In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.
Abraham Lincoln (1809 – 1861). He was the 16th President of the United States, serving from March 1861 until his assassination in April 1865.
DURING my childhood, I knew a man who had a peculiar habit of inserting “I might not wake up tomorrow” into his conversations. Understandably, this oddity didn’t sit well with folks who disliked constant reminders of life’s fragility. They saw him as overly negative.
I first noticed this quirk circa 1960 to 1962. I was a lower primary school pupil then. My father and I occasionally visited his farm, just a ten-minute walk from the main jungle path leading to ours.
What made him even more peculiar in my estimation was his aversion to planting crops despite being a farmer like his neighbours. While he tolerated planting rice because it was everyone’s staple food, he steered clear of vegetables although he enjoyed eating them.
So, he struck a deal with my father. Dad would bring him veggies from our plot in exchange for fish from his well-stocked ponds. This led us to give him the nickname Beh Kan.
‘Beh’ in the Bukar-Sadung sub-dialect spoken by the Bidayuh of Serian District is the short form of ‘babeh’ which means ‘grandfather’ or ‘elderly man’, although he wasn’t old at the time. And ‘kan’ came from ‘ikan’, meaning ‘fish’. He seemed to embrace the moniker.
Besides fish, Beh Kan also had free-range ducks and chickens that laid eggs around the compound. He had well-built coops for the birds, but the chickens preferred to perch on the branches of guava and citrus trees around his farmhouse. It was a treat when he shared some eggs with us as we didn’t raise poultry ourselves. Having poultry requires full-time care, which would not have worked out well for my parents because they periodically split their time between the village and our farm.
I got to know Beh Kan better starting when I was about ten years old and in Primary 4. During the farming seasons, my parents stayed on our farm several miles in the jungle while I fended for myself as best I could in the village where I attended school. To spend weekends with them, I’d run, jog, or walk, depending on how early or late I started on Friday afternoons, to reach the farm before sunset. Whenever I was too tired after school, I’d go on Saturday mornings.
Those Saturday mornings were what I looked forward to as I had ample time to spend at Beh Kan’s place. His family lived in the village, but he was always at the farm. I loved seeing his clearwater ponds, especially one filled with colourful fish. They weren’t as fancy as Japanese koi. Still, they were quite mesmerising to watch.
Once, he gave me a big tilapia and two colourful fish. We had the tilapia for dinner, and I kept the colourful ones in a jar for months until they unexpectedly died. I buried them by the riverbank behind our village house. On impulse, I placed a fresh coffee bean in the tiny grave, hoping that it would grow, but it never did. In his innocence, my little brother thought the bean must have been so sad that it could not germinate.
Beh Kan constantly reminding himself that he was going to die someday puzzled me greatly. It was hard to understand how he could live knowing how life was fragile in his mind. But somehow, he managed to do it gracefully. His calm attitude, like he believed every day could be his last, confused everyone, myself included.
What got me thinking was how the knowledge that he would die someday made him act with urgency and purpose. While others stuck to what they knew and did things the usual way, Beh Kan tackled everything with radical efficiency. He didn’t feel tied down by tradition or habit. His different way of doing things made me rethink my habits and routines, even in the smallest things.
Watching how Beh Kan did things differently made me see that just because something was familiar did not mean it was the best way to do it. He was not afraid to question the usual way of doing things and try something new. This showed how important it was to be able to adapt and come up with new ideas, both in our personal lives and at work. By accepting that life is unpredictable, Beh Kan gained a deep understanding that went beyond the usual way of thinking, and he also inspired others to see things differently.
Despite my endless questions, Beh Kan always treated me kindly. His willingness to explain things, using examples and stories, made him intriguing to me. What I found most refreshing about him was his humility; he never pretended to know everything and would readily admit when he didn’t understand something.
One aspect of Beh Kan’s character that fascinated me was his seemingly boundless energy. I remember asking him about it one day after school, feeling tired from my busy schedule.
“Interest, boy! Interest!” he exclaimed.
Confused, I inquired further, to which he responded, “How good you are at something depends on how interested you are in it. I think you already know that although you’re very young.”
I admitted that I enjoyed school but often felt drained afterwards due to my numerous activities.
“You shouldn’t have activities non-stop from morning till night,” he remarked. “Human beings are not meant to work non-stop.”
This notion intrigued me. “What should I do then?” I asked.
“You do what feels right to you,” he replied simply.
Intrigued, I pressed him for more details, and he explained how he took breaks throughout the day, sometimes even napping. His approach seemed radically different from what I was accustomed to seeing in adults, who often worked tirelessly from dawn till dusk.
“I wonder why everybody doesn’t do that,” I mused aloud.
Beh Kan chuckled. “Not everyone sees things the same way, boy.”
I confessed to him that my parents followed a similar routine to the one he described, often leaving them exhausted by the end of the day. I even asked if he would speak to my father about it.
But Beh Kan shook his head. “I don’t dare to tell him or anybody else what to do. I think you already know that some people don’t like me.”
I nodded, recalling the disapproving glances Beh Kan often received for his unconventional beliefs.
“Why do you always say that tomorrow might not come?” I asked him, voicing the discomfort it caused me, my family, and others.
“Because it’s true,” he replied simply.
“People don’t like it. It makes them uncomfortable,” I protested.
Beh Kan sighed, his eyes reflecting a depth of understanding far beyond my years.
“The future is uncertain, boy. It cannot be predicted or controlled. So, I make the most of each day.”
“My father said he often found you working into the night.”
“It’s because I don’t like leaving for tomorrow what I can finish today.”
His words resonated with me, imprinting upon my young mind a profound truth about the fragility of life and the importance of cherishing every moment. As I grew older, I began to understand the significance of his approach to life.
Beh Kan’s influence extended beyond just his philosophy. Despite the difference in our ages, backgrounds, and experiences, he did not treat me like most adults treat children. He patiently answered my questions and shared his wisdom with me.
On one of my customary Saturday morning visits, Beh Kan said some deep stuff that stuck with me. We were sitting on his porch during one of his regular breaks. I asked him about his views on ageing and mortality, curious to hear his perspective.
“How many years you live is not the issue, boy,” he said with a smile. “It’s what you do with the time you have that truly matters.”
He was not the most articulate man, but in the simplest of terms, he managed to make my young mind see that he had a unique take on getting older and facing death. He saw life as this big canvas where you get to create something amazing as you age, not just count down the years. He made me see that getting older isn’t about limits but about embracing everything life throws at you. It’s a chance to make each moment count by doing good things, being creative, and showing love.
Beh Kan had this wise smile like he knew all the secrets of the universe and decided to share them with me. His words were like a light in the dark.
When I left his farm after lunch, his simple yet profound words kept going round and round in my head. I felt comforted by them. They were a gentle nudge to appreciate every moment and to live with purpose because, in the end, it’s the things we do that make our lives truly matter.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
