Bali Kakiang

I have some memories of my maternal grandfather but I was too young to really have known him. In my child's memory, he seemed like a kind and quiet man. Perhaps he brought us little gifts and small toys when he visited us.

Bali Kakiang (Kakiang means Grandpa in the local Balinese dialect) was probably the closest thing I came to knowing a grandfather and at best, it was still distant.

This painting I passed several times in a shop window on my last trip to Bali.
It reminded me of Kakiang and how he would look on his way home at the end of the day.
The dead and dried coconut palm leaf stems were collected for firewood as
most of the villagers in our village still cooked with firewood.

It now hangs on the wall where I sit every day at my desk in front of the lap top,
bringing back rich memories that reside in the heart.

Language and a whole different life separated us and few words passed between us. But that didn't prevent us from sharing moments that needed few words. We sometimes sat in silence over a mug of coffee, always sitting on the floor as is the normal Balinese practice, or by the reflective fish pond in the garden when he dropped by, always unannounced like a ghost. Some early mornings when the day has already begun for the farmers but hardly anyone else is stirring, we'd stand together and nod our agreement and approval on inspecting a healthy growing shrub or the moss-covered Balinese stone carved guardians at the front gate.

Other times we'd be running out of the house and shouting in alarm and frantically waving our arms to attract Kakiang's attention and screaming for him to be careful as he steadfastly climbed his wobbly bamboo ladder up a fruit tree to pick the harvest that was nestled 20 meters above. Mostly he ignored us or irritably grunted something I had no way of understanding. His bent-double form, inching up the tree, slowly but surely. A rest day simply didn't exist in his life. Some mornings we'd wake and find a freshly picked ripe lush papaya laid at our doorstep or a newspaper bundled treasure of sweet potato, damp earth still clinging to the roots.

It was Kakiang who conducted the prayers and blessing for the house when we first moved in as he was the land owner. His daughter-in-law all dressed in her traditional finery, was in attendance. Half way through the solemn ceremony, her mobile rang and it was a comical sight to watch her groping around in her kebaya top where she had stashed it away. Not for a moment was Kakiang distracted from his important task.

When I moved out of Bali just over a year ago, I said my goodbyes but never really knowing whether Kakiang understood what I tried to say to him. Half a year later he passed away, not surviving a road accident while walking home one evening on the street where I used to live.

Kakiang on a mission.
It's not apparent, but he's already ascended about 25 feet up this tree

Another painting by the same young artist which I absolutely had to have. The artist's commentary is that man is very much an animal himself, like the other animals. In fact, animals show/keep their color but a man is ever ready to change his color like the chameleon.