Embarking on our Bali adventure today. The journey followed the familiar ritual of airports: standing in endless queues, navigating immigration, and dutifully completing forms that seemingly vanish into administrative oblivion. Despite the travel fatigue, the promise of Bali’s lush landscapes and vibrant culture made every tedious moment worthwhile. However, after traveling via Singapore, when I landed in Denpasar airport in Bali, I was immediately struck by the contrast. Instead of the sterile international airport experience, Denpasar welcomed me with stunning traditional artwork adorning the walls, an absence of the usual luxury retail bombardment, and the gentle, mesmerizing sounds of live Balinese gamelan music floating through the terminal. This authentic cultural immersion began right at the airport gates, signalling that perhaps Bali would be a journey unlike any other. Then I visited the toilet and a different kind of surprise awaited me – no attendant, moderately dirty and a paucity of stalls, something that I am not accustomed to anymore because the
mother
What Lies Beneath!
What I am going to write today is something I have never attempted before, not even in my personal diary. It came up in a conversation this morning with my partner who suggested that I should write about my experience of my mother’s death. He believes that something significant is locked there. Hence this attempt to unlock. My mother was only 29 years old when she died. I lost her when I was three years old. In fact, she celebrated my third birthday in August of 1961 by buying me red shoes (I remember because a friend in the building asked me to stand on top of cinders on the same day and I could not wear my lovely red shoes on my birthday), and I remember her crying about my burnt feet. She passed away three months later in November, on the same day. She died suddenly, unprepared, trying to have an abortion all by herself because she did
Sarbari's Blog 