‘Love recognizes no barriers. It jumps hurdles, leaps fences, and penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope.’
– Maya Angelou (1928-2014); an American poet, memoirist, and civil rights activist who in 2011 received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian honour in the United States.
Allow me to share an extraordinary tale of a compassionate woman and the abandoned baby she embraced as her own. I was young at the time and perceived her as middle-aged as she appeared older than my parents.
In our Bidayuh culture, it has always been customary for children to address their elders with respect and refrain from calling them by their given names. And so, I came to call her Tung Bungak, a name that held a special significance.
‘Tung’, a variation of the word ‘tayung’, means grandmother or an elderly woman in our Bukar-Sadung dialect spoken by the Bidayuh in Serian District, while ‘bungak’ means flowers. It was a fitting name, for her house was adorned with a kaleidoscope of colourful blooms. The secluded dwelling was hidden even from her closest neighbours in the villages on the other side of the hills surrounding her land.
Tung Bungak was a widow who had lost her husband before they could have any children of their own. Determined never to remarry, she lived a solitary life, relying on the crops she grew and the animals she raised on her land for sustenance.
In 1963, when I was merely ten years old, fate brought me face-to-face with Tung Bungak for the very first time. Accompanied by my cousin and uncle, we embarked on a fishing excursion that led us to the vicinity of her little rustic house. Our original intention was to search for earthworms, but upon arriving, we were momentarily stunned by what lay before us.
Oh, the flowers! They were a symphony of colours and fragrances that awakened the senses and stirred the souls. The garden was like a living canvas, displaying an artistry that surpassed even the most skilled human hands.
The majestic hibiscus commanded attention with their large, showy petals that unfurled like royal robes. And then, there were the birds of paradise, those striking orange and blue flowers that seem to have flown down from the heavens.
Amidst all this splendour, the bougainvillea stood tall, a riot of colours cascading the perimeter fences. Their pink, purple, red, and orange flowers created an explosion of beauty that could not be ignored.
Regretfully, our peaceful reverie was abruptly interrupted by the sudden appearance of three ferocious dogs, which sent us scurrying in fear. However, fortune smiled upon us as Tung Bungak emerged from her vegetable garden, putting a gentle end to the commotion. With her arrival, the dogs calmed, and we found ourselves digging for worms on the edge of her compound, captivated by her company and the enigmatic baby she cradled in her arms.
As I later discovered, the baby had been abandoned and left in the care of Tung Bungak by a young woman who arrived one fateful morning. The young woman mentioned she was headed somewhere, the specifics of which have since faded from my memory. Tung Bungak, being a hospitable person, told her to rest before she continued her journey. The young mother, claiming exhaustion, asked Tung Bungak to look after her baby while she went to the backyard outhouse. Unbeknownst to Tung Bungak, this encounter marked the start of an unforeseen journey.
To Tung Bungak’s dismay, the young woman never returned. Confusion initially clouded her mind, which gradually transformed into panic as the hours ticked away. By mid-afternoon, she found herself overwhelmed with worry, clutching the baby in her arms, unsure of what to do. Seeking solace and assistance, she turned to her nearest neighbour, who, though kind-hearted, had a family of their own to tend to. Despite the scarcity of resources, they shared what little they had, teaching Tung Bungak how to prepare baby food and offering support during this unexpected turn of events.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, as Tung Bungak tirelessly sought clues about the baby’s mother from one neighbour to another. Alas, no one seemed to recognise the young woman or hold any information about her whereabouts. With a heavy heart, Tung Bungak contemplated surrendering the baby into the care of authorities. However, the compassionate advice of her neighbours echoed in her mind, urging her to hold on a little longer, just in case the mother reappeared. Time flew swiftly, and before she knew it, a year had passed, and the baby had learned to take her first steps.
In this period, Tung Bungak’s world had grown to encompass the child as hers. Her unwavering belief in divine intervention led her to christen the baby Ruga, a shortened form of “siruga,” meaning heaven in our Bukar-Sadung dialect. In Tung Bungak’s heart and mind, Ruga was a heavenly gift, bestowed upon her as a childless woman. She cared for the child with utmost devotion, convinced that an angel of God had entrusted Ruga’s well-being to her tender care.
And so, amidst the colourful flowers that adorned her sanctuary, Tung Bungak embarked on an extraordinary journey of love and dedication, nurturing the child who had found her way into her arms.
Years slipped away, and like whispers carried by the wind, my connection with Tung Bungak and Ruga faded into the distance. Their dwelling was nestled in a place too distant for casual visits. It lay a few miles from our humble farmhouse, which itself was several miles from our remote rural village.
In 1966, I departed our village, leaving behind the familiar embrace of home, to pursue my education at a boarding school on the outskirts of Serian Town. From that point on, the woman and child slipped from my thoughts, like fragments of a dream fading into the recesses of my mind.
Yet, as life would have it, fate twisted its course, and I found myself drawn back to that very spot during a school holiday. It was yet another fishing trip, a humble pursuit that brought me face to face with Ruga, who must have been a tender three or four years old at the time. Words eluded me at that moment, for Ruga was unlike any child I had ever encountered. Her eyes, wide and tinged with a touch of grey, captured my gaze, while her long, curly brown hair danced in the breeze. Her unusually fair complexion whispered of a foreign lineage. Tung Bungak had been right all along — a veritable angel graced their lives.
That encounter, however, proved to be our last. When I passed by that location once again after completing high school, the house stood abandoned, surrendered to the relentless embrace of nature’s wilderness. The jungle, ever tenacious, had reclaimed much of the once-cherished compound.
Whispers, gossips, and tales spun from fragmented truths, suggested that Ruga’s father hailed from distant shores — a foreigner, perhaps one of the Commonwealth soldiers stationed in Serian during Malaysia’s tumultuous confrontation with Indonesia in the 1960s. People spoke of a mother burdened with shame, coerced by societal expectations to forsake her precious child, a child born outside the sanctity of wedlock.
I also heard fragments of unverified tales about the father’s search for Ruga and her mother in Sarawak. According to someone, he discovered he had a daughter and decided to return to Sarawak in search of them. Although he couldn’t find the mother, he managed to locate Ruga. Recognising the bond that she had formed with the woman who had cared for her like a mother, he made the compassionate choice not to separate them and took both of them away.
In my heart, the veracity of these tales mattered little. What remained etched in my soul were the cherished memories of that radiant child and the selfless love that propelled Tung Bungak to embrace motherhood, despite the uncharted path she had unwittingly embarked upon.
Ah, love, that ephemeral but powerful essence capable of rendering even the unlikeliest of souls transformative and beautiful.
The wonder of this tale lies not only in the serendipitous meeting of strangers but also in the depth of Tung Bungak’s unwavering belief that Ruga was meant to be hers — a miraculous bond forged in the face of abandonment and uncertainty.
‘Love and compassion are necessities, not luxuries. Without them, humanity cannot survive.’
– Dalai Lama Tenzin Gyatso (1935-Present); exiled spiritual leader of Tibetan Buddhism. A Nobel Peace Laurette, he has written numerous books on various topics, including Buddhism, spirituality, ethics, and the nature of happiness.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
