A Visit From The Drunken Master

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