LIUS was a singer. Not the kind you’d see plastered on record covers or crackling through radios. He wasn’t one for glitzy stages or studio perfection. No, Lius was a singer in the truest, most unassuming sense of the word. If the world had been silent, he’d have filled it with his voice regardless. Rain or shine, paddy field or footpath, it didn’t matter – Lius sang because he had to.
Sometimes, when I was a child, I imagined him singing even before he was born – crooning softly in his mother’s womb. And why not? There were whispers in the village about his mother’s belly humming before he was born. The kind of tales that old aunties tell with a glint in their eye and a cup of kopi o in hand. Apparently, his father swore that the humming vibrations were perfectly in tune, though I’ve always wondered how one could confirm such a thing.
By the time my mother carried me in 1953, Lius was already forty years old. And if the stories are to be believed, he had been singing his heart out everywhere for decades and, of course, during festivals, weddings, and other social gatherings.
One song in particular had taken hold of him, Bengawan Solo, a hauntingly beautiful Indonesian melody penned by Gesang Martohartono in 1940. The song, much like Lius, had a knack for seeping into hearts.
During World War II in Indonesia (1942-1945), the occupying Japanese fell in love with the song, and they didn’t just listen to it casually. The soldiers and officials played it constantly on radio broadcasts, gramophones, and at social events.
They also took the melody to Japan, China, Korea, and Manchuria. Postwar, Bengawan Solo was recorded in Japanese, with translated lyrics, and became a popular song in the late 1940s and 1950s.
Poor Gesang, the composer, earned almost nothing during the occupation, but Japanese music publishers later paid him royalties, and he was honoured in Japan decades afterwards.
Had Lius known all of that, it would not have mattered. He sang Bengawan Solo like it was his own. His voice glided through the verses over and over, weaving its way into our village life and especially in the wetland where our paddy farms were for half the year.
I often wondered what made him so inseparably tied to music. Was it happiness that made him sing, or did singing make him happy? It’s a chicken-and-egg sort of question; one I still can’t answer.
Back then, as a child, I’d pass by his paddy field on my way to my favourite fishing hole. Without fail, Lius’s voice would greet me before I even caught sight of him. He sang when the sun baked the earth, and he sang when the rain turned the fields into muddy chaos. And when he ran out of songs – though that was rare – he’d hum a tune of his own invention, nonsensical but strangely captivating. It was as if his soul couldn’t bear silence.
Looking back now, I can’t recall a single moment when Lius wasn’t singing. He sang when he was overjoyed, when he was melancholic, and even when he was irritated. Oh yes, when someone dared annoy him, his voice would turn into an unexpected weapon.
On one memorable occasion, a poor fellow had the misfortune of crossing him. Lius, in his usual cleverness, made up a song on the spot, lyrics and all, to mock and chastise the man. It was equal parts hilarious and devastating. The rest of us were doubled over laughing, while the unfortunate target of his melody slunk away in shame. It was a lesson no one forgot: never provoke a man whose wit is as sharp as his voice.
When I turned 13, I picked up the guitar – not very well, mind you, but enough to strum a tune or two. By then, Lius was well into his fifties, but that didn’t stop him from singing.
One day, during the paddy farming season, I borrowed a guitar and made my way to his field. Mischief tugged at my lips as I deliberately butchered Bengawan Solo, singing horribly out of tune. Lius, ever the perfectionist when it came to music, waved his hand at me dismissively, his face scrunched in mock disgust.
“Let me show you how it’s done,” he said, his baritone voice already warming up.
And just like that, the magic happened. As I strummed along, Lius took over the singing.
“Bengawan Solo,” he started crooning. “Riwayatmu ini, Sedari dulu jadi … Perhatian insani.”
By the second verse, his eyes were alight with joy, and his voice swelled, rich and resonant.
When he reached the chorus, he closed his eyes, lost in his own world:
“Mata airmu dari Solo, Terkurung gunung seribu, Air meluap sampai jauh, Dan akhirnya ke laut”
He finished with a vibrato so fine it could have made the angels jealous. His wife, who had been quietly watching from the sidelines, smiled in approval. I clapped my hands, laughing, and for a moment, the world felt simple and perfect. It was the highlight of my afternoon – and, in hindsight, one of the highlights of my life.
But life, as it often does, pulled me away. At 13, I had left our little village deep in the jungle of Serian District, some 40 miles from Kuching. Education called, then a career, and Kuching became my home. Lius stayed behind, rooted in the place he loved, tending to his fields and singing to the skies.
Though our paths diverged, I never stopped thinking about Lius. He was a kindred spirit, despite the years that separated us. Where he poured his soul into song, I poured mine into music, teaching myself to play various instruments and performing with bands whenever I could. Strangely, I felt like I was continuing his legacy, even though he never knew it.
When Lius passed away, I was in my early thirties. The news came like a quiet wind, gentle yet undeniable. I hadn’t seen him in years, but his absence felt like a note missing from a melody – a silence where sound should be. Even now, I sometimes find myself missing him. I miss his booming baritone, his hearty laughter, and his endless stories, some true, some so wildly exaggerated you couldn’t help but laugh.
In my quieter moments, I often wonder about the Great Beyond. Will there be music there? Will there be guitars to strum and songs to sing? And if so, will I find Lius again? Will he be waiting, perhaps in a field of golden paddy, his voice as strong as ever? I like to think he will. And when that day comes, I’ll join him, my guitar in hand, as we sing Bengawan Solo one more time.
The Symphony of Our Existence
In the end, life is a lot like music – a symphony of moments, emotions, and experiences strung together in a rhythm that’s uniquely ours. Just as music is made up of notes, chords, and melodies, life is composed of choices, challenges, and triumphs, each one contributing to the grand composition of our existence.
Every life begins with a simple note, like the opening of a song. It starts small, soft, and unassuming – a baby’s first cry, much like the tentative hum of an orchestra tuning before the performance begins. As we grow, the tempo quickens, and the melody takes shape. Childhood is a playful staccato, full of laughter and curiosity, while adolescence introduces crescendos of intensity, conflict, and discovery.
Adulthood, much like the middle section of a symphony, brings in complexity. Harmonies emerge as relationships intertwine, and dissonance appears in the form of struggles and setbacks. Yet, as in music, it is these moments of tension that make the resolution all the more satisfying. A life without dissonance would be flat, just as a song without contrast would feel hollow.
There are days of upbeat major chords, where everything feels light and joyous, and days of sombre minor keys, when the weight of the world seems unbearable. But even in the darkest of times, there is rhythm – a reminder that time moves forward, that every beat brings us closer to change, to growth, to the next movement in our symphony.
And just as every musician brings their own interpretation to a piece of music, we each bring our individuality to life. Some of us are jazz – improvisational, spontaneous, and free-spirited. Others are classical – structured, deliberate, and meticulous. Some march to the steady beat of a drum, while others sway to the chaotic beauty of a waltz.
As the song of life nears its final note, it slows, softens, and resolves. Yet, even after the music ends, its echoes remain, resonating in the hearts of those who heard it. It is a reminder that life, like music, is not about perfection but about expression. It’s about the journey through highs and lows, the moments of silence and sound, and the beauty of creating something uniquely our own.
In the end, we are all composers of our own symphonies. So, let us play boldly, sing freely, and dance to the rhythm of life while the music lasts.
And to conclude, here’s to Lius – the singer, the storyteller, the soul who refused to let silence win. May his song echo forever.
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.
“Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent.” – Victor Hugo (1802-1885), one of France’s greatest writers and a towering figure of the Romantic Movement in Literature. He was a poet, novelist, playwright, essayist and political thinker whose works shaped French culture and continue to influence world literature today.
