When Bhutan Spoke of Bali

A cold afternoon in Thimphu, the capital of Bhutan. I sat in the corner of the National Textile Museum. Handwoven fabrics lined up beautifully, as if whispering stories of history and prayers embedded in every thread.

Suddenly, an old man approached. His face was calm, his eyes seemed to hold the secrets of the mountains. He spoke softly, yet each word pierced deep into the heart:

“Child, reflect on this. Bali has a traditional village called Tenganan. Its geringsing cloth is extraordinary, sacred, and their culture is not so different from what you see here in Bhutan.”

I fell silent. The man continued, his voice as if coming from a space between the real and the unseen:

“Bali is not just land, not just its beautiful sea or quiet lakes. It has subak, it has harmony rooted in the earth. Remember… your Bali is heaven on earth. A world without Bali would lose its pulse, for Bali is the gateway of the world.”

The museum’s wind swirled strangely, the woven cloths swayed as if alive. When I closed my eyes for a moment, suddenly I was in an old bale banjar in Tenganan. Incense burned, gamelan music faintly echoed from afar.

From behind the smoke, appeared a figure of a man in white robes, with a Balinese face and silver hair flowing down. I trembled, but he looked at me with deep compassion.

“My descendants,” he said gently, “never forget your land. Geringsing is not just cloth—it is a prayer that weaves life, it is the shield of Bali. Guard your land, guard your lakes, guard your seas, guard your subak. If Bali is lost, the world too will wither.”

I knelt, holding back tears. The ancestor drew near, touching my shoulder, and I felt a warm current flow through my body, like light igniting a new resolve.

“Return. Carry this message to your generation. Bali does not belong only to the Balinese—it belongs to the world. But you, child of the Nusantara, are its guardian.”

When I looked up, the figure slowly faded away with the fragrance of incense. Only the echo of his voice remained:

“Rahayu… Rahayu… Rahayu…”

I jolted back in the corner of the Thimphu museum, cold sweat pouring down. The old man who had spoken earlier had vanished into nowhere. Yet the message was carved firmly: love of the homeland is not merely a duty, but a sacred mandate of the ancestors.

Since that day, I vowed to return carrying that sacred flame—for Bali, for the Nusantara, for the world.