Our Heritage<\/p>\n
By Ktut Sugiartha<\/p>\n
\"Actually we were rich, once,\" my father told me, as I sat
\nwith him in the bale gede, one hot afternoon.<\/p>\n
I remember it was in October, but cannot remember the year.
\nThe sun of the dry season stung the earth's surface cruelly. Had
\nit not been for the shade provided by the open main hall and its
\nthick thatched roof, we would not have been able to sit around
\nwith our clothes on.<\/p>\n
\"This house is one of the indicators,\" he continued, fetching
\na betel leaf from a bowl in front of him. After smearing it with
\nlime and putting small pieces of gambier and areca nut on it,
\nfather folded the leaf and chewed it slowly. A few moments later,
\nred betel-nut juice filled the old milk can.<\/p>\n
\"Actually the main function of this house is to hold
\ntraditional ceremonies,\" he continued. \"You knew that, didn't
\nyou?\"<\/p>\n
I nodded. I knew all this by experience, from the fact that
\nall the traditional ceremonies I had ever seen took place in bale
\ngede; weddings, tooth fillings and funerals.<\/p>\n
\"Look how many pillars does this structure have?\" he said.<\/p>\n
\"Twelve,\" I replied without needing to count them.<\/p>\n
\"Do you know what that means?\" I shook my head. \"The number
\nimplies that the owner is a rich man, or was,\" he said, after
\nwiping his lips with a roll of tobacco.<\/p>\n
I frowned, not comprehending.<\/p>\n
\"Less well-to-do people wouldn't build a structure like this.
\nInstead they'll build a smaller one to serve the same function.
\nSurely you know what kind of structure that is.\"<\/p>\n
\"Bale sakenem? The six-pillared house?\" I said hesitatingly.<\/p>\n
\"Right.\"<\/p>\n
When I counted, there were only a few families in our hamlet
\nwho had bale gede. Only those few families were rich, or, at
\nleast, once were.<\/p>\n
\"There's another feature of ownership of our forefathers,\" he
\ncontinued. \"Look,\" pointing to a structure standing erect in the
\nnorthwest corner of the yard. \"The number of pillars and the
\nlocation of the lumbung have a meaning, too. Have you ever
\nwondered why granaries are always built near the kitchen and the
\nmain street?\"<\/p>\n
\"Being near the kitchen might help in the processing of rice,\"
\nI guessed.<\/p>\n
\"Right. And why is it near the street?\" I was only able to
\nsmile, waiting for my father's explanation. He said, \"The paddy
\nbarn served as an economic indication in your grandpa's time.
\nPeople passing on the street would know at once whether the owner
\nwas rich or average by counting the number of pillars. If there
\nare six, it means that he has a lot of paddy fields, while our
\npillars indicate a moderate number.\"<\/p>\n
\"How many hectares of paddy field did Grandpa have at that
\ntime?\" I asked with great curiosity.<\/p>\n
\"One hectare. The same amount inherited by us,\" he replied.<\/p>\n
\"Only a hectare and he was still considered rich? Society in
\nhis time wasn't too bad,\" I commented.<\/p>\n
\"More than fair, even,\" my father added zealously, underlining
\nhis statement. \"We can prove it with another example. Look at the
\nstructures in this yard. Like Balinese houses in general, all of
\nthem face inward. Don't ever think that it is meaningless. They
\nface inward to remind the inhabitants to be introspective, to
\nlook into their inner self from time to time.\"<\/p>\n
\"Where did they acquire such knowledge?\" I asked skeptically,
\nas nobody in Grandpa's time went to school.<\/p>\n
\"They didn't go to school. But that doesn't mean they didn't
\nlearn. They were able to read the lontar. Well, it is in those
\npapyri that knowledge can be found in abundance. That includes
\nthe Tri Hita Karana, which is presently spoken about quite a lot
\nby government officials.\"<\/p>\n
\"What is that?\"<\/p>\n
\"They are the three fundamentals that serve as the basis for a
\nhappy life. The first is to bring yourself closer to Hyang Widhi
\nWasa, God the Almighty. The second is to maintain good relations
\nwith fellow human beings. And third is to preserve the
\nenvironment.\"<\/p>\n
I was stupefied. It took me by surprise that my simple father
\nhad such precious knowledge. I realized then that his evening
\nsinging in kakawin recitals was not only to enjoy himself,
\nwaiting for sleepiness to overtake him.<\/p>\n
\"Listen, Son, much can be understood from life if we are able
\nto read the lontar,\" he added. This made me speechless.<\/p>\n
I felt that my father was dropping hints although he may not
\nhave intended to. He knew I could not read the papyrus, let alone
\nread the lontar written in old Javanese. I stumbled over every
\nword when reading Balinese characters. Just like other pupils of
\nmy age, I was better versed in English. But what could I do? I
\nlearned only a little Balinese in primary and secondary schools.
\nAnd, as there was no need to use it afterwards, that little
\nknowledge gradually vanished with the wind.<\/p>\n
I was grateful for spending that afternoon in such a fruitful
\nconversation with my father. I admired him, just because he was a
\nsimple man. A farmer I often helped with his plowing in the rice
\nfield and fixing basket traps for eel in the evenings and hauling
\nthem in the next morning. Usually my mother wrapped the eels in
\nbanana leaves and roasted them, once in a while she fried them
\ndry so we wouldn't get bored with the same meal. But she died too
\nsoon. Breast cancer took her life abruptly.<\/p>\n
I took over her daily work, including bringing father's meal
\nto the field. Maybe because I was more diligent, father was more
\nattached to me than to Latra, my elder brother, whose hobby was
\nlying down in the village bale banjar, or having a long chat with
\nhis friends.<\/p>\n
Certainly because of this mutual affection, father looked very
\nsad when I sought his permission to leave, because I found a job
\noutside Bali. But he realized that I was heading for a better
\nfuture. The paddy field that we inherited from Grandpa guaranteed
\na decent living for the time being. But generation after
\ngeneration would be born, whereas the rice field cannot multiply
\nitself.<\/p>\n
\"One day I'll surely be back, Bape,\" I promised.<\/p>\n
\"Take care of yourself, and don't forget to send me letters
\nwhen you arrive.\"<\/p>\n
\"I will. As soon as possible. I beg your blessing.\"<\/p>\n
Clutching father's message closely to my heart, I set out to
\nenter a new life working for a shipping company in Jakarta. After
\nmy departure we exchanged letters. In his letters he never forgot
\nto insert some advice from the lontar. I admired him more and
\nmore, and this made me homesick. I wished for another
\nconversation with him like the one we had that afternoon in the
\nbale gede. I also wished to stroll along the bunds enjoying the
\nsmell of the mud mixed with the smell of our sweat. But I had
\ndidn't have the time to come home as often as I wanted. Every
\ntime I did get a holiday I made maximum use of the time to
\ndischarge the longing that filled my heart.<\/p>\n
In those moments I enjoyed the light yet meaningful talks with
\nmy father. I also went to the field to weed the paddy or to fix
\nbasket traps for eel like I used to do. How delightful life would
\nbe, if it could always be filled with what you wanted. I
\nrealized, however, that eternity cannot be expected in this
\nworldly life.<\/p>\n
Once my father wrote \"There is a time when we feel glad. And
\nthere is also a time when we feel sad. But both of them are
\nabstract. The genuine thing can only be found in eternity. So
\ndon't be overjoyed in times of success, and don't be down-hearted
\nin times of failure.\"<\/p>\n
I had worked in the capital for three years, when the bad news
\ncame to me in a cable from home. I was dumb-founded. Father had
\ndied. I was stupefied, alone in room for quite a long time,
\nbefore I could get myself ready to go home. I could not
\nunderstand. When I left him the last time I went home, he was
\nquite well. The letters I received did not indicate that he was
\nill. And now, all of a sudden, he had died. What had happened?<\/p>\n
On the way home I mused over the times I was with him. I
\nremembered all the activities we had shared. Such reflections
\nalways created a longing for him. But now I would never see him
\nagain. I almost could not control myself when Kelian Banjar, my
\nfather's close friend, told me that father passed away a few
\nmoments after returning home from a party. First he vomited blood
\nand was rushed to the local hospital. And there the doctors
\nfailed to save his life, stating that he was suffering from food
\npoisoning. According to the village people he was affected by
\ncetik.<\/p>\n
\"Well, Made,\" said the village head, \"everything has been
\npredestined by Hyang Widi Wasa. So I hope you can accept this
\nbitter reality as a grown man, okay?\"<\/p>\n
His words cast me away to the past, to a conversation with my
\nfather. \"Never bear anybody a grudge, although he treats you
\nunfairly,\" he said then. \"A grudge will never solve anything.
\nShow your affection to any human being whomsoever.\"<\/p>\n
As I calmed down, Bli Latra gave free rein to his sorrow
\nthrough tears. He did not stop crying until father's body was in
\nthe grave. If there was ever a man to lose a part of himself, my
\nbrother was the one. Why not? When our father was still alive he
\nnever wanted to learn seriously how to be independent. Despite
\nthe fact that he was married and had a child, he continued to
\ndepend on father on and on.<\/p>\n
When the time came for me to return to the capital, I advised
\nmy brother to change his attitude.<\/p>\n
\"Be a good farmer,\" I told him. \"There's more than enough, our
\nrice field can support you and your family. For years the rice
\nfield we inherited from Grandpa has been supporting our
\nlivelihood. We should appreciate it as our most valuable
\nproperty. One day I certainly will come home and take part in
\nmaintaining it. Do your best.\"<\/p>\n
Five years afterwards I fulfilled my promise. I went home with
\na strong intention not to return to the capital. I wanted to be a
\nfarmer like father. And even more than that, I wanted to own a
\nplantation where I could grow vanilla, cloves, salak fruit and
\neverything that might promise a better life in the future. I had
\nsaved all the money I could.<\/p>\n
I was completely taken when I returned home and stood at the
\nedge of the village. So many changes had taken place, I
\nthought.<\/p>\n
The road which was formerly covered with thick dust during the
\ndry season and with mud in the rainy season, was now covered with
\nbitumen. The trees with thick leaves at both sides of that road
\nwere no longer there. Only a few coconut trees survived,
\nalternating with electric poles here and there.<\/p>\n
But not all the changes pleased me. Some of them even shocked
\nand deeply concerned me, they sent me to sit down sluggishly on
\nthe floor of the bale gede. I saw that the rice granary I had
\nonce spoken about with my father was slanting to the north. Its
\nroof was worn out, full of mouse holes. Even the bale gede was
\nnot comfortable any longer. Its thatched roof had been replaced
\nwith zinc that was now rusting.<\/p>\n
\"Forgive me,\" said Bli Latra when I asked him how all this had
\nhappened. \"You must know that my luck has been extremely bad.\"<\/p>\n
\"Why?\" I demanded crossly.<\/p>\n
\"For more than one year our field didn't produce a thing. The
\ndevastating wereng pest was raging,\" he said pathetically. \"So
\nwhen our food supply started thinning out, I decided to undertake
\na new venture. It so happened that at that time there was a man
\nfrom the city who wanted to buy a piece of land to build boarding
\nhouses. So I sold the field and used the money to buy a truck. I
\nhope, I hope...\"<\/p>\n
\"A truck? Where is it now?\" I rubbed my grimy face with my
\nhands, but saw no truck.<\/p>\n
My brother kept silent. But his wife went on, explaining to
\nme, \"Bli Latra never wanted to listen to me. He was possessed by
\ngambling on end-number and tajen.\"<\/p>\n
\"What? Weren't all forms of gambling banned by the police?\"<\/p>\n
\"Yes, but they continue in secret.\"<\/p>\n
I rose. I left them without uttering a word.<\/p>\n
I walked along the asphalt road down to the beach. My heart
\nbroke when I found that the rice field willed to us by Grandpa
\nwas now owned by other people. There were several bungalows and
\nalso a restaurant on it. While on the sand on the beach, tourists
\nwere scattered around enjoying the afternoon sun, wearing skimpy
\noutfits like they do at Kuta beach.<\/p>\n
Translated by Soemaryono<\/p>\n
pabuan: a container specially for a quid consisting of betel
\nleaf, lime, gambier and tobacco; Bale gede: (Balinese) main hall;
\nKelian Banjar: head of the village; Bape: father; Kakawin:
\nancient poems containing prayers; Bali, beli: elder brother;
\nTajen: cock fighting; Cetik: poison; Lumbung: rice granary;
\nlontar: papyrus, on which traditional Balinese philosophy,
\nmoral teachings and various sciences were written and documented
\nthrough the ages.<\/p>\n
Ktut Sugiartha was born in Tabanan, Bali, in November 1956. He
\nstarted writing in 1977 and has produced a lot of interesting
\nstories with Balinese villages or villagers as the central
\nthemes. His youth stories were collected in Sketsa Untuk Sebuah
\nNama (Sketches for a Name), 1987. His short story Our Heritage
\nwas published in Our Heritage, 16 Modern Indonesian Stories
\nedited by Satyagraha Hoerip. It was originally titled Warisan
\n(The Inheritance) and published in Suara Pembaruan Minggu.<\/p>",
"url": "https:\/\/jawawa.id\/newsitem\/our-heritage-1447899208",
"image": ""
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