LAYA had once been a vibrant, lively woman. At least, that was what I’d heard from several village elders and her relatives who had known her before she got married to Buli.
An amazing artisan, they said. She had a talent for weaving intricate rattan and bamboo baskets and mats. The flowers in her yard were so vivid that you could almost smell their fragrance.
Even with limited resources, she was able to produce handmade dresses, blouses, and other wearable items.
As she worked, she often hummed a tune to entertain herself or sang lullabies to put her children to sleep.
But now, her tools lay untouched in a corner of their cluttered storeroom, gathering dust amid forgotten junk. Buli had made sure of that.
“You don’t have time for nonsense like planting flowers,” he’d told her soon after their wedding. “Focus on being a good wife and mother.” And so, her garden became a patch of wild grass and bushes, and Laya became a shadow of her former self.
It wasn’t just Laya who bore the brunt of Buli’s cruelty. Their two children, Mina and Turek, had learned to navigate their father’s moods. Mina, barely seven, had developed the habit of speaking in whispers, as though lowering her voice could somehow make her invisible. Turek, at thirteen, had retreated into the world of fishing and foraging in the jungle to escape the suffocating atmosphere at home.
Thankfully, Buli was not our immediate neighbour, but one of my great-aunts, Tung Ulas, was. Tung Ulas and her husband lived in a little house, and unlike Buli, she had a flower garden that she tended to almost every morning before going to their paddy farm.
One day, as I helped Tung Ulas trim a hibiscus bush along her Croton hedge, Laya came out to hang a fresh load of clothes. She looked thinner than I remembered, her cheekbones sharp and her eyes sunken. Tung Ulas hesitated for a moment before calling out to her.
“How are you this morning, Laya?” said Tung Ulas, forcing a smile.
Laya startled at the sound of her voice, her hand clutching an old, wet shirt to her chest. For a moment, she just stared at Tung Ulas, her eyes wide and wary, like a deer caught in headlights. Then, she gave a small, nervous smile.
She replied softly. “I’m … fine.”
But she wasn’t fine. Anyone could see that. The way she avoided eye contact, the tremor in her hands as she put the shirt on the line – it was all too telling. Tung Ulas seemed to want to say something comforting, but nothing came out of her mouth.
Just then, Buli’s voice rang out from inside the house. “Laya! Where’s my coffee?”
She flinched so hard that the little cleaning rag in her hand dropped to the ground. Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of pure dread.
“I … I have to go,” she mumbled, dropping the rag and hurrying back inside.
We stood there, frozen, as the kitchen door slammed shut behind Laya. The sound echoed in my ears long after she disappeared. As Tung Ulas mumbled some choice expletives, my chest tightened with a mix of anger and helplessness.
From Tung Ulas and other neighbours, I learned that Buli had a way of mocking Laya’s interests and belittling her talent. Whenever she mentioned her old love for art, he’d scoff and say things like, “Oh, you mean those silly little paper flowers? Sure, they’re cute – for a hobby. But let’s be honest, no one’s paying for that junk.”
He never yelled or outright forbade her from pursuing her interests. Instead, he chipped away at her confidence with a gentle cruelty that made her doubt her abilities. Over time, she stopped even mentioning her art.
Buli also mastered the art of backhanded compliments. In public, he’d say things like, “Look at my wife, always so simple and practical. She doesn’t waste time worrying about makeup or fancy clothes.”
At first glance, it sounded like praise, but Laya knew better – it was his way of reminding her she wasn’t glamorous enough. If she ever tried to dress up, he’d make comments like, “Who are you trying to impress? You don’t need all that; it doesn’t suit you anyway.”
After years of such remarks, Laya stopped trying to look nice, resigning herself to plain, loose clothes and a face devoid of makeup.
Buli loved making Laya doubt her memory and perception. For instance, he’d tell her to prepare a specific meal for dinner, but when she served it, he’d say, “I don’t know why you made this. I never asked for it.”
When she protested, he’d laugh and wave her off, saying, “You must’ve imagined it. You’re so forgetful sometimes.”
Over time, Laya began to doubt herself about even the simplest decisions.
In front of others, Buli always addressed Laya politely, using terms like ‘sayang’ (dear) or ‘buak asung’ (sweetheart). But these words were laced with sarcasm. For example, if she forgot to bring something he wanted, he’d smile and say,
“Sweetheart, you’re keeping me on my toes with all these little mistakes, huh?”
To an outsider, it might sound like a joke, but Laya could feel the venom behind his words. She’d apologise profusely, while he basked in the satisfaction of making her feel small.
Whenever Laya received a visitor – a family member or a friend – Buli would hover nearby, pretending to be interested. If she laughed or spoke too long, he’d say afterwards, “You’re always so chatty with them. What could you possibly have to talk about for so long?”
His tone wasn’t angry, but it held an edge that made her feel guilty. Eventually, she discouraged such visits or made them short to avoid upsetting him.
Concerning their children, Buli subtly undermined Laya’s authority with them. If she asked Mina or Turek to do a chore or follow a rule, he’d swoop in with a casual, “Ah, let them be. They’re just kids; they don’t need to be bossed around all the time.”
The kids began to see her as less authoritative, and Laya felt increasingly isolated in her role as a mother. When she tried to discuss discipline with him, he’d shrug and say, “You’re overthinking things. Just relax.”
Buli was perfectly capable of doing simple tasks, but he liked to put Laya in a position where she’d feel overburdened. He’d call out to her while doing some trivial things, “Laya, where’s my brown shirt? I think you misplaced it again.”
Even if the shirt were exactly where it always was, he’d make her fetch it, as though she were incompetent for not keeping things in perfect order. When she finally brought it, he’d laugh and say, “See? I knew you’d know where it was. You’re good for something, at least.”
Buli had a knack for subtly making Laya feel inferior. If she struggled to understand something he said, he’d chuckle and shake his head.
“You’re adorable when you try to keep up,” he’d say, patting her on the arm like a child.
His tone was light, but the implication was clear: she wasn’t smart enough to be his equal.
In social settings, Buli played the role of the doting husband. He’d say things like, “My wife is so shy; she’s not much of a talker. She knows when to stay quiet.”
Those who did not know him well thought he was endearing, but Laya’s forced smile told another story. His words were a reminder that her voice didn’t matter, not even in public.
Buli never raised his voice or his hand, but his mere presence was enough to keep Laya and the children on edge. If he walked into a room and found something out of place, he’d sigh loudly and shake his head.
“I don’t know why I even bother,” he’d mutter, loud enough for everyone to hear.
The unspoken threat of his disappointment was enough to make Laya and the kids scramble to fix whatever was wrong, even if it wasn’t their fault.
These forms of subtle abuse were often dismissed as insignificant by outsiders, but for the victims, they accumulated and eroded their sense of self-worth over time.
Sadly, this story does not have a happy ending. As the years slipped by, I left the village – first for high school, then for work in Kuching. Life moved on, and so did I. When I finally returned one weekend after what felt like ages, Buli was no longer there. “He’s gone,” they told me. Dead.
Tung Ulas had passed, too. And Laya … well, the woman I found sitting on the porch of that same old house didn’t look much like the Laya I remembered. She was frail and half-blind, her once-nimble fingers now knotted with arthritis.
I introduced myself, hoping to stir some flicker of recognition in her eyes. But she just grunted and turned away, her gaze drifting back to the horizon. It was as though life had been drained out of her, leaving behind an empty shell that barely remembered how to exist.
I stood there for a long time, unsure of what to say or do. The stories I’d heard about the vibrant, talented woman she used to be felt like fairy tales, impossible to reconcile with the figure slumped before me. As I walked away, I realised the truth: Buli may have died, but he’d left his mark on her, a scar so deep that even time couldn’t erase it.
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.
