Past the edge of our narrow wetland, with its paddy fields stretching as far as the eye could see, I often caught sight of a curious figure named Dawa. If not for his hair, it would have been easy to mistake him for someone else. The distance made him rather indistinct among the waist-high grass and bushes.
But Lord, that hair! Long, flowing, and dark as midnight, it seemed to take on a life of its own under the sun, swaying and glimmering like a river of ink caught in a breeze.
This was in the late 1950s when long hair was trendy, thanks to the highly popular pop-rock group, The Beatles, who made long hair fashionable among men.
Dawa wasn’t one to fuss about appearances, but his hair was the talk of the wetland. The farm girls envied it openly, whispering with awe and annoyance, “That hair’s too beautiful for a boy!”
The older men, on the other hand, chuckled over it, claiming that if Dawa ever got lost in the jungle, a beast might mistake him for a jungle nymph and follow him home.
This was circa 1959, and at the age of six, all the talk about hair, girls, and jungle nymphs made no sense to me. But I understood The Beatles, and I liked listening to them on my father’s Toshiba radio. But I digress.
As for his name, Dawa was an amusing hand-me-down from his father, who’d borrowed it from a Javanese phrase he once overheard, ‘rambut dawa’, meaning “long hair”.
But Dawa wasn’t just some local oddity with good hair. He was a hardworking boy, like most of us back then, with a life dictated by the rhythms of the land.
His mornings began before the first rooster crowed, tapping rubber trees for their sticky white latex. By midday, he’d be calf-deep in the paddy fields, planting, weeding, or harvesting, depending on the season.
And yet, for all his industry, there was an air of mystery about him. He wasn’t one for idle chatter, and he carried himself with a quiet confidence that made people wonder what thoughts might be hiding behind those sharp, dark eyes.
I didn’t think much of him at first — just another young man doing what farm people do — until one of my married cousins came by one evening with a story so peculiar it made us all sit up and listen.
The Smile That Started It All
It began, as many stories do, with a girl. Or rather, a part of a girl — a single, fleeting smile glimpsed through the corner of a window.
According to my cousin, Dawa had been walking his usual route to the rubber garden one morning when he passed by a small house nestled in a clearing at the southern edge of the wetland.
The house was nothing remarkable — a plain wooden structure with a thatched roof and a few scraggly coconut palms leaning in the yard.
But as Dawa walked by, his attention was caught by a movement in the window. There, behind a thin curtain, was the lower half of a girl’s face, and on it, the kind of smile that could stop a man in his tracks.
Now, Dawa wasn’t the sort to be easily distracted. But that smile, he later confessed, had a way of reaching into his chest and giving his heart a good, hard squeeze.
It wasn’t just pretty — the kind of smile that seemed to know secrets the rest of the world hadn’t figured out. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt certain it was meant for him.
Of course, Dawa being Dawa, didn’t march up to the house and introduce himself like any self-respecting boy with a crush might do.
No, he walked on, his mind buzzing with questions. Who was she? Was she smiling at him, or was she just lost in her thoughts? And most importantly, how could he see that smile again?
The Girl in the Clearing
For weeks, Dawa passed by that house, hoping for another glimpse of the mysterious girl. And sure enough, she was always there — her face partially obscured by the curtain, her smile as radiant as ever.
It became the highlight of his mornings, a secret little ritual that made the long hours of rubber tapping and rice planting feel a little less tedious.
But the mystery of her identity gnawed at him. According to the neighbourhood gossip (and there was always plenty of that), the house belonged to a family from a neighbouring village.
They had two daughters and a cousin who visited from time to time. Dawa, torn between curiosity and shyness, kept his distance, content for the moment to admire her from afar.
That is, until the day he decided he couldn’t take it anymore.
A Bold Step
It was a hot afternoon when Dawa finally worked up the nerve to approach the house. He had finished his chores early and figured, if nothing else, he could claim he was just being neighbourly.
With his heart pounding like a drum, he walked to the front door and called, “Hello? Anybody home?”
For a moment, there was silence, save for the rustling of coconut fronds in the breeze. Then, from the shadows of the doorway, she appeared.
Lola. That was her name, and it suited her perfectly. Her hair was dark and wild, framing a face that was both sweet and mischievous. And her smile! Oh, it was even more dazzling up close, like sunlight breaking through the clouds after a storm.
“Hello,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. “Can I help you?”
Dawa, usually so composed, found himself stumbling over his words. “I, uh… I just thought I’d say hello. I see you sometimes… from the road, I mean. I thought… well, it’d be nice to meet you.”
She laughed — a light, musical sound that made his cheeks burn. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too,” she said. And just like that, the ice was broken.
A Courting Like No Other
From that day on, Dawa found every excuse to visit Lola’s family. He brought them fresh vegetables from his garden, helped patch up their fence, and even fixed their leaky roof once, though he wasn’t much of a carpenter.
Lola’s parents, impressed by his kindness and work ethic, welcomed him with open arms. And Lola, for her part, seemed to enjoy his company as much as he enjoyed hers.
Their courtship was slow and steady, the way things often were in our little corner of the world. They talked about everything and nothing — her dreams of visiting the city, his plans to expand the rubber garden, the best way to cook a fish over an open fire. And through it all, her smile never lost its magic.
A Love to Remember
It wasn’t long before the whole farming area was buzzing with talk of Dawa and Lola. People whispered about the young man with the long hair and the girl with the radiant smile, speculating when they might tie the knot.
Dawa, the pragmatist, decided it was time to make things official. He approached Lola’s parents with the utmost respect, asking for their blessing to marry their daughter. They, having grown fond of him, gladly gave their approval.
The wedding was a modest affair, but no less joyous for its simplicity. Friends and family gathered under the open sky, feasting, laughing, and dancing long into the night. And when Dawa and Lola exchanged their vows, there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd.
The Smile That Endures
In the years after that, Dawa and Lola built a vibrant life together, transforming their farm into a sanctuary of love, hope, and resilience. Their journey was not without challenges — storms battered their fields, droughts parched the earth, and there were seasons when the harvest fell short of their dreams. Yet, through every setback, their love remained deep and unshakable, akin to the roots of the old trees that graced their land.
The stream that meandered past their home became their favourite retreat. On quiet evenings, after a day of hard work, they would dip in the cool water or sit on a log on its grassy bank.
One such evening, Dawa turned to Lola with a playful glint in his eye. “Do you remember the first time we met?” he asked, his voice tinged with nostalgia.
Lola chuckled, her laughter light and melodious. “How could I forget? You were staring at me like you’d just seen a miracle.”
“That smile of yours… it turned my world upside down and made me stay,” said Dawa.
Over the decades, as I heard fragments of the story from my seniors and elders, I was always struck by the constant mention of the smile. Even now, it continues to fascinate me.
That smile — so ordinary and yet so extraordinary — sparked a love story that endured the test of time. It was a reminder of the magic that could be found in the simplest moments, the smallest gestures.
Love, after all, doesn’t always announce itself with grand declarations or sweeping gestures. Sometimes, it begins with something as small as a smile.
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 via www.hayhenlin@gmail.com
