“The strongest woman in the world is the one who stands alone.”
Anonymous
NOW, you wouldn’t think there’d be much to gossip about in a little paddy-farming community like ours in the 1950s and 1960s, tucked away in the heart of the jungle in Serian District, about forty miles from Kuching town. But let me tell you, folks, where there’s rice, there’s always a side of chatter — and our village was no exception. Why, even the crickets seemed to chirp in code about who was doing what and with whom. And smack dab in the middle of all that whispering and wagging tongues was a young woman named Loli.
Now, don’t go getting the wrong idea about her. Loli wasn’t the sort who’d set the world on fire, but she had a way about her that made you stop and notice. Maybe it was her smile — gentle as a morning breeze — or her laughter which could make the jungle feel a shade brighter. If you asked the folks, they’d tell you something entirely different.
“Oh, she’s hardworking,” they’d say with a shrug, “but she’s a leftover woman.” And they’d say it like it was the final nail in her coffin, too.
I didn’t know much about “leftover women” back then — I was only knee-high to a grasshopper myself in the late 1950s. But it sounded bad judging from the conversations I heard, usually inadvertently. Folks said it like they were spitting out a mouthful of sour tamarind. And poor Loli, well, she wore that label like a millstone around her neck.
Loli and the jungle of expectations
Loli had grown up in the little village at the foot of our mountain, Mount Sadung, that stood like a sentinel over the forested land since time immemorial, filled with the songs of countless birds and insects. She knew every twist of the jungle paths to her family’s farm and every whisper of the nearby river that tended to overflow during the monsoon season.
By right, she should’ve been content, but as the years went by and the other girls started hitching themselves to husbands and raising broods, Loli stayed put. And that, my friend, was a cardinal sin in an ultra-conservative place like ours.
Her parents, bless their hearts, tried to be patient at first. They’d say, “Loli, you’ve always been a strong girl. You don’t need a man to make you happy.” But their tune had changed by the time she hit her late twenties.
“Loli,” her mother would say, wringing her hands like she was trying to squeeze water from a stone, “what will the villagers think? You’re not getting any younger, you know. You need to find a good man before it’s too late.”
Loli would smile and nod, but you could see how her shoulders drooped slightly lower each time. She’d go out to the fields with her head held high, but there was a sadness in her eyes that even the brightest sun couldn’t chase away.
The harvest festival and a flicker of hope
Every year, we celebrated the Gawai Dayak festival, when the entire village transformed into a vibrant tapestry of laughter and joy. This festival was not merely an event; it was a reunion of souls — young and old, married and single, united in the spirit of festivity. The air would be thick with the aroma of traditional dishes simmering in pots, and the sound of gongs would reverberate through the night, calling all to feast, drink, and make merry.
It was during one such festival that a man named Siju arrived. He was a wanderer, a traveller with a spirit as free as the wind. Lean and sprightly, Siju carried stories in his pockets like other men carried coins—tales of adventures from distant lands, woven with humour and a hint of mystery. His sharp wit and the twinkle in his eye suggested a depth of experience as if he knew the punchline to every joke before it was even told.
As the festival unfolded, Siju caught sight of Loli. She was a quiet soul, often overlooked in the hustle of daily life. Introduced by a mutual acquaintance, Siju’s charm seemed to draw her in. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Loli’s laughter returned, soft and shy at first, then blossoming into a melodious sound that filled the air like a long-lost song. It was as if Siju had unlocked a part of her that had been dormant, buried beneath layers of expectation and heartache.
When the Gawai Dayak festivities ended, Siju chose to remain, which was not unusual in those days when young men often ventured out of their villages to try out new places and make new friends. The villagers were welcoming, and Siju quickly became a fixture in our community.
As days turned into weeks, he found his way into Loli’s good graces. Under the watchful eyes of her parents, they toiled together in the fields, their laughter mingling with the rustle of rice stalks swaying in the breeze. They exchanged tales and jokes as they worked, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed Loli might finally shake off the “leftover” label that had clung to her for so long. Hope blossomed in her heart, painting her days with a hue of possibility.
But not everyone was pleased. The village girls and women, their expressions as sharp as the knives they wielded in the kitchen, whispered behind Loli’s back.
“She’s just desperate, chasing after him like that. Imagine the nerve!”
The venom of their words wrapped around her like a noose, tightening with each passing day. The whispers soon morphed into rumours, passing from one gossiping tongue to another, each retelling more embellished than the last.
A heartbreaking goodbye
As the sun descended, casting the sky in hues of gold and crimson, Loli made a pivotal choice. She met Siju, her hands trembling like the leaves of the nearby rambutan trees in the breeze.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she said, her voice barely louder than the rustling grass. “The village — they’ll never let us be. I won’t be the reason they turn on you.”
Siju looked at her like she’d just told him the moon had fallen out of the sky.
“Loli,” he said, his voice steady but sorrowful, “you’re letting them win. Don’t you see? They can only hurt you if you let them. You’re not leftover. You’re worth more than all their words put together.”
But Loli shook her head. “You deserve better,” she whispered. And with that, she turned and walked away, her heart breaking with every step.
The jungle’s song
After that, Loli threw herself into her work like a woman possessed. The fields became her refuge, the jungle her watcher and companion. She stopped listening to the whispers, but the silence that replaced them was almost worse. The years rolled on, and while the jungle stayed the same, Loli changed. Her laughter was gone, replaced by a quiet determination.
Some fine nights, when the moon hung high and the stars blinked down, Loli would look out over the swaying paddy stalks in the fields. And in her heart of hearts, she whispered, “I am not leftover. I am just me. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.”
Loli never married. She lived out her days with a quiet dignity that made folks stop and think. And though the whispers never completely stopped, they softened over time, like the fading sound of a distant gong.
Loli’s story became part of our lore — a tale of strength and sorrow, love and loss. And if you were to ask someone who used to know her, you might hear about her unyielding spirit.
My one key takeaway from the story is the importance of self-worth and resilience in the face of societal expectations and judgments. Loli’s journey highlights the struggle against the labels and expectations imposed by her community, particularly the notion of being a “leftover woman”.
Despite the pressures and criticisms, Loli remained strong and dignified in staying true to herself and making difficult decisions for her well-being and those she cared about.
Loli’s story reminds me of the significance of valuing oneself beyond the opinions of others, standing firm in one’s beliefs, and finding inner peace amidst external turmoil.
Her narrative poignantly reflects on the complexities of human relationships, personal sacrifices, and the enduring power of individual spirit in the face of adversity.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
