Sorrow behind the smiles

I have long realised that some people possess the remarkable ability to hide their pain. They have mastered the art of keeping their emotional or psychological struggles to themselves, presenting a facade that masks their true feelings. While not everyone possesses this skill, it is something that I have come across numerous times in my life.

As a child, I had a unique sensitivity to the emotional state of others. It was as if I could sense their aura or tap into their unspoken emotions. This heightened intuition allowed me to detect when someone was going through a difficult time, even when they tried their best to conceal it. This ability became apparent to one of my cousins, who often relied on me to provide subtle signals or cues when we found ourselves in uncertain situations or encountered troubled individuals.

‘Smile, even if your heart is aching. Smile, even if it’s breaking. When there are clouds in the sky, you’ll get by if you smile through your fear and sorrow.’ – Charlie Chaplin (1889-1977). He was an iconic British actor, filmmaker, and comedian widely known for his distinctive and beloved character, ‘The Tramp’.

Charlie Chaplin

In my observations, certain signs hinted at someone’s hidden pain. One of the most telling indicators was a smile that failed to reach the eyes. While someone may put on a brave face and appear cheerful, their eyes often betray a lack of genuine happiness. Additionally, I noticed instances where individuals would frequently space out or seem distant, indicating a preoccupation with their inner struggles rather than being fully present in their surroundings. They would often fail to truly listen to those around them, as their thoughts were consumed by their emotional turmoil.

Moreover, even in situations where joyous moments were meant to be savoured, I could sense a lack of authentic enjoyment in these individuals. Despite the presence of fun activities or an abundance of delicious food and drinks, their demeanour remained subdued, as if they were unable to fully immerse themselves in the experience. Their hands would fidget nervously, perhaps revealing their underlying anxiety or restlessness. And perhaps most telling of all, their wistful expressions would inadvertently reveal the weight they carried within, betraying the pain they held deep inside.

Once, in the late 1950s when I was still too young to attend elementary school, I encountered one such person. At least, that was what I believed. She was a young mother who, every time I saw her, was always cradling her only son in her arms as if she feared leaving him alone even for a moment.

The first time I stood close to her while my mother conversed with her, something about her bothered me. It was in her eyes, which perpetually seemed on the brink of tears, and a faint hint of melancholy always covered her face like a veil. She was quite fidgety, like her fingers had a mind of their own, and now and then her lips would quiver or twitch, showing her nerves.

I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but she seemed unusual compared to the average person. Those eyes of hers held a sadness that never seemed to leave and whenever she looked directly at me, even for a brief moment, I would avert my gaze because they made me feel uneasy. 

‘There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love.’ – Washington Irving (1783-1859). Irving was an American author, essayist, biographer, and historian best known for his short stories, particularly ‘The Legend of Sleepy Hollow’ and ‘Rip Van Winkle’.

Washington Irving

Her whole vibe was just heavy like a cloud was hanging over her. It’s like she carried the weight of some deep sorrows within her, and being around her made me anxious for no apparent reason.

Accompanying my mother when she stopped to chat with this woman was always uncomfortable for me. Being near her or looking at her made me restless, though I couldn’t comprehend why. Why would my heart ache in her presence?

Don’t misunderstand me. She laughed whenever there was a reason to, and her smile was beautiful. Perhaps it was because she had a lovely set of pearly white teeth.

Yet, on those occasions when I gazed at her face even for a while, I often felt an inexplicable urge to cry. Intense pricks of pain pierced my heart when I saw her and her baby up close. All I wanted to do was console her, to diminish her pain, even though I did not know that she was indeed in pain and needed comfort.

Unable to contend with this inexplicable feeling, I kept my emotions and thoughts to myself instead of sharing them with my mother or anyone else. I lacked the words to articulate such a sensation and did not have the skills or emotional maturity to sort out my confusion.

Eventually, I started avoiding her. Whenever my mother visited her (usually on our way to our paddy farm in the deep jungle, several miles from our remote rural village), I would continue past her house and wait further up the path.

Years later, when I was already attending elementary school, I heard fragments of stories about this woman. According to one version relayed by an uncle, the woman had once been involved with a man from another village. Uncle Sulas claimed she loved him wholeheartedly.

“How did you know that?” I asked, needing assurance because he had played pranks on me several times before.

“You know me. I am a busybody, so she told me! That was how I knew,” he replied.

“What happened to the man?”

“Well, he left. Someone informed him that the girl’s parents disapproved of him.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t want their daughter to marry him and leave them.”

“Was she heartbroken?”

“Well, certainly! Poor girl. She hasn’t been the same since then.”

“But she has her own family now.”

“Yes, she married the man her parents favoured. A hardworking, dependable man, they said.”

“Do you think she’s happy?”

“Only she knows that, boy. We can only speculate. Why do you ask?”

“She seems to be always lonely and sorrowful.”

“What?! What makes you say that?”

“She seems that way every time I look at her face. Even when she smiles, she still appears melancholic.”

“You’re an unusual child. You notice things that most adults overlook. But yes, I agree with you. There seems to be pain behind her smile.”

As I got older, the discomfort that I felt whenever I encountered the woman subsided bit by bit. Eventually, I stopped avoiding her and I grew to respect and feel compassion for her. I realised that her struggles were not entirely of her own making and that life had dealt her a challenging hand. 

One day, late in the year 1965 before leaving the village to pursue further education, I decided to visit her for the last time.

We had an abundance of cassava tubers, and my mother wanted to share them with the woman’s family. Taking a basket of tubers, I made my way to her house, unsure of what to expect. To my surprise, as I entered, she greeted me with a smile and cracked a joke. We laughed together, the sound filling the room and momentarily lifting the weight of our respective burdens. I stayed for a few minutes, playing with her toddler, enjoying the simple joy of their company.

For reasons that were not apparent to me, she seemed a little bit more at ease with herself. I noticed that she had stopped running all over the place after her little child as if she feared that he might fall over or hurt himself. But then again, it could be because she was holding another baby in her arms, a new addition to their family.

“I heard you’re going away,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity and sadness.

“Yes,” I replied. “I feel sad, but I must go.”

“Study hard,” she urged, her eyes filled with genuine concern. “You’re one of the few students selected from our village.”

“I know, and I am grateful. But I am still sad,” I confessed, unable to hide the pang of sorrow in my voice.

“Because you will miss your family?” she asked, her empathy evident.

“Yes! I will miss them all,” I admitted, realising that she understood the depth of my emotions.

“Try not to think about them too much,” she advised, her voice soft but earnest. “In the past, I used to be sad too. I thought life was not worth living, but I am alright now. I have a wonderful family.”

Her words struck a chord, reminding me of the power of resilience and the capacity for change. As I walked away from her house, waving my hand to bid her goodbye, she waved back with a broad smile. There was no more sorrow behind that smile; instead, it radiated a sense of contentment and acceptance. Somehow, her transformation and optimism managed to touch my heart, making me feel lighter.

As I embarked on my journey toward further education, I carried her words with me, a constant reminder to face challenges with resilience and find happiness in the simplest of joys.

Thinking about that moment many years later in my adulthood, I realised that our encounters had been more than mere chance. The period of pain that she inadvertently caused me had been an opportunity for growth and understanding, teaching me the power of compassion and the potential for personal transformation.

DISCLAIMER:

The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the New Sarawak Tribune.