by Multatuli
But he had no reason to feel sorry for himself. For the sun had not yet risen, the eye of day had not yet cast a glance upon the plain. Yet the stars up above were already fading, embarrassed that their dominion would soon draw to an end. And strange colors were already streaming over the tops of the mountains, which seemed to darken as they stood out more sharply against the brightening sky. Here and there, hints of radiance darted through the eastern clouds—arrows of gold and fire, shooting back and forth along the horizon—but they vanished again and seemed to drop behind the impenetrable curtain that still hid the day from Saijah’s eyes.
Yet gradually it grew lighter and lighter around him. He could already see the landscape and make out, in the distance, the tufted crest of the kelapa wood surrounding Badur . . . where Adinda lay sleeping!
No, she was no longer sleeping! How could she sleep? Didn’t she know that Saijah was waiting for her? She couldn’t possibly have slept a wink all night! The village watchman must have knocked on her door to ask why the pelita was still burning in her hut, and she must have replied with a sweet smile that she was kept awake by her pledge to finish weaving the slendang she was working on, which had to be ready by the first day of the new moon . . .
Or she’d spent the night in darkness, sitting on her rice block, checking with a yearning finger whether there really were thirty-six deep notches carved in a row. And she’d taken pleasure in frightening herself with the thought that she might have miscounted, that perhaps one was missing, and then, over and over again, savoring the delicious certainty that three times twelve moons really had gone by since Saijah had last seen her.
Now that it was growing so light, she too would be straining her eyes in a vain effort to bend her gaze over the horizon so that it would meet the sun, the slow sun, which would not rise . . . and would not rise . . .
Then a line of bluish red appeared, clinging to the clouds, and their edges turned bright and blazing, and gave off lightning, and again, arrows of flame shot through the heavens, but this time they did not fall. They held fast to the dim background, heralding their radiance in spreading circles and meeting, crossing, meandering, veering, straying until they merged into beams of fire and flashed golden against a mother-of-pearl sky, and there was red, and blue, and yellow, and silver, and purple, and azure in the whole of it . . . Oh, God, there was the dawn: there was his reunion with Adinda!
Saijah had never learned to pray, and it would have been a shame to teach him, because no more sacred prayer or fervent word of thanks could ever be conveyed in human language than was expressed in the speechless rejoicing of his soul.
He did not want to go to Badur. Actually seeing Adinda again now seemed to him less marvelous than having the certainty that he would see her again. He settled himself at the foot of the ketapang and let his eyes wander over the countryside. Nature seemed to welcome him with a smile, like a mother whose child has come home. And just as the mother displays her joy by dwelling on past sorrow, showing what keepsakes sustained her in her child’s absence, Saijah took pleasure in recalling all the places that had borne witness to his young life. But no matter how much his eyes or his thoughts wandered, his gaze and his longing kept coming back to the path leading from Badur to the ketapang tree. Everything his senses encountered was named Adinda. He saw the ravine to the left, where the soil is bright yellow, and where once a young buffalo had fallen into the depths. All the villagers had gathered to save the animal—since it’s no small matter to lose a buffalo calf—and they’d lowered themselves into the gap on strong rattan ropes. Adinda’s father had been the bravest of all, and oh, how she had clapped her hands—Adinda!
And over there, on the far side, where the coconut trees swayed over the huts of the village—somewhere over there, Si-Unah had fallen out of a tree and died. How his mother had wept! “He was still so small,” she wailed, as if she would have been less sorrowful if he’d been bigger. But he was small, it’s true, even smaller and weaker than Adinda . . .
No one was on the narrow road that led from Badur to the tree. Soon she would be there, oh, yes—it was still so early!
Saijah saw a bajing scampering impishly back and forth on a tree trunk. The creature—the bane of the tree’s owner, yet charming and graceful—never tired of dashing up and down. Saijah saw it, and forced himself to keep watching, as a way of resting his thoughts after the hard labor they’d performed since sunrise—resting after the grueling effort of waiting. His impressions quickly formed themselves into words, and he sang of what moved his soul. I wish I could recite his song to you in Malay, the Italian of the Orient,117 but here is the translation:
See how the bajing searches for sustenance
In the kelapa tree. It rises, swoops, darts left and right;
It circles the tree, leaps, falls, climbs, and falls again;
It has no wings and yet is as swift as a bird.
The best of luck, my bajing, I wish you well!
You are certain to find the sustenance you seek . . .
But I sit alone by the jati wood,
Waiting for the sustenance my heart needs.
My bajing has long since filled its belly
And long since returned to its nest . . .
But in my soul and in my heart
I still feel the same bitter sorrow—Adinda!
There was still no one on the path that led from Badur to the ketapang. Saijah happened to notice a butterfly, which seemed to delight in the new warmth of the morning.
See that butterfly flitting about,
Its wings as dazzling as a many-colored flower.
Its little heart is in love with the kenari blossom;
It must be searching for its sweet-smelling beloved.
The best of luck, my butterfly, I wish you well!
You are certain to find what you seek . . .
But I sit alone by the jati wood,
Waiting for what my heart loves.
The butterfly has long since kissed
The kenari blossom he adores . . .
But in my soul and in my heart
I still feel the same bitter sorrow—Adinda!
And there was no one on the path that led from Badur to the tree. By this time the sun was fairly high in the sky, and there was already heat in the air.
See the sun shining up there,
High over the waringin hill!
She is growing too hot and longs to descend
And sleep in the sea as if in a husband’s arms.
The best of luck, O sun, I wish you well!
You are certain to find what you seek . . .
But I sit alone by the jati wood,
Waiting for my heart to find its rest.
Long after the sun has set
And fallen asleep in the sea, and all is dark . . .
In my soul and in my heart
I will still feel the same bitter sorrow—Adinda!
And still there was no one on the road that led from Badur to the ketapang.
When butterflies no longer flit about,
When the stars no longer shine,
When the jasmine loses its fragrance,
When there are no longer sad hearts,
Nor wild creatures in the woods . . .
When the sun runs in the wrong direction,
And the moon forgets what is west and what is east . . .
If Adinda has not yet come,
Then an angel with dazzling wings
Will descend to the earth to find whatever remains.
Then my corpse will lie here beneath the ketapang . . .
My soul is filled with bitter sorrow—Adinda!
There was still no one on the path that led from Badur to the ketapang.
Then the angel will see my corpse.
He will point it out to his brethren:
“Look, this dead man has been forgotten,
His rigid mouth is kissing a jasmine flower.
Come, let us take him and carry him up to heaven,
This man who waited for Adinda till his death.
Surely we cannot leave behind a man
Whose heart had the strength to love so well!”
Then I’ll open my rigid mouth one last time
To call out to Adinda, whom my heart loves . . .
One last time I’ll kiss the jasmine
That she gave me . . . Adinda . . . Adinda!
And even then, there was no one on the path that led from Badur to the tree.
Oh, she must have fallen asleep just as morning came, weary from staying awake all night, from staying awake for so many long nights! She can’t have slept for weeks; yes, that was the reason!
Should he stand up and go to Badur? No! How could he show any doubt that she would come?
What if he called out to that fellow over there, driving his buffalo to the field? The man was too far away. Besides, Saijah didn’t want to talk about Adinda or ask about Adinda . . . he wanted to see her again, her alone, her before all others! Oh, surely, surely, she would be there soon!
He would wait and wait . . .
But what if she were sick, or . . . dead?
Like a stag struck by an arrow, Saijah raced down the path that led to the village where Adinda lived. He saw nothing and heard nothing, yet he could have heard something, because there were people on the road by the entrance to the village, calling out, “Saijah, Saijah!”
But . . . was it his haste, his passion, that kept him from finding Adinda’s house? He raced to the far end of the village, spun around, and raced back all the way like a madman, clapping his hand to his forehead because he must have passed her house without noticing.. And again he found himself where the road entered the village and—my God, was it a dream?—again he’d failed to find Adinda’s house! He set off on another mad rush through the village but suddenly stopped, clasped both hands to his head as if to squeeze out the frenzy that possessed him, and cried out in a loud voice, “Drunk! Drunk! I’m drunk!”
And the women of Badur came out of their houses and looked with pity on poor Saijah standing there, for they recognized him and understood that he was searching for Adinda’s house, and they knew Adinda had no house in the village of Badur.
You see, when the District Chief of Parangkujang had taken Adinda’s father’s buffalo . . .
I warned you, reader, my story is monotonous.
. . . Adinda’s mother had died of worry. And her baby sister had died for lack of a mother to nurse her. And Adinda’s father, fearing he’d be punished if he didn’t pay his land tax . . .
I know, I know, my story is monotonous!
. . . Adinda’s father had left the district, taking Adinda and her brothers with him. But he’d heard that Saijah’s father had been caned in Buitenzorg for leaving Badur without a pass. So Adinda’s father didn’t go to Buitenzorg, or to Karawang, or to Priangan, or to the lands around Batavia . . . no, he went to Cilangkahan in the region of Lebak, which is by the sea. There he hid in the forest, awaiting the arrival of Pa-Ento, Pa-Lontah, Si-Uniah, Pa-Ansiu, Abdul-Isma, and a few others who had been robbed of their buffaloes by the Chief of the Parangkujang district. They all feared punishment for not paying their land tax. There they made off with a fisherman’s proa in the night and put to sea. They headed west, keeping the land to starboard, until they reached the tip of Java. From there, they steered north until ahead of them they saw Panaitan, which European sailors call Prince’s Island. They sailed around the east coast of the island and then made for Semangka Bay, heading for the tall peak in Lampung. At least, that was the route described in whispers around Lebak when there was talk of buffalo theft by officials and unpaid land tax.
But Saijah, dumbfounded, had no clear understanding of what he was told. He didn’t even fully grasp the news of his father’s death. There was a booming in his ears as if a gong had been struck in his head. He felt great jolts of blood surge through the veins in his wrists, which seemed close to bursting from the pressure. He wouldn’t say a word, but looked about as if stunned, without seeing what was around him or beside him, until finally he broke into frightful laughter.
An old woman took him home with her and cared for the poor fool. Before long his laughter was no longer so frightful, but he still wouldn’t speak, except at night, when the others in the hut were startled to hear his tuneless song: “I do not know where I will die.” A few villagers collected money for an offering to the crocodiles of the Ciujung River to cure Saijah, because they thought he had taken leave of his senses.
But he hadn’t taken leave of his senses.
For one night when the moon shone brightly, he rose from his balai-balai, quietly left the house, and went in search of the place where Adinda had lived. It wasn’t easy to find, because so many of the houses were in ruins. Still, he thought he recognized the place from the angle formed by certain beams of light through the foliage as they met his eye, just as the sailor takes his bearings from lighthouses or prominent peaks.
Yes, this must be the place . . . this was where Adinda had lived!
Stumbling over half-decayed bamboo and fragments of the collapsed roof, he cleared a path to the inner sanctuary that he sought. And sure enough, there he found a remnant of the partition against which Adinda had placed her balai-balai, and even the bamboo peg she used to hang her clothes on when she went to bed. But the balaibalai was in the same ruined state as the rest of the house and had almost turned to dust. He took a handful of it, pressed it to his open lips, and inhaled very deeply.
The next day he asked the old woman who had looked after him where the rice block was that had been out in front of Adinda’s house. The woman was overjoyed to hear him speak and scurried all around the village until she found it. When she came to fetch Saijah, he followed her in silence, and upon their arrival at the rice block, he counted thirty-two carved notches.
Then he gave the woman enough Spanish dollars to buy a buffalo and left Badur. In Cilangkahan he bought a fisherman’s proa, and after several days of sailing he reached Lampung, where there was rebellion against Dutch authority. He joined a band of rebels from Banten, not really to fight but in the hope of finding Adinda. For he was gentle by nature, and more susceptible to sorrow than to vengefulness.
One day, after the rebels had suffered another defeat, he was roaming around in a village that had just been captured by the Dutch forces, and was therefore in flames. Saijah knew that the band of rebels that had been wiped out there had mostly come from Banten. Like a ghost, he wandered through the houses that hadn’t entirely burned down and found the corpse of Adinda’s father with a bayonet wound in his chest. Next to him, Saijah saw Adinda’s three murdered brothers, young men, hardly more than children, and a little way off lay the corpse of Adinda, naked and brutally violated.
A thin strip of blue linen had found its way into the gaping chest wound, which appeared to have put an end to a long struggle.
Then Saijah went towards some soldiers, who had leveled their bayonets at the last living rebels to drive them into the flames of the burning houses. He spread his arms as if to welcome the broad sword-bayonets and lunged forward, giving the soldiers a final push as the hilts hit his chest.
Not long afterwards, there was great jubilation in Batavia over the latest victory, which had added so many new laurels to the laurels of the Dutch East Indies Army. And the Governor-General informed the Motherland that order had been restored in Lampung. And the King of the Netherlands, informed of this triumph by his state officials, once again rewarded them for their heroic courage with many a knightly decoration.
And we may reasonably assume that words of thanks ascended to heaven from Sunday services and prayer meetings when it was announced that “the Lord of Hosts” had once again joined the fray under Dutch colors . . .
But God, heartsore at all that woe,
Refused those offerings from below!118
I have wound up the story of Saijah more briefly than if I had meant to paint a truly horrifying picture. The
reader will have noticed how I lingered over the description of his long wait under the ketapang tree, as though shrinking from the tragic ending, and how I rushed through the final scene in horror. Yet that wasn’t my intention when I began to speak of Saijah. At first I was afraid I’d have to use garish colors to bring those foreign scenes to life. As I proceeded, however, I felt it would be an insult to my readers to think I needed to add more blood to my painting.119
Still, I very well could have, because I have documents here before me—but no . . . instead, a confession.
Yes, a confession, reader! I don’t know if Saijah loved Adinda, or if he went to Batavia, or if he was murdered in Lampung with Dutch bayonets. I don’t know whether his father succumbed to the beating he received for leaving Badur without a pass. I don’t know whether Adinda counted the months by carving notches in her rice block.
I don’t know any of this!
But I know more. I know, and I can prove, that there have been many Adindas and many Saijahs and that their story is fiction in its parts but truth in its whole. I have said that I can supply the names of people who, like the parents of Saijah and Adinda, were driven out of their country by oppression. It is not my aim in this book to provide the sort of evidence fit for a tribunal on the exercise of Dutch authority in the Indies, which would convince only those with the patience to read such evidence with great attention to detail, and that is something one can hardly expect from readers seeking to be entertained. That is why, instead of a dull inventory of names and places accompanied by dates, instead of a copy of the list of thefts and extortions I have here before me,120 I have tried to give an idea of what may go on in the hearts of poor folk robbed of their means of existence.
•
You might even say I was merely guessing, fearful as I was of portraying emotions that I myself have never had to endure.