“Learn manners. You must greet anyone who comes to the house.”
This advice began when my husband’s friend visited our home. My husband and his friend were chatting in front of the house until his friend asked permission to use the toilet. When I realized there was a guest on the terrace, I stopped folding clothes and went out to greet him, offering him lunch as well. Then my husband said that his friend just needed to use the toilet, so I led him inside and said, “Kanggeang, the house is messy, sorry.” A polite phrase that must be said after offering food. Even if everything is tidy—no dirty dishes scattered, no crumbs from your kids, and the floor freshly mopped—those words are set as default in Bali, maybe even in all of Indonesia. And the guest, of course, is supposed to reply, “It’s okay, our house is the same.”
When I first got married and lived in my husband’s village, I was surprised that we offered food to anyone who came to the house. Even if they came at the crack of dawn before we started cooking, we still had to say, “Ngajeng dumun driki.”
Even though we’re both Balinese, I found this very old-fashioned. In Singaraja, we usually don’t offer food, but instead ask, “Who did you come with? Alone?” Or if the guest has been chatting with your family in the living room, we’d say, “Have you been here long?”
At my house in Singaraja, we don’t ask what they want to drink—we just bring whatever we have in the kitchen. Whether they drink coffee, tea, or are fasting, we don’t care. We just serve whatever we have.
I often said to my husband, “How can we offer food to people when we might not even have food in the house?”
“Well, they know it’s just small talk; they’ll definitely decline,” my husband replied casually.
“What if someone actually says yes to eating together?” I asked critically.
“That usually never happens. But if it does, we can just buy food at the warung next door,” my husband continued.
Ah, right—so simple.
Why was I so critical about such a simple custom? I’m Indonesian too, after all. Small talk is in our blood. Unlike Westerners whose small talk is about the weather—well, we don't do that. Our weather is always the same. If it’s not hot, it’s super hot, or raining.
So, when my husband’s guest was on his way to the toilet, he met my children, Putu and Made, who just stared at him silently. The guest greeted them kindly, “Hello, what are you playing?” and Putu replied halfheartedly.
It’s taken me eight years of marriage to get comfortable with the small talk customs in Tabanan. Even now, if there were an exam in small talk, I’d probably need a retake. But my kids—who haven’t even lived six years in this world—can’t be left like this. Manners must be taught early, so they don’t end up confused like their mother.
Made, my second son, has already learned to say “Sugra” since he was 8 months old whenever he kicks his brother’s head. To me, manners are the first thing we possess as members of society in this world.
“If someone comes to our house, make sure you greet them. Say ‘Om Swastyastu.’ Then offer food—‘Sampun ngajeng pak de,’” I told my two boys, one six years old and the other two. I sat on the sofa while they stood straight in front of me at eye level. Sometimes I train them as if they’re about to go to battle the next day. Whenever there’s a sudden “command” moment like this, they stand tall, fists at their sides, eyes fixed on me. No slouching, and definitely no watching TV. Or else—they’re done.
“Understand, Putu?” I asked. He nodded.
“Made, understand?” I asked again. He shook his head, almost making me laugh. Made isn’t fluent in speaking yet, but he’s so funny. I love observing him. Everything he does or says makes me want to record it. My sister once asked if Made might need therapy, since at the age of two, he should be able to say a full sentence. I know that—but I just want to enjoy this cuteness a little longer.
“Made, try saying ‘Om Swastyastu,’” I said, showing him how by placing my palms together at my chest.
“Om tatu,” he said, pressing his hands together in front of his mouth.
“Not tatu, but Su Was Tyas Tu,” I corrected, lowering his hands to his chest.
“Om Tiatu.”
Ah, forget it...
Since then, I often see Made “practicing” greeting guests. He climbs onto the sofa to reach the doorknob, then gets down to open the door wide, palms pressed under his chin, saying cheerfully, “Om Tiatu.”
It’s so adorable—this little boy acting like a host greeting guests. He often greets his “imaginary guests.”
The first time my husband saw this scene, he was puzzled. “What’s Made doing?”
Laughing, I said, “He’s practicing how to greet guests.”
One evening, while I was making segehan kliwon in the kitchen, Made cried in frustration because he couldn’t open the door. I had locked it since Putu and my husband weren’t home yet—they were at football practice and would probably be back by dinner. I glanced toward the living room and helped Made open the door. He smiled brightly when it opened. So this is what people mean when they say happiness is simple.
Made climbed down from the sofa, pressed his tiny hands under his chin, and said happily, “Om Tiatu.” Then he looked at me, as if judging me. Ah, I understood—he was wondering why I didn’t greet the “guest.” I took a deep breath, trying not to laugh mockingly, and pressed my palms together at my chest. “Om Swastyastu.”
Made smiled proudly, as if he had successfully taught his mother something.
Then I teased, “So, who came?”
He answered gleefully, “Tutak.”
I half-laughed in confusion. “Tutak?”
Made pointed to the family photo taken on my wedding day, repeatedly saying, “Tutak.”
Tutak? Tupekak. My children’s grandfather. My father. The one he never met because my father passed away a few months before Putu was born. My smile slowly faded, and a cold sweat ran down the back of my neck. I hoped my husband would come home soon.
**October 2025**
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