‘The past beats inside me like a second heart.’
– John Banville, an Irish novelist, literary critic, and screenwriter. One of his most famous works is ‘The Sea’, which won the Man Booker Prize for Fiction in 2005. Banville’s writing is often praised for its elegance, depth, and introspective nature.
Some memories have a way of lingering, refusing to fade, remaining as vivid as if they happened only yesterday. They stand resilient against the passage of time, undiminished by the years and the inevitable upheavals of life.
One such memory transports me to the tranquil nights on our family’s paddy farm when I was a child in the late 1950s and through the 1960s. The air carried a familiar scent — damp earth after a day’s labour — blending seamlessly with the distant chorus of crickets and frogs.
Enveloped in darkness, the world seemed to exhale slowly, its rhythm steady and soothing, creating a stillness that allowed for reflection.
In my mind’s eye, I can still envision those warm, cloudless nights, especially when the moon hung high, its silvery glow spilling over the emerald paddies.
The calf-deep waters that nurtured the tender paddy plants shimmered under its light, so serene it felt like a dream. However, this peaceful tableau wasn’t without its interruptions.
The ever-present buzz of mosquitoes filled the air — a relentless, high-pitched whine that was as annoying as it was inevitable.
We often cursed them, swatting and shooing, yet we acknowledged their place in the natural order, understanding that their tiny existence supported the vast, interconnected web of life.
In those quiet hours, with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze and the occasional croak of a distant bullfrog as my companions, I would feel an inexplicable sense of peace.
The simplicity of it all — the scents, the sounds, the unbroken expanse of night — wrapped itself around me like a warm, familiar blanket. It was a reminder that even the smallest creatures, the seemingly insignificant, played a crucial role in maintaining the world’s balance.
Growing up in those years, I witnessed moments that felt larger than life, despite their simplicity.
On many evenings, after the day’s work was done, my family and some close neighbours would gather in a clearing on a knoll near our farmhouse.
The clearing would not have existed if it weren’t for an elderly neighbour who, one day, felled some trees to build a hut for storing his firewood. By the time he finished, he had created a sizable clearing littered with rejected fallen trees, off-cuts, and branches.
Following that, my father and I spent several days, intermittently, collecting the discarded timber for firewood. By the time we finished, the clearing had transformed into a playground for me, my siblings, and the children of some neighbours.
A bonfire crackled and popped in the centre of the clearing, its flames dancing and sending glowing embers spiralling into the dark sky. Smoke from the fire curled around us, its earthy aroma temporarily shielding us from the relentless mosquitoes.
These gatherings began modestly, with impromptu potluck dinners between my family and two neighbouring households. Word spread quickly, as it often does in small communities, and what started as a simple meal evolved into a tradition of fellowship.
The gatherings grew larger and livelier and blossomed into joyous communal events that filled the stillness of the night with laughter, warmth, and a profound sense of connection.
When the rains came and threatened to dampen our spirits, two uncles and a cousin took it upon themselves to build a gazebo-like shelter. It had a thatched roof and sturdy, log benches — simple but effective. Rain or shine, our evenings together continued, a testament to the resilience and ingenuity of farm folk who refused to let a little bad weather stand in the way of joy.
Farming life was not for the physically weak and those faint of heart. The work was gruelling and relentless, demanding every ounce of energy from sunrise to sunset. The sun scorched our backs as we toiled in the fields, and the paddies, thick with mud, pulled at our feet like unforgiving traps.
Yet, for all its hardships, complaints were rare. Farmers knew the land was as much a giver as it was a taker, and they accepted its unpredictability with a mix of stoicism and faith.
Only when nature’s wrath became too great — the torrential rains that drowned crops or the parching droughts that cracked the soil — did frustration bubble to the surface. Even then, it was fleeting, quickly replaced by determination.
These were people who found joy in life’s smallest victories: the delicate green shoots breaking through the soil, the laughter of children playing barefoot in the fields, and the camaraderie of neighbours sharing stories around a fire.
The evenings often ended with a cup or two of ‘tuak’, a traditional rice wine that carried just enough warmth to ease the day’s aches. Beneath the gentle glow of the firelight, the day’s burdens melted away, giving rise to an infectious lightness of spirit.
It was in those moments, with laughter ringing in the air and the sweet burn of tuak on their tongues, that the men felt life’s hardships were, perhaps, worth enduring.
As the seasons turned, our little community’s year revolved around the harvest festival, celebrated every June 1st. This was no ordinary gathering but a jubilant event that marked the end of the harvest season — a time to pause, reflect, and give thanks.
Homes and fields were adorned with vibrant decorations, and the aroma of freshly cooked rice and grilled meats wafted through the air. The festivities began in the afternoon but came alive as the sun dipped below the horizon.
The rhythmic beats of drums and the resonant clang of gongs filled the night, creating a symphony that demanded celebration. Families gathered, sharing rice wine and toasting to the bonds that strengthened them through the years.
Elders shared stories of past harvests, their voices weaving lessons of resilience and gratitude into the fabric of the night. The younger ones listened, wide-eyed, absorbing the tales and feeling the weight of their heritage settle proudly on their shoulders.
The festival was not without its lighter moments. Games and competitions brought out the playful side of everyone. Tug-of-war matches tested strength and teamwork, while sack races left participants and spectators alike doubled over with laughter. Children darted about with sticky fingers and wide grins, their joy unrestrained and infectious.
As the night deepened, music and dance took over. Lanterns cast a golden glow over the faces of dancers who moved with abandon, their steps a celebration of life.
Briefly, the worries of the past year were forgotten, replaced by a collective sense of hope and renewal. It was a time to be fully present, surrounded by the people who made life meaningful.
Even now, decades later, I find myself returning to those nights in my mind. They were more than just gatherings; they were lifelines, anchoring us to one another and the land that sustained us.
And always, in the background, there was the hum of the mosquitoes. Annoying, yes, but also a reminder of life’s intricate balance — a balance we were all a part of, whether we realised it at the time or not.
Those nights taught me that life, in all its complexity, is best lived with others by your side. In the stillness of the night, surrounded by the laughter of loved ones and the gentle whispers of nature, we found not just solace but a reason to carry on.
Over five decades have passed, yet the memories of my formative years remain treasured, offering me a profound sense of belonging, comfort, and nostalgia.
The bond with nature, encompassing its sights, sounds, and scents, significantly influenced my journey, providing a source of tranquillity and shaping my experiences.
Within our tight-knit community, shared moments forged deep connections. Family and neighbourly gatherings weren’t mere occasions of joy; they nurtured a profound sense of unity and belonging.
The rhythms of farm life and our annual harvest festival epitomised the resilience, labour, and heritage of our farming community, instilling in us a strong sense of pride and continuity.
Despite the simplicity of those times, they overflowed with life’s pleasures — laughter, communal meals, and the embrace of our community. Festivals and celebrations bound people together, fostering a powerful sense of togetherness.
Though we grumbled endlessly about the relentless mosquitoes, they symbolized life’s trials and the delicate balance of nature. Even these pests played a crucial role in the intricate web of life, teaching us about acceptance and understanding.
The harvest festival stands as a moment of introspection, thankfulness, and revelry, underscoring the significance of recognizing and valuing one’s efforts and the support of others.
In closing, I urge you, the reader, to contemplate the essence of memories, community, nature, resilience, and the interconnectedness of existence. Find solace and meaning in shared experiences, and embrace the splendour of the world around you in your unique way and space.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
