Si Luncai
Once upon a time, in the verdant kingdom of Indera Pat, there ruled a young maharaja named Isin. He had only recently ascended to the throne upon the death of his beloved parents, and though he governed with the wisdom of his forefathers, his heart remained heavy with grief. The palace, with its carved wooden pillars and gardens fragrant with bunga raya, seemed vast and empty without the gentle guidance of the old king and queen.
The maharaja had married the beautiful Tuan Puteri Bongsu, and together they had been blessed with a daughter, the ten-year-old Princess Lela Kendi, whose laughter once filled the halls like the tinkling of silver bells. Yet even their joy could not entirely banish the shadow of loss that hung over the royal household.
Now, at the very edge of this prosperous kingdom, in a humble kampung where the houses stood on stilts and the morning mist rose from the rice paddies, there lived a poor orphan boy. The village children called him Si Luncai, for he was a peculiar sight indeed—his belly was round and protruding, his back was hunched, and when he walked, he thrust out his chest in such a manner that he resembled a strutting rooster. His daily bread came from pounding rice for the villagers, drying padi in the sun, and selling bundles of kindling from door to door.
Despite his humble circumstances, Si Luncai harbored a burning desire to present himself before the maharaja. Day after day, he would shuffle to the palace gates in his tattered clothes, only to be turned away by the guards who took one look at his disheveled appearance and shooed him away like a stray dog.
One Friday morning, as the azan call to prayer echoed across the kingdom, Si Luncai donned his finest garments—which is to say, his least tattered ones. He wore white cotton trousers that had been mended so many times they resembled a patchwork quilt, a black shirt as rough as sackcloth, and a torn black sarong that hung about him like the wings of a wounded crow. Upon his head, he placed a tengkolok of faded batik that looked more like frayed rope than a proper headpiece.
Thus attired, he made his way to the royal audience hall, where Maharaja Isin sat upon his throne of carved teak, preparing for the Friday prayers. The maharaja was in the midst of having his head shaved by the royal barber, as was customary before attending the mosque.
“Ho there, Luncai,” called the maharaja when he noticed the strange figure approaching. “What brings you to my court?”
Si Luncai prostrated himself in the traditional manner, touching his forehead to the cool marble floor. “A thousand pardons, Your Majesty. I have no particular request, but merely wished to pay my respects to my most noble ruler.”
The maharaja said nothing and allowed the barber to complete his work. When the task was finished, Si Luncai observed that the back of the king’s head was completely bald, shaved clean as a monk’s pate. At this sight, the boy began to weep most piteously, his tears falling like rain in the monsoon season.
“Why do you weep, Luncai?” asked the maharaja, puzzled by this strange behavior.
“Oh, Your Majesty,” sobbed Si Luncai, “my heart is filled with such sorrow that I dare not speak, for fear my words might kindle your royal anger.”
“Speak freely,” commanded the maharaja. “I promise you no harm.”
“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but when I saw the back of your head, I could not help but notice how exactly it resembles that of my own dear father, who has passed into the next world. The shape, the way the hair grows, even the small birthmark—everything is identical. It has stirred such grief in my heart, for I miss him terribly.”
Upon hearing these words, the maharaja’s face flushed red as the flames of a forge. “You impudent wretch!” he thundered. “How dare you, a mere beggar child, compare your lowly father to the royal person? Such insolence deserves death!”
With a gesture, the maharaja summoned his guards. “Seize this boy! Bind him in a sack and take him to the river mouth. There, cast him into the waters that he may trouble us no more!”
The guards obeyed at once, stuffing the terrified Si Luncai into a coarse guni sack and loading him onto a royal boat. As they rowed downstream toward the sea, Si Luncai’s mind raced like a trapped mouse seeking escape.
“Good encik,” he called to his executioner, “might I have a water gourd to hold? It would comfort me to embrace something that reminds me of my dear mother before I die.”
The executioner, moved by pity, untied the sack and handed the boy a large water gourd from their supplies. Si Luncai clutched it to his chest and wept with such convincing sorrow that even the hardened guards felt their hearts soften.
“Listen, friends,” said Si Luncai through his tears, “I see how tired you are from rowing in this heat. Let me teach you a song to make the work lighter. We can sing it together.”
“What song is that?” asked the executioner.
“It goes like this,” said Si Luncai, and began to chant: “Si Luncai terjun dengan labu-labunya” (Si Luncai jumps with his gourd).
“And you answer: ’Biarkan, biarkan’” (Let him, let him).
The guards, thinking it a harmless pantun to pass the time, began to sing along with gusto. “Si Luncai terjun dengan labu-labunya!”
“Biarkan, biarkan!”
So absorbed were they in their singing that they failed to notice when Si Luncai actually leaped from the boat with his gourd, diving deep beneath the muddy waters of the river. By the time the helmsman realized what had happened and cried out in alarm, Si Luncai had already swum to the far bank and was climbing to safety among the nipah palms.
“Curse that boy!” shouted the guards, rowing frantically to recapture him. They managed to drag him back to the boat, stuff him once more into the sack, and continue their journey.
As they proceeded downstream, the sound of a rusa deer crashing through the jungle reached their ears. From within the sack, Si Luncai sighed deeply. “Ah, what a waste of good fortune,” he lamented.
“What do you mean?” asked the executioner.
“That sound—it’s a deer caught in one of the snares I set before you captured me. Such fine meat going to waste while I’m bound for death. If only someone could claim it...”
The guards exchanged glances. Fresh venison was a rare treat, and they had been eating nothing but dried fish for days. “Perhaps we should stop and investigate,” suggested one.
“A quick detour wouldn’t hurt,” agreed another.
They pulled the boat to shore, leaving Si Luncai alone while they crashed through the underbrush, following the sounds of the supposedly trapped deer. Of course, it was merely a wild deer fleeing from their approach, but they pursued it deeper and deeper into the jungle.
While the guards were thus occupied, a traveling merchant from India happened to pass by the river. This man dealt in fine textiles—silk sarongs from Java, cotton baju from Sumatra, and delicate songket cloth shot through with gold thread. He was a wealthy man, but lonely, for he had never taken a wife.
From within the sack, Si Luncai could see the merchant’s shadow and the glint of his gold ornaments. Immediately, he began to wail loudly.
“Oh, merciful Allah! I beg you, I do not wish to marry the princess! I would rather die in these waters than be forced into such a union!”
The Indian merchant, intrigued by these strange words, approached the boat. “Who speaks from within that sack? What is this about marriage?”
“Encik,” sobbed Si Luncai, “I am to be executed because I refused to marry the maharaja’s daughter. I am but a poor boy with no desire for royal life, but the king insists upon the match. Since I will not consent, he has ordered me drowned.”
The merchant’s eyes widened with excitement. Marriage to a princess! Such an opportunity might never come again. “But surely the maharaja would prefer a successful merchant to a poor boy? I have gold, silver, precious stones—everything a royal father could desire for his daughter!”
“Indeed, encik,” agreed Si Luncai eagerly. “If you truly wish to take my place, the maharaja would be overjoyed. A wealthy merchant would make a far better son-in-law than a pauper like me.”
The merchant needed no further convincing. He climbed into the boat and untied the sack, releasing Si Luncai. Then, in his eagerness to claim his royal bride, he voluntarily entered the sack and allowed Si Luncai to bind him securely.
“When the guards return,” instructed Si Luncai, “tell them you wish to marry the princess. They will escort you to the palace for the wedding ceremony.”
“What joy awaits me!” exclaimed the merchant from within the sack.
Si Luncai gathered up the merchant’s bundles of fine cloth and jewelry, then slipped away into the jungle just as the frustrated guards returned from their fruitless hunt.
“I want to marry the princess! I want to marry the princess!” came the muffled voice from the sack.
The guards were baffled. “What’s gotten into you, Luncai? Why do you sound like a foreigner? And why do you keep talking about marriage? Are you mad?”
“I am not Luncai!” protested the merchant. “I am an Indian trader, and I wish to wed the royal princess!”
“Enough of your tricks,” growled the executioner. “Whether you pretend to be Indian or Siamese, you’re still the same insolent boy who must die. As for marrying the princess—the very idea is absurd!”
Despite the merchant’s continued protests, the guards rowed to the river mouth and cast the sack into the deep waters. The poor man drowned, still calling out his true identity, while the guards returned to report their success to the maharaja.
Meanwhile, Si Luncai had made his way back to his village, where he spent seven days in hiding, plotting his next move. When he finally emerged, he was transformed beyond recognition. He had donned the merchant’s finest robes—a white jubah of silk, an ornate turban, and a long string of prayer beads that reached nearly to his knees. In his hand, he carried a carved walking stick, and his manner was that of a learned haji returned from the holy pilgrimage.
As he approached the palace, the maharaja was holding court, surrounded by his ministers and advisors. The king’s sharp eyes immediately noticed the holy man’s approach.
“Who is that?” murmured the maharaja to his courtiers. “There is something familiar about him... surely it cannot be Si Luncai?”
The ministers agreed that the resemblance was striking, but the fine clothes and dignified bearing gave them pause.
“Summon the haji,” commanded the maharaja. “Let us hear what he has to say.”
Si Luncai approached the throne and offered the traditional Islamic greeting: “Assalamualaikum, O Leader of the Faithful.”
“Wa’alaikumussalam,” replied the maharaja. “Who are you, good man?”
“Your Majesty,” said Si Luncai, touching his heart, lips, and forehead in reverence, “I am the spirit of Si Luncai, whom you executed some days ago. I have been granted leave to return from the afterlife to bring you tidings of your departed parents.”
The entire court fell silent. The maharaja leaned forward, his eyes bright with sudden hope. “You have seen my father and mother in the next world?”
“Indeed, Your Majesty. I have been brought before them by the angels themselves. They dwell in a palace of such beauty that your earthly throne room seems but a humble hut in comparison. Gardens of diamonds and emeralds surround their dwelling, and the air is perfumed with flowers that never fade.”
“Do they... do they speak of me?” asked the maharaja, his voice trembling with emotion.
“Constantly, Your Majesty. When I told them of my death at your hands, they became greatly distressed. ‘Our son has grown hard of heart,’ they said. ‘To kill a boy for such a small offense shows that he has forgotten our teachings of mercy and wisdom.’ They are deeply troubled by your actions.”
The maharaja felt a stab of guilt pierce his heart. “What would they have me do?”
“They have sent me to invite you to visit them in the afterlife, that you might see their realm with your own eyes and receive their guidance once more. However, they warned me that once you behold the glories of paradise, you may never wish to return to this earthly kingdom.”
The king’s heart leaped with longing. To see his beloved parents again, to walk in the gardens of eternity—what earthly pleasure could compare?
“But how might I visit them while still living?” he asked.
“There is a way,” said Si Luncai solemnly. “If you construct a tall tower and recite certain prayers at its peak, you will be able to see directly into the realm of the blessed. I learned these prayers from your father himself during my sojourn there.”
The maharaja was eager to begin at once. “I shall order the tower built immediately!”
“However,” added Si Luncai with apparent reluctance, “I must warn you—if anyone fails to see the visions when the prayers are recited, it is a sign that they are not born of legitimate union. This is the law of the spiritual realm.”
The threat of being declared illegitimate terrified the entire court. In seven days, the tower was completed, and the maharaja, accompanied by his ministers and Si Luncai, climbed to its summit.
“Now,” instructed Si Luncai, “look toward the heavens and recite the prayers as I have taught you. If you do not see your parents seated upon thrones of light, surrounded by angels and bidadari, then you know what that means.”
The maharaja and his courtiers gazed upward at the cloudy sky. Of course, they saw nothing but ordinary clouds and birds, but none dared admit it for fear of being branded a bastard.
“Do you see them, Your Majesty?” asked Si Luncai.
The maharaja hesitated. To admit he saw nothing would invite shame and suspicion. “Yes,” he said finally. “I see... I see them clearly. They sit upon golden thrones, crowned with light.”
“And you, my lords?” Si Luncai asked the ministers.
Not one dared contradict the king. “Yes, yes,” they chorused. “We see them too—most magnificent!”
“Excellent,” said Si Luncai. “But if Your Majesty truly wishes to embrace your parents and walk in their gardens, I can arrange for you to visit them in person. Tomorrow, if you wish.”
“Tomorrow!” cried the maharaja without hesitation. “I shall go tomorrow!”
“Very well,” said Si Luncai. “But you must have a special conveyance constructed—a glass chamber with metal mesh on the outside, fitted with ropes so that it may be lowered into the sacred cave from which souls depart for the afterlife. Bring your finest possessions, for you will need gifts to present to the heavenly court.”
That night, the maharaja ordered his craftsmen to work through the darkness, creating the strange vessel as Si Luncai had specified. When morning came, the king bathed, dressed in his finest robes, and bid what he believed would be a temporary farewell to his wife and daughter.
“I shall return soon with news of your grandfather and grandmother,” he told little Princess Lela Kendi, kissing her forehead tenderly.
Led by Si Luncai, the royal party proceeded to a deep cave in the jungle, its mouth yawning like the entrance to the underworld itself. The maharaja climbed into the glass chamber, while Si Luncai positioned himself on the mesh outside.
“Lower us down,” commanded the king to his ministers. “We go to paradise!”
As the chamber descended into the darkness, Si Luncai watched carefully for his moment. He had noticed another passage branching off from the main shaft—a route that led back to the surface through a different opening. When they reached the right depth, he leaped from the chamber onto a rocky ledge and disappeared into the side tunnel.
The maharaja, sealed within his glass prison, continued his descent into the black depths. The air grew thick and stifling, and soon he could no longer breathe. Far below, in the deepest part of the cave, lived an ancient naga—a dragon of immense size and terrible hunger. When the glass chamber tumbled into its maw, the beast swallowed both container and contents in a single gulp.
Thus perished Maharaja Isin, victim of his own grief and gullibility.
Si Luncai, meanwhile, had found his way back to the surface through the hidden passage. Standing at the edge of the cave, he called down to the ministers: “Cut the ropes! Cut them now! The king has reached his parents and commands that I return to rule in his place. He orders me to marry Princess Lela Kendi and govern the kingdom!”
The ministers, unable to see into the depths and believing they heard their king’s voice, obeyed without question. They returned to the palace and delivered the supposed royal command to the grief-stricken queen and her daughter.
When Tuan Puteri Bongsu heard these words, she collapsed in anguish. Her beloved husband was gone forever, and now her precious daughter was to be wed to the very wretch who had caused such tragedy. The princess herself wept bitter tears, but the ministers insisted they were following the king’s final wishes.
Seven days later, Si Luncai emerged from the jungle, claiming to have spent that time traveling between the worlds. The court received him with honor, and despite the queen’s protests, the marriage ceremony was performed. The kadi pronounced the sacred words, and Si Luncai found himself wed to the beautiful Princess Lela Kendi.
But on their wedding night, as Si Luncai lay sleeping beside his unwilling bride, Princess Lela Kendi gazed upon his ugly face and felt her heart fill with righteous fury. “Because of this wicked creature,” she whispered, “I have lost my beloved father. Whether he murdered him outright or sent him to his death through trickery, I shall not let such evil go unpunished.”
Taking her father’s ceremonial keris from its place of honor, she drove the blade deep into Si Luncai’s throat. The villain gurgled once and died, his schemes ending with his life.
When the court learned what had transpired, they realized at last how thoroughly they had been deceived. The princess’s words opened their eyes to Si Luncai’s true nature, and they understood that the maharaja had died not by journeying to paradise, but by falling victim to an elaborate and cruel hoax.
The ministers, filled with remorse for their gullibility, crowned Princess Lela Kendi as their new ruler. Under the guidance of the wise Prime Minister, she governed with justice and compassion, showing the mercy her father had forgotten in his final days.
As for Si Luncai, he was buried without ceremony in unconsecrated ground, his name becoming a byword for treachery throughout the kingdom. The queen and her daughter, having learned the bitter price of trusting smooth words and false promises, devoted themselves to prayer and righteous rule, never remarrying but finding peace in their devotion to Allah and their people.
And so the kingdom of Indera Pat prospered under the wise rule of Queen Lela Kendi, who had learned that true strength comes not from believing what we wish to hear, but from seeing clearly through the veils of deception that evil men cast before our eyes.