"Ketut percaya takdir?"
"Tentu. Agama saya mengajarkan begitu."
"Hmm..."
--
When I was in Bali for a mini vacation with my parents last week, I made a spontaneous visit to a medicine man in Ubud. I wasn't sure why I went there. I have to admit my intentions were purely out of curiosity; he was the medicine man described in a novel which was recently made into a movie. I arrived in his house sometime after lunch time. His house was typical Balinese, greeting visitors with the traditional brick-doorway. I walked in slowly, unsure of how to behave. His house was surprisingly spacious with little huts where one can sit on while enjoying the calm Balinese air.
Curiosity filled me as I walked into his open house. His pet birds chirped harmoniously. Suddenly I heard a voice saying hello, a voice that instructed me to come in and sit on one of the open huts. It was Ketut Liyer, a 96yo traditional Balinese medicine man, obviously focused on carving a brass piece with some Balinese transcriptions meant as a charm for a newly born Balinese baby who wouldnt stop crying. He asked me to sit next to him, smiled sidely and asked for me to wait for a second.
"I will finish this first, only little time wait please. Very sorry," he said in his broken English.
I sat talking to him for nearly 2hrs while he finished the charm. After he was finish with the inscriptions, he laid out a piece of white cloth, put the brass piece on it and folded it into a little pouch. He worked timidly for someone in their late nineties. He did it all himself, even the tricky business of inserting the end of the thread onto the needle before he started sewing steadily. I offered to help but he laughed and said that it was not necessary. "Saya harus latihan, must practice my eyes."
I noticed his eyes which was strangely blue. I found it fascinating, a solid contrast to his dark brown skin.
We talked about little things in general with nothing in particular to begin with. At one point, he asked why did I come to his house. I couldn't answer for I know little of the true reason myself. I said I was just curious, I read about him in the novel. He laughed and said that he's afraid. He said that he didn't write the book, which propelled him to fear that he might not be what others went seeking for. What others expect to get when they went and see him.
I smiled in complete agreement, and we talked some more. Suddenly he looked straight at me and said: "Nanti kamu saya ramal ya." I was surprised. "Oh baik," I somehow responded. He continued working on the little pouch-charm as I sat there and listened to him.
All of the sudden, I was filled with a strange feeling. An infliction of shame. I realized then and there why I was there. I read the novel, and by myself was filled with an expectation that he will say things to me that will somehow change my life. Words or prophecies that can provide comfort and change when there is no particular need for them. An instant answer for a question that I do not yet have. Curiosity propelled by an expectation.
All these realization made me think. How could one seek an answer from an almost toothless medicine man that have never met, know nor think of us beforehand? I sat there thinking to myself. I came there with an expectation that I was unconsciously filled with, an expectation based on no reasonable basis. I did not even have a particular issue I'd like to talk about. I felt slight shame of my unapparent intentions.
Human actions can somehow be driven by such unconscious motivations that surprises one when one stop for a while and think of it.
When he was done with the baby's puny white-pouch-cloth-charm, he turned to me and read my face, my palm and my back. I listened respectfully. Something my sister said during one of our random late-car-ride-conversations struck me. It is the process and not the destination that really counts. The acknowledgement that there will be no instant solution coming from a merry-eyed medicine man in Bali for the questions or problems one may have. Those questions are reserved for me and myself only, something to talk about with my heart.
He told me that I have two very fragrant lotuses on my back, I am very lucky. "You very lucky!" he said, "harus berhati-hati. Must be careful! Dengarkan hatimu if make decision. No regrets."
I laughed.
--
The next day I went to a jeweler and bought myself a little silver lotus bracelet. Something to remember him by. Something to remind me how lucky I am. On the car ride to my grandmother's house, I was filled with thoughts. I looked outside, lost in my thoughts. As I rolled the gemstones on my bracelet, my thoughts were on my breathing. It is indeed the process that makes life so much more interesting.
