Stories from Deli

The tuans had once again had one of their own fads, but this time it was not the planters who caused quite a stir, but the tuan kareta-api, the Deli Spoor men. These had started by draining a swamp at the Poeloe Brayan kampong and made a major road through it. Not only was it a useful swamp for the kampong population, as a fine hunting ground with numerous wild ducks, but in the center of it was a mysterious knoll, surrounded by colorful water flowers and thickets, shaded by a crooked tamarind tree. This was the humble, final resting place of a holy man. 

None of the kampong residents could provide further information about his identity. No one knew his name, nor the era in which he gained his reputation as a saint. Nor could it be stated by what deeds or miracles he had gained his fame: he was a kind of ‘poilu inconnu’ among his kind. 

The cosmopolitan superstition with which accidental graves were revered and left untouched in Deli by all races had also honored these mortal remains. Lonely this swamp saint lay waiting for the meager number of offerings that the kampong residents deposited on the spot, and which had to placate his spirit for the prayers that the few pilgrims mumbled. Nothing but the rustling of the reeds, and of the few trees in the swamp around, was around him, and the narrow winding path that led to his grave mound was not trodden by anyone outside of the Initiates. 

In contrast to his, also anonymous, colleague, which rested an hour away in a majestic burial mound, shaded by two mighty waringins and surrounded by an almost regional fame. One had to be content with a single stick of incense pinned into his knoll, the other was always surrounded by the smoke of numerous sacrificial sticks, the scent of many sacrifices, and the murmur of a multitude of pilgrim’s flock. Our swamp saint had never made it to a permanent burial guard, unlike the others, who found himself constantly surrounded by a few well-behaved beggars who, attracted by the glories on display, did not leave his tomb. And now he was still threatened by the restless, unbelieving blandas in his lonely peace! 

The projected road ran close to the burial mound in the swamp and even a corner would have to be cut off. The tuan kareta api had, after much negotiation, got it to the point where the kapala kampong agreed, after he had been promised that the railway company would build a monumental fence around the burial place. The local saint was now also placed on the new road and the hill could perhaps develop into a famous pilgrimage site. But the implementation of those plans would not go so smoothly. The teams of Javanese, in charge of the construction of that road, had put their heads together, after they had done some tjankolls in the edge of the grave mound, and they finally refused to risk their salvation in this work. A team of Chinese did not make it much further. It is true that a few hundred sticks of incense were pierced into the burial mound, the air trembled from the many fireworks that were set off to drive away the evil spirits, and one suckling pig dripping with fat had been sacrificed and consumed, but these preparatory work remained. You could never know, and a curse by the angry tuan was still preferable to an attack by the spirits, who had no doubt gathered to obstruct and punish the touan’s nefarious plans. 

The engineer was desperate. Surely he could not let the fears of those fellows thwart his plans for the construction of that road, who could not be induced to cut even a corner of a burial mound! He lamented his need for a friend who, as a tobacco maker, would have had such cases at hand. That planter did know what to do. If this job could not be done by our brown and yellow brothers, then he should try it with the black-spotted, the Klingaleese, whose skin color was after all in accordance with the ceremony to be performed, the planter thought. ‘But,’ he added, ‘you have to prepare yourself for a demand for a sufficient amount of samsoe, gin, because those guys have to get into a kind of ecstasy first, and then they are not afraid of the devil. I’ll send you six of those guys, but keep an eye on their foreman, tandil Nadisan, because he’s a scoundrel. ‘ So it came to pass that the next day Nadisan appeared at the railway engineer’s office. They agreed, that the designated work would be performed by him with the six Klingaleese for a substantial reward and a ‘presèn’. The latter was to be distributed in advance in the form of five square pots of samsu, which were necessary to get in the mood for such a perilous undertaking as disturbing the peace of a saint, if only a small one. 

The work was to be done in three days, but he made a strange impression when the moon was full and in addition to the samsu they would take a few empty boxes of ‘Pear’s Soap’ with them in case zig came across lurid finds that zig could then order on the ground in an appropriate manner. On the fourth day, Nadisan promptly appeared at the office to report on the work done and receive the wages. But hid got busy with a stranger and was accompanied by one of his men, who supported him lovingly. 

After the necessary sembahs he requested permission to speak, for his friend Nadisan was unable to do so, as he had fallen victim to the hantus, the ghosts of that grave mound. He said that everything had gone well initially; the moon shone in all its glory, the pots of samsu were solemnly emptied, and the men were full of power and fire thanks to that heart. Gradually, however, Nadisan had started acting weird. He had begun to sing, then babbled, then grunted like a wild pig, then finally, at the final whimper, which ended the job, thrashed his arms and legs and fell down as if dead. It was clear: the hantus had beaten him badly. His men had turned him upside down and set off fireworks at him, but all had been in vain, he remained a living dead. However, he had regained consciousness, but not a word had passed his lips since then: he was stunned. 

The sobat had told this story with the fluency of tongue that a good Malay-speaking Klingalean is wont to possess and was waiting for the tuan’s opinion on this mysterious case. He, who felt more or less the auctor intellectualis of this drama, was very moved and generously offered to take Nadisan into the hospital free of charge. But the sobat, speaking for the victim, thought he had to give thanks for this offer. Those ‘doktor blandas’ were indeed ‘smart betoel’ , but before you knew it they were rooting in your body with a knife or had robbed you of some body part. 

If tuan would not mind, he reverently asked to be allowed to propose another solution, in order to restore his speech to his friend Nadisan. His proposal was indeed astonishingly simple and was based on the principle of boss over boss. The swamp saint had evidently been upset about the disturbance of his sacred tranquility. That anger had manifested itself in making Sobat Nadisan speechless. But he was but a very subordinate, second-rank saint, and how simpler now than that much more distinguished colleague who rested under the waringins, to move to get rid of that speechlessness. 

For that was a holy ‘nommer satu’, argued the sobat, and by means of sacrifices and a slametan he could well be brought to a second miracle. It would have to cost something, because in the sacrifice and the slametan one had to show that his power was much higher than that of the man in the swamp. The prayer crew had to be expanded with some pious people and the presence increased to eight pots of samsu. The engineer saw through the childish cunning of the Klingalees in order to be able to hold another samsoe feast in this way, but he was glad that they had done so neatly the job at the burial mound in the swamp. He wrote a receipt for what was requested and with numerous bows and ‘trima cashis’, the two rascals left the desk. 

The second miracle happened promptly, at least according to the verbose statement of Nadisan himself on the controller roll, a few days later. He had no easy task, because he not only had to bear witness to the power and goodness of the waringin saint, he also had to honor the controller of convincing that the square pots only contained obat and that lying on the public road in front of the grave mound where the police had picked him up was just the attitude of a humble and grateful pilgrim, in piousness pondering about the miracle that had been perpetrated on him…

The fact that the controller did not believe this story and put him in the box for a few days was no problem. The tuan kareta api was satisfied; Nadisan and his sobats had spent some hours in complete bliss, and the waringin saint had risen still higher in the esteem and awe of his numerous worshipers. All of that was certainly worth a few days of tuition.