“Holding onto anger is like grasping a hot coal with the intent of throwing it at someone else; you are the one who gets burned.”
– Buddha, meaning ‘The Enlightened One’, who lived in the 5th to 4th century BCE in ancient India. He founded Buddhism, a major world religion that teaches the path to enlightenment through practices such as meditation, ethical conduct and wisdom.
IN the late 1950s, our village, situated at the foot of Mount Sadung in Serian District, about forty miles from Kuching, was a world of simplicity and tradition. It was a modest place, the kind of village where everybody knew everybody else’s business, not that they’d admit it.
The folks were paddy farmers, every last one of them, scraping their living out of the wetland fields that stretched farther than the eye could see.
And if there was one thing you could bet your bottom dollar on, it was this: rice was king.
Among the folks lived Bisil, a farmer whose success in paddy cultivation made him the envy of many. He was what you’d call “successful”, though that’s a word that wears different hats, depending on who’s using it.
In Bisil’s case, it meant he always had the greenest fields, the fattest rice stalks, and the biggest harvest at the end of each farming cycle.
One would think that’d make him the happiest man in the village, but happiness, it turns out, is a tricky thing.
Bisil had more than enough rice to fill his stomach and more, but something was gnawing at his heart. And that something was anger.
Bisil was the kind of fellow who could smile and lend you his tools one day, then stew over how the borrower didn’t thank him properly the next.
He carried grudges like a porter carries baggage, and he was mighty good at it, too.
But here’s the dark twist: every time he let his anger fester, every time he nursed a grievance like a sick calf, a peculiar thing happened.
He’d see a shadowy figure – faint at first, like smoke on a breeze – sitting across from him at his bamboo dinner table.
At first, he thought it was just his tired eyes playing tricks on him. But the more he brooded, the clearer the figure became. It wasn’t long before it had a voice too – a low, slithering sort of voice that dripped with poison.
“They don’t respect you, Bisil,” it would whisper. “They’re laughing at you behind your back.”
If Bisil had been a wiser man, he might’ve laughed it off. But he wasn’t, and so he didn’t. He started listening to the shadow, letting it feed on his anger like a leech sucking blood. And the more he fed it, the bigger it grew.
The Pig Incident
One day, Bisil’s trouble came to a head – or, more precisely, to a hoof. A neighbour’s pig, a fat and ornery thing with a mind of its own, got loose and trampled through Bisil’s paddy field.
Now, this wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. But that day, Bisil’s temper boiled over like a pot left too long on the fire.
The neighbour came by to apologise, of course, as neighbours do. He even offered to pay for the damage. But by then, it wasn’t about the pig anymore. It was about respect – or what Bisil thought was his lack of it.
That night, as he sat down for dinner, the shadow was there again, clearer and sharper than ever. Its eyes gleamed like embers, and its grin was as wide and mean as a crocodile’s.
“You’re weak, Bisil,” it hissed. “They think they can walk all over you. Are you just going to let them?”
Bisil slammed his fist on the rustic table so hard the bowls rattled, and his young daughter, Lila, peeked around the doorframe. She was a slip of a thing with big, curious eyes and a heart as soft as ‘kapok’ that filled their pillows.
“Papa, why are you angry?” she asked, her voice as small as a mouse’s squeak.
Now, if there’s one thing that can cut through a man’s rage, it’s the innocent question of a child. Bisil looked at her, and for a moment, the shadow seemed to shrink. But it didn’t disappear. It never did.
A Battle Within
The thing about anger is that it’s a lot like a fire. Feed it, and it’ll burn everything in its path. Starve it, and it’ll flicker out. But Bisil didn’t know that yet. He let the fire burn, and the shadow grew bolder, whispering in his ear at every turn.
“They don’t appreciate you,” it would say. “You deserve better.”
And Bisil believed it. But then, one day, Lila said something that stopped him in his tracks. She was sitting on the verandah, weaving wildflowers into a crown, when she looked up at him and said, “Papa, why don’t you smile anymore? You look like the black clouds when they’re about to rain.”
Now, you might think that’s a small thing, but sometimes the smallest things can make the biggest difference. Bisil didn’t answer her right away. He just stood there, staring at her, and for the first time, he started to wonder if maybe, just maybe, the shadow was wrong.
Turning the Tide
From that day on, Bisil decided to try something new. Instead of feeding his anger, he began feeding his kindness. He greeted his neighbours with a smile, even the ones who had wronged him. He shared his harvest with a family who’d had a bad season. He even helped an old farmer fix his broken water wheel, though the man had once called him a fool behind his back.
At first, it wasn’t easy. The shadow didn’t like being ignored, and it made sure Bisil knew it. One day, when he saw the neighbour whose pig had ruined his crops, the voice came back louder than ever.
“Confront him! Make him pay!” it spat.
Bisil’s fists clenched, and for a moment, he was tempted. But then he thought of Lila, her laughter and her wildflowers. He took a deep breath, and instead of lashing out, he called out, “Oi, Aju! How’s that pig of yours? Still causing trouble?”
Aju looked startled, then grinned. “Not this time, Bisil. I’ve got him penned up good and tight. Say, your fields are looking better. Glad to see it.”
It wasn’t much, just a few words exchanged between neighbours, but it felt like a victory. Bisil could almost feel the shadow retreating, its grip on him loosening.
The Nature of Evil
Here’s the thing about shadows: they never really go away. They’re a part of us, as much as our hands or our feet. Bisil came to understand that. He knew the shadow would always be there, waiting for a chance to creep back in. But he also knew that he didn’t have to let it take over. He had a choice.
Instead of feeding the shadow, he chose to feed the light. He focused on the things that brought him joy: his daughter’s laughter, the beauty of the fields at sunrise, and the simple pleasure of sharing a meal with loved ones. And little by little, the shadow lost its power.
A New Beginning
One evening, as the sun set, Bisil sat down to dinner with Lila. The table was set, and for the first time in a long time, there was no shadow sitting across from him.
“Papa,” Lila said, her eyes sparkling with excitement, “can we plant my flowers tomorrow? I want to make the garden pretty.”
Bisil smiled a real smile this time and said, “Of course, Lila. Let’s make it the most beautiful garden in the village.”
And so they did. Together, they planted the wildflowers on the soft earth. As they worked, Bisil felt a peace he hadn’t known in years. He knew the shadow might come back someday, but for now, it was gone. And as long as he chose kindness over anger, it would stay that way.
Overcoming Fear and Assumptions
I believe I was around ten years old when I had my first close encounter with Bisil. I had seen him many times before, but after hearing countless unflattering stories about him, I always made it a point to keep my distance. During the paddy farming seasons, I went out of my way to avoid passing by his farm on my way to and from fishing around the wetlands.
One day, however, I let my mind wander and, without realising it, found myself walking by his farm. I was startled when I suddenly heard someone calling my name. Glancing up, I saw Bisil climbing down from a tall guava tree. My first instinct was to run, but my pride wouldn’t let me. The thought of looking foolish or imagining myself as a scaredy-cat kept my feet firmly planted.
When he reached the ground and approached me, I was struck by how old he looked. He paused for a moment, catching his breath, and then grinned – a gesture that completely threw me off. Where was the perpetually angry expression I had always associated with him? Instead, his face was warm, almost kind.
Smiling, he extended his hand, offering me a plump, ripe guava. Unsure of how to respond, I hesitantly accepted it.
“I’m getting too old to climb trees,” he chuckled before turning and walking away.
My Takeaways
Now, if there’s a moral to this story, it’s this: we all have shadows. They’re a part of being human. But we don’t have to let them sit at our table. With a little kindness, a little patience, and a whole lot of love, we can keep them where they belong – in the corner, out of sight, and out of mind.
As old Bisil would say, the best way to fight the darkness isn’t with fists or fury but with the light of a kind heart. And that’s a lesson worth remembering.
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
