Eat, Pray, Love

teething, he advises the parents to simply rub the baby’s gums with pressed red onion juice.
To appease the demon, they must make an offering of a small killed chicken and a small pig,
along with a little bit of cake, mixed with special herbs which their grandmother should defin-
itely have access to from her own medicine garden. (This food won’t be wasted; after the of-
fering ceremony, Balinese families are always allowed to eat their own donations to the gods,
since the offering is more metaphysical than literal. The way the Balinese see it, God takes
what belongs to God—the gesture—while man takes what belongs to man—the food itself.)
After writing the prescription, Ketut turns his back to us, fills a bowl with water, and keens
a spectacular, quietly chilling mantra above it. Then Ketut blesses the baby with the water he
has just infused with sacred power. Even at one year old, the child already knows how to re-
ceive a holy blessing in the traditional Balinese manner. Her mother holds her, and the baby
puts out her little plummy paws to receive the water, sips it once, sips it again and splashes
the rest on top of her head—a perfectly executed ritual. She could not be less frightened of
this toothless old man who is chanting at her. Then Ketut takes the rest of the holy water and
pours it into a small plastic sandwich bag, ties the bag at the top and gives it to the family to
use later. The mother carries this plastic bag of water away with her as she leaves; it looks
like she has just won a goldfish at the state fair, only she forgot to take the goldfish with her.
Ketut Liyer has given this family about forty minutes of his undivided attention, for the fee
of about twenty-five cents. If they hadn’t any money at all, he would have done the same; this
is his duty as a healer. He may turn nobody away, or the gods will remove his talent for heal-
ing. Ketut gets about ten visitors a day like this, Balinese who need his help or advice on
some holy or medical matter. On highly auspicious days, when everyone wants a special
blessing, he might have over one hundred visitors.
“Don’t you get tired?”
“But this is my profession,” he tells me. “This is my hobby—medicine man.”
A few more patients come throughout the afternoon, but Ketut and I get some time alone
together on the porch, too. I’m so comfortable with this medicine man, as relaxed as with my
own grandfather. He gives me my first lesson in Balinese meditation. He tells me that there
are many ways to find God but most are too complicated for Westerners, so he will teach me
an easy meditation. Which goes, essentially, like this: sit in silence and smile. I love it. He’s
laughing even as he’s teaching it to me. Sit and smile. Perfect.
“You study Yoga in India, Liss?” he asks.
“Yes, Ketut.”
“You can do Yoga,” he says, “but Yoga too hard.” Here, he contorts himself in a cramped
lotus position and squinches up his face in a comical and constipated-looking effort. Then he
breaks free and laughs, asking, “Why they always look so serious in Yoga? You make serious