“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
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 2
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 3
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 4
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 5
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 6
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 7
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 8
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
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 9
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 10
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 11
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 12
“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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 13
“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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 14
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 15
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 16
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 17
“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)
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 18
“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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 19
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. Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 20
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 21
“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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 22
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 23
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 24
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…
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 25
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”
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 26
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. Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 27
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 28
“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…”
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 29
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.
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 30
Student Number: 22384600 Short Story: Mataram 31