The Old Sewing Machine

The Path Through the Fields

IN a land where the hills rolled gently as a mother’s lullaby and the streams whispered secrets to the paddy fields, there lived a young fellow named Raham – though most folks just called him Ham.

Ham was a stout-hearted lad, the kind who worked with his hands and carried the burden of his family’s fortunes, or lack thereof, on his broad shoulders.

Now, Ham wasn’t one for idle dreaming. No, sir! No, ma’am! His days were filled with the honest toil of the fields, his afternoons spent trudging along a dirt path that wound its way like a lazy serpent between the paddy fields and up toward his family’s modest patch of land.

But if you’d been there to see him one fine evening – with the sun sinking low and painting the heavens in pinks and golds – you might’ve noticed a furrow in his brow deeper than the ruts in that old road.

Ham’s mind was elsewhere, tangled up in the daily arithmetic of survival: one torn pair of work pants, zero needles to mend them, and a family too proud to beg and too poor to buy.

It was on such an evening that Ham’s path crossed that of Dalin, a girl whose smile could’ve lit up the gloomiest corner of the world. Dalin wasn’t one to miss much, and she sure didn’t miss the sorry state of Ham’s trousers, which had more patches to them than a quilt, and not half so pretty.

She sat there on a log bench by her little farmhouse, her sharp eyes taking him in, and when he came close enough, she called out to him in a voice as warm as fresh-cooked rice.

“Ham,” she said, “why don’t you get those trousers patched? They’re about ready to fall clean off you.”

Ham stopped, surprised as a fish yanked out of the water. He scratched the back of his neck, sheepish-like, and shrugged.

“I wish I could,” he said, letting out a sigh that sounded like it’d been bottled up for weeks. “But no one in my family knows how to sew, and we don’t even have a needle, let alone thread.”

Dalin tilted her head, her curiosity shining bright as the evening star.

“Well, it’s not a great mystery,” she said. “I could try my hand at it if you like.”

“You?” Ham asked, his voice lifting just a little, like a man who’d spotted a lifeboat in a sea of troubles. “You’d do that for me?”

Dalin grinned, a grin so full of mischief and kindness it could’ve charmed a snake out of a tree.

“I reckon I could. Bring me those pants tomorrow, and we’ll see what I can do.”

And just like that, with a handful of words and a thread of kindness, a bond began to form – a bond as delicate as a spider’s web but just as strong.

The Log Bench and the Patchwork of Friendship

True to his word, Ham brought those trousers to Dalin the very next day, and she set to work with the kind of determination that could’ve moved mountains – or at least conquered a pair of raggedy pants.

Her hands worked the fabric with care, her fingers nimble despite the occasional prick of the needle. And when she was done, those trousers looked almost as good as new, though Ham declared them finer than anything a king might wear.

From that day on, the log bench by Dalin’s farmhouse became their meeting spot. Ham would bring his clothes for mending, and Dalin would patch them up, all the while chattering away about this and that.

Ham, who wasn’t much for talking, opened up in ways he never had before. They laughed at silly jokes, shared stories about their families, and even dreamed a little – dreamed of better days and easier times.

Ham, ever the practical sort, even built a little roof over the bench using coconut and sago fronds. It wasn’t much, but it kept the worst of the sun off their heads, and Dalin declared it the finest improvement she’d ever seen.

And so the seasons turned, the fields ripened and were harvested, and the bond between Ham and Dalin grew stronger with each passing day. It was a simple thing, born of kindness and shared moments, but sometimes the simplest things are the strongest

The Singer Machine and the Seeds of Change

One year, on the eve of the Gawai Dayak festival, Ham found himself in a neighbouring village, caught up in celebration. It was there, amidst the noise and laughter, that he stumbled upon a relic of a bygone age: a battered old Singer sewing machine. Its wooden frame was scratched and dusty, its metal parts rusted and creaky, but Ham saw something in it – a spark of possibility.

The machine’s owner, an elderly man whose hands were as twisted and tough as ancient tree roots, confided to Ham that it had lain dormant for years, a relic from an era when people cherished the act of mending their garments rather than letting them fall to tatters. Struck by a sudden spark of inspiration, Ham purchased the machine for a pittance and embarked on its restoration.

It wasn’t easy. He scoured the markets for parts, haggled with shopkeepers, and even made a trip to the bustling town of Kuching. But Ham was nothing if not determined, and after months of effort, he brought the machine back to life, painting it a rich brown that gleamed in the sunlight.

When he presented it to Dalin, her eyes went wide with disbelief. “For me?” she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath.

Ham grinned. “Well, you’ve been patching my clothes by hand long enough. Figured it was time to make things a little easier.”

Dalin, though overwhelmed, wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. She taught herself to use the machine, fumbling at first but slowly gaining skill.

And as her confidence grew, so did her ambition. She began sewing not just for Ham but for the whole village, blending traditional patterns with her creative flair.

Her little shop, attached to her family’s home, became a hub of activity, a place where people came not just to buy clothes but to share stories and laughter.

The Heart Knows What It Wants

Now, you might think this is where the story ends, but life, as it often does, has more in store. For as the years went by and Dalin’s little shop flourished, she began to notice something – something that made her heart ache in a way she couldn’t quite name.

Whenever Ham wasn’t around, the world seemed a little dimmer, her laughter a little quieter. She missed him fiercely, though she couldn’t quite understand why.

One afternoon, as they sat together on their log bench, Dalin blurted out, “I wish you didn’t have to go home.” Her cheeks flushed red as a ripe rambutan, but she couldn’t take the words back.

Ham, being a practical sort, didn’t catch her meaning right away. “Well, my mother worry if I didn’t,” he said, as matter-of-fact as if he were discussing the weather.

But later, as he walked home under the setting sun, her words stayed with him. Ham wasn’t one for deep thinking, but even he could see there was something more to what Dalin had said. That evening, he shared the story with his mother, and to her credit, she grasped the situation immediately.

“She loves you, Ham,” she said, her eyes soft with wisdom. “And I reckon you love her, too, even if you’re too thick-headed to see it.”

Ham, startled by the truth of her words, spent the night turning them over in his mind. And the next day, he returned to Dalin’s bench, his heart pounding like a drum. He didn’t have any fancy speeches or declarations.

“Dalin, if you’ll have me, I reckon I’d like to stay,” was all he said.

A Stitch in Time

And so, under the shade of that little roof, with the paddy fields stretching around them like a sea of green, Ham and Dalin began a new chapter of their lives.

They married in a simple ceremony, surrounded by the people who had watched their story unfold, and together they built a life stitched together with love, laughter, and hard work.

Dalin’s sewing machine became a symbol of their journey – a reminder of how far they’d come and the simple kindness that had brought them together.

As the years passed, they taught their children the value of determination, creativity, and the magic of a well-mended pair of trousers.

In the end, life is a lot like sewing: filled with tangled threads and unexpected tears, but with enough patience and love, you can always stitch it back together.

“No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.” – Aesop, a legendary figure believed to have been a slave and storyteller who lived in ancient Greece, around the 6th century BCE. He is best known for his collection of fables known collectively as ‘Aesop’s Fables’ passed down through generations to the present day.

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