A Bittersweet Smile

The scent of frangipani blossoms hung heavy in the warm Ubud air, their sweetness mingling with the earthy aroma of damp soil. Wayan stood on the veranda of her guesthouse, her almond-shaped eyes fixed on the horizon where the rice paddies met the sky.

A bittersweet smile played on her lips as she gazed at the photo on her phone. It was taken during the melasti ceremony three months ago: her husband, Ketut, stood tall, surrounded by their children, Made and Gede. His arm draped over Made’s shoulder, his face radiant with fatherly pride.

(Melasti ceremony – a Balinese purification ritual where villagers carry sacred objects from their temples to the sea or a nearby spring to be cleansed. It's a vibrant and colourful procession, a way to purify the community and the environment before the start of the Balinese New Year.)

Normally, the sight of Ketut’s smile warmed Wayan’s heart, but today it stirred a storm within. Her fingers trembled as she traced the screen.

Wayan was a woman of quiet grace in her late forties. Years of Balinese dance had given her an elegance that remained even as her movements slowed with age. Running the guesthouse outside Ubud had been her passion, a sanctuary filled with cascading vines, gamelan music drifting on the air, and guests who came seeking tranquillity. But now, that peace felt like a distant memory.

Three months ago, Wayan’s life had taken a devastating turn. What she thought was a stubborn flu had led to a battery of tests, culminating in an unimaginable diagnosis: Dendritic Atrophy Syndrome.

The rare neurological disease was as cruel as it was inexorable, slowly degrading the connections in her brain. The doctor’s words echoed in her mind: “It’s unpredictable. The progression will vary, but it will ultimately rob you of your physical and cognitive abilities. There’s no cure.”

Wayan had smiled politely, thanked the doctor, and left the clinic in silence. She hadn't told Ketut or her children. She carried the knowledge alone, its weight pressing down on her chest like a stone.

The signs of her illness were subtle at first. She fumbled with her keys, forgot small details about guest bookings, and her hands trembled when she served tea. Ketut noticed her fatigue and offered to help more around the guesthouse. “Wayan, you’ve been working too hard. Let me take care of the kitchen tonight,” he’d say, his eyes filled with concern.

But Wayan brushed him off. “I’m fine, Ketut. Just a little tired.”

Each act of kindness from him pierced her heart. She loved him too much to let him bear the burden of her illness. The thought of Ketut, ten years her junior, tethered to her as her body and mind deteriorated was unbearable. She convinced herself that the only way to spare him was to create distance.

Wayan began orchestrating her plan. She feigned dissatisfaction with their life, complaining about the guesthouse and nitpicking small details. She deliberately made mistakes with bookings, knowing it would frustrate Ketut. When he asked her what was wrong, she deflected.

“Ketut, I’m just not happy anymore,” she said one evening, her voice trembling despite her resolve.

Ketut’s brows furrowed. “What are you saying, Wayan? We’ve built this life together. Whatever it is, we can face it, together.”

Wayan turned away, tears threatening to spill. “You wouldn’t understand,” she whispered.

Wayan’s eldest daughter, Nyoman, called from Denpasar one evening, as she did every week. The distance between Ubud and the city hadn’t lessened their bond. Nyoman’s sharp, modern spirit contrasted with Wayan’s quiet traditionalism, but they shared an unspoken understanding.

This time, Nyoman noticed something in her mother’s voice. “Ibu, you sound tired. Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine, Nyoman,” Wayan replied, forcing cheer into her tone. “Just busy with the guesthouse.”

But Nyoman wasn’t convinced. A few days later, she arrived unannounced. The sight of her mother startled her. Wayan was thinner, her movements deliberate as if she were conserving energy.

After an afternoon of coaxing, Wayan broke down, confessing everything. “I didn’t want to burden him, Nyoman. Ketut deserves more than to watch me fade away.”

Nyoman’s heart ached for her mother but also for Ketut, who had been left in the dark. “Ibu, you’re wrong. You’re not sparing him pain, you’re causing it. He loves you. We all do. Let us help you.”

Nyoman approached Ketut that evening. He was sitting on the veranda, whittling a small piece of wood into the shape of a frangipani blossom. “Ketut,” Nyoman said softly, “there’s something you need to know.”

As she explained Wayan’s illness, Ketut’s hands stilled. His warm, expressive eyes brimmed with tears. “Why didn’t she tell me?” he whispered. “Does she think so little of my love for her?”

Nyoman placed a hand on his shoulder. “She thinks she’s protecting you. But you’ve always been her strength, Uncle Ketut. Show her that now.”

That night, Ketut sat with Wayan on the veranda. The scent of frangipani filled the air, mingling with the distant sound of gamelan music. He reached for her hand, holding it firmly despite her attempts to pull away.

“Wayan,” he began, his voice steady, “I know.”

Her eyes widened, tears spilling over. “Ketut, I...”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “Listen to me. You are my life, Wayan. I married you knowing we’d face everything together. You don’t get to decide for me what I can or can’t handle.”

Wayan sobbed, her carefully constructed wall crumbling. “I didn’t want you to suffer.”

Ketut cupped her face, his calloused hands tender against her skin. “Suffering would be losing you, even before the illness takes you. Let me love you, Wayan. Let me care for you. That’s all I ask.”

The following months were difficult, but they faced them together. Ketut became Wayan’s caregiver, his gentle strength was a constant source of comfort.

The guesthouse evolved into a hub of family support. Nyoman returned frequently to help and even Made and Gede took on more responsibilities, maturing in the face of their mother’s struggles.

Wayan’s illness progressed, but so did the family’s love. The frangipani blossoms continued to bloom, their fragrance a constant reminder of the enduring beauty of their bond.

True love, they realised, wasn’t about avoiding pain but embracing it together.