A Visit From The Drunken
Master
This is one lazy Saturday
afternoon which I did not imagine to see the Drunken Master.
He comes with a sack half
filled with red rice grains. He sees me sitting
under the shade of the old indian mango tree. The little house dog
announces his approach by spurts of barking,
which did not bother him. I shoo the
dog. He dumps the sack, sits beside me,
wipes the sweat off his brow.
“This is a bit unusual,” I
say. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your
visit?” I ask.
He remains still, looks at
me, with a grin. He closes his eyes,
leans back and exhales. Just when I think he has fallen asleep, he
speaks.
“A change of scenery will
do me some good. Not well to stay very long in my mountain enclave. I need
balance.”
“What’s with the sack?” I
ask.
“For you, they are good
fibrous grains, “ he says.
“Thank you, your kindness
is heartwarming. What will I give in return?” I say.
He looks at the little dog
which stares at him.
“Is it true of humans that
they always tend to reciprocate, good or ill?” he asks.
“That’s the way it is,
here. It’s impolite to receive without giving back. A shame to be offended,
unless avenged,” I say.
“Holds true to most people?” he asks.
“To most, yes,” I say.
“And to you likewise,” he
says.
“ Only to the good side of it, I have long abandoned
the idea of an eye for an eye, too barbaric.” I reply.
The little dog sniffs his fingers, he pats her.
“No need to do me any
favors, on this one, only small talk. Did you go to Bandung? ” he says.
“A long travel, yes,” I
say.
“ Tell me your impressions about it,” he says.
“Big, beautiful, ancient
city, wonderful scenery, cool temperature, European designed architecture,
mainly Dutch influence, luxurious hotels, resorts, cafes and restaurants. Most
tourists flock to the factory outlets selling fashion wears. It’s the Paris of
Java. Traffic though is terrible.” I say.
He remains quiet closing
his eyes as if conjuring the image.
“What’s with Bandung?” I
ask.
“ Used to stay there a
long time ago, as a diplomatic officer. The
Dutch Colonial Plantation owners spent their holidays there in a place called
Jalan Braga. Marcos and Sukarno often met and held talks there. I loved walking
the down the street of Braga lined with old colonial buildings built by the
Dutch, reminds you of certain sections in Paris. ” he replies.
“Didn’t know you were in
the foreign service,” I say.
“I washed out, too much
politics, becoming a drunken philosopher suits me well, no regrets.” He says.
He stands, extends a hand,
I clasp, “Got to be going, and visit the streets where I grew up. I hear our
City has a new Mayor,” he says, “Not a bad day to be sober,” he quips, winks,
and walks away.
Photo: portal.mbandung.com
