alternatehistory.com
Chapter 3: Fall of Bali, 1633
The territories of the Kingdom of Gèlgèl at its height, prior to the Mataram conquest of the 1630s.
When the venerable empire of Majapahit collapsed, its heritage transformed into Islamic Java. The old religion (which the Muslim Javanese would rather curiously call the buda or “Buddhist” faith) faded away, though it was always fondly remembered. Over every peak and gully, Muhammad’s faith prevailed.
Well, not every. Not everyone deigned to follow the religion of the Prophet. On the little eastern island of Bali, so culturally similar to Java yet still separated by the sea, Hinduism survived, transmuted, and thrived. It also persisted with Balinese support in the little eastern peninsula at the end of Java (the Eastern Salient). By the mid-17th century, Bali and her neighbors were united under the kingdom of Gèlgèl, considered so sacred and powerful that the main title of its king was Dewa Agung, or “Great God” in Balinese. Bali was the land of the gods – a place where the gods were still worshipped and where a Great God (Dewa Agung) literally ruled over mankind.
This came to an end following a long and arduous invasion of Gèlgèl by the powerful Muslim sultanate of Mataram, which could scarcely stomach such a potent challenge to its claim to Majapahit’s legacy (the dynasty of Gèlgèl was much more elevated than that of Mataram). The conclusion of the war, when generals Baureksa and Mandudareja conquered the capital of Gèlgèl in 1633, would dramatically terminate the Balinese Old Regime.
The following Balinese chronicle depicts the conquest of Bali and its buda kingdom by the arrogant Ratu Susuhunan, an exalted title meaning “King who is obeyed” and used here to refer to Sultan Agung of Mataram. The phrase the weapons of evil rolled over the earth is repeated a number of times in the text. This is because it is a chronogram, a way to represent years (in this case 1555 AJ, or 1633 AD) as short mystical phrases by assigning a numerical value to each word. This phrase, of course, has particular relevance to the story; the army of Mataram could be nothing but “the weapons of evil” to the Balinese.
* * *
What follows is the Chronicle of the Fall of Bali,
Wherein is described how the weapons of evil rolled over the earth. [1555 AJ chronogram]
Great and gleaming in grandeur, gilded glory,
Such is the land of Gèlgèl in the buda [pre-Islamic] times.
Yea, among all the kshatriya [warrior caste], most honored is the king of Gèlgèl.
To him is accorded universal obeisance, most magnificent munificence.
Too exalted is he to be called “man” – nay, he is a Dewa Agung [Great God].
The Supreme and Inconceivable God casts a shadow on the world of men;
Let all in Bali know that this shadow is His Highness the Dewa Agung.
The sublime nature of His Highness the Dewa Agung
Is akin to Mount Meru [abode of Hindu gods] soaring high above the wide open plains.
And Five Gods are all immanent in His Majesty’s character:
By the help of Ishvara the Dewa Agung learns honesty,
Vishnu gifts him the blessings of happiness.
Most majestic Mahadeva ensures his munificence.
To the king, Brahma grants most virtuous mercy,
And bringing high justice is all-auspicious Shiva.
So numerous are the Dewa Agung’s perfections,
That his writ is proclaimed in all of Bali,
That his words are obeyed by all Balinese.
Indeed! Even in hallowed Java, down by the Eastern Salient,
The Javanese reverence the palace of Gèlgèl.
Indeed! Far in Lombok, far in the Muslim lands,
The Muslims reverence the palace of Gèlgèl.
[…..]
So jealous, greatly envious was the Ratu Susuhunan [Sultan Agung of Mataram]
When he heard of the homage due the Dewa Agung,
Of how the people of Java gave praise to Gèlgèl.
Oh, how the king was enraged! There was fire in his eyes,
He was like Lord Krishna in his Thousand-Headed Form,
He was like a tigress before the hunter of her cubs.
How laughable! How ironic! Know that the House of Mataram
Is a lineage of peasants, of lowly humble folk.
What right do they have to the Majapahit realm,
When the lineage of Gèlgèl is most exalted in Java?
On the Birthday of Muhammad, in 1555 [AJ],
All the princes of the blood and officials high and low,
All the wali [priest] lords and every pious scholar in the mosque,
All the governors and vassal lords, even from beyond the seas –
They gathered altogether at the city of Karta.
To his congregated subjects the Ratu Susuhunan said:
“Let my state be expanded; let infidelity die!
“In Java, every shrub and pebble humbly bows to me;
“The Dutch Company is routed all the way to icy Europe –
“Is it right that the Balinese infidel princeling,
“That naked man in Gèlgèl who reigns over his pretensions,
“Shall ever dare resist me, the Susuhanan Ratu?
“Is it right that while every grass in Java bends down
“His feeble green blade before the Mercy of the Lord,
“The people of Bali only know of lesser gods?”
Said General Baureksa, “No, it is not right.”
Said Prince Mandudareja, “A simple solution, Your Highness.
“Let all the commanders take out their big guns,
“Let the people of Mataram march to the east.
“Bali shall fall to the might of Your Highness,
“And Majapahit’s name is yours and yours alone.”
The king’s face was colored with haughty red pride,
And with great anticipation of glory and triumph.
The Susuhunan Ratu said, “Yes, take out the arms!
“Let the guards draw their kris [dagger], let us bring out our muskets!
“My bow is devotion, the Qur’an are my arrows.
“No forged weapon is strong enough for me!”
[…..]
Over land, over sea, Mataram’s war hosts proceeded,
Troops of numbers untold, myriad and infinite,
As numerous as the grains of sand on the Ganges’s banks.
Indeed, they were the weapons of evil which rolled over the earth.
Yet His Highness the Dewa Agung had armies of his own;
The heroes of Bali, finest kshatriya, all most trained in the chivalrous arts –
They came in mail, gleaming kris in their scabbards, trotting out on horse and on foot.
And the people of Bali now whispered together:
“In full solar splendor Shiva is arriving, the gods are arriving to bring us victory.”
The armies met in battle on the field of Marga,
The Javanese with their Islamic magic, the Balinese with their buda magic.
Mataram’s artillery thundered and shook; their roars reverberated,
It was worse than the storms of the Southern Ocean Goddess –
It was as if the god Indra had descended from the heavens with his thunderbolts
To strike and smite the stricken Balinese.
“What is this thing,” cried the Dewa Agung, “round like a ball yet sharp enough to kill?”
All amidst this cacophonous clamor
The Javanese stood and charged with ease and seeming comfort;
Then the Balinese knew that the day would be lost.
Then Baureksa’s cavalry ran like a sandstorm down the Marga plain,
Sweeping the field of the brave Balinese.
Then the blade and the bullet each brought down our bodies.
Baureksa and Mandudareja were common sort of men,
Yet the Susuhunan Ratu had raised them up so highly
So their minds were full of ostentation and foulest pretension.
They knew nothing of true service, even less of the ascetic ways.
How tragic, how calamitous, to be vanquished by such men!
Oh, terrible was that day! That day when we knew which side the gods favored,
That day when Bali’s destiny was sealed like a scroll,
That day when the flower of Bali was shriveled,
Shriveled by the bitter western winds.
The Dewa Agung fell that day, some say in personal combat;
One never knows the truth; his body was not found.
But with bravery he died, with temerity, with not the least trepidation.
Yea, that Dewa Agung was worthy to be last of the kings.
[…..]
The court of Gèlgèl received the news in consternation.
“The gods may have left us,” said Gèlgèl’s Prime Minister,
“But Yama, God of Death, is not here for us yet.
“We still have things to do before we pass away.
“The world is but a shadow-play, I say!
“And we the puppets that tell of the bygone day –
“Now let us play our roles, then to Lord Yama make our way,
“Such is the demand of the story of this play.
“Let us show those upstarts, those Mataram folk,
“Whose lineage is barely a hundred years old,
“What it means to be noble and to be kshatriya,
“What it means to perish with dignified honor.”
That day the Dewa Agung’s little son was crowned,
Full royal honor accorded to this child.
He was the last of the kings in Bali.
Then Mandudareja came with his uncountable armies.
All knew that Gèlgèl would not live another day.
* * *
General Baureksa stood on the road to Gèlgèl.
The war had been hard-fought. Even with all of Mataram’s overbearing might, it had taken three long years for his armies to finally come here at the gates of the palace of Bali’s highest king. This war was different from his battles against the Dutch or Banten or even Surabaya that way. Those latter three were port-states; when the port-capital fell, the whole kingdom was ripe for the taking. In Bali, though, the power of the king (the “Dewa Agung” or “the Great God,” as the buda infidels here called their ruler) lay in the verdant fields of rice and the thick population of the villages. There was no single place that one could capture for immediate victory.
It was very possible that this war would have been unwinnable had the Dewa Agung not been so foolish to concentrate his armies in a little village called Marga. It was simply impossible for the outnumbered and outgunned Balinese to win a set-piece battle on the open field, especially with the sheer force of Javanese artillery. The Balinese were routed, thousands killed. The Dewa Agung himself had died, or so he heard. He was perhaps among one of the hundreds of kshatriya that Baureksa’s cavalry had mowed down like rotting wood. None of them had been identified. Death is the great equalizer, the general mused. In death we are all reduced to rotting corpses, no matter whether we are little peasants or Great Gods.
“Sire,” said his secretary, “a Balinese army is approaching.”
Baureksa frowned. “What army? Their army died at Marga.”
“I’m not sure, sire. But if my eyes do not deceive me, there is some sort of force coming to us now. They’re dressed all in white.”
Baureksa had expected this. “That’s no army, boy. Do you know what a puputan is?” The secretary said no. “The word puputan means “ending” in Balinese. When a puputan is held, it signifies the ending of a kingdom – it’s a ceremony that officially shows that the kingdom has been extinguished by an enemy, and rather than passively watching their court fall, the Balinese would rather destroy it themselves.”
“What’s it like, then, Sire?”
“You’ll see.”
And Baureksa spurred on his horse to the puputan.
There was indeed a Balinese host on the road, but the secretary had been wrong to call it an army. Like all puputan, it was more of a parade than anything. The entire procession was dressed in flowing white robes that could not and did not serve as armor. At the forefront of it all, four slaves held aloft a wooden palanquin, its base colored black and white in checkerboard pattern. On both sides it was guarded by tastefully carved feathered dragons, their muscles strained and their mouths wide open, as if they were just about to fly away and breathe devastation into the enemy. Each corner of the roof showcased an ogre, and on top (and on the dragons’ heads too) a crown was carefully carved. Even this far away, Baureksa could make out a garuda, the legendary feathered mount of Vishnu, on the crowns. With the bird-dragons and now this, I could almost believe that the Balinese were trying to fly away. A little doll sat in the middle of it all.
Then the doll moved his hand.
No, it was no doll. It was a child. Then it struck him – it had to be the little prince that the Balinese had crowned as Dewa Agung, the week before. The general shuddered. Could they be here to formally surrender? He knew this was impossible, that a puputan was unavoidable now, but a man could hope.....
In unison, every Balinese in the procession drew their kris daggers and charged towards the Javanese.
The puputan – the ritualized mass suicide of a defeated Balinese kingdom – had begun.
"Fire, fire," said Baureksa. "But do not charge yet." Arrows and bullets at once filled the air. The general scanned the charge of the white-clad Balinese. He saw long arrows impale the chests of three venerable men, their faces folded into a landscape of creases and wrinkles. Priests, it seemed from the look of them. He expected them to fall to the ground in pain. But they kept charging on, kris in hand. More arrows and arrows tore through the white fabric – no, it was not white any more, it was as brightly red as the finest Chinese silk. But they kept charging on. When they were about twenty yards away, a volley of bullets sliced into their stomachs almost like a knife cutting into tofu. The three trembled in pain; the middle one put their hand to their belly to stop the guts from spilling out. But they kept charging on, their bodies swaying nervously, their faces curiously devoid of expression. Then the priest to the left slipped and fell; his guts had slipped out and tangled around his legs. His companion to the right tripped on the leg of his fallen comrade and fell to the ground, landing headfirst on sharp volcanic rock. He shrieked, just once. Then he was silent.
The last of the three kept walking on and on, dragging his entrails behind him like some repulsive fleshy tail. A trail of blood-soaked earth traced his arduous path to the Javanese positions. Then one of Baureksa's soldiers pushed a javelin through his chest. He fell backwards, slipping on the blood and mucus of his small intestines. His head crashed into the same volcanic rock; there was a sharp sound; the brain spilled out like some deathly paste.
"The men felt nothing," one of the soldiers said quietly. "They were all dazed with opium. Their senses were inebriated."
Baureksa looked at other parts of the road. Everywhere reigned the orgy of death. He saw a red ogre slowly advance. No, this was no ogre. This was a burly soldier dyed the vivid crimson hue of blood. Arrow shafts protruded like grisly feathers from every corner of the body; tears in the red fabric slowly oozed blood like hellish mountain springs. Elsewhere, an old woman marched onward like some undead ghost, a long javelin going in her back and coming out the other side. As he watched, the woman grabbed the point and tried to pull the javelin out of her torso. She swayed as she grabbed the javelin and palpitated as she pulled. There was a long shudder. And then she fell, face prone like some toppled idol.
There were women dressed in white and yellow silk, the fabric embroidered with brilliant bits of gold. Below their heads were jade and diamond necklaces, joined together with shining metal; as they moved, a dozen golden bracelets chimed and flashed and jingled. Then they laughed like madwomen – they were madwomen – as they threw all the treasures on their body towards his soldiers. "Take it, Mataram!" They cried. "This is the treasure of the kingdom of Gèlgèl, this is the fortune of all of Bali; take it, and know that Gèlgèl does not die as a pauper." Baureksa only watched in horrified fascination. From what felt very far away, he heard Prince Mandudareja shout, "My lads, shoot the lunatics. Their treasure shall be yours anyways." So the women died.
Then there were all the children. He saw the Balinese cut the throats of their own little boys and girls, God knows the reason why; he saw his own troops place bets on how many skulls of little children they could crack open with a musket; but worst of all were the shrieks that every little child made as arrow and bullet and kris cut them down, the shrill and chilling cries that shook the very marrow of the bones.
Why? Why were the Balinese doing this? Was it all simply to make Baureksa feel remorse? Was there some deeper purpose?
He had known of, even anticipated, the ritual of the puputan. But he had not thought this was what it would be like. Baureksa wanted – needed – to desert this scene. But he could not. He remembered again: There is nothing that can be compared to the service of the king; this is like being a piece of wood in the ocean, going where the waves bring you. The waves of the ocean had brought him here and he could not disobey, not any more than a flotsam piece of wood could disobey the Goddess of the Southern Ocean.
At least he could close his eyes.
When he reopened them after what seemed an infinity, most of the Balinese were dead. Their bodies littered the road, mingled with the fallen survivors lying here and there, moaning and shuddering on the way to death. The palanquin now stood atop the bodies of the four slaves who had once carried it high. The general spurred his horse to move. Was it possible that the little boy Dewa Agung was still alive? He would like it if he was..... He would like it if he could take the boy away and raise him as his. It would be an apology of sorts to the people of Gèlgèl.
He went to the palanquin and found the body of a boy, around seven or so, his silken robes soaking up a pool of collected blood. His head was missing, his neck cleanly severed.
This is the cost of conquest, Baureksa thought.
A map of Mataram's empire in the year 1634 AD. Orange represents the "Javanese core" of the empire, primarily those areas in and around Java that were actively conquered by Sultan Agung. Yellow represents the overseas vassals who paid regular tribute to Karta, most prominently the sultans of Jambi, Palembang, and Banjarmasin. KARTA is capitalized to show its prominence as capital.
Lombok, traditionally contested between Gèlgèl and the kingdom of Makassar (not shown on the map), was fully conquered by the latter while Mataram was invading Gèlgèl. Hence the Javanese could only conquer up to the Salient and Bali.
* * *
Hope both my fake chronicle and the narrative writing wasn't too bad. (And I realize they probably are! I never said I was good at writing stories.)
For a general introduction to Bali in the Early Modern era, I would refer you to Adrian Vickers's Bali: A Paradise Created. For a discussion of Balinese politics, H. S. Nordholt's The Spell of Power. A History of Balinese Politics, 1650-1940 is probably best. The puputan ritual of honorable mass suicide in the face of certain defeat is a well-documented phenomenon in Bali, but I've been unable to find a good source for it.
My reference to the king manifesting the attributes of five different gods, Vishnu, Brahma, Ishvara, Mahadeva, and Shiva, comes directly from Balinese views of kingship. By the Early Modern era the Balinese seem to have moved away from directly equivocating the gods and the king, instead considering the virtues of the gods to be immanent in an ideal king. (And to be more technical, these five gods aren't actually different gods. In Balinese theology, and I am vastly oversimplifying, the Divine Oneness primarily manifests itself as Shiva. Vishnu the Preserver, Brahma the Creator, Ishvara the god of purity, and the yellow god Mahadeva are all lesser incarnations of Shiva, who is himself an incarnation of the Divine Oneness.)
I apologize for the shitty MS Paint maps. Later I'll get a better photo editing program and do a better job.
The territories of the Kingdom of Gèlgèl at its height, prior to the Mataram conquest of the 1630s.
When the venerable empire of Majapahit collapsed, its heritage transformed into Islamic Java. The old religion (which the Muslim Javanese would rather curiously call the buda or “Buddhist” faith) faded away, though it was always fondly remembered. Over every peak and gully, Muhammad’s faith prevailed.
Well, not every. Not everyone deigned to follow the religion of the Prophet. On the little eastern island of Bali, so culturally similar to Java yet still separated by the sea, Hinduism survived, transmuted, and thrived. It also persisted with Balinese support in the little eastern peninsula at the end of Java (the Eastern Salient). By the mid-17th century, Bali and her neighbors were united under the kingdom of Gèlgèl, considered so sacred and powerful that the main title of its king was Dewa Agung, or “Great God” in Balinese. Bali was the land of the gods – a place where the gods were still worshipped and where a Great God (Dewa Agung) literally ruled over mankind.
This came to an end following a long and arduous invasion of Gèlgèl by the powerful Muslim sultanate of Mataram, which could scarcely stomach such a potent challenge to its claim to Majapahit’s legacy (the dynasty of Gèlgèl was much more elevated than that of Mataram). The conclusion of the war, when generals Baureksa and Mandudareja conquered the capital of Gèlgèl in 1633, would dramatically terminate the Balinese Old Regime.
The following Balinese chronicle depicts the conquest of Bali and its buda kingdom by the arrogant Ratu Susuhunan, an exalted title meaning “King who is obeyed” and used here to refer to Sultan Agung of Mataram. The phrase the weapons of evil rolled over the earth is repeated a number of times in the text. This is because it is a chronogram, a way to represent years (in this case 1555 AJ, or 1633 AD) as short mystical phrases by assigning a numerical value to each word. This phrase, of course, has particular relevance to the story; the army of Mataram could be nothing but “the weapons of evil” to the Balinese.
* * *
What follows is the Chronicle of the Fall of Bali,
Wherein is described how the weapons of evil rolled over the earth. [1555 AJ chronogram]
Great and gleaming in grandeur, gilded glory,
Such is the land of Gèlgèl in the buda [pre-Islamic] times.
Yea, among all the kshatriya [warrior caste], most honored is the king of Gèlgèl.
To him is accorded universal obeisance, most magnificent munificence.
Too exalted is he to be called “man” – nay, he is a Dewa Agung [Great God].
The Supreme and Inconceivable God casts a shadow on the world of men;
Let all in Bali know that this shadow is His Highness the Dewa Agung.
The sublime nature of His Highness the Dewa Agung
Is akin to Mount Meru [abode of Hindu gods] soaring high above the wide open plains.
And Five Gods are all immanent in His Majesty’s character:
By the help of Ishvara the Dewa Agung learns honesty,
Vishnu gifts him the blessings of happiness.
Most majestic Mahadeva ensures his munificence.
To the king, Brahma grants most virtuous mercy,
And bringing high justice is all-auspicious Shiva.
So numerous are the Dewa Agung’s perfections,
That his writ is proclaimed in all of Bali,
That his words are obeyed by all Balinese.
Indeed! Even in hallowed Java, down by the Eastern Salient,
The Javanese reverence the palace of Gèlgèl.
Indeed! Far in Lombok, far in the Muslim lands,
The Muslims reverence the palace of Gèlgèl.
[…..]
So jealous, greatly envious was the Ratu Susuhunan [Sultan Agung of Mataram]
When he heard of the homage due the Dewa Agung,
Of how the people of Java gave praise to Gèlgèl.
Oh, how the king was enraged! There was fire in his eyes,
He was like Lord Krishna in his Thousand-Headed Form,
He was like a tigress before the hunter of her cubs.
How laughable! How ironic! Know that the House of Mataram
Is a lineage of peasants, of lowly humble folk.
What right do they have to the Majapahit realm,
When the lineage of Gèlgèl is most exalted in Java?
On the Birthday of Muhammad, in 1555 [AJ],
All the princes of the blood and officials high and low,
All the wali [priest] lords and every pious scholar in the mosque,
All the governors and vassal lords, even from beyond the seas –
They gathered altogether at the city of Karta.
To his congregated subjects the Ratu Susuhunan said:
“Let my state be expanded; let infidelity die!
“In Java, every shrub and pebble humbly bows to me;
“The Dutch Company is routed all the way to icy Europe –
“Is it right that the Balinese infidel princeling,
“That naked man in Gèlgèl who reigns over his pretensions,
“Shall ever dare resist me, the Susuhanan Ratu?
“Is it right that while every grass in Java bends down
“His feeble green blade before the Mercy of the Lord,
“The people of Bali only know of lesser gods?”
Said General Baureksa, “No, it is not right.”
Said Prince Mandudareja, “A simple solution, Your Highness.
“Let all the commanders take out their big guns,
“Let the people of Mataram march to the east.
“Bali shall fall to the might of Your Highness,
“And Majapahit’s name is yours and yours alone.”
The king’s face was colored with haughty red pride,
And with great anticipation of glory and triumph.
The Susuhunan Ratu said, “Yes, take out the arms!
“Let the guards draw their kris [dagger], let us bring out our muskets!
“My bow is devotion, the Qur’an are my arrows.
“No forged weapon is strong enough for me!”
[…..]
Over land, over sea, Mataram’s war hosts proceeded,
Troops of numbers untold, myriad and infinite,
As numerous as the grains of sand on the Ganges’s banks.
Indeed, they were the weapons of evil which rolled over the earth.
Yet His Highness the Dewa Agung had armies of his own;
The heroes of Bali, finest kshatriya, all most trained in the chivalrous arts –
They came in mail, gleaming kris in their scabbards, trotting out on horse and on foot.
And the people of Bali now whispered together:
“In full solar splendor Shiva is arriving, the gods are arriving to bring us victory.”
The armies met in battle on the field of Marga,
The Javanese with their Islamic magic, the Balinese with their buda magic.
Mataram’s artillery thundered and shook; their roars reverberated,
It was worse than the storms of the Southern Ocean Goddess –
It was as if the god Indra had descended from the heavens with his thunderbolts
To strike and smite the stricken Balinese.
“What is this thing,” cried the Dewa Agung, “round like a ball yet sharp enough to kill?”
All amidst this cacophonous clamor
The Javanese stood and charged with ease and seeming comfort;
Then the Balinese knew that the day would be lost.
Then Baureksa’s cavalry ran like a sandstorm down the Marga plain,
Sweeping the field of the brave Balinese.
Then the blade and the bullet each brought down our bodies.
Baureksa and Mandudareja were common sort of men,
Yet the Susuhunan Ratu had raised them up so highly
So their minds were full of ostentation and foulest pretension.
They knew nothing of true service, even less of the ascetic ways.
How tragic, how calamitous, to be vanquished by such men!
Oh, terrible was that day! That day when we knew which side the gods favored,
That day when Bali’s destiny was sealed like a scroll,
That day when the flower of Bali was shriveled,
Shriveled by the bitter western winds.
The Dewa Agung fell that day, some say in personal combat;
One never knows the truth; his body was not found.
But with bravery he died, with temerity, with not the least trepidation.
Yea, that Dewa Agung was worthy to be last of the kings.
[…..]
The court of Gèlgèl received the news in consternation.
“The gods may have left us,” said Gèlgèl’s Prime Minister,
“But Yama, God of Death, is not here for us yet.
“We still have things to do before we pass away.
“The world is but a shadow-play, I say!
“And we the puppets that tell of the bygone day –
“Now let us play our roles, then to Lord Yama make our way,
“Such is the demand of the story of this play.
“Let us show those upstarts, those Mataram folk,
“Whose lineage is barely a hundred years old,
“What it means to be noble and to be kshatriya,
“What it means to perish with dignified honor.”
That day the Dewa Agung’s little son was crowned,
Full royal honor accorded to this child.
He was the last of the kings in Bali.
Then Mandudareja came with his uncountable armies.
All knew that Gèlgèl would not live another day.
* * *
General Baureksa stood on the road to Gèlgèl.
The war had been hard-fought. Even with all of Mataram’s overbearing might, it had taken three long years for his armies to finally come here at the gates of the palace of Bali’s highest king. This war was different from his battles against the Dutch or Banten or even Surabaya that way. Those latter three were port-states; when the port-capital fell, the whole kingdom was ripe for the taking. In Bali, though, the power of the king (the “Dewa Agung” or “the Great God,” as the buda infidels here called their ruler) lay in the verdant fields of rice and the thick population of the villages. There was no single place that one could capture for immediate victory.
It was very possible that this war would have been unwinnable had the Dewa Agung not been so foolish to concentrate his armies in a little village called Marga. It was simply impossible for the outnumbered and outgunned Balinese to win a set-piece battle on the open field, especially with the sheer force of Javanese artillery. The Balinese were routed, thousands killed. The Dewa Agung himself had died, or so he heard. He was perhaps among one of the hundreds of kshatriya that Baureksa’s cavalry had mowed down like rotting wood. None of them had been identified. Death is the great equalizer, the general mused. In death we are all reduced to rotting corpses, no matter whether we are little peasants or Great Gods.
“Sire,” said his secretary, “a Balinese army is approaching.”
Baureksa frowned. “What army? Their army died at Marga.”
“I’m not sure, sire. But if my eyes do not deceive me, there is some sort of force coming to us now. They’re dressed all in white.”
Baureksa had expected this. “That’s no army, boy. Do you know what a puputan is?” The secretary said no. “The word puputan means “ending” in Balinese. When a puputan is held, it signifies the ending of a kingdom – it’s a ceremony that officially shows that the kingdom has been extinguished by an enemy, and rather than passively watching their court fall, the Balinese would rather destroy it themselves.”
“What’s it like, then, Sire?”
“You’ll see.”
And Baureksa spurred on his horse to the puputan.
There was indeed a Balinese host on the road, but the secretary had been wrong to call it an army. Like all puputan, it was more of a parade than anything. The entire procession was dressed in flowing white robes that could not and did not serve as armor. At the forefront of it all, four slaves held aloft a wooden palanquin, its base colored black and white in checkerboard pattern. On both sides it was guarded by tastefully carved feathered dragons, their muscles strained and their mouths wide open, as if they were just about to fly away and breathe devastation into the enemy. Each corner of the roof showcased an ogre, and on top (and on the dragons’ heads too) a crown was carefully carved. Even this far away, Baureksa could make out a garuda, the legendary feathered mount of Vishnu, on the crowns. With the bird-dragons and now this, I could almost believe that the Balinese were trying to fly away. A little doll sat in the middle of it all.
Then the doll moved his hand.
No, it was no doll. It was a child. Then it struck him – it had to be the little prince that the Balinese had crowned as Dewa Agung, the week before. The general shuddered. Could they be here to formally surrender? He knew this was impossible, that a puputan was unavoidable now, but a man could hope.....
In unison, every Balinese in the procession drew their kris daggers and charged towards the Javanese.
The puputan – the ritualized mass suicide of a defeated Balinese kingdom – had begun.
"Fire, fire," said Baureksa. "But do not charge yet." Arrows and bullets at once filled the air. The general scanned the charge of the white-clad Balinese. He saw long arrows impale the chests of three venerable men, their faces folded into a landscape of creases and wrinkles. Priests, it seemed from the look of them. He expected them to fall to the ground in pain. But they kept charging on, kris in hand. More arrows and arrows tore through the white fabric – no, it was not white any more, it was as brightly red as the finest Chinese silk. But they kept charging on. When they were about twenty yards away, a volley of bullets sliced into their stomachs almost like a knife cutting into tofu. The three trembled in pain; the middle one put their hand to their belly to stop the guts from spilling out. But they kept charging on, their bodies swaying nervously, their faces curiously devoid of expression. Then the priest to the left slipped and fell; his guts had slipped out and tangled around his legs. His companion to the right tripped on the leg of his fallen comrade and fell to the ground, landing headfirst on sharp volcanic rock. He shrieked, just once. Then he was silent.
The last of the three kept walking on and on, dragging his entrails behind him like some repulsive fleshy tail. A trail of blood-soaked earth traced his arduous path to the Javanese positions. Then one of Baureksa's soldiers pushed a javelin through his chest. He fell backwards, slipping on the blood and mucus of his small intestines. His head crashed into the same volcanic rock; there was a sharp sound; the brain spilled out like some deathly paste.
"The men felt nothing," one of the soldiers said quietly. "They were all dazed with opium. Their senses were inebriated."
Baureksa looked at other parts of the road. Everywhere reigned the orgy of death. He saw a red ogre slowly advance. No, this was no ogre. This was a burly soldier dyed the vivid crimson hue of blood. Arrow shafts protruded like grisly feathers from every corner of the body; tears in the red fabric slowly oozed blood like hellish mountain springs. Elsewhere, an old woman marched onward like some undead ghost, a long javelin going in her back and coming out the other side. As he watched, the woman grabbed the point and tried to pull the javelin out of her torso. She swayed as she grabbed the javelin and palpitated as she pulled. There was a long shudder. And then she fell, face prone like some toppled idol.
There were women dressed in white and yellow silk, the fabric embroidered with brilliant bits of gold. Below their heads were jade and diamond necklaces, joined together with shining metal; as they moved, a dozen golden bracelets chimed and flashed and jingled. Then they laughed like madwomen – they were madwomen – as they threw all the treasures on their body towards his soldiers. "Take it, Mataram!" They cried. "This is the treasure of the kingdom of Gèlgèl, this is the fortune of all of Bali; take it, and know that Gèlgèl does not die as a pauper." Baureksa only watched in horrified fascination. From what felt very far away, he heard Prince Mandudareja shout, "My lads, shoot the lunatics. Their treasure shall be yours anyways." So the women died.
Then there were all the children. He saw the Balinese cut the throats of their own little boys and girls, God knows the reason why; he saw his own troops place bets on how many skulls of little children they could crack open with a musket; but worst of all were the shrieks that every little child made as arrow and bullet and kris cut them down, the shrill and chilling cries that shook the very marrow of the bones.
Why? Why were the Balinese doing this? Was it all simply to make Baureksa feel remorse? Was there some deeper purpose?
He had known of, even anticipated, the ritual of the puputan. But he had not thought this was what it would be like. Baureksa wanted – needed – to desert this scene. But he could not. He remembered again: There is nothing that can be compared to the service of the king; this is like being a piece of wood in the ocean, going where the waves bring you. The waves of the ocean had brought him here and he could not disobey, not any more than a flotsam piece of wood could disobey the Goddess of the Southern Ocean.
At least he could close his eyes.
When he reopened them after what seemed an infinity, most of the Balinese were dead. Their bodies littered the road, mingled with the fallen survivors lying here and there, moaning and shuddering on the way to death. The palanquin now stood atop the bodies of the four slaves who had once carried it high. The general spurred his horse to move. Was it possible that the little boy Dewa Agung was still alive? He would like it if he was..... He would like it if he could take the boy away and raise him as his. It would be an apology of sorts to the people of Gèlgèl.
He went to the palanquin and found the body of a boy, around seven or so, his silken robes soaking up a pool of collected blood. His head was missing, his neck cleanly severed.
This is the cost of conquest, Baureksa thought.
A map of Mataram's empire in the year 1634 AD. Orange represents the "Javanese core" of the empire, primarily those areas in and around Java that were actively conquered by Sultan Agung. Yellow represents the overseas vassals who paid regular tribute to Karta, most prominently the sultans of Jambi, Palembang, and Banjarmasin. KARTA is capitalized to show its prominence as capital.
Lombok, traditionally contested between Gèlgèl and the kingdom of Makassar (not shown on the map), was fully conquered by the latter while Mataram was invading Gèlgèl. Hence the Javanese could only conquer up to the Salient and Bali.
* * *
Hope both my fake chronicle and the narrative writing wasn't too bad. (And I realize they probably are! I never said I was good at writing stories.)
For a general introduction to Bali in the Early Modern era, I would refer you to Adrian Vickers's Bali: A Paradise Created. For a discussion of Balinese politics, H. S. Nordholt's The Spell of Power. A History of Balinese Politics, 1650-1940 is probably best. The puputan ritual of honorable mass suicide in the face of certain defeat is a well-documented phenomenon in Bali, but I've been unable to find a good source for it.
My reference to the king manifesting the attributes of five different gods, Vishnu, Brahma, Ishvara, Mahadeva, and Shiva, comes directly from Balinese views of kingship. By the Early Modern era the Balinese seem to have moved away from directly equivocating the gods and the king, instead considering the virtues of the gods to be immanent in an ideal king. (And to be more technical, these five gods aren't actually different gods. In Balinese theology, and I am vastly oversimplifying, the Divine Oneness primarily manifests itself as Shiva. Vishnu the Preserver, Brahma the Creator, Ishvara the god of purity, and the yellow god Mahadeva are all lesser incarnations of Shiva, who is himself an incarnation of the Divine Oneness.)
I apologize for the shitty MS Paint maps. Later I'll get a better photo editing program and do a better job.
- Every Grass in Java
- Word Count: 3.4k