THE morning light cascaded through the tiny gaps between the louvred windows, golden hues illuminating the dimly lit kitchen. A stream of water trickled by the sink like tiny shells turning in the tide. I rubbed my eyes, squinting at the room, trying to make sense of the standing figure.
A faint voice echoed within. “You’re up?” my grandma greeted me. A soft smile spread across her face, the kind that made the room feel a little less cold. Water sloshed gently as her fingers stirred the rice, a muted swishing punctuated by the faint clicking of grains.
I offered to help before a few grains of rice fell out of the pot. She simply looked over at the spilled grains on the drain, then at me, and said, “Do you know why rice is so small?”
I shook my head, and she took over the pot and began.
Long before humans walked on this earth, a family of deities lived in the world below. They had no knowledge of cooking, forcing them to rely on raw fruits, leaves, and mushrooms foraged from the forest. Among them was the youngest daughter, Dayang Petera—gorgeous, stubborn, and a know-it-all.
Tired of eating the same meals every day, she complained endlessly. Her mother, worn out by the constant grumbling, sent her to visit her grandmother, Inik Raja Pipit, who had lived on the land longer than they ever had and might offer something different.
Paddling her boat on the river for three days, Dayang Petera eventually arrived at her grandmother’s hut, surrounded by tall, swaying stalks she had never seen before. On top of each stalk sat a round, brown, fist-sized grain.
Inik Raja Pipit welcomed her granddaughter wholeheartedly, serving a meal unlike anything Dayang Petera had ever tasted—white, soft, and fragrant. For the first time in her life, she ate without complaining and finished three servings.
“Where does this come from?” she asked, eyes widening in delight.
Her grandmother pointed to the swaying stalks outside.
When day surrendered to light, she showed Dayang Petera something extraordinary. The paddy, as if moving on its own, rolled off the stalks, husked itself in the wooden mortar, leapt into the clay oven, and cooked over a raging fire that lit at the snap of a finger. The whole hut filled with warmth and the scent of fresh rice.
Dayang Petera watched quietly.
“Why go through all that trouble when you could just skewer the grain on a stick and roast it over fire?” she bluntly asked. “Surely that would be faster.”
Her grandmother shook her head. “That is not the right way. Follow what I have shown you.”
But Dayang Petera had already decided she would do it her own way.
One day, Inik Raja Pipit had to leave for a wedding feast that would last for a whole month.
“Watch for the Seven Sisters star cluster before planting,” she warned before leaving. “Choose plump, fresh seeds from the loft. Let the planting stick work on its own. Sing to the sickle and it will harvest the field. Call the paddy home when it is golden and it will return by itself. Do not change any of this.”
When her brother, Pulang Gana, arrived days later to visit, Dayang Petera was already planning her own way to work. Instead of letting the planting stick move on its own, she handed it to Pulang Gana, making him prod holes in the ground himself. Seed by seed, day by day, they planted it by hand.
Wild weeds consumed the field. Because she had not sung to the sickle, they grew back every time she cut them, trapping her in an endless cycle.
When the stalks finally ripened, the grains came out tiny, nothing like the fist-sized ones she had eaten on her first visit. Worse still, the paddy would not move on its own. She had to harvest each stalk by hand with a knife, fill a basket, and carry it all by herself for several days.
Her grandmother returned, discovering only small grains left in the loft. Heartbroken, she asked her granddaughter if she had followed her instructions. Dayang Petera admitted she had not.
“Because of what you did,” her grandmother faltered, “this is how it will be from now on. Farmers will plant by hand. They will weed, harvest, carry, and pound by themselves. And the rice will always be small.”
My grandma went quiet after that.
“Is that why we never waste rice?” I asked.
She nodded once. “Every grain of rice you leave is someone’s back bent over a field. Someone’s hands bleeding from the harvest.”
A distant beep broke the silence, followed by the gentle click of the rice cooker finishing. – DayakDaily
Thomas Sijun Jose Jol is an 18-year-old pre-university student and a native of Bintulu. Outside of writing, his favourite hobbies include painting and drawing.
Thomas is one of the Top 10 winners (Youth category) for DayakDaily’s 2026 Writing Competition with the theme “Sarawak Folklore”.
