Sometimes the most dangerous man in a kingdom is the one
they send away.
Chapter 1: The Boy Who Would Become Legend
In the year 1232, when the world was younger and meaner and
the shadows between the palm trees held secrets that could drive a man mad, a
child was born who would one day topple kingdoms like a boy knocking down
dominoes. They called him Banyak Wide, and if you knew anything about names and
their power—the way they can shape a soul like water shapes stone—you’d know
that this boy was marked for something terrible and wonderful.
The birthing happened in Nangka Village, though nobody could
say exactly where that was anymore. You know how it is with old stories—they
get fuzzy around the edges like photographs left too long in attic boxes. Some
folks said Ponorogo. Others swore it was Sumenep, or maybe Bali, hell, even Lumajang
got thrown into the mix. The truth had a way of scattering like leaves in a
November wind.
His daddy was Nararya Kirana, a man who’d clawed his way up
to Duke of Wengker before they shipped him off to Lamajang. Probably knew too
much, spoke too freely, the way smart men do when they forget that intelligence
can be as dangerous as a loaded gun in the wrong hands.
That name, though—Banyak Wide. Sweet Jesus, what a name for
a kid to carry around. “Banyak” marked him as Brahmana class, the holy men, the
ones who were supposed to know God’s business. “Wide” came from widya,
meaning knowledge. So here was this little squalling infant, and already the
universe was whispering: This one’s going to know things. This one’s going
to see around corners.
The old books—the Babad Manik Angkeran, dusty things
that smelled of incense and secrets—traced his bloodline back to Mpu Kuturan
and Mpu Tantular. Wise men, they were. The kind who could read the future in
the flight patterns of birds and knew that every shadow cast two ways: the way
you saw it, and the way it really was.
Chapter 2: The Palace Games
By the time Banyak Wide hit his thirties, he’d carved
himself a nice little niche in the Singasari palace. Rakryan Demung, they
called him. Mantri Makapramuka—state advisor. A man who whispered in the king’s
ear and helped shape the destiny of Java. You’d think that would be enough for
any ambitious man, wouldn’t you?
But the thing about smart people is they see patterns where
others see chaos. And Banyak Wide was beginning to see a pattern in the palace
that made his skin crawl.
Some of the old texts called him a babatangan—a fortune
teller, a man who could arrange state strategy like chess pieces on a board. He
had a gift for political maneuvering that was almost supernatural, the way some
people can smell rain coming three days off. And he was loyal to the Rajasa
dynasty, the line that flowed from Ken Dedes and Ken Arok.
Loyalty. Now there’s a word that can get you killed faster
than a curse word in church.
Because King Kertanegara—and Christ, what a piece of work he
was—had other ideas. The king followed the Sinelir dynasty, and he had this
notion called the Drnnyawipantara Doctrine that burned in his brain like a
fever dream. It was all about expanding Javanese territory, spreading out like
a cancer until they’d swallowed up Sumatra in something called the Pamalayu
Expedition.
Banyak Wide watched as the followers of his beloved Rajasa
dynasty started disappearing. Not murdered, mind you—this was palace politics,
civilized-like. They just… faded away. Got reassigned to distant provinces.
Developed sudden illnesses. Found themselves on the wrong side of important
decisions.
Mpu Raganatha, the old patih, found himself in the same boat
when he dared question the wisdom of the Pamalayu Expedition. Out he went,
replaced by Kebo Anengah and Apanji Aragani. Fresh faces, eager to please, the
kind of yes-men who’d agree the sky was purple if the king said so.
Chapter 3: The Heretic’s Stand
But it wasn’t just politics that put Banyak Wide crossways
with the king. No sir, it went deeper than that, down to the bone and marrow of
belief itself.
Kertanegara had fallen in love with something called Tantrayana—a
bastard mix of Javanese, Shaiva, and Buddhist traditions that made Banyak Wide’s
Brahmana soul recoil like touching a hot stove. The practice involved maithuna—sacred
fornication, if you want to call a spade a spade—all wrapped up in pretty
spiritual language about the Panca Ma.
The noble Ksatriya in the palace ate it up like chocolate
cake, but Banyak Wide saw it for what it was: exclusive, esoteric bullshit that
would divide the people faster than you could say “holy war.” He preferred
teachings that brought folks together, not drove them apart like dogs fighting
over scraps.
The Babad Lumajang and Serat Wiraraja tell us
he believed in simplicity and service, not secret rituals performed behind
locked doors by men who thought they were better than everyone else.
Well, you can imagine how popular that made him at court.
Chapter 4: The Exile
In 1269 AD, when Banyak Wide had pushed his luck about as
far as a man could push it, King Kertanegara made his move. Not a dagger in the
dark, mind you—that would’ve been too crude, too obvious. Instead, he offered
Banyak Wide a promotion.
“Congratulations,” the king probably said, with that smile
that never quite reached his eyes. “You’re the new Duke of Songenep”—what we
call Sumenep now—“way out there on Madura. Beautiful country. You’ll love it.”
Exile dressed up as honor. The oldest trick in the book.
That’s when Banyak Wide became Arya Wiraraja. New name, new
title, new life. From scholarly Brahmana to high-ranking official, Ksatriya
level. Must’ve felt like putting on clothes that didn’t quite fit, but he wore
them anyway because what choice did he have?
Chapter 5: The Duke of Salt and Schemes
Now, you might think a man sent to rule what was basically a
salt-crusted rock in the middle of nowhere would give up, maybe take to drink,
spend his days staring at the horizon and wondering what might have been.
You’d be wrong.
Arya Wiraraja took that barren, godforsaken piece of land
and turned it into something that mattered. Made Sumenep into a trading port
that hummed with activity—spices flowing in, silk flowing out, money changing
hands faster than cards in a rigged poker game. He had a gift for breaking down
boundaries, for making friends with people who should’ve been enemies.
Including, God help us all, the Mongol Empire.
While King Kertanegara was off playing with his Drnnyawipantara
Doctrine and launching his Pamalayu Expedition in 1275 AD—sending troops and
treasure and that Amoghapasa statue in 1286 to make friends with the Dharmasraya
Kingdom in Sumatra—Arya Wiraraja was quietly building his own network.
And he was watching. Always watching. Because a smart man
knows that empires, like houses of cards, tend to fall down when you least
expect it.
Chapter 6: The Warning Unheeded
Arya Wiraraja saw it coming like storm clouds on the
horizon. All those troops shipped off to Sumatra, leaving Singasari’s defenses
about as sturdy as a screen door in a hurricane. He tried to warn Kertanegara,
sent messages that basically said: “Your Majesty, you’re about to get your ass
handed to you if you don’t bring some soldiers home.”
But pride—sweet Christ, pride has killed more kings than
poison ever did. Kertanegara took the warning as an insult, saw doubt where
there should’ve been gratitude for honest counsel.
The conflict between them was like watching two trains
heading for each other on the same track. You knew somebody was going to get
hurt; you just didn’t know how bad it would be.
Chapter 7: The Toothless Tiger
Enter Jayakatwang, nephew-in-law to Kertanegara and a man
with a grudge that went back generations. His ancestor Kertajaya had been
killed by Ken Arok—Kertanegara’s own ancestor—and family feuds have a way of
festering like untreated wounds.
Jayakatwang wanted blood for blood, and he had Arya Wiraraja
whispering strategy in his ear.
The Babad Pararaton preserves the letter Arya
Wiraraja sent to Jayakatwang, and reading it is like watching a master chess
player set up checkmate:
“My lord, your humble servant bows before you, if you
intend to go hunting in the old field, then you should now go hunting, the
timing and opportunity are very good, there is no danger, no tiger, no bull,
and the snake, the thorns, there is a tiger, but toothless.”
The toothless tiger was Mpu Raganatha, old and past his
prime. In other words: the coast is clear, boys. Time to go hunting.
Chapter 8: The Fall of Kings
1292 AD. The year kingdoms died.
Jayakatwang moved like death itself, bringing his army down
from the north like a plague of locusts. Found King Kertanegara performing some
religious ceremony, drunk as a sailor on shore leave, surrounded by Brahmanas
who probably thought their prayers would protect them from cold steel.
They were wrong.
Kertanegara fell, and with him the Singasari Kingdom. But
Jayakatwang’s victory lasted about as long as morning dew—less than two years
before the Mongol Empire and Majapahit combined forces to crush him like a bug.
And whose fingerprints were all over that little maneuver?
Why, Arya Wiraraja’s, of course.
Chapter 9: The Great Deception
See, Arya Wiraraja had played all sides like a three-card
Monte dealer. He’d helped Jayakatwang overthrow Kertanegara, then turned around
and helped Raden Wijaya—a descendant of the Rajasa line—overthrow Jayakatwang.
When Raden Wijaya fled to Madura, Arya Wiraraja welcomed him
like a long-lost son. The prince brought gifts—cloth, belts, lower garments
carried by his wives—and made a promise that would echo through history:
“Father Wiraraja, my debt to you is very great. If I
achieve my goal, I will divide the land of Java into two later. You should
enjoy one half, I the other half.”
Arya Wiraraja’s response was pure poetry: “Whatever it
may be, my lord, as long as you may become king.”
Chapter 10: The Forest of Bitter Fruit
The plan they cooked up was beautiful in its simplicity.
Raden Wijaya would crawl back to Jayakatwang, pretend to submit, ask for a
piece of land called Tarik Forest to build a settlement. Arya Wiraraja would
provide troops from Madura to clear the forest, making it look like honest
work.
During the clearing, a servant from Madura ate a maja fruit—bitter
as sin—and spat it out in disgust. That moment of revulsion gave birth to a
name that would outlast empires: Majapahit.
Sometimes history turns on the smallest things. A bitter
fruit. A moment’s honesty about taste. The way truth has of surfacing even when
you’re trying to bury it.
Chapter 11: The Mongol Gambit
But Arya Wiraraja wasn’t done pulling strings. While Raden
Wijaya was playing the loyal servant to Jayakatwang, Arya Wiraraja was reaching
out to his old friends in the Mongol Empire—Kublai Khan and his Tartar army.
“Come on down,” he basically told them. “There’s a kingdom
needs conquering, and we’d be happy to help.”
But it was all part of the con. As he told his envoy:
“If the King of Daha has been defeated, there is none equal
in the whole island of Java. That later can be possessed by the Tartar king.
Such is my deception against the Tartar king.”
The Mongols came. They crushed Jayakatwang.
Then—surprise!—Majapahit forces drove the Mongols back into the sea like the
tide going out.
From the ashes of three kingdoms, Majapahit rose.
Chapter 12: The Promise Kept
1293 AD. One year after Majapahit’s founding, Raden Wijaya
kept his word. He made Arya Wiraraja King of Lamajang Tigang Juru, ruler of a
kingdom that oversaw three cultural centers in what we now call the Horseshoe
region: Madura, Patukangan, and Blambangan.
They called him Menak Koncar now, and he ruled free under
Majapahit’s protection, keeping political ties alive by placing relatives in
strategic positions—Nambi as Mahapatih, Ranggalawe as minister, Sora in Daha.
For twenty-two years, from 1294 to 1316, he built and
strengthened and never once bowed southward toward Majapahit. He was too busy
looking east, toward the future he was creating with his own hands.
Epilogue: The Master’s Final Hand
1316 AD. The master of stratagems, the man who’d toppled
kingdoms and raised others from dust, drew his last breath in Lamajang. They
buried him at Biting Site, Kutorenon Village, Sukodono District, and every year
since, his descendants make the pilgrimage. From the Pinatih clan in Bali to
the Sultan of Cirebon, they come to honor the man who changed the course of
Javanese history.
In Sumenep, they still celebrate October 31st as the
Anniversary of Sumenep Regency, with grand processions and cultural parades
that bring Arya Wiraraja’s story to life again.
Because some stories don’t die. Some men leave shadows so
long they stretch across centuries. And sometimes, in the quiet moments just
before dawn, when the wind is right and the world is still, you can almost hear
the whisper of his voice across the water:
“The timing and opportunity are very good. There is no
danger, no tiger, no bull…”
But maybe, just maybe, the most dangerous tiger was the one
who wrote those words. The one who learned that sometimes the only way to save
a kingdom is to destroy it first, then build something better from the pieces.
And if that’s not a kind of truth, I don’t know what is.
The End
---
Sometimes the most dangerous man in a kingdom is the one
they send away. But exile, like death, has a way of not being
permanent—especially when the exile knows how to play the long game.
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