Our Heritage

Our Heritage

By Ktut Sugiartha

"Actually we were rich, once," my father told me, as I sat with him in the bale gede, one hot afternoon.

I remember it was in October, but cannot remember the year. The sun of the dry season stung the earth's surface cruelly. Had it not been for the shade provided by the open main hall and its thick thatched roof, we would not have been able to sit around with our clothes on.

"This house is one of the indicators," he continued, fetching a betel leaf from a bowl in front of him. After smearing it with lime and putting small pieces of gambier and areca nut on it, father folded the leaf and chewed it slowly. A few moments later, red betel-nut juice filled the old milk can.

"Actually the main function of this house is to hold traditional ceremonies," he continued. "You knew that, didn't you?"

I nodded. I knew all this by experience, from the fact that all the traditional ceremonies I had ever seen took place in bale gede; weddings, tooth fillings and funerals.

"Look how many pillars does this structure have?" he said.

"Twelve," I replied without needing to count them.

"Do you know what that means?" I shook my head. "The number implies that the owner is a rich man, or was," he said, after wiping his lips with a roll of tobacco.

I frowned, not comprehending.

"Less well-to-do people wouldn't build a structure like this. Instead they'll build a smaller one to serve the same function. Surely you know what kind of structure that is."

"Bale sakenem? The six-pillared house?" I said hesitatingly.

"Right."

When I counted, there were only a few families in our hamlet who had bale gede. Only those few families were rich, or, at least, once were.

"There's another feature of ownership of our forefathers," he continued. "Look," pointing to a structure standing erect in the northwest corner of the yard. "The number of pillars and the location of the lumbung have a meaning, too. Have you ever wondered why granaries are always built near the kitchen and the main street?"

"Being near the kitchen might help in the processing of rice," I guessed.

"Right. And why is it near the street?" I was only able to smile, waiting for my father's explanation. He said, "The paddy barn served as an economic indication in your grandpa's time. People passing on the street would know at once whether the owner was rich or average by counting the number of pillars. If there are six, it means that he has a lot of paddy fields, while our pillars indicate a moderate number."

"How many hectares of paddy field did Grandpa have at that time?" I asked with great curiosity.

"One hectare. The same amount inherited by us," he replied.

"Only a hectare and he was still considered rich? Society in his time wasn't too bad," I commented.

"More than fair, even," my father added zealously, underlining his statement. "We can prove it with another example. Look at the structures in this yard. Like Balinese houses in general, all of them face inward. Don't ever think that it is meaningless. They face inward to remind the inhabitants to be introspective, to look into their inner self from time to time."

"Where did they acquire such knowledge?" I asked skeptically, as nobody in Grandpa's time went to school.

"They didn't go to school. But that doesn't mean they didn't learn. They were able to read the lontar. Well, it is in those papyri that knowledge can be found in abundance. That includes the Tri Hita Karana, which is presently spoken about quite a lot by government officials."

"What is that?"

"They are the three fundamentals that serve as the basis for a happy life. The first is to bring yourself closer to Hyang Widhi Wasa, God the Almighty. The second is to maintain good relations with fellow human beings. And third is to preserve the environment."

I was stupefied. It took me by surprise that my simple father had such precious knowledge. I realized then that his evening singing in kakawin recitals was not only to enjoy himself, waiting for sleepiness to overtake him.

"Listen, Son, much can be understood from life if we are able to read the lontar," he added. This made me speechless.

I felt that my father was dropping hints although he may not have intended to. He knew I could not read the papyrus, let alone read the lontar written in old Javanese. I stumbled over every word when reading Balinese characters. Just like other pupils of my age, I was better versed in English. But what could I do? I learned only a little Balinese in primary and secondary schools. And, as there was no need to use it afterwards, that little knowledge gradually vanished with the wind.

I was grateful for spending that afternoon in such a fruitful conversation with my father. I admired him, just because he was a simple man. A farmer I often helped with his plowing in the rice field and fixing basket traps for eel in the evenings and hauling them in the next morning. Usually my mother wrapped the eels in banana leaves and roasted them, once in a while she fried them dry so we wouldn't get bored with the same meal. But she died too soon. Breast cancer took her life abruptly.

I took over her daily work, including bringing father's meal to the field. Maybe because I was more diligent, father was more attached to me than to Latra, my elder brother, whose hobby was lying down in the village bale banjar, or having a long chat with his friends.

Certainly because of this mutual affection, father looked very sad when I sought his permission to leave, because I found a job outside Bali. But he realized that I was heading for a better future. The paddy field that we inherited from Grandpa guaranteed a decent living for the time being. But generation after generation would be born, whereas the rice field cannot multiply itself.

"One day I'll surely be back, Bape," I promised.

"Take care of yourself, and don't forget to send me letters when you arrive."

"I will. As soon as possible. I beg your blessing."

Clutching father's message closely to my heart, I set out to enter a new life working for a shipping company in Jakarta. After my departure we exchanged letters. In his letters he never forgot to insert some advice from the lontar. I admired him more and more, and this made me homesick. I wished for another conversation with him like the one we had that afternoon in the bale gede. I also wished to stroll along the bunds enjoying the smell of the mud mixed with the smell of our sweat. But I had didn't have the time to come home as often as I wanted. Every time I did get a holiday I made maximum use of the time to discharge the longing that filled my heart.

In those moments I enjoyed the light yet meaningful talks with my father. I also went to the field to weed the paddy or to fix basket traps for eel like I used to do. How delightful life would be, if it could always be filled with what you wanted. I realized, however, that eternity cannot be expected in this worldly life.

Once my father wrote "There is a time when we feel glad. And there is also a time when we feel sad. But both of them are abstract. The genuine thing can only be found in eternity. So don't be overjoyed in times of success, and don't be down-hearted in times of failure."

I had worked in the capital for three years, when the bad news came to me in a cable from home. I was dumb-founded. Father had died. I was stupefied, alone in room for quite a long time, before I could get myself ready to go home. I could not understand. When I left him the last time I went home, he was quite well. The letters I received did not indicate that he was ill. And now, all of a sudden, he had died. What had happened?

On the way home I mused over the times I was with him. I remembered all the activities we had shared. Such reflections always created a longing for him. But now I would never see him again. I almost could not control myself when Kelian Banjar, my father's close friend, told me that father passed away a few moments after returning home from a party. First he vomited blood and was rushed to the local hospital. And there the doctors failed to save his life, stating that he was suffering from food poisoning. According to the village people he was affected by cetik.

"Well, Made," said the village head, "everything has been predestined by Hyang Widi Wasa. So I hope you can accept this bitter reality as a grown man, okay?"

His words cast me away to the past, to a conversation with my father. "Never bear anybody a grudge, although he treats you unfairly," he said then. "A grudge will never solve anything. Show your affection to any human being whomsoever."

As I calmed down, Bli Latra gave free rein to his sorrow through tears. He did not stop crying until father's body was in the grave. If there was ever a man to lose a part of himself, my brother was the one. Why not? When our father was still alive he never wanted to learn seriously how to be independent. Despite the fact that he was married and had a child, he continued to depend on father on and on.

When the time came for me to return to the capital, I advised my brother to change his attitude.

"Be a good farmer," I told him. "There's more than enough, our rice field can support you and your family. For years the rice field we inherited from Grandpa has been supporting our livelihood. We should appreciate it as our most valuable property. One day I certainly will come home and take part in maintaining it. Do your best."

Five years afterwards I fulfilled my promise. I went home with a strong intention not to return to the capital. I wanted to be a farmer like father. And even more than that, I wanted to own a plantation where I could grow vanilla, cloves, salak fruit and everything that might promise a better life in the future. I had saved all the money I could.

I was completely taken when I returned home and stood at the edge of the village. So many changes had taken place, I thought.

The road which was formerly covered with thick dust during the dry season and with mud in the rainy season, was now covered with bitumen. The trees with thick leaves at both sides of that road were no longer there. Only a few coconut trees survived, alternating with electric poles here and there.

But not all the changes pleased me. Some of them even shocked and deeply concerned me, they sent me to sit down sluggishly on the floor of the bale gede. I saw that the rice granary I had once spoken about with my father was slanting to the north. Its roof was worn out, full of mouse holes. Even the bale gede was not comfortable any longer. Its thatched roof had been replaced with zinc that was now rusting.

"Forgive me," said Bli Latra when I asked him how all this had happened. "You must know that my luck has been extremely bad."

"Why?" I demanded crossly.

"For more than one year our field didn't produce a thing. The devastating wereng pest was raging," he said pathetically. "So when our food supply started thinning out, I decided to undertake a new venture. It so happened that at that time there was a man from the city who wanted to buy a piece of land to build boarding houses. So I sold the field and used the money to buy a truck. I hope, I hope..."

"A truck? Where is it now?" I rubbed my grimy face with my hands, but saw no truck.

My brother kept silent. But his wife went on, explaining to me, "Bli Latra never wanted to listen to me. He was possessed by gambling on end-number and tajen."

"What? Weren't all forms of gambling banned by the police?"

"Yes, but they continue in secret."

I rose. I left them without uttering a word.

I walked along the asphalt road down to the beach. My heart broke when I found that the rice field willed to us by Grandpa was now owned by other people. There were several bungalows and also a restaurant on it. While on the sand on the beach, tourists were scattered around enjoying the afternoon sun, wearing skimpy outfits like they do at Kuta beach.

Translated by Soemaryono

pabuan: a container specially for a quid consisting of betel leaf, lime, gambier and tobacco; Bale gede: (Balinese) main hall; Kelian Banjar: head of the village; Bape: father; Kakawin: ancient poems containing prayers; Bali, beli: elder brother; Tajen: cock fighting; Cetik: poison; Lumbung: rice granary; lontar: papyrus, on which traditional Balinese philosophy, moral teachings and various sciences were written and documented through the ages.

Ktut Sugiartha was born in Tabanan, Bali, in November 1956. He started writing in 1977 and has produced a lot of interesting stories with Balinese villages or villagers as the central themes. His youth stories were collected in Sketsa Untuk Sebuah Nama (Sketches for a Name), 1987. His short story Our Heritage was published in Our Heritage, 16 Modern Indonesian Stories edited by Satyagraha Hoerip. It was originally titled Warisan (The Inheritance) and published in Suara Pembaruan Minggu.