The thunder boomed, the war drums of the gods echoed. The sky split open, lightning flashed aimlessly, and the wind roared as if trying to uproot the earth. Tsunamis rolled across the ocean, crashing mercilessly into the land. The island of Java seemed to sway, like an old boat that had lost its balance.
"What has happened to the earth?" cried a god from the heavens. His voice was drowned out by the thunder of the heavens. "Virtue is wavering," another replied softly, his eyes looking down at the cracked land. "If left unchecked, Java will sink."
Suddenly, the sky from the west rumbled even more violently. From behind the dense black clouds, the peak of Mount Mahameru in India appeared to rise, floating slowly like a giant crown over the world.
"It's Mahameru!" shouted a celestial sage. "The Earth's axis is moving!"
The gods no longer argued. They descended from the earth, piercing the clouds, piercing the lightning. With unspeakable power, Mahameru was erected in the east, becoming Mount Semeru, while its fragments were planted in the west, becoming Mount Penanggungan.
"Quick!" shouted the leader of the gods. "Hold Java before it's too late!"
Fragments of Mount Mahameru were thrown in all directions, some landing on Bali and some on Lombok.
Beneath him, in the depths of the earth beyond the reach of human eyes, the giant turtle Badawang Nala emerged, raising his ancient back.
"This burden is heavy," he murmured. His breath was long and deep. Two large dragons coiled at his sides.
"We will support you," said one dragon. "For the balance of the earth," replied another.
Badawang Nala shifted his moss-covered neck slightly. The cracks of time flowed down his shell like a small, luminous river.
"It's not just Mount Agung I carry," he said loudly. "On it are the prayers, promises, and greed of humanity."
The dragon on the east side, its scales a pale white like lava steam, snorted softly. "Prayer is easy," it said. "Forgetting is hard."
The dragon on the west side, its greenish-black body gleaming like the night sea, coiled its tail tighter. "And promises," he added, "are often made without any intention of keeping them."
Badawang Nala laughed briefly, his old voice trembling like a small earthquake. "You know," he said, "I existed before words were invented, before mountains were named. But now, every time humans forget their origins, my back feels heavier."
"How do you feel today?" asked the White Dragon. Badawang Nala took a deep breath. "The ground is pulsing. There are fine cracks above. Not cracks in stone, but cracks in the heart."
The Black Dragon raised his head. His eyes lit up. "Humans are fighting again?" "They call it progress," the turtle replied. "They dig, cut, and measure the earth like it's a commodity."
The White Dragon hissed. "If the balance is broken, the mountain will move." "If the mountain moves," the Black Dragon continued, "humans will call it a disaster."
Badawang Nala nodded slowly. "It was just a warning, though."
Above them, Mount Agung stood silent, but its pulse was palpable, like a chest holding back anger.
"I'm tired," Badawang Nala said honestly. "But I can't fall."
"We are with you," the White Dragon said firmly. "We were born of fire and water," the Black Dragon continued. "As long as humans have the chance to remember, we will coil even tighter."
Badawang Nala closed his eyes. In the darkness, he saw the shadows of temples, rice paddies, the slowly flowing river, and the marketplace bustling with numbers and debt.
"What should we do?" asked Badawang Nala. The White Dragon replied, his voice like a distant rumble. "Give them a sign, not a punishment."
The Black Dragon nodded. "A slight tremor. A faint smoke. Strange dreams in the heads of the mountain rangers."
Badawang Nala smiled bitterly. "And if they still don't listen?"
The two dragons looked at each other. "Then," the White Dragon said quietly, "the mountain will speak its own language."
Silence enveloped the earth. Badawang Nala braced his back. The two dragons coiled tighter. Above them, Mount Agung stood still, waiting to see whether humanity would remember or forget again.
Mount Agung was held still. It stood tall, supported by Badawang Nala and the two dragons, who now served as centers of spiritual power.
The commotion subsided. The wind softened. The sea receded. Harmony slowly trickled back. At the foot of Mount Agung, or Tohlangkir as it would later be called, lived a wise sage named Sidhimantra, along with his son, Manik Angkeran, and a majestic dragon, Naga Basuki.
"My son," said Resi Sidhimantra one afternoon, "wealth is not the goal of life."
Manik Angkeran smiled faintly, his eyes gazing into the distance. "Father is too wise for this cruel world. Without wealth, I am looked down upon."
Naga Basuki, coiled quietly near them, opened his golden eyes. "Uncontrolled desires always lead to disaster."
But Manik Angkeran didn't listen. He drowned in revelry, gambling, and greed. Until one night, with a keris in hand and a mind clouded by lust, he stood before Naga Basuki.
"I'm sorry," he whispered before swinging the keris. The dragon's cry shook the mountains.
"Traitor!" roared Naga Basuki. Fire erupted from his mouth. In an instant, Manik Angkeran burned and collapsed lifelessly.
Resi Sidhimantra fell to his knees. "My son…" his voice broke. He looked at Naga Basuki with teary eyes. "If his sin is great, let me bear it. Bring him back to life."
Naga Basuki was silent for a long moment. "I will bring him back to life," he finally said, "on one condition. The severed tail must be restored to its original state."
"I swear," Resi replied without hesitation. Manik Angkeran came back to life. His breath returned, but his soul had changed.
"Father…" he said, trembling. "I was wrong." Resi Sidhimantra shook his head slowly. "We can no longer walk together. You must walk your path alone."
He thrust his magic wand into the ground. The ground split. The sea rose, separating Java and Bali. "Starting today," Resi said softly, "this is the limit."
Manik Angkeran cried. He repented, surrendering his whole soul to Naga Basuki. "I will protect you," said the dragon. "And your descendants will protect the customs and sanctity of Pura Besakih."
Harmony blossomed once again. But time passed. Sects emerged. Teachings grew, some of which were mutually suspicious.
"Our truth is the purest," says one sect. "No," replied the other, "our way is the holiest." Friction is inevitable.
Until Mpu Kuturan arrived from Java. "We didn't come to defeat each other," he said at Pura Samuan Tiga, Gianyar. "We came to unite."
The sect leaders looked at each other. "How is that possible?" asked a priest. "Remembering that we come from the same source," Mpu Kuturan replied calmly. "Shiva and Buddha are not opposites, but rather two faces of wisdom."
From that meeting, Kahyangan Tiga was born. The traditional village was organized. Harmony found a new form. To commemorate this unity, the people held Siat Sampian, a coconut leaf battle.
"Throw me!" shouted one young man, laughing. "No grudges!" replied another. Young coconut leaves flew. Laughter echoed. The war ended in joy.
The afternoon breeze blew gently through the courtyard of Samuan Tiga Temple. The scent of wet earth mixed with incense left a heavy, yet hopeful, silence. The sect leaders sat in a circle. There were no thrones, no one elevated. Everyone sat in a line on pandan mats.
"This meeting is not about who is right," Mpu Kuturan said, opening his voice, "but about how we can continue to live together."
An elderly priest raised his hand. "We've unified the temple, the rituals, and the calendar. But outside the temple walls, people still carry prejudices."
Another priest nodded. "They still ask: Which sect are you from? Shiva or Buddhism?" Mpu Kuturan smiled faintly. "Because unity hasn't yet reached their realm."
"Kitchen?" asked a young sage. "Yes," replied Mpu Kuturan. "Where the fire burns every day. Where differences are blended into life."
There was a moment of silence. A village elder, who had been silent until then, finally spoke. "Then, we need a symbol that can be shared. Not a book, not a mantra. Something that enters the body."
"Like prasadam?" another asked. "More than that," the elder replied. "Something that teaches that differences don't have to be erased, they just have to be mixed."
Mpu Kuturan turned to him. "Do you have any suggestions?" The elder smiled. "Lawar."
Several priests looked at each other. "Lawar is just a common food," said a Brahmin doubtfully. "That's precisely it," Mpu Kuturan replied quickly. "He wasn't born in the palace. He was born in the village."
"What does Lawar mean for unification?" asked a priest. The elder stood up. "Lawar is never one color. There's red from blood, white from coconut, green from vegetables, black from spices. None is dominant. If one is too much, the flavor is ruined."
"Just like our sect," someone muttered. "That's right," the elder continued. "Lawar can't be made alone. It's born from mutual cooperation. There's someone cutting, pounding, mixing. Everyone plays an equal role."
Mpu Kuturan closed his eyes for a moment. "This isn't just food," he said softly. "It's a philosophy of life."
"So what about the differences in taboos?" asked a priest. "Some don't eat meat, some don't touch blood."
Mpu Kuturan opened his eyes. "So Lawar isn't forced into one form. There's red Lawar, white Lawar, and bloodless Lawar. What unites us isn't the ingredients, but the intention."
A small rumble sounded, not thunder, but a sudden realization. "We agree," they said one by one.
"Lawar is a symbol of unity," Mpu Kuturan said firmly. "At every major ceremony, at every sect meeting, we make and eat Lawar together."
That day, in the temple courtyard, the people and priests gathered. "Who's holding the coconut?" a woman shouted. "Me!" a young man from a former rival sect replied. "Not enough chili! Add a little more, don't be so domineering!"
Laughter erupted. Hands worked together. No one asked about sect origin.
A small child stared at a bowl of Lawar. "What does this taste like, Mpu?" he asked innocently. Mpu Kuturan smiled and stroked the child's head. "It tastes like Bali," he replied. "Many, but one."
They ate together. There were no long mantras. No speeches. Just the chewing that united.
All those memories came back at the top of Tohlangkir. "So this is the symbol," I whispered. "Not a flag, not a weapon, but food."
The mountain breeze carried the imaginary scent of coconut, spices, and lime leaves. I gazed at the sea of clouds below me. "If one day the modern sects clash again," I murmured, "perhaps the answer will still be the same."
I smiled a little. "Sit down," I said to myself. "Cook together. Eat Lawar. Remember, harmony is never born from uniformity, but from the courage to mix without canceling each other out."
All these flashes flooded my mind as my feet touched the 3,142-meter-above-sea-level peak. "This mythical journey is so long," I whispered.
A cool breeze greeted us. The Tohlangkir Crater gaped majestically. In the distance, to the east, the sun rose, and Mount Rinjani stood majestically, a feast for the eyes, as if greeting us, "Good morning."
I fell silent. "Myths are not just stories," I said to myself. "They are the memories of heaven and earth."
And at that height, I knew that harmony isn't an inheritance. It's a choice that must be continually maintained.