No one can confidently say that he will still be living tomorrow.
– Euripides, Greek playwright
Cases of people declared dead in the longhouse but rising up again alive are very rare.
In Saratok’s Melupa Basin, a tributary of the Krian, we came across one. It also happened at my dad’s original longhouse Munggu Embawang.
I can still remember vividly the elderly woman, usually called Ini Majit, also known as Indai Manang Chundi. (Manang Chundi was the most sought-after shaman or faith healer then)
Their family unit was at the far end of the longhouse, separated by at least 20 doors or bilik from that of my paternal grandpa Jembu. Because Majit is my peer and was given to be raised by Chundi as an adopted son, I used to visit their room as an adolescent. Majit’s biological mum was my dad’s first cousin — Majit therefore is my second cousin.
On the day, she was said to have died, the body of the lanky and seemingly strong granny was about to be brought from the room to the ruai (open gallery).
Those who were usually tasked with doing some assignments during funerals were already busy preparing the sapat (where the remains were to be placed, partitioned with traditional pua kumbu or woven blankets) at the ruai —this is only done in Krian and Saribas basins.
I usually revel in their efficiency in speedily setting up the sapat even up to this very day. However, something out of the ordinary occurred on that day circa 1967.
To the shock of all inside the room, especially the womenfolk who were dressing her up prior to being brought to the sapat, when they were about to put powder on her face, Ini Majit woke up and said she never used any talcum powder before. She asked for water and queried why there were many people gathering inside the room.
Uncle Jelemin, also known as Apai Jandek (and Majit’s biological father) was about to hit the gong for the second time to announce the body being ready to be brought to the sapat — and a confirmation of death. But this time, it was an exception.
They immediately arranged for her son Manang Chundi to perform belian mulaika semengat (shaman’s chant to regain her spirit). There was some joy but the atmosphere remained sombre.
Ini Majit was still in a daze. After being given some water, she seemed to be better and was able to sit. An inquisitive lady asked her what happened. She replied, while about to cross titi rawan, a highly risky bridge of no return between the world of the living and sebayan (abode of the dead), she missed a step. This caused her to stumble and fall into a shallow trench. That was when she woke up.
Manang Chundi went into a trance to connect with his mum’s sebayan-bound spirit. He succeeded in catching it and returned it to her with a tap on her forehead. His mother lived for at least another three years.
Her story was proof of the old Iban belief of the existence of titi rawan. In fact, there were other cases in the Krian area similar to that of Ini Majit’s.
In lower Krian, namely at the Kelua longhouse in the early 70s, there was a totally different case — hitherto still inexplicable — involving a deceased female. Known as Indai Ugat and wife of one Empurong, she and family were tapping rubber for a while at our area Kedap longhouse for some years.
When she died at their own Kelua longhouse, a funeral was held there. What made the funeral something out of the ordinary was when there were repeated knocking sounds from inside the wooden coffin. Was it the deceased Indai Ugat knocking as if she was trying to get out from it? No one knew. Nobody, not even Empurong, dared to open the coffin. He was heard asking her not to disturb the living.
By the time Empurong entered the sapat to pacify the situation, others (including the woman who performed the weep) were all gone a few doors away.
There was no more sound from inside the coffin up to the time she was buried but the occurrence still remains a mystery up till now.
