Mantram (A Short Story By Saskia K)

Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 2

“In the youth of noble virtue there are seven points which should strike the observer, and

these details are indispensable to the person.

In the first place he should be of good descent, which entails respectability and an

untarnished name; in the second, he should possess a degree of perceptiveness.

In the third, he should have the knowledge of how to conduct himself with utmost grace

and propriety.

In the fourth place, he must be able to recollect what he has learnt in the Sastra.

The fifth and six place which have colliding properties, is the ability to enlarge and expand

his views whilst retaining religious aspects: this he must learn to master.

The last place is imperative in deciding his character, selfishness should not govern him

but instead he must exert the qualifications he possesses unhesitatingly...”

From the pages of Jaya Langkara

Sastra: The teachings of life and its wisdoms (originally based on sacred Hindu books)

Jaya Langkara: A book of knowledge and virtue created by a King approximately in 1421 that combined the

principles of the Mahomedan (Muslim) law and the ancient instructions of Indonesia. This book was

“borrowed” by the VOC and never returned, its contents are passed on by words and stories


December 1754

The turbulent clouds lingered ominously above the palatial grounds. It served as an

impenetrable force to the fiery rays of the sun whose struggles were marked in the slight

orange blemish observed by the toiling people beneath. Yet the roaring clouds engulfed

the sun so that the huge expanse of the dilapidated villages, its farming land and the

wealth of the Kraton were shadowed by undiluted darkness.

A wind came from the east to rouse the crops, the dainty trees and anything without

anchor, to dance vigorously. The invisible gust became a violent beast howling and

screeching as he tormented his mortal victims. He laughed at the ant that flailed her arms

in abandoned panic in an attempt to rescue a kain batik that had resolved to fly out of its

wiry prison. He taunted a tortoise who hobbled across the muddy ground to find shelter

from the incoming onslaught and he screeched at a gibbon clinging to a dancing tree, his

beady eyes set on a coconut until a voice screamed and warned of the dangers.

This was the sight of Mataram from above.

The preparation for the downpour spread across the land and it was apparent that these

villagers abounded with energy and vitality, understood the power of conservation as

they gathered and salvaged pieces of bamboo, rope, food and other survival materials to

defend their dwellings and their bodies from the heavy rain that was to arrive.

Kraton: The Javanese word for Royal Palace.

Kain batik: Traditional patterned cloth that can be used for everyday clothing.

Mataram: An area within Java-Indonesia that becomes the setting for the story.


But in the midst of chaotic planning unbeknownst to his parents, a little rascal whom the

villagers often called Anak Nakal, slipped silently through the huts with a solemnly pallid

face and a swelling stomach to steal some grains of rice and a piece of leftover meat to

silence the rumbling. He daringly tiptoed across the decaying wooden floor of an

unkempt room and with his long sun-tanned arms he rummaged through the drawers

and assessed with his beady eyes the value of seemingly worthless objects. He grinned to

reveal rotting black stumps as he slithered hair ornaments and corroded bangles into his

deep pockets...

Indeed this was the sight of Mataram.

When the commotion on the ground ceased and all were cowering in their dwellings the

wind in its glory and rage bellowed with a savage tremor and in that instant, a tear from

the cloud’s burden was shed, falling on the window of a youthful prince whose calm

demeanour and fixed concentration was broken the instant the cascade of water echoed

through the room...

Anak Nakal: Naughty child in Indonesian- In the context of the story, it is a generic term for a certain boy in

the village that continuously creates havoc.


The noise of disorder within the town travelled swiftly upwards to the Kraton where it

reverberated within the walls. The upheaval, however, was not mirrored within the grand

surroundings of the Kraton but instead, contained inside its resident’s conflicting heart and

it cast a sombre veil over corridors and rooms as if death had visited. There were no

guards who dared speak or slaves who dared cackle at the latest rumours regarding the

royal family. The atmosphere was electrified with words not said and with actions not

done- the familiar niceties of the court stripped away and eyes forever downcast in fear of

offending a higher ranking noble- It was an unwritten rule; there was no need to

communicate for fear of a death sentence.

Amidst silence a distant light shuffling echoed in the winding hallway “tap, tap, tap”,

the gentle feet managed to caress the wooden floorboard despite their hastiness. The sole

figure emerged dressed in forbidden emerald from the corner of the hall in a flurry of

purpose and urgency. Her nightshade tresses swayed with every decorous step. The

gleaming of her mystical grey eyes did not reflect her apparent innocent youth nor her

background and her regal batik was ornamented by an elaborate Javanese coiffure kondé

fastened together by pins of soft gold and a horde of imported precious stones. The weight

of her hair adornment seemed to have no effect in her way of stride or the arrogant

manner in which her chin protruded as she clutched the scroll in her smooth hand.

Batik: Traditional patterned clothing that consists of long pieces of fabric to be wrapped for a “skirt” and a

covering for the upper body.

Javanese coiffure kondé: A hairstyle that consists of an elaborate bun that’s created from a wig.


Arriving at the imposing brass-wooden door, she nodded at the two jaded guards on post

and with a flash of the object in her grasp; they moved apart to reveal a heavy solid-gold

knocker shaped as a magnificent shield. She raised her trembling hand to the knocker and

hesitated, her pallid lips quivered as she pounded twice on the solid wood.

The handsome serf in his ceremonial garb opened the double door with much gravity

and with a whirl of his hands he welcomed her in. The woman took one lengthy step

towards the room, and remained in her position; her back erect she directed her misty

grey eyes to focus on the subject directly in front of her- not to the magnificent tapestry

suspended on the decorated wall, or the newly imported chaise from Spain.

The youth sitting in a regal poise flinched at the sound of rain and stood to observe the

falling droplets on the window, not realising that company was behind him waiting to be

acknowledged.

He heaved a great sigh and assembled himself, once again on the imperial chair.

“Kusudartini! I was not aware you were here, I apologise for not realising sooner”

Mangkubumi stood hastily, bumping the side table as he rose.

“It is fine, Mas Mangkubumi... I came to inform you of the success of Your Highness’

army in repressing the Said Rebellion” she gracefully placed the weighty scroll in his

waiting hands, her alluring grey eyes danced with glee.

Quivery hands received the item from her alabaster hands. Mangkubumi forced his

expression to resemble serenity but it was betrayed by the twitch of his dried lips as he

opened the letters content.


He gradually dropped to the plush chaise and signalled with a whirl of his hand that she

be seated opposite him. Her back became a straight rigid needle threatening to pierce the

soft armoire in which she sat. Mangkubumi’s eyes wandered across the carefully written

words on the scroll that held his fate and to Kusudartini’s motionless form, seeking for a

reaction- his beautiful orbs widened fractionally.

“I do not comprehend, how can I be successful if Said or any of the other God-damned

traitors were not even caught?!” He snarled, jolting from his seat to pace the floors in

restrained anger.

“You are successful in that you have brought it to a stop, Mas. There has not been any

major movement from Said and his associates for six months which means His Majesty

King Pakubuwono, your dearest brother cannot go back on his word” A brazen smile

twisted Kusudartini’s childish face ageing it.

“Besides, he did not mention any word about seizing the traitors, did he?” She stood up

to smooth her sarong and slanted her head in his direction to beam sweetly at the grey

cloud that hung over him.

Mangkubumi seemed bewildered at the varying degrees of betrayal that she was

expressing at such a crucial moment in the court. The audacity that she exhibited was

extraordinary; Kusudartini’s position in court as one of the King’s mistresses did not

warrant her safety. If ever her words of betrayal were recounted to any member of the

court- she would pay the ultimate price.

Sarong: A garment consisting of a long piece of cloth worn wrapped around the body and tucked at the

waist.


She swayed her hips daringly as she walked towards him, the horde of sparkling jewels

on her head jingled at their proximity to one another; hinting that she was indeed the

King’s favourite mistress. His reaction: astonishment. Her slender, jasmine scented hands

rested carefully on his broad shoulders, her whorish intent painted clearly on her face. The

control he prided himself on shattered as his hands travelled to her slim waist. A knowing

grin formed on her luscious lips, she whispered carefully into his left ear as the snake

enticed Eve to consume the apple,

“Now my dearest prince, I command you to sit by that chair there” Kusudartini’s

elongated emerald nails directed without qualm to the sprawling Jacobean writing desk

carved from African Blackwood. “And write to your brother the King about your success

and that you will be waiting for the land that he will grant you. You do remember it? It

was your Raison D’être was it not? As the French would say” There was a conviction in her

command that prompted him to act.

“Of course I remember it, How can I not? He promised Sukawati and for me to be the

Head” He walked with a renewed confidence to his stationery collection and began to

write to Pakubuwono. Concentration controlled him as he composed the letter to his

brother; the silence that dominated the room amplified the flowing sound of quill on

paper. A string of words formed in eloquent structure- he wrote of the gallant success of

his campaign (foregoing the detail that he was not present for it), the promises to be

fulfilled and professed his undying loyalty and love to the Sultanate, the people and to the

King.

Raison D’être: a phrase borrowed from French where it means "reason for being".

Sukawati: An area within the power of Mataram Sultanate.


His script was elegant but the constant ink blotches on the paper marred the usual

precision and perfection that he strove for. Indeed he grumbled and swore under his

breath as black ink travelled to close the gaps between the words “oath” and

“respectability”. Paying no heed to it, he concluded the letter with a flourishing signature

signed with eternal gratitude and sealed it with his official seal. A satisfied sigh reached

Mangkubumi and he glanced up to see Kusudartini casually sprawled and stretched on

the chaise like a tamed, plump cat.

“Learn your place whore. Remove yourself from my chaise and room; never come in

again unless you are announced.” His voice became steady, no longer under her spell.

“Our tryst was over long ago, I do not know what possessed me to long for a filthy girl

like you. I apologise if you thought something more would come of it. Now crawl back to

your master and make sure he receives this letter” Mangkubumi retained his unwavering

cold stare as he handed her the letter ensuring minimal contact.

She received it dutifully, keeping her head down throughout the awkward transaction

and paced towards the door, her confidence and pride defeated.

The door closed with a gentle “click” and the soft shuffling of graceful feet diminished

within seconds. Mangkubumi retreated to the safety of his window; his haven away from

the court. He could stand for hours watching the hustle and bustle of kampoeng life-

“Gelang Emas! Get your gelang emas...”

“Look at how good the rice harvest...”

“Anak Nakal! Come here NOW...”

Gelang Emas: Golden bracelet in Indonesian.

Anak Nakal: Naughty child in Indonesian. Kampoeng: A peasantry village


The noises became the droning of busy bees- indistinguishable from afar. The sounds of

manipulative merchants merged in disarray with the shrieking of parents- the villagers

completely oblivious to the happenings of the court. Mangkubumi’s shoulders released

the tension that bounded his anger.

His sad eyes seemed to express his need for freedom, to live a life of mediocrity- to be a

vender, a farmer or a father whose child needed attention.

But moulded within him, in the blood that coursed through his veins- the same blood as

his forefathers- he knew that he could be more, that he should be greater. The surge of

ecstasy when he heard his brother’s proclamation about the rebellion was testimony

enough to his raging need to achieve something. His honour was on the line when he

disposed his army to unarm Said and the other rebels. An honour he would regain once he

has Sukawati.

As he gazed longingly below to his brother’s subjects, the edges of his lips lifted and he

released the breath he did not realise he had been holding. Relief welled within his soul;

his thoughts jumbled incessantly with the grand ideas of a better life for him, and his

future subjects in Sukawati. He did not disapprove of Pakubuwono’s way of rule- that

would of course be treason- but he did have the eyes to perceive the holes that should be

mended in the way his brother governed his court and subjects. He thought it wrong that

Pakubuwono received bribes from the Dutch for certain trade monopolies- the dealings

were done beneath the table, away from the prying public eyes. Pakubuwono’s dark deeds

were never known- only those closest to him knew of the corruption occupying his mind

and heart.


He moved away from the window taking miniature steps towards the chaise. As he

gathered more closely towards the plush lounge, the scent of Melati Putih assaulted his

senses reminding him once more of Kusudartini. He felt like a child around her presence,

her alluring gaze and sensual movements irritated his need to be in control. She was a

whore in her prime; his involvement with her was an error on his part and one that would

not be repeated.

He glanced at his tight fists and unclenched them from the armrest. Anger was never his

friend, it was not his enemy either, it stood on neutral ground- he had trouble controlling

it, yet he felt more powerful with it by his side.

As his anger dissolved away in fragments, he stood slowly to tidy himself and walked

with a certain elegance to the door where the serfs bowed with dignity and opened the

double doors to make way for Bandara Raden Mas Mangkubumi...

Melati Putih- Flowers native to Indonesia. It is closely related to the Turkish and English Jasmine

Bandara Raden Mas: A man who is a direct descendant of nobles (first generation) specifically used in

Mataram.

The title is equal to that of a Prince.


The absolute sorrow vented in the harrowing howls of the damned creatures imprisoned

in a darkened mausoleum below the palace. Their abode, the cages, lined up carelessly on

the edge of the damp stonewalls where murky water trickled down the jagged surface

seeking to be free. The crumbling ceiling clearly on the verge of collapse survived only

with the help of damaged wooden panels that rescued it from an ill fate. It was a place

where the sun gave no grace; darkness engulfed it ad infinitum, never relinquishing its

powers. Bounded by rusting chains were the prisoners, the ill-starred creatures eyes

revealing a tremendous misery caused by a loss of hope. Their forms bent at the back

exposing their engorged spines, walking seemed unnatural and some dropped their grimy

hands to the floor for support. Their gaze vacant and unblinking, no heed of their

surroundings or their state of undress- a man crouched on the floor in abandoned despair

violently rocking back and forth, his drooping appendage deformed by the whipping he

had endured. The lacerated skin from his scrotum grazed the craggy ground beneath

leaving behind a crimson trail tracing the path of the fleshy wound.

Susuhan Pakubuwono stormed in a crazed fury, his elaborate footwear crunching the

gravel beneath- his movements evidenced by the echoes that haunted the dim-lit room.

His pointed eyes concentrated on the wretched man whose hands were crumpled against

his greasy hair in a crazed attempt to remove it violently from his head.

Susuhan: The Javanese-Kraton word/title equivalent to King.


“Someone get that man off the filthy floor and bring him to me” he thundered at the poor

servant boy who flinched at the sudden noise. The nervous serf composed himself and

hastily shuffled to the seemingly mad man to release him from the chains that bounded

him.

The brutality he had endured was branded forever on his skeletal body- deep gashes of

crimson and scars trailed along his front and back.

“Chain him there” Pakubuwono indicated with a whirl of his hand, the careless hand

pointed to an empty section of the room- corroding chains were attached to the ceiling

where a small gap was reserved for light from the surface, though barely any light was

able to penetrate through the rolling clouds. The rain that had roared to life dissipated

slowly, yet memories of nature’s havoc remained in the wild winds barking at the bustling

people on the surface.

“The whip” he bellowed to the serf who fumbled profusely with the hand chains he was

locking to the prisoner’s wrist.

“As you requested, M’lord” the serf trembled slightly as he bowed, and his bent knees

buckled underneath the pressure of maintaining a calm facade. Pakubuwono snatched the

object from the serf’s waiting hands and with cruel intentions he snapped it down on the

palms of the poor boy. The poor youth wrenched his hurting hand to clasp it to his heart;

his eyes watery from battling the tears, on the verge of collapsing. The boy’s mind swirled

with suppressed anger, with his head cast downwards he moved away from cruelty to

retreat to his post.


“Next time, do not make me wait and do not be restless. It shows your weakness, do you

want anybody to know your weakness, boy?” He taunted the serf with a degree of feigned

civility, the whip in his hands gripped tightly and the edges of his lips curled decidedly to

reveal the large crooked set of teeth, too large for his jaw.

“Yes… I mean no your majesty” he stumbled over the words.

“Go on then, wait at the top of the entrance” The request was delivered with annoyance.

The serf was glad to have left the cruel presence of his master, there was an undefined

expression in the glinting eyes when Pakubuwono spotted the miserable prisoner- an

unresolved passion and anger consumed him causing rigidity in the way he moved. This

was the first time the boy had witnessed the unzipping of his master’s resolve. It was

confirmed when he heard the cracking of thunder followed by a tormented howl. But was

it the storm again? He could not tell.

It dawned on the man hanging limply by the chains that his life was not worth the dirt

he stood upon. It was an utterly miserable thought but it was the only one that he could

cling to so that his body and mind will not be devoured by the unadulterated pain caused

by the relentless whipping.

“How do you like this? You troublesome, ungrateful waif of a brother!” The king

seemed to be losing his grasp on reality as he mistakenly addressed the prisoner for his

brother. Yet the reality was that Pakubuwono’s bloodstained hand continuously rained

down without mercy on the defenceless creature. The ruthless snapping of the whip

across his back and the terror-filled screams resonated through the room in

pandemonium- another storm brewing in the darkness. Crimson tears rolled down his

back in a torrent, his skin was slippery with blood and sweat.


It was a gruesome sight- the edges of the whip spiked with metal thorns tore his skin

apart until fragments of pulverised meat sprayed in careless abandon over the ground and

over Pakubuwono. The helpless screams ceased when the rough edges of the whip caught

the man’s spine, the gaps between the disks acted as leverage. And with all of

Pakubuwono’s frustrated might, he exerted his remaining force until the man’s spiral

column no longer supported his frame.

The body was bent at an unnatural angle, torrents of blood gushed from his open wound

gathering in a pool on the ground as it crept towards Pakubuwono’s decorated footwear.

The susuhan let out an anguished sigh and hurled the dreaded instrument to the far wall

where it screeched before colliding to the floor in a heap of bloodied remnants. The

bejewelled emerald velvet coat that encased him elegantly was splashed with the blood of

the fallen man. Pakubuwono’s breathing was as rough as an impetuous wild fire

threatening to destroy a forest- his frame shook violently as he pulled his scrawny arms

above his head.

Time passed with excruciating slowness as the lingering presence of diluted anger

pulsed through the King’s veins like a poisoned river- his head reeled from over exertion

and the sweat on his face mingled with the thick blood of the mangled man. Pakubuwono

could hear his irregular heartbeat through his ears pounding hotly, making all other

noises indiscernible. Pakubuwono’s balance faltered as he attempted to take hasty steps to

the nearest wall, his hands reached out clumsily for support and, catching air instead, he

stumbled to the floor where his treasured golden crown bounced, denting the edges.

Gravity was against him. His head, a heavy sinking anchor that plunged to the deep

ocean, the lids of his eyes fluttered as he battled to stay conscious and the mouth that

roared with vitality moments before became immobile.


Helplessness was not a feeling he was accustomed to. It was a newfound fear that

drowned him in a cesspool of despair and ill feeling. He did not understand either the

reaction he was having, his burdened mind staggered over jumbled thoughts that

otherwise would not have been discovered- “Am I going to die?” “Is this Allah’s way of

retribution?”

The fearful thoughts swirling in trepidation were silenced shortly after its formation- his

belly’s rise and fall became more shallow until it was indiscernible. The last thing Susuhan

Pakubuwono heard before oblivion claimed him was the soft pained moan from the lips of

the man he had beaten.


Susuhan Pakubuwono awoke during the cold midnight hour sensing no signs of his

previous ailment. Perhaps it was from over-exertion just as he thought. Relief flooded his

heart at the thought, as he slowly opened his heavy lidded eyes. It took a few seconds

before his eyes adjusted- how long had he been unconscious?

The burning candle was an orange glow amidst the darkness. A silhouette of the armoire

materialised near the foot of his bed, and as his eyes adjusted he saw a figure, a slouched

back, his arms lounging carelessly on the armrest. Was that snoring he heard?

Pakubuwono chuckled deeply at the sound of the sleeping figure but it was short lived as

a convulsion of cough followed the chuckle.

“Brother, are you alright?” The figure-revealed to be Mangkubumi still clumsy from

sleep- rushed to the side of the bed with brotherly concern. Prince Mangkubumi plumped

the pillows and propped his sibling carefully so that his weakened head rested

comfortably on the bed head. Yet Pakubuwono’s violent coughs continued, buckling from

the force, he clutched the silken blankets desperately but the light material seemed to slip

away from the King’s grasp.

Standing on the edge of the elaborate bed, Mangkubumi attempted to block out the

awful scent emanating from the feeble figure, it was a pungent infusion of urine and other

bodily fluids made stronger by the humidity. The prince trembled with guilt at the

thoughts swimming in his jumbled mind- his treacherous heart yearned for Sukawati but it

collided with the need to comfort his sick brother.


“You there! Fetch me the jug of water” Mangkubumi barked in panic towards the young

servant guarding the door. He was shocked at being addressed- fatigue clouded his vision;

his mouth parted as if he did not comprehend the demand.

“Yes your highness” the youth bowed with an attempt at civility and proceeded to

lengthen his stubby legs towards the table that supported the fresh delicatessen; delivered

every three hours. The servant’s thinning belly grumbled at the array of dishes decorated

beautifully for the whim of a bloated King- he steamed with recoiled anger. As the boy

approached the parlour that housed the dishes, cool air brought the scent of Gado-gado,

pepes jamur and tahu tempe in a swirl of delicious aroma, assaulting his senses and making

his dry mouth water with desire.

‘What waste! It’ll be tossed, gone after the flies ate it and he hasn’t touched a single one

for the weeks he was here’ The servant thought sadly before he soon realised that seconds

had passed by as he still stared longingly at the food he could not have.

The Susuhan continued to cough severely into his hands, the younger brother

proceeded to soothe his hunched back and hummed sweet lullabies.

“Sir, no water left” Confused, the youth shook the jug nervously to reassure himself that

it was indeed empty- it was not, sprays of water soaked the cerulean Persian carpet.

Thankfully, he did not have an audience for his clumsy blunder.

Gado-gado: mixture of vegetables, crackers and rice with peanut flavoured sauce. It is a traditional

Indonesian salad.

Pepes Jamur: Mushroom cooked in banana leaf (pandan)

Tahu Tempe: A simple but delicious dish that contains tofu and tempe (fermented soybeans)


“Then, what are you waiting for? Please refill it as quickly as you can. And fetch the

doctor whilst you are at it. What is your name boy?” Mangkubumi heaved a breath and

relaxed his stance. Pakubuwono recovered from the fit and determined to prove- to

himself mostly- that he was not powerless. The King pursed his lips defiantly and rotated

his hips so that his stubby legs dangled at the edge of the bed.

“Guntur’s the name” The servant exclaimed with a hint of a cheeky smile on his face. It

was rare for noblemen to notice a serf or those below their class. They kept to their own- it

was a given rule and Guntur was excited Prince Mangkubumi was making an exception.

“Guntur, we thank you for your assistance in these trying times” Mangkubumi beamed

at the youth and retrieving a leather pouch of coins from his pocket and presenting it to

the grateful serf who plunged to his knees and kissed the prince’s feet with no sense of

abhorrence When Guntur composed himself, the expression on the youthful face was

unmistakable- absolute adoration; he tightly clenched the soft pouch against his heart.

Pakubuwono did not hide the distaste clearly painted on his face- the corners of his eyes

twitched and his nose wrinkled in disgust at the kind gesture. He attempted to stand but

his balance disappointed him- once his stubby feet made contact with the ground, the

weight of his body combined with gravity became too much for the fragile susuhan so that

he collapsed, the bed cushioning his fall. Pakubuwono’s sweaty brows furled in

frustration and he bit the inside of his dry mouth to help restrain the screaming. Instead he

bellowed at the unsuspecting youth.

“Why do you dispense money to ungrateful wretches like this?” Pakubuwono struggled

to find equilibrium; he pointed his swollen fingers in anger and lashed the serf who

stopped abruptly on his tracks, the radiance on the youth’s face now gone.


Pakubuwono pestered the youth now torn between the King’s wrath and the prospect of

decent meals, one that would feed his perishing family: the purse felt heavy in the deep

recesses of his pockets and he assumed it would be a weighty amount- an amount that he

could not afford to lose.

The stormy expression splashed on Pakubuwono hinted at trouble arriving on the

harbour- his silvery eyes hinted a fiery determination that could not easily be

extinguished. Since the King’s unknown illness re-appeared out of the horizon, bitterness

and frustrations had been a constant companion for the Susuhan- extinguishing his wild

vitality.

“No, that will not be necessary Guntur, go on ahead” Mangkubumi rescued the youth

from a thrashing he was sure he would have received. Thankful for the distraction he

slipped out before the susuhan bellowed to forget calling upon the doctor.

“Brother, why do you parade yourself as King?” Pakubuwono taunted, a mocking smile

on his face, revealing a set of uneven and chipped stumps covered in fragments of decay.

“I hope you know that it is not your place to deliver happiness to my subjects, they have

to work for that, just like we work to improve Mataram. You want to contribute to the

advancement of the sultanate do you not? We do not want the servants to think we are

lax” Pakubuwono did not give Mangkubumi a chance to react to the previous comment,

though the snide comment did not affect Mangkubumi’s beliefs or what he believed was

right.

“I did not mean to be a pretender, I apologise if you assumed wrongly” Prince

Mangkubumi’s fingers intertwined restlessly, he was nervous at the thought of asking his

ill-willed brother for Sukawati- perhaps it was not the right time?

The Prince’s mind became a frenzied maelstrom of thoughts and reasoning- debating over

words to say and words better left unsaid.


The room was enveloped by a blinding darkness but the opened window by the bedside

invited the silvery moonlight and the cool breeze, momentarily calming the prince from

his fear.

“But that is where I believe you are wrong” The prince continued bravely, in the dark, he

held his chin high- defiant to Pakubuwono’s beliefs.

“We do not serve Allah to be a barrier for people’s happiness. We are all entitled to a

semblance of happiness, do you not see that? Even more so, you have the power to make a

difference in their lives, instead of suppressing them why do you not try a different

approach? Then perhaps you could understand better what makes up Mataram.”

Mangkubumi explained faithfully. The glint of his hazel eyes hinted the unspoken

ambivalence that plagued him. Yet his broad shoulders remained straight and his accusing

gaze fell to afflicted eyes.

Pakubuwono gritted his foul teeth and heaved a sigh of defeat. The King had once

entertained high hopes for his clever brother- one day Mangkubumi could rule the

Sultanate as his heir. But as Mangkubumi grew up, the beliefs that Pakubuwono instilled

within his brother vaporised- fragments of hope dissipated slowly into the wind.

“Ah, you are indeed a fool then.” Pakubuwono lifted his hands to his head in resignation,

the arrogance in his tone clearly defined by the confident smile on his plump lips.

“ This is why Allah deemed me to be the elder. You will run the Sultanate into the ground,

brother!” Pakubuwono ran his fingers through unusually greasy hair and creased his

wrinkled forehead in confusion. Startled, Pakubuwono felt the slippery grease on the tip

of his fingertips from his unwashed hair.


“How long had I been gone?” Pakubuwono inquired in distress still feeling the unwashed

hair between his fingers, his protruding belly visible through the silken blankets that

covered him.

The Susuhan peered curiously outside the window glimpsing the crescent moon; it

washed his Sultanate in a silver celestial light. He had not recognised before the peaceful

silence that prevailed over the village at this time of night. Intermingling sounds always

occupied the mountain sceneries during the day – hubbubs of farmers and merchants

alongside the uproarious cackles of gossiping village women food-baskets, atop their

heads.

Pakubuwono smiled at the images he weaved, he did not like to associate with the

kampoeng inhabitants but he enjoyed seeing their routine motion- King Pakubuwono was

amused at the simplicity of their lives.

“You were found with the prisoner two weeks ago…” Mangkubumi directed his

penetrating gaze towards the Persian carpet, afraid to meet his brother’s stare.

The Prince’s agitated eyes became engrossed with the elaborate Arabian design weaved

in azure and amber wool, his wrinkled lips twisted at the hidden Arabic Abjad of “Allah”

he found interspersed within the leafy swirls. Then Mangkubumi remembered:

“Oh, and there is no need to worry about the boy. He is mending but with a cost- he is

paralysed. I personally returned the poor boy to his family and paid for his silence.”

Pakubuwono’s eyes widened at the days that he was unconscious and for the measures

that his brother took to protect him from prying eyes.

“I was not worried. You know the repercussions if anybody from the outside ever gained

knowledge of… the cellar, you did the right thing” The Susuhan closed his lids slowly and

lifted his palms as a sign of patience.

Kampoeng: A peasantry village.


Mangkubumi beamed at his elder brother, the Prince’s blooming youthful cheeks

“Brother, as you have heard of my success with the treacherous Said and his associates I

would like to thank you once more for giving me the opportunity to prove myself to you

and the people. I hope you have found my army satisfactory in dealing with your

enemies?” The prince plunged to the cushioned armoire, his long arms dangled on the

edge of the armrest- a picture of sudden relaxation.

“Ah, you still do not understand. How do I know that they will not rise up against me

again? They are dormant for now, but they will strike when I am at my weakest. I know

why you are here, and I am not handing Sukawati to you” Susuhan Pakubuwono stood up

to his full height. The King angled his stubbly chin towards the ceiling and narrowed his

eyes creating a fissure of wrinkled skin, daring Mangkubumi to question his “wise”

words.

The prince’s seated form became rigid with tension and the hair on his tanned skin

shivered from the frostbite of the wind and the callous words of the King. Mangkubumi

felt his soul travel to an uncharted sea beyond his ken- his empty stomach curled and his

occupied mind furled as the words sunk like lead to the abysmal sea.

“You do not care for honour, brother?” Mangkubumi’s lips twisted wryly, the tone in

which he uttered the simple words was tinged with venom, produced by the anger that

harboured within him.

There was an unexpressed anger that swelled the air with silence. It strangled the Susuhan

to an indissoluble standstill; he ordered his strength to materialise so rotund knees could

cease to tremble. Instead, Pakubuwono remained mute, his French moustache quavered in

accordance to the twitch of his nervous lips.


The King fumbled with the tight auburn sleeves that adorned his voluminous form, he felt

beads of sweat gathering on his pits and his back, saturating the katun batik.

Mangkubumi saw the strenuous struggle and grinned wickedly, he placed his left foot

atop the bed and languorously sighed- a rebellious stance, the prince studied his brother,

in pursuit for a reaction.

The Susuhan’s expression morphed to reveal disdain- he stared at the slippers that

covered his brother’s feet. The silky material that overlayed the klompen reflected the

moon’s silvery light, Pakubuwono observed his own feet and noticed with bitter

resentment the speck of dirt that blemished the amber paint on his klompen- the King

shook his head slowly in disbelief at his brother’s display, it filled him with

disappointment mostly targeted at his own self for remaining silent- how could he answer

a truth with a lie? Honour was indeed the pinnacle of his precept; it was embedded in the

throne in which he regularly sat. His name, Pakubuwono was derived from the concept,

meaning, “centre of the world” he usually places his word and honour above all else- in

the centre of his universe.

Yet he could not bring himself to lose his pride, he wore it proudly like a lion’s mane, it

puffed gallantly with every achievement he gained and he was not ready to relinquish it.

“What you ask for is out of the question” Pakubuwono turned his back, drenched in

sweat and began to walk away from the room, hoping to conclude the conversation with a

potent finality.

It was a foolish act that was dictated by cowardice. Pakubuwono sensed an encroaching

presence behind him; it seized his shoulder in a vicious grip that made him whirl around.

“Then I will have to make you question it” Mangkubumi uttered with unwavering

confidence, branding the words in the midnight air.

Katun Batik: Batik made out of cotton Klompen: Originating from Dutch, Clogs.


The disappearing moon illuminated a craggy path for the lone prince to follow as he

galloped away on horseback, his flowing midnight hair billowing in the wind. The

Prince’s regal figure remained erect and taut regardless of the horse’s bouncing

movements; his powerful thighs embraced the creature’s body- absorbing the momentum

to maintain stability.

From the high window, the servant Guntur watched his master ride away, past the

decrepit huts sheltering the villagers. The thatch that composed the roof was moistened

with the recent plundering of the rain; no doubt the occupants were disturbed by the

constant leaking of water.

The youth heard the cockcrow resounding through the lush verdant hills travelling to the

window - it warned the coming of a new day. Guntur dreaded the deafening noise, an

alarm for him and the other serfs in the household. Awake or not, they were forced to

work the moment the cock crew; a few would gladly neglect their breakfast preferring to

sleep! But for Guntur that morning, there was no need to rouse his heavy limbs from

languor- he was already awake, in fact he did not sleep at all for the excitement and

activity of the previous night had not departed his mind.

Prince Mangkubumi confessed that he was leaving the Kraton in search of Said, whom

the prince declared as a “revolutionary being with a vision unhindered by lies”.

Guntur prepared the provisions for the Prince in secret, slithering through the empty

kitchen pocketing slices of meat and rice. Guntur did not question the Prince’s motives;

the jingling of coins seduced the youth to act…


2nd February 1755

King Pakubuwono stood on the Royal Platform, his chin arrogantly jutting into the air; his

regal batik uniform encased his corpulent form- weaving an illusion of slenderness. The

King’s left cheek revealed a mark that blemished his aging skin- a red-pink tint suggesting

that the injury was quite fresh. Pakubuwono traced the wound, feeling the scaly texture

intermingled with the smoothness of his skin, his whole bulk twitched violently at the jolt

of pain that seared through his veins at the moment of contact.

Gold and silver chains fought each other to decorate the plump neck of the King; any

slight movements creating a melodic clang as the precious rubies and emeralds collided.

The King’s guest entered the hall with a guarded grace, their haughty expressions

revealed in the set curve of their smiles, depicting a perfect life blessed with ignorance of

the pain suffered by the working class.

Men and women fluttered through as if dancing, brushing against one another in a

matrimony of beautiful colours and designs- Young women swayed their hips in an

alluring rhythm, their careful steps strained and measured by the tight sarong that hugged

their lower figure. Their movements bewitched the beholder, painting an image of demure

and innocence.

“Fellow friends, I welcome you to my abode” The King outstretched his bulky arms to

greet the crowd; they became silent the moment the resonant voice echoed through the

hall.

“As you have heard, my brother has turned against us, I regret the truth of these words. I

loved my brother, I still do, but what he has done has broken my heart. I showed him

nothing but kindness”


Pakubuwono dramatised for his audience; plump lips pouted, his watery eyes reflected

upwards to Allah and his arms raised as if in intense prayer.

The flock heaved a sigh to publicise sympathy and sadness for a loss they had no care

about- they gathered their arms to a bundle and placed them atop their breasts, a gesture

of mock pity.

“It has been over two months, and our spies have delivered no news yet. The current

situation with Said and my brother is currently unknown. There had been whispers of a

planned attack, but I am determined to vanquish all troubles from our land. That I can

promise you” King Pakubuwono stomped his feet for effect, the bevy of women by his

side nodded in agreement, the audience murmured their words of approval. The court

buzzed with excitement as they were lulled by a false sense of security which they had

imagined in the words of the King- words of no more use than a hollow egg.

The servants whose presence was a disgrace to the nobles all stood or crouched in the

shadows of the glistening light, within the confines of the hall. But they remained silent

amidst the excited hums; their lack of grace bounded them to keep their wandering eyes to

the floor. Their grimy skin was dry with relentless labour and it lacked the translucent

quality that the nobles gained from an idle life. A mixture of elegant fragrance wafted

from the bodies of the women clad in tight batik ensemble, traces of evergreen jasmine and

damask rose mingled with a repugnant scent radiating from the crowd seated on the floor

in careless abandon.

“I must thank you for those whose loyalty remain within the Kraton and myself. Your

support is truly a blessing from Allah. You will all be rewarded if not in this life, in the

afterlife to which I have no doubt you will gain entrance to Paradise…” King

Pakubuwono placed both his hands against his heart attempting sincerity. His tone hinted

mockery yet the audience paid no heed- they clapped for joy.


7th February 1755

A mighty clap of thunder shook the earth, its force moving to reverberate within the walls

of the Kraton. The guests from the hearing were still gathered in the royal hall, their

murmurs magnified as the rain echoed through the roof. The sudden downpour did not

bother them as they continued to navigate the hall in a jovial manner…

King Pakubuwono wandered around the hall with his left hand resting arrogantly on his

hips, smiling at passer bys and gracing dignitaries with his powerful presence. He was

animatedly discussing the yield of crops in Mataram with a neighbouring noble,

Kusumasmoro, when a pregnant silence echoed through the room. Pakubuwono gazed

around the hall in stunned wonder, curious to find the source. His eyes fell upon the

colourful crowd parting slowly, revealing three very well known figures.

The hushed silence became soft whisperings, as the King’s mouth parted in absolute

astonishment- there was no denying the identity of the figures.

“Brother, do not speak. We came here for only one thing.” Mangkubumi declared to the

whole audience, rather than the King. His voice indicated a marked change- it was tinged

with a gruff quality that took away his soft innocence. Pakubuwono remained silent; his

cheeks glowed scarlet causing his scar to be more prominent - in embarrassment? In

anger? The audience regarded the exchange with a remarkable keenness- it was

entertainment.


“I assume you know Nicolaas Hartingh of the VOC? In his hands are documents that we

demand you sign” Mangkubumi circulated through the crowds; his careful eyes

maintained contact with Pakubuwono’s.

“And of course you know Said” Prince Mangkubumi

“If you refuse…” Mangkubumi smiled, leaving the silence to be answered by a hurricane

of burly soldiers with weapons surrounding the hall, circling the nobles to a standstill.

“What KIND of madness is this?!” The King stomped his feet in disbelief, his eyes

reddened with fury as he sputtered saliva from his mouth, abandoning decorum.

“The kind of madness that is derived from your magnitude of betrayal. Ladies and

Gentleman, this man, your King” Mangkubumi pointed towards the stunned figure in the

middle of the circle that surrounded him. The King’s friend, Kusumasmoro left

Pakubuwono’s side, his ashen face twisted in disgust gazed away from the paralysed

figure of the King.

“Has been double dealing with you and the VOC, he is trading monopolies that is not his

to trade” The Prince’s words had its effect- the sea of people berated the King, pushing

their bodies on top of one another to reach him.

“Sign it. What do you have left, brother? Your honour? Your friends? Your whore? I have

them all…”


13th February 1755

King Pakubuwono quivered like a bow strings pulse as he fumbled to grasp the slender

swan quill between his pudgy fingers. The Susuhan heaved a nervous sigh as he stiffly

bent towards the walnut tabletop, reading over the treaty with misty eyes. He felt the

penetrating gaze of his enemies burn mercilessly through his ceremonial garb, revealing

his impotence as a tear fell from his eyes to stain the papyrus scroll. Pakubuwono

remained motionless for a time- absorbing the words written in an elegant calligraphy.

Slowly, succumbing to the inevitable, Pakubuwono inscribed his name on the scroll,

allowing time to fly away with his pride in its vicious talons…

The Prince marched towards the wooden carved table, his determined eyes concentrated

upon the quill that rested beside the scroll. He lifted the swan’s feather and held it in the

air against the windowpane, the bright rays of the sun turning the white thread-like

feather to a glowing silver strand that filled his heart with tender gladness.

As the sharp edge of the quill touched the papyrus, his name tread across the wide

expanse of the scroll- the prince’s elegant cursive resembled the swift motion of an eagle’s

flight.

Mangkubumi tilted his head towards the village down below and to the verdant lands

that stretched beyond the craggy mountains. They were no longer wishful dreams.

Mantram (A Short Story By Saskia K)

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Transcript of Mantram (A Short Story By Saskia K)