LONG ago, in a land where the rivers whispered to the roots of the ancient rainforest, there lived a woman named Miloh. She dwelt in a dilapidated farm hut—a langkau umai—clinging to the steep hillside. The hut was a skeleton of bamboo and rotting bark, for the man of the house had long departed to the land of the ancestors, leaving Miloh and her only daughter, Seregenting, to face the hunger of the seasons alone.
Seregenting was a child of six, with eyes as deep as mountain pools. As the months of the hill-paddy cycle began, a cruel hollow took root in her belly. Poverty was a shadow that never left their doorstep. As Miloh toiled under the sun, the cycle of the earth became a cycle of waiting.
From the hut, the child’s voice drifted like a dying breeze to the fields. She did not cry; she sang a haunting, melodic plea that echoed through the valley:
“Frail, so frail grows my waist, Mother…”
Miloh, her back bent as she swung her blade to clear the undergrowth, wiped the sweat from her brow. “Patience, my child,” she answered. “I am only just slashing the wild grass. The land is not yet ready.”
Weeks bled into months. The sun scorched the earth until it was time to fell the giants of the forest. Seregenting’s ribs began to trace patterns against her skin, her waist narrowing with every passing moon.
“Frail, so frail grows my waist, Mother…”
“Wait a little longer, my soul,” Miloh shouted over the sound of crashing timber. “I am only just felling the great trees. We must wait for them to dry.”
Then came the season of smoke and ash. Miloh fired the hills, the flames dancing in her tired eyes. Seregenting watched from the hut, strength fading until she could no longer stand. She sat on the floor; her waist so slender a man’s hand could circle it entirely.
“Frail, so frail grows my waist, Mother…”
“Hush, my love,” Miloh panted, face blackened by soot. “The hill is only just catching fire. The soil must be fed before it can feed us.”
The rains arrived, and with them, the time of Nugal. Miloh joined the villagers, her heavy soul lightened by the rhythmic thumping of the dibble sticks. She dropped the golden seeds into the weeping earth, one by one. But for Seregenting, the seeds were a lifetime away.
“Frail, so frail grows my waist, Mother…”
“Not long now, my daughter. I am only just piercing the earth. The seeds must sleep before they wake.”
The paddy grew. It matured from tender green shoots to the pregnant stalks of Padi Murai. Miloh weeded the fields until her fingernails were torn, heart breaking with every melodic lament that reached her ears. Seregenting was now a mere wisp of a girl, a ghost in a sarong, her waist a needle-thin bridge between her chest and hips.
“Frail, so frail grows my waist, Mother…”
“The stalks are heavy with grain, my child! I am only just harvesting the gold!”
Finally, the harvest was done. Miloh winnowed the grain, tossed it to the wind to clear the chaff, and dried it under the searing sun. The rhythm of the wooden pestle against the mortar—clack-thud, clack-thud—was the heartbeat of their salvation.
“Mother is pounding the husks, Seregenting! The rice is coming! Mother is winnowing the white pearls!”
In the dim light of the hut, Miloh finally set the pot over fire. The scent of new rice, sweet and fragrant, filled the air. It was a scent that should have meant life. Seregenting sat at her mother’s feet, large eyes fixed on the bubbling pot, waist so incredibly thin it looked as if a breath of wind could snap her in two.
“Almost there, my daughter,” Miloh whispered, eyes wet with tears of relief. “Mother is only just scooping the rice. You shall eat until you are full.”
Miloh reached for the heavy wooden ladle. Her hands, calloused and trembling from months of labour, fumbled. The ladle, carved from heartwood, slipped from her grip.
It did not fall far, but it struck Seregenting right across her paper-thin middle.
A sound like the snapping of a dry twig echoed in the small hut. There was no blood, no scream. Seregenting’s fragile body, held together by months of sheer will and the promise of a single grain, simply parted.
The rice was ready, but the child was gone.
Legend says that from that tragedy, a small insect emerged from the shadows of the floorboards—a creature with a thread-thin waist, forever building its nest of clay under the eaves of the longhouse. It serves reminder of a mother’s labour, a daughter’s patience, and a snap that ended a song. – DayakDaily
Hailing from Pantu, Sri Aman, 35-year-old Ricci anak Georgery Gelanggang balances life as a dedicated homemaker with a passion for the arts. This creative spirit spends free moments composing lyrics, reading, and producing engaging digital content for social media.
Ricci is one of the Top 10 winners (Adult category) for DayakDaily’s 2026 Writing Competition with the theme “Sarawak Folklore”.
