My steps that morning began on the south side of Malioboro. The Yogyakarta air was warm, sunlight reflecting off the old buildings along the street, even though the clock was only a few seconds before 10 a.m. I accidentally entered Beringharjo Market and took a moment to soak in the atmosphere. It was crowded, but it brought a certain joy and serenity to me.
Suddenly, an announcement was heard that the national anthem Indonesia Raya would soon be sung and everyone was asked to stand. Wow, a unique tradition I’ve only encountered in Yogyakarta.
After the national anthem, I crossed the street and saw one of my favorite buildings in Yogyakarta: Hamzah Batik. Every time I pass this area, I always stop, as if it’s become a mandatory ritual. The now wider sidewalk feels welcoming to pedestrians. Pedicab drivers, the clatter of horse-drawn carriages, and the sounds of buskers combine to create a never-ending street orchestra.
On the veranda, four men in striped uniforms and blangkon sat cross-legged, playing the zither, drums, a small gong, and a flute. The simple gamelan played softly, creating a serene atmosphere amidst the bustle of Malioboro. I took a step back and sat on a long bench on the veranda. In front of the gamelan musicians, a batik-decorated appreciation box was placed, with a piece of paper reading “Appreciation Box.” Without pretension, without coercion, the music made me feel like Hamzah Batik was more than just a shop, but a transitional space: from the bustling world of the streets to a quieter inner space.
I stepped inside. The scent of incense immediately greeted me, guiding my steps as if I were passing through a time tunnel. Thin smoke from a clay container filled with charcoal enveloped the wooden statue of Loro Blonyo, who sat gracefully, as if welcoming an unseen guest. Beside it, a brass tray and a weathered wooden box held traces of the ritual: black powder in a small cup, ash in a pot, still-warm charcoal. Everything seemed alive, not inanimate objects, but witnesses to prayers once uttered in silence.
But my gaze fell on a photo containing a prayer in Javanese complete with translation:
“Niyat ingsun ngobong dupo, kukuse dumugi angkoso, kang anggondo arum pinongko tali rasaningsun manembah dumateng Gusti Kang Akaryo Jagad.”
The translation is simple: I intend to burn incense, its smoke rising into the sky, its fragrance like a rope that binds my feelings to worship God, the Creator of the Universe.
Perhaps for some, it’s just a series of symbolic words. For me, the prayer was an invitation to silence. Amidst the bustle of Malioboro, suddenly there was a space that taught me to pause, take a breath, and connect my mind to the All-Existent.
I went deeper. In the center, my eyes fell on a plaque: the award for the appointment of Hamzah Sulaeman as Kanjeng Mas Tumenggung (KMT) Tanoyo Hamijinindyo by Sri Sultan Hamengkubuwono X. The Javanese plaque was neatly displayed, issued in Ngayogyakarta Hadiningrat on 7 Dulkaidah 1947, Javanese, corresponding to September 2, 2014 AD.
I stood in front of the plaque for a long time. It felt extraordinary: Hamzah Sulaeman had received a Javanese noble title. It wasn’t just a personal honor, but a symbol of a cross-identity encounter. Hamzah demonstrated that a love of culture can bridge everything. He was Chinese, yet Javanese. He was Hamzah, yet Raminten—the old woman in the comedy ketoprak, and an entrepreneur who popularized batik and traditional culinary traditions.
Then I headed to my favorite corner: the herbal drink stall. It only cost Rp 3,000. It was cheap, but the taste was more than just a drink. A woman in a simple kebaya with her hair in a bun poured yellow liquid from a glass bottle. It was turmeric and tamarind jamu, beras kencur, wedang uwuh—whatever was available that day. I chose beras kencur. Using a coconut shell, she stirred the drink and served it with a sincere smile.
I sipped slowly. The warmth spread from my tongue to my stomach. Outside, Malioboro was still bustling. Inside, my heart was calm. Sitting with a glass of jamu, I looked at the batik-clad mannequins, hanging lanterns, wayang puppets, and ornaments that seemed to tell a story. Hamzah Batik was more than just a shop; it was like a living museum of Javanese culture.
Sometimes I shopped: batik clothes, Raminten T-shirts, or small crafts for souvenirs. But even without shopping, a short stop was worth it.
A few months ago, I had the chance to go upstairs, enjoy lunch at Raminten 3, or watch the quirky Raminten cabaret. There’s a palpable continuity: from the gamelan and incense at Hamzah Batik, to the modern cabaret full of Javanese humor. All of this demonstrates how fluid Raminten’s footprint is in Yogyakarta’s cultural landscape.
And finally, I remembered Hamzah Sulaeman. He was born on January 7, 1950. His youth was colorful: he studied Biology at Gadjah Mada University, but didn’t finish, then continued at Sanata Dharma University. He worked on cruise ships, lived for three years in America, before finally returning home when his father became ill to manage the Mirota business. From there, Hamzah Batik was born, and he would become an icon.
From the ketoprak stage, he created the image of Raminten. The name stuck, not only on stage, but also in his restaurants and culinary branches: The House of Raminten, The Waroeng of Raminten, and Raminten 3. Everything was imbued with humor, tradition, and sacredness.
Hamzah passed away on April 23, 2018, at the age of 68. But his legacy never truly faded. Every gamelan instrument on the veranda of Hamzah Batik, every billowing incense, every plaque on display—all are Yogyakarta’s way of preserving his memory.
For me personally, every time I walk from the south of Malioboro, past Beringharjo Market, and then stop at Hamzah Batik, it feels like repeating a small ritual. A ritual that not only relieves fatigue, but also gives the heart space to pray, listen, see, and learn: that life is not just about buying, but also about appreciating. Appreciating a simple gamelan instrument, a billowing incense, warm herbal drinks, and a man who successfully bridged two worlds: Hamzah Sulaeman and the legendary Raminten.
“The difference between a thin person and a fat person is only in what they eat. The thin one eats heart, the fat one takes up space.” — Hamzah Sulaeman (Raminten)
