MUDI was, by most reasonable measures, a difficult man. Not the movie-kind of difficult, either. No. Mudi was the everyday sort of difficult: sharp elbows, sharp tongue, and a talent for turning a harmless moment into a small domestic emergency.
People also called him strange, but that was mostly because no one could ever quite tell what would set him off. You could mention the weather, and he’d hear an insult. You could ask a normal question, and he’d hear an accusation. You could breathe a bit too loudly and, honestly, you’d feel like you should apologise just in case.
Humour, for example, didn’t land with him.
Actually, “didn’t land” makes it sound like it tried. Humour approached Mudi the way a small, friendly dog approaches a man who hates dogs: with optimism, only to be rejected with cold disgust and an expression that said, “Why are you like this?”
Mudi thought jokes were stupid, tiresome, and a waste of human speech. He seemed personally offended by the idea that someone might be happy for no practical reason. Laughter, to him, was not a shared pleasure. It was a suspicious noise.
And when he suspected a joke was about him – whether it was or not – his reaction came in two reliable flavours.
First, sulking. This involved silence so thick you could spread it on toast, a face like a locked door, and the sort of body language that screamed, “I am suffering, and it is all your fault.”
Second, explosions. Sudden anger, loud enough to make people blink and look for exits. He’d declare the joke “disrespectful”, “childish”, “out of line”, as if someone had committed a minor crime against civilisation itself.
The tragic part was that the more he reacted, the more people laughed or snorted. The audience didn’t always mean to laugh, but the laugh would come anyway. That only made things worse.
If people laughed harder, Mudi would storm off. He would remember every face, every chuckle, and every innocent grin. He collected grudges the way some people collect fridge magnets.
Then there were questions. Normal questions, mild questions – the kind of questions people ask to be polite, or to clarify.
With Mudi, questions were dangerous.
Ask him, “Did you get the message?” and he’d hear, “Why are you so irresponsible?”
Ask him, “What time will you be home?” and he’d hear, “Where have you been, you suspicious creature?”
Ask him, “Are you alright?” and he’d hear, “You look like you’re failing at life.”
Any probing question – anything that required him to explain himself – made him bristle. He became defensive before the other person had even finished speaking.
It wasn’t that he was guilty of something. Half the time, he’d done nothing wrong. But he carried an assumption around with him like a shield: that people were out to get him.
These people were, in practice, anyone who asked him questions he didn’t like.
Mudi treated every-day conversation as if it were a courtroom, and everyone else was the prosecutor.
At home, this quality became a lifestyle.
His wife, Lori, was not a saint, but she was patient in the way people become patient when they have no other choice. Early in their marriage, she had asked questions like any normal partner.
“Mudi, did you pay the church tithe?”
“Mudi, are you coming to my sister’s on Saturday?”
“Mudi, why is there a smell in the kitchen that suggests something has died in it?”
Each time, Mudi snapped. Not always with words. Sometimes it was a look, a hissed comment, a sharp sigh, as if Lori had just accused him of treason. The message was clear: Don’t ask me things.
So, slowly, she stopped.
Lori learned to guess, to assume, to plan around him rather than with him. If she needed to know something, she’d work it out herself or ask someone else. If she wanted to tell him something, she’d test the mood first like a bomb disposal expert.
And Mudi seemed satisfied for a while. There were fewer “annoying” conversations, and fewer moments where he had to explain himself.
Then, because the universe enjoys irony, Mudi started to complain.
One evening, he came home and announced, with the confidence of a man discovering betrayal, “You never tell me anything!”
“What do you mean?” Lori replied.
Mudi’s eyes narrowed. “I found out from your cousin that your aunt from town is coming next week. Why didn’t you tell me?”
Lori could have politely pointed out that he had trained her not to speak. Instead, she said, “I didn’t think you’d like being asked a question or told anything.”
Mudi frowned, offended already. “What question?”
Lori kept her voice plain and simple, as if reading the weather. “The question with which I ask you anything at all.”
There was a pause.
In that pause lived years of snapped replies, sulky silences, and the strange logic of a man who wanted to be included while also wanting to be left completely alone.
Mudi opened his mouth, shut it, then tried again. “That’s not fair.”
“Is it not?” Lori said. “Because when I asked you things, you got angry. So, I stopped. And now you’re angry that I stopped.”
Mudi did the thing he always did when confronted with reality: he tried to fight it.
He listed excuses. He said people should “know how to speak” to him. He said he was “misunderstood”. He said jokes were “disrespectful” and questions were “accusations”. He said people were always trying to trap him.
When he finally ran out of steam, Lori said, “Mudi, do you actually want to be part of things?”
He blinked. That was a question, the most dangerous kind, goes under the skin.
He tensed, ready to defend himself. But something about Lori’s face – tired, steady, and not mocking – made him hesitate.
“I… yes,” he said, as if surprised to hear it. “I just don’t like how people talk to me.”
Lori nodded. “Fair. But most people aren’t trying to hurt you. They’re just living. Sometimes they joke. Sometimes they ask things. It’s not a trial.”
Mudi stared at the floor like it might offer legal advice.
Lori went on, gentle but firm. “If you snap at me for asking, I’ll stop asking. And then you’ll feel left out. You can’t have it both ways.”
Mudi’s jaw tightened. For a moment, it looked like an explosion was on the way. Old habits don’t go quietly.
Then he did something small and shocking.
He breathed out. Properly. Like a man letting go of a heavy bag he’d been pretending wasn’t heavy.
“I don’t know how to be… normal,” he admitted.
“Well,” Lori said, “that’s a start. Not a glamorous start, but a start.”
He gave a short, almost painful laugh – more like a cough that had read a joke once. “So, what do I do?”
Lori shrugged. “You try. When someone jokes, you don’t assume they’re attacking you. When someone asks, you don’t treat it like a confession. You can say you don’t like something without acting like the world is ending.”
Mudi looked sceptical, as if she’d suggested he flap his arms and fly.
But he nodded, slowly.
Over the next few days, he tried. Not perfectly. Of course not. He still went stiff when someone laughed near him. He still bristled at certain questions. But sometimes, he paused before reacting.
An acquaintance made a mild joke about his serious face, and Mudi felt the familiar heat rise in him. He almost snapped. Instead, he said, stiffly, “Right, very funny.”
It wasn’t charming, but it wasn’t war.
And unbelievably, the man smiled and moved on. No one died. No one formed a tribunal.
At home, Lori tested the new arrangement carefully.
“Mudi,” she said one evening, “do you want tea?”
He eyed her, suspicious of how harmless it sounded. Then he seemed to remember his own rules. He nodded. “Yes. Please.”
She made the tea.
Later, she said, “My aunt is coming next week.”
Mudi’s shoulders rose, ready for impact. Then he lowered them again. “Alright,” he said. “What day?”
Lori paused, genuinely surprised. “Thursday.”
He considered it. “Fine. I’ll be here.”
And that was it. No tantrum. No sulk. No dramatic accusation of conspiracy. Just an answer.
It was almost disappointing, in a way, how easy it could be when he didn’t set fire to it.
Weeks passed. Mudi still wasn’t funny – let’s not pretend miracles happen daily – but he started to understand that humour wasn’t a weapon by default. Sometimes it was just people trying to connect.
He began to realise that questions weren’t traps. They were doors. You could slam them, or you could open them. Either way, you were the one living in the house.
One night, Lori asked him, cautiously, “Are you alright?”
Mudi looked at her, really looked. He wanted, for old times’ sake, to be offended. He wanted to hear accusation in her voice. But there was none. Just a concern.
He hesitated, then said, “I’m… trying.”
Lori’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “I noticed.”
Mudi sat back, as if the chair had become more comfortable.
For the first time in a long time, the silence in their home wasn’t punishment. It was just quiet.
And yes, he was still Mudi – still sharp-edged, still strange, still a man who would probably never understand why people laughed at puns – but he was learning something oddly hopeful:
Not everyone is out to get you.
Some people are just out to get on with you.
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
