Chapter no 75

Eat, Pray, Love: One Woman's Search for Everything Across Italy, India and Indonesia

So this is how it comes to pass thatโ€”the very afternoon I have arrived in Baliโ€”Iโ€™m suddenly on the back of a motorbike, clutching my new friend Mario the Italian-Indonesian, who is speeding me through the rice terraces toward Ketut Liyerโ€™s home. For all that Iโ€™ve thought about this reunion with the medicine man over the last two years, I actually have no idea what Iโ€™m going to say to him when I arrive. And of course we donโ€™t have an appointment. So we show up unannounced. I recognize the sign outside his door, same as last time, saying: โ€œKetut Liyerโ€”painter.โ€ Itโ€™s a typical, traditional Balinese family compound. A high stone wall surrounds the entire property, thereโ€™s a courtyard in the middle and a temple in the back. Several generations live out their lives together in the various interconnected small homes within these walls. We enter without knocking (no door, anyway) to the riotous dismay of a some typical Balinese watchdogs (skinny, angry) and there in the courtyard is Ketut Liyer the elderly medicine man, wearing his sarong and his golf shirt, looking precisely the same as he did two years ago when I first met him. Mario says something to Ketut, and Iโ€™m not exactly fluent in Balinese, but it sounds like a general introduction, something along the lines of, โ€œHereโ€™s a girl from Americaโ€”go for it.โ€

Ketut turns his mostly toothless smile upon me with the force of a compassionate fire hose, and this is so reassuring: I had remembered correctly, heย isย extraordinary. His face is a comprehensive encyclopedia of kindness. He shakes my hand with an excited and powerful grip.

โ€œI am very happy to meet you,โ€ he says. He has no idea who I am.

โ€œCome, come,โ€ he says, and Iโ€™m ushered to the porch of his little house, where woven bamboo mats serve as furniture. It looks exactly as it did two years ago. We both sit down. With no hesitation, he takes my palm in his handโ€”assuming that, like most of his Western visitors, a palm-reading is what Iโ€™ve come for. He gives me a quick reading, which

I am reassured to see is an abridged version of exactly what he said to me last time. (He may not remember my face, but my destiny, to his practiced eye, is unchanged.) His English is better than I remembered, and also better than Marioโ€™s. Ketut speaks like the wise old Chinamen in classic kung fu movies, a form of English you could call โ€œGrasshopperese,โ€ because you could insert the endearment โ€œGrasshopperโ€ into the middle of any sentence and it sounds very wise. โ€œAhโ€”you have very lucky good fortune,ย Grasshopper . . .โ€

I wait for a pause in Ketutโ€™s predictions, then interrupt to remind him that I had been here to see him already, two years ago.

He looks puzzled. โ€œNot first time in Bali?โ€ โ€œNo, sir.โ€

He thinks hard. โ€œYou girl from California?โ€

โ€œNo,โ€ I say, my spirits tumbling deeper. โ€œIโ€™m the girl from New York.โ€ Ketut says to me (and Iโ€™m not sure what this has to do with anything),

โ€œI am not so handsome anymore, lost many teeth. Maybe I will go to dentist someday, get new teeth. But too afraid of dentist.โ€

He opens his deforested mouth and shows me the damage. Indeed, he has lost most of his teeth on the left side of his mouth and on the right side itโ€™s all broken, hurtful-looking yellow stubs. He fell down, he tells me. Thatโ€™s how his teeth got knocked out.

I tell him Iโ€™m sorry to hear it, then try again, speaking slowly. โ€œI donโ€™t think you remember me, Ketut. I was here two years ago with an American Yoga teacher, a woman who lived in Bali for many years.โ€

He smiles, elated. โ€œI know Ann Barros!โ€

โ€œThatโ€™s right. Ann Barros is the Yoga teacherโ€™s name. But Iโ€™m Liz. I came here asking for your help once because I wanted to get closer to God. You drew me a magic picture.โ€

He shrugs amiably, couldnโ€™t be less concerned. โ€œDonโ€™t remember,โ€ he says.

This is such bad news itโ€™s almost funny. What am I going to do in Bali now? I donโ€™t know exactly what Iโ€™d imagined it would be like to meet Ketut again, but I did hope weโ€™d have some sort of super-karmic tearful

reunion. And while itโ€™s true I had feared he might be dead, it hadnโ€™t occurred to me thatโ€”if he were still aliveโ€”he wouldnโ€™t remember me at all. Although now it seems the height of dumbness to have ever imagined that our first meeting would have been as memorable for him as it was for me. Maybe I should have planned this better, for real.

So I describe the picture he had made for me, the figure with the four legs (โ€œso grounded on earthโ€) and the missing head (โ€œnot looking at the world through the intellectโ€) and the face in the heart (โ€œlooking at the world through the heartโ€) and he listens to me politely, with modest interest, like weโ€™re discussing somebody elseโ€™s life entirely.

I hate to do this because I donโ€™t want to put him on the spot, but itโ€™s got to be said, so I just lay it out there. I say, โ€œYou told me I should come back here to Bali. You told me to stay here for three or four months. You said I could help you learn English and you would teach me the things that you know.โ€ I donโ€™t like the way my voice soundsโ€”just the teensiest bit desperate. I donโ€™t mention anything about the invitation heโ€™d once floated for me to live with his family. That seems way out of line, given the circumstances.

He listens to me politely, smiling and shaking his head, like,ย Isnโ€™t it so funny the things people say?

I almost drop it then. But Iโ€™ve come so far, I have to put forth one last effort. I say, โ€œIโ€™m the book writer, Ketut. Iโ€™m the book writer from New York.โ€

And for some reason that does it. Suddenly his face goes translucent with joy, turns bright and pure and transparent. A Roman candle of recognition sparks to life in his mind. โ€œYOU!โ€ he says. โ€œYOU! I remember YOU!โ€ He leans forward, takes my shoulders in his hands and starts to shake me happily, the way a child shakes an unopened Christmas present to try to guess whatโ€™s inside. โ€œYou came back! You came BACK!โ€

โ€œI came back! I came back!โ€ I say. โ€œYou, you, you!โ€

โ€œMe, me, me!โ€

Iโ€™m all tearful now, but trying not to show it. The depth of my reliefโ€” itโ€™s hard to explain. It takes even me by surprise. Itโ€™s like thisโ€”itโ€™s like I

was in a car accident, and my car went over a bridge and sank to the bottom of a river and Iโ€™d somehow managed to free myself from the sunken car by swimming through an open window and then Iโ€™d been frog-kicking and struggling to swim all the way up to the daylight through the cold, green water and I was almost out of oxygen and the arteries were bursting out of my neck and my cheeks were puffed with my last breath and thenโ€”GASP!โ€”I broke through to the surface and took in huge gulps of air. And I survived. That gasp, that breaking throughโ€”this is what it feels like when I hear the Indonesian medicine man say, โ€œYou came back!โ€ My relief is exactly that big.

I canโ€™t believe it worked.

โ€œYes, I came back,โ€ I say. โ€œOf course I came back.โ€

โ€œI so happy!โ€ he says. Weโ€™re holding hands and heโ€™s wildly excited now. โ€œI do not remember you at first! So long ago we meet! You look different now! So different from two years! Last time, you very sad- looking woman. Nowโ€”so happy! Like different person!โ€

The idea of thisโ€”the idea of a person looking so different after a mere two years have passedโ€”seems to incite in him a shiver of giggles.

I give up trying to hide my tearfulness and just let it all spill over. โ€œYes, Ketut. I was very sad before. But life is better now.โ€

โ€œLast time you in bad divorce. No good.โ€ โ€œNo good,โ€ I confirm.

โ€œLast time you have too much worry, too much sorrow. Last time, you look like sad old woman. Now you look like young girl. Last time you ugly! Now you pretty!โ€

Mario bursts into ecstatic applause and pronounces victoriously: โ€œSee?

Paintingย working!โ€

I say, โ€œDo you still want me to help you with your English, Ketut?โ€ He tells me I can start helping him right now and hops up nimbly,

gnome-like. He bounds into his little house and comes back with a pile of letters heโ€™s received from abroad over the last few years (so heย doesย have an address!). He asks me to read the letters aloud to him; he can understand English well, but canโ€™t read much. Iโ€™m his secretary already. Iโ€™m a medicine manโ€™s secretary. This is fabulous. The letters are from art

collectors overseas, from people who have somehow managed to acquire his famous magic drawings and magic paintings. One letter is from a collector in Australia, praising Ketut for his painting skills, saying, โ€œHow can you be so clever to paint with such detail?โ€ Ketut answers to me, like giving dictation: โ€œBecause I practice many, many years.โ€

When the letters are finished, he updates me on his life over the last few years. Some changes have occurred. Now he has a wife, for instance. He points across the courtyard at a heavyset woman whoโ€™s been standing in the shadow of her kitchen door, glaring at me like sheโ€™s not sure if she should shoot me, or poison me first and then shoot me. Last time I was here, Ketut had sadly shown me photographs of his wife who had recently diedโ€”a beautiful old Balinese woman who seemed bright and childlike even at her advanced age. I wave across the courtyard to the new wife, who backs away into her kitchen.

โ€œGood woman,โ€ Ketut proclaims toward the kitchen shadows. โ€œVery good woman.โ€

He goes on to say that heโ€™s been very busy with his Balinese patients, always a lot to do, has to give much magic for new babies, ceremonies for dead people, healing for sick people, ceremonies for marriage. Next time he goes to Balinese wedding, he says, โ€œWe can go together! I take you!โ€ The only thing is, he doesnโ€™t have very many Westerners visiting him anymore. Nobody comes to visit Bali since the terrorist bombing.

This makes him โ€œfeel very confusing in my head.โ€ This also makes him feel โ€œvery empty in my bank.โ€ He says, โ€œYou come to my house every day to practice English with me now?โ€ I nod happily and he says, โ€œI will teach you Balinese meditation, OK?โ€

โ€œOK,โ€ I say.

โ€œI think three months enough time to teach you Balinese meditation, find God for you this way,โ€ he says. โ€œMaybe four months. You like Bali?โ€

โ€œI love Bali.โ€

โ€œYou get married in Bali?โ€ โ€œNot yet.โ€

โ€œI think maybe soon. You come back tomorrow?โ€

I promise to. He doesnโ€™t say anything about my moving in with his family, so I donโ€™t bring it up, stealing one last glance at the scary wife in the kitchen. Maybe Iโ€™ll just stay in my sweet hotel the whole time, instead. Itโ€™s more comfortable, anyway. Plumbing, and all that. Iโ€™ll need a bicycle, though, to come see him every day . . .

So now itโ€™s time to go.

โ€œI am very happy to meet you,โ€ he says, shaking my hand.

I offer up my first English lesson. I teach him the difference between โ€œhappy to meet you,โ€ and โ€œhappy to see you.โ€ I explain that we only say โ€œNice to meet youโ€ the first time we meet somebody. After that, we say โ€œNice to see you,โ€ every time. Because you only meet someone once.

But now we will see each other repeatedly, day after day.

He likes this. He gives it a practice round: โ€œNice to see you! I am happy to see you! I can see you! I am not deaf!โ€

This makes us all laugh, even Mario. We shake hands, and agree that I will come by again tomorrow afternoon. Until then, he says, โ€œSee you later, alligator.โ€

โ€œIn a while, crocodile,โ€ I say.

โ€œLet your conscience be your guide. If you have any Western friend come to Bali, send them to me for palm-readingโ€”I am very empty now in my bank since the bomb. I am an autodidact. I am very happy to see you, Liss!โ€

โ€œI am very happy to see you, too, Ketut.โ€

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