NOTHING | Damina Khaira

After evening meals, and once the day’s chores were completed, and the rice and dishes put away, and the grandchildren coaxed to sleep, the men and women of the Merican longhouse would gather. And while the men congregated by the Banting River nearby to drink and talk, the women met in one of the homes in the longhouse. They sat in a circle on the kitchen floor, leaving the doors open to allow for the breeze and their cigarette smoke to flow through. I was often invited to sit with them, their fondness for me born out of their kinship with my grandmother—their peer, who had long passed—and their fascination with my research into their experiences of aging and social well-being as Dayak Iban longhouse elders and their storytelling practices.

In Sarawak, Malaysian Borneo, especially in the interior where the Merican longhouse stands, the nights are often cooler than the daytime. Yet the women still wore sarongs tied at their armpits, without shirts, leaving their shoulders bare. Drought-season nights provided a refreshing respite after long hours under the sun, whether in the rice fields or inside the longhouse—the days were always so hot, so sweaty.

Then there were the rare occasions when it was just Ino, my host mother, and me—a relative by way of her husband (who was my uncle) and a curious anthropologist. I called her “Ibu,” the appropriate Iban honorific for an older woman, an aunty. We were in the kitchen that night. Because of my slow eating habit, I was, as usual, the only one still at the dining table. Ibu Ino sat at an angle on the floor, her legs stretched straight in front of her. She wore a sarong and was chewing sireh—betel quid—which was rare, for although she often smoked by herself, she would only chew sireh in the company of friends.

“Tusah manah, ngereja bak bumai...” Ibu Ino said.
It’s very difficult, working the earth…

I listened tentatively, unsure of when to speak or even how to respond. Very early on—and even in the weeks, months and years that followed—I was often nervous around Ibu Ino. She spoke little, but when she did, her words were sharp. And when she was upset, she would growl or shriek, “Hey-eh!”—a typical Banting expression of amusement, annoyance and affection. Watching her, I remembered how, in the early days of my fieldwork, I often heard many “Heeeey-eeeh” from just about everyone in Banting. When I started using the expression myself, I was met with smiles and approval. Ibu Ino would laugh at this. Like her voice, her laughter was hoarse and sharp, perhaps from years of smoking. But she was generous with her joy—she laughed when delighted and even over the banal.

Unlike the other women in the longhouse, Ibu Ino had short, wavy hair—curls that framed her face, accentuating her round eyes, her deep brown skin and her beauty. Her hair was naturally black, unlike that of her sisters-in-law and the other women in the longhouse, who dyed theirs with Indian henna bought at the Chinese sundry shops at the district bazaar, an hour’s boat ride away. While the other longhouse women squabbled over their favorite hair dye, Ibu Ino simply ran her fingers through her hair.

What made Ibu Ino’s appeal even more striking was her lack of patience or interest in adornments or accessories. Her raw, effortless beauty always seemed like an act of defiance; she made little attempt, yet still looked stunning. At formal dinners when state officials visited her longhouse settlement, like all the other elder women, she would dress in a kebaya. She would wear lipstick too, but the vermillion on her lips often seemed like an afterthought—a mere dash—and she always emerged as the most radiant of them all.

She was silent now as she chewed slowly. It was a loud tch—tch—tch, each tch sticking to the next like the ticking of a clock.

I am often vexed by the sound of chewing—I recalled how, in childhood, my brother once teased me with his loud eating. But that evening, I felt no irritation. Ibu Ino’s chewing was different—a slow, calming rhythm that offered comfort and stirred memories of my grandmother and her daily penchant for sireh.

I then imagined, as I had growing up while watching my grandmother, the fibers of leaf, nut and tobacco in Ibu Ino’s mouth being crunched, sucked and molded into a ball with spit and juice. Even in the dim light, her lips shone red, making her look dazzling and sophisticated, even in her fatigue, even at the end of a long day.

Ibu Ino seemed distracted, tired that night. In the living room, everyone else was watching a Malaysian variety show on the TV3 channel, and every now and then, peals of laughter—mostly from her teenage son—erupted from behind the curtain that separated the kitchen from the living room.

Her usually bright, shiny brown eyes were small, and her eyebrows were furrowed together. She was quiet and sighed often as she chewed.

“Tusah manah,” she said. “Nadai senang.”
It’s very difficult. It’s not easy.

More laughter cascaded from the living room, followed by a series of hand claps from the television show’s audience.

“Hey-eh!” Ibu Ino remarked suddenly. Her chewing slowed, then stopped. Her cheeks expanded as she rolled a ball of pulp with her tongue from side to side. Raising her palms to her chin, as if in prayer, she spat out the sireh. With both hands pressed together, she smeared the contents onto her limbs.

She was quiet, exhaling deeply, as she caressed her legs. Her fingers smeared the pulp on her thighs, ankles and feet; her stained palms working over her shins, tracing the raised, hardening lines of her limbs. Her brown skin grew shiny, turning rosy with the heat from her touch. She then tugged at her toes, pinching and pecking at each toe, from foot to foot.

“I’m tired,” she sighed. She said it simply, with no hint of lament, no desire to explain.

I was silent, slowly chewing my food, unsure of what to say or how to respond. Finally, I moved my plate aside and squatted on the floor.

I then kneeled beside her.

And after a while, I asked softly, “What can I do for you?”

Ibu Ino continued to massage her limbs. Now, her calves and knees were gleaming, the crimson smear on her brown skin lending a golden glow all around her. Her legs seemed an extension of her intricate bronze sarong; they shone in spit and warm sireh.

I stayed quiet after she answered.

“Nothing,” she said.

I knew better than to insist.

Damina Khaira is an anthropologist originally from Malaysia, educated at Harvard and Oxford and now teaching at Harvard. Her research and creative practice explore storytelling, aging, heritage and the textures of everyday life. As a congenital heart patient, Khaira also writes from the intersecting perspectives of anthropologist and patient, exploring lived experience and social well-being through medical humanities.