‘The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong.’
— Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948). A prominent leader in the Indian independence movement against British rule, he is best known for his philosophy of nonviolent resistance — peaceful protest, civil disobedience, and passive resistance — to achieve political and social change.
Jek and Sari were once the very picture of happiness. Their days were filled with laughter and love, and their small community often spoke of their bond as something rare and enviable.
However, life’s unpredictable twists often test even the strongest bonds. In a moment of weakness, Sari gave in to temptation and betrayed Jek’s trust.
Her infidelity remained hidden for a time, but the truth surfaced in the most undeniable way — her pregnancy.
Jek, perceptive and meticulous, had his suspicions as Sari’s belly began to swell.
One evening, as they shared a quiet moment, he asked her how far along she was. Her answer only confirmed what he already knew.
Doing the math in his head, he realised the child she carried could not be his. The revelation struck him like a spear to the heart.
Pain, shame, and a deep sense of betrayal churned within him, but Jek, ever composed, showed no outward sign of his anguish.
He didn’t shout, accuse, or cry. Not because he didn’t feel the weight of it all, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of their private torment becoming public knowledge.
In their tight-knit community, secrets were fragile, easily shattered and spread. Pride and his love for Sari kept him silent.
A week passed before Jek made his decision. Quietly, he told Sari he would be leaving, under the pretence of seeking work elsewhere. When she asked why, his response was simple but heavy: “My heart hurts.”
For a moment, she seemed confused, but then understanding dawned in her eyes. She sensed that he knew the truth, and the silence between them was overwhelming.
Jek waited for the right time to leave. He stayed long enough to ensure their paddy fields were harvested and the grains safely stored, providing enough food to sustain Sari and the child for more than a year.
Despite his heartbreak, his love for her and his sense of responsibility wouldn’t allow him to abandon her without security.
Finally, sometime in April or May, as preparations began for the June Gawai Dayak festival, he departed. He left without fanfare, leaving behind a life he had built with Sari, but carrying the weight of his broken heart.
Months passed before Jek returned — not to Sari, but to our farm in a wetland, accessible only by a winding jungle path that branched off the Old Kuching-Serian Road at Mile 27. When he arrived, he quietly handed my mother an envelope filled with money, asking her to pass it on to Sari.
Little explanation was given, and my parents, sensing the sensitivity of the situation, respected his need for privacy and chose not to ask questions.
I happened to be there that day, but I was too young to grasp the full weight of what was happening. I only remember that this visit marked the beginning of a monthly ritual, the significance of which was not lost on my parents.
“What an amazing man!” my father remarked, his voice filled with admiration. “I am proud to call him a friend.”
He was talking about Jek’s unwavering care for Sari, the very woman who had caused him pain.
When Sari eventually gave birth, Jek was nowhere to be found. His absence was a hollow ache she tried to ignore, though it loomed large in her heart.
Thankfully, her family stepped in, surrounding her with love, support, and steady hands as she navigated those fragile, exhausting first weeks of motherhood. They became her anchor, shoring her when the weight of it all threatened to pull her under.
To those who asked where Jek was — neighbours, friends, even the midwife — Sari offered vague, carefully rehearsed responses.
“He’s busy with work,” she’d say with a tight, practised smile. Or, “Oh, he has to take care of something important.” It was never enough to stop the questions entirely, but it deflected them just enough for her to keep moving, to keep breathing.
Life, as it tends to do, pressed forward, even as Jek’s absence cast a long, unspoken shadow over their once-bright relationship. The laughter and light that had once defined their union felt like a distant memory. Sari was left piecing together a new reality where she carried the burdens of parenthood largely on her own.
A year later, during another farming season, Jek confided to my parents that he could not stay away forever. His heart, though still bruised, longed for the life he had left behind. When he did not ask for help or advice, my parents realised he just wanted to talk, to share his burden.
Summoning his courage and promising to let us know later what might or might not happen, he returned home, hoping to mend what was broken. When he stepped through the door, Sari greeted him as if he had never left and no time had passed. She made him tea as she had done countless times before, her quiet gesture of normalcy easing some of the tension in the air.
The child, now a toddling boy of about a year, caught Jek’s attention. He was surprised at how quickly the boy had grown.
As Jek settled onto a rattan mat on the floor, the child toddled over and, in a sweet, stumbling voice, called out, “Apa!” — his attempt at saying “Papa.” Jek’s heart clenched.
He glanced at Sari, who had her back to him, folding clothes. The boy climbed into his lap, his small hands reaching for Jek’s face with innocent curiosity.
At that moment, something within Jek shifted. The bitterness and sorrow all melted away, replaced by a deep, unshakeable love for the boy who now looked at him with wide, trusting eyes.
From that day forward, Jek embraced the child as his own, determined to create a harmonious life despite the lingering pain of betrayal.
He never spoke of Sari’s infidelity, not to the boy and not within earshot. But in a community as small as theirs, secrets rarely stayed hidden for long.
Unfortunately, as the boy grew older, whispers reached him, and the truth of his mother’s past came to light. The knowledge devastated him. He felt betrayed, ashamed, and angry, struggling to reconcile the mother he loved with the mistakes she had made.
Jek, ever the peacemaker, stepped in. He spoke to the boy often, offering wisdom and gentle reminders that no one is immune to mistakes.
“People — you and I — are flawed,” he would say. “But love is what gives us the strength to forgive.” Still, the boy’s wounds were deep, and forgiveness felt impossible.
Years passed, and the rift between mother and son remained. Sari’s attempts to reach out were met with cold distance. Holding onto his pain, the boy couldn’t see past his disappointment.
Jek was caught in an agonising position, torn between his love for Sari and his devotion to the boy he had come to see as his own.
Eventually, the boy found the courage to confront his mother. Their conversation was raw and painful, filled with tears and long-held resentments.
Sari, in turn, offered a heartfelt apology through her tears, her voice trembling as she expressed regret for the hurt she had caused. Though fraught with emotion, that moment began a fragile healing process.
With Jek’s steadfast support, the boy began to take small steps toward forgiveness. The journey was slow and riddled with setbacks, but Jek’s tenacious love provided a foundation for rebuilding trust.
Over time, the boy reopened his heart, cautiously reconnecting with his mother. Their relationship, though forever changed, began to mend.
Jek watched this transformation with quiet pride. He had weathered the storm, standing by his family through their darkest moments.
Through it all, he had learned that love is not always easy. It requires patience, resilience, and an unyielding commitment to those we hold dear.
And so, despite the pain of the past, Jek and his family found a way forward, bound by the enduring strength of love and the grace of forgiveness.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
