BEING rejected once is tough, but facing it three times? Yes, you read that right – three times! That was the number of times women turned down my fellow villager Bunta’s marriage proposals. Two of them were from our village, while his initial heartbreak was in another place.
In a small, close-knit community like ours, where everyone knew everyone else’s business, secrets didn’t just slip out – they erupted. News, especially gossip, travelled faster than the wind, passed along from mouth to eager ear. By the time the day ended, every household would know the latest snippet of drama, and Bunta’s misfortunes were no exception.
In such a setting, to be rejected wasn’t just a private blow; it was a public spectacle. For someone like Bunta, whose pride and ego were as sturdy as the village’s tallest tree, the shame of being rejected three times must have been devastating.
It didn’t matter whether the humiliation was real or just in his mind; the whispers and side-eyes from the villagers would have been enough to make the sting unbearable.
I first heard about Bunta’s unlucky streak in the late 1950s, back when I was just a young boy, not yet old enough to attend primary school. At that age, I had only a shallow understanding of what the adults talked about, but even then, I could sense that Bunta’s story had become a yardstick for heartbreak. His rejections were a kind of legend, spoken of with half pity and half amusement.
It wasn’t until I began primary school that I started to understand the weight of his story. By then, it was well-known that no one in our village – man or woman – had ever endured rejection on Bunta’s scale.
At the time, though, I couldn’t fully grasp the pain such refusals could bring. To my young, carefree mind, it was just another curious twist of fate, one that felt too complicated to dwell on. And so, I tucked it away in the back of my thoughts, leaving it for adulthood to make sense of.
Fast forward six years, or was it seven? But never mind. By then, the village had changed in small, imperceptible ways – children grew taller, old folks grew frailer, and the jungle seemed to creep ever closer, as if it too was eager to hear our stories. Bunta, for all his misfortunes, remained a fixture in our daily lives. He worked the paddies with a steady hand and an unhurried patience, never complaining, though sometimes someone would catch him staring into the distance a little longer than most.
Some said he had grown quieter after that third rejection, as if the words he once freely shared had become too heavy to lift. Others whispered that he had become “despondent”, a word that has no proper equivalent in our language, and which I wouldn’t have understood if we had such a label. But I still felt more than I saw the despondency reflected in his eyes, one rainy afternoon. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the mud at his feet, as if afraid to meet the world head-on. The usual laughter at the riverbank, the boisterous chatter during evening gatherings – these seemed to pass him by, as though he were a ghost haunting his own life.
It would be easy to say that Bunta had moved on, that he brushed off his heartbreak like so much dirt from his feet. But the truth is, rejection – especially when it’s public – leaves a mark no one else can see. The women who had turned him down went on with their lives, but for Bunta, the sting lingered like the ache of an old wound. He became more withdrawn, sometimes skipping the weekly drinking sessions, sometimes forgetting to greet neighbours with his usual booming voice.
A few of the older women in the farmland would send packets of food his way, murmuring their concern, but he often left them untouched by his door. He lost weight, and his clothes hung looser on his frame. If you looked closely, you’d see that his eyes, once bright and full of mischief, seemed clouded with a persistent sadness. It was as if a permanent dusk had settled behind his brow.
But at his core, Bunta was not a man to surrender to despair forever. The jungle teaches resilience; the river, patience. One day, when the rains had finally ceased and the paddy fields shone like emerald mirrors, Bunta found himself drawn to a quiet strength – someone who had been there all along, unnoticed by most.
Her name was Suga. She was not the prettiest in the village, but she had hands that worked tirelessly and a heart that beat steadily and kindly. Suga was a woman who kept her chin up even when the harvest failed or the river flooded. She wasn’t given to idle chatter, but her words, when spoken, were always thoughtful.
Her friendship with Bunta began as so many do: a shared chore, a laugh over a stubborn pig, an extra helping of steamed tapioca at the communal table. Where others had seen Bunta’s failures, Suga saw only the man who still showed up, day after day, rain or shine, to tend to his fields and care for his ageing mother. She respected his silence and, in time, coaxed from him the stories he thought he’d forgotten how to tell.
Slowly, like the first green shoots after the monsoon, Bunta’s spirit revived. He began to smile again, first at Suga, then at the world.
The villagers, ever watchful, soon noticed the change. Whispers turned from pity to curiosity, and then, at last, to approval. When Bunta and Suga announced their intention to marry, there was no spectacle, no drama – just a quiet celebration, a relief that two good people had found each other at last.
The years that followed their union were not written in grand gestures or dramatic events, but in the quiet, steadfast routines of daily life. Bunta and Suga settled into a rhythm that suited them – waking before dawn, side by side in the cool hush of their house, sharing a simple breakfast of rice and salted fish before heading out to the paddies. Sometimes they worked in companionable silence, other times trading stories and gentle teasing.
It wasn’t a life without hardship. There were lean seasons when the rains were too heavy or came too late, or the river swelled and threatened to swallow the fields. There were nights when illness knocked on their door, and mornings when their bodies ached from the relentless demands of the land. But through it all, Bunta and Suga faced each challenge together, drawing quiet strength from one another. Where there had once been a hollowness in Bunta – a space left by rejection and loneliness – there was now a fullness.
Neighbours noticed the subtle transformation. Bunta, who had once walked with his eyes cast down, now met others’ gazes with warmth and humour. Children, once wary of the man with the “bad luck”, began seeking him out for stories or to help with small tasks, finding in him a patient teacher. Suga, too, seemed to shine more brightly, her laughter a gentle music that drifted across the fields.
Their marriage wasn’t perfect, of course; no marriage ever is. There were disagreements, harsh words spoken in exhaustion, moments of misunderstanding. But these were always followed by forgiveness and, more importantly, by an unspoken commitment to keep choosing each other, day after day. In time, their household became a place where friends and family gathered, where even outsiders felt at home.
As the years passed, the story of Bunta’s rejections softened in the telling. It became less a cautionary tale and more a story about patience and resilience. People began to speak, not of the women who turned him away, but of how he had endured, how he had found happiness at his own pace, and on his terms.
I think about Bunta now and then, especially how he got fourth time lucky, because there are lessons to be gathered from his journey.
First, as he found out, life does not always unfold the way we hope or expect. There will be disappointments, and sometimes, those heartbreaks will play out for all to see. Yet we can learn that our worth is not dependent on the approval of others.
Second, it is not about denying pain or pretending it doesn’t matter. It is about allowing time to do its work and being open to new beginnings, even when hope feels distant.
Third, friendship, companionship, and love can be found in unexpected places, and genuine human connection often grows slowly, nurtured by kindness, understanding, and shared struggle.
Finally, Bunta’s story reminds us that the opinions of others – fleeting as the village gossip – are passing shadows. What endures is the life we build for ourselves, and the love we give and receive, in whatever form it may take.
In the heart of our wetlands, surrounded by the constant hum of jungle life, Bunta and Suga showed the community – and perhaps all of us – that true luck is less about chance and more about the courage to keep going, even when the road is long and uncertain.
“Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.” – Confucius (551 to 479 BCE), a Chinese philosopher and teacher who lived from 551 to 479 BCE. He is best known for his teachings on ethics, morality and proper social relationships, which laid the foundation for Confucianism.
DISCLAIMER:
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