THE words were shouted and uttered in a manner meant to hurt.
Shocked by the loudness, force of utterance, and bitter tone of the voice, I almost dropped the rattan basket that contained my usual load of pots, pans, and plates that I wanted to clean in the stony mountain stream behind our house.
It was circa 1963 when our village, just like the majority of villages in Sarawak then, had no piped water, so all the bathing and washing took place along that stream.
Anyhow, in front of me, and chest-deep in the water, was the target of the anger and accusation. I guess she was three or maybe four years old. She was bawling her heart out and looking fearfully at her father.
“Your mother is dead. She is dead because of you!” continued the man.
With his forefinger pointed accusingly at the little girl, he took a step towards her. Out of fear, it seemed, the child backed away. I guess her foot snagged on a stone or something else on the streambed for she tottered momentarily, fell backwards, and sank into the water.
Looking on, I assumed that the father would immediately pick her up before she breathed in too much water. The angry man, however, did not even notice because, even before she fell, he was already turning his back on her and continuing his rant.
Meanwhile, the girl, who I thought was a bit too small for her age, was thrashing about, trying to turn over in her attempt to stand back up.
However, the current in the stream was too strong for her and the water was a little too deep for her short legs to find a foothold.
Sensing that she was in trouble I rushed forward to grab her arm, but I missed it and got her hair instead.
Many years ago, while telling a friend about this incident, I suddenly got curious and asked him to use a stopwatch to record how long it took me to get to the girl.
After factoring in the fact that I was already a grown man, and using a bag of rice as substitute for the child, we did a simulation. Five or so steps forward plus the act of setting the bag of rice the right way up took three seconds.
Next, we considered a number of variables such as the knee-deep water, stones on the riverbed, and the need to put down my rattan basket. With a bit of arithmetic we figured that my speed was less than five seconds, maybe four seconds. Not bad for a 10-year-old.
I bring up this seemingly insignificant matter because I often wondered what would have happened had I not helped the child and she had swallowed or breathed in too much water.
Anyway, once I got her upright, she sputtered, rubbed her eyes repeatedly and cried loudly again.
I don’t think the man saw what happened to his daughter and what I did because it happened so quickly. His back was turned to us and he was too wrapped up in whatever emotion possessed him.
I suspected that the child’s loud cries riled him up even more for he stopped brushing and dipping his pants in the water, turned around and approached us, his face twisted and ugly.
“Stop crying! Stop or I’ll hit you!” he shouted, raising his right hand threateningly.
Instinctively the child slipped behind me where she continued to sob.
Then, as if he noticed me for the first time, he stopped in his tracks. With wide, bloodshot eyes, he stared at me for a moment and I stared back at him.
“This child,” he said, his finger pointing at the girl, “always makes me angry.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She doesn’t have to do anything to make me angry,” he said.
“I don’t understand. My parents get angry only when I do something bad,” I said as I scrubbed the inside of a pot.
Turning around, I picked up his daughter and held her up against my hip. I knew she was very cold as she was shivering and goosebumps were all over her body.
It was obvious that the father’s anger was still not over for with his right forefinger pressed against the child’s forehead, he said, “I hated you ever since you were born for what you have done! Your entire birth caused the person I love to die!”
Abruptly, he turned around and walked away, splashing water this way and that, with each stride. I thought he was going to continue his rant while washing his pants, but instead, he slumped heavily on a flat rock, put his head between his knees and started to cry audibly.
I have never seen or heard a grown man cry before, so the sight of him sobbing his heart out — his shoulders heaving heavily with each cry — made me confused and nervous.
Not knowing what to do I just stood by silently, transfixed by the unusual spectacle and the indescribable emotion it aroused in me.
After several moments, the little girl wriggled in my arms. She wanted me to put her down and when I did, an amazing thing happened. Without hesitation, she waddled upstream, to the man whom I was tempted to call a monster, and placed a tiny hand on his shoulder.
With bated breath, I waited for the man to explode and go into a tirade again, but amazingly, he grabbed the child and pressed her to his chest. In between sobs, he kissed her cheeks and ruffled her hair. The last thing I saw as I went home was the father and child hugging each other.
That night when I told my parents about the happening, both of them looked rather thoughtful and did not say much. Mom felt sorry for the little girl as her mother was a friend.
Father silently finished two sticks of cigarettes before he spoke. First, he reminded us to be grateful that our mother was alive. Secondly, he admitted that he had thought about such a dark subject, but still found it hard to imagine taking care of us alone without our mother.
Before he retired for the night, he reminded me specifically as the eldest son that a tragedy could strike anyone, any time, and anywhere, but we should not allow that awareness to paralyse us otherwise we would get nothing done.
So, dear reader: if your mother died giving birth to you, I say, don’t feel guilty about it. Don’t blame yourself.
Hopefully, when your child (if you have one) asks you, “What happened to grandma?” you could say, “Grandma died so that our family would continue. She made one of the greatest sacrifices that love has ever asked from a human. She made it possible for you to be born.”
Sometimes, when a woman dies during or after childbirth, the child is seen as the mother’s last gift to her surviving family.
But then there are cases in which the child is blamed for the mother’s death. Typically, the child is hated or ill-treated by the father, siblings, and even other relatives.
This child usually grows up to be the unfavourite. Someone might also hint that the child should have died instead of the mother.
Looking at the issue from the father’s perspective, he is angry at being left with the burden of raising the child alone.
He lost the mother of his children, the love of his life, and his helpmate. So, he’s got all that sorrow to bear as well as the sorrow of his other children (if he has any).
He takes his frustrations out on the poor kid who has already lost the foundation of love in his/her life.
He might be blaming himself also. It’s too well-known that we all lash out at the closest ones who love us.
Of course, he can marry another, but it’ll never be the same, especially if he can’t accept that his former life is over forever.
Whatever the case may be, he needs to stow the anger and sorrow long enough to take care of what he’s got left. He needs to act before his child is old enough to decide whom he/she wants to be close to.
The mother left him with one of the greatest gifts ever from her body. If he doesn’t learn to appreciate the gift and give unconditional love that the child automatically gives to him, life ahead for him will be a very long and lonely one.
He must face the possibility that his kid’s resentment could grow till one day he decides that enough is enough. Tired of dad’s accusations, he/she might say, “To hell with him. I’ve got my life to live; let him rot a bitter old man.”
Without familial love, peace and harmony, everybody loses. Kids won’t bring the grandkids around; daddy will spend holidays alone; everybody is an emotional train wreck.
Life is not easy, so we should not make it more depressing than it already is. The kids have lots of potential for joy and future happiness. The family needs to learn together how to turn on the switch of that little light in their hearts and crank it up to a blaze of love.
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.
