The story I’m about to share has been passed down my family line for generations. It traces back four lifetimes before mine, first told by my great-great-grandmother.
Assuming each generation spans roughly thirty years, this places the tale’s origins around 1833 — when the world was on the cusp of change. It was just six years before Captain James Brooke, the British naval officer who would later become Sarawak’s first White Rajah, set foot in Kuching. Against this historical backdrop, my great-great-grandmother’s story first took shape, weaving its way into our family’s lore.
She entrusted it to my great-grandmother, who carried it forward with care, passing it along to my grandmother. Then, during one of those rare family gatherings, my grandmother shared it with one of my older cousins.
I was just a child, then, too young to grasp its full meaning. Years later, I sought out my mother to confirm the tale, and she retold it in her way, adding her unique touches that only enriched the narrative further.
Now it’s my turn to take it up, and I’ll do my level best to tell it true, though I can’t swear I won’t add a little seasoning of my own. After all, a good story, like a fine stew, always tastes better with a touch of spice.
The story’s setting was our little village, Kampung Ta-ee, in the Serian District (now Serian Division) when it was a place where the jungle pressed close and life clung tight to the soil, and where survival wasn’t a question so much as a demand. The people there lived by the sweat of their brows and the strength of their backs, and they prized a boy child like a miser prizes gold. A boy could grow into a man, you see — a hunter, a farmer, a defender of the hearth. A boy was a promise, a future, a bulwark against the world’s indifference.
But don’t you go thinking they had no use for the womenfolk, oh no. They knew as well as anyone that a woman could weave the threads of life together in ways a man never could. It’s just that their worth wasn’t shouted from the rooftops — it was whispered in the quiet corners, where real work gets done.
The story begins with a couple, Miram and Tiko, who wanted a son so bad they might’ve traded the moon and stars for one, had such a thing been possible. They dreamed of a strapping boy who’d plough the fields, shoulder the burdens, and carry the family name like a banner through the years. They were so set on the notion that they’d already mapped out the lad’s life from cradle to grave before he’d even drawn his first breath.
Well, the day finally came, as days tend to do, and Miram brought a child into the world. The midwife, a kindly old soul with steady hands, placed the baby in her arms. And wouldn’t you know it? That baby was a girl.
I won’t say Miram’s heart broke clean in two, but it surely cracked a little around the edges. She looked down at that tiny, squalling bundle, her little fists waving like she was already spoiling for a fight, and felt a peculiar weight settle over her. She’d been expecting one thing and got another, and the human heart isn’t always quick to adjust to such surprises. As for Tiko, well, he stood there like a man struck by lightning — stunned, speechless, and a little singed around the pride.
In a remote rural village like ours, a boy was a blessing — no questions asked, no second thoughts. He was a promise, a future, a bearer of the family name. But a girl? A girl was a question mark, a puzzle wrapped in uncertainty. The villagers would smile politely, their lips curling into practised shapes of congratulations, but their eyes often betrayed their true feelings—a flicker of pity, a shadow of doubt.
Behind closed doors, the clucking would begin, low and rhythmic like a distant storm gathering force.
“A girl,” they’d murmur, voices heavy with implications. “What will she bring to the family? What will she take away?”
The elders, seated on their wooden stools in the fading afternoon light, would shake their heads knowingly, as though the arrival of a daughter was less a celebration and more a quiet reckoning — a burden, perhaps, that would one day leave the home for another family, taking with her the weight of dowries and obligations.
Life in the village and the surrounding farmlands was simple, but its customs ran deep, burrowed into the soil like the roots of the ancient durian trees. Sons were seen as pillars of strength, heirs to the fields and the family’s pride. On the other hand, daughters were wildflowers — delicate, transient, beautiful but fleeting. To some people, they were blessings of a different kind, but to others, they were just whispers of uncertainty carried on the wind.
“What a shame,” they’d say. “What bad luck.”
And so, Miram and Tiko found themselves caught between their disappointment and the weight of their neighbours’ pity, with a newborn daughter who didn’t ask for any of it but got it all the same.
Now, there was an elder in the village, a woman by the name of Tung Iyo, who’d seen more seasons than most and had a knack for spotting the potential in things others overlooked. Tung Iyo took one look at that baby girl and saw not a misfortune but a spark — a spark that just needed a little fanning to grow into a flame.
She started visiting Miram and Tiko, not with sermons or scoldings, but with quiet wisdom – the kind that slips into your heart before you even know it’s there. She taught Miram the old ways, the secrets of the jungle, the knowledge that had kept their people alive for generations.
And as for the girl, they named her Gata — a short form of Agatha, a name given to her by a travelling European missionary. To the parents, the name sounded as sharp and quick as the child, embodying her spirited nature. Gata grew like a wildflower in a sunlit clearing, small but stubborn, her roots digging deep into the earth. Her mind was a sponge, soaking up knowledge with an insatiable thirst, much like the parched ground drinks in the rain after a long drought.
From an early age, Gata often shadowed Tung Iyo, her mentor and guide, into the heart of the jungle. With each step, she discovered the secrets of the vibrant green world around her. She learned to identify the plants that offered healing, their leaves whispering promises of relief to those in pain. She also recognised the nourishing fruits that hung like jewels from the branches, sweet and inviting, providing sustenance for the body and spirit.
But the jungle held darker secrets, too. Gata became acutely aware of the plants that could bring death with a mere touch or a careless bite, their beauty masking a lethal potency. The jungle was a teacher and she was an eager student, learning to navigate its complexities with a keen eye and a sharp mind.
During her time among the trees, Gata learned to attune herself to the forest’s whispers — the rustling leaves, the distant calls of birds, and the soft scurrying of unseen creatures. Each sound became a chapter in the jungle’s narrative, and she grew skilled at interpreting its moods as if reading the pages of a cherished book.
She could sense when the air thickened with tension or the ground hummed with anticipation, allowing her to tread lightly and respectfully among the ancient giants surrounding her.
Gata’s spirit was wild and free, much like the untamed beauty of the jungle she called home. With every lesson learned, she forged a deeper connection to the earth, growing in knowledge and wisdom.
Now, Tiko, for all his grumbling, couldn’t help but notice the changes. He’d come home from the fields bone-tired, only to find Gata waiting with a remedy for his aching joints or advice for coaxing more from the soil. Slowly, grudgingly, he began to see her not as a consolation prize but as a gift — a daughter who could outthink, outwork, and outshine any son he might’ve dreamed up.
Miram, too, found her heart softening. She saw in Gata a resilience and wisdom that went beyond mere strength, and she realised that her daughter wasn’t just enough — she was more than enough. The love she’d kept locked away, afraid to open for fear of what she might lose, finally spilt out, and she embraced Gata not just as her child but as her pride and joy.
By the time Gata grew into a pretty woman, many people in the village had forgotten the old murmurs and had come to depend on her. She was their healer, guide, and bridge between the old and the new ways. And Miram and Tiko, now grey and stooped with age, watched her with pride so fierce it could’ve lit up the night.
And so, the story of Gata endures, passed down from one generation to the next, a reminder that life has a way of surprising us — and sometimes, just sometimes, those surprises are the best things of all.
quote photo:
Nelson Mandelaquote:
‘What counts in life is not the mere fact that we have lived. It is what difference we have made to the lives of others that will determine the significance of the life we lead.’ – Nelson Mandela (1918–2013).
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
