Our Neighbours in the 1960s
In the early 1960s, about half a mile — roughly the length of eight football fields — from our paddy farm, lived a reclusive family.
Like us, they remained on their farm from September to March, the farming season. When the season ended, most families, including ours, returned to the village.
You might wonder why I measure distances in football fields. Back then, we had no tools to measure long distances in our remote farming community.
But we did have a football field at the mission school, and I knew the distance from goal to goal was one hundred yards or 91.44 meters.
So, I estimated the reclusive family’s farm to be about eight football fields away. But that’s not the main point here.
Dina, the Mute Daughter
I thought the family was unfriendly and told my mother so.
“Don’t be quick to judge people,” Mother replied.
“Maybe that’s why the daughter is still not married,” I said.
“I said don’t be too quick to judge people,” Mother repeated.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’m sure you noticed they have a mute daughter,” she said.
“Yeah, I know Dina. She’s mute but pretty!” I pointed out.
“How can you tell? You’re just a kid,” she said.
“Even a kid knows such a thing, Mother. Look at that picture,” I said, pointing to an old Chinese tear-off calendar depicting a beautiful model. “See? Isn’t she beautiful?”
Mother didn’t answer but smiled and shook her head as she wove rattan strips into a basket.
“Why don’t you help Dina find a husband?” Mother said after several moments. I was dumbfounded.
“What!? Why?” I asked, confused.
“She should have a husband,” she said softly.
“What do I know? I’m just a kid,” I protested.
“You’re a creative kid. You’ll figure something out,” she said as her fingers deftly manipulated the rattan strips.
I didn’t know whether she was pranking me or whether she meant what she said. But Mother’s face looked serious.
“Her parents are getting old. You know that?” she continued.
“Yeah, they seem much older than you and Papa,” I replied.
“They are older than us. When I was your age, they were already teenagers,” she said.
“They still look alright, except that the father is limping slightly lately,” I said.
“One day, they will be gone,” Mother said.
“And Dina will be alone,” I said, finishing her words.
“Can you imagine what will become of her?” she asked.
“Ooh! That won’t be good. She’d be lonely,” I said, feeling suddenly sad.
Mother then asked if I could imagine being old, poor, sick, and alone. I just shook my head.
Mother’s Story
A picture of Dina’s future without her parents
After they died, Dina’s house would become dilapidated, with a leaking roof, broken doors and windows, and rotting walls. She would get old, and each morning, her joints would ache from years of labour. Her garden would become overgrown, and she’d struggle to make ends meet with no family to rely on.
Neighbours would be kind, offering small parcels of food or used clothing, but their visits would become rare as their own lives got busy. Dina’s health would decline, her hands would tremble, and her eyesight would grow dim. Simple tasks would become monumental challenges, and she’d spend most of her days indoors, watching the world go by.
If she fell ill, there would be no one to care for her. She would lie in bed, too weak to move, drifting in and out of consciousness. Eventually, she would pass away alone, her departure unnoticed until a concerned neighbour found her lifeless body.
In death, as in life, Dina would be alone. The village would come together to give her a modest burial with a simple marker over her grave.
A Seed of an Idea
Mother’s story brought tears to my eyes. From that moment, I couldn’t stop thinking about Dina. Even in my dreams, I saw her as an old woman, bent over and frail, shuffling to fetch water from her well.
Dina was in her early twenties then. All her contemporaries were already married, but no eligible men in our village approached her because of her disability.
The next day, as my little brother (Little B) and I prepared for another fishing trip, Mother told us to give some fermented fish to Dina. This made Little B uncomfortable.
“I don’t know how to sign with my hands,” he said.
“Don’t be like that. You might get blessed if you pay attention to her,” said Mother.
Little B didn’t know what she meant, nor did I. After all, we were just kids —— me about nine years old, and Little B seven.
Communicating with Dina was challenging.
Getting her attention from a distance or when she wasn’t looking in my direction was hard. I learned to tap her shoulder or hand if she wasn’t looking or wave if she was.
In those days, nobody in the community knew anything about sign language. Communication with a mute person using hand signs was based on common sense, patience, and sensitivity.
By trial and error, we made up signs and gestures to express basic meanings. We used facial expressions, body language, and even written signs, which were mostly scribbles made with charcoal, sticks, chalk, or soft-coloured rocks on the ground or any convenient surface. Pens and pencils were rare in those days.
An odd thing happened the more time I spent around Dina. I became less worried about her future. She had a way of making me focus on the present, and time slipped by quickly. With a naturally sweet personality, she had an infectious laugh, albeit a silent one.
Little B started to feel comfortable around her too, smiling at her mannerisms and laughing when she laughed.
One day, on our way back from a fishing trip, he suddenly said, “Hey, what if Dina marries Inton?”
Inton was an unmarried man, a neighbour whose farm was nearby.
“What gave you the idea?” I replied. “It’s crazy!”
“I don’t know,” said Little B. “It just popped into my mind.”
At that, we laughed and dismissed the idea as improbable.
Naughty Little Boys
One day, while digging up sweet potatoes, Little B and I decided to give Dina some of our raw food every other day. We liked the feeling of giving and found it quite addictive.
We knew Dina had more time to cook than our mother. On our way back from fishing trips, Dina would invite us to share the food she cooked and often packed leftovers for us.
“You children play a lot, so you’re always hungry,” she said in sign language.
One late afternoon, on the way back from her place, Little B suggested we share some of her food with Inton.
“Yeah, that’s a good idea. After all, we have too much food,” I said.
“And we could ask Inton for some of his guava fruits. He has a lot,” said Little B.
That was our first visit to Inton. We told him Dina sent him a gift, and he was grateful for the food.
We made several more visits and would have continued, but our lives changed because I turned ten and Little B was eight. It was 1963, and we had to fend for ourselves in the village for school, while our parents and younger siblings stayed on the farm.
During one school break, we returned to the farm and were surprised to learn from our parents that Inton had been regularly visiting Dina and her parents.
Our mother said he initially wanted to thank Dina for the meals but ended up having a long conversation with her parents, who became his interpreters.
Up to that point, Inton had only seen Dina and her parents from afar because, as I noted earlier, they were rather reclusive.
He never saw Dina up close, let alone spent time with her, so he was pleasantly surprised to find her attractive.
He kept his thoughts to himself but started helping her family on their farm and providing food from his garden.
A Happy Ending
By the time we resumed our visits to Dina, Inton was often at her place, helping in various ways around the farm. They eventually fell in love and got married before Christmas that year.
We attended the wedding ceremony in our village church, and when they exchanged vows, Little B gave me a mischievous grin and thumbs-up.
Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds that you plant.” – Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894). He was a Scottish novelist, poet, essayist, and travel writer best known for his works of fiction, including “Treasure Island,” “Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde”, and “Kidnapped”.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
