The Drumming Goat of Bali
The dolphin life appears carefree to the uninitiated observer; they swim, they eat, they mate. Yet a rigorous hierarchy exists among these children of the sea from which they never deviate. A noble and watery contest must needs be held to determine biannually a chieftain, and though this rencontre occurs without rancor or malice, nonetheless this age-old system produces profound angst among these delightful creatures, for one must always lose and one must ever the winner be. This inherent competitive nature is of course common among ourselves, the two-footed lords of this planet, yet can we find closure from our old wounds, though ego-deep they may be, and sail on through this sea of discomfiture and reach true solubility, the goal of all who would attain the full measure of their scorpion's longing?
  Such a test for supremacy I was fortunate to witness not many years ago on the magical isle of Bali. I had sailed from Java with a cloister of monks bent on visiting the ancient shrines of Gunung Kawi and the Pura Samuan Tiga temple, in hopes that they would find true nothingness amid the cool and mossy stones. I had other plans, and making landfall at Kuta Bay, headed north by elephant to the teeming and pungent capital city, Denpasar. Here I was to meet an old disciple for the purpose of encouraging and abetting him in the greatest of Balinese contests, the presh, or the drumming battle. Held yearly in Denpasar, all the drummers of Bali would invade the city, each clutching his well-worn Balinese tabla, or as the natives of this fair isle call it, pinbah, in hopes of attaining the elegant prize, a lofty golden crown that they would then wear for the coming year, proclaiming to all their mastery of the pinbah. My friend was regarded by all as the certain favorite, as he had held the crown for seven straight years.
  U pon meeting my friend, we set off at once for the great Balinese tabla competition. We arrived at the doors of the great temple where the presh was already underway. Thousands of drummers lined the steps, awaiting their turn before the judges. One, however, drew our attention: a handless beggar with a young goat roped to his left stump, his antique pinbah lashed astride the kid's back.
  "Master Akiryon," my friend whispered in my ear, "do you know who that is? It is Ahmet, the greatest pinbah drummer of all time. But alas, his hands were lost in a freak batiking accident and lo this many years he has been unable to play. What can he be doing at the presh?"
  While musing on this weighty conundrum, the handless drummer approached, goat in tow.
  "Good morning, Prashtar," the stumpy mendicant sneered at my friend. "So you think the crown will remain on your head yet again? Do not be so sure! I intend to win handily, though you may think it impossible. This young goat you see before you, my little Himm, though he be sightless, deaf and mute, has been trained by myself in the art of pinbah. No man is equal to his playing, least of all yourself. Ah, ha, ha, ha!"
  With that Parthian shot, the double amputee left us. There was little time to consider his stinging and fetid words, however, as it was now my friend's time before the judges. Also called was the unhanded beggar, his young, little sensory-deprived goat, Himm, following docilely behind.
  A hush fell o n the temple steps, as the sound of the Balinese tablas reverberated from within and rattled our anxious spleens. After what seemed like hours, my friend emerged, despondency etched across his tear-stained features. Slowly, as I approached, his sadness gave way to a look of bewilderment.
  "What has happened, my son? You do not appear as one victorious," I queried in something approaching pity.
  "I thought I was the Bali tabla king, but I just handed my pinbah crown to Himm."
  "How do you think he does it?"
  "I don't know. What makes Himm so good?"
   So it was that the temple doors were thrown wide and the handless beggar paraded down the steps of the temple, his blind, deaf and mute goat wearing the crown that had adorned my friend's vanquished pate for seven long years. All stared in wonder at the sight and though we were disappointed, one thing could not be gainsaid: that deaf, dumb and blind kid sure plays a mean pinbah.

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