The Bahari Saga – Volume Two - Back to Reality, Bahari!

 

The Bahari Saga – Volume Two

Back to Reality, Bahari!

"The older I become, the less interested I am in discovering who my ancestors were. I find myself wondering instead whether they would be content with the life I have lived."

Every family has its legends.

Some are carefully preserved in photographs and official records.

Others survive only in whispered conversations over cups of coffee long after the children are supposed to be asleep.

The maternal side of my family has always carried one such story.

My grandmother and my mother were both born in Medan, North Sumatra, in what was once the Sultanate of Deli. Of all the countries I have travelled through in my lifetime, none holds my affection quite like Indonesia. Whenever I hear the language or unfold a piece of old batik cloth, something inside me feels strangely at home.

As I grew up, I heard stories that my grandmother had been connected in some way to the Sultan's household in Medan. Whether that connection was close or distant, history has left me with more questions than answers.

Family stories have a way of doing that.

According to those stories, during the political upheavals that followed Indonesia's independence, my grandmother eventually found refuge in Penang, carrying with her little more than her memories and whatever dignity could not be taken away.

As a child, I noticed things that seemed unusual but never questioned them.

From time to time, elegantly dressed Indonesian ladies would visit my grandmother.

They always brought gifts.

Beautiful Javanese batik.

Occasionally a piece of jewellery.

There was warmth between them, but also discretion.

They arrived quietly.

They left quietly.

No explanations were ever offered to curious little boys.

Every now and then I would hear that the Special Branch had checked on the family's welfare.

To me, it all seemed perfectly ordinary.

Children seldom realise they are standing in the middle of someone else's history.

Only years later did those scattered memories begin arranging themselves into a larger picture.

Were they fragments of a forgotten chapter in my family's story?

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

The older I become, the more comfortable I have grown with unanswered questions.

There was a time when I might have wanted certainty.

Now I find mystery just as valuable.

Whether my family once stood close to a royal household or simply carried stories that grew with each generation matters far less to me than it once did.

What truly matters is something far more difficult to inherit.

Character.

Titles belong to history.

Character belongs to each new generation.

If there is any inheritance worth claiming, it is the responsibility to live honourably.

Not because someone might have worn a crown.

But because someone before us lived with enough integrity to leave us a good name.

As I reflected on these family stories, another memory quietly returned.

The Night Soil Carrier.

The man everyone overlooked.

The one who collected what society wished to forget and transformed it into the very soil that nourished future harvests.

Strange how memory works.

One moment I am wondering about forgotten family histories.

The next I am thinking about a humble man pushing a cart through village streets before dawn.

Perhaps they belong in the same story after all.

One reminds me that history often hides behind silence.

The other reminds me that dignity often hides behind humble work.

Both have taught me not to judge by appearances.

Over the years I have become convinced that the world spends far too much energy asking, "Where did this person come from?"

A better question might be,

"What did this person become?"

My grandfather painted temple walls that still witness Vesak celebrations.

My father shaped gold that still appears during Thaipusam processions.

My grandmother carried with her memories of another homeland.

My mother quietly grounded our family in the faith of Islam.

And I...

I filled sketchbooks.

Not because I wished to become famous.

Not because I wanted to preserve history.

But because I hoped that if I paid close enough attention to ordinary life, perhaps I might discover the extraordinary quietly hidden inside it.

That has become the real inheritance.

Not ancestry.

Not titles.

Not even certainty.

Simply the invitation to transform whatever life places in our hands into something that leaves the world a little kinder than we found it.

Now...

Back to reality, Bahari!

Whether my ancestors were kings, craftsmen, farmers, fishermen or dreamers, tomorrow morning I shall still have to make my coffee, sharpen my pencils, and continue filling another page of another sketchbook.

Perhaps that is exactly as it should be.

After all, life has a delightful way of reminding us that while we may inherit stories from the past, we earn our place in the world one ordinary day at a time.

And somehow, I think that is a far greater adventure.

Peace.
Salam.

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