Pilu was a man of unwavering resolve, a sturdy figure whose stoic demeanour often concealed the emotions that swirled beneath the surface. Known for his fierce disposition, he had earned a reputation that made many think twice before crossing him.
I first encountered Pilu in 1960. I was just seven years old, a bright-eyed pupil at the school in our village, Off Mile 32, Kuching-Serian Road, about forty miles from the bustling town of Kuching.
From the very start, I sensed my father’s disapproval of him. My parents and their circle often remarked on Pilu’s opinions, which were as strong as they were unyielding. He held steadfast beliefs about nearly every subject under the sun, expressing his views with such fervour that they often drowned out opposing voices. Conversations with him could be overwhelming, as he dismissed contrary perspectives with little regard for the feelings of others.
His assertiveness could easily tip into arrogance; admitting fault was not his nature. Quick to criticise yet slow to listen, Pilu operated under the conviction that his way was not merely the best, but the only way. This passionate demeanour made him a divisive presence in any gathering.
At the time of my first awareness of him, Pilu and his wife, Ara, were in the bloom of their thirties, having been married for nearly a decade.
Elders in the village would reminisce about the couple’s early years, a period seemingly filled with promise, despite their childlessness.
Their rustic home, by village standards, was quite presentable. I remember it well because it featured a long rustic wooden table on the elevated front verandah. His wife liked to sit at the table, stitching or weaving something to fill her free time.
Pilu was a robust man of average height, his muscular frame moving with an unexpected grace. He sported a small moustache; aside from that, his face bore little hair. His walk had a distinctive swagger, chest puffed out, exuding confidence that could easily be mistaken for dominance.
Ara was a striking woman, her beauty enhanced by her impeccable style. I vividly remember her flower-patterned blouses that harmonised with the vivid designs of her sarong, which she secured with a matching cloth belt. Her dark hair was always neatly arranged in a tidy bun, lending her an air of composed elegance.
In the early days of their marriage, their farm flourished. However, calamity struck when a devastating famine swept through the village after floods ravaged the paddy fields. Pilu left to seek work in a nearby town, a temporary arrangement intended to provide for Ara and to save enough to revive their farm.
When he returned nearly a year later, just in time for the new planting season, he discovered that Ara had betrayed him. The revelation hit him like a thunderclap, shattering his present and casting a long shadow over their shared past.
As he grappled with this betrayal, Pilu questioned the very fabric of their history. Once a steadfast believer in their future together, he faced the harsh reality that the foundation of their life had been built on a fragile illusion. Was their love merely a façade, now crumbling in the wake of her infidelity?
His mind churned with confusion, and his heart ached with a pain that felt insurmountable. The woman he thought he knew had become a stranger, one who had inflicted a wound so deep that it seemed to bleed into every aspect of his existence.
Being the uncompromising man he was, Pilu could not bring himself to forgive. His pride had taken a grievous blow, and despite Ara’s pleas for reconciliation, he refused to take her back.
Each thought of her was a fresh wound, a reminder of the trust she had shattered. The “what-ifs” tormented him, leading him down a dark path of anger and disappointment.
He erected walls around his heart, a fortress of resentment where forgiveness could find no entry. Yet, amid this turmoil, he found himself inexplicably tethered to a love that would not die. It gnawed at him, a relentless reminder of what once was—a love that had consumed him entirely.
Every moment apart from Ara felt like a dagger of longing. He had loved her fiercely, and that love did not simply vanish with her betrayal.
Instead, it lingered like a festering wound, a constant reminder of his sorrow. Memories of their shared happiness haunted him, only to be replaced by the sharp sting of her disloyalty.
I learned of Pilu’s pain through whispers among my parents and the stories shared by his siblings and friends. Even the most difficult men can find companionship, and Pilu had his share of like-minded acquaintances.
Despite his anguish, he held fast to his beliefs about love and loyalty, declaring that he would rather die than take back his unfaithful wife.
As the years went by, Pilu devoted himself to his farm. While other farmers returned to the village after each season, he stayed on because he valued solitude, finding tranquillity in the land he cultivated.
At the height of his emotional turmoil, he briefly contemplated seeking solace in another woman’s embrace. He was once introduced to a pretty woman from another village and boy, was he tempted! He was a red-blooded lonely man, after all. However, the thought of her was fleeting.
His heart had been so profoundly wounded that the thought of opening himself up to someone new felt impossible. He knew he could never offer anyone his whole self; not after what he had lost.
Ara’s memory flickered like a stubborn flame, refusing to be extinguished. No matter how hard he tried to suppress it, her presence lingered, an unshakeable shadow that coloured his every moment.
Then came the news that Ara was ill. A sharp twinge pierced his heart; he felt sorrow for her, yet his heart had grown callous over time. For a fleeting moment, he considered reaching out, perhaps just to say hello, then slipping away. But the fear of what that brief interaction might unleash stopped him cold. He worried it would spark emotions he could neither control nor contain, dragging him into a direction he desperately wished to avoid.
Weeks passed, and then the decision was taken from him. The news arrived that Ara had passed away, succumbing to an incurable illness that had stolen her away too swiftly for any chance of reconciliation. Pilu was left in shock, grappling with the harsh reality that the woman he had once loved was truly gone.
Tears streamed down his face, surprising him. He couldn’t fathom why he wept — was it for her or himself? At that moment, he felt a profound sadness, more for the death of their love than for any other reason.
At her funeral, he kept his distance, standing on a hill that overlooked the cemetery. Many of Ara’s relatives — and even some of his own — recognised him, but no one dared approach. He stood stiffly, his expression unreadable, a silent sentinel to his grief.
What they didn’t realise was that as her coffin was lowered into the earth, a profound emptiness filled Pilu’s heart. At that moment, he understood with bittersweet clarity that he had never truly stopped loving her, despite his refusal to forgive.
In a tumultuous conflict between love and resentment, Pilu recognised that his inflexible nature had only deepened his suffering. He had lost the woman he once cherished, and no matter how hard he tried, he could never reclaim what they had shared.
He would carry her memory with him, a bittersweet reminder of their love, forever intertwined with the pain of betrayal. On that silent hillside, he understood that their love was not just a memory; it was an enduring part of him, a flame that would never be fully extinguished.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
