ATAN had always known deep down that fatherhood wasn’t for him. He never imagined himself as a parent tied to responsibilities demanding his soul. But when Lilah had gazed at him years ago, her voice trembling with hope as she spoke of having a child, he couldn’t bear to deny her. He loved her too much. And so, when Bani was born, Atan threw himself into the role of fatherhood with the same determination he brought to the pepper and paddy fields.
But he was tired. So, so tired.
Atan was diligent, kind, and generous, with strong hands that had coaxed green life out of the stubborn earth. As a successful pepper and paddy farmer, he carried the respect of his neighbours. As a husband to Lilah, he was devoted. And as a father to ten-year-old Bani, he was attentive and engaged. On the surface, Atan seemed to have it all.
Each day, Atan would rise before the sun, his feet brushing the cool floorboards as he dressed quietly to avoid waking Lilah. By the time Bani stumbled out of bed, still groggy with sleep, Atan was already preparing breakfast. He smiled at the boy and ruffled his hair, but inside, he felt the day’s burdens press heavily on his chest.
The Invisible Chains
Atan’s love for Bani was undeniable. He taught the boy how to button his shirt, tie his shoelaces, hold his hand as they crossed the muddy path to school, and even sat with him in the evenings to encourage him to do his homework. On weekends, he took Bani to the farm, hoping to instil a sense of respect for hard work and nature’s gifts. And yet, no matter how much he tried, there was a gnawing emptiness inside him, a silent cry for the freedom he had lost.
He longed for the solitude of his youth, those tranquil mornings spent by the riverbank with his fishing line drifting idly in the water. He longed for the freedom to work when he chose, to rest when needed, or to be without any constraints. Now, every choice revolved around Bani. Atan felt like a man tethered, his life no longer his own.
Lilah, on the other hand, thrived in motherhood. She adored Bani with a fierce, protective love and couldn’t understand why Atan seemed so restless. “Why do you always have that faraway look in your eyes?” she asked one evening as they sat together on the porch.
Atan hesitated, staring at the stars. “I’m just tired, Lilah. Farming is hard work.”
“It’s more than that,” she pressed, but he shook his head, unwilling to voice the turmoil in his heart. How could he explain that while he loved their son, he sometimes resented the life he had agreed to, the life she had wanted so badly? It wasn’t a conversation he knew how to have.
A Silent Bond
There were small moments, though, when Atan felt a flicker of connection with Bani that transcended his inner struggles. One such moment came during a weekend at the farm. Bani, his small hands clumsy yet eager, worked diligently to plant pepper saplings under Atan’s careful guidance. The boy’s face was smeared with dirt, his eyes bright with determination.
“You’ve got to press the soil firmly, like this,” Atan said, demonstrating with his hands. Bani mimicked him, his tongue sticking out in concentration. When the boy finally succeeded, he looked up at his father, beaming with pride.
“Did I do it right, Papa?”
Atan felt a lump rise in his throat. “You did well, Bani,” he said softly, ruffling the boy’s hair. For a brief moment, the chains around Atan’s heart loosened.
But such moments were fleeting. As much as he tried to focus on the joys of fatherhood, his mind often wandered to what could have been. He wondered what his life might have looked like if he had said no to Lilah all those years ago. Would he have travelled? Taken risks? Lived for himself instead of for others?
The Whisper of Dreams
Unbeknownst to Lilah and Bani, Atan had a secret – a box buried in a large wooden chest in the attic. Inside were remnants of a dream he had abandoned long ago: sketches of boats and maps of distant lands. When he was younger, while working as a crew member on a fishing boat based in Kuching, he dreamed of becoming a sailor and exploring the world beyond his little village. But life had other plans, and Atan had buried those dreams under the weight of responsibility.
One rainy afternoon, while Lilah was cooking and Bani was at a friend’s house, Atan climbed to the attic and opened the box. He ran his fingers over the brittle paper, his heart aching with a longing he couldn’t express. He had repressed the dream for so long that it felt like a relic from a past life.
“Maybe in another lifetime,” he whispered, closing the box and returning it to its hiding place.
The Unspoken Rift
Lilah often sensed something was amiss between her and Atan, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. She confided in her sister, Mira, who visited one day with her brood of three noisy children in tow.
“Atan’s been distant lately,” Lilah admitted as they shelled peas together. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
Mira, ever blunt, shrugged. “Maybe he’s just tired. Men don’t always say what’s on their minds.”
“But what if it’s more than that?” Lilah’s voice wavered. “What if he’s unhappy … with us?”
Mira frowned but said nothing, leaving Lilah to stew in her doubts. That night, as Atan sat quietly on the porch, Lilah joined him, her heart heavy with unspoken questions. But when she opened her mouth to speak, the words wouldn’t come. Instead, they sat in silence, the gulf between them growing wider.
The Bittersweet Goodbye
Time, indifferent and relentless as ever, carried on. Bani grew older, shedding the innocence of youth, and the day came when he left the village to pursue a career that promised a better life. It was a significant move as this was in the 1960s when only a few young people from the village were adventurous enough to venture out. The family walked together, their footsteps heavy with unspoken words, following the winding jungle path that led to Mile 27 of the old Kuching-Serian Road.
When the bus came and Bani stepped on board, Lilah’s tears flowed. “Be safe, Bani,” she managed to choke out.
Atan stood beside her, silent, his grip on her tightening as if to steady them both. Inside him, a storm churned. Relief mingled with an aching hollowness he hadn’t anticipated. He had spent years dreaming of this day, imagining the quiet that would replace the chaos, the weight that would lift from his shoulders. And now, as the bus disappeared down the road, leaving nothing but a trail of exhaust and the faint echo of its engine, Atan felt emptier than he ever thought possible. The freedom he had longed for felt like a cruel joke, a gaping silence where laughter and life had once been.
And though Atan’s feet carried him home, his heart lingered on that road, chasing the fading silhouette of the bus that had taken his child away.
In the quiet that followed Bani’s departure, Atan and Lilah found themselves alone together for the first time in decades. Atan rediscovered small joys, like fishing by the riverbank. But the distance between him and Lilah lingered, an unspoken tension that neither knew how to bridge.
One evening, as they sat by the fire, Lilah finally broke the silence. “Do you regret it?” she asked softly.
Atan looked at her, startled. “Regret what?”
“Regret having Bani. Being a father,” she said.
He hesitated. The truth was heavy on his tongue. “I don’t regret Bani,” he said finally. “I regret … losing myself along the way.”
Lilah nodded, tears glistening in her eyes. “I wish you had told me. Maybe we could have found a way.”
Atan reached for her hand, his calloused fingers brushing hers. “I didn’t know how to say it, Lilah. I didn’t want to hurt you.”
They sat in silence, the weight of years between them. It wasn’t a perfect resolution, but it was a start.
The Lesson of the Fields
Looking back, Atan realised that life, like farming, was a delicate balance of planting, harvesting, sacrifice and reward. He had given up a part of himself to raise Bani, and though it hadn’t been easy, it had been worth it. Bani blossomed into a man of goodness, kindness, and steadfast diligence, and Atan’s heart swelled with quiet pride, knowing he had been a guiding hand in shaping such a soul.
But Atan also knew now what he hadn’t known then: that it was okay to want more, dream, and struggle with the weight of responsibility. He had learned that parenthood wasn’t for everyone. That didn’t make him a bad person. It simply made him human.
He felt a bittersweet peace settle over him. Life hadn’t turned out how he had imagined, but it was still worth living.
And sometimes, that was enough.
“The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it.” – Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862), an American essayist, poet, and philosopher known for his transcendentalist beliefs. He is best known for his book ‘Walden‘, which reflects on simple living in natural surroundings, and for his essay ‘Civil Disobedience’, which advocates for individual resistance to unjust government practices.
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
