Mau Makan

Mau makan? The invitation to eat. On a bright spring morning in Ubud, I left my room at Pasak’s, eyeing the geckos and tropical birds nibbling bits of rice and fruit. Left on an elevated shelf by Pasak’s wife to bless my room, these morsels were special breakfasts for a rich ecosystem of small creatures. The air thick with the smell of “Kretek,” clove cigarettes, I climbed onto my motorbike, and passed the stray dogs and brooding men playing chess. I was going to see my gamelan teacher, Komin, for a celebratory meal.
Komin’s new house, built on the family property, was nearly finished and needed to be christened appropriately. A few of Komin’s friends were up on ladders, plastering under the deep red wood of the freshly carved awning. That day, I was fortunate to be able to taste “Lawar,” a laborious amalgamation of shredded, grated and finely diced papaya, hot peppers, coconut, aromatic roots, beans and pork. Komin detailed how the placement of every brick in the house mattered, how a room in proper place enriched the family, and how priests had to be consulted for their expertise. The feast for the spirit of the house would take hours to prepare, slaving over large stained butcher’s blocks. It would require the whole family gathered with friends to accomplish the task.
With everything neatly in bowls, Komin reddened the coconut with pork’s blood before picking out handfuls of ingredients and swirling them together in a colourful alchemy. After a few prayers in front of a heavy burnished gong, it was time to eat the holy mixture. The spiciness warmed my fingers and lips as I dug in. I concentrated joyously, trying to differentiate all the components of each bite.
I notice Komin solemnly ripping off a piece of banana leaf, setting it next to his plate. Placing some food on the leaf, he says a few words in Balinese, as if having a brief conversation, and then turns to me smiling. “It is for my father,” he explains, “to invite him back to eat.”