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| Ulu Licin, Beruas, Perak, Malaysia |
There’s a place in my memory that still breathes with the sound of water —
a waterfall - Ulu Licin, in my birthplace.
They say the cascading waterfall remembers every soul that visits it. That if you come with a question, it may not give you an answer… but it might return something you lost.
A feeling.
A face.
A forgotten part of yourself.
This series, The Cascading Waterfall, is a collection of short, quiet stories — part memory, part magic. Each one is a standalone glimpse into a different heart, but all are linked by one place: the mythical waterfall that listens, keeps secrets, and sometimes gives something back.
The first story, Cascading Waterfall, is my own recount of a childhood journey deep into the rainforest of the Bintang Mountains, led by my father. It is a story of discovery, fear, and above all, the quiet, unshakable love of a father guiding his child through the wild. The story is rooted in real memories — from the thrill of swimming beneath the falls to the lessons my father taught me about nature, resilience, and trust. It is my way of holding onto the moments that shaped who I am, and of honoring the place—Beruas—that remains my true home.
Many from this little town, historically known for its glory as Gangga Negara, hold fond memories of that waterfall. Through these stories, I hope to keep that connection alive — to the land, to family, and to the parts of ourselves that we sometimes lose but never forget.
More stories will follow, each like mist rising from water — soft, brief, and hopefully, true.
Thank you for reading.
The Cascading Waterfall
When I was about ten years old, my father—a teacher and a steady guide—led us, his children, along with my cousins and some of his students, deep into the rainforest of the Bintang Mountain Range near Beruas. Hidden in the heart of the mountains was Ulu Licin, a waterfall whose distant roar echoed like a secret song, calling us forward with promises of wonder and adventure.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and wild ginger. Leaves brushed softly against my skin, and sunlight filtered through the dense canopy in warm, golden beams. Birds called from the treetops—bright flashes of green and red darting between branches—while crickets hummed a steady rhythm beneath the forest floor, stitching the sounds of the jungle into a quiet symphony. Along the trail, I spotted giant flytrap plants, their jaws open wide, and orchids clinging like precious jewels to the trees. I remember the thrill when a centipede, its many legs twitching like tiny dancers, crawled across my palm—a wild, living thing that both scared and fascinated me—sending a shiver of excitement down my spine.
My father taught us about the forest’s ecosystem—how every creature, plant, and insect fit into its own microhabitat, a tiny world within the larger jungle. He showed us how the waterfall’s spray created a special home for mosses and orchids, and how birds and insects depended on the moisture and shade. Every step we took was a lesson in nature’s delicate balance.
The waterfall itself was a world apart—its cool spray misting the air, sending shivers across my skin. I was afraid to step into the rushing water, the current fierce and wild, but my father’s steady voice called me forward. He was a great swimmer, though self-taught, and moved through the water with a confidence that made me trust him completely. Step by step, hand in hand, he guided me into the pool beneath the falls. The cold water closed over my toes, then my knees, and finally my whole body, washing away fear and replacing it with a quiet, thrilling courage. In that moment, beneath the thunderous roar of cascading water, I learned that bravery is often born from the steady presence of love.
But on our way back, the forest grew unfamiliar and dark. The rustling of wild boars in the underbrush made my heart race and my small hand tighten around my father’s. My cousin-brother, Siva Anna, calm and sure, said he knew a secret path—the hunters’ trail. We followed quietly, our footsteps muffled by moss and fallen leaves. The forest seemed alive, watching us with silent eyes.
Deeper into the mountains, my father taught us how to find our way by listening to the water flowing downhill. It was more than a lesson in navigation—it was a lesson in trust, patience, and faith. Faith in the forest and in him. His steady hand never left mine, his calm voice a lifeline in the shadows.
After what felt like endless hours, we finally reached the bottom, where new terrace houses stood like a small promise of home. But to cross into safety, we had to wade through a patch of stinking sewage. I was small, scared, and trembling, but my father’s grip never faltered. He held me firmly, gently guiding me through the cold, filthy water, as if protecting not just my body but my very spirit.
That day, leeches bit my ankles and scratches marked my arms. Exhaustion tugged at my limbs, but my heart learned to stay calm in the storm of being lost—both in the wild and in life.
I learned resilience and something far deeper: the quiet, unshakable strength of a father’s love. My father’s silent love taught me that no one else in the world will trust you the way your father does. No one else will protect you the way your father does. And no one else will treat you with the honour and care only a father can give. His trust, belief, and guidance became my compass when I was lost—my shelter when the world felt wild and strange. And when I feel lonely—even surrounded by people—it is this quiet, steadfast love that I remember, the love that still holds me close across time and distance.
That day by the cascading waterfall in the heart of the Bintang Mountains, I didn’t just learn how to find my way through the forest—I learned how to lean on someone who would never let me fall. My father’s hand in mine was more than guidance; it was a silent promise of safety, love, and unwavering presence. In the wild, uncertain moments of childhood—and life—that bond became my anchor. No matter how lost I felt, knowing he was there gave me the courage to keep moving forward. His faith in me was a quiet strength I carry still, reminding me that love is the truest compass, and home is wherever that love leads.
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