“Mom, I’m going to Grandpa Wayan’s house for a bit, okay?”
“It’s already late in the afternoon. Just go tomorrow,” my mom replied firmly.
“Just for a little while, Mom. I’ll be back before dark.”
“No.”
“Go sweep the yard first!”
I glanced at the kitchen wall clock; it showed five o'clock. It would be dark soon.
I grabbed the lidi broom—made of stiff palm-leaf ribs—from beside the kitchen, along with the dustpan, and started sweeping the yard.
Our yard was quite spacious. In some corners, large frangipani trees have been planted. In the middle of the yard stands a mango tree that’s just as big.
I swept roughly, occasionally stomping my feet on the ground. Dry leaves from the mango and frangipani trees lay scattered everywhere, joined by a carpet of withered frangipani blossoms. I swept it all aggressively, trying to gather the debris to dump in the back garden. The wind scattered them all over again, as if the dry leaves were dancing to taunt me.
I grumbled inwardly as I continued sweeping, glancing now and then at the front gate and the bicycle parked behind the kitchen. All I had to do was grab it and pedal for five minutes to reach Grandpa’s house.
“I can’t believe I wasn’t allowed to go to Grandpa’s house for just a little while!”
Grandpa Wayan’s house was not a special place. It was only a five-minute bicycle ride from ours, down a road I had travelled so many times that I could probably have reached it with my eyes closed. But I liked going there.
Sometimes I go there simply because Grandpa is sitting on the porch or petting his beloved rooster. Sometimes he asks me to sit beside him, and before long, he starts teasing me. I pretend to be annoyed, even though secretly I enjoy it.
At fifteen, I never thought about how many more afternoons we might have together. I thought there would always be another tomorrow.
The next morning, at seven o'clock, my Uncle Kade—Grandpa Wayan’s second son—arrived at our house. I had never seen him look like that before.
“Father has passed away.”
.
.
.
“Last night, he was coming home from a relative’s place when his asthma suddenly flared up.”
“He went limp immediately and was rushed to the ER.”
“The doctors tried their best, but they couldn't save him.”
For a few seconds, I couldn't understand what Uncle Kade had just said. Grandpa Wayan? Dead? The words seemed to belong to someone else. Grandpa had always seemed too alive to simply disappear.
I refuse to believe what I just heard.
Just the day before, I had wanted to see him. I had imagined riding my bicycle to his house, finding him sitting somewhere, and listening to one of his jokes. I could almost hear his laugh.
Instead, I was standing in our yard, staring at the bicycle I had wanted to ride the afternoon before.
Eka Gusna—that is what Grandpa Wayan called me from the time I was little. “Bagus sekadi Rejuna” (Balinese), which means "as handsome as Arjuna"—a figure from the Mahabharata epic.
To this day, my uncles and aunts still call me by that name. My grandfather’s round face and his mischievous gaze—which he used to tease me with—always pop into my mind whenever I hear that nickname.
One of my favorite things about him was how he never seemed to run out of ways to annoy me. When I was sleeping late during school holidays, he sometimes came to our house early in the morning just to wake me up.
“Eka Gusna!” he would call from the doorway.
I would pull the blanket over my head and pretend not to hear him. He would laugh and keep calling my name until I finally got up, annoyed. Then he would laugh even harder, as if waking me up had been his greatest achievement of the day.
I used to think those moments were ordinary. I didn't know that one day, I would remember them more clearly than many important things that happened afterward.
I don’t know why I wanted to see him that afternoon. It might just be a coincidence. Then again, maybe it's not. All I know is that by the next morning, that opportunity was gone.
Now, twenty-five years have passed. Sometimes, someone suddenly pops into my mind for no apparent reason. I try to contact or visit them right away if I can. It isn’t because I believe in premonitions.
I simply never want to find myself saying one day:
"I didn't know that was my last chance."
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