The Misfortunes of Pak Kaduk
Once upon a time, in a faraway land where the tropical sun kissed emerald rice fields and mighty rivers wound through ancient forests, there stood the kingdom of Cempaka Seri. This realm was ruled by Raja Indera Sari, a king who possessed all the trappings of royal majesty—golden keris daggers, silk tengkolok headdresses, and a palace adorned with intricate ukiran carvings. Yet beneath this splendor lay a terrible curse, for the king’s heart was consumed by two great vices: vanity and gambling.
Like a poison that spreads through clear water, the king’s obsession with cockfighting seeped into every corner of his kingdom. The rakyat—the common people—abandoned their prayers at the surau and neglected the teachings of the Prophet. Instead, they gathered daily at the royal cockfighting arena, their eyes blazing with the fever of wagering, their hearts hardened against righteousness. The very air of Cempaka Seri seemed to thrum with the crow of fighting cocks and the rattle of dice.
In this fallen kingdom, by the muddy banks of a great river at the very edge of the realm, lived a man named Pak Kaduk. He dwelt in a humble kampung house built on stilts, its walls woven from mengkuang leaves and its roof thatched with rumbia palm. Pak Kaduk was neither young nor old, but his mind was as simple as a child’s, and his understanding as shallow as a puddle after rain. His wife, whom he called Mak Siti, tended their small plot of padi and kept their few chickens, including a magnificent fighting cock with speckled feathers they called Si Kunani.
One morning, as the muezzin’s call echoed unheeded across the kingdom, Pak Kaduk turned to his wife with eyes bright with foolish desire. “Mak Siti,” he declared, “my heart yearns to join the cockfight at the royal arena. I have watched from afar as crowds gather in merriment, and I wish to test our Si Kunani’s fortune.”
“Let us wager our Si Kunani,” he continued, stroking the bird’s iridescent feathers. “This cock brings great tuah—good luck—to our household. We could stake our entire kampung against the king. If we win, surely we shall gain the royal treasury!”
His wife, though harboring doubts like shadows at twilight, replied, “If such is your wish, husband, then take our rooster to the arena.”
But then Pak Kaduk made a request so strange that even the evening crickets might have laughed. “First, wife, fashion me clothes from this paper I have purchased. Sew them quickly, for I wish to cut a fine figure before the king.”
Mak Siti’s eyes widened with alarm. “Husband, how can you wear garments of paper? When you move about the arena, surely they will tear, leaving you naked before the entire court. Will you not burn with shame?”
“No matter,” Pak Kaduk replied with the confidence of the truly foolish. “Make them swiftly—I must depart soon.”
With heavy heart, his wife took up her scissors and cut trousers and a shirt from the colored paper. Following her husband’s impatient instructions, she did not sew the garments but merely pasted them together with tree sap. The finished costume was a marvel of absurdity—bright with tanjung flower patterns in red, yellow, black, and white, topped with a magnificent paper tengkolok shaped like an eagle riding the wind. Pak Kaduk admired himself like a pendekar—a warrior—preparing for the greatest battle of his life.
Dressed in his paper finery and carrying Si Kunani in a bamboo cage, Pak Kaduk set forth for the royal cockfighting arena. The sun blazed overhead as he approached the circular pit where nobles and commoners alike gathered in a fever of anticipation.
When Raja Indera Sari beheld Pak Kaduk’s approach, he recognized the simple man and called out with false joviality, “Ho, Pak Kaduk! What news do you bring? Do you come to test your luck in the ring?”
Pak Kaduk bowed low, presenting his rooster for the king’s inspection. The moment Raja Indera Sari laid eyes upon Si Kunani, he recognized the bird’s extraordinary tuah—its supernatural fighting prowess was written in every line of its proud bearing and fierce golden eyes.
“Come now, Pak Kaduk,” the king said with honeyed words, “let us exchange birds. Take my champion here—see how fine he is, this white-eyed jalak with feathers like polished obsidian. Your speckled Si Kunani has little fortune compared to such magnificence.”
The king’s flattery fell upon Pak Kaduk’s ears like sweet gula melaka syrup. His simple heart swelled with pride at the royal attention. “Your Majesty shows such graciousness,” he replied, bowing until his paper tengkolok nearly touched the ground. “If such is your royal command, this humble subject gladly obeys. Your words rest upon my head like a golden crown.”
And so the exchange was made, though in his greed, the king had spoken falsely—Si Kunani was indeed the superior bird, blessed with tuah that could bring victory against any opponent.
The king’s master trainer, Tok Juara, prepared Si Kunani with razor-sharp taji spurs, whispering ancient jampi incantations and making mystical signs to enhance the bird’s power. Meanwhile, poor Pak Kaduk fumbled with his borrowed rooster, fitting the taji backwards in his ignorance—the sharp point facing forward where it should be back, and the blunt end positioned where the deadly tip should strike.
“What shall we wager, Pak Kaduk?” inquired the king, his eyes glittering like a serpent’s.
“Your Majesty,” replied Pak Kaduk, “this humble servant possesses nothing but a single kampung. If Your Majesty would show mercy, I would pledge this village as collateral for a loan of fifty rial.”
The king’s smile was sharp as a keris blade. “Agreed.”
He advanced the fifty rial and matched it with his own wager, making the total prize one hundred rial—a fortune that could feed a family for many seasons.
“Release your birds!” commanded the king.
Both men lifted their roosters high, feeling the creatures’ fighting spirit kindle like flames. Feathers bristled, eyes blazed, and with a thunderous cry, the birds were set free.
Si Kunani struck like lightning, his taji finding its mark in the jalak’s breast. But in its desperation, the black rooster fought back, only to be doomed by Pak Kaduk’s ignorance—the reversed taji drove deep into its own heart. With a pitiful cry, the jalak fell lifeless to the arena floor, pierced twice: once by Si Kunani’s spur, and once by its own misplaced weapon.
Pak Kaduk, in his simple mind, forgot entirely that he had exchanged birds with the king. Seeing what he believed was his own Si Kunani triumphant, he leaped into the air with unbridled joy. “Victory!” he shouted, clapping his hands and dancing with wild abandon. “Behold the tuah of my magnificent rooster!”
But joy became catastrophe in the space of a heartbeat. His vigorous celebration tore his paper garments to shreds. The thin material scattered on the wind like falling leaves, leaving Pak Kaduk standing stark naked before the entire royal court.
The arena erupted in laughter. Nobles pointed and gasped, common folk slapped their knees in mirth, and even the king doubled over with amusement. The sound rolled across Cempaka Seri like thunder, and Pak Kaduk stood bewildered in the center of it all.
At first, in his innocence, he thought the crowd shared his joy. But when he looked down at his own body and realized his shameful state, horror struck his heart like a cold blade. With a cry of anguish, he fled the arena, racing through the streets as laughter pursued him like hunting hounds.
Behind him, the king’s voice boomed across the arena: “Behold the fate of Pak Kaduk—his cock victorious, his kampung lost!”
Pak Kaduk ran without stopping until he reached his riverside home, where Mak Siti was grinding spices for their evening meal. When she saw her husband’s distressed state and heard his tale of woe, she wept bitter tears.
“Oh, husband,” she lamented, “your foolishness has brought ruin upon our house. We are homeless now, cast out by your simple heart and trusting nature.”
The next morning brought fresh misfortune disguised as opportunity. A neighbor from downstream arrived with an invitation: “Pak Kaduk, come feast with us tomorrow at zohor time. We are slaughtering a buffalo for our kenduri celebration.”
Before the first visitor had departed, another appeared from upstream. “Pak Kaduk,” this man called, “join our feast tomorrow at midday. We are preparing two whole oxen for our gathering.”
Pak Kaduk, ever hopeful despite his losses, accepted both invitations.
That evening, following his usual custom, Mak Siti prepared nasi rendam—cold rice soaked in water—for her husband’s morning meal. But when dawn broke and Pak Kaduk prepared to depart by boat, his anticipation for the promised feasts made him careless.
“No need for the rice,” he called to his wife as he loaded his pengayuh—paddle—into their small perahu. “Why eat humble fare when buffalo and ox await? Feed it to the chickens.”
Mak Siti, with a heavy heart, scattered the rice upon the ground and watched her husband pole away down the river.
The river was in its surut—low tide—and the current ran swift and treacherous. Pak Kaduk, in his simple reasoning, thought to himself: “If I go downstream first, the current will carry me easily, but there is only one buffalo there. Better to struggle upstream where two oxen await.”
And so he began the laborious journey against the current, his muscles straining against his paddle as the boat crept forward like a wounded fish swimming upstream. When exhaustion forced him to rest, the current swept him back downstream, undoing his progress. Thus he continued: paddling desperately upstream, resting, drifting back, paddling again.
By the time the tide turned and the river grew calm, the sun had reached its zohor zenith, and Pak Kaduk finally arrived at the upstream feast—only to find the celebration concluded and the guests departed.
“Alas, friend Pak Kaduk,” said his host with genuine pity, “you arrive too late. The food is gone, the company scattered. What misfortune follows you like a shadow!”
Disappointed but undaunted, Pak Kaduk set off downstream toward the buffalo feast. But now the tide had turned to pasang—high tide—and he fought against rushing water that sought to push him back upstream. Under the blazing sun, with empty belly and parched throat, he struggled until the asar afternoon prayer time, arriving just as the second feast was also ending and the guests were departing by boat.
Seeing his situation, Pak Kaduk didn’t even attempt to land at the second host’s house. Instead, he turned his boat around and began the exhausting journey home, his stomach growling like an angry tiger and his limbs trembling with fatigue.
By the time he reached his own landing at sunset, Pak Kaduk was beyond reason. His wife, seeing his haggard appearance, inquired innocently, “Husband, why do you look so sour? Did you not feast on buffalo and ox? Surely your belly should be full of rich meat.”
These words struck Pak Kaduk like sparks on dry tinder. In his hunger-maddened state, he seized a piece of firewood and cried, “Full! I’ll show you full!”
With one terrible blow, he struck his faithful wife upon the head. By the will of Allah, though he struck but once, Mak Siti fell lifeless to the floor of their humble home.
When Pak Kaduk saw what his rage had wrought, reason returned like morning light after the darkest night. He collapsed beside his wife’s still form, weeping and beating his breast. “Alas!” he cried. “What evil fortune pursues me! First I lose our home through foolishness, then I struggle all day against river and tide for nothing, and now my own hand has killed the only soul who loved me.”
After the funeral rites were completed and Mak Siti was laid to rest beneath the kelapa palms, Pak Kaduk resolved to flee his cursed homeland. He gathered his few remaining possessions, loaded them into his boat, and prepared to seek refuge with a friend who lived at the river’s mouth, where it met the sea.
“Surely,” he reasoned, “if I leave this place of sorrow, fortune will smile upon me once more.”
He raised his layar—sail—and pointed his bow toward the river mouth. But even in this final attempt at escape, fate mocked him. Though the wind had blown strong when he was preparing to depart, the moment his sail was set, the air grew still as death. His boat drifted helplessly with the current, neither making progress nor finding rest.
As the sun began to set and his strength finally failed him, Pak Kaduk lowered his sail in defeat and dropped anchor. Exhausted, he spread his kajang mat and lay down to sleep beneath the stars.
But no sooner had he closed his eyes than a fierce wind arose, as if the very elements conspired against him. The boat rocked violently in the sudden gale, and Pak Kaduk, now too weary and broken in spirit to care, simply pulled his mat over his head and declared, “Blow as you will, cursed wind! I’ll not dance to your tune anymore. Let come what may.”
The next morning, he completed his journey by paddle alone, finally reaching his friend’s house as the sun touched the horizon. There, at the mouth of the river where fresh water meets the salt sea, Pak Kaduk took refuge and remained for the rest of his days.