In one of the States on the East Coast, there lived a Râja, who, though he was
not the ruler of the country, was a man of standing, and was possessed of
considerable power. This man owned much land, many cattle, several wives, and
a number of slave-debtors, and his reputation for kindness and good-nature stood
high among the people. It must be remembered, however, that the standard by
which he was judged differs considerably from our own, otherwise, the things I
am about to tell, would appear to accord but ill with the character he bore.
Upon a certain day a kris was stolen from him, and suspicion fastened upon one
of his slave-debtors named Talib. The man was innocent of the theft, but his
protestations were not believed, and he was forthwith consigned to the Pĕn-jâra
or local gaol. The tedious formality of a trial was dispensed with, and nothing in
the nature of the sifting of evidence was considered necessary. The stolen kris
was the property of a Prince. That was enough; and Talib went to gaol forthwith,
the Râja issuing an order—a sort of lettre de cachet—for his admittance. To
European ears this does not sound very terrible. Miscarriages of justice, even in
civilised lands, are not unknown, and in semi-barbarous countries they are, of
course, all in the day's march. Unfortunately, however, an inspection of the gaols
of Europe and of the Protected Native States, does not enable one to form a
picture of the Pĕn-jâra in Independent Malaya; and imprisonment in the former
is not altogether the same thing as incarceration in the latter.
The gaol in which Talib was confined was situated in one of the most crowded
portions of the native town. It consisted of two rows of cages, placed back to
back, each one measuring some six feet in length, two feet in width, and five feet
in height. These cages were formed of heavy slabs of wood, with intervals of
some two inches in every eight, for the admission of light and air. The floors,
which were also made of wooden bars, were raised about six inches from the
ground; and the cages, which were twelve in number, were surrounded, at a
distance of about two feet, by a solid wall, formed of slabs of wood joined
closely one to another. Prisoners placed in these cells are never allowed to come
out again, until the money payment has been made in satisfaction of the claim
against them, or until kindly Death puts forth his hand to deliver them from
worse pains than his.
Even this represents little to the European mind. Natives may perhaps live in a
cage from necessity much as they often live in a boat from choice, and those
who have never visited the prisoners in their captivity may think that no great
suffering is inflicted upon them by such confinement. To fill in the picture one
has to remember many things. No sanitary appliances of any kind are provided;