When I was in primary school in the early 1960s, groups of like-minded boys naturally formed, sorting out social hierarchies within their little cliques. These groups weren’t very noticeable during school hours since we were in different classes, but outside of school, they merged.
Of course, there were always a few mavericks and misfits who didn’t belong to any group, and their associations with others were fluid, changing based on their activities and preferences.
One late Saturday afternoon, we were fishing and waiting for more boys to join us under an old durian tree by a mountain stream at the edge of our village. Suddenly, a cocky boy from another group intruded on our space.
Known for being a bit of a bully, it didn’t take long for him to make himself unlikeable. Without provocation, he called one of my friends, Ajay, ‘anak alang’. In Bukar-Sadung, spoken by the Bidayuh in the Serian District, ‘anak’ means child, and ‘alang’ refers to a fatherless child born out of wedlock.
We were all taken aback. I braced myself for a possible fight because, if it had been me, the bully would have gotten a bloody nose. But Ajay surprised me with a calm, clever reply.
“Yeah, so what? I’m better off than you,” he said clearly.
“How can you be better than me?” the boy asked, his ears turning red.
“I’m not better than you. I’m better off. Listen carefully, stupid!”
“How can you be better off? You don’t even have a father!”
“I have a father; he just doesn’t live with us.”
“That’s the same as having no father!”
“Exactly! That’s why I’m better off than you!”
“Because your father’s not with you?”
“Yeah! Better than having an abusive father like yours!”
“That’s not true! Sometimes he gets angry, but he’s a good man.”
“So what? I’m still better off because I’m a love child.”
“A what? Never heard of such a thing.”
“You don’t know much, do you?” Ajay said sarcastically.
“You’re just making something up!”
“I’m a love child because my parents wanted me. My mother told me so.”
I too had never heard of such a thing, so I resolved to ask Ajay about it some other time. Or perhaps I should ask my mother. She knew a lot of things.
Ajay continued, “You have a problem, my friend! I suspect your mother does not love you!”
“That’s not true,” the bully protested. “Of course, my mother loves me!” His chin twitched, and his ears turned redder.
“No, she doesn’t!” Ajay said, winking at me. “You cried the other day because your mother twisted your ear so hard. I saw you.”
“I didn’t do what she said,” the boy conceded.
“My mother has never done that. Never!” Ajay said.
“So, your mother is perfect?”
“I didn’t say that. She always reasons with me whenever I do something wrong.”
“My mother does that too!”
“Yeah, but not often enough, and she’s a screamer, often shouting and screaming at you and your siblings. It’s not just your parents; many others in this village do the same.”
“You think you’re special just because your mother is more affectionate?” the bully challenged, his voice tinged with defiance.
“No, it’s not about being special,” Ajay replied calmly. “It’s about being loved by my mother.”
I don’t know all the details about Ajay’s parents, but I do know their relationship started before I was born.
Ajay’s father, Matyo (a nickname for Mathew), wasn’t from our village. He was a civil servant from the Health Department, assigned with colleagues to spray chemicals around the village and farms to minimise the mosquito population causing malaria.
During his stay of a few weeks, Matyo fell in love with a local girl, Angi (short for “wangi”, meaning fragrant). When he left, he promised to return. In his absence, Angi became pregnant with Ajay.
After Ajay was born, one of Matyo’s former colleagues passed by and brought bad news. Matyo’s parents had threatened to disown him if he married Angi. They were urban folks who didn’t want “a girl from the jungle” as their daughter-in-law.
Despite this, perhaps out of guilt or a sense of responsibility, Matyo sent money regularly for Ajay’s upbringing. Angi never married, holding on to the hope that her beloved would someday return.
Ajay didn’t attend a government secondary school like me and a few other classmates after Primary 6 because he didn’t pass the Sarawak Common Entrance Exam, which was part of a quota system that barred many good students from government secondary schools.
We went our separate ways when I left the village for a boarding school in Serian Town and Ajay went to a private high school in Kuching. Since he had never lived in a town, his mother stayed with him until he felt confident enough to be alone. After that, she returned to the village.
Ajay didn’t stay at the school for long, though. He felt out of place as the only Bidayuh kid there. One day, I got a letter from him saying he would be joining his father but didn’t explain how.
A few months later, I received another letter from him, saying he was in Miri. After that, I didn’t hear from him for so long that I assumed he had forgotten about me or something life-changing had happened to him. We lost contact for almost two decades.
Sometime in the early 1990s, a security guard at the gate of Radio Television Malaysia (RTM) Kuching, where I was working, came on the intercom, saying that a man was asking for me.
If Ajay had meant to surprise me that day, he did a great job of it. That evening over dinner and several cups of coffee, we exchanged stories from the past decades.
I learned that he put up with his unmarried father while pursuing an education until he turned 19, after which he crossed over to Brunei, where he and some friends worked for a Shell contractor.
Being a bit of a footloose, he went to Sabah during one of his annual leaves and climbed Mount Kinabalu. Something in him changed after that, and he decided not to return to Brunei. He wanted to travel for a while, figuring it affordable with the money he had saved.
However, his travels were abruptly cut short when he received news that his father had fallen off a ladder at home and broken his arm. Concerned, he returned to Sarawak to care for him. As his father slowly recovered and regained his strength, Ajay found himself reflecting on the family’s past and decided to broach a delicate subject.
One evening, as they sat together, Ajay asked, “What do you think about Mother?”
Matyo hesitated before replying, “I don’t dare to face her after all these years.”
“What is there to fear?” Ajay pressed gently.
“I fear she has not forgiven me,” Matyo admitted.
“How do you know?” Ajay countered. “You’ve not even spoken to her.”
By this time, Ajay’s grandparents had passed away, removing the barriers that once complicated his parents’ relationship. With the obstacles gone, Ajay began to consider whether it might be possible to bring his parents back together — if they were both willing to try.
“Look, Pa, I have this idea of bringing Mama here to stay with us for a while,” said Ajay.
“Do you think she would come?” Matyo asked.
“We don’t know until we try, Pa. If you’re open to the idea, it’s half the battle won,” said Ajay. His father nodded in agreement.
Leaping forward to our dinner and coffee at Rumah Dayak canteen at Jalan Satok that evening, Ajay revealed that he was on the way to the village to fetch his mother. He would stay for a week or so before flying to Miri.
We tried to stay in touch after that, but it was hard because phone calls were expensive those days, and cell phone technology was still in its infancy.
Then in the late 1990s, during a media trip that would take me and several other journalists up the Baram River, I met up with Ajay at Holiday Inn Miri where our delegation stayed for the night. He took me to Miri Central Market, and then we spent about three hours (7 pm to 10 pm) at a coffee shop near Million Inn on South Yu Seng Road catching up on old stories.
By that time, Ajay was in his mid-40s and still unmarried. His parents were together again, which made him extremely happy. He felt like that little boy in the village when he was the apple of his mother’s eye.
“You are indeed a love child,” I said.
“I am, indeed!” he exclaimed. “The best part is my parents are finally happy, and we are finally together.”
“What about the next generation?”
“Oh, that! My future wife is about a 30-minute drive away … a village woman. Wish me luck.”
“No, don’t depend on luck. A good and stable marriage is what you put into it. I wish you all the best. You’re a good man, my friend, so give your parents the best present of their lives, another love child — a grandchild, I should say.”
quote photo:
Eleanor Rooseveltquote:
‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ – Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962). She was an American political figure, diplomat, and activist who served as the First Lady of the United States from 1933 to 1945 during her husband Franklin D. Roosevelt’s four terms in office.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
