‘Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.’
Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948), a prominent leader in the Indian independence movement against British colonial rule. He is best known for his philosophy of nonviolent resistance, or ‘Satyagraha’, which he believed was the most effective way to achieve social and political change
LAYA was a pathological liar. His real name was Benson, but honestly, does anyone even care? We certainly didn’t. Back in 1960, when I was in Primary 1 at our village’s mission school, he was in Primary 4 — the upper echelon of childhood greatness, or so he thought.
Looking back now, I grudgingly admit he was quite charming in a mischievous way. Even then, he had this peculiar knack for weaving tales that weren’t outright lies but weren’t exactly the truth either. His stories lived in that morally ambiguous grey area where untruths go to retire.
One fateful day, one of the boys in our little band of misfits posed an existential question: “What do you call someone who tells lies?” Bear in mind, English was our medium of instruction, but it felt more like a foreign invader we were forced to accommodate. Learning it was a Herculean task; mastering it, an Olympic feat. The next day, another boy smugly showed up with his notebook, having consulted a teacher and his dictionary. He had found the word: “liar”.
Oh, how proud we were of ourselves! We had conquered the English language — or at least learned one new word. Naturally, we decided to bestow this lofty title upon Benson, branding him a liar.
Not to his face, of course. We weren’t suicidal. Benson had the temperament of a rabid goat with a headache and no qualms about expressing it. But here’s the twist: despite our newfound linguistic prowess, none of us could spell the word correctly.
One day, in a stroke of brilliance, someone scratched “laya” into the dirt to remind himself of how it sounded. And just like that, Benson was rebranded. Laya. A title as unshakeable as the village durian tree.
We, the innocent fools that we were, assumed Laya’s flair for exaggeration would fade with time. Surely, it was just a phase — a symptom of youthful exuberance or a mild sugar overdose. Oh, how naïve we were! Laya’s relationship with the truth was like oil and water — fundamentally incompatible.
Yet, before you judge us too harshly for tolerating his antics, you must understand one thing: we needed him. Laya was our football captain. Not just any football captain, mind you, but the football captain.
Our team was a ragtag crew of varying shapes, sizes, and questionable athletic talent. Somehow, Laya managed to herd us into something vaguely resembling a functioning unit. On the pitch, he was a different person — focused, determined, and mercifully too out of breath to concoct any of his usual nonsense. It’s rather difficult to spin outlandish tales when you’re running around, trying not to trip over your own feet.
By 1963, I was in Primary 4, and Laya had dropped out of school. He didn’t make it beyond Primary 6, having failed the Sarawak Common Entrance Exam.
Back then, passing that exam was the only way to move on to secondary school. At thirteen, he was too young to seek employment outside the village, so he stayed behind, helping his parents with their pepper garden and paddy farm. It seemed certain that he was destined to be a farmer, just like his parents and grandparents before him.
For the rest of us, Laya’s departure brought a peculiar sense of relief. The liar was finally out of our circle. Yet, oddly enough, his absence made life feel less interesting, less colourful. Without his larger-than-life tales, our days became predictable, even dull.
The Weight of Responsibility
Years passed. By the end of 1970, I had finished secondary school and returned to the village briefly to recover from the stress of exams and the general anxiety that came with them. It was during this year-end holiday that I crossed paths with Laya once more.
He was 21 by then, but he looked much older. His face was weathered, and his hands were roughened by years of hard labour.
The relentless work on the farm had clearly taken its toll. I later learned that his father had been unwell for two years, leaving him to shoulder most of the family’s responsibilities. He worked tirelessly to keep their pepper garden and paddy field afloat.
From what I heard, Laya was a hard worker. Yet, despite his efforts, he struggled to eke out a living from the unforgiving soil of the jungle. But it wasn’t just the harsh conditions that made his life difficult — it was his habit of weaving intricate lies that entangled his existence.
At first, his lies were harmless embellishments, born out of insecurity and a desire for approval. He painted himself as a successful farmer with thriving crops and bountiful harvests. But as time went on, his stories became more elaborate, serving as shields to deflect blame when things went wrong. If his crops withered or were ravaged by pests, he would spin tales of miraculous interventions or natural disasters to absolve himself of responsibility.
His reputation as a story fabricator grew, even as his life became increasingly difficult. Beneath the bravado, Laya was a man consumed by inner turmoil. His lies began to gnaw at his conscience. He became restless, haunted by the fear of being exposed. The weight of his deception left him isolated, estranged from those who once cared for him.
A Vow of Silence
One day, after ensuring his parents had food and shelter, Laya made an unusual decision. He told them he would stay on the farm for an extended period, citing the need to save time walking back and forth from the village. But in truth, he had a plan — a radical one. He decided to stop speaking altogether. He figured that lying involved words, so if he avoided speaking, he could not lie.
“I can’t cut off my tongue,” he reasoned, “but I can stop talking.”
The goal was to live in solitude for six months at first, tending to the farm and reflecting on his life. If that weren’t enough, he resolved to extend his silence for as long as necessary.
At first, the villagers scarcely noticed his absence. But as weeks turned into months, some wondered whether Laya had at last lost his wits, while others suspected it was merely another of his elaborate schemes.
Redemption in Solitude
In the quiet of the jungle, Laya confronted his demons. Without the distraction of others, he was forced to reflect on the choices that had brought him to this point. The lies, broken relationships, isolation — all of them weighed heavily on his mind.
Each day, he worked the land in silence, his hands calloused and his body weary. Yet, amidst the physical toil, he found a strange sense of peace. The silence allowed him to listen — not to others, but to himself. For the first time in his life, he faced the truth without fear or embellishment.
As the months passed, Laya began to change. His lies had once been a shield, protecting him from the harsh realities of life. But now, he realised that truth, no matter how painful, was the only path to redemption. Slowly, he rebuilt his sense of self as a man willing to accept responsibility for his actions.
The Man Who Reclaimed His Honour
Laya’s vow of silence lasted longer than six months. It became a way of life. When he finally returned to the village, he was a different man. His words, once tools of deception, were now rare and measured. The villagers, initially sceptical, began to see the transformation in him.
Over time, Laya regained the trust of those around him. His journey was far from easy, but it was a testament to the power of self-reflection and the human capacity for change. Laya, the pathological liar, had rebranded himself once more – not as a trickster or a farmer, but as a man who had learned to value truth above all else.
Looking Back
Over the years, I have pondered on Laya’s life, and bit by bit, I learned that the concept of a vow of silence has profound implications for personal growth and self-discovery. This practice fosters introspection. In Laya’s case, he opted for silence to escape the deceit that language can sometimes entail. The decision represented a commitment to living authentically, free from the entanglements of verbal communication.
Historically and in literature, many figures have undertaken similar paths. Mahatma Gandhi, for instance, engaged in periods of silence, or ‘maun’, to promote inner peace and clarity of thought. Furthermore, monastic traditions, such as the Trappists, emphasise silence in their spiritual practices, facilitating deep contemplation and a stronger connection to the divine.
In literature, works like ‘The Silent Patient’ by Alex Michaelides delve into the implications of silence, examining trauma and the challenges of communication. Similarly, Hermann Hesse’s ‘Siddhartha’ features its protagonist engaging in silence
as a means of achieving enlightenment.
Ultimately, a vow of silence can serve as a powerful tool for reflection and self-realisation, echoing the experiences of both historical figures and fictional characters throughout time.
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
