The Balinse Way of Dying
Saying goodbye at two royal cremation

For the Balinese PITRA YADNYA, the rituals aimed at ensuring a dignified farewell and a smooth re-incarnation, are the most significant of their myriad rites de passage. The way the village community, the banjar, takes over and arranges the always elaborate event allows the family solace, distraction and support. The more beloved the deceased, it seems, the more ‘ composed’ the mourners.
The full-scale royal cremation of the Prince of Bongkasa, I. Gusti Agung Gede Oka, on the 18th of May, 1997, was a magnificent affair — family in white, guests in black and ‘battalions’ of war veterans in the peacock colours of their regiments. In my last column I wrote of the ritual body-washing, held in April, when all of ‘Pak Oka’s’ close friends and family gathered for the first time since his death. It was a moving occasion when the full impact of the beloved prince’s departure could be gauged by the devotion of the attendees and the deep shadow of grief etched on the face of the prince’s widow, Ibu Kompiang, Sanur’s most respected mum. Born a brahmin, Ibu Kompiang was always a dutiful consort to her much-decorated prince.

Jero Bongkasa, 18th May 1997
Today I arrived at the palace just as the family were starting their prayers to the demi-deified soul of the late prince. Ibu Kompiang,, together with her daughters, granddaughters and ladies-in-waiting had chosen to wear the classic mekudung headress over more elaborate and fashionable models, setting a tone of refinement for the multi-courtyard event. After prayers the honour guards, attending royal dukes, gamelan orchestras, family members bearing regalia and palladia, and a good showing of Denpasar’s best-dressed filed out through the narrow palace gates, following the speeding coffin as it headed for its date with destiny and 20,000 tourists.

“You know, I over-anticipated Bali” I heard one dry old New Yorker drawl.

A regimental Baris Tekok Jago (see photo below right), honour guard for royal cremations, lead the procession as it raced pell mell down the main street : Ibu Kompiang, clutching the ‘sekar’ spirit effigy (first base for heaven bound saints) atop her pallenquin joli (bottom & bottom right).

The towering funeral bier with coffin and Pak Oka’s sons perched perilously atop finally swayed to a halt in the cremation ground. The giant teragtag ramp hovered into place, the coffin carried down and across the graveyard into the black sarcophogus standing regally, like the trojan horse, (Pak Oka was a sports fan) with a very proud member (and a ladies’man). A white dove was released : it crashed into a palm tree and feel, maimed, to the ground. From her parked throne Ibu Kompiang let loose a shrek of despair, and mirth— at last some comic relief amidst the pomp and circumstance. Nothing is too precious on the fabled isle!

Jero Dalem Kepaon, 18 June 1997
My balinese mum’s trusted lady-in-waiting, Jero Padma, passed away unexpectedly three days ago. She was admired by all in the village for never having missed a day’s temple duty in 60 years.

I knew her as the lady lugging offering in our family compound, always smiling, never complaining, and as the mother of our office’s star artist, the saintly Gung Nik. Jero Padma was from well outside the palace and her marriage to Gung Nik’s father, a Royal Duke, would have raised a few eyebrows. She chose to prove her worth by devoting herself, body and soul, to the temple duties (considerable) of her husband’s family and for this she was honoured today with a royal cremation witnessed by Ngurah Manik Parasara, the Cokorda (King) of Pemecutan, Denpasar, heart-throb of the women’s auxiliary.
Now, the Bongkasa cremation was very grand and solemn — the good prince had passed away some months before and the grief was less tangible, the show of respect immense.
The Kepaon cremation, a small show, with a carved banana trunk bull sarcophagus—the deceased’s eternal smile still fresh in everyone’s mind—had tear-jerker potential. So pure and noble were the arrangements and stunned the banjar community that the ceremonies proceeded with an air of “tripping the light fantastic” : the pan-Indonesian spirit of SUKA-DUKA, SHARING THE GOOD TIMES WITH THE BAD, was abundant as Jero’s chums dug their hands deep into the silver swishing tray of still warm bone bits.

Farewell my lovely....... we are all richer for having known you.