Love and Death in Bali

by Vicki Baum

  “Do,” Dekker answered drowsily.

  “I am told there’s malaria here too,” Schimmelpennick said anxiously. I must write to Brigit, Dekker thought sleepily. “When we got near the land, naked savages armed with lances charged from their ambush,” the letter began.

  The puri in Badung was burning in several places. The Dutch had shelled the town and the neighborhood with their howitzers and large parts of the puri were destroyed. Only the north-east wing, with the house-temple and the ajacent courts, were still undamaged. There were also one or two balés in the southern courtyards still intact and in them the wives and their servants were huddled together. Many of the slaves and servants had run away. On the other hand there was a constantly increasing stream of people pouring into the puri—fugitives from the villages or families who acknowledged their attachment to their lord. For two days there was much crying aloud and weeping to be heard, but now there was silence.

  The people of Badung had had four days of the fighting, fighting such as they had never known. The rifles of the Dutch shot swiftly and reached far. It needed no courage to discharge them as it did to attack the enemy with kris and lance. It was clear to everyone, too, that the Dutch as enemies had no manners. In the wars between the various Balinese states certain polite formalities were always observed.

  Fighting began early in the morning and there was a truce when the sun was at its height for rest and refreshment. But the Dutch, once they had begun shooting or marching, gave them no rest. They had besides a crafty way of fighting. They never came from the direction they were supposed to, but sent their soldiers off on long wearisome round-about marches so as to take Molog’s fighting men by surprise where they were least expected. They felled coconut palms which had taken many years to bear fruit and made bridges of them instead of fording the rivers. They trampled down the sawahs with their heavy boots and the hoofs of their horses, instead of marching along the roads, and they broke down walls for no reason. Their strength and ruthlessness made them invincible. All in the puri knew that the battle was ended. Messengers came to say that the foreign soldiers had shot the puri in Kesiman to pieces and were now encamping there for the night. There was nothing to stop them now between Kesiman and Badung.

  As the lord’s chief house had been burnt to the ground and the smoke and smell of fire there was almost unendurable, the lord had installed himself in a balé near the house-temple.

  He had returned late in the afternoon from Kajumas, where he had spent some time with his soldiers to inspire them with fresh courage. On the way home, covered in mud and sweat—for he and his small retinue had had to avoid the roads and steal through the sawahs for fear of falling into the enemy’s hands—he had bathed in the river as any peasant might. When he got back he went to his wives to console them. Then he sat in the open balé and told his boy, Oka, to give him his opium pipe. He looked utterly exhausted while he smoked, but there was a smile on his pale lips. A light tinkling sound came from the air and he raised his sad, smoke-inflamed eyes. The pigeons were wheeling in the sky; the sun glanced on their plumage and turned it white and silver. The little bells on their feet rang out and their white feathers shone against the smokegray sky. The lord followed them with his eyes. They did not return as usual to settle on the roofs. They forsook the place that hope had already forsaken and disappeared into the sky.

  A procession of women came through the main entrance, bearing presents in baskets on their heads and led by Bijang, the hundredyear-old mother of the old lord. Lord Alit got up and went to meet her. He greeted her with hands clasped and gave her his support. He saw that she was dressed as though for a festival. Her bare arms and shoulders smelt of sweetly scented oils and looked like old parchment.

  “Are you tired, child?” Bijang asked, laying her hand on Alit’s knee after he had led her to the balé. Her women remained crouching in the court below.

  “No, mother,” he said.

  “Your uncle and father, the tjokorda of Pametjutan, is very sick and in great pain. He could not come himself so I undertook to be his messenger,” she said with her confiding smile. Alit looked at her attentively.

  “What have you resolved upon, child?”

  “The end,” the prince answered. A silence followed. The crackling of fire could be heard from the other court.

  “I am rich,” Bijang said after a pause, touching her great-grandson’s knee. “I will gladly give you all the money the Dutch demand from you. You can send it this very night to Kesiman to their captain. Then they will return to their ships and Badung is saved. What do you say to that?”

  Alit looked with a smile into the old lady’s small wrinkled face. “No, mother,” he said, “it would be dishonorable.”

  “I know nothing about that,” Bijang said in a chant. “I am only a foolish old woman and know very little. There is great lament in the puris. Even the cows are lowing after their shot calves. It is not good that such unhappiness should be, when money can remedy it.”

  “Money is no remedy,” the prince said.

  Bijang was silent. Then she said, “I will let my son know what you have resolved. If it is the end, then we will die with you.” Beneath her aged skin there was the face of a young girl, gently, almost gaily, smiling. She pointed into the court. “My women have brought you some fruit and offerings for your altars. They wish to ask you whether they may stay in your puri, for their balés have fallen down.”

  “They are welcome,” the lord said. After a moment’s hesitation he added, “Tell them they must make white dresses and jackets, as though they were men.”

  Bijang bowed her head. Only those who dedicated themselves to death wore white robes. “I will tell them,” she murmured. She got up, declined Alit’s help and looked at him almost archly. “It is time for me to go to heaven, but you might have stayed here a little longer, child, you are young and the world is a beautiful place for the living.”

  “My soul is old and longs for rest,” Alit replied seriously. Bijang merely said politely, “May I now conduct my women to yours, for there is not much time for them to make their dresses.”

  “Peace on your way,” he said,

  “Peace on what you do,” the old lady replied.

  He looked after her as she walked away leaning on her stick and followed by her women. “Tell old Ranis to send Lambon to me,” he said to Oka.

  No fresh shells fell into the puri and the fires had burnt out in many places after they had devoured all there was of wood or thatch. When Lambon came the lord drew her between his knees, as though she were his child, not his wife. She stayed crouching there, saying no word, feeling safe, making no sound except for an occasional convulsive sob, for she had wept a lot and been in great fear. Alit put his hands on her head and stroked her hair. It was warm and smooth. He said nothing. He sat and stroked Lambon’s hair without knowing it: he was lost in thought. Oka had fallen asleep on the ground at his feet. Lambon, too, fell asleep at last with her head resting on his knees. He sat there for a long time; then he woke them, taking care that their souls should have time to return to them. They looked up in surprise and smiled.

  “Lambon,” he said, “I want you to go to the women and take them this message: Early tomorrow will be the last assault and a great battle and the end. All who wish to leave my puri, wives, servants and slaves, are free to go. Those who wish to face the end with me must make themselves white dresses and jackets, as though they were men, for it is permitted them to die with the men and enter heaven. Tell them that.”

  “Yes, your Highness,” Lambon whispered with bent head.

  “I shall not see you again, Lambon,” Alit said, looking down at her. She still had the fragile daintiness of a child. “You were always dear to my heart, little sister. I wish you happiness if you return to your father’s house.”

  Lambon cleared her throat. “I will stay with my master,” she said in a hollow voice. Alit turned away from her. After a moment’s pause she folded her hands, bent low and went
.

  “And you, Oka?” the prince asked.

  “I, too, will stay with you,” the boy said. “Shall I have a kris of my own?”

  “Yes, you shall have a kris. You may take one of mine,” Alit replied with a smile.

  Oka’s face beamed with pride and delight and he rose on his toes like a fighting cock.

  “Wait for me here, I shall want you,” Alit said as he left him. He walked quickly to the large balé in the outer court, where all his courtiers and counsellors were awaiting him. Although it was evening the light was still so strong that the flames of the fires could hardly be seen. They appeared only as a blue vapour with wreaths of smoke curling up into the still air. The Dutch had begun shooting again, but their guns shot wide of the mark.

  So many families had sought refuge with the pedanda, Ida Bagus Rai, in Taman Sari that the people sat closely packed on the ground, men and women and children, with their belongings they had brought with them. Here and there they had lighted small fires over which they cooked a simple meal. The children were laughing again after the terror they had been through or playing quietly for fear of annoying their elders. Mothers were singing lullabies or telling stories in low voices to keep the younger children quiet. The pedanda’s blind wife, tall and erect in her black kain, felt her way among the crowd to ensure that all found room. Dasni, Meru’s wife, sent Lantjar home again to fetch mats, for they would add greatly to their comfort. Puglug sat beside her with a fixed smile on her plain face; she had lost two daughters, but it would not have been polite to let her sorrow be seen. Also little Tanah was at her breast, sucking vigorously, and in spite of her grief she was penetrated by a glow of joy. Dasni’s mother was on the other side of her, murmuring those consolatory words which the old and experienced always have at their command. “Believe me, you will soon forget. Children are born and children die. I have had six and only three are alive at this day. If you asked me the names of the dead ones I could not tell you them. The passing of time is like running water: it washes everything away.” The old lady’s ceaseless murmur of consolation finally sent Puglug to sleep.

  Pak was with the men; he was rather silent, but not so unhappy now as when he carried the limp bodies of the children out of the bamboos. The village had buried its dead after sending envoys to the Dutch, offering its submission and asking for a truce in which to dig the graves. Since then not a shot had been fired along the coast and the main body of the enemy had marched inland towards Badung. Nevertheless very few of the people ventured back to their homes.

  Early in the afternoon the guns on the shore and in the ships had thundered out and you would have thought every house in Sanur and Taman Sari would have fallen in ruins, but now there was peace. Some of the men had even begun gambling, tossing their kepengs down on the mats and making their bets. It turned their thoughts from their troubles and that was a good thing. The pedanda sat at the far side of the courtyard on the balé near the house-temple and meditated. He looked as though he were far away and had no idea that his courtyard was full of a homeless multitude.

  A peasant came in at the gateway accompanied by his son, a boy. He was wearing a large-brimmed hat, although the sun was no longer strong. The child had a roguish, dirty face and the peasant’s feet were coated in mud.

  “Where is the pedanda?” he asked. “I have a message for him.” One or two men pointed towards the balé where the priest sat lost in meditation. “Where have you come from?” they asked the new comer. “From Badung,” he replied. “How are things there?” they asked again, but the man did not answer. He went up to the bamboo fence which separated the courtyard where the temple was from the outer one. He stood there waiting with the boy at his side.

  “I have a message for the pedanda,” he said after a while. The pedanda looked up from his meditation and saw the man standing there. It was unusual that a man should stand in a priest’s presence. “Enter,” Ida Bagus Rai said as he stepped down from the balé and went to meet him. The man clasped his hands fleetingly as he met the priest. “This is the message,” he said in an undertone. “Tomorrow there will be a great battle in Badung, the last onset and the end. The pedanda is requested to make offerings and to pray.”

  A few men and children were crouching pressed up against the bamboo fence listening; but they could hear nothing for the man spoke under his breath. The pedanda led him quickly away by the arm. “Come into my house, stranger,” he said. The people in the yard looked after them in amazement.

  When the door was shut behind them the priest smiled. “You will make a bad sudra, lord,” he said, “if you do not bow before the pedanda.”

  He himself bowed, for though he was a Brahman and the lord’s friend and teacher, honor was due to the lord’s station. He looked the young lord up and down, observing his girt-up kain, his muddy feet and the sickle in his girdle. “What is the meaning of your disguise?” he asked. “Why do you come to my house unattended?”

  “Can you not guess?” Alit asked.

  “Do you mean to flee? But whither? When the enemy have taken Badung, they will turn upon Tabanan and Bangli and Klungklung. Where can you hide from their rifles?” the priest asked sternly. “And have you forgotten what the old books say? The Ksatria who shuns battle is without honor,”

  “I do not mean to flee,” the prince said, smiling. “Did you not understand my message?”

  The pedanda looked serious. “I did understand it. I will make offerings and pray. I will be with you when the end comes. Did you come yourself, alone and disguised, merely to tell me that?”

  “I want you to show me the way,” Alit said.

  “You know your way. Your way is right,” the priest replied. The lord hesitated as the priest said this and then laid his hand beseechingly on his knee.

  “You must show me the way to Raka,” he said softly. “I cannot send a messenger—he is unclean. I must go to him myself.”

  There was a long silence after this. Ida Bagus Rai reflected on the enormity of the lord’s coming in disguise on the last night of his life to visit his friend—a leper.

  “I cannot conduct you to him,” he said sternly. “His presence is an uncleanness.”

  “I know,” Alit said. “But I am beyond all that. Tomorrow is the end—cleanness or uncleanness makes no difference to me now. You will find this, too, in the books: For the enlightened all is one! The Brahman and his holy prayer; the cow, the elephant and the unclean dog; he who is without caste and devours dogs’ flesh—they are all only one. And,” he added, looking the priest straight in the eyes, “does not the end make everything clean?”

  After a long silence the pedanda replied, “Good. I think I understand you. Now go before the people in my courtyard notice you. I will meet you at the southern end of the street.”

  Only a few of the people looked at the man from Badung as he made his way between their mats and left the yard. They paid little attention to him, for messengers were always coming and going in these troubled days. The lord with Oka by his side walked quickly through the village and waited under the wairingin tree that stood at the south end of it. None of the enemy’s soldiers were to be seen, but far away an unfamiliar bugle note could be heard. Taman Sari was strangely empty and silent. In spite of the war it had a peaceful air. Alit took a deep breath. The scanty clothing of a casteless peasant sat lightly on him. After awhile he saw the pedanda approaching. He was alone and without his priest’s staff. But—and the lord smiled with pleasure at the sight—he had put on a new white linen kain and a new, closely fitting white jacket. They went along together without saying a word. Oka ran along now in front and now behind, singing to himself. He was happy to escape for a few hours from the confinement of the puri and the drowsy fumes of opium. “How fresh the air smells,” Alit said after a while, breaking the silence. They went along between the flooded sawahs, which gave a perfect reflection of the sky, with the green tops peeping through. Some, however, had been hideously trampled and laid waste by the marching soldi
ers. When they came to some fields where the ripening ears showed the first glint of silver the lord let the spikes slip through his hands as he went.

  “I feel happy,” he said. “It is a joy to be walking through the sawahs again like this.”

  He smiled as he thought of it. “I don’t believe I have done it since I was Oka’s age,” he added.

  They reached the bank of the river and waded across and climbed up the other side which was fringed with palm trees. It was darker under their shade though the sky was still bright above. When they left the palms behind and were in the open again they could see the expanse of the sea, ringed with white surf. The Great Mountain rose far away, clear of clouds. The western sky was green and a first star rose out of the sea. They did not meet anyone at all and the peacefulness of the scene was profound.

  The pedanda, white-haired and robed in a white kain, went first. The lord followed him. As he went along with a light and regular tread the words of the old books rose to his mind and accompanied his steps. He who is wise of heart sorrows neither for the living nor the dead. All that lives lives eternally. Whatever has existence can never end. Life is indestructible. It can never by any means be lessened or altered. Only the outer shell, the perishable, passes away. The spirit is without end, eternal, deathless. He looked up. The flying dogs, borne on large heavy wings, came through the air, bringing the evening with them. The ground began to fall gently to the sea. It took a long time to reach the end of the last sawah. After that the open country lay before them under the sky, loud with the chirping of thousands of grasshoppers.

  The pedanda stopped and pointed across the river whose wide sandy bed stretched in front of them. “The unclean live over there,” he said. “I must wait here.”