In the three months since I arrived in Bali, the rice shoots have grown two feet. Made’s youngest child, Lode, has sprouted too – from an infant at her mother’s breast to a young girl chasing through the paddies after her five year old brother, Gedde.
“Roh-bean! ” Made is at my door at 8AM, a palm-woven tray balanced on her head piled high with food-laden plates. “New moon, celebration of Saraswati!” she says handing me a plate of saffron rice and shredded chicken. I give her a one-armed hug. “Bye Made. I love you!” I call out as she traipses off through the rice fields with 2-yr. old Lode close on her heels.