her heart swelled with nostalgia as she guided her children to the familiar paddy fields where she had once learned the rhythm of life from Sidi.
The golden fields stretched endlessly, just as they had in her youth, a timeless reminder of the connection between past and present. Her children, with bright, curious eyes, mirrored her movements as she showed them how to plant rice, their laughter ringing out like music over the quiet countryside.
As they worked, Ara wove tales of the man who had profoundly shaped her life. She spoke of their grandfather, Sidi – a man who defied convention for the sake of love, who wholeheartedly embraced her as his own, even though they shared no bond of blood. Her voice softened with reverence as she shared the lessons he had taught her, his wisdom woven into her every word.
Nearby, Sidi sat under the shade of a banyan tree, his hair silvered by time, his eyes reflecting a lifetime of experience. He watched them in silence, his heart swelling with gratitude for the life he had lived. For Sidi, it was love instead of lineage that defined family. He had cultivated that love with care and devotion. In the twilight of his years, he knew nothing else mattered more.
Though Sidi left them at 73, his legacy endures. He taught Ara – and now her children – that family is built through kindness, acceptance and the shared moments that bind us together. His story remains a testament to the transformative power of love.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune. The writer can be reached at hayhenlin@gmail.com.
