‘Love recognises no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.’
– Maya Angelou (1928-2014); an American poet, author, actress, and civil rights activist best known for her autobiographical work, ‘I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings’.
“There’s no such thing!” I protested.
“Well, say what you want, but I saw it with my own eyes,” said Uncle Sulas calmly as he rolled his homemade cigarette.
Uncle Sulas was one of my mother’s favourite cousins and a favourite uncle of mine because he was a living library of fascinating tales.
“A bowing mountain? Never heard or seen such a thing,” I said.
“That’s because you’re still a child,” he said. “In my youth, I travelled to several places and came across many interesting things and people.”
“Does the mountain still exist today?”
Today was sometime in 1962 when I was nine years old and in Year 3 of primary school.
“Of course, it still exists! It can’t just disappear!” said Uncle Sulas.
“You mean it really bows down? How?”
“Well, if you kneel on the ground and bow, your body would bend forward like this, right?” he said while tracing a curve in the air with his hand.
“With that shape, why didn’t it collapse?”
“Maybe it has collapsed. Who knows? It was so long ago when I saw it and I never went to that place again.”
According to Uncle Sulas, there was once a mountain that resembled an upside-down cone or a proud pyramid, depending on the perspectives of those who gazed upon it. Clouds often swirled slowly around its peak or up and down its slope, thus giving it an otherworldly allure that beckoned travellers from faraway lands to venture towards its foothills.
One day, a trader from a distant place was rowing his boat upriver, seeking shelter near the foot of the mountain as nightfall approached.
As the darkness blanketed the land, a mysterious light flickered atop the mountain, stirring the trader’s curiosity. Intrigued by this enigmatic sight, he resolved to scale the mountain’s slopes at the first light of dawn.
With the break of a new day, the trader embarked on his ascent, eager to unravel the secrets concealed atop the mountain.
Much to his astonishment, he discovered a solitary dwelling just short of the summit, inhabited by a young woman of unparalleled beauty. Her ethereal charm captivated his heart.
With each passing moment, his affection for her deepened, but he could not express his feelings because he could not speak her language. Initially, all he could do was ask her to name things all around the place so that he could learn her language. It was complicated and sometimes hilarious, but they managed to communicate quite well after a few days.
With her permission, he built himself a little hut nearby so that he could stay close to her without being inside her house all the time. As an honourable man, he thought it was improper for an unmarried man and an unmarried woman to stay in the same house. He did not mind having his meals cooked by the woman but being a proudly independent man, he insisted on being the provider of their food.
Having completed his hut, he renovated her house because it was in a bad state of disrepair. He wanted her to be as comfortable as possible.
From time to time he would leave the mountain to continue to sell his goods to people living along the river, but he always returned quickly because he could not bear being separated from the woman even for a day.
Days turned into weeks, and as he learned more and more of her language, the trader found himself hopelessly entangled in the enchantment of their connection. Unable to contain his emotions any longer, he finally mustered the courage to declare his love to her.
“My dear, the moment I laid eyes upon you, I knew that my heart had found its true home,” he confessed, his voice filled with sincerity.
However, the woman’s radiant smile faded as she revealed a sorrowful truth.
“I am bound by an insidious curse,” she whispered, her voice tinged with melancholy.
“Though I may appear youthful and fair, I am burdened by the weight of countless years. I know not how old I truly am for time has played a cruel trick on my soul.”
Her words pierced the trader’s heart, filling it with a mixture of anguish and determination. He pleaded with her, his voice trembling with ardour.
“But my love, I cannot bear the thought of leaving you here, trapped atop this mountain. We must find a way to break this curse and forge a future together.”
With a heavy sigh, the woman explained the conditions of her curse.
“If I were to descend this mountain, my youth and vitality would swiftly fade, and I would meet a swift demise. The curse dictates that my only salvation lies in the vanishing of this mountain or its transformation into a humble plain. Alas, I am destined to remain imprisoned upon its peak.”
Determined to defy fate and protect his beloved, the trader embarked on a perilous quest. He went back to where he came from and returned with more tools with which to dig and carve the mountain. He swore that since his beloved could not get down from the mountain, he would flatten it so as to nullify the condition of the curse.
As he tirelessly laboured to carve away at the mountain’s side, his mind danced with internal struggles and doubts. Each swing of his pickaxe became a metaphorical battle against time and destiny, a symbolic attempt to reshape the world for the sake of love.
Days turned into months, months into years, and the trader’s body grew weary, his once-youthful vigour succumbing to the toll of his relentless efforts. Yet, the fire of his love burned brighter than ever. He had become a living embodiment of perseverance, his every muscle aching, his sweat mingling with the earth as he sculpted the mountain into a bowing figure.
In the depths of his mind, the trader engaged in silent dialogues, wrestling with his own fears and insecurities. Doubts tugged at his heartstrings, questioning the feasibility of his endeavour. But each time doubt trouble his heart, he silenced it with the resounding echo of his love for the woman, vowing to conquer the insurmountable.
In a surprising turn of events, despite his stubborn nature, he finally had a change of heart and resolved to reside on the mountain rather than attempting to separate himself from his loved one. Regrettably, this realisation came far too late, as age and frailty had firmly set in.
One fateful day, his weary body finally gave in. He departed this world, leaving behind a mountain forever frozen in a humble bowing posture. When seen from a distance the carved-out mountain looked like a kneeling person taking a bow; hence the name Bowing Mountain.
According to local folklore, a forest spirit, perhaps even a witch, who bestowed the curse upon the woman on the mountain was profoundly moved by the trader’s love, but was unable to revoke the spell. Overwhelmed by pity, the mystical being, a benevolent female entity, infused the venerable mountain with the essence of the trader himself, ensuring that his beloved could perpetually dwell within its embrace. This extraordinary occurrence stands as an eternal testament to the profound influence of love and sacrifice, symbolising the extraordinary lengths to which lovers are willing to journey in order to safeguard and treasure their cherished ones.
To commemorate her lover’s grave the woman planted a durian tree beside it. According to folklore, the tree was said to never bear fruit, but if it ever did, those who consumed it would remain perpetually young.
The fate of the beautiful woman remains a mystery. Some tales suggest that she succumbed to grief, leaping from a cliff to her death. Others believe she transformed into a forest spirit. It is said that if one passes by the foot of the mountain, particularly on the eve of the annual Gawai Dayak, one may hear owls lamenting her disappearance under the moon.
Several years have passed since Uncle Sulas departed from this world. As a tribute to him, I now share the tale of the Bowing Mountain with anyone willing to listen or read. While writing this story, I recalled his request for me to pass it down to my children, grandchildren, and if time allowed, to my great-grandchildren.
Coincidentally, like Uncle Sulas, I too traversed the Serian District during my youth. I beheld the grandeur of the mountain firsthand, but I am hesitant to disclose its exact location. In this era, we must treasure the untainted beauty of nature’s marvels, safeguarding and conserving them as invaluable treasures for future generations.
