Time flies like the wind passing through meandering rivers and green land. It’s there, and it’s gone. It’s already mid-May, Gawai barely 2 weeks away, Ramadhan a few months and Christmas just over the horizon.
That longing for a more idyllic existence sometimes appear when everything becomes hectic and blurred. Going back deep to our roots, by an open fire, watching the stars creating a grand tapestry of images, meat crackling, smoke floating upwards. The sound of frogs croaking, with that soft shrill crying of insects like a warm, fuzzy blanket.
What I always remember first about Gawai is the smell. Wood burns differently than gas, and this aroma of crackling wood and smoky tinder, that pop-pop of fresh bamboo burning as its sap bubbles out. The smoke stinging yet comforting. Then the sound of voices, people chattering, punctuated by shouts, and tiny running feet.
Then the sight of food laid out unceremoniously on a wooden table, hand picked, scooped piping hot. From far away the same sights and sounds echo amidst the thick folaige in the darkness.
Isolated, yet united in the traditions and habits we carry through the ages.