Letters are the most significant memorial a person can leave behind them.”
– Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832), a German writer, poet, novelist, playwright, scientist, and philosopher considered one of the most important figures in German literature and is often referred to as Germany’s national poet.
“I wonder what my mother looked like,” my friend suddenly asked out of the blue.
I turned to look at him but remained silent, taken aback by the unexpected question. Instead, I cleared my throat deliberately, buying time to search for something clever or witty to say. However, my mind failed me. What would be the most appropriate response? The question was quite unsettling because he rarely mentioned his mother.
His mother died while giving birth to him. When he asked the above question, he was 11, and I was 12. The year was 1965, a time when few in our remote rural village possessed photographs of their families. Studios in town were the sole means to capture a proper photo or have a portrait drawn—a challenging and expensive endeavour due to the lack of a motorable road connecting our village to the Kuching-Serian Road, now part of the Pan Borneo Highway.
“Do you have any pictures of her?” I finally asked after moments of silence, suspecting he did not possess such mementoes but feeling compelled to ask.
“No,” replied Tel, his right foot tracing circles on the sandy ground. “Uncle Ley has a photo of her as a young girl. She was at a wedding, but the picture is yellowed and blurry.”
“Has anyone described her to you?”
“Not really. My father hasn’t said much.”
“Maybe he’s too sad.”
“Maybe; hard to tell.”
“I think he is sad.”
“Mother had long, curly hair,” he said.
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t, but it’s long in Uncle Ley’s photo.”
“Perhaps, but I like thinking of her as having long hair.”
“I see. Oh, she was pretty. Did you know that?”
“How do you know?”
“My mother said so,” I said. “You should ask her. Maybe she can tell you a few things.”
“I’m not sure I want to do that.”
“Why?”
“I’m curious, but a part of me doesn’t want to know.”
“You’re conflicted.”
“I know.”
“And perplexing!”
“I know!”
“In that case, you should stop dwelling on her.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“You know the coconut tree behind our house?”
“Of course, I know!”
“It always reminds me of her.”
“Your father should cut it down.”
“He won’t. He planted it for her soon after they got married. He said she liked coconuts so much.”
“Damn! You’re in a tough spot, my friend!”
“Don’t say that! You’re supposed to comfort me. I’m your friend, remember?”
“Sorry.”
“Sometimes I wish that I could write like you.”
“Why?”
“I want to write a letter.”
“To a girlfriend?”
“No! Don’t be silly! I want to write a letter to my mother!”
“Oh! Wow! That sounds serious. But why? She has left this world.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“What would you say to her?”
“My mind is not straight right now. One day I will write that letter.”
“You can write it now.”
“You know I still can’t write well. Why don’t you write it for me?”
“That won’t be right. It must be by your hand. You write, I help. How’s that?”
We did not write the letter that day. It was a bit too much for Tel to undertake suddenly. But a few days later, we began a rudimentary one, that is, if we could even call it that. It was just a crumpled sheet of paper torn from the centre of a notebook with lots of disjointed sentences and phrases that kept getting erased and rewritten because Tel could not articulate his thoughts properly, even in the Bukar-Sadung Bidayuh sub-dialect we speak in the Serian District.
When I left the village to attend Serian District’s only government secondary school in 1966 as a boarding student, the letter remained unfinished. I thought that was that, and because high school demanded a lot of attention, I soon forgot about it completely. Not once did Tel mention it when I returned to our village on some weekends and school holidays.
That was why when he unexpectedly turned up at my door one weekend in 1972 when I was a teacher at SMK Penrissen, Mile 12, Jalan Kuching-Serian, my sixth sense told me that something was up. And sure enough, over coffee and ‘nasi campur’ (mixed rice dish) at Mile 10 Bazaar (now Kota Padawan), he gave me his old letter. The paper was yellowish, and the edges were slightly torn, but the writing was still legible.
“You know what to do,” he said plainly. Age had not changed him. He was still the straight-talking guy I knew from the village. He wanted a few more points added to the letter. So instead of my usual 15-minute coffee shop session, we were there for close to an hour, which qualified for two rounds of black coffee.
We did not see each other for about two years after that, during which I finished my teaching stint, and in 1973 went to work for the Telecommunication and Post Department where I learned some nifty technical stuff, but still got bored to death. So, in early 1974 I went off to join Radio Television Malaysia (RTM) Kuching, and what do you know?! … Tel popped up one day at the security gate.
This time I asked him first off if it was about the letter. He nodded, and I invited him to my office. By that time, I had access to a good typewriter. The result was much prettier and more professional-looking.
Remember, it will be 49 years to the day this April. I don’t remember every detail because so much has happened since then. Still, I remember enough to recompose that third and final letter. I say finally because Tel is no more, having joined his beloved mother a few years ago. Below is my recreation of the letter as a tribute to the man with a beautiful loving soul.
My Dearest Mother,
I met you only once – the day you welcomed me into this world. Oh, how I wish that newborns could remember their births, for there are gaps in my mind that only you could fill.
In the recesses of my memory, there’s a faint image of you as a young girl captured in an old photograph safeguarded by Uncle Ley. People say I bear a resemblance to you, albeit in a more masculine manner.
Dad bequeathed me one of your batik sarongs. I cherish it dearly, unfolding its delicate folds occasionally to marvel at the exquisite flowers. It rests in a special place, the sole possession linking me to you.
Though I know I had a mother, you never had the chance to know me. Allow me to introduce myself: I am your son, born on that fateful, rainy January night – the very night you departed from this world.
Over the years, I clung to fragments of your memory. On my 18th birthday, Uncle Ley gifted me a photograph of you. I’ve examined it meticulously, yearning to uncover a connection to my identity.
With every passing letter, my comprehension of you deepened, fueling my determination to find my purpose in this world. While I excel with my hands, books escape my grasp. Thus, a dear friend has been penning letters, conveying my thoughts and sentiments.
A persistent ache lingers within me due to your physical absence, a void where your love should reside. I often ponder the alternate reality where fate allowed us to be together, where I could revel in your warmth.
I take solace in believing you can hear my words, even if you cannot respond in the tangible sense. Through hardships, I’ve evolved into a resilient, compassionate man, blessed with a life overflowing with love. At this moment, my letter is scribed by a caring friend who has shared my loneliness for so many years.
Yet, a part of me perpetually yearns for you, craving the connection we never experienced. I sense your presence, guiding me through darkness and rejoicing in my triumphs. Your legacy resides within me, a flame that kindles memories of the courageous and affectionate woman who bestowed upon me the gift of life.
As I conclude this letter, I extend forgiveness, understanding the intricacies of life and the choices dictated by circumstance. I remember you not as the mother I never truly knew, but as a woman whose spirit lives on within me.
Letters penned over the years but left unposted became vessels for silent sorrows and yearnings. They allowed me to explore my heart for bitterness that might dim the light of my soul and shroud the sweet memories I hold of you.
I pledge to honour your memory until my last breath, living a life that mirrors your love and devotion to family. Despite our tragically brief time together, I find solace in the indomitable bond shared between a mother and her child, transcending the boundaries of life and death.
With all the love in my heart,
Your devoted son,
Sitel
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
