Little India in Medan, Indonesia, hides its cultural roots well, so assimilated are the people – but look hard enough in Kampung Madras and you’ll find them
- Established in the 1830s, Kampung Madras, in the Indonesian city of Medan, is home to most of the 40,000-75,000 Indian-Indonesians living in North Sumatra
- Ian Lloyd Neubauer seeks out its Hindu temples, stumbles on a street scene straight of India and is treated to tandoori chicken, curry and naan bread
Singapore’s Little India, a former convict enclave where indentured labourers were housed during the British colonial period, has been turned into one of the city state’s most colourful historical districts and attracts millions of tourists over the years. The Hindu temples Sri Veeramakaliamman and Sri Srinivasa are among its biggest draws.
In colonial times the Dutch, like their British counterparts, shipped in South Indian labour, and these workers toiled at Sumatra’s rubber and tobacco plantations.
Established in the 1830s, Kampung Madras, as Medan’s Little India is called, offers a raw alternative to Singapore’s sanitised version. According to Tamilnation, a website devoted to the Tamil diaspora in Indonesia, it is still home to most of the 40,000-75,000 Indian-Indonesians living in North Sumatra.
“Even the name, Medan, is believed to have been derived from the Hindi word maidan, meaning ‘ground’,” The Hindu newspaper has reported.
Marked by arched gateways (formally declared open by the Indian ambassador to Indonesia in 2018), Kampung Madras occupies 4 hectares (10 acres) in the heart of the city of 2.5 million people.
A hodgepodge of decaying colonial-era buildings featuring a variety of shopfronts, the district is peppered with architecture representing all five of the religions recognised in Indonesia: mosques, churches, Buddhist and Confucianist shrines as well as a dozen-or-so Hindu temples, which I recently set out on foot to discover.
I step out of my hotel just as the sky turns grey. Thunder cracks overhead and monsoon rain sweeps across the city. I seek shelter at Pasar Petisah Medan, a large indoor market in the southwest corner of Kampung Madras.
Although masks are still mandatory in all indoor areas, few are using them at the market, or anywhere else I visit.
From haberdasheries fronted by women sitting at antique sewing machines to boutiques to colourful spice shops and Chinese gold traders, this vibrant labyrinth is a feast for the eyes. But there appear to be no Indian traders, and the market is little different to countless others found in the Indonesian archipelago.
When the downpour eases, I take a stroll across the rubbish-strewn Deli River to Sri Supramaniyam, the first Hindu temple on my route. Yet it is so unremarkable that I walk right past it. When I retrace my steps, I notice a sign on the doorway advising callers that the temple is closed for renovations.
I continue to Sri Kali Ma, a temple dedicated to the Hindu goddess of time, doomsday and death. But when I reach where it should be, all I see are office buildings and a nearby mosque from where the call to prayer loudly resounds. The temple, it seems, has been swept away by time and the march of Islam.
A few minutes later, I find the Shri Kali Amman Koil Temple. But with a nondescript prayer hall topped by a small statue of Kali holding her swords, snakes and other instruments of death, there is nothing much to write home about here.
I weave a course through a series of backstreets, taking a peek inside a South Asian grocer that sells lentils, split peas and bottled cow urine, which is used to clean homes, kill bacteria and drive out evil spirits.
Minibuses crammed with passengers zoom past cycle rickshaws piloted by wiry old men with long moustaches and bare feet. And there, on a corner, behind a colourful wall plastered with reliefs of elephants and Hindi dancers, is a pyramidal tower crawling with brightly painted Hindu effigies.
It’s the crowning tower of Sri Mariamman, Kampung Madras’ oldest and busiest Hindu temple, constructed in 1884 for the worship of the goddess of medicine and fertility.
After removing my shoes, I step inside the main chamber and am transported to a mystical place where devotees offer garlands to many-headed statues and queue to receive blessings from paint-splattered priests.
As dusk settles over the city, I make my way back a few blocks to Sabass Indian Food, where I have arranged to meet a journalist who has written extensively about Kampung Madras.
“I love this city and Little India is the best part of it,” says Aisyah Llewellyn. “It’s totally unlike Bali, where everything is so touristy. The people are so friendly here. I’m sure you noticed,” she says, as we feast on tandoori chicken, aubergine, potato and bean curry plus soft-crispy naan bread cooked by the proprietor, Pak Sabass.
Sabass speaks Tamil, a language of southern India that was passed down his family line from his great-great-grandfather, who immigrated from the Indian state of Tamil Nadu “a long, long time ago”.
When I tell Sabass how much I have enjoyed exploring his town, he says I must return in October, for Diwali – the five-day festival when every street and alleyway in Kampung Madras is lit up with oil lights, and fireworks brighten the night sky – so that I may join his family for the traditional feast.
I nod my head eagerly. Then I order more naan bread. And more aubergine curry.
