Hanacaraka: The Legend Behind Javanese Script

If you were to ask a linguist or a historian why “A” comes before “B” in the Latin alphabet, the answer would likely be a dry recount of Semitic origins, Greek adaptations, and arbitrary evolution. There is no story told by A, B, C, D, and E. They are simply sounds lined up in a row, devoid of narrative connection.

However, on the island of Java in Indonesia, the traditional script tells a different story—quite literally. The Javanese script, known natively as Aksara Jawa or Hanacaraka, is not just a collection of phonetic symbols. Its alphabetical order forms a perfect pangram: a poem that recounts a tragic legend of loyalty, misunderstanding, and death.

For language learners and linguistics enthusiasts, the Hanacaraka offers a fascinating glimpse into how culture and oral storytelling can become embedded in the very scaffolding of a writing system. Let’s journey to ancient Java to decode the legend of Aji Saka and the alphabet built on the bones of two loyal servants.

The Script: An Abugida of Beauty

Before diving into the mythology, we must understand the mechanics of the script. Javanese is an Austronesian language spoken by over 80 million people. Its traditional writing system is an abugida derived from the Brahmi scripts of ancient India.

Unlike an alphabet (where consonants and vowels are separate letters), an abugida consists of distinct consonant letters that carry an inherent vowel sound. In Javanese, that open syllable sound is /a/ (pronounced like the ‘a’ in “father”) or /ɔ/ (like the ‘o’ in “hot”), depending on the dialect.

While the English alphabet has 26 letters, the core Javanese script consists of 20 basic characters (aksara nglegena). When recited in their traditional order, these 20 characters form four distinct lines of poetry.

The Legend of Aji Saka

To understand the sequence of the letters, we must look to the legend of Aji Saka, a civilizing hero in Javanese mythology credited with bringing writing and recounting the calendar system to Java.

The story begins with Aji Saka journeying to the kingdom of Medang Kamulan to defeat a cannibalistic giant king. Before entering the kingdom, Aji Saka stopped on the island of Majeti. He left his prized heirloom—a magical turban (blangkon)—in the care of one of his faithful servants, Sembada.

Aji Saka gave Sembada a strict, unwavering command: “Do not let anyone take this turban except for me. Guard it with your life.”

Aji Saka then traveled on to Medang Kamulan accompanied by his other servant, Dora. After a great battle in which Aji Saka defeated the giant king and freed the people, he settled into his new role as ruler. Remembering his sacred turban, he turned to Dora.

“Go back to the island of Majeti”, Aji Saka commanded Dora. “Retrieve my turban from Sembada and bring it here.”

The Tragedy of Two Loyalties

This is where the tragedy unfolds—a linguistic collision of two absolute commands. Dora traveled back to the island and found his friend Sembada. He relayed the King’s order: he was to take the turban back to Java.

Sembada, remembering the specific instruction given to him (“Give this to no one but me”), refused. He believed his duty was to hold the turban until Aji Saka himself came to claim it.

Dora, equally loyal, insisted that he was acting on the direct orders of the King. He believed his duty was to retrieve the turban by any means necessary.

Both men were right; both men were fiercely loyal. Words failed them, and they drew their weapons. Because they were both students of Aji Saka, they were matched perfectly in skill and strength. They fought for days, neither gaining the upper hand, until finally, exhausted and wounded, they struck each other down simultaneously. Both servants died defending their master’s orders.

When Aji Saka realized Dora had not returned, he traveled to the island himself. There, he found the bodies of his two most loyal companions lying next to the sacred turban. Overcome with grief at the realization that his contradictory orders had caused their deaths, Aji Saka composed a poem to honor them. This poem became the Javanese alphabet.

Decoding the Pangram

The 20 syllables of the script are arranged into four lines of five syllables each. Here is how the alphabet breaks down, acting as both a phonetic guide and a narrative elegy.

Line 1: The Introduction

Ha Na Ca Ra Ka
“Hana caraka”
Translation: “There were two messengers.”

The first line sets the scene, introducing the subjects of the tragedy: Dora and Sembada, the loyal emissaries.

Line 2: The Conflict

Da Ta Sa Wa La
“Data sawala”
Translation: “They were involved in a dispute.” (Or “They fought with each other.”)

Here, the alphabet describes the clash of duties. The word sawala implies a refusal or an argument, highlighting the standoff regarding the turban.

Line 3: The Climax

Pa Dha Ja Ya Nya
“Padha jayanya”
Translation: “They were equally powerful.”

This line serves a dual purpose. Linguistically, it introduces the palatal and nasal sounds. Narratively, it emphasizes the tragedy. If one had been weaker, he might have yielded or fled. Because they were equals (padha jaya), the only outcome was mutual destruction.

Line 4: The Aftermath

Ma Ga Ba Tha Nga
“Maga bathanga”
Translation: “Here lie their corpses.”

The final line provides a somber conclusion. The word bathang refers to a carcass or a corpse, signifying the utter waste of life resulting from the misunderstanding.

Linguistic Significance: Why This Matters

From a linguistic perspective, the Hanacaraka is a marvel of mnemonic efficiency. In the Western world, we use separate mnemonic devices (like “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog”) to test typewriters or fonts because our alphabet itself is random. The Javanese script is the mnemonic device.

This structure ensures that literacy is tied directly to cultural history. A child learning to write in traditional Java wasn’t just learning phonetics; they were absorbing a moral lesson about loyalty, communication, and the consequences of rigid adherence to orders without wisdom.

It also highlights a distinct difference in how oral cultures transition to literary cultures. While the Latin alphabet was utilitarian, spread by trade and bureaucracy across diverse languages, the Javanese script was developed (or significantly adapted) specifically for a high-context culture where poetry and philosophy were paramount.

The Script in the Modern World

Today, the Latin alphabet is used for most day-to-day interactions in Indonesia, including the Javanese language. However, the Hanacaraka script is far from dead. It is still taught in schools across Central and East Java and is used for decorative purposes, street signs, and in formal customary contexts.

In the digital age, there is a growing movement to revive the script on computers and smartphones. The Unicode consortium includes Javanese, allowing digital preservationists to type the tragic story of Dora and Sembada in its original form.

Conclusion

Alphabets are usually seen as neutral tools—functional, invisible, and arbitrary. But the Hanacaraka reminds us that writing is never truly separated from the culture that creates it. Embedded in the very sequence of the Javanese letters is a story of human error and devotion.

The next time you recite your ABCs, remember the story of Aji Saka. Remember the two servants who, in their equal strength and equal loyalty, became the foundation of a language, immortalized in a pangram that has been recited for centuries.