A Death in Bali. Nancy Tingley
I couldn’t identify. Another woman had tiny, already folded triangular leaves that she embellished with rice and a tinier triangular object.
The women had formed a regular production line. I realized as we stood watching them how much we had missed by not entering the Shiva temple. The practice. The active worship. The pulse of the temple. As tourists we had been held at arm’s length, admiring the cluster of buildings, taking our photos. I suddenly felt impatient—with the place, the murder, my research, my vacation, and to top it off, this disquieting and attractive man.
“Let’s go,” I said.
13
“It’s so nice to meet you, Made Badung,” I said as I watched Tyo hurry off.
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