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First, it’s the sweeping. Shwsh, shwsh, shwsh, the rhythmic sound filtering through hazy layers of sleep, milk through iced coffee. It is 5AM and almost chilly, though the Balinese air is as humid as ever. I drift in and out of dreams of verb conjugations and fried bananas. Shwsh, shwsh. Birds begin to sing and a solitary rooster crows. Soon the other roosters reply, raucous calls echoing through the small town of Kerambitan. The backs of my eyelids lighten from black to reddish, but it is not until the geckos start up that I fully awaken. Chree-kok, from above the window. Chree-kok, behind the bed. Chree-kok, chree-kok, kokokokok from the ceiling. I open my eyes. Outside, the morning soundscape crescendos with the sunlight: the rattling crash of the metal shop door, the soft call of voices, motorbikes whizzing past. At 6AM, I brave the cool tile floor of my homestay and get out of bed. It’s 2017, the second month of my study abroad program in Indonesia and the first day of midterms. I recite vocab to myself as I brush my teeth with bottled water. Mandi, to bathe. Mengerti, to understand. Menyapu, to sweep. That last one I’d learned recently from my host mother, Ibu Boby. I’d wanted to know why she got up so early to sweep the shop every morning. “Kenapa, uh, why…” I’d mimed sweeping. “Shwsh shwsh?” “Ah, menyapu?” “Ya, Ibu. Kenapa minappu?” “Menyapu.” She’d mimed sweeping back to me, gold bracelets flashing. “Shwsh shwsh. Men-ya-pu.” “Men-ya-pu,” I’d parroted dutifully. Ibu Boby laughed, and told me she liked the quiet before everyone else was up — especially Bapak Boby, her husband. She’d winked. I finish brushing my teeth and head downstairs. Belajar, to study. “Selamat pagi!” Ibu Boby says cheerfully, poking her head in from the shop. “Selamat pagi, Ibu!” Sembahyang, to pray. I glance at the bulging eyes of the stone guardians flanking the family shrine and have an idea. Having decoded my very politest miming, Ibu Boby leads me through the first gate of the shrine, where I expect her to stop. She does not. I follow her through the second gate, then the third. I’ve never been in the inner courtyard of a family shrine before, but I’ve learned enough to be honored. The inner shrine is smaller than I’d expected. Ibu Boby strikes a match, lights the incense. The fragrant smoke drifts across photos of deceased relatives, lithographs of Hindu deities, offerings of flowers atop yellow rice. Ibu Boby circles the incense around my head, eyes half-closed. Unsure of what else to do, I tilt my chin down respectfully. She begins chanting, voice rich and deep. It takes me a moment to realize she is no longer speaking Indonesian but High Balinese. My jovial host mother seems suddenly transformed. Ibu Boby and the rest of my homestay family are brahmins, the priestly caste. The Balinese caste system is not as strict as its Indian counterpart, but it does mean brahmins have the authority to perform a greater range of sacred rites. Ibu Boby pulls out a small bottle and, still chanting, sprinkles water on my head three times. Tirtha, holy water. In class we hadn’t learned about tirtha being included in most family shrines, and I wonder if it’s something only the highest-caste families use. I realize I can now understand a few of the words Ibu Boby is chanting. Ujian, exam. Sukses, success. My name. She stops chanting and smiles at me, eyes crinkling. Her bangles jingle in my ear as she tucks a flower into my hair. Kemboja, the sacred frangipani. She claps her hands in satisfaction; dazed, I traipse after her through the three gates back into the main courtyard. “Ibu…” I’m at more of a loss for words than usual. “Terima kasih banyak,” I thank her, hoping I’m conveying the depth of my gratitude. “Ya, ya, ya.” She flaps a hand at me. “Sukses, ya? Sukses!” She gives me a double thumbs-up, then shoos me towards the main gate of the compound. It’s 7AM, and I have exams to take. I touch the flower behind my ear, then step out onto the noisy street.