Ilas

‘Ilas’ is a Kadazandusun word for a person, a man, who has married the sister or a cousin-sister, elder or younger, of the wife of another man. Both men, therefore, will call each other, ‘Ilas’. These two men could either be friends or total strangers to each other prior to their marriages. Sometimes, there can also be a case of two brothers married to two sisters or to a sister and a cousin sister. When a case as such happens their being brothers are considered prominantly more important than their being ‘Ilas’ to each other. They will conduct themselves as brothers and call each other the way they are used to calling each other long before they got married. It may not be ethically wrong for anyone of them to call the other, Ilas, but it could be viewed a joke. If the one addressed was too sensitive, then he might take offence. It may start an emnity between them, the two brothers, personally, at first. It can bitterly spread to other members of their families in future. If such a thing did happen then the side who took offence would be considered downright childish.

In 1966 I married Tondu of the Chin clan, from her father’s side, and of the Mojili family, from her Kadazandusun mother’s side, long before I came to know of one Bernard from Tuaran. At one time in the late 70s spreading over to the early 80s, Bernard was a senior Agriculture Officer incharge of a Government Rural Agriculture Station. There were times when young Agriculture Trainees were sent for tour of duties at his Station. There was a time when some trainees were temporarily sent to his Station for a stint of training experiences in agricultural desciplines and responsibilities. One of them was Tondu’s cousin-sister, a daughter of her uncle, the elder brother of her mother. Bernard came to know that the girl he greatly admired and fell totally head over heel in love with, was my wife’s cousin-sister. Fate was cruel as no romance was allowed to blossom for the ‘the flower was nipped at its bud’, so to speak. If ever the ‘getting to know you’ stage had been allowed to florish into some beautiful friendship it would have been heavenly blissful for them both.

There was another contender, a junior officer under Bernard’s charge, who was also, perhaps, in love with the same girl although ‘he was so laggard in love and dastard in war’, so to speak. He did not have the guts to openly compete for the girl’s affection. He went around the back and did what he might have been used to doing. He sabbotaged what could have been beautiful for Bernard or for himself. This cunning junior officer of a man went to visit the girl’s father one night to say that his daughter was in some very grave danger because there was a man who loved her very much and would do anything to woe her. He must have added flavours to his talk and convinced the father to pull his daughter away from the Station. The father managed to do exactly what that junior officer wanted.

When the father was querried of his actions in later times, he said that he was so convinced because that man told him he was an important Officer. He especially said that the man, his nocturnal visitor, looked like an important officer, alright, because he was using clear reading glasses. To that less-exposed elderly father, the wearing of reading glasses which denoted damaged to one’s vision, added some degrees of importance to a man’s social standing!

Bernard had confided to me generally and in honest that he was sincerely serious in his intention to know my wife’s cousin-sister better. He started to subconsciously call me ‘Ilas’ to further subconsciously prove how sincere he was with his love. Although nothing had come out of his love for the girl who had appeared and then had vanished from his very eyes, he was very loyal even to the memory of the girl’s facial vision which he had put onto his mental frame. In fact, we were addressing each other, ‘Ilas’, making use of the word as our friendly call for each other long after all hopes had gone. It did not mean that his ardent hope of getting married to my wife’s cousin-sister had materialised. I was the closest he had to remember the beautiful girl by, the girl he had once loved so dearly. I was sure memories of the girl rushed back to him each time he called me Ilas.

The message he had concieved of the whole episode, coupled by the words sent to him by the girl’s father through that so-called important Officer, was that the parents of the girl and the girl herself did not want to know him. He was completely heartbroken.

Although he could not forget the girl he had once fallen in love with until his death, he did not intent to stay unmarried for long. He was of the opinion that life must go on. When he got married years later to a girl from Papar, he asked me to be his bestman. I had obliged.

He called me Ilas until he died of diabetes some 35 years ago. Where was I at that point in time? I missed paying him my last respect.

Was I in England?