Stephen, Desire, Divine and Demonic (2005)

Stephen M. Desire, Divine and Demonic: Balinese Mysticism in the Paintings of I Ketut Budiana and I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana

Вихідні дані. Michele Stephen. University of Hawai’i Press, Honolulu, 2005. ISBN 0-8248-2859-3. LC BL2120.B2S84 2005. Підтримано La Trobe University. Польова робота на Балі з 1996 року під егідою LIPI (Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia), фінансування Australian Research Grants Council; авторка вперше приїхала на Балі 1994-го, у книзі — «вісім років роботи».

Структура. Introduction · 1. Defining Balinese Mysticism: A Problematic Enterprise · 2. Fire, Destruction, and the Power of the Mother (картини I Ketut Budiana) · 3. Mythic Transformations of Desire (картини I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana) · 4. The Influence of Tantric Thought (с. 73) · 5. Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe (с. 98) · 6. Visualizing Pure Realms (с. 133) · Notes (139) · Bibliography (165) · Index (173).

Місце в лінії. Третє балійське джерело корпусу і найновіше. Це та книга, яку сесія Тиру 0 записала в завдання: «заповнити стовпець 10 (перспектива) для балійських рядків або довести, що його там немає — Michele Stephen має відповісти». Вона відповідає — і відповідь дорожча за саме питання (§VII).

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0. Регістр і позиційність

Регістр за Filtr_pozytsiinosti_dzherela — A, найчистіший з трьох балійських джерел. Академічна монографія університетського видавництва, рецензування (Leo Howe названий як читач), вісім років польової роботи, бібліографія на ~250 позицій, інституційна егіда з обох боків.

Але три обмеження, які авторка здебільшого називає сама:

#	Обмеження	Наслідок
1	Теза заявлена наперед. Книга доводить, що балійська релігія — місцевий варіант шиваїтського тантризму. Це не результат індукції, а рамка	матеріал відбирався під тезу; шукати, що в неї не влізло
2	Текстова база неперевірна. Ключові tutur-тексти (Siwa Linga Suksma, Aji Mayasandi, Tattwa Kala, Kanda Empat Rare, Tutur Dalem Turaga, Tutur Dalem Gading, Kanda Empat Dewa, Pancamahabhuta) не перекладені й не видані; читаються через балійського перекладача, якого сама Стівен називає інформантом	усе, що спирається на ці тексти, — B, свідчення інформанта, а не текст
3	Вузька база узагальнення. Двоє художників і кілька брахманських учених (насамперед покійний Ida Bagus Sutarja, брахмана-вчений і різьбяр масок із села Мас) — і висновок про «балійську релігію» загалом	авторка визнає: «My arguments are at best preliminary»

Але саме вузькість бази і є її головним аргументом — див. §VII. Вона не ховає, що працює з верхнім шаром; вона стверджує, що тільки там і можна отримати відповідь.

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I. Проти чого написана книга

Вступ називає п’ять тверджень про балійську релігію, що стали загальним місцем у літературі другої половини XX ст., і книга сперечається з усіма п’ятьма:

1. Балійська релігія прагне відтворити на землі божественний космічний порядок, де панують ієрархія, гармонія і рівновага.
2. Балійська релігія — це передусім праксис, обрядове виконання, а не умоглядна філософія чи внутрішній досвід.
3. Балійська релігія — суміш: тонкий шар індуїзму поверх глибокої основи первісного анімізму.
4. Балійську релігію треба розуміти в її власних термінах; шукати індійських паралелей — значить накладати зовнішні моделі.
5. Балійська релігія різноманітна й локальна; жодна пояснювальна схема не охопить її форм.

Найвідоміша формула тут — Кліффорда Гірца: балійське релігійне життя є «orthopraxy not orthodoxy», і традиційна балійська релігія «не виробила системи ані етичної, ані містичної теології». Стівен ловить його на власному ж визначенні містичної теології — «direct, individual experiential contact with the divine via mysticism, insight, aesthetic intuition, etc., often with the assistance of various sorts of highly organized spiritual and intellectual disciplines, such as yoga» — і показує, що на Балі це є.

Класична формула «шару», проти якої вона пише, — Мігель Коваррубіас (1937):

«Like the Catholicism of some American Indians, Hinduism was simply an addition to the native religion, more as a decoy to keep the masters content, a strong but superficial veneer of decorative Hinduistic practices over the deeply rooted animism of the Balinese natives.»

Це просто наш закон субстрату, сформульований у 1937 році. Стівен доводить, що для Балі він хибний. Див. Shar_shcho_vyiavyvsia_ne_sharom.

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II. Що на Балі є і чого корпус про це не знав

1. Тексти й практики

Балійські tutur-тексти описують йогічні процедури очищення себе й з’єднання душі практика з душею Шиви. Технічна термінологія кундаліні-йоги — prana, pingala, susumna, nadi, bindu (windu), nada — присутня. Шість чакр і кундаліні відомі; Goudriaan прямо пише, що кундаліні «well known at present in Hindu Bali». Lovric знаходить у текстах usada інструкції з кундаліні-йоги; кілька її інформантів знайомі з практикою. Стівен пише, що балійці, яких вона добре знає, розповідали їй про власний досвід підняття кундаліні в цілительських обрядах.

2. Суря-Севана: щоденний обряд брахманського жерця

Найважливіша процедура книги. За перекладом C. Hooykaas, pedanda щодня:

1. ритуально очищає тіло;
2. виймає власну душу з тіла й піднімає її над головою;
3. спалює тілесні нечистоти, змиває залишки;
4. накладає мантри на руки й тіло — створює «тіло сили», тіло-мантру;
5. закликає Шиву ввійти в підготовлену посудину;
6. на кульмінації зосереджується на Ардганарешварі — Шиві, з’єднаному зі своєю Шакті в одному тілі;
7. з цього з’єднання народжується amerta, і вода в його посудині стає святою водою.

Стівен спостерігала виконання і зазначає: «the priest appears to be in trance».

Порівняння з південноіндійським шайва-сіддгантою (за Richard Davis): підготовка та сама аж до входження Шиви; далі розходяться. Індійський жрець вводить Шиву в лінгам у храмі; балійський — виробляє святу воду вдома.

3. Азбучна містика й візуалізація

Dasaksara — десять сакральних літер: panca-brahma (sa-ba-ta-a-i, п’ятиразовий вогонь) плюс panca-tirtha (na-ma-si-va-ya, п’ятиразова свята вода). Медитація на ongkara, windu, ardhacandra, nada. Rubinstein показала тантричний характер балійської «азбучної містики» і — далі — що весь жанр поезії kekawin є йогічною практикою: вірш служить янтрою, у яку ритуально вкладається душа Шиви («literary yoga»).

Балійці наполягали Стівен: значення має сама форма літери, не лише звук; тому текст у транслітерації чи перекладі втрачає силу. «Понятійний рівень розуміння — лише мала частина того, що вкладено в ці символи.»

4. Мікро- і макрокосм

Bhuwana agung (макрокосм) і bhuwana alit (мікрокосм) — найвідоміша риса балійської думки, яку майже ніколи не називали тантричною. Тексти kanda empat описують відповідності: трава — волосся, рот — печера. Шкіра, м’ясо, кістки й органи — оселі богів, кожному приписано звук, літеру, мантру.

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III. Поглинання, а не вигнання

Центральне перетлумачення книги, і воно змінює читання всього балійського матеріалу корпусу.

Космологія. Якби єдність єдиного бога (Tunggal, Acintya, Paramasiwa) не була порушена, матеріального світу не існувало б. Щойно єдність порушено, сили, що породжують форми, набирають дедалі нижчих форм. Отже кожен акт творення врешті веде до руйнування. Сакті — той бік божества, якому не байдужий світ; без неї світу не було б, але, творячи й опікуючись, вона надміру прив’язується (terikat) до створеного і стає небезпечною.

«These forces are not different entities or powers; it is simply a matter of encountering them in different states—now controlled, now out of control. They cannot be destroyed or banished since they are the very origin of our existence.»

Наслідок для обрядів. Три обряди, які західна наука читала як екзорцизм, є реабсорбцією:

Обряд	Конвенційне читання	Читання Стівен
caru перед odalan	«вигнати демонів, щоб не заважали» (Jacoba Hooykaas: «a casting out of the demons before the really holy part»)	bhuta kala стягуються з чотирьох сторін до центру, годуються і піднімаються в чистішу форму — стають kala hyang; рух проти годинникової стрілки (prasawya) = вгору
Баронг проти Рангди	екзорцизм проти відьом	зустріч вогню й води: Рангда — вогонь, Баронг — вода; з їхньої нейтралізації народжується пара — душа. Берави-Дурґа з цвинтаря повертається в храм як Деві-Дурґа
Eka Dasa Rudra	«умилостивити демонів» (Stuart-Fox про обряд 1979 року)	перетворити Рудру з агента хаосу на Шиву. Тексти 1963 року: «May banished be the evil shape, may the natural form return, / Ogresses become like Uma, ogres then become like Guru»; «In the past thou hast been bhuta, yaksa, yaksi; return to thy godlike shape»

Odalan — це шлюб і народження: небо й земля, purusha і pradana, Шива й Ума; народжується tirta amerta. Три двори храму відповідають нижній частині жіночого тіла: jeroan — лоно, jaba tengah — стегна, jaba — стопи; Kori Agung — піхва. Жертва segehan agung (кров півня з кокосовим молоком) — зачаття: червоні kama bang і білі kama petak.

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IV. Обряд як зовнішня форма внутрішньої практики

Головна конструкція книги, і найцінніше для проєкту:

Те, чого окремий практик досягає внутрішньою йогічною візуалізацією в bhuwana alit, громада досягає публічним обрядом у bhuwana agung. Це одна операція на двох масштабах.

Odalan = Суря-Севана, винесена на люди: жрець робить ту саму процедуру, тільки в храмі перед громадою, і те, що насправді відбувається, не видно нікому, бо шлюб і народження святої води відбуваються у його внутрішній візуалізації.

І далі — рядок, який варто виписати окремо. На виставі Calon Arang у Pura Puncak Padung Dawa (Табанан, 30 травня 2002) Пандунґ перед спробою заколоти Рангду звертається до глядачів, згадуючи rwa bhineda, Шиву й Уму, purusha і pradana, ANG і AH. Тобто містичний сенс проговорюється вголос — і:

«of course the majority of the audience does not possess this esoteric knowledge and thus is oblivious to the meaning of the words the actors recite.»

Обряд працює без розуміння учасників. Операційна семантика живе у невеликої письменної групи; маса виконує правильно, не знаючи, що виконує. Див. Obriad_iak_zovnishnia_forma_vnutrishnoi_praktyky.

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V. Діагностика збою: сіддгі як пастка

Стовпець 8 решітки на балійських рядках стояв ◐ або ○: ми знали «чистий / нечистий транс» і «поранення = порушення табу», але не мали нічого, що відповідало б ісихастській «прелесті». Тут воно є, і в тантричній формулі:

У тантричному розумінні здобуття магічних сил, siddhi, є природним наслідком розвитку духовних сил — але потенційно небезпечним, бо може стати серйозною перешкодою подальшому духовному розвиткові.

І в балійській, засвідченій особисто:

«Balinese have often told me that some students of the lontar texts, including pedanda, become so fond of exercising these powers that their development to higher levels is blocked and they become powerful magicians rather than spiritual adepts.»

Плюс друга форма небезпеки: знання текстів «не лише могутнє, воно небезпечне, якщо підійти до нього неправильно». «Many are the tales told of persons who have become seriously ill or even insane as a result of their improper engagement with the texts.»

Див. Siddkhi_iak_pastka_baliiska_prelest.

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VI. Доступ: за підготовкою, а не за родом

Пряма відповідь на питання, поставлене корпусом учора (Ezoteryka_iak_arcana_imperii).

• Zurbuchen і Rubinstein окремо показали, що уявлення про суспільство, різко поділене за письменністю, хибне. Письменність проникала на багато рівнів; Rubinstein говорить про «vocational literacy»: цілителі, художники, архітектори, виконавці мусили читати lontar.
• Застереження aja wera («не розголошуй»), що стоять на початку містичних текстів, за згодою сучасних балійських книжників обмежують не за кастою, а за підготовкою: «meant to restrict certain types of knowledge, invariably mystic, magic, or esoteric in nature, to those persons who have studied enough to receive them, regardless of caste».
• Умова доступу: очисні обряди, ініціація і усне навчання від гуру — бо текст містить лише частину, повне вчення передається усно.
• Rubinstein: «access to these texts has not been confined to pedanda, unordained Brahmana or the triwangsa in general, and no radical dichotomy has existed between a literate elite and an “illiterate peasantry”».
• Інформанти Стівен наполягали: містичне знання доступне тим, хто справді хоче його здобути.

Балійська езотерика вимірюється по осі «зростання / рента» — і дає показник у бік зростання. Це перший випадок, де тест застосовано до конкретної традиції.

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VII. Головне: чому наш стовпець 10 був порожній

Стівен ставить питання про рівні розуміння і відповідає на нього аналогією, яка б’є прямо в корпус:

«Clearly one cannot reconstruct esoteric doctrines by questioning only laity or uneducated priests. What picture of Catholicism might emerge from an anthropological description based solely on a village congregation of peasant farmers and their parish priest?»

Три рівні розуміння:

Рівень	Хто	Що знає
1	звичайні люди, що виконують обряди	що робити
2	сільські старійшини й храмові жерці (pemangku)	як керувати виконанням
3	книжники й брахманські жерці (pedanda), що читають сакральні тексти	що це означає

Тепер зіставити з нашими джерелами:

Джерело	Роки	Хто інформанти	Який рівень
Бело	1936–39	півтори сотні трансерів, храмові жерці, секретарі	1 і 2
Айзман	1960–80-ті	сусіди по селу, майстри, сільське духовенство	1 і 2
Стівен	1994–2004	двоє художників-практиків, брахманський учений Ida Bagus Sutarja, перекладач tutur-текстів	3

Отже стовпець 10 був порожній не тому, що на Балі немає перспективи, а тому, що обидва наші джерела працювали на рівнях, де її не проговорюють. Це не дірка в традиції — це дірка в вибірці інформантів, і корпус двічі зачитав її як властивість предмета.

Головний методологічний висновок сесії: Porozhnii_stovpets_iak_vlastyvist_informanta.

Але Стівен не скасовує Бело й Айзмана. Вона сама пише, що для більшості балійців формула Гірца справедлива, що інтелектуальні розуміння «largely irrelevant to ordinary people», що балійці підходять до релігії «через відчуття». Тобто рівні 1 і 2 описано правильно. Помилкою був перенос: те, що не проговорюється на рівні 1, ми записали як відсутнє в традиції.

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VIII. Перспектива, яку вона називає

Стовпець 10 заповнюється — і третьою граматикою, відмінною і від порога, і від режиму.

Людина народжується з троїстим потенціалом: рівень bhuta, рівень людський і рівень dewa. Який рівень розвивати — наш вибір.

Механіка вибору — через kanda empat, чотирьох містичних братів-сестер, що народжуються з людиною (послід, навколоплідні води, кров та інші родові речовини). Вони міняють форми й імена протягом життя залежно від стосунків із ними. Перша форма — рівень bhuta: Angapati, Mrajapati, Banaspati, Banaspati Raja. Вищий рівень — інші імена.

І тут найгостріше:

Щоб здобути сили відьомства, треба розвинути саме рівень bhuta своїх kanda empat. Відьма (leyak) міняє форму — спершу мавпи, далі самої Дурґи.

Тобто святість і відьомство беруть силу з одного джерела і з одного апарату; різниця тільки в тому, який рівень власних братів ти розвиваєш. Sakti — сила Матері; anak sakti здобувають її через обряд, і «її сила і вона сама — одне».

При цьому moksa доступна лише мудрецеві; звичайна людина не сподівається на неї ані в цьому житті, ані в найближчих. Балійці кажуть: шляхів багато, всі ведуть до бога; для звичайного чоловіка й жінки їхній шлях — сумлінне виконання обрядових обов’язків.

Див. Perspektyva_iak_vybir_rivnia.

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IX. Навасанга — не сітка, а дзиґа

Дев’ятичастинна космологічна схема (nawasanga), яку десятиліттями наводили як доказ статичної ієрархії балійського космосу, за Стівен є обертовим конусом.

Плюс два полюси — верх і низ — до восьми напрямків і центру дають одинадцять, ekadasa (звідси й назва Eka Dasa Rudra). Одинадцять означає, що десять повертається в одиницю: вихід із єдиного джерела і повернення в нього.

Брахмана Ida Bagus Sutarja сказав їй на початку роботи: не думай, що навасанга стоїть — вона крутиться, як дзиґа. Одне силове поле спускається за годинниковою стрілкою (pradaksina — так сходять боги), друге піднімається проти (prasawya — так bhuta kala очищуються і так богів повертають), доки не зчепляться, «як у статевому з’єднанні». Храмове свято і є зведенням цих двох рухів у точку зустрічі.

Див. Navasanha_ne_sitka_a_dzyga.

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X. Що з книги не беремо

#	Що	Чому
1	Теза «балійська релігія = шиваїтський тантризм» як доведена	це рамка з наперед заявленим висновком; беремо перелік паралелей, не висновок
2	Усе, що спирається на неперекладені tutur-тексти	джерело — переклад інформанта; регістр B, не текст
3	«Балі, можливо, зберегло чистішу версію тантризму, ніж Індія»	спекуляція, сама авторка подає як припущення
4	Тлумачення окремих картин	герменевтика двох художників; цікаво, але не дані про традицію
5	«Bali is a kind of living miracle» і фінальні пасажі	риторика, авторка сама застерігається щодо неї
6	Датування тантризму на Балі VIII ст. н. е.	подано з других рук (Coedès, Kempers); перевіряти

---

🧪 E / M

#	Твердження	E/M
1	Монографія University of Hawai’i Press, 2005; польова робота з 1996, LIPI, ARGC	E — вихідні дані
2	Ключовий інформант — покійний Ida Bagus Sutarja, брахмана-вчений і різьбяр масок із Мас	E
3	Основа узагальнення — двоє художників плюс брахманські книжники	E
4	Ключові tutur-тексти не перекладені й читаються через інформанта	E — авторка каже сама
5	Отже, усе текстове в книзі — регістр B, не A	M — наша поправка
6	Гірц: «orthopraxy not orthodoxy»; заперечує наявність балійської містичної теології	E — цитата
7	Стівен ловить його на його ж визначенні містичної теології	E — цитата обох місць
8	Коваррубіас 1937: індуїзм — «superficial veneer» над анімізмом	E — цитата
9	Кундаліні, шість чакр, prana/pingala/susumna/nadi/bindu/nada присутні в балійських текстах	E — через Goudriaan, Soebadio, Lovric
10	Балійці розповідали авторці про власний досвід підняття кундаліні в цілительських обрядах	E — свідчення, не перевірене
11	Суря-Севана: сім кроків, включно з винесенням душі й створенням тіла-мантри	E — за перекладом Hooykaas
12	Під час виконання жрець «appears to be in trance»	E — спостереження авторки
13	Підготовча частина збігається з південноіндійським шайва-сіддгантою; кульмінації різні	M — зіставлення Стівен за Davis; не перевірено нами
14	Dasaksara = panca-brahma + panca-tirtha; вогонь і вода	E — цитата Hooykaas
15	Rubinstein: kekawin як «літературна йога», вірш як янтра	E — з других рук; дістати Rubinstein
16	Форма літери має силу незалежно від звуку; транслітерація втрачає її	E — слова інформантів
17	Caru = стягування bhuta kala до центру і підняття їх у kala hyang, не вигнання	M — тлумачення Стівен; підперте незалежним описом Leo Howe
18	Ordinary Balinese самі кажуть, що bhuta kala стали «kala hyang»	E
19	Мета Eka Dasa Rudra — перетворити Рудру на Шиву	E — тексти 1963 у компіляції Hooykaas, цитовані
20	Hooykaas сам перекладав це як «вигнання» й «подолання» зла	E — і це показовий випадок, коли перекладач бачить у тексті свою модель
21	Три двори храму = лоно, стегна, стопи; Kori Agung = піхва	E — слова інформантів; B
22	Odalan = шлюб неба й землі, народжується tirta amerta	E — езотеричне тлумачення інформантів
23	Виставa Calon Arang, Табанан, 30 травня 2002: актор вимовляє rwa bhineda, ANG і AH	E — спостереження з датою
24	Більшість глядачів не володіє цим знанням і не розуміє сказаного	E — оцінка авторки
25	Отже, обряд працює без розуміння учасників	M — наша формула
26	Siddhi — природний наслідок розвитку і водночас перешкода йому	E — тантричне положення
27	Балійці казали авторці: деякі книжники, зокрема pedanda, застрягають на силах і стають чаклунами замість адептів	E — свідчення
28	Отже, у балійців є діагностика збою, функціонально подібна до «прелесті»	M — наше зіставлення
29	Оповіді про тих, хто захворів або збожеволів від неправильного поводження з текстами	E
30	Aja wera обмежує за підготовкою, не за кастою	E — Zurbuchen, цитата
31	«Vocational literacy»; немає різкого поділу на письменну еліту й неписьменне селянство	E — Rubinstein, цитата
32	Отже, балійська езотерика ближча до полюса зростання, ніж ренти	M — наш тест, перше застосування
33	Три рівні розуміння; аналогія з католицизмом за парафією	E — цитата
34	Бело й Айзман працювали на рівнях 1–2, Стівен на рівні 3	M — наше зіставлення джерел
35	Отже, порожній стовпець 10 був властивістю вибірки, а не традиції	M — головний висновок сесії
36	Троїстий потенціал: bhuta / людський / dewa; рівень обирає сама людина	E
37	Kanda empat міняють форми й імена; рівень bhuta: Angapati, Mrajapati, Banaspati, Banaspati Raja	E
38	Відьомство здобувається розвитком саме bhuta-рівня своїх kanda empat	E — за Budiana; B
39	Отже, святість і відьомство мають спільний апарат і різняться рівнем	M
40	Moksa — мета лише мудреця; для звичайної людини шлях — виконання обрядів	E
41	Goudriaan і Rubinstein виводять kanda empat з тантричного джерела	E — з других рук; прямо суперечить нашій ноті про субстрат
42	Навасанга — обертовий конус, одинадцять точок, ekadasa	E — слова Sutarja + тлумачення авторки
43	Одинадцять = десять повертається в одиницю	M — числова символіка в подачі авторки
44	Eka Dasa Rudra проводили 1963 і 1979; за ідеєю — раз на сто років	E — збігається з Айзманом
45	Книга прямо цитує Belo 1960 і Eiseman 1990 у бібліографії	E
46	У бібліографії є Suryani & Jensen, Trance and Possession in Bali (1993)	E — найближче джерело в чергу

---

Open Questions

• Чи є на Балі рівень 3 у не-брахманів? Rubinstein каже, що доступ не обмежений кастою. Тоді серед сільських цілителів і майстрів мають бути люди рівня 3 — і Бело з Айзманом могли їх зустріти й не спитати. Перевіряти по їхніх текстах: чи є там сліди «нікому не потрібних» відповідей.
• Чи проходить теза Стівен тест на протилежному матеріалі? Вона добирала те, що підтверджує тантричну рамку. Потрібен балійський елемент, який у неї не влазить, — і перший кандидат саме той, що описали Бело й Айзман: масовий транс із одержимістю. Стівен про нього майже не говорить, хоча Suryani, її співавторка з іншого проєкту, написала про це книжку.
• Suryani & Jensen 1993 — обов’язково прочитати. Балійська психіатриня про транс і одержимість: рідкісне поєднання рівня 3 і клінічного апарату.
• Rubinstein про «літературну йогу» — якщо це так, то kekawin-поезія є психопрактикою, і весь наш розділ про передачу через форму отримує новий випадок.
• Чи справді kanda empat тантричні за походженням? Це прямо суперечить Chotyry_rodychi_substrat_pid_induizmom. Стівен подає з других рук (Goudriaan, Rubinstein). Дістати першоджерела.
• Що робить Суря-Севану обрядом, а не йогою? Різниця, яку називає сама Стівен: йогічні тексти дають користь тільки практикові, Суря-Севана виробляє святу воду для інших. Це операційний критерій, і його варто перевірити на інших традиціях.

---

🔗 Зв’язки

Внутрішні

• Porozhnii_stovpets_iak_vlastyvist_informanta — головний висновок
• Stiven_baliiskyi_mistytsyzm — орієнтовна нота
• Baliiska_ioha_teksty_i_praktyka
• Siddkhi_iak_pastka_baliiska_prelest
• Obriad_iak_zovnishnia_forma_vnutrishnoi_praktyky
• Pohlynannia_zamist_vyhnannia
• Perspektyva_iak_vybir_rivnia
• Shar_shcho_vyiavyvsia_ne_sharom
• Ezoteryka_za_pidhotovkoyu_a_ne_za_rodom
• Navasanha_ne_sitka_a_dzyga
• Belo_Trance_in_Bali · Eiseman_Bali_Sekala_Niskala — два попередні шари
• Kanal_cherez_pivstolittia_Belo_proty_Aizmana
• Mistychni_vuzly_porivnialna_reshitka
• Chotyry_rodychi_substrat_pid_induizmom — нота, якій це джерело суперечить
• Peremozhena_sekta_staie_demonom_sviata · Protokol_nevdachi_obriadu
• Ezoteryka_iak_arcana_imperii — тест, який тут уперше застосовано
• Samozvit_ne_ie_svidchenniam_pro_stan · Mezha_mekhanizatsii_praktyky
• Filtr_pozytsiinosti_dzherela

Зовнішні

• Suryani L. K., Jensen G. D. Trance and Possession in Bali. — 1993 — наступне в черзі.
• Hooykaas C. Surya-Sevana: The Way to God of a Balinese Siva Priest. — текст щоденного обряду; першоджерело §II.2.
• Rubinstein R. Beyond the Realm of the Senses: The Balinese Ritual of Kekawin Composition. — «літературна йога».
• Davis R. Ritual in an Oscillating Universe. — рамка емісії / реабсорбції.
• Goudriaan T. — вісімнадцять ознак тантризму, за якими побудовано розділ 4.
• Howe L. Hinduism and Hierarchy in Bali. — незалежний опис caru; adat як ортопраксія проти agama Hindu як ортодоксії.
• Geertz H. — амбівалентність і трансформації божеств; «magic as peripheral» як християнський упереджений поділ.
• Covarrubias M. Island of Bali. — 1937 — класична формула «superficial veneer».

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📄 Повний текст джерела

Нижче — OCR-екстракція (pdftoppm -r 300 -gray + tesseract --psm 6 -l eng), розбита за сторінками PDF маркерами ===PDFPAGE N===.

Чому OCR, а не pdftotext. У виданні використано шрифт ApolloMT-Expert зі старостильними цифрами, у якого зламана таблиця Unicode: машинна екстракція тексту втрачає всі цифри в основному тексті, примітках і бібліографії — роки, сторінки, дати перетворюються на порожнечу («Zoetmulder (, )»). OCR їх відновлює. Ціна — звичайні помилки розпізнавання й сміття на місці ілюстрацій.

 
===PDFPAGE 1===
Desire
 
===PDFPAGE 2===
 
===PDFPAGE 3===
MICHELE STEPHEN
D
Divine cc Demonic
BALINESE MYSTICISM
IN THE PAINTINGS OF
| KETUT BUDIANA AND
| GUSTI NYOMAN MIRDIANA
ANA University of Hawai‘i Press
Honolulu
 
===PDFPAGE 4===
This publication has been supported by La Trobe University
Internet: http://www.latrobe.edu.au
«(LA TROBE
 
MBIUNIVERSITY
© 2005 University of Hawai‘i Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of America
10 09 O08 O7 O06 O5 65 43 2 1
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Stephen, Michele.
Desire, divine and demonic : Balinese mysticism in the paintings of I Ketut Budiana and I Gusti
Nyoman Mirdiana / Michele Stephen.
 
p. cm.
 
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-8248-2859-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Balinese (Indonesian people)—Religion. 2. Bali Island (Indonesia)—Religious life and customs.
3. Religion in art. 4. Budiana, I Ketut, 1950— 5. Mirdiana, I Gusti Nyoman. I. Title.
BL2120.B2S84 2005
294.5'09598’6—dc22 2004019928
University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on acid-free paper and meet the guidelines
for permanence and durability of the Council on Library Resources.
Book design and composition by Diane Gleba Hall
Printed by The Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group
 
===PDFPAGE 5===
Contents
 
Acknowledgments _ vii
 
Introduction I
 
1. Defining Balinese Mysticism:
A Problematic Enterprise 5
 
2. Fire, Destruction, and the Power of the Mother:
The Paintings of I Ketut Budiana 29
 
3. Mythic Transformations of Desire:
The Paintings of I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana 49
 
4. The Influence of Tantric Thought 73
 
5. Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe 98
 
6. Visualizing Pure Realms 133
 
Notes 139
 
Bibliography 165
 
Index 173
 
Color plates follow pages 38, 70, and 86
 
===PDFPAGE 6===
 
===PDFPAGE 7===
Acknowledgments
 
THIS BOOK, like most, owes a great deal to many others who have contributed
their resources, knowledge, and talents to it. Fieldwork in Bali from June 1996 to
May 1999 was conducted under the auspices of the Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan
Indonesia (LIPI) and funded by a large grant from the Australian Research Grants
Council. The school of Humanities, La Trobe University, provided funding for trans-
lation of texts in 2001, 2002, and 2003. Funds for photographing the artworks were
provided by the Department of Sociology/Anthropology, La Trobe University. My
thanks to all these bodies for their generous assistance and sponsorship. Color
plates 1-24 are based on photographs by the La Trobe University Photography and
Digital Imaging Unit. My thanks to the photographer, Andrew Stanish, for his
superb work.
 
The idea for this book originated with an exhibition of paintings by I Ketut
Budiana and I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana, titled “Desire, Divine and Demonic,” held
at Kazari Gallery, Melbourne, Australia, in November 2000. It was during prep-
arations for this exhibition, and through my discussions with the gallery owners,
Jo Maindonald and Robert Joyce, as well as the responses of those viewing the
 
vii
 
===PDFPAGE 8===
[ Acknowledgments ]
exhibition, that I was encouraged to shape my ideas about Balinese art and religion into a
book. Since its inception, Kazari Gallery has played a pioneering role in inspiring and edu-
cating the Australian public concerning the diverse artistic traditions of Asia. A special
acknowledgment is due Jo and Robert for including in their aesthetic vision the arts of Bali.
 
To Gilbert Herdt, whose intellectual and personal friendship over many years has been
such an important influence, and with whom I share a deep love of Asian art, my thanks for
reading an early draft of this book and encouraging me to develop it to completion. I am
indebted to Hildred Geertz for her generous response to my earliest efforts to investigate
Balinese culture and for challenging my assumptions about the nature of Balinese knowledge.
Her work, especially as it has stressed transformations against hierarchical order in Balinese
cosmological notions, has strongly influenced the approach I develop here. I am indebted to
my colleague in Asian studies at La Trobe, Greg Bailey, for introducing me to key texts relat-
ing to Indian Hinduism and for many stimulating discussions of Indian parallels with Bali-
nese thought. Leo Howe's detailed and most insightful reader’s report has contributed
importantly to the final shaping of the book for publication, especially in helping me to frame
my arguments. I also thank an anonymous reader for a philological critique that not only saved
me from several factual errors but drew my attention to relevant material I had overlooked.
 
For introducing me to I Ketut Budiana and for many conversations on all things Balinese,
a special thanks to Michelle Chin. My thanks to Rhonda Noble, who curated an exhibition,
“The Riches of Balinese Art,” held in 1999 at the La Trobe University Gallery, featuring
paintings by I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana and Dewa Nyoman Batuan. Seven of Mirdiana’s paint-
ings were acquired for the university’s permanent collection at the request of the vice-
chancellor, Michael Osborne. The interest shown in this exhibition was another significant
influence on the direction my research was to take.
 
In Bali, my friend and colleague Luh Ketut Suryani and her family have helped me in a
great many ways, generously welcoming me into their home, lives, and culture. In 1996 Sur-
yani and I began joint research on an ethnopsychiatric study of Balinese dreams. As part of
the project, I wanted to explore the role of dreams in art, but my interest in art and mysticism
took on its own dynamic and went off in an unintended direction. Now that I have followed
this quest to an end (of sorts), Iam freed to return to the original topic and our joint project.
 
Among the many Balinese to whom Suryani introduced me, the most important for this
present work was the late Ida Bagus Sutarja, a Brahmana scholar and mask maker from the
village of Mas. Sutarja, in our ongoing discussions over more than three years, revealed to
me a view of Balinese religion and mysticism that challenged most of what I had read in the
anthropological literature. His erudition—and the impression left by the extraordinary
masks he created—sparked my enthusiasm to follow as far as I possibly could the new vistas
he opened up to me. To Dewa Nyoman Batuan and his extended family, in whose midst I lived
for three years, I am indebted for their kindness, their hospitality, and all they have taught
me about Balinese life. I thank Mangku I Gusti Made Barat, Mangku I Made Gina, and the
people of Pengosekan village for their many kindnesses and for allowing me to participate
in their community and family rituals. To Agung Rai, founder of ARMA Museum, my
thanks for numerous discussions about Balinese art. I also wish to thank the staff at the
Gedong Kirtya lontar library for their assiduous efforts in locating and copying manuscripts
for me.
 
vili
 
===PDFPAGE 9===
[ Acknowledgments ]
 
A special acknowledgment is due I Nyoman Suarka of Udayana University, Bali. His
translations of texts from Kawi to Indonesian, his explanations of these texts, and his inform-
ative answers to my many questions about Balinese religion and mysticism have been a major
contribution to my research in Bali and to this book. My interpretations of this material are
of course my own, but without Pak Suarka’s assistance in translating a large body of texts
relevant to my interests, I would not have been able to develop the arguments presented here.
 
I Ketut Budiana and I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana, the two artists whose works form the
heart of this book, have made such an enormous contribution that I hardly know how to
thank them. Through our several years of friendship and work together, I have come to feel
that Budiana and Mirdiana are not merely contributors but rather partners in a project
brought to fruition in this book. Mirdiana joins me in making a special tribute and farewell
to the magic white dog, Timpal—our loved companion and friend in Bali whose life spanned
almost exactly the eight years of work on which this book is based.
 
For careful guidance and expert editorial assistance in the final shaping of the manu-
script for publication, I wish to thank Pamela Kelley, Don Yoder, and the production team
at University of Hawai'i Press.
 
To my husband, John, who has made an immeasurable contribution to this book—
indeed to everything I undertake—my gratitude and love. His courage, strength, and gener-
osity of spirit in the face of extreme adversity never cease to inspire me.
 
Finally, I wish to thank the many Balinese too numerous to name—priests, scholars,
healers, artists, performers, educated elite, ordinary men and women—who graciously and
generously shared their knowledge and experience with me. I hope this book will serve in
some small way as a return for all I have received from them.
 
IX
 
===PDFPAGE 10===
 
===PDFPAGE 11===
Introduction
BALI 1S A tiny island in the vast island nation of Indonesia. It has long been
famed among Western scholars, travelers, artists, and musicians for its extra-
ordinarily rich cultural and artistic life and the profusion of its religious rituals and
ceremonies.’ Although exposed to more than a century of direct foreign influence
—and more recently to waves of mass tourism—Bali nevertheless retains a distinc-
tive cultural and religious life. Now incorporated in the bureaucratic and economic
structures of the modern state of Indonesia, Balinese nevertheless continue to live
lives that are guided by local custom and leaders and centered on communal and
family-based religious rituals. Religion, still an important aspect of Balinese life, has
largely remained free of centralizing bureaucratic control, and each village commu-
nity (desa), along with the neighborhoods (banjar) that compose it, the temple asso-
ciations (pamaksan), and other local groups, take responsibility for organizing and
conducting their own religious activities, as does each family.* Although Indonesia
as a whole is now predominately Islamic in faith, Bali continues to adhere to Hindu
teachings that were first introduced to the region sometime early in the first millen-
nium AD.* Since that time many different elements have been incorporated into
1
 
===PDFPAGE 12===
[ Introduction ]
Balinese religious life, which has developed its own unique forms and expressions to the
point that most modern scholars of Balinese religion describe it as something very different
from the Hinduism found in India.
 
In the voluminous anthropological literature on Bali that has emerged during the sec-
ond half of the twentieth century, five statements in particular about its religion have come
to receive wide currency:*
 
1. Balinese religion aims to achieve on earth a mirroring of a divine cosmic order
 
where hierarchical structure, harmony, and balance prevail.
 
2. Balinese religion is primarily a matter of praxis—ritual performance—rather
than speculative philosophy or inner experience.
 
3. Balinese religion consists of a complex mixture of beliefs and rituals derived
from many different sources: a thin layer derived from Hinduism rests on top
of a deep foundation of primitive animistic beliefs.
 
4. Balinese religion can best be understood in its own terms. To look for parallels
in Indian sources, as did previous generations of Dutch and European scholars,
simply imposes external models on Balinese understandings, which are very
different.
 
5. Balinese religion, like Balinese culture, is multiplex, various, and dependent
 
on local context. No neat explanatory framework or conceptual pattern can
 
account for the endless variety of its specific forms.
Certainly not all scholars of Bali would agree with these assertions, and acceptance of one
does not necessarily imply adherence to all five. Nevertheless they represent the opinions
of leading scholars in the field and have been, and continue to be, very influential. But in
my view, although these statements contain much truth and cannot be dismissed out of hand,
they are subtly misleading. Furthermore, I believe they may coalesce into a popular image
of Balinese religion that creates a distorted view of it—one that greatly underestimates the
philosophical complexity of its beliefs and practices and, furthermore, distances it in the eyes
of many from the great religious tradition to which it belongs: Hinduism.” It seems strange
that local variants of Buddhism in Southeast Asia, as in Burma, Thailand, or Cambodia, have
been respected as authentic and spiritually elevated religious practices and doctrines, yet
Hinduism in Bali has been regarded as markedly different from the Indian traditions from
which it derives. I suggest that a large part of the reason may lie in a greater familiarity with
Buddhism among Western scholars and thus a greater respect for its teachings.
 
Although it is not my intention in this book to reexamine systematically these assump-
tions about Balinese religion, my arguments as a whole cut across the grain of such conven-
tional wisdom. This book sets out to do three things: to identify a number of mystical
themes central to Balinese religion that, although not unknown to Western scholars, have
rarely been emphasized by anthropologists and have more often been presented as dis-
parate elements than seen as a cohesive core; to demonstrate the striking parallels between
these core themes and Indian Tantric thought; and to show how these mystical themes are
expressed in Balinese myth, written texts, and ritual performance. On this basis I will argue
that Balinese religion, as it is practiced today, is a unique and creative local expression of
 
2
 
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[ Introduction ]
Hindu Shivaitic Tantric philosophy. That is to say: the cultural forms of expression are dis-
tinctively Balinese, but the recurring themes they embody closely parallel classic Hindu con-
cepts of the cosmos and the forces that constitute it.
 
The data I draw upon consist of four elements: visual art; Balinese mythology in oral tra-
dition and written texts; Balinese texts outlining esoteric teachings; and my own and others’
observations of ritual practice. To show that we are dealing with living understandings, not
historical relics, I have chosen as my starting point the works of two contemporary Balinese
artists painting in traditional styles. Although to those unfamiliar with Bali it may seem a
strange enterprise to use the works of contemporary artists to explore key ideas in Balinese
religion, much of this book is devoted to showing why this is not so. My own anthropolog-
ical observations of Balinese culture and ritual began in 1996.° Although my approach is that
of a cultural anthropologist, I will draw upon textual materials and the work of philologists,
as well as visual art.
 
The focus of this book is Balinese religion—or rather certain elements of it—that can be
discerned in contemporary Balinese thought and practice. Yet at the same time it is concerned
with the continuity these elements have with the past. Over the last century or more, Bali has
not only been subjected to external forces for change. It has engaged in internal processes
of reexamining and recreating its own religious identity, partly if not largely as a result of
external pressures. Out of this internal struggle has emerged a new, officially authorized, and
state-supported Balinese religion: “agama Hindu.”” Yet alongside it, or perhaps despite it,
most Balinese continue their ritual life in many ways that are clearly continuous with ideas
and practices that owe little to reformist efforts and even less to foreign influence. In a recent
study Leo Howe describes this new official religion as “in part a continuation, and in part a
reconceptualization, of precolonial customary knowledge and ritual practice (adat).’”* A diffi-
culty for the outside observer arises in deciding what in contemporary Balinese religious
thought represents continuity with the past and what constitutes reformist views. I will
argue against any easy assumption that local practice at the village level represents continuity
whereas philosophical or theological views necessarily represent the reformist influence.
 
Yet it is evident that making such distinctions is a delicate task and there may not always
be clear-cut answers. Anthropologists’ increasing awareness over the last two decades or so
of the importance of historical change and the local contextualization of knowledge has
brought a new awareness of culture as discourse rather than structure. In acknowledging the
complexity of discourse concerning religion in present-day Bali that is so clearly depicted
by Howe, I think it is still possible to discern in this ferment of contestation, negotiation,
and recreation elements that derive from the past but continue to shape in important ways
current practice. The term “traditional” has now fallen into disrepute, as it seems to indi-
cate an unreflective notion of an unchanging past. Nevertheless it still provides a useful
shorthand term for those aspects of the culture that are not owed to the Western and colo-
nial domination that reached Bali in the mid-nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.’ In
this sense, my topic is traditional Balinese religion as it continues into the present. My aim
is to identify a specific cluster of mystical ideas that have their origins in the precolonial past;
that are not owed to modern reformist views yet can be traced in contemporary thought; that
are expressed in mythology and sacred texts; and above all that can be shown to provide the
conceptual basis of the seemingly endless variety of Balinese ritual life.
 
3
 
===PDFPAGE 14===
[ Introduction ]
 
The intimate relationship between art and religion in Balinese culture is reflected in
Chapter 1, which also explores some of the problems of defining Balinese “mysticism.”
Chapter 2 focuses on the work of I Ketut Budiana, a contemporary Balinese artist renowned
for his mysterious and mystical subjects. In a detailed examination of the imagery of twelve
of his paintings I explore his recurring themes. Chapter 3 pursues similar themes in the very
different works of I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana, a young artist whose mythological subject mat-
ter leads into a discussion of Balinese mythology. Chapter 4 summarizes the themes depicted
by the two artists and discusses how representative their ideas might be of Balinese mystical
thinking more generally. This question raises the issue of parallels with Indian Tantrism as
it has been redefined in recent studies by Indologists. Chapter 5 explores further Indian
parallels with Balinese mythology and ritual in order to show that much of Balinese ritual
practice can be reinterpreted as an embodiment of the mystical themes noted in earlier
chapters. Chapter 6, drawing the arguments together, concludes that the diverse forms of
Balinese religious life can be understood as rich, localized expressions of classic tenets of
Shivaite Tantric philosophy.
 
This book offers a journey though the inner worlds of two contemporary Balinese
artists, revealing how their very different works reflect a shared symbolism, mythology, and
cultural belief system. It also contends that the cosmos depicted in their works is represen-
tative of widely shared Balinese beliefs—revealing a kernel of understanding that can help
to illuminate Balinese religion in general. It further suggests the continued importance of
exploring parallels—and differences—between Balinese religion and Indian Tantric thought,
Shaktism, and classic Indian mythology.
 
My arguments are at best preliminary; they point to the need for more research and
comparative work. Although a great deal has already been written about Balinese religion,
there is still much more to be learned. My hope is that this book, by challenging some long-
standing assumptions, will stimulate reassessments of existing knowledge and spur new
research leading in new directions.
 
4
 
===PDFPAGE 15===
[ CHAPTER 1 ]
 
Defining Balinese Mysticism
 
A Problematic Enterprise
CONVENTION HAS IT that Balinese religion is primarily concerned with achiev-
ing balance, harmony, and order in this world to match a divine order determined
from above." Yet the briefest glance at Balinese paintings, sculpture, architecture, or
the performing arts reveals a different picture—one of dynamic energy, of seething,
curling, surging, burgeoning forms, of details and decorative motifs endlessly repli-
cated and variegated, so that the eye, and the mind, quail before the sheer profusion
of creative endeavor. The crowded shapes of Balinese art seem almost too much, even
a kind of vulgar profusion, a cavalier showing off, a loud boasting of creativity. But
when you visit Bali and are confronted by the sheer luxuriance of the physical land-
scape, the unbelievably intense green of the rice fields, the impossibly precisely
sculptured rice terraces, the majestic volcanoes, the thick forests of great trees hung
with toiling vines, you begin to realize that no human creation could be so presump-
tuous as to affect simplicity in the midst of all this overwhelming natural abundance.
To the visitor, Bali presents not a sense of hierarchical order and balance but rather
a seductive assault on the senses. Nor is everything the eye meets with beautiful.
 
5
 
===PDFPAGE 16===
[ CHAPTER 1 ]
 
Bali also indulges in the excessively ugly and the monstrous, both in its physical and
human environment and in its artistic forms. Everywhere one encounters representations
of horrific and bestial figures with great bulging eyes and bellies, sharp fangs, and lolling
tongues—and the most horrifying are to be found in the precincts of temples. Nor is this
simply a first impression. The more closely one looks, the more disturbing are the images—
hideous female monsters, draped in entrails and smeared with blood, caught in the act of
tearing apart and devouring a baby, are among the usual figures to be found guarding the
entranceway to village temples. Grotesque giants and demonic shapes loom beside the gate-
ways to sacred places. Indeed as one becomes more accustomed to these grotesqueries, one
tends not to notice the absence of representations of peaceful or benign deities. True, if you
look hard you might find some, but the vast majority are grotesque and menacing. Even in
the performing arts, the graceful and pretty legong dancer is far outnumbered by fierce,
heavy, stomping male figures, animal monsters, giants, and all kinds of frightening goblins
and witches. This predominance of the monstrous—and the total impression of a fierce surg-
ing energy and dynamism—might well give one reason to pause and question the received
scholarly wisdom about balance and hierarchy. The traditional aesthetics of Bali belie any
such concern and point in a very different direction.
 
I begin by turning to the works of two contemporary Balinese artists who paint in tradi-
tional styles. My aim in doing so is to show that the themes I wish to identify are part of
contemporary Balinese thought and culture, not forgotten doctrines preserved in dusty
antique texts. I Ketut Budiana is an artist at the height of his career, famous in Bali and gain-
ing an international reputation, whose paintings hang in museums and private collections
throughout the world. I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana, scion of a famous family of artists, repre-
sents the younger generation and is just beginning to make his mark. I have selected these
two artists not because they are in any way more “traditional” than others—indeed Budiana’s
works have little to suggest the traditional to Western eyes. Nor do I imply that these artists
stand apart from the ferment of influences and ideas that surround Balinese in the modern
world.* Nor do I assume that they in any way reject the officially supported Balinese religion,
agama Hindu, or that they are even concerned to draw distinctions between the different
streams of contemporary religious thought and practice. It is simply that working with these
two artists led me to a greater awareness of the themes discussed in this book. I did not set
out to study Balinese mysticism. My fieldwork involved discussions with many other artists,
performers, priests, healers, ordinary villagers, and educated elite. I have selected these two
artists because their works epitomize for me understandings of Balinese mysticism that
emerged from my engagement with a wide range of Balinese from many different walks of
life and levels of social standing.
 
Mark Hobart counsels his fellow anthropologists: “If we are untidily implicated in the
lives of the people we work with and study, perhaps we should start by recognizing the
inescapability of this implication.”* So I will begin by acknowledging my own engagement
in the works and lives of these artists. I have known Budiana and Mirdiana for over six years.
During this time we have worked together on various projects, including the exhibition that
provided the impetus for this book. I went to Bali in 1996 not to study art, in fact, but to
undertake an anthropological study of dreams in Balinese culture. This was to be a kind of
sequel to my earlier research on dreams in Papua New Guinea.* One aspect I wished to
 
6
 
===PDFPAGE 17===
[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
explore in depth was the role of dreams as a source of artistic inspiration. Many of the works
I found in galleries, museums, and catalogs of Balinese painting seemed to have arisen out
of dream or dreamlike states. In particular the paintings of one artist, Ketut Budiana, stood
out and instantly captured my attention. These works resembled dream landscapes contain-
ing nightmare images of surrealistic horror and strange fantasy. Naturally I was interested
when a mutual friend offered to introduce me to the artist. Budiana was not at all the wild-
eyed mystic I half expected. His smooth, unlined face and supple movements belied his
almost fifty years. He was soft-spoken, with a gentle unassuming manner, yet all the while
his dark eyes sparkled with a playful irony. Even though I could muster only a little Indo-
nesian and Budiana refused to speak English, we managed to communicate. Soon we be-
came friends and he asked me to help him prepare some written material in English for an
exhibition catalog of his paintings. This gave me the opportunity to engage with his work
more deeply.
 
Despite my initial assumptions based on the dreamlike appearance of Budiana’s paint-
ings, I was to find they owe little to what we know of as dreams, that is to say, sleep dreams.
His amazing surrealistic canvases are not the improvisations of the dream mind but in fact
creative variations on traditional Balinese motifs and designs. Budiana did not usually paint
imagery seen during sleep, he explained, but rather images glimpsed in waking states of
contemplation and meditation. Dreams, in his view, represent a lower kind of knowledge and
thus are not a suitable medium from which to create art. Rather he aims to transcend the
limited personal sources available through dreaming.
 
The other artist, I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana, I met in an even more indirect way. Toward
the end of 1996 I was looking for a research assistant to help me with my dream project. (The
previous assistant had decided the work was too tedious.) Mirdiana was introduced to me
by his uncle, Dewa Nyoman Batuan, himself a well-known artist, in whose house compound
I was staying. All I had been told was that Mirdiana was a talented dancer who specialized
in modern pop music. Slapping the boy on the back, Batuan remarked impishly to me, “Big
shoulders, small brain!’”’—hardly the recommendation I was looking for. Mirdiana had just
turned twenty-one. Tall, well built, and handsome, he looked more like the local football hero
than a dancer. No one mentioned he was an artist, which would have made me think more
favorably about hiring him, but anthropologists are not in a position to reject the pressing
suggestions of their patrons. Evidently we were made for each other; at least Batuan, the
boy’s uncle, thought so. I consoled myself with the thought that, like his predecessor, the
young man would quickly tire of the tasks required of him and thus spare me the embar-
rassment of having to dismiss him. So he came to work for me in October 1996. I soon dis-
covered that he was not only highly intelligent, and mature beyond his years, but possessed
an exquisite artistic sensibility.
 
Perhaps because of his youth and his lack of previous association with foreigners, Mir-
diana had no preconceptions about what I needed to know about Balinese culture. He
answered my questions simply, and honestly, always responding to what I asked, not what
he thought I should hear. In this way he became an invaluable guide and informant. As our
work together progressed, he of his own accord began to paint some of the stories and myths
we were collecting. It was then I began to appreciate his talent as an artist. Although I often
talked with him about dreams and frequently urged him to paint some wonderful dream he
 
7
 
===PDFPAGE 18===
[ CHAPTER 1. ]
recounted to me, he would never agree to do so. Like Budiana, he explained that dreams came
spontaneously from memories of past experiences, and this was not what he was seeking.
Although his paintings were quite unlike Budiana’s in most respects, I could sense, never-
theless, that both artists were dealing with similar concepts—that they were representing a
cluster of shared cultural understandings, not purely idiosyncratic visions.
 
In working with Budiana and Mirdiana, both separately and together, to prepare mate-
rial for various exhibitions, I found I was learning a great deal about Balinese religion that
was not only new to me but challenged or even contradicted much of what I had read in the
general literature on the topic. Focusing on one or two paintings alone led nowhere. But
when I began to see the individual works in relation to each other, I could discern a pattern.
The paintings dealt over and over again, although in very different ways, with the same basic
themes that pointed to a coherent view of the cosmos and the powers that constituted it. I
began to realize that this view was the same, albeit expressed in different ways, as that emerg-
ing from accounts given to me by other knowledgeable Balinese, including artists, scholars,
performers, and priests.” Directed by these informants to the written sources of spiritual
authority, the lontar texts, I discovered their oral accounts supported in even greater detail.
With new eyes I returned to published translations of Balinese texts by European scholars and
found the same themes (although not necessarily explicitly recognized by the translators).
 
I have chosen visual representations as my starting point for a number of reasons. In the
first place, the paintings enable me as a cultural analyst to identify themes, ideas, and sym-
bols that originate from the artist’s own cultural understanding, not mine. In this way I can
strive to avoid simply imposing my own criteria of significance and thus become more sen-
sitive to the Balinese cultural categories and concepts that inform the works. Since these are
living artists personally well known to me, I was able to question them closely about the
imagery they use and what it might mean. My method was to examine each element that
comprises the painting, including the colors used and the placement of the different figures.
I never asked the artist directly what the work as a whole “means.” Usually this would elicit
little more than an embarrassed mumble or else a kind of pat answer that evidently owes
much to the officially propagated doctrines of agama Hindu. Instead I carefully followed each
element of the composition, asking what it is and why it is depicted in that particular way.
In this way I found that very different ideas emerged.
 
Focusing on actual works of art—in this case twelve paintings by each artist—has the
further advantage that the accuracy of my descriptions and interpretations can be measured
against the paintings reproduced here. My aim is to enable readers to judge for themselves
the match between the two: are the themes I describe in fact represented in the paintings?
Furthermore, by exploring several works by the same artist I can follow the permutations
whereby particular themes are developed and intertwined with others, so that a consistent
view or philosophy is revealed. This grounding of the discussion in a concrete form of repre-
sentation independent of my own ethnographic descriptions is especially needed since Iam
trying to identify themes that have been little emphasized in the anthropological literature.
The artists’ imagery, of course, speaks a language of its own and my written commentary
cannot hope to capture all the nuances of emotion, all the levels of meaning, conveyed there.
My perspective is not that of the art critic or art historian but that of the anthropologist who
seeks to understand the cultural conceptions and cultural knowledge represented in artworks.
 
8
 
===PDFPAGE 19===
[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
This intention, however, is not really at odds with Balinese attitudes to art, or with these
artists’ view of their own works, since religion and culture are inseparable in Balinese
thought. Using art as a means of approaching Balinese religion is appropriate because the
very role of the Balinese painter, sculptor, or architect is to bring into being that otherwise
invisible world. The first task of this book is to explore the mystic worlds pictured by the
two artists. The important question of how representative their works are of Balinese think-
ing in general I will put aside for now, but I will return to it in Chapter 4.
 
Neither Budiana nor Mirdiana paints in an entirely traditional mode. Both use their art
to explore ideas in ways that are not laid down in the classic canons of Balinese art. Art critics
and art historians are always eager to identify schools and styles, but there is perhaps a more
interesting question: how does the artist categorize his or her own work? On one occasion
I was discussing with Budiana the distinction usually made between the “classical style” of
Balinese painting and the “traditional style.” The former, usually applied to works produced
in Bali prior to European influence, is sometimes termed the Kamasan style (referring to a
village community where such paintings are still produced); the latter term is applied to
works incorporating Balinese topics and themes but combining them with new influences
and ideas derived from abroad.° I protested that “traditional” seemed a misleading term for
works that drew heavily upon foreign sources. Budiana disagreed. He pointed out that
“classical” indicates a style that does not change despite outside influence, whereas “‘tradi-
tional” denotes a style that continues to employ Balinese techniques, themes, and concerns
but blends and integrates them with outside influences. For Budiana, the essence of Balinese
“tradition” is that it is ever changing yet retains a unique Balinese character. ‘Classical’
Balinese painting is fixed in time, by contrast, and one cannot deviate in any way from its
conventions or techniques without it becoming something else.
 
“Traditional” Balinese painting, in this view, is always in the process of becoming—a
view we might usefully extend to Balinese religion. Much like the cosmos Budiana envis-
ages in his paintings, it is in essence a process of continuous transformation yet always
centered around a core that is uniquely Balinese. To specify the nature of this core is no easy
matter. Budiana would, I think, respond to this difficulty by observing that ultimately art
is a matter of feeling, not logic. One senses if a painting is still rooted in uniquely Balinese
concepts and values, or if it owes so much to external influences that it belongs to some genre
quite foreign to Balinese aesthetics. This, of course, is much easier for a Balinese to decide
than for an outsider, and it is not my place here to argue about such distinctions. My point
is simply that in Budiana’s terms the works discussed in this book represent traditional Bali-
nese painting in the sense just defined.’ Likewise Mirdiana sees himself as a traditional
Balinese painter. His subject matter is overtly more traditional than Budiana’s, and his style
is clearly linked to the wayang style of his famous grandfathers, Kobot and Barat,* yet it has
many modern influences and is uniquely his own.
 
No Balinese artist working today exists outside the modern situation where “art” is pro-
duced and marketed for profit, mainly to sell to foreigners.’ Art has, like so many other
aspects of Balinese culture, become a commodity. Paintings especially, which can be easily
transported or even carried away by the visitor, are easily adapted to tourist tastes and
demands. There are huge numbers of paintings produced for sale for the tourist market, often
by artists who are capable of much better work. At both the top and the bottom end of the art
 
9
 
===PDFPAGE 20===
[ CHAPTER 1. ]
market, many artists produce what they think will sell—that is, what will appeal to foreign
tastes. Many talented Balinese painters, especially younger artists, have adopted contempo-
rary Western abstract styles and techniques along with Western ideas and values concerning
the role of art and the artist in society. At this point, Balinese tradition becomes submerged
and, I believe, lost.
 
In becoming a commodity, art has also been secularized. In the past, art served religion
in Bali.'° There is no doubt in the minds of these two artists, and many others like them, that
it continues to do so, even if not all Balinese artists today would agree. The intimate relation-
ship between art, culture, and religion in Bali was expressed by one of my Balinese friends
in the metaphor of a tree.*! The rich foliage, flowers, and fruit of the tree, with their diverse
shapes and colors, represent the amazing variety and manifold forms of Balinese art and cul-
ture, each unique, different, incomparable in its own beauty. Yet the wide ramifications of
these multiple cultural forms branch out from a single solid trunk that supports them all—
adat, the social rules and conventions that bind Balinese society. Below the ground, out of
sight, are the roots from which the whole organism draws sustenance and support—agama,
religion. The flamboyant canopy of the tree with its rich flowers and fruit so engages our
attention that we are likely to give little thought to the roots, hidden deep beneath the
ground, from which they all grow.’?
 
The tree metaphor implies a common source for the immense cultural diversity found
in Bali—suggesting that despite their apparent differences, the cultural forms express a core
of underlying religious meaning. Few Western scholars have failed to realize the close con-
nection between art and religion in Bali. The problem, at least for the Western observer, is
that Balinese religion itself seems so diverse and impossible to reduce to any clear-cut set of
beliefs and practices.
 
What Constitutes “Balinese Religion”?
 
Although much has been written on the topic, it is hard to find a clear statement of what
constitutes Balinese religion. Fredrik Barth, in a recent anthropological study, presents a
sensitive outline of the problems of definition.’* He emphasizes the “decentered” and
“embedded” nature of Balinese religion, even with respect to the new state-authorized
version of it.* Barth highlights the problems involved in comparing Balinese Hinduism with
Islam. Unlike Islam, it lacks a centralized structure of authority and a holy book. But Barth
acknowledges: ‘Yet it would make little sense to deny its character as a great tradition. It
has successfully reproduced a Hindu heritage of theology, philosophy, literature, and arts
for seven hundred years after contact with the originating Hindu centers was broken.”’”
 
Most Balinese today regard themselves simply as Hindu, but Western scholars have long
insisted that Balinese Hinduism is very different from the Hinduism found in India. Michel
Picard vividly describes the puzzled dismay of an emerging Balinese intellectual elite as, in
the 1920s and 1930s, they struggled to come to terms with judgments made by Western
scholars that their religion consisted of little more than a conglomerate of primitive beliefs
and practices with a few scattered elements of Hinduism added for good measure. One Bali-
nese author exclaimed in evident horror: “According to the opinion of foreigners we do not
 
10
 
===PDFPAGE 21===
[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
have a religion and do not worship God (Widi), but we are like madmen who worship any-
thing they happen to come across.”'® Confronted with the negative opinions of foreign
“experts,” Balinese attempting to come to terms with Western ideas could not help but begin
to question their own beliefs. Picard describes the debates these early Balinese intellectuals
engaged in on apparently basic matters—what should be the name of their religion, what
gods did it worship, what was its relationship to Indian Hinduism—presumably convincing
Western observers of the chaotic nature of Balinese beliefs.'”
 
Hindu teachings were first brought to Bali sometime early in the first millennium Ap."*
Thus beliefs and practices described today as Balinese Hinduism have had a very long time
to develop in situ and over the centuries have accommodated different waves of external
influences stemming from India, China, and Java, including Buddhist influences, as well as
incorporating pre-Hindu animistic beliefs. The archaeologist Bernet Kempers explains that
in Bali the terms “Hinduism” and “Hindu Bali” refer to “the complex phenomenon of ‘Bali-
nese religion,’ and to an entire way of life. It has a Sivaitic as well as a Buddhist aspect, but
there are reminiscences of earlier Indonesian ideas and usages as well.”'? Some Western
scholars refer to different “layers” of Balinese culture—as if the various influences to which
Bali has been subject might be peeled away to reveal an original bedrock that is early
animistic belief. Miguel Covarrubias, in an influential book first published in 1937 and still
in print, sweepingly asserts: “Like the Catholicism of some American Indians, Hinduism was
simply an addition to the native religion, more as a decoy to keep the masters content, a
strong but superficial veneer of decorative Hinduistic practices over the deeply rooted ani-
mism of the Balinese natives.”*° Many later writers have evidently been content to follow
his judgment that Hinduism is merely a decorative veneer.”
 
In spreading from India, Hinduism and Buddhism incorporated local cults and beliefs
along the way. Yet the impression usually given in the scholarly literature is that Balinese
Hinduism is widely divergent from its Indian sources. It is, of course, only to be expected that
over such a long period of time Hinduism has undergone a distinctive process of develop-
ment in Bali. Yet so too has Hinduism in India—or rather the many strands that constitute
it.?? Furthermore, it is hard to know the specific nature of Hindu teachings originally intro-
duced from India and later indirectly via Java. The history of development is complex. All
we can really say for certain on the basis of existing evidence is that Balinese Hinduism is
necessarily different from that of Indian Hinduism today.**
 
Hinduism in Bali is sometimes said to be grafted onto a “Pacific” or “Indonesian” struc-
ture of belief.’* Thus, for example, if we take the three temples usually to be found in every
Balinese village—said to be devoted to the Hindu deities Brahma, Wisnu, and Siwa—we find
that ordinary people do not seem to be worshipping these gods there but are more concerned
with a host of other supernatural beings of local origin.”” The open structure of a Balinese
temple, consisting essentially of a walled open space housing several small shrines, appears
to owe more to indigenous Pacific structures like the Polynesian mare than to Indian models.”°
Although Balinese believe in reincarnation and the determining influence of your moral
actions in this world on your fate in the next life (karma pala), one finds in Bali that rein-
carnation is always believed to take place within the same family, with only a brief interval
between rebirths, so that a man might expect to be reborn as his own great-grandchild.*’
The Balinese are famous for their elaborate cremation ceremonies, yet these are very different
 
11
 
===PDFPAGE 22===
[ CHAPTER 1. ]
 
from Indian mortuary rites and retain many elements suggesting that in Bali cremation has
been overlaid onto earlier second-burial practices found in many other parts of Indonesia.**
Ordinary Balinese in their daily lives seem preoccupied with fears of harm from witches and
black magic and with propitiating many kinds of nature spirits, demons, and especially
ancestral spirits. If the observer focuses on public performance of ritual and the participants’
general understanding of it, one might well conclude that Hinduism’s influence on Bali is
essentially superficial: a thin layer over a deep foundation of earlier ancestor worship and
animistic cults.
 
Hildred Geertz acknowledges this confusing mixture of beliefs and symbolic elements,
but she also points to a Balinese synthesis—a creative recombining rather than random
jumble of unrelated elements:
 
The people of Bali today call their religion “Balinese Hinduism” after a
 
major strand in a complexly woven web of symbols, ideas, and cere-
 
monies. The names of Hindu deities, demons, and heroes—Siva and
 
Durga, Vishnu and Brahma, Rama and Ravana, Arjuna and his brothers,
 
Ganesha, and others—appear frequently in the prayers, songs, dramas,
 
temple carvings, and paintings. A knowledge of their original significance
 
can help only partially in interpreting contemporary Balinese religious
 
life, for they have been absorbed and reinterpreted within Balinese
 
thought and ritual. Blended with indigenous cosmological conceptions,
 
with important augmentations from Tantric Buddhism, and even, in the
 
present century, with indirect influences from Islam and Christianity,
 
these Hindu traces today have very different meanings than in India.”
As Geertz’s comments indicate, the insistence of earlier scholars such as Goris, Korn,
Hooykaas, and Swellengrebel—that Balinese culture must be studied and interpreted in its
own terms without imposing Indian models—is only to be commended.*° They were writ-
ing in reaction to a pioneering generation that had devoted its energies almost entirely to
searching for the Indian sources of Balinese religion. Enthusiasm to balance the original
overemphasis on India can, however, lead to assumptions that Indian parallels are valueless
and that Hinduism in Bali is but skin deep—a view that, in my opinion, is equally mislead-
ing. Some anthropologists, including Boon, Geertz, Lansing, and Howe,*' have taken very
seriously the influence of Indian Hinduism in Bali. Howe reminds us that Indian influences
have been extensive in many aspects of Balinese culture and social structure:
 
By the nineteenth century these included institutions of divine kingship,
 
an elevated priesthood using Shivaite liturgy, a framework of categories
 
similar to the Indian varna system, a hierarchical social structure resem-
 
bling the caste systems of India, ranked descent groups practicing endog-
 
amous or hypergamous marriage, widow immolation amongst the highest
 
ranks, numerous Sanskrit-derived words in the Balinese language, and so
 
forth.*?
 
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[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
The relationship between Indian sources and Indonesian texts is now being reassessed
by philologists. Max Nihom, for example, challenges the view of many textual scholars that
“the literary products of classical Indonesia are better characterized as indigenous and sov-
ereign products whose indebtedness to Indian antecedents is largely in the nature of cultural
borrowings substantively superseded by native developments.”** Nihom contends that the
Indonesian textual data can provide important evidence to reconstruct the intellectual his-
tory of Tantrism in India and the history of Shivaism as well.** His careful philological inves-
tigations indicate that Indonesian texts, including those found in Bali, may in fact represent
a tradition closer to the original sources than can be found today in India. Helen Creese,
citing many recent works including Nihom’s, has drawn attention to a new trend in Old
Javanese studies toward a more balanced appreciation of Indian and Indonesian elements:
 
Pioneering scholars of Old Javanese invariably looked to India for origins
 
in order to legitimize Javanese literary works in ancient Indian traditions.
 
The twentieth century saw a shift away from this approach and a search
 
instead for indigenous roots and examples of “local genius.” Some of the
 
recent work in Old Javanese literature has again focused the lens on
 
India, this time, however, not as the elusive point of origin that earlier
 
generations had pursued, often fruitlessly, but instead as a source of tra-
 
ditions and ideas that served to enrich cultural innovation.”
The effects of this change in relation to Balinese textual studies will be taken up in Chapter 4.
The Confusing Profusion of Balinese Ritual Life
Another common assumption frequently made about Balinese religion is that it is primarily
concerned with ritual practice and places little emphasis on speculative philosophy or inner
experience. Clifford Geertz’s oft-quoted statement that Balinese religious life is characterized
by “orthopraxy not orthodoxy” is, on the surface, well justified.*° Although I will later have
cause to challenge his assertion, it is nevertheless a good place from which to start. My aim
in this section is to outline Balinese ritual life—as I have observed it myself in practice in the
late 1990s and as it has been presented in the anthropological literature to date—without
attempting to offer any new interpretations or explanations.*’ In Chapter 5 I will return to
the topic, showing how the apparently random profusion of ritual forms can be understood
to express certain implicit underlying themes.
 
Trying to define Balinese religion in terms of doctrine or devotion to particular gods and
divine forces does not take us very far. One needs to watch Balinese, day after day, week after
week, month after month, throughout a calendrical cycle of one year at least. Then, because
it is all so complicated, one needs to observe the cycle over again, still mesmerized by the
sheer abundance of ritual life. Balinese religion is not primarily a credo; it is indeed a way
of life and of acting in the world. Geertz’s comments concerning the lack of interest in doc-
trine and the almost obsessive concern with ritual performance, comments based on the Bali
 
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[ CHAPTER 1 ]
 
he observed in the 1950s, applied equally well to the late 1990s. To the outside observer, such
as myself, the majority of Balinese still seem largely uninterested in defining the gods they
are worshipping or analyzing the rich symbolism of their rituals. Yet they continue to devote
an enormous amount of time, energy, and resources to ensuring that their ritual duties are
faithfully performed. First visiting Bali in 1994, I had expected that Balinese religion might
be on the wane. But my immediate, and enduring, impression is that of the extraordinary
vitality and enthusiasm which infuses ritual life in the present.
 
The daily life of Balinese is shaped by the five yadnya (sacrifices): offerings and rituals
for the gods (dewa yadnya), for the chthonic forces (bhuta yadnya), for the ancestors (pitra
yadnya), for human beings (manusa yadnya), and for sages and religious teachers (resi yad-
nya).*® Every day, in each Balinese household, offerings (banten) consisting of small, intri-
cately woven palm-leaf containers holding flowers, rice, fruit, and other fragrant ingredients
are placed at various points around the house and the yard, including the kitchen, the well,
and the entryway. Sticks of incense are lit and placed with the offering, and prayers are
murmured while wafting the perfumed smoke toward the sky. Women usually prepare the
offerings and place them at the required spots and shrines about the house compound. Ina
large, prosperous compound comprising several related nuclear families, such as the one in
which I lived, hundreds of canang (the basic form of offering) may be offered daily. At one
level, these small offerings are understood as a kind of spiritual protection for the household,
giving recognition to a host of unseen supernatural entities or forces. These entities include
potentially dangerous and disruptive forces (bhuta kala) present in the world around us,
supernatural guardians (pengungan karangan) that protect the yard, potentially harmful
entities such as tonya, which are believed to inhabit nearby streams or rivers, as well as
higher powers emanating from above, from the dewa or gods, including the deified ancestors.
The aim of the householder is to ensure a positive relationship with all these powers, both
chthonic and divine, so that the health and prosperity of the whole family are protected.
 
At another level of understanding, the numerous offerings are recognized to be not so
much gifts to gods or demons as the means to focus human attention on the spiritual aspect
of existence.*” Thus they are meant to illuminate the bond between the individual spirit
(jiwa/atma) and its source, which might be variously referred to in Bali today as Sang
Hyang Widi (a name designating the high god), Tuhan (the Lord), Tunggal (the One), Acintya
(the Inconceivable), or Siwa (Shiva).*° The Balinese woman going about her daily ritual of
making household offerings is unlikely to be able to articulate the metaphysical principles
upon which such beliefs rest. Yet in her graceful actions—performed as elegantly as a temple
dance, each movement a moment of quiet contemplation—of laying out small gifts of food,
prayer, and incense for the spirit forces surrounding her, she expresses them. The simple
daily acts of offering are themselves quiet moments of meditation.*
 
Offerings made in each household every day for the chthonic and divine forces are multi-
plied and extended on special occasions. So numerous are these occasions that Balinese
always seem to be engaged in some form of ritual activity, great or small. The human life
cycle—from conception to birth, through childhood and adolescence, to marriage—requires
a complex series of ceremonies (manusa yadnya) that are performed within the household.
Each requires large quantities of appropriate offerings (banten) to the bhuta kala and the
dewa, as well as to the spiritual aspects of the person for whom the ceremony is conducted.*”
Death sets in motion another series of ceremonies culminating in the pitra yadnya, the
 
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[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
lengthy rituals, including cremation (ngaben), required to transform the dead into deified
ancestors.** Each Balinese house compound possesses a house temple (sanggah, pemrajan)
devoted principally to the worship of the family ancestors.
 
There are many occasions on which sacrifices are performed on a community level. A
Balinese village community usually possesses at least three temples (pura) where communal
worship is offered: the Pura Puseh, the Pura Desa, and the Pura Dalem.** The Pura Puseh is
associated with Dewa Wisnu, a manifestation of the protective and sheltering aspect of
divine powers. The Pura Desa or village temple represents the continuity of the village group
and thus is associated with Dewa Brahma, a manifestation of divine creative power. The Pura
Dalem, often referred to as the “death temple,” is associated with Siwa, and his wife Durga,
in the form of the destroyer or dissolver of life. People do not so much direct their worship
to these gods personally, however, as to a cluster of spiritual forces and entities associated
with each temple and specific locality. Balinese in general do not seem to think of named per-
sonal gods or spirit entities as we tend to think they should. Rather they are aware of super-
natural forces of various kinds that require respect and honoring. All these forces are
believed to emanate from the one source but possess, as it were, different levels. Balinese
speak of higher and lower powers; but all can influence human beings and all must be
respected.
 
Each temple has its priest (pemangku) who cares for it and makes offerings there on a
small scale every day. People bring offerings at Purnama (full moon), Tilem (dark moon), and
Kajeng Kliwon—a ritually significant correspondence of calendrical dates that occurs every
fifteen days. The most important ritual event that takes place in each temple is the odalan.
Once every 210 days (a year in the Javo-Balinese calendar), a Balinese temple observes a
special period of worship, the odalan, lasting from one to several days.** During this time
the temple is the site of constant activity, as every household prepares elaborate offerings,
people dress in their best, and all come to pray and receive holy water. The gods and spirits
associated with the temple are invited to descend and bless the village congregation with
their presence. The divine guests are feasted and entertained with dance performances,
shadow puppet theater, music, singing, and recitation of sacred texts. Other dramas and
dances are staged for the enjoyment of the human audience. The activities continue far into
the night, and usually a kind of nighttime fair selling drinks, snacks, clothing, and toys, and
offering various forms of gambling, establishes itself on the periphery of the temple grounds.
 
The odalan is a time when everyone enjoys the festive atmosphere and the community
as a whole feels a special closeness to the divine powers on which it depends. It is a time when
anger and personal animosity should be put aside, when people try to cleanse their minds
and spirits and open themselves to the pure, bright presence of their divine guests. In the
inner courtyard of the temple, people pray in a group, offering flowers and incense, the
prayers punctuated by the silver tone of the priest’s handbell. Then everyone receives holy
water poured on their heads and then into their hands for them to drink. Tucking flowers
into their hair and pressing seeds of consecrated rice on their foreheads, they rise from their
prayers, fresh and cleansed of spiritual dirt and defilement. The incense, the chiming bells,
the gamelan music, the beautifully decorated temple shrines, the lavish displays of fruit,
flowers, and sweet cakes, the smiling faces of the crowd—all combine to create in the inner
court of the temple (jeroan) an atmosphere of peaceful joy in which the gods might well be
felt to be present. In the outer courts, the jaba tengah and jaba, people sit around in groups
 
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[ CHAPTER 1. ]
chatting informally while watching the various dance performances given there, or listen-
ing to the gamelan orchestras, as they wait to pray and receive holy water. At the entrance
to the temple people buy snacks to eat, join in gambling games, and meet with friends. The
whole occasion is one of relaxed gaiety with nothing of the serious piety Westerners might
expect of a religious occasion.
 
Prior to the temple festival, sacrifice must be made in the form of special rituals for the
bhuta kala, the dangerous disruptive chthonic forces. The rituals for the bhuta kala (caru)
are offered at midday on the day of the temple festival, which usually begins in the evening,
or on the day before the festival in the case of extended celebrations. Caru offerings are
placed on the ground close to the village crossroads, the priest (pemangku or pedanda,
depending on the size of the ceremony) presents the offerings with prayer and incense, while
the congregation kneels on the ground to pray. At the conclusion, the offerings, which have
been laid out on the ground, are broken up and tossed about by a group of worshippers—
who whirl around in a lively dance representing the bhuta kala come to claim their feast.
These offerings, people explain, are necessary to remove all disruptive unseen forces lurk-
ing around the village. This is the first step in purifying the area so that the divine powers
may later descend to occupy their seats in the temple. Ordinary people are inclined to speak
of the bhuta kala as if they were simply evil spirits that can be removed by offering bribes
of food. Indeed it is difficult for Balinese to communicate to outsiders the exact nature of
these powers since, as we shall find in later chapters, complex understandings of the cosmic
order are involved—rendering a direct translation of the term into English virtually impos-
sible. For the ordinary villager, however, what is important is that the caru ritual has, by
whatever means, cleansed the area.
 
Since every village (desa) possesses at least three temples and often others as well,
including irrigation society temples, agricultural temples, and district and state temples,*°
villagers not only participate in at least three temple festivals every 210 days but usually
attend festivals in other villages or at those six temples that serve all Bali (the sad kayangan),
such as Pura Besakih. In addition to these temple-based ceremonies, many seasonal or calen-
drical religious rites are observed. The most important are Galungan, Kuningan, and Nyepi.*”
Galungan is a time of celebration and feasting in each household and involves various
temple observances as well. Families buy new clothes for the festivities and spend freely on
food for family feasting and offerings for the gods. High bamboo poles (penjor) hung with
elaborate decorations of plaited palm leaf are erected in front of each house, lining the vil-
lage streets in a stately parade.
 
Galungan begins with Panampahan, a day on which pigs, ducks, and chickens are
slaughtered to make the delicacies, especially Jawar, enjoyed on such special occasions and
to provide the meat required for offerings. On Galungan day, the family dresses in its best
and partakes of all the delicacies that have been prepared; elaborate offerings are made within
the household and even grander offerings are taken to the temples. On the third day, Manis
Galungan, families visit each other and a festival atmosphere prevails. At this time, and over
the next several days, many Barongs, accompanied by gamelan orchestras and groups of
laughing youths, are to be seen on the roads and passing through villages, receiving dona-
tions of money and other offerings as they go. The Barong is a mythological creature of great
significance to the Balinese. He is impersonated by two men wearing a costume and mask
 
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[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
resembling a cross between a shaggy bear and a Chinese lion-dog. He can be both majestic
and comic and is clearly venerated by his people. The Barong’s connection with the high god,
Siwa,** is discussed in later chapters. Here it is sufficient to note that villagers see him as a
guardian and protector and that his passing by the gates of village houses at Galungan is
believed to remove inauspicious influences.
 
Ten days after Galungan there are three days of similar celebration referred to as
Kuningan. Special foods are prepared for the family, especially yellow rice (kuning); new
decorations (tamiang) are placed about the house, along with elaborate offerings, while
others are taken to the temples. On the day of Kuningan, everyone visits each of the temples
in their community to take offerings and pray. This must be done before midday. On the third
day, Manis Kuningan, people rest, visit friends, and enjoy family outings.
 
Many explanations of Galungan and Kuningan have been offered by Western scholars.
Some have suggested that these observances were originally celebrations marking the year’s
end at a time when they were calculated by the Hindu-Balinese year of twelve months
instead of the Javo-Balinese calendar.*® Barbara Lovric, quoting several lontar texts to sup-
port her arguments, maintains that Galungan is directed primarily to the chthonic forces, the
bhuta kala, and constitutes a bhuta yadnya, or sacrifice to these demonic forces.*° Galungan
and Kuningan are usually described as a time when the presence of the ancestors is invoked
by each family and offerings are made to them. Jan Swellengrebel suggests that the festival
might be described as “an All Souls’ Day on which one also celebrates All Saints.” Other
explanations emphasize the ethical significance of Kuningan as a celebration of order over
chaos (dharma versus adharma), a view upheld by the state-supported official religion,
agama Hindu. Although these interpretations are not necessarily mutually contradictory, it
is disconcerting to find so many competing explanations for these key ritual events. For most
Balinese, Galungan together with Kuningan is an enjoyable holiday season of celebration. It
is also a time when people feel a special closeness with the spirit entities surrounding them,
especially their deified ancestors and the gods. The season as a whole is a reaffirmation of
the positive forces that not only give life but protect and succor.
 
Galungan and Kuningan are celebrated once every Javo-Balinese year of 210 days. Nyepi,
the day of silence, by contrast, falls once every Saka year (the Hindu-Balinese calendar of
twelve months). It is preceded by a series of caru rituals directed to the chthonic forces, the
bhuta kala, as well as purification ceremonies where the sacra of each temple, including the
Barong masks and costumes, are taken to the sea for cleansing.°* The complex calendrical
system observed in Bali, which consists of several different calendars and their various
conjunctions, results in many days of ritual importance marked by household and temple
observances.”* These include the tumpek days, six of which occur in a 210-day year and are
devoted to special observances directed to metal objects, plants, domestic animals, musical
instruments, and costumes used in sacred dance/drama. A separate day is devoted to the
puppets used in the shadow puppet theater; the remaining tumpek day forms part of the
Kuningan celebrations.** On Saraswati day, special offerings are made to Saraswati, the god-
dess of knowledge, as well as to books and works of art such as paintings. Siwaratri requires
special devotions to Siwa, and there are many other observances that vary from area to area,
such as Pagerwesi (iron wall), which is given greater importance in northern Bali than in the
south.” Given the complexities of this astounding ritual cycle and its endless local variations
 
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[ CHAPTER 1 ]
and embellishments, it is perhaps little wonder that scholars continue to puzzle over the
significance of its various elements and that few have attempted to discern in it any cohesive
pattern.*° As Mark Hobart remarks in an essay on Balinese concepts of good and evil: “On
few matters is a simple summary so impossible. For the Balinese have absorbed Hindu, Bud-
dhist, Tantric, Old Javanese and other, including apparently indigenous, religious ideas and
have mixed them into a textual and practical tradition which has so far baffled description.”*’
 
For the outside observer, Balinese ritual seems an unending, indeed exhausting, round
of constant activity. For Balinese it constitutes the very fabric of their existence, orchestrating
daily and seasonal events according to a rhythm where the lives of the individual, the family,
and the community are linked to the unseen powers that are felt to shape material existence.
People are constantly made aware of these forces, and the need to respect and acknowledge
them, simply through the everyday actions required of them. And when something goes
wrong—an illness, quarreling among family members, mishaps, misfortune of any kind—
such adversity indicates that one’s relationship with the unseen world (niskala) is disturbed
or lacking in some way and the help of experts might be needed to determine what must be
done to repair it.
 
Balinese live with a deep sensitivity to—and desire to be on goods terms with—a wide
range of natural and supernatural forces and entities, especially their human ancestors.
Surrounded by hosts of unseen powers with a dual potential for harm or good, Balinese
always hope to realize the positive potential through their constant ritual efforts. Though
ever attentive to these unseen powers, Balinese rarely conceptualize them in personal terms.
Even the family ancestors are not thought of, or worshipped, as specific persons but rather
as a collectivity.
 
The average person is content to follow the prescribed rituals in the hope that life will
progress smoothly, without mishap, protected by ancestral and other well-disposed super-
natural powers. Clearly beliefs are not the determining characteristic of this religion. Yet cer-
tain fundamental beliefs are held by most Balinese: a belief in reincarnation (the idea that
after a period of time human souls will be born again in human bodies), in the law of karma
pala (according to which one’s moral actions in this life influence future lives), and in the
importance of dharma (right action and moral order) over adharma (moral chaos). Most Bali-
nese today are convinced of the ultimate reunion of the human spirit with its divine source,
achieving liberation (moksa) from the cycle of rebirths. Very few, however, expect to attain
this themselves in this life or indeed for many lives to come. Moksa is the aim of only the
spiritually elevated person or sage. (Although the widespread ability to articulate these
beliefs may be largely the result of the officially supported efforts to propagate the tenets of
agama Hindu, I think they are implicit in and central to earlier ideas expounded in Balinese
philosophical texts.) Balinese are fond of observing that there are many paths but all lead
ultimately to god. For the average man or woman, faithful performance of ritual duties is their
path. Theirs is not to ask why, but to follow the directions laid down by others.
 
In addition to disruptive supernatural entities, most Balinese are also convinced that
certain people possess the power to harm others via mystical means. Belief in sorcery and
witchcraft is a well-known aspect of Balinese life,** although such matters are secret and
always spoken about in hushed and guarded tones. Sometimes called the “left-hand way”
(pengiwa), mystical power to inflict disease and death is believed to be granted to supplicants
who pray to the terrible goddess Durga and meditate upon her in the graveyard. Those who
 
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[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
are successful in their quests become leyak, powerful beings attributed with the ability to
change shape, taking on all kinds of animal and monstrous forms, including that of the ter-
rible Durga herself. Although women are believed to have a natural affinity for such activ-
ities, men too can acquire these powers, using them to attack rivals and enemies.” There are
also those who possess the power necessary to confront and combat the witches (leyak). The
Balinese traditional healer, the balian, may obtain his or her powers in different ways, in some
cases by studying the sacred texts devoted to medicine (usada) or by direct inspiration from
supernatural sources. It is also believed that these knowledgeable persons who can combat
witchcraft must themselves possess knowledge of how to inflict disease and harm. Although
the balian’s role as healer is usually stressed in ordinary conversation, Balinese are keenly
aware that these powers are double-edged. The importance of such beliefs in Balinese life has
long been recognized. But on the whole, as Hildred Geertz points out,°° they have often been
regarded as peripheral to religious life and indicative of the continued prevalence of earlier,
more primitive, animistic beliefs. In Geertz’s view: “A major impediment in Western under-
standing of Balinese thought is the long and pervasive Christian tradition that defines ‘reli-
gion’ as central and serious, and ‘magic’ as peripheral and trivial.”’°"
 
For many Balinese who make no claims to special religious or esoteric knowledge,
Clifford Geertz’s observation that Balinese religion is one of “orthopraxy not orthodoxy” is
well supported. When one turns to those whose role it is to deal with the unseen world,
however, the situation is different. Here we encounter a new obstacle to understanding: Bali-
nese religious experts are accustomed to using their deeper knowledge to help laypersons
deal with the practical difficulties of their lives, but the knowledge on which their advice is
based is usually imparted only to initiates who undergo the appropriate rituals and lengthy
periods of study.°? In other words: specialist religious knowledge is esoteric knowledge.
Religious Knowledge and Sacred Texts
There are various kinds of religious specialists in Bali who possess different types of knowl-
edge and perform different roles: temple caretaker priests (pemangku), puppeteer priests
(dalang), exorcist priests (senguhu), and Brahmana priests (pedanda).°’ The traditional healer,
or balian, also performs various ritual tasks in addition to healing the sick, and there are, as
well, balian who act as spirit mediums, allowing families to contact and converse with the
spirits of their deceased relatives and ancestors. The authority of these different specialists
is based essentially on two sources: one is direct, spontaneous communication with the
unseen realm (niskala) in states of trance and possession;™ the other is the study of written
texts. Of the two, knowledge of the written texts is by far the most respected as a basis for
religious understanding. While this might be said to reflect the view of the Brahmana elite,
who in the past represented the group who had the greatest control over this resource, in my
experience it represents the view of the majority since the most widely respected sources of
ritual knowledge are those persons, by no means all Brahmana, who study the written texts.
 
Balinese lontar texts do not constitute an organized body of theology but a vast and varied
literature on all kinds of subjects. Inscribed on narrow strips of palm leaf tied together with
string, they are fragile and, in Bali’s tropical climate, do not last forever.®’ In order for texts
to survive, they must be hand copied every few generations. Usually the private possessions
 
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[ CHAPTER 1 ]
 
of priestly and noble families, Jontar are carefully guarded heirlooms. Until the foundation
in the 1920s of the Gedong Kirtya library of manuscripts under the auspices of the Dutch
colonial government, no central or public collection of such texts existed. Even the most
learned Brahmana priest was unlikely to have read texts other than those possessed by his
family or his teacher (who in any case was usually a member of his own family). Nor was
there any single text or group of texts that possessed a higher authority generally recognized
among the learned.
 
Lontar deal with a wide range of subjects: hymns and prayers, ritual, cosmology, mysti-
cism, mythology, astrology, ethics and law, medicine, grammar, architecture and art, history,
genealogies, literature including epics and poetry, popular tales, and manuals dealing with
magic.°° No one person would study all these fields, and different families were likely to spe-
cialize in a certain field, such as medicine, astrology, or architecture, while Brahmana fami-
lies would preserve the ritual and priestly manuals and mystical texts. There was no system,
however, beyond the vagaries of family and local history, in determining how manuscripts
were inherited and preserved within particular family lines. No Balinese approached these
texts as a whole corpus as a Western scholar might seek to do. The Balinese student would
be guided by others, usually teachers or elders, to certain texts. There are texts for pemangku
(temple priests), for dalang (puppeteer priests), for pedanda (Brahmana priests), for tukang
banten (experts on offerings), for balian (healers), for undagi and sanggin (architects and
artists), and for students of desti and pengiwa (black magic). No balian, for example, could
study every medical text in existence, but only specific ones, usually those few possessed
by his own family.°’ Today anyone can consult collections of lontar held at the Gedong Kirtya
and the Pusat Dokumentasi Budaya Bali in Denpasar if they possess the linguistic skills to
read the Kawi, Sanskrit, and High Balinese in which the texts are written.
 
The Jontar are an unfixed source of riches that different people draw on in different ways.
We must be aware of different levels and streams of knowledge, therefore, even among
those who are able to read them. Furthermore the texts themselves are enigmatic works that
cannot simply be taken at their surface level. They require careful interpretation—and this
may vary among individuals or from teacher to teacher. Knowledgeable Balinese often com-
mented to me that many texts, especially the more mystical ones, contain only part of the
information the student requires: the full teaching must be given via the oral instructions
of a teacher.°* Commenting on the special character of Balinese /ontar as a source of spiritual
authority, Fredrik Barth observes that
 
these fascinating and important texts add significantly to the Bali-Hindu
stream of tradition, but not as a literary heritage allowing reference,
comparison, and a critical scholarship of establishing a shared authentic
knowledge. On the contrary, they are separate, independent sources of
authority to their priestly possessors, at best read for their unique and
place-and-person-specific knowledge, each sacred and powerful and
unchallengable in its particular validity.°
Clearly the very nature of these Balinese sacred texts tends to support the view that Bali-
nese religion lacks internal coherence.
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[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
Some Jontar have been translated and published in English. The Dutch scholar Christi-
aan Hooykaas has produced an extensive body of careful translation and textual analysis of
the religious and mystical texts, for example, while other scholars have tended to focus on
historical and literary works.’”° Although Hooykaas’ works are difficult to read, even for Bali-
nese experts, and no clear interpretation of Balinese religion emerges from them, they do
make available to scholars much important material. In later chapters I will have frequent
occasion to refer to them.
 
For all their vagaries from the point of view of the Western scholar, the lontar texts
remain for Balinese the highest source of spiritual knowledge and power. We must approach
them as Balinese do, however, not with the idea of gaining a systematic or comprehensive
orthodoxy of theology but as repositories of deep and mysterious insights into other reali-
ties. In the Balinese view, the lontar do not simply convey information: the script in which
they are written, the very shapes of the sacred letters (aksara), and above all the mystic
sounds they represent are themselves visual and audible symbols that resonate at a mysti-
cal level, reaching beyond the intellect to influence the spirit and soul of the student.”
 
The evident division of Balinese culture, even today, between those who are able to read
the Jontar texts, who are a minority, and those who cannot, the majority, also seems, at first
glance, to support the layered view of Balinese religion. Many writers have argued, or
assumed, that the activities of laypeople and pemangku are a totally separate matter from the
rituals and understandings of the pedanda, the literate scholar/priests whose role and func-
tion is usually assumed to derive from Indian prototypes.’? Swellengrebel, for example, in
enumerating the features of Balinese culture that can be attributed to indigenous cultural
elements as opposed to those of Hindu or Hindu-Javanese origin, lists under the former “the
system of family, village, and regional temples and the rituals performed there.””* He also
includes, under the heading of indigenous elements, the offerings given at temples. Evi-
dently this would relegate a great deal of Balinese religious life to a “popular religion”
owing little if anything to Hinduism. Linda Connor has argued for a class of “peasant intel-
lectuals” whom she sees as opposed to a traditional literati.’”* This position, however, has
been strongly contested by Barbara Lovric, who insists that the traditional Balinese elite and
peasants shared the same cultural world and values.’* Whether explicitly stated or not, the
same view underlies recent studies of Balinese kingship and precolonial politics.”° Balinese
peasants were not in the past ruled primarily by force: they inhabited a world that was made
safe and meaningful through the ritual actions of their priests and kings, which would have
been impossible without a sharing of the same assumptive worlds.
 
Mary Zurbuchen and Raechelle Rubinstein have separately shown that it is misleading
to think, as did earlier scholars, of traditional Balinese society as sharply divided on the basis
of literacy.”’ They demonstrate that literacy permeated many levels of Balinese society and
show that the study even of the most sacred texts was by no means confined to Brahmana
scholars and priests or the gentry. Rubinstein refers to “vocational literacy,” pointing out that
many others, including healers, artists, architects, and performers, needed to be able to read
the lontar texts. Even those philosophical and mystical tutur texts that are prefaced by
warnings not to reveal their contents are in fact not forbidden to those who have taken the
trouble to acquire the appropriate skills to study them. According to Zurbuchen: “Although
this doctrine has often been interpreted as forbidding people of common caste access to the
 
21
 
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[ CHAPTER 1 ]
lontars, many Balinese literati nowadays concur that the aja wéra-type injunctions commonly
found in the manuscripts are meant to restrict certain types of knowledge, invariably mystic,
magic, or esoteric in nature, to those persons who have studied enough to receive them,
regardless of caste.”’* Those who sought to read the sacred texts, regardless of their social
status, were required to undergo special purification rituals and initiation, as well as to seek
oral instruction from a guru.””
 
Textual knowledge is, in my experience, of the greatest importance in determining who
possesses ritual and mystical knowledge. Zurbuchen and Rubinstein,®*° however, make it
clear that commoners are not barred from reading the sacred texts and that literacy depends
rather on vocational needs.** Personal inclination and taste also matter: not all members of
the Brahmana caste are interested in pursuing a religious or scholarly vocation, while com-
moners may be drawn by their own inner feelings and ambitions to seek out religious
knowledge. Those who need textual knowledge to pursue their professions may choose to
acquire only the minimum necessary or elect to steep themselves as deeply as possible in the
sacred literature. This, however, is not to suggest that access is freely available to anyone.
The knowledge contained in the texts is not only powerful; it is dangerous if incorrectly
approached or used. Many are the tales told of persons who have become seriously ill or even
insane as a result of their improper engagement with the texts. Rubinstein describes a hier-
archy of literacy: Sanskrit at the top, Balinese at the bottom, and Kawi in between.** Since
the Brahmana priest (pedanda) is considered to be the apex of the religious hierarchy, he is
also the apex of the literacy pyramid, possessing some knowledge of Sanskrit as well as Kawi
and literary Balinese. Rubinstein concludes that
 
esoteric, specialist texts utilized in religious and magical activity are
 
believed to be invested with supernatural potentiality and access to them
 
has been restricted. They have been shrouded in secrecy, because their
 
teachings have been considered to pose mystical dangers for the unquali-
 
fied. However, contrary to many nineteenth and twentieth century inter-
 
pretations of literacy in Bali, including those of some Balinese, access to
 
these texts has not been confined to pedanda, unordained Brahmana or
 
the triwangsa in general, and no radical dichotomy has existed between
 
a literate elite and an “illiterate peasantry.””*
My own experience of contemporary practice accords with these observations. Although it
often seemed to me that much was deliberately hidden or simply not disclosed, my Balinese
informants always insisted that mystical knowledge was available to those who really wanted
to obtain it.
Religion and the Role of the Artist
Balinese artists carving statues and painting decorations for temples and palaces, architects,
mask makers, carvers of the shadow puppets, sculptors who build the elaborate animal-shaped
coffins and high towers (bade) for cremation ceremonies—all learn from oral tradition and
 
22
 
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[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
instruction and from practical experience. Those artists with the most extensive and thor-
ough knowledge, however, are also conversant with the textual sources of that knowledge.**
To represent them correctly, artists need to know the myths, the epics, the folktales, the
histories, the symbolism of the esoteric texts, the iconography of the deities, the intricacies
of calendars and astrological systems. These are highly complex matters requiring expert
knowledge. Less talented and less knowledgeable individuals might follow the directions of
others, providing labor for the mechanical tasks, but simply to sketch a scene from one of
the epics or myths requires extensive knowledge of the subject matter and the conventions
of representation. Domestic and sacred architecture is governed by intricate ritual require-
ments and rules that are laid down in the sacred texts.*° In short, all aspects of artistic
production, including the performing arts, are determined by principles and regulations set
forth in the lontar texts. This is not to say there is a strict conformity to be observed. The
texts themselves are various, as are their interpretations, and always adapted to local and
practical needs. Nevertheless, artistic production of any but the roughest kind requires
consultation with experts who are conversant with the appropriate texts. This is true even
of the offerings produced for domestic and communal ritual. Although most adult women
are proficient in making a wide range of offerings—and the local experts, tukang banten,
usually rely on information acquired orally—the lontar texts explicate and list in detail the
offerings required for specific rituals. Thus it is to the women of Brahmana households that
people look for help with determining what offerings are required for special occasions.
 
Ata practical level, painters, sculptors, builders, and other craftsmen need very specific
kinds of knowledge in order to produce the required objects. At another level, these pro-
ductions must also be ritually correct. Since supernatural forces or beings have no material
substance or body, to be present in the material world they must be given bodies to inhabit—
and this is the artist’s role. Important objects, such as the sacred masks used in temple per-
formances, require special rites (pasupati) to invest them with mystical power. In this way
“works of art’’—a statue, a mask, a painting, once consecrated—are believed to be animated
by spiritual entities or powers.*° There are /Jontar books devoted to mystical diagrams and
drawings (rarajahan) that are themselves believed to be the means of materializing specific
supernatural powers and mystical forces for the ritual expert to command. Many of Budiana’s
paintings incorporate symbols and motifs inspired by these traditional “magic drawings.”
 
Other objects created by the artist are not intended to be the actual vehicles of divine
forces but rather to embellish the temple or ritual. Budiana explained that the aim is to attract
attention, evoking appropriate feelings and experiences in the participants. Thus artists use
their talents to create objects and performances of beauty, or of terror, to impress the ob-
server. Art brings the invisible, nonmaterial niskala realm into being, giving its entities and
forces material form, thereby bringing into human awareness the spiritual realm, so that
people are drawn to it and seek to be guided by it.
 
At this point it becomes clear why the master artist in Bali needs to possess ritual
power. Of course, there are conventionalized ways to depict the realm of gods and super-
natural forces. But if the work is truly to interest and inspire others, the artist must infuse
new life into the conventional forms. The highest expression of praise I commonly heard from
Balinese, especially artists, concerning a work of art was that “it has jiwa’’—that is to say,
the painting, sculpture, or mask is alive, animated by spirit. This does not necessarily mean
 
23
 
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[ CHAPTER 1 ]
a work is beautiful, finely crafted, or professionally executed. It points, rather, to an intan-
gible but unmistakable quality: it is no longer mere matter. A work possessing jiwa seems
to command attention, dominates, radiates a kind of power. It attracts the eye; it seems to
move as you look at it; it breathes life. The Balinese artist aims at nothing less than bringing
to life, or realizing in material form, the cosmic forces that surround us. It is not simply that
art in Bali primarily serves religion; rather we might say that religion is art.
 
Artists and performers are expected to use their talents for the benefit of the whole
community, not simply for personal gain or satisfaction. An important concept in Balinese
communal life is that of ngayah: service freely given to the community, usually for ritual pur-
poses. Everyone contributes according to their abilities and capacities. All ritual events,
where circumstances allow, involve music, dance, shadow puppet theater, singing, recitation
of sacred texts, as well as elaborate offerings, prayers, and ritual actions by priestly officiates.
Many sensory modalities are employed to bring the world of the spirit into perceptible form,
and all members of the community participate in the process. Some are dancers, some sing,
some play music, some make offerings, some construct the statues, paint the decorative hang-
ings, build the funeral bade (towers) and the many ritual objects required. Balinese ritual is
not a spectacle watched passively but a drama in which everyone has a part to play. Ngayah,
the labor contributed by each person, is itself an act of worship in which all contribute to
the ritual aim of creating a link between the material world and the divine realm.
 
Western writers often note that the Balinese language has no word for “artist.” Accord-
ing to Urs Ramseyer:
 
The idea of art as such does not exist in Balinese. People carve or paint
 
masks, carve statues or statuettes, play in a gong, angklung or géndér
 
wayang ensemble or dance the /égong, topéng or baris. Aesthetic considera-
 
tions and emotional values, like the artistic activities themselves, relate to
 
single, individual genres which do not exist as independent art forms but
 
primarily as ritual work (karya).°”
This concept of art as “ritual work” (karya) is also reflected in the terms used to describe
different kinds of specialists, who are referred to as tukang, or workers possessing specific
skills. Even master carvers of masks are described as tukang ukir; a carpenter is a tukang kayu,
an expert maker of offerings is a tukang banten, and so on. The terms do not distinguish
between what we would categorize as artists, craftsmen, and skilled laborers. For Balinese,
all are tukang and all are respected for their skills and their contributions to ritual life.** Yet
the carver or painter or puppet maker should not be seen as occupying a lowly position. I
found that many pedanda—the most respected religious authorities whose position is based
on professional knowledge of the written texts—were also carvers and mask makers (or had
been before their priestly role left no time for such activities). The dalang, the puppeteer
priest, who must have extensive knowledge of the classic epic and ritual literature, usually
makes his own puppets, carving them from specially prepared leather and then painting and
gilding them himself.
 
Even the usual distinction between the visual arts and the performing arts is difficult
to maintain in Bali, since the maker of a mask is also likely to be the dancer wearing it. How,
 
24
 
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[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
Balinese ask, is the mask maker to know what is required if he has no direct experience of
the dance? Likewise the dalang is both performer and maker of his puppets. The painter or
sculptor is often a musician or dancer as well who puts down his brushes and chisels to join
the performers. Most Balinese seem to possess multiple talents, and such is the rule rather
than the exception. Once again, this is made comprehensible through the idea of “ritual
work.” One contributes what one can, when one can, and must be prepared to step in and
take over when needed. Ritual work is about helping and working with others, not about
individual achievement or personal ambition. There are many different ways in which
people can use their abilities in the service of ritual. Those with more talent and more
knowledge provide leadership and example, but all can participate in some capacity.
 
It is often said that in Bali everyone is an artist. But as one of Ramseyer’s Balinese
informants wisely commented, there may be many artists in Bali, but “not so many good
artists.”*° In other words: many Balinese give their time and energies to artistic activities
required by ritual without thought of producing anything that might be considered an
expression of individual talent or distinguishing themselves as “artists.” Should they in fact
succeed in creating an object or performance that stands out above the rest as something of
special value, this will be attributed not so much to personal ability as to spiritual power.
Unique skills and knowledge, outstanding performance of any kind, are not seen as the result
of personal qualities but the product of a special closeness to the divine origins of such
powers. As persons with special talents and knowledge, both Budiana and Mirdiana will-
ingly contribute to the ritual life of their communities. This is not a kind of tax or corvée
imposed by the community but an act of worship performed by the artist.
 
Although the paintings discussed in the following chapters are not intended to be reli-
gious icons or devotional objects, they nevertheless lead us deep into Balinese mysticism and
philosophy. They were not made primarily to cater to Western tastes or with commercial ends
in view. Observing the paintings, a university-trained Balinese scholar of the lontar texts
commented that they were something special, “seni murni’”—that is to say, pure art created
without thought of gain.°° Although the term “seni murni” is Indonesian and has no exact
equivalent in Balinese, the concept does: this is the very essence of ngayah, or ritual work.
My Balinese colleague stopped in astonishment in front of Mirdiana’s Barong and Rangda
(Plate 23), caught his breath for a moment, and then exclaimed in quiet wonder: “This is
exactly what I have seen so often in states of inner concentration (batin) and now I see here
before me in this painting!” If Balinese art is “the mirror of religious thought,” as one of Ram-
seyer’s artist informants explained,”' then the paintings about to be discussed clearly serve
that end.
 
Modern Developments and Religious Change
Writing of Bali in the 1950s, Clifford Geertz identified a movement he called “internal con-
version” —a process whereby flexible local religious practices are gradually turned into
dogma as a religion becomes bureaucratized.”’ Fifty years on, it might be argued that I am
just observing some of the effects of this continuing process, mistaking these for a core of
traditional mystical beliefs, when in fact they are modern creations.
 
25
 
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[ CHAPTER 1 ]
 
Budiana and Mirdiana might well be the present-day counterparts of those young Bali-
nese Geertz observed to be so eager to rationalize and reform their religion. There is today
a powerful reformed Hindu view and the Parisada Hindu Dharma—a government-sponsored
body that aims to provide more rationalized, modernized forms of doctrine that can be stan-
dardized and taught even to schoolchildren.®* There are now government-sponsored lontar
libraries and collections, increased publishing of traditional Balinese texts in Indonesian
(a trend already noted by Geertz in the 1950s), plus religious education available in schools
and colleges, as well as university courses in Balinese and Old Javanese letters and literature.
Today those who seek esoteric knowledge but possess no traditional means of access can
nevertheless acquire such knowledge if they desire it. Most young people, however, would
prefer to study English, Japanese, or some European language that will secure them a place
in the tourist industry, rather than spend their time and energy learning how to read Kawi,
Sanskrit, and Balinese manuscripts. There are also in existence today many private study and
meditation groups, and other groups concerned with self-healing and self-defense, that may
or may not be part of what Geertz refers to as “internal conversion.” Leo Howe has recently
described these groups and their uneasy relationship with the government-backed agama
Hindu.™ In addition to these groups, in the past few years various devotional movements
introduced from India, including Sai Baba and Hare Krishna, have become popular.”
 
A recent study by Barth, however, stresses that the decentered and locally based char-
acter of Balinese religious life continues despite the many pressures for change.°° My own
experience supports the view that village people go about their lives, continuing to fulfill
their elaborate ritual requirements, with little concern for the debates of reformist intellec-
tuals and elites. Howe too observes that customary ritual practice continues—if anything
with renewed enthusiasm—as new wealth has brought greater resources to be channeled into
ritual and notes that to withdraw from such activities is impossible since to do so would be
to cut oneself off from community life as a whole.*’ The complexity of the present situation
of competing ideas and interests—which involve issues of status, caste, and identity inex-
tricably interwoven with religion—is clearly delineated in Howe's recent study. He notes:
 
While the creation of agama Hindu is an attempt to add theological sub-
 
stance to and provide philosophical justification for traditional Balinese
 
ritual practices by giving them a rational foundation, these additions
 
also form a reasonably coherent system of doctrine, which, to some
 
extent, stands apart from the ritual practices of village Balinese. Thus, in
 
aligning Balinese religion with the ethical and theological tenets of Indian
 
Hinduism, officials of the Parisada and other leading intellectuals created
 
a new form of Balinese religion, with its own distinctive mode of knowl-
 
edge and doctrine. This agama has similarities to and differences from
 
customary adat religion, but, while adat is more an orthopraxy, agama
 
Hindu is more an orthodoxy.”*
In this situation, the danger arises of assuming (which Howe does not) that all philosophi-
cal and mystical elements to be discerned in current Balinese religious thought necessarily
 
26
 
===PDFPAGE 37===
[ Defining Balinese Mysticism ]
 
owe their origins to the efforts of the Parisada or other reformists. In recognizing the com-
plex effects of religious change, I think we must guard against any simple equating of adat
(customary practice) with “tradition” and attributing all other elements to recent innova-
tion. In the confusing ferment of current thought about religion, we need to acknowledge
a continuing stream of Balinese philosophical and mystical thought that is not owed to, and
predates, twentieth-century reformist efforts to realign Balinese religion with Indian Hindu-
ism or to introduce Hindu devotional religion.
 
In the following chapters we will find that the themes reflected in the paintings of Budi-
ana and Mirdiana are not recent exoticisms or rationalizations arising out of the modern
ethical and theological viewpoints of agama Hindu. Indeed they are ancient ideas deeply
embedded in the culture. They are revealed in the Jontar texts of mythic narratives and in
abstract mystical texts, all of which certainly predate modern reformist movements. Even
more significantly, as we will see in Chapter 5, they are discernible in Balinese ritual prac-
tices—the very ritual practices that Clifford Geertz and many others have come to see as con-
stituting the essence of Balinese religion.
 
If we focus on the level of local cultural expression—the wide variations to be found
across Bali—the differences are of course going to be exaggerated. If, however, we look at
other levels of understanding, such as those suggested in the artworks about to be discussed,
we can discern themes, ideas, rituals, and myths that have many parallels with Shivaitic
Tantrism. This is not really surprising in view of the fact that several scholars have suggested
that such represents the teachings originally brought to Bali from India.” My argument is
not that Balinese Hinduism is simply identical with Indian Shivaitic Tantrism; I contend the
similarities go much deeper than has previously been acknowledged. Furthermore, these
themes are not mere superficialities overlaying earlier beliefs but are woven through current
ritual practice and belief to form a recognizable pattern.
 
Hildred Geertz wisely cautions against making sweeping generalizations about Balinese
religion:
 
Many Balinese today stress that their religion is at base monotheistic, that
 
the greatly varied gods and demons are, in fact, all manifestations of the one
 
God, who sends out avatars as numerous as the rays of the sun. However,
 
no present-day Balinese religious leader has succeeded in establishing
 
doctrinal uniformity on this or other matters. Not only is every locality
 
different from every other in the modes of worship and ways of speak-
 
ing about it, but different social groups, too, cannot agree. There is, no
 
doubt, a central core of principles to which all Balinese adhere, but no
 
one, Balinese or Westerner, has been able to explicate these adequately.‘
In the following discussion I make no pretense of identifying a central core of religious
principles to which all Balinese might adhere. Nor do I set out to provide a comprehensive
picture of Balinese religion as a whole.
 
In defining it as an “orthopraxy,” Clifford Geertz declared that traditional Balinese reli-
gion failed to develop a system of either “ethical or mystical theology.”!°' Thus he explicitly
 
27
 
===PDFPAGE 38===
[ CHAPTER 1. ]
denies the existence of a Balinese mysticism. Yet there are important elements of Balinese reli-
gious life that can be shown to fit his own definition of a “mystical theology” involving, as
he puts it, “direct, individual experiential contact with the divine via mysticism, insight,
aesthetic intuition, etc., often with the assistance of various sorts of highly organized
spiritual and intellectual disciplines, such as yoga.”*°? It is the aim of the following chapters
to describe a stream of traditional Balinese mystical thought that fits this definition.
28
 
===PDFPAGE 39===
[ CHAPTER 2 ]
 
Fire, Destruction, and the Power of the Mother
 
The Paintings of I Ketut Budiana
| KETUT BUDIANA is a well-known figure in contemporary Balinese art. His
paintings hang in all of Bali’s museums, they are illustrated in many books, sought
after by collectors from Indonesia, Europe, America, Japan, Australia, and elsewhere,
and they have been shown in many international exhibitions.’ He is not, however,
a rich man. Like most Balinese, Budiana shares what income his works bring him
with his extended family and his community. He lives modestly and is little inter-
ested in the commercial aspects of his profession. In fact, he devotes a great deal of
his time to producing works for ritual and religious purposes, and not only does he
refuse payment for them but often these creations are made simply to be destroyed
a short time later.
 
Budiana is a living example of the Balinese ideal of ngayah referred to in the pre-
vious chapter. He sculpts statues and carvings for temples, masks for sacred dances,
and animal-shaped coffins for cremation rituals, as well as designing, building, and
repairing temple structures. One wonders how he finds a moment to devote to his
paintings, such as those illustrated here, which take weeks and even months to
 
29
 
===PDFPAGE 40===
[ CHAPTER 2. ]
 
complete. He teaches traditional Balinese painting at the Batubulan Senior High School of
the Arts and has private students as well. His output is prodigious, yet Budiana rarely looks
tired and never hurried. He does not give the impression of a man driven by passion, but
rather one who derives a continuous, calm joy from what he does. Balinese are well known
for their ability to mask negative emotions, always presenting an unruffled exterior to the
world. Budiana, however, goes beyond this, managing to create a sense of calm space around
himself.
 
The sharp contrast between Western and Balinese understandings of art and the role of
the artist was deeply impressed upon me the first time Budiana invited me to watch his banjar
(neighborhood) members preparing for a communal cremation ceremony. When I arrived at
the bale banjar (the neighborhood meetinghouse), I found dozens of men and youths busily
engaged in carving and putting together ten or more bull-shaped coffins. As this was to be
a communal cremation, several coffins were required and, as is customary, the whole banjar
was there to help. Finally I located Budiana in the crowd: he was wielding a large knife and
hacking out the wooden leg of one of the bulls while other men were putting together the
rattan body to which it would later be attached. Far from playing a supervisory role, Budi-
ana was just one amid many workers offering their labor. A team was working on each bull.
In the end, no doubt, the animal Budiana was carving would be more elegant in form and
make a more powerful impression than the others, yet this was not really significant. What
mattered was that each man contributed as best he could. If other people sought his advice,
Budiana would give it, but essentially he participated in the work as an equal member of
the team. I stood amazed at the sight of this distinguished artist laboring like an ordinary
carpenter in the dust and heat, freely donating his time and creative energy to produce some-
thing that would soon be consigned to the cremation fire. This was art, but not of a kind I
could easily comprehend. It was essential that the final object be ritually correct and perfect.
Yet the perfection so carefully striven for was to last but a moment. And Budiana would
receive no reward for his efforts beyond the satisfaction of giving.
 
I have also observed him, along with other artists, spend hours every day for several
weeks helping his community repair and refurbish the old Barong Landung figures possessed
by a local temple. On another occasion I went to the neighboring island of Lombok to ob-
serve Budiana, and members of his group, repair a Barong mask they had made for a Balinese
Hindu community. Many times I have watched him perform as a dancer at temple ceremonies,
usually dancing the part of Barong. Whenever there is an important religious ceremony held
by his community, or surrounding communities, Budiana can be found there pouring his
energy and vast talents into it. This free labor given out of devotion, which Balinese refer
to as ngayah, is of the greatest importance to him and he clearly derives great personal satis-
faction from it.
 
Budiana learned his professional skills from his grandfather, who was a traditional
architect. Budiana took me to see the Pura Dalem of Padang Tegal, where his grandfather had
worked on many of the impressive structures and carvings and he himself had learned the
carver’s art at his grandfather's side. Intriguing little statues of strange goblinlike creatures
along the front wall of the temple were carved by Budiana many years later. Befitting his
status as a master carver (sangging) and architect (undagi), Budiana is a student of the lontar
texts and all his artistic productions reflect this.* Thus to explore the imagery of his paintings
 
30
 
===PDFPAGE 41===
[ The Paintings of | Ketut Budiana ]
 
is be drawn into the deeper reaches of Balinese mystical thought. He employs traditional
imagery, but not that which is to be found in conventional representations of deities and
mythology. Familiar with mystical concepts outlined in esoteric texts, he also creates imagery
inspired by the Jontar manuals of talismanic drawings (rarajahan).* Because such esoteric
works are accessible only to scholars who are able to read Kawi,* these traditional sources of
Budiana’s inspiration are recognized only by those Balinese who possess a similar familiarity
with the lontar texts. To Western eyes, the imagery of his paintings has an almost surreal
quality so that it somehow resonates at deep unconscious levels and seems to communicate
beyond cultural boundaries.
 
The aim of this chapter is to show how Budiana’s work as a whole can be understood as
reflections on a number of related themes that come together in a cluster that he calls “the
power of the Mother” (kekuatan Ibu). It must be understood that this Mother is not the
human mother but the abstract creative cosmic principle responsible for bringing into being
every entity that exists in the material world. This creative principle is represented in the
Dewi, the Goddess, who in Bali is refracted into various aspects: Dewi Sri, the rice goddess,
Dewi Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, Dewi Danau, the goddess of the lake, Dewi Uma,
the consort of Siwa, the high god, and so on. Ibu Pretiwi, Mother Earth, is another of her
aspects and as such represents the earth and all its life forms. It is easy, but incorrect, to think
of the Goddess as equivalent to Mother Nature. The Goddess (the Mother) incorporates every
material object and creation, cultural as well as natural, so that not only the natural world
about us but all manufactured objects and material possessions are equally emanations of her
power. All worldly material things (duniawi) originate from the Goddess, whom Budiana
always refers to simply as “Ibu” (Mother).
 
The symbols, ideas, and stories that he draws upon are provided by his culture, and
many, indeed most, of the elements that comprise his paintings constitute well-known
aspects of Balinese thought. It is rather the way in which he combines and juxtaposes this
cultural imagery that is unique artistically and novel in terms of Western understanding. I
will put aside for the moment the question of how representative his interpretations are. Here
I want to explore Budiana’s work—as exemplified in the twelve paintings illustrated in this
book—to show how a consistent view of the cosmos, and the powers that comprise it, is
revealed. I focus on the imagery of the paintings so that readers may judge for themselves
whether the meanings I identify emerge from the painting as visual expressions once the
cultural background is understood. I also draw on the artist’s responses to my detailed
questions about each painting in order to establish for myself, and for the reader, that what
I have read in the imagery is what the artist intended or at least is consistent with the artist’s
intent. Yet a work of art, like any text, is never exhausted by a single reading. Indeed this
richness of resonance and multiplicity of meaning are an important aspect of what constitutes
art. In offering a consistent view of the philosophy expressed by Budiana, I do not pretend
to exhaust all possibilities of interpretation or to resolve all questions; my intent is to high-
light certain important themes.
 
Budiana’s paintings are not depictions of meditation or images visualized in meditation;
rather the painting itself should be understood as a process of meditation. That is to say, the
act of producing the work of art is a meditative experience. Budiana explains that he begins
a painting often with no idea of what will emerge from within him and appear on the canvas:
 
31
 
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[ CHAPTER 2. ]
it is as if some other hand guides the brush as he watches. The painting constitutes an unfold-
ing of imagery evoked by or linked to a particular feeling or idea. If we follow the imagery
of the painting, like the unfolding imagery of a dream, we can discern the themes that occupy
the artist’s meditations.
 
The readings I give here are not, however, based primarily on my personal response and
emotional reactions (although these of course are involved in any process of interpretation).
The readings are based on the artist’s own explanations.” In attempting to unravel the mul-
tiple layers of meaning held in a single painting, it helps to pay attention first to the title
Budiana gives to the painting, second to the colors he uses, and third to the specific images
and combination of images he employs. These considerations guided our discussions.
 
Fire and Destruction
 
I begin with the painting titled Gunung (Mountain; Plate 1). This small work on paper
depicts a majestic figure, draped in what appears to be a blue cloak, with a strangely formed
head emerging out of what looks like some kind of armored corselet. The colors are striking:
bright, blood red; deep, aqueous blue; and cloudy white. Budiana’s paintings on the whole
use a minimum of color, relying primarily on black, white, and shades of gray, and all the
colors he employs have a specific significance within traditional Balinese cosmological concepts.
 
Budiana explained that the earth is female and said that this painting represents the
power of the earth, of Ibu Pretiwi, the goddess of the earth.° Evidently it is terrible and
destructive power Budiana had in mind since the natural form he chose to represent it is an
exploding volcano. When asked the title of the painting, he replied: “Gunung [mountain]|—
gunung meletus [exploding mountain].” The shape of the volcano, merging into a woman's
body composed of various natural elements, animals, trees, and plants, reiterates the idea of
female power. Many Balinese, as Budiana pointed out, have been the victims of volcanic erup-
tions and know well the devastating force of such events. Another symbol of female power
is placed at the bottom of the painting between the feet of the volcano woman. This small
white naked female figure assumes a dancing pose, which suggested to me the high god
Acintya (who is conventionally represented naked but with male, not female, genitals).
There is a play on visual associations here. The small naked female figure at once brings to
mind the high god Acintya, who is so pure and beyond human understanding that his name
means “The Inconceivable.” Yet at the same time it resembles the figures of female witches
with fire coming from their genitals to be found in traditional Balinese paintings.’
 
Budiana agreed that this paradoxical figure has connections to these two opposites: ‘Yes,
like Acintya. That is because the movement of the figure is the movement of life. That is
because if. person or thing does not move, it is not alive, it is dead. This is a symbol of move-
ment, so that everything can move, and also the mountain that explodes—that is movement,
a symbol of movement.” The dancing position of the figure, like the posture of Acintya, rep-
resents movement, which constitutes life. The color is white, symbol of purity and spiritual
power, usually associated with the male creative principle. Red, the color of heat and blood,
is the color of the female element. But we see that from the womb of the white naked figure
gushes blood or fire.* Budiana commented that the figure is exuding sakti (mystical power),
 
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or heat (panas), like the volcano: “It is a symbol of power (kekuatan). Ibu Pretiwi (Mother
Earth) has very great power. For example, in 1963 Mount Agung erupted and there were
many victims, many people died.”
 
Now we can link the volcano woman erupting fire and lava with the witch issuing fire
from her genitals and with the human mother shedding blood in birth and menstruation.
Budiana links volcanic fire and heat to the blood of birth, equating both with the power of
the leyak: the power of sakti or the fire that issues from the witch’s vulva. Sakti is a Balinese
concept that Western writers have long struggled to understand.? It is usually translated as
“magical” or “mystical power,” but this explains little about its actual nature. For Budiana
sakti is evidently a power with both creative and destructive aspects that emanates from the
Goddess/Mother.
 
The small figure at the base of the volcano woman is white in color to stress, as Budi-
ana explains, that her role and function, though apparently frightening, with her menacing
expression, disheveled hair, and snakelike tongue, are in fact positive and benign. To under-
line her positive function, she holds in her left hand (always associated with the female) a
vial of holy water. The meaning of the holy water is, Budiana explained, “to bring to life,
to revive. This holy water is guarded by these powers. Powers that are positive, a white
power guards it. Although the shape is like a leyak [witch]—the tongue long, the face fright-
ening—the purpose of this figure is to return what is not good back to good.” We can now
see that the small naked female figure begins to reverberate with the majestic volcano
woman, who is draped in a mantle of blue plants and rain. Both bodies are white in color;
both are issuing forth red fire and heat; both are bearing water. The volcano woman brings
about terrible destruction with her erupting fire and molten rock, but like the mother/witch
bearing the vial of holy water her function is positive: to purify through destruction and
thus return matter to its original pure state. Like the mother giving birth, both give rise to
new life. But the creation of new life requires the meeting of opposites: female and male, fire
and water. The vial of holy water, together with the blue mantle covering the volcano
woman, point to a meeting of fire and water from which issues—like vapor above the vol-
cano—a third element. Budiana agreed: “Yes, the meeting of fire and water creates cloud and
later this becomes tirta (holy water)—life!” This “thrilling mystery of the marriage of fire and
water,” as C. Hooykaas calls it,'° is a central mystery of Balinese Hinduism and a key theme
of Budiana’s paintings. We will return to it many times in this discussion.
 
Budiana’s imagery in this painting might well seem to draw on symbolic universals that
speak with the language of dreams, conveying the same deep unconscious meanings for all
human beings. Or perhaps the artist employs the language of his own personal unconscious.
Undoubtedly the images seem to evoke a response in us: we feel, once we have been told what
the images mean, that we knew them all along. However this may be, Budiana’s symbols and
the meanings he expresses are not exclusively the products of his private fantasy. They are
expressions of basic concepts in Balinese religious thought.
 
The association between woman, earth, fire, witchcraft, and destruction is a common
theme in Balinese culture. Red stands for female reproductive power on a human and a
cosmic scale. White is associated with spirit as opposed to matter, with sky and heaven as
opposed to earth, and with male creative power—semen. Human conception is believed to
take place as the result of the meeting of red female reproductive substance (kama bang) with
 
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white male reproductive substance (kama petak).'' In terms of natural elements, the female
creative principle is symbolized by fire and the male principle by water and rain. White is
also associated with holiness, purity, and goodness; red is linked to physical matter, such as
flesh and blood, and to destruction and danger. These symbolic equivalents are so widely
known to Balinese that I need quote no further authority.
 
With these simple symbolic elements and contrasts, Budiana conveys his message in
imagery by transposing some of these oppositions. Thus the female earth/volcano/witch is
colored white to emphasize, paradoxically, that although she spews out fire and is possessed
of great destructive power, this power is directed to a good and necessary end: returning all
back to its original, pure state. What appears to be destruction and disaster is, from a wider
perspective, part of the necessary cycle of life, destruction, and death. In a similar way, the
artist transposes the movement of the high god Acintya onto the figure of a naked woman.
Both figures derive from traditional motifs, but Budiana’s combination of them is unique.
Although the animal shapes and monstrous faces that emerge from the shoulders, elbows,
and knees of the volcano woman have their counterparts in the Jontar manuals of talismanic
drawings, the way they are used as part of a larger figure is Budiana’s innovation. The volcano
woman and her tiny counterpart, half witch, half dancing Acintya, are unique products of
Budiana’s creative imagination. But the symbolic elements he combines and the themes he
expresses are drawn from Balinese esoteric teachings expounded in the lontar texts and from
the manuals of talismanic drawings.
 
Fire, as a symbolic element, plays an important role in Budiana’s works because this is
a key symbol of the feminine creative principle. Budiana explores the dual nature of fire: it
destroys but also purifies; it is both terrifying and beautiful. Kebakaran (Conflagration;
Plate 2) is an eloquent visual statement of this dual aspect of fire. The large canvas is filled
with sizzling heat and roaring flames blown to a fury by Hanuman, the White Monkey, in
his aspect as god of the wind. Nothing is left in the midst of this natural furnace, only fire
itself, which has consumed all. Yet the light and heat and powerful energy that the painting
radiates are striking. We stand back from the flame but are caught enthralled by its ferocity.
This is the destructive power of the natural world unleashed, a raging monster, a ravishing
spectacle. Such is the Terrible Mother, the creative principle that gives birth to all forms of
life and in turn destroys them. Budiana wants us to feel her rage—and see her beauty.
 
Gunung Meletus (Exploding Mountain; Plate 3) is another representation of the volcanic
powers of the earth. But in this case the colors are much more subdued and the association
with fire and the Terrible Mother is less obvious. Indeed were it not for the title, it might
be difficult to guess that the two huge heads with gaping mouths at the bottom of the paint-
ing represent volcanoes. The heads possess monstrous teeth and tusks, white mustaches and
beards; one belches forth smoke, the other spews out lava. The dark browns, blacks, and
grays employed in this work are in fact more characteristic of Budiana’s paintings than the
bright reds encountered in Gunung and Kebakaran. One has to look closely to see that the
smoke and clouds issuing forth are tinged with red; thus the colors do not offer an immedi-
ate clue to the theme. To my eye, the monstrous heads, which appear to be masculine rather
than feminine, might be interpreted in other ways, but the artist himself identifies them as
volcanoes. Furthermore, since they represent the forces of the earth, they stand for the power
of the Mother in Budiana’s view, whether they take masculine or feminine form.
 
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The small grotesque figures in the right field of the painting (hideous female shapes as
well as indeterminate ones), as well as the various menacing faces that peer out from the
gloom, represent destructive and negative forces: the bhuta kala. This is a term usually trans-
lated into English as “demons,” and Budiana’s bhuta kala seem every bit as devilish as the
demons represented in medieval Christian paintings of hell.'? Yet we will find that the bhuta
kala are quite different from Western concepts of demons. They are forces present in phys-
ical matter rather than supernatural entities; indeed, they are inherent in the very nature of
material substance. They might be said to constitute the energy contained in matter—a force
that Budiana shows to be neither inherently evil nor destructive.
 
From the midst of all these dark, chthonic shapes emerges at the top left of the painting
the figure of a goddess, of beauteous form and face, holding a golden vial that radiates a halo
of white light over the surrounding gloom. This graceful figure with her golden vase stands
in total contrast to the ugly, misshapen forms beneath. Yet both are but different aspects of
the same cosmic force: the power of the Mother. The golden vase, the artist explained, con-
tains tirta, holy water, which symbolizes new life. Thus this beautiful female form at the top
of the painting brings us back to the grotesque female form to be found at the feet of the
volcano woman in Gunung (Plate 1). Both figures are represented as carrying vases of holy
water, which, as the artist explained, symbolize giving or returning to life.
 
The destructive forces of Mother Earth—the fire that explodes from her orifices and rages
in the furnace of her womb—bring death and destruction. (Note the scenes to the center
right of the painting, reminiscent of scenes of the netherworld where human souls are tor-
tured by demons.) But out of this destruction emerges new life. The theme is the same: the
Terrible Mother destroys in order to purify and give rise to new life.’
 
Demons and Dark Forces
 
The identity of the Mother with the witch has already been touched upon. This theme is
further developed in Melihat Bhumi (Behold the World; Plate 4). The central figure is extra-
ordinary: it is both grotesque and repellent, yet at the same time somehow evoking compas-
sion. The figure is both infantile and senile, its white flabby flesh and bald head suggesting
old age, yet the rounded form and head and the proportions of the body are those of a child.
The pendulous breasts and the prominent vulva leave no doubt as to the sex of the figure,
and the blood or fire that streams from the genitals attests to its reproductive powers, seem-
ingly incongruous with advanced age or infancy. The face is turned down, revealing to our
view a bald pate surrounded by a few wisps of white hair. Despite its ugliness, the white
flesh and bald head seem vulnerable and in need of protection. The figure as a whole arouses
a powerful ambivalence in the viewer—disgust, fear, even loathing—and yet also pity and
perhaps guilt.
 
Budiana identifies the figure as the Mother, the world, bhumi. The title of the painting—
Melihat Bhumi (Behold the World)—commands us to face the source of our being. This is cer-
tainly not the smiling, beautiful Goddess but a grotesque female ogress, with hairy limbs and
great claws on hands and feet, who assumes the stance of a witch dancing on one leg on
human skulls from which rise flames. (Witches are thus depicted in the Balinese manuals of
 
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[ CHAPTER 2 ]
 
talismanic drawings.)'* From her head spiral flames swirling with diabolical leering faces,
their sharp fangs protruding from bloodred lips. Everything about her, including the fire
streaming from her womb, suggests the Jeyak dancing in the graveyard rather than Mother
Earth. Only her color, white, indicates otherwise. When I asked Budiana why she was
colored white, he said she is pure (suci) and holy. Nevertheless, the identification of the
Mother with the witch is very clear. What does this mean? Is Mother Earth a witch, or does
the witch have characteristics of the pure and holy Mother? I think that both witch and
Mother Earth participate in, or are expressions of, the same natural force and power.
 
The heads spiraling out of the flames issuing from the Mother’s head are, Budiana
explained, powers existing in the natural world; he refers to them as “banas” (a term I will
return to later in the discussion). To our eyes they look demonic, but in fact they are neither
good nor evil. Like the volcano woman of Gunung (Plate 1), they are simply natural forces
without ethical content. The physical world is, in Budiana’s vision, a seething cauldron of
natural forces. It is composed of the five elements: the panca maha bhuta—earth, fire, metal,
water, and air. These are referred to as the five gross elements perceptible to the senses.
Bhumi, the world, is composed of these five elements, or bhuta. Our bodies likewise are com-
binations of these five elements, and on death, and the dissolution of the body, the body
returns to these basic elements. The forces present in the natural world have, from a human
perspective, both creative and destructive aspects. Both aspects are inherent in and essen-
tial to the material world and both are aspects of the power of the Mother. The Mother is
the origin of bhuta substance and the source of bhumi, the earth. All the powers and forces
of the material universe issue from her, as do the bhuta kala, the disruptive and dangerous
aspects of these forces.
 
The term “bhuta kala” has conventionally been translated into English as “demons,” a
circumstance that, in my view, has given rise to much misunderstanding concerning the Bali-
nese worldview.’* Many Balinese do speak as if the bhuta kala were entities analogous to
Western notions of demons—dangerous supernatural entities to be placated and banished.
The need for a more nuanced understanding of the bhuta kala, however, has been indicated
by several Western scholars.'® Stephen Lansing reminds us:
 
Balinese religion is a sophisticated blend of Hinduism, Buddhism, and
 
indigenous beliefs, and the ceremonies of Buta Yadnya are not simple-
 
minded offerings of appeasement to slavering devils. All Balinese
 
“demons” may take form either in the outer world (buana agung) or the
 
world of the self, the microcosmos (buana alit). Demons (buta) may be
 
viewed from many perspectives. A strong Buddhist element in Balinese
 
religion suggests that demons are essentially psychological projections,
 
but differs from western psychology in insisting that “demonic” forces are
 
part of the intrinsic constitution of inner and outer reality. The demons,
 
according to this interpretation, are simply the raw elements from which
 
the higher realities of consciousness and the world are created. Buta,
 
which is usually glossed as “demon,” actually means “element.”'”
Mark Hobart has explored Balinese understandings of the term “bhuta kala,” noting that a
primary sense of “bhuta” in Bali is “blind”; it also refers to “elements,” he says, “as in
 
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paficamahabuta, earth, water, fire, air, ether.”'* The Balinese term “kala,” he notes, is more
complex, but among its many homonyms are “time” and “raw energy.” Hobart further
observes that “buta” in ritual “is often spoken of as returning complex entities to their con-
stituents.” And perhaps closest to the interpretation given here, he says: “Kala are often
treated as the negative aspects of high deities, or the inevitable entropy of all visible forms.”’°
Similar meanings are given by Leo Howe, who likewise emphasizes the Balinese linking of
the concept of kala with time.*°
 
The Old Javanese and Sanskrit roots from which the terms derive also point to these
more abstract, philosophical meanings. As the first meaning of “bhita,” P. J. Zoetmulder
gives: “that which exists, any living being; (material) element”; the second meaning given
is a “class of demons, demon (in general).”*' Several meanings are given for the term “kdla,””?
but the one that is most relevant lists as the first meaning “time”; the second is “time as
inescapable fate”; and the third is “Kala as the god of death and annihilation.””* Thus the
term “bhuta kala” might suggest material entities subject to the destructive force of time—
a definition that comes very close to what I think Budiana is trying to communicate. Phil-
ologists may dispute the accuracy of the etymology here, but from my perspective the
important point is the links of association that Balinese make between these ideas, not the
actual origins of the terms.
 
As physical bodies, inhabiting a material world, human beings are composed of bhuta
substance and subject to the ravages of time, kala. The bhuta kala do not merely surround
us: they are within us and part of us; they constitute the basic instinctual natural energy
we possess as embodied beings. If properly understood and treated correctly, this instinc-
tual level of our human nature becomes a powerful force to be used for higher ends. If
misunderstood, ignored, or given free rein, it becomes destructive. Greed—and desire—
originate here, as do energy and aggression. This is the realm of the Mother par excellence.
But the Mother cannot be destroyed or killed; we cannot destroy our physical world; rather
her power in us must be respected and controlled. The monstrous yet pure figure that Budi-
ana depicts in Behold the World reveals this origin, this matrix, of our physical embodied
nature.
 
The Four Mystical Siblings
 
In the Balinese view, human beings are born into the world possessing a threefold poten-
tial. There is a bhuta level, a human level, and the dewa, or god potential, in all of us.7* Which
level we aim to develop is our choice. Each person is believed to be born with four mysti-
cal siblings referred to as the kanda empat. These siblings—identified with the placenta, the
amniotic fluid, blood, and other birth substances—become the invisible helpers and protec-
tors of their human sibling throughout life, and the person who aims for spiritual develop-
ment must enlist their aid. The kanda empat change their forms and names over the course
of life, depending on the person’s relationship with them. The first form they take is that of
the bhuta level with the names Angapati, Mrajapati, Banaspati, and Banaspati Raja.”
Although the concept is elaborated in the mystical texts described by C. Hooykaas and
others, the Catur Sanak—or more commonly, in my experience, the nyama (siblings)—are also
part of the understanding of ordinary Balinese.*°
 
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[ CHAPTER 2. ]
 
The mysterious Bayi di Kandung (Baby in the Womb; Plate 5) unveils a vision of the kanda
empat. Although only one is pictured, the fourfold nature of the siblings is suggested in the
four leaves of the tree or stem to which the fetus is attached in a kind of transparent bubble.
A complex of interrelated ideas is involved here. The tree is evidently the human mother’s
body, which contains the child in her womb, the large swelling on the lower part of the
trunk. And the four siblings, the four leaves, are likewise emanations of the mother’s body.
In Balinese belief, certain large trees are believed to be animated by unseen forces termed
“banas.’”’ As we find in the three paintings Gunung, Gunung Meletus, and Melihat Bhumi,
Budiana often represents monstrous faces peering out from trees, rocks, and clouds, all of
which he says represent banas. A particular tree, the pule tree, produces rounded swellings
on its trunk that Balinese liken to a pregnancy. These swellings are cut out of the trunk and
used to make the sacred Barong and Rangda masks. The wood is said to contain banas. Budi-
ana reverses this symbolism: instead of the pule tree being represented as a pregnant mother,
the human mother is represented as a pule tree. What is the significance of this identification?
First of all, the close relationship between the human being and the natural world that
surrounds us is emphasized—we are part of this material world, not something different. We
also participate in its powers, and our four spiritual siblings possess banas as does the pule
tree. Here they are pictured as four leaves or branches or sections of the pule. “Kanda,”
according to Zoetmulder,** has the meaning of “a single joint of the stalk or stem of a plant,
such as bamboo, or reed or cane, any part or portion.” Since empat means four, “kanda
empat” literally means four segments of the same stalk or trunk.*° Budiana’s representation
is thus an ideograph of the term.
 
The number four is also represented in the circle bisected by a cross held in the arms of
the central figure and occupying the very center of the painting. This is a Balinese symbol
of the five directions. East is represented by the color white, south is red, west is yellow, and
north is black; in the center is a mixture of all colors termed “brumbun.” Each of these direc-
tions and colors also stands for a god: Iswara to the east, Brahma to the south, Mahadewa to
the west, Wisnu to the north, and in the center Siwa. This is the bhuwana agung, the world
at large. In the bhuwana alit—the human body—the center and four directions are identified
with the person and his or her four spiritual siblings. Thus the kanda empat are identified
with a specific direction, color, and god, while the human person is identified with no less
than Siwa himself.*° This points to the god potential of every human being.
 
As noted earlier, the kanda empat take different forms and provide the means whereby
we as human beings can realize our different potentials: the bhuta level, the human level,
and the god level. Bayi di Kandung focuses on the bhuta level. The central figure is human
in shape but has strange clawed hands and feet like a frog. The body conveys no hint as to
gender, but the red color identifies it with fire, the female element. The leopard or panther
to the left of the figure, with its flamelike tongue, sharp fangs, and feet in a conventional-
ized three-pronged form representing fire, is the king of the forest—standing for the animal
power and ferocity possessed by the bhuta forms of the kanda empat. The emphasis on teeth
and tongue and fire reiterates the themes of devouring greed and destructiveness.
 
It is the bhuta level of the kanda empat, according to Budiana, that must be developed
if a person desires to obtain the powers of witchcraft.*’ The witch, the leyak, employs rituals
to change shape—first taking the form of a monkey (a transformation more than hinted at
 
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in the hairy simian form of the central figure of Melihat Bhumi, Plate 4) and ultimately that
of the terrible goddess Durga herself, the ultimate origin of disease, plagues, and human
witchcraft.** According to Balinese belief, human witches desire to harm and kill their
neighbors and family members out of jealousy, spite, greed, or ambition. If they invoke the
goddess Durga and seek the aid of their kanda empat, they can obtain their desires. This
course of action is to identify with the most destructive and terrible aspect of the Mother.
It is to give full rein to the basest instincts of aggression and cruelty and sink to the murkiest
depths of our animal nature.
The Web of Cruelty and the Devouring Witch
Budiana’s reflections on human cruelty sometimes invoke humor as the means of throwing
a shaft of light into the deep. Memancing (Fishing; Plate 6) shows monstrous creatures—part
shark, part crocodile or dinosaur—emerging from a seething ocean while a group of play-
ful, chattering monkeys attempts to snare them.** One of the monstrous fish is on the point
of swallowing whole one of its own kind, but at this very moment is hooked in the lower
jaw of its open, devouring mouth by a monkey hanging from the tree above. The tree from
which the monkey hangs is in fact a kakayonan—a figure from the wayang kulit (shadow
puppet theater) that represents trees or a forest and is always used to mark the beginning
and end of a performance.** This suggests the idea, often quoted by Balinese, that life is like
a shadow puppet play with humans the puppets. Evidently the monkeys are to be inter-
preted allegorically as a reflection on the human condition.
 
Budiana confirmed this interpretation, observing that monkeys do not in fact use each
other as bait, but human beings do. He pointed out that the large monkey to the left of the
painting was dangling a smaller one by the tail and lowering it into the very jaws of the
sharklike monster. The smaller monkey seems blissfully unaware he is merely bait and about
to be gobbled up. The ruthless greed of human beings, who blithely sacrifice their fellows
to satisfy their own desires, is revealed as a relentless cycle. All four monkeys are bound
together clinging to each other's tails. The one holding the fishing line that has just hooked
a shark monster seems more likely to end up becoming the shark’s dinner than vice versa.
In any case, at the other end of the chain of monkeys one is about to disappear into the maw
of another monster, inevitably pulling all his companions after him: a truly vicious circle of
greed, ruthlessness, and cruelty. And yet it seems the monkeys only want to eat.
 
Budiana points to the ruthlessness that mere existence in the material world engenders.
Just to survive we devour each other and in turn are devoured. But I do not think we should
draw a simple moral conclusion from this. Rather Budiana is pointing to what Philip Rawson
cites as a key theme in Hindu and Buddhist Tantric thought: “the web of cruelty which binds
life to life” that the seeker after truth must learn to recognize as “essential to creation,
essential to bliss,” and an integral part of “the purpose of the Great Whole.”*°
 
Another horrific cycle of devouring mouths and swallowed bodies is the subject of Kem-
bali (Return; Plate 7). The return in this case is the reversion, on death, of the material con-
stituents of the physical body, the panca maha bhuta, to their origin. The central white figure
represents the corpse beginning the process of dissolution, depicted here as being devoured
 
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[ CHAPTER 2 ]
 
by greedy mouths with sharp fangs and great lolling, licking tongues. The corpse is being
sucked up through an eviscerated female torso, the neck and head of which are in the
process of being swallowed by a fishlike monster. Finally, the scaly body of the fish monster
curls around to become the woman's torso that it is in the process of consuming. The fish
monster is the grave that dissolves the dead body and, at the same time, the mother from
whose womb we are born.*° The fish form Budiana employs here recalls the fish-shaped coffin
(sudang) used by ordinary Balinese for cremation (ngaben).*’
 
Participating in and linked to the chain of dissolution are ugly, menacing forms: below
is a great snake with human tongue; above and crouching over the body like a tiger is a
diabolical creature with an animal body and a human face at the end of a snakelike neck. Its
lolling tongue of fire wraps around and becomes one with the corpse and the mother’s body
as its reptilian tail snakes down to grasp the fin or tail of the fish monster. A face, part-
woman, part-tiger, leers from the darkness to one side and then merges with the tail of the
sphinxlike beast. These grotesque creatures Budiana identified as leyak—the human witches
who transform themselves into horrifying shapes and in this form feed on corpses in the
graveyard. Here are conjured for us the horrors of the grave, the sickly, slimy colors of decay,
the nauseating rending of flesh and dissolving of form that constitute the witches’ feast. Yet
these repulsive depths are necessary to the natural processes undergone by physical matter.
It is only through decay and dissolution that the dead body can be returned to its original
elements and thus be reconstituted as new life forms. The witch, in Budiana’s view, is part
of this natural process. The human witch participates in the power of the Terrible Mother
and, regardless of human morality, this destructive power is inherent in the nature of
creation.
 
The source of the Mother’s power—the heat, the fire, sakti—is pure: it burns away dirt,
corruption, and all that is bad. Fire is both destructive and beautiful, as we see in Kebakaran
(Plate 2). The corruption of the graveyard is indeed terrifying; but since the leyak consume
the flesh of corpses, they too are part of the process of purification of matter and substance,
returning them back to original condition. The mystery is the transformation of decay into
earth, the basis for new life. The seeker after spiritual truth must encounter the Mother in
her most terrible aspect to experience fully the nature of her power. Budiana’s paintings are
spiritual exercises to this end. The aim, as I understand it, is to see through the horror to
the beauty—of fire and dissolution.
 
This is not to be understood as an injunction to human beings to become witches.
Budiana reveals that the witch, in seeking to develop this potential, becomes part of the cos-
mic processes of destruction and thus remains fixed within this horror of devouring and
decay. The seeker after spiritual truth, by contrast, encounters the Terrible Mother in order
to realize her power within the self and use it to burn away all dirt, filth, and corruption and
thus reach a higher level of spiritual awareness.
 
Erotic Meetings
 
Physical bodies are created out of matter in the fiery womb of the Mother. But in order for
 
new life to begin, first matter must be touched and met by spirit. The play of cosmic forces
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from which our universe emerges is pictured by Budiana as the meeting of male and female
creative principles: the union of god and goddess, sky and earth, father and mother, spirit
and matter.** Every new entity is, according to the artist, the result of a meeting and fusion
of two opposing forces, thus giving rise to a third and different entity. Human coupling and
reproduction provide the visual and emotional template for the artist to represent these
meetings. But this does not imply that human sexuality presents a model of divine creativity;
rather it is but a tiny part of the dance of cosmic forces from which emerges our universe.”
Budiana focuses on the forces of attraction that draw entities together and, as well, those that
tear entities apart.
 
Merah Putih (Red and White; Plate 8) depicts a monstrous form astride an equally mon-
strous supine form. The dark, gloomy colors and the menacing shapes twisting together in
some strange kind of union leave us in little doubt that this meeting is a dangerous one. The
dominant figure, with its swelling belly, apelike face, the wispy white hair/fur of arms and
face, the demonic faces that swirl up from the head, resembles the Mother/Witch of Melihat
Bhumi (Plate 4). A closer look reveals that the red tongue, which always represents fire in
Budiana’s works, lolls out between white fangs to enter a second mouth in a second face that
comprises the torso and belly of the monster. The stream of fire then issues out again from
between the legs to merge with coiling snakelike forms below. As the hair of the monster
flies out to become other grotesque forms, so too do its limbs, hands, and feet reach out to
become independent creatures with fanged reptilian heads that are in the process of seizing
and devouring other forms. This monster is a nightmare octopus, or giant amoeba, ever
oozing its substance out in grasping tentacles, intent upon overcoming and engulfing all
within its reach.
 
Beneath, submerged in the gloom, barely able to hold off the monster that stands astride
it, is another grotesque form, its head inverted and arms reaching up to grasp the feet of its
adversary. Yet if the posture of the two figures suggests battle, as hands and feet transform
into faces that meet with open mouths and entwining tongues, the battle becomes an erotic
encounter.*° In the lower center of the painting, the phallic tongue of the lower figure rises
to meet the tongue of flame issuing from the ogress, and there they coil around each other
like amorous snakes. This is indeed a vision of horror. The artist, however, combines these
disturbing forms in such a manner that they create a dynamic pattern which captivates the
eye. Swirling shapes and limbs squirm before our eyes, transforming into tendrils of vines
and the knotted branches of great trees. Step back a little from the painting, and the mon-
strous forms resolve themselves into an abstract pattern that pleases the eye. Move closer,
and one is drawn again into a growing realization of its horror.
 
What horrific meeting is depicted here, and what is its significance? The title, Merah
Putih (Red and White), indicates a meeting between the cosmic feminine principle and the
cosmic male principle.** Red, fire, and the feminine principle are clearly dominant over
white, water, and the male creative principle. The monstrous feminine figure strides or
dances upon the supine body of the male and appears on the point of smothering and anni-
hilating him. One is reminded here of Kali astride the dead body of her spouse Shiva in the
graveyard.** The natural movement of the element fire, Budiana pointed out, is up; the nat-
ural movement of the element water is down. Here the positions are inverted: fire roars down
and covers the water that is barely able to rise to meet it. Thus water is unable to neutralize
 
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fire and control it, its natural function. The destructive feminine power rages unchecked,
and the instinctual power of the Mother, of physical bodies and matter, dominates over
spirit.**
 
Merah Putih points to our situation in the present age of Kali Yuga. In Balinese Hindu
belief, the world has experienced four ages—and we are now in the fourth, which will end
with the destruction of the world. During this time of Kali Yuga the proper world order is
inverted. Budiana reveals the consequences of this inversion, as the insatiable greed of mate-
riality spirals out of control. The significance of the face superimposed on the breasts and
belly of the Terrible Mother is, I think, evident—in this time of Kali Yuga, instead of mind
and spirit (located in the head), sensual desires and the lower instincts rule.
 
Barong dan Rangda (Barong and Rangda; Plate 9) depicts another meeting of cosmic
dimensions. Here, however, the two protagonists are on a more equal footing. When I first
asked the artist the title of this painting, he replied: “The Power of the Mother” (Kekuatan
Ibu). At the time I was puzzled by his response as the painting seems to be a fairly conven-
tional representation of the famous Barong and Rangda dance/drama. To one side stands
Barong, his huge body occupying two-thirds of the space, and confronting him is Rangda,
great claws splayed out as if to attack. Both mouths of both monsters are open wide, and from
these fanged orifices issue tongues meeting in a seething cloud of vapor. Almost hidden by
the clouds of smoke that surround the two main figures are frightened childlike human
figures crouching in the shadow of Barong and clutching daggers (kris). The Barong illus-
trated in Budiana’s painting is the form known as Barong Ketket. There are other types of
Barong, including tiger (macan/mong) Barong and pig (bangkal) Barong and the two giant
figures, male and female, referred to as Barong Landung, but it is only Barong Ketket that is
paired with Rangda in ritual performance. Throughout my discussion “Barong,” unless
otherwise specified, refers to Barong Ketket.**
 
The drama performance in which Barong encounters Rangda is usually explained by
Western writers as a battle between good and evil in which no side really wins.** Barong
represents the “good spirit” who saves the community from the “wicked witch” Rangda.
During the confrontation, young men bearing kris storm out to try to stab Rangda but she
turns their power back upon them and they go into trance, falling on their own daggers and
trying to kill themselves. Ultimately the kris dancers are carried off, still in trance, and both
Barong and Rangda are returned to the inner part of the temple. No evident resolution or
victory has been reached. The priests bring the dancers out of trance and everyone goes
home for the night.
 
Budiana’s painting is a more or less realistic depiction of the performance in which the
masked figures meet. But the seething clouds and fire that surround the figures, and the mon-
strous faces that loom out of the dark, suggest the otherworldly nature of the encounter. The
meaning this confrontation holds for Budiana is very different from the conventional battle
of good versus evil. Having now examined at length the symbolic elements Budiana employs
in his works, it is not too difficult to identify the figure of Rangda as the Terrible Mother—
a figure we can trace back to the ogress in Merah Putih, to the Mother/Witch of Melihat
Bhumi, and so on. The animal faces, the shaggy bodies, the huge claws, the great fanged
mouths, the tongues of flame, are the same in all. When compared with the ogress of Merah
Putih, the significance of Rangda’s huge, lolling tongue, which reaches below her knees and
 
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[ The Paintings of | Ketut Budiana ]
hangs between her legs, becomes obvious. The tongue represents the fire and blood from the
vulva and womb—a statement made quite explicitly in the imagery of Merah Putih, where
the tongue actually enters a second mouth and then streams out of the vulva. This huge red
tongue has inescapable phallic significance, as well, although as a symbol of fire it is femi-
nine. The Terrible Mother becomes the Phallic Mother, thus containing both male and
female power.*°
 
Just as a careful observation of the imagery of Merah Putih reveals not a battle but a
union—a sexual coupling—we find in Barong dan Rangda that the two monsters merge at the
point where the fire issuing from the mouth of Rangda meets the tongue/saliva of Barong,
giving rise to a cloud of white vapor between them. This is another depiction of the myste-
rious marriage of fire and water. Barong, whose gilt and mica costume represents rain,
descends from his element, sky, to meet on earth the fire of the Mother. The two figures are
represented facing each other, Rangda’s face a little above Barong, the tops of their heads
level. Barong, however, is much larger than Rangda, and his huge body occupies twice as
much space in the painting. Barong’s aim is not to kill Rangda but to meet her power and
bring it under control. As Budiana explained: when water meets fire, the two neutralize each
other, so that the fire and water are transformed into vapor. This third entity, produced by
the union of the two, symbolizes, according to Budiana, the creation of a new entity: the soul,
or atma.
 
Budiana’s painting reveals that the dance performance where Barong meets Rangda not
only holds a much more complex meaning, but performs a much more significant ritual func-
tion, than an inconclusive struggle between the forces of good and evil. In Budiana’s view,
Barong is the cosmic male principle come to contain the Mother, whose destructive powers
are out of control and destroying the world. By unifying with her, he neutralizes her fire and
transforms it into creative energy. Thus when disease or misfortune plagues a community
and human witches (leyak), the students of Rangda, are rife, a Balinese community stages a
performance in which Barong is called upon to confront the Terrible Mother and thus return
her to her positive aspect.
 
And the kris dancers, what is their significance? Budiana’s representation of them as
frightened children crouching to the side of their fighting/coupling parents is psychologi-
cally very compelling. The meeting of Barong and Rangda suggests what Freudians would
call the “primal scene,” and for small children this scene is often interpreted as large animals
fighting.*” From such a perspective, the young men who rush in with their daggers and
attempt to stab the Witch/Mother act out forbidden oedipal desires for the mother—they
always aim at the abdomen of Rangda, and the phallic significance of the kris is quite
explicit in Balinese cultural understanding.** But this forbidden libido is turned back upon
the self and transformed into self-destruction. For Budiana, the kris dancers are ourselves:
the human offspring of the great parents. The kris dancers’ thwarted attack on the Mother’s
body reveals the impossibility of denying or rejecting the power of the Mother because it
is the origin of ourselves. Budiana shows us that to attack the Mother is to attack the self.
Finally Barong intervenes, snapping his jaws over the entranced dancers and bringing them
back to consciousness. Thus the masculine principle of spirit brings awareness. Whereas the
realm of the Mother is pure instinctual power, that of the Father is mind and spirit. Both are
essential to human life. If uncontrolled by the masculine principle, the feminine deteriorates
 
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[ CHAPTER 2. ]
into pure destruction and death. If spirit fails to meet matter, it likewise is dead. Life is engen-
dered when the two meet.”
 
From the perspective of mythology, Barong and Rangda can be understood as transfor-
mations of the high god Siwa and his wife, or Sakti, Uma, who in her terrible form becomes
Durga.”° In Barong’s confrontation of Rangda, the Terrible Mother, Durga, is brought under
control by Siwa, who assumes the form of Barong. Budiana, however, is not so concerned
with the narrative plots of the myths as with conjuring images of the cosmic forces alle-
gorized by these narratives. He explained that from his perspective Siwa, Uma, and Durga
are but names to represent cosmic processes of creation and destruction. For the Western
observer, however, the mythic narratives can help to clarify meanings encapsulated in the
imagery, and we will return to them in more detail in the following chapter.
 
Another mystical marriage on the point of consummation is revealed in Mahkota (Crown;
Plate 10). “Mahkota” refers to the diadem borne on the head of a woman with the body of
a snake, the figure in the upper center of the painting. Evidently a goddess, with her gold
crown and earrings and her long black hair, the woman has a face that is regal and stern,
though beautiful. Her coiled serpent body is white in color and adorned with gold bangles
or belts. Below her seethes an excremental mass of grotesque, leering faces, necks, bodies,
and tongues twisting together to form (and forming themselves out of) a knot of slimy
entrails at the bottom left of the painting. To the right are more demonic faces, mouths open,
shaggy hair streaming behind them, pulled from the murky depths of blood and excrement
up toward the goddess. The whole painting churns with a ferocious power spiraling inward
and upward. The white power of the goddess explodes from below—coiling around to suck
into its force field all the surrounding murky elements and drawing them upward as the god-
dess herself emerges on high, serene and radiating pure light.
 
The serpent goddess represents Kundalini. In Budiana’s view, Kundalini is the power of
the Mother in the human body.”' Her dwelling place is between the organs of excretion and
reproduction. If she can be awakened and made to rise up the channels of the body until she
reaches the head, her power can be used to burn away all dirt, impurity, and sin. At this
point, the mysterious marriage of fire and water can be consummated within the body of the
seeker after spiritual truth as the feminine principle meets and unifies with the masculine
principle of spirit. From this meeting is created, not a new physical person, but spiritual
awareness and liberation as the soul (atma) is now purified and freed from all material
attachment and defilement. The crown (mahkota) worn by Kundalini, which radiates pure
light, represents this union and its fruit: liberation (moksa).
 
Mahkota reveals that the seeker after spiritual truth must encounter within the self the
lowest and most frightful aspects of the Mother in order to realize her power to draw together
all the force and instinctual energy of the body and direct it toward spiritual ends. In this
painting we see the hideous shapes of those instinctual desires—greed, lust, aggression—that
are conjured by leyak and those who employ the power of the Mother to destructive ends.
But by awakening Kundalini in the self, and controlling her ascent, these destructive forces
can be transformed into a purifying process leading to spiritual realization and perfection.
In Budiana’s view, without Kundalini, without the instinctual energy of the physical body,
without the power of the Mother, this aim of unification and the liberation of the soul can-
not be achieved.
 
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[ The Paintings of | Ketut Budiana ]
 
The Inherent Destructiveness of Love
 
Why the emphasis on the Terrible Mother rather than on the creative aspects of the femi-
nine principle? We might well ponder this point as we view Budiana’s works. And how does
the beautiful Goddess become the hideous Ogress/Witch who devours us all? The paradox-
ical answer is: excessive love and attachment. The term in Balinese for love or attachment is
“tresna.” According to Budiana this implies a love or attachment that is unreasonably or
abnormally strong.** In Indonesian, Budiana translates this as “kasih sayang,” which is the
title of one of his paintings. At first glance, Kasih Sayang (Love and Affection; Plate 11) seems
mischievous and humorous; yet at a closer look it becomes somehow disturbing, even repel-
lent. It leads us to the important insight that excessive concern for material creations brings
monstrous results.
 
The background color in this painting is unusual for Budiana: a shade of pale lavender
blue that appears gay and lively at first and then takes on a sickly hue. The central figures,
two equine or bovine creatures with human heads and their four offspring, are not known
mythological creatures but purely the products of Budiana’s imagination, though the whole
scene somehow reminds us of the meeting depicted in Barong dan Rangda (Plate 9). Here also
is the primal scene: two monstrous parents whose coupling is more suggestive of animal
aggression than human eroticism. Budiana softens the ugliness of the scene with humor, an
indication that here he is dealing with human beings. This picture depicts the human fam-
ily—the model Balinese family of parents and four children, Wayan, Made, Nyoman, and
Ketut. Here is the human mother, part-workhorse, part-milch cow, her body the site of sexual
meeting and conception, while simultaneously giving suck from her cowlike udder to new
offspring. The two older children, their swelling bellies proof of indulgent nurture, cling
around the mother, one jealously pulling on the father’s tail to separate him from the mother,
presumably intent on replacing him. The faces of the coupling parents are turned toward
each other, the noses touch, the mouths open, the tongues curl around one another as in
Merah Putih (Plate 8) and Barong dan Rangda (Plate 9). Though the faces are still recognizably
human, the expressions are fierce and bestial; the parents seem to be on the point of devour-
ing each other. Their faces are filled with not love or affection but sheer lust. What kind of
a family is this? Why is the painting titled “Love and Affection”? Might it not be better
called “Lust and Greed”?
 
Also puzzling are the golden crowns, earrings, and necklaces worn by the mother and
father. The bodies are a strange composite: animal, human, and something more suggested
by these royal ornaments. In the Balinese view, human beings have a threefold nature—as
we saw with regard to the beliefs concerning the kanda empat, the four spiritual siblings.
These three potentials are expressed here.** Evidently these ugly parents have developed
their animal potential to the detriment of their human and divine nature. Thus their bodies
have become totally animal, their faces are distorted by lust, and even their golden crowns,
representing their divine potential, are beginning to sprout small animal horns. Their
strange offspring have human bodies and animal heads. Human minds give way to animal
bodies with the result that the children have human bodies controlled by animal minds. The
transformations, at first glance humorous, begin to take on an ominous cast. But this paint-
ing is not simply about lust and greed; there is a deeper significance.
 
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[ CHAPTER 2. ]
 
Erotic meetings in Budiana’s paintings take place at many different levels and with dif-
ferent results. The union of god and goddess gives rise to the universe; the union of god and
goddess in monstrous form gives rise to dangerous and destructive forces, the bhuta kala.”
Human unions are in the middle, giving rise to beings who possess a threefold potential.
Excessive attachment to the physical and sensual aspects of procreation and nurture draws
human beings down into their animal natures so that human consciousness and intelligence
are overwhelmed by animal instinct. Caught up in the relentless cycle of procreation, the
human mother can degenerate into a kind of monstrous animal and give birth to monsters
with horses’ heads that lack all capacity for human thought, speech, and discrimination.
Such is the human danger involved in excessive attachment—and in the mother’s passion-
ate concern to give birth to and care for many children. The more children she has, the more
food she needs, and more and more material possessions; she becomes greedy for money to
meet these ever-growing needs. She is jealous of what others possess and increasingly ambi-
tious for her offspring; she will stoop to anything to get them what they need; she becomes
fierce and aggressive in defense of them. She lusts for power, her greed takes control of her,
she is becoming the witch; and in her raging desire for material power she will eventually
devour her own offspring. Although the masculine principle, representing spirit, must be
present to generate new life, this too can be sucked down into the vortex of materiality,
reduced to sheer lust, serving only to engender low and bestial forms.
 
Even so, the golden diadems and royal jewels adorning the parental figures in Kasih
Sayang remind us of their god potential and suggest that the erotic force of attraction draw-
ing man and woman together is part of the divine cosmic play of the universe. The human-
headed beasts are also mother and father, goddess and god. The grotesque faces peering out
from surrounding clouds represent banas, the unseen forces of the natural world. The
rounded shape that supports the family suggests once again the maternal belly swollen with
new pregnancies, the ever fecund Mother Earth.
 
The witch, as we have seen, possesses power called sakti, which Budiana images as fire
issuing from the witch’s womb. Sakti, in his view, is inherently female. Yet men are more
often referred to as anak sakti—persons possessing sakti—than are women.”° When I asked
Budiana about the relationship between sakti in this sense of magical power and Sakti as the
feminine active aspect of god, he replied emphatically that they are one and the same. All
power to act upon the material world originates from the Mother, who is inherently sakti.
That men are able by ritual means to appropriate this power does not vitiate its source in the
Goddess/Mother.
 
The human potential to obtain or use sakti, according to Budiana, lies in the bhuta level
of kanda empat, the four mystical siblings. This is the basest level of desire: greed, lust, and
aggression. Those who seek sakti must encounter the most terrible level of the Mother. Once
obtained, the power can be used for purely selfish ends to inflict revenge or gain worldly
power. The human witch, in using this power to attack neighbors and rivals by devouring
them from inside, becomes the epitome of the most extreme cruelty and destructiveness of
the Terrible Mother.
 
Budiana’s paintings also reveal that the cruelty of the Terrible Mother is a necessary part
of the cycle of life and death, of returning dead matter to its original source. The witch’s
cruelty is not inevitable, however, but results from a human choice to identify with our most
 
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[ The Paintings of | Ketut Budiana ]
frightful potential. We have the capacity to realize the power of the Terrible Mother since
this is inherent in our physical nature and bodies. But as human beings we also possess the
awareness necessary to channel this fierce energy to higher ends.
 
A final paradox is exposed in Budiana’s depiction of Kasih Sayang. Love and affection
can be clinging and destructive—and not only human love, for it is nothing other than too
great an attachment to material creations that causes the gentle Goddess to rage on earth as
the Terrible Mother who devours her own creations. As love finds material form, so it even-
tually degenerates into terrifying forms.
 
The Heroic Struggle, Balance, and Dynamic Tension
 
The Balinese cosmos as revealed in Budiana’s works is anything but a balanced ordering of
supernatural beings. His paintings depict vortexes of creative and destructive energies ever
meeting, merging, transforming, exploding, rending, engulfing, consuming, ever giving
rise to new forms and new life, ever destroying them. Caught in the cosmic play of attrac-
tion and repulsion, human beings are but specks tossed on a great ocean. Yet still they pos-
sesses a heroic potential. In the last painting, Ombak (Waves; Plate 12), we confront a naked
human figure wrestling with great serpents that rise out of a boiling sea. The white foam on
the raging waves seethes into the form of the kakayonan—the figure from the shadow pup-
pet theater (wayang kulit) that conventionally represents trees and forests and marks the
beginning and end of the performance. As we saw with Memancing (Fishing; Plate 6), Budi-
ana’s use of this motif indicates that the scene is allegorical. Angela Hobart observes that the
dancing movement of the kakayonan on stage signifies the “panca-maha-buta, the five great
elements, air, wind, fire, water and earth, which are responsible for creation and form the
essence of both the macrocosm and microcosm.”*’ The ocean in Ombak is the phenomenal
world that surrounds us and threatens to engulf and drown us. The waves, ombak, are the
waves of desire that crash upon us, dragging us under.
 
Fearsome serpents emerge from the depths to seize the struggling central figure, who
fights bravely despite his evident vulnerability. He is alone and naked. The lower part of his
body is covered with hair, and his feet and hands have claws like an animal. He is using these
claws, his animal strength, to defend himself against the serpents. The upper part of his body
is human. His face is bearded and resolute, not bestial. He wears a snake necklace—the orna-
ment of heroes like the famous Bima of the great epic, the Mahabharata. His hair fans out
around his face like the rays of the sun, giving him a noble, godlike quality. He stands up
out of the waves, dominant, and holding back the ravenous serpents, though ever in peril
of losing his advantage and being dragged under by the terrifying powers that surround him.
 
This vulnerable but courageous figure is the human being confronted in life by waves
of desire that will overpower, consume, and destroy him if he gives in. To survive he must
constantly battle the negative aspect of desire. Yet his aim is not to kill or defeat or disperse
the enemy but rather to gain control and use it—transforming animal desires into positive
energy to achieve higher levels of spiritual development. His precarious balance is not stasis
but a dynamic tension achieved through constant struggle—a dynamic that is powerfully
depicted in this painting of pounding waves and roaring winds. For Budiana, human life is
 
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[ CHAPTER 2 ]
a heroic endeavor: a battle to realize the higher spiritual potential of the self. The hero, of
course, is the artist himself.
The Power of the Mother
Budiana’s works reveal that the Goddess, in her many refractions, can take forms both beau-
tiful and terrifying. She is the tender loving mother who gives birth to and nurtures all
beings; she is the hideous ogress who devours and destroys all in her path. This dual aspect
of the Goddess/Mother is central to knowing and understanding the nature of her power.
Indeed in Budiana’s works, as in Balinese religious art in general, monstrous figures of the
divine mother predominate over the gentle and benign. The Mother is not only the origin
of life; she is also the origin of death, and womb and tomb are often equated. In the womb,
material elements are brought together to form a body that is the vehicle for a new life; in
the tomb, the material body is decomposed to its original elements so that they may be used
again to create new material entities. Life and death are part of a continuous cycle of trans-
formations of physical substance into different forms.** This is the process referred to as
“Tebur” (in Indonesian, Balinese, and Old Javanese), meaning “destroyed, melted, dissolved.”
The essence of the word is the idea of returning something to its original, undifferentiated
state.
 
Many of Budiana’s works depict creative meetings from which life originates. Yet it
would be wrong to see these works as simply erotic. Rather the force of erotic attraction
between human beings is but part of the play of cosmic principles out of which all existence
springs and, ultimately, is dissolved back. Budiana also explores the mystery of the corre-
spondence between the body of the individual person and the structure of the material
universe—between what the Jontar texts call the bhuwana alit (the small world) and bhuwana
agung (the great world). He shows that the transformations taking place in the universe also
take place in the human body. The aim of spiritual practices is to guide these transformations
toward ultimate unity of the individual soul (atma) with its divine source.
 
This spiritual aim is to be achieved, in Budiana’s view, through approaching the God-
dess, the origin and source of our material being. Offering worship to the Mother, partici-
pating in her power, realizing her inner nature and finding it within the self, encountering
both her benign and horrific forms, constitute the path that ultimately leads to enlighten-
ment. It is this mystery and journey that form the substance of Budiana’s artistic oeuvre.
 
Budiana’s vision has its own philosophical and artistic integrity. I have tried to do jus-
tice to this vision while at the same time indicating some of the many well-known elements
of Balinese thought on which he draws. It is, I think, his emphasis on cosmic transforma-
tion and ambivalence—especially his emphasis on the power of the Mother—that may seem
unusual to those familiar with Balinese culture. In the next chapter we will see how another
Balinese artist, working in a very different style, explores the same thematic ground, though
in a very different way.
 
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
 
Mythic Transformations of Desire
 
The Paintings of I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana
| GUSTI NYOMAN MIRDIANA grew up in a household of famous artists where
he constantly saw about him paintings dealing with mythological themes. His grand-
father, Kompiang, the eldest of the family, was not an artist but worked in the fields
to support the studies of his two younger brothers, Kobot and Barat, both to become
famous artists. They specialized in the wayang style—a traditional mode of repre-
sentation influenced by the puppets used for the shadow puppet theater, the wayang
kulit, and devoted to mythological subjects.’ Mirdiana’s happiest memories of child-
hood are of being taken by his grandfather to watch wayang kulit performances. The
thrilling myths and stories of heroes and gods and goddesses enchanted the child,
who loved to be told the tales as bedtime stories. His grandfather, Mirdiana recalls,
knew all the stories and songs and never tired of telling them, and he would walk
miles, carrying his small grandson on his back, to attend performances in other
villages. Mirdiana did not paint mythological subjects, however, until he came to
work for me. At high school he studied art, but not the traditional styles. To help
pay for his school fees, he also painted in the “flora fauna” style made popular in
 
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
his community of Pengosekan by the well-known artist Dewa Nyoman Batuan, a maternal
nephew of Kobot and Barat. At the suggestion of Batuan, his senior kinsman, Mirdiana came
to work as my research assistant in October 1996. In July the following year, during conva-
lescence from a motorbike accident, he began for the first time to paint mythological subjects,
beginning with a dancing Gana (Ganesha).
 
As my research assistant, Mirdiana was exposed to many different view points concern-
ing Balinese mythology and religion. Together we interviewed many different people, and
we sought out, translated, and studied textual material as well. In the process we came across
much information that is esoteric in nature and not available generally.” Although our quest
was primarily shaped by my needs as a foreign researcher, Mirdiana was learning too—
indeed far more than I was. His understanding easily outstripped mine since he possessed
a matrix of cultural knowledge in which to place all the new information he was discover-
ing, whereas I was struggling to acquire the basics. What he distilled from these encounters
with texts and learned Balinese scholars he put into his paintings, and he was able to draw
upon all that he had learned as a child simply by being around traditional artists, observing
their techniques, and listening to their stories.
 
Over the next several months Mirdiana continued painting mythological subjects.
Impressed by his work, I arranged for some of his paintings to be shown along with those
of his uncle, Dewa Nyoman Batuan, at an exhibition of Balinese art held at La Trobe Uni-
versity in March 1999.* When he returned to Bali, Mirdiana began a new series of paintings,
further refining his style, that constitutes the twelve works discussed here. They were pro-
duced between April 1999 and September 2001. These paintings were not commissioned by
me, nor were they directly influenced by my requests or instructions, but the subject matter
did arise out of the work the artist was doing for me at the time.
 
Through our research, the artist was learning a deeper significance to stories he had
known since childhood. He was also hearing for the first time more esoteric myths. It should
be stressed that Mirdiana’s interpretations of the myths are in no sense to be regarded as the
authoritative account. His is but one of numerous possible interpretations. Nor can the lit-
erary sources I quote later be regarded as the authorized versions. Scholars of Balinese cul-
ture—and of course Balinese themselves—know many variants. Balinese stressed to me that
every version carries its own veracity.* This is not simply Balinese politeness that avoids
confrontation and disputation, I think, but a deep recognition of the many different levels
of understanding that may be drawn upon in any myth or symbolic form. Each person
responds according to their age, education, character, experience in life, intelligence, and,
most important for Balinese, their level of spiritual development. In the following discus-
sion Iam not concerned with “correct” versions but with the varied richness of meaning to
be discovered in mythic narratives.
 
Mythic Heroes and the Material World
 
Western artists trawl the depths of their individuality to draw up imagery with deep
 
emotional significance. Balinese artists—and others like them who belong to cultures pos-
 
sessing rich mythological resources—find in them enduring themes and images reflecting
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personal meaning. The anthropologist Ganath Obeyesekere has referred to this inner process
as the “subjectification” of cultural symbols.’ Balinese Hinduism certainly provides an
extraordinarily rich mythology in which to discover even the most secret murmurs of the
soul. As a young man, only just putting adolescence behind him, Mirdiana is not surpris-
ingly attracted to hero myths and to painting mythic narratives in heroic mode. Scholars
influenced by Jungian depth psychology have argued that such myths reflect the inner
psychological development of every youth as he struggles to free himself from infantile
attachments.° Undoubtedly personal and unconscious conflicts and motivations influence the
artist’s themes. Mirdiana confesses: “All these paintings are influenced by myself. I pick some
idea to fit myself. My experience influences me to choose from the myths what is suitable
for me personally.”’ It is not, however, the task of this book to deal with the individual
psychology of the artist beyond pointing to the rich resonance of myth with the self.
 
The story of Sutasoma is well known in Bali and provides a conventional subject for Bali-
nese artists.* Describing the adventures of the Buddha on earth, it is based on a Mahayana
Buddhist epic poem composed in Central Java in the fourteenth century.’ Mirdiana’s familiar-
ity with these stories, like that of most Balinese artists, derives from oral sources, not textual
ones; he was unaware of the complete story, or the mystical teachings concerning Siwa and
the Buddha, contained in the literary version.’® He has painted the two Sutasoma episodes
known to him. The first, Sutasoma and the Tiger (Plate 13), depicts an encounter in the forest
with a starving tigress so desperate for food that she is about to devour her own cub. Moved
by her desperate plight, Sutasoma offers his own body as a substitute.
 
For Mirdiana, this apparently simple tale holds a complex significance. The tigress, the
artist explained, represents bhuta forces or elements. Conventionally “bhuta” is translated
in English as “demon” or “evil spirit” but, as we have seen with respect to Budiana’s work,
such a rendition is misleading. Mirdiana commented: “The tiger represents a kind of bhuta.
Bhuta characteristics are controlling the tiger; that is why she wants to eat her baby. The tiger
is not wrong, but because she has nothing at all to eat, just her baby, she must eat it to live.”
The tigress, compelled by her powerful urge for survival, cannot help acting as she does. If
she is to survive she must eat, and as an animal she is driven by her animal nature. In this
context, it is clear that “bhuta” refers to those instinctual energies and patterns that deter-
mine animal behavior and thus shape the natural world.
 
Humans too are shaped by these instinctual forces, of course, but unlike animals we pos-
sess higher potentials. Mirdiana explained: “In every person there is a bhuta character that
is like an animal, and also a god character, or somewhere between human and god. That is
Sutasoma.” Human beings can control their instinctual desires and passions—their bhuta
character—in order to realize a higher potential and act in accord with the law of dharma
(moral order). The tigress devouring her own offspring offends against the moral order, but
not against nature. Sutasoma represents dharma and throws himself down as a sacrifice to
remove the dreadful necessity faced by the tigress. Mirdiana continued:
 
If the tiger can be controlled by Sutasoma, then the tiger becomes a
protector. And inside yourself, this [your bhuta characteristics] becomes
protection to support you. Then it becomes a positive not a negative
thing. Yes, the tiger represents a part of the self; it can be a danger to the
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
self or protect it. It is the same as the panca maha bhuta [the five physi-
cal elements that constitute all physical matter] in ourselves. This is the
source of greed and desire. But it is important to use the god aspect to con-
trol the self.
 
The notion of sacrifice is important. But the sacrifice Mirdiana has in mind is not so much
a sacrifice of the self, out of compassion for all sentient beings, as a Buddhist view would
suggest. Rather he emphasizes the need to control, via sacrifice, dangerous forces within the
self and in the natural world we inhabit:
 
The deep meaning of my painting is that if there are bhuta forces and we
 
give sacrifice with love, then those forces will take care of us, like the tiger
 
will take care of the baby once her hunger is satisfied. Because of this,
 
bhuta can be controlled through dharma [moral order]. But if that bhuta
 
energy is not controlled, then maybe it will devour everybody.
Here Mirdiana expresses the idea that offerings or sacrifices made to the dangerous forces
in the world (and in the self) are not intended to drive out these forces but to transform them.
The tigress is a perfect symbol: she is fierce and destructive to the point of devouring her
own young; yet if she is given her due, she will guard and protect them. Thus compassion
in the form of giving (offering sacrifices) to others—including all the dangerous forces in the
natural world—transforms these potentially destructive forces into beneficent ones. Western
scholars writing about Balinese religion have conventionally interpreted sacrifices to the
bhuta kala either as exorcisms or as bribes to placate them and send them on their way." Mir-
diana’s comments indicate the role of sacrifice in bringing about transformations of unseen
powers from negative to positive.
 
Unlike some Balinese artists, Mirdiana does not present Sutasoma as a passive victim.
This Sutasoma is a hero; his stance suggests admonition and an active role in subduing the
tiger. As we know from Budiana’s works, the tiger represents the most powerful and fero-
cious of all animals and hence is a symbol of the earth and the monstrous Devouring Mother.
The teeth and claws of the tigress about to rend her own cub remind us of the terrible god-
dess Durga and the leyak who seek to acquire her powers. Human witches kill and devour
their own offspring; but unlike the tigress, they are not compelled to act in this way. The
tigress is starving; her animal instinct to survive is stronger than even her maternal feelings.
She simply obeys a cruel necessity imposed on her. This is what Mirdiana calls her “bhuta
character.”
 
Sutasoma is juxtaposed against the fierce beast. His foot just touches the earth; his
head, shoulder, and hands point to the heavens from whence he has come; his angelic face,
soft white body, and floating garments convey sweetness and purity. The painting’s move-
ment rises from below: from the crouching energy of the tigress and the toiling roots under
the earth that surround her, moving up to the tree and flowers that emerge from the dark
earth, to the butterflies floating in the pure air. The painting evokes the beauty of Sutasoma’s
selfless compassion. Nature’s potential for ever-increasing bestiality and destructiveness has
been halted and reoriented by his action. The energy is now directed upward. Animal cruelty
 
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is transformed by compassion. Even the tigress becomes softened so that her hold upon her
cub begins to look more playful than savage. The Balinese audience, however, knows the
story and recognizes that the tigress is on the point of killing her own baby. Mirdiana’s paint-
ing emphasizes the transformation of that bestial horror through an act of sacrifice.
Another well-known episode of the Sutasoma story often represented by Balinese artists
is Sutasoma’s encounter with a huge serpent (naga) that tries to devour him but is eventu-
ally transformed into his protector. Balinese often refer to Sutasoma as the God of Truth, and
the encounter with the naga is interpreted as truth overcoming falsehood and evil. Like most
Balinese, Mirdiana’s familiarity with this story is once again based on oral tradition, not writ-
ten texts. The symbolism of the great snake wrapped around the body of Sutasoma seems
self-evident to a Western observer. Mirdiana’s comments on Sutasoma and the Naga (Plate
14), however, are not what we might expect.
The serpent is not a symbol of evil in Mirdiana’s view. Quite the contrary, it represents
 
for him the source of all material things, the riches of the earth, the world around us:
 
This naga, we believe in Bali, is the symbol of wealth. It is called Anan-
 
tabhoga—wealth—all kinds of material things.’ Riches... . The naga
 
represents material things, and it wants to eat Sutasoma. But Sutasoma
 
doesn’t want to see material things controlling the world, so he offers him-
 
self as a sacrifice to the naga. The naga wanted to eat Sutasoma, but it
 
couldn’t digest him. When the naga tried to spit him out, he got stuck in
 
its throat. The naga was really suffering. At last it became so weak that it
 
begged forgiveness of Sutasoma. Then [as in the story of the tiger] Suta-
 
soma brought the naga under control, and it became his protector and
 
guardian.
I asked Mirdiana why there are bats at the top of the painting, above Sutasoma’s head, and
what is streaming from the mouth of the naga. He replied:
 
The bats show that the naga is in a cave and this is at night. Because
 
people driven by material desires are like blind people, they can’t see any-
 
thing. In the dark we need Sutasoma to bring light. Here Sutasoma repre-
 
sents honesty (jujuran) and patience (kesabaran). Coming out of the naga’s
 
mouth is fire—very, very hot flames—and not only hot but this is poison
 
(racun) too. . . . If people are touched by greed for material things, I think
 
it will change those people. It is like poison and each person finds this
 
poison enter their blood. It is a contagion. . . . That is the naga’s poison!
The significance of the snake as a male phallic symbol is so prominent in Western thinking
that it is easy to overlook the fact that this huge naga—in Mirdiana’s view—is female. (I
should have written “she” rather than “it,” but this would read oddly in English.) Is the naga
also the Mother that Budiana talks about? Mirdiana replied: “Yes! She is the Mother—this
is Anantabhoga. Female! The one who gives food, who gives, creates every material thing
that exists in the world.”
 
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
 
We can now understand that this naga is in no sense simply “evil” or entirely negative,
although she spits out dangerous poison. She is the source of our basic sustenance, the nur-
turing Mother, the source of all food, wealth, and riches.’ It is evident now why she is gar-
landed with rich jewels and gold. We cannot live on this earth without food and material
things, but the danger the Mother holds is that of too great an attachment to this materiality.
Mirdiana sees her wrapping around us in a loving embrace, but as she does so she gradually
transforms into a great serpent crushing her prey:
 
At the time I painted this I felt that a lot of material things were control-
 
ling the world. Wrapping around people. . . . People don’t actually set out
 
with the aim of acquiring material riches, but they get caught by them.
 
The situation is like that. They do not directly seek these material things,
 
but before they know it they are already controlled by them. Yet we must
 
have material things to exist.
When asked why the naga was green in color, Mirdiana replied: “I think I picked this green
because green is a reflection of the natural world.” I persisted: ‘“Haven’t you told me that the
most poisonous and dangerous snakes in Bali are the green ones?” “Yes,” he agreed, “they
are the most poisonous.” Thus the very coloring of the serpent reflects her duality.
 
As a whole, Mirdiana’s painting is rich, sumptuous, and heavy. In the center Sutasoma
dances lightly in the monster's gaping maw: his smooth, pale gold skin, light blue garments,
and simple, graceful form contrast against the decadent luxury of background detail and
color and the jeweled, scaly coils that slide around him. Sutasoma is clearly the victor in this
battle with the Devouring Mother, who once tamed will become his protector. The monster
is not slain but is transformed by sacrifice into a positive force, which, after all, is her orig-
inal nature: Anantabhoga consists of two words, “endless, abundant” and “sensual/material
pleasures.”'* All these conflicting and paradoxical elements are brought together in the
painting to form a visual image of arresting beauty.
 
The imagery selected by Mirdiana and Budiana to express their insights could hardly
be more different. Yet the theme of excessive attachment, and the poison contained in the
Mother’s gifts, is the same. Budiana employs esoteric symbols drawn from traditional
manuals of talismanic drawings—and his unique imaginative variations on them—com-
pelling our attention with their strangeness. Mirdiana, drawing upon myth, uses more con-
ventional symbols. The danger here is of reading his imagery in a stereotypical manner; if
we pay careful attention to its nuances, however, Mirdiana’s work yields new insights into
the complexity of conventional forms.
 
The heroic theme is continued in Gana and Detya (Plate 15), which depicts the elephant-
headed god Gana (Ganesa) in the act of killing the powerful demon Detya. Initially perhaps
the most striking thing about this painting is the difficulty in distinguishing between the
two opponents. Their heavy bodies and limbs swirl as a centripetal force draws them together
as one. The god, Gana, and the demon, Detya, form almost a mirror image of each other. They
seem to be twins: brawny arms and legs, hefty bellies, and grotesque heads. Both wear loin-
cloths of poleng (checked black and white) fabric, usually worn by fierce or demonic deities,
and both bear royal ornaments and crowns. Their weight keeps them balanced in a fierce
 
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dynamic tension. Closer examination reveals that the elephant-headed Gana, with his four
flailing arms, is in the ascendant; he is bearing down on the two-armed demon, driving his
own broken tusk into his victim’s belly.
 
Gana is the son of the high god Siwa and his consort Uma. He has the head of an ele-
phant, the body of a human being, but is the offspring of gods. Mirdiana explained that sym-
bolically Gana combines in his person the three worlds of Balinese cosmology: animal (bhur),
human (buwah), and divine (swah). He possesses special abilities such as being able to see
into the past and foretell the future. His role as protector and demon queller is celebrated
in this painting. According to Mirdiana, whose version of the story is once again based on
oral tradition, not literary sources, Detya was a giant so clever and so filled with sakti that
he overcame all in his path. He soon conquered the animal and human worlds and aimed to
overthrow the gods themselves. It was known to the gods that nothing could defeat the giant
except a being that combined the strength, energy, and intelligence of the three worlds, ani-
mal, human, and divine. The task of dispatching the demon thus fell to Gana, but Siwa
advised his son that before he could vanquish Detya he would have to kill himself. Gana
broke off his own right tusk and, brandishing it like a spear, fell upon the demon and dealt
him a fatal blow. Thus heaven itself was saved from destruction by Gana.’
 
Mirdiana observed that the myth of Gana and Detya was a reflection of the dangers
threatening our world in this dark age of Kali Yuga. If some clever, greedy, and ruthless crea-
ture succeeded in taking over the animal and human realms and then defeated the gods, all
would be destroyed. If our universe is to function, it must be controlled by god-power. Gana,
who participates in all three worlds, reveals the connection and interdependence between
the three. What is really at issue here, according to the artist, is gaining control over the ani-
mal part of the self:
 
How can Detya be controlled? This is like controlling yourself. This is like
 
Gana breaking his tusk. He wants to kill Detya, but Siwa says to him,
 
“First you must kill yourself.” What is meant by this? This means he must
 
first control the power in himself. So he just broke his own tusk to use as
 
a weapon to kill Detya. .. . Breaking the tusk represents killing the
 
demon.
 
In Bali we have masangih (tooth filing). This also is to control the
 
animal part of the self. So if I cut your tooth or tusk, this refers to your
 
greedy, energetic, and aggressive part. We can control that aspect of the
 
self. After tooth filing we are not so greedy or aggressive. So how to con-
 
trol the world? If you can’t control yourself, how can you control the
 
world? This is the deep meaning of why Gana must break his tusk to
 
destroy Detya.'®
Gana is actually defeating the inferior aspect of himself. If we look again at the two figures,
we can now understand why they are depicted as twins or as two swirling halves of a cen-
tral unity. We can also appreciate their subtle differences. Detya’s body is covered with thick
hair; his hands and feet bear animal talons; his teeth are fangs and his face coarsely bestial.
Gana’s body, by contrast, is smooth and hairless; his feet and hands are human; although he
 
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
has the head of an elephant, his face is intelligent and refined; his four arms suggest his
greater capacity and ability.
 
A very different mythological figure, the mighty warrior Bima, second of the five Pan-
dawa brothers and famous hero of the great epic tale The Mahabharata, is another source of
inspiration for Mirdiana, as for many Balinese artists. Perhaps the best-known story of Bima
is how he braves hell itself in order to rescue the souls of his parents and install them in
heaven. Another well-known tale tells of Bima being sent by his teacher, Drona, to find the
water of immortality. Mirdiana has selected the latter account. So that we can appreciate the
way in which the artist draws his own meaning from the story, I will begin with a summary
from an independent source. Often referred to as Nawaruci or Bima Suci, it is a popular plot
for wayang kulit performances.'’ The following account originates from a dalang, or pup-
peteer, quoted by Angela Hobart in her study of the Balinese shadow puppet theater.*® It
represents the kind of story Mirdiana learned as a child watching wayang kulit performances.
Ordered by his teacher, the Brahmana priest Drona, to find the elixir of immortality, Bima
encounters many adventures before learning that the treasure he seeks is to be found in the
middle of the sea:
 
When Bima arrived at the shore of the ocean where the holy water was
to be found, large snakes approached him intending to eat him, but he cut
off their heads. As he continued into the waters he met his death. The
heavens became dark and swayed in sorrow for the brave prince. The
supreme god, Tunggal, had compassion on Bima, whom he dearly loved
because of his honesty and brought him back to life. He then told Bima
that if he wished to obtain the holy water he would have to enter his (the
god’s) body as it was kept there. Bima was amazed as in front of him he
saw a tiny figure who was a replica of himself.
 
The prince first asked the god several questions. Why did man have
to die? Why did man dream? What was the purest thing in the world?
The god Tunggal replied as follows. Death takes place at a certain stage
in man’s life when the gods have left the body. When man dreams his soul
leaves the body and wanders around. Nothing on earth is perfect. Apart
from the god of love, Semara, all the gods are still impure. Even the
flowers used for worshipping are not completely pure.
 
Having answered Bima’s questions, Tunggal spread apart his legs and
told the prince to enter his body through the phallus. When Bima entered
he found himself in heaven and the holy water was stored there in a gold
casket in a five-tiered shrine. He took the casket and returned home.'?
 
Mirdiana’s painting Bima (Plate 16) shows the hero struggling with the two serpents
(naga) as he is entering the ocean. Above Bima, to the left of his head, is the high god Tung-
gal, or Acintya, in a form conventionally represented in Balinese art. Bima himself is burly
and bearded, wearing the headdress, the poleng (black and white checked) loincloth, and the
snake necklace that are his conventional symbols.”° Evidently the imagery of the painting
follows the story of the wayang kulit performance just quoted. Yet Mirdiana emphasizes
 
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somewhat different elements and draws a deep significance that is not disclosed in the pre-
ceding account. The artist emphasizes three things about Bima: his honesty, his devotion,
and his stupidity:
 
Bima is very strong but he has a simple mind. If some clever person asks
 
him to do something he just follows what they ask without thinking
 
first! Some people are like that. Very strong but not really clever. Honest,
 
yes honest, but they do not think before they act. Bima is not aware what
 
he is doing, whether it is good or not, true or not. His teacher, Drona,
 
asked him to get tirta amerta [the elixir of immortality]. But Drona him-
 
self doesn’t know where to find tirta amerta. But because Bima is honest
 
and wants to help and do what the teacher asks, he is a good student.
 
Later he finds tirta amerta. The meaning is that if you really really want
 
to learn something, even if your teacher doesn’t know it, you may find
 
it. Maybe you can achieve even more than your teacher . . . that comes
 
from hard work and bakti (devotion).
 
Bima is a prince and a mighty warrior, yet Mirdiana presents him as a burly peasant with
a broad honest face, snub nose, and vacant smile. His expression is not fierce, it is amiable
and kind, even as he is in the act of dispatching the two naga. Undoubtedly the artist draws
a message for himself from Bima’s exploits, but this is no self-portrait. Physically Mirdiana
is no more this coarse yokel than he is the angelic Sutasoma of girlish cheeks and soft white
skin. Yet both might be understood as aspects of the artist’s inner self. Given his youth, it
is only natural that Mirdiana sometimes feels himself to be stupid and unsophisticated, and
it is not surprising that Bima’s stupidity might appeal to him as much as his strength and
honesty.
 
Although we might easily assume that the artist is concerned with life’s struggles in gen-
eral, he is thinking here of spiritual aims and interprets Bima’s discovery of tirta amerta as
symbolizing the attainment of spiritual awareness:
 
Where did Bima find tirta amerta? Inside himself. It was inside himself.
If you know yourself you find life. When he fell unconscious in the
ocean, in a kind of dream, he entered the ear of Acintya. And there he
found tirta amerta. Life (kehidupan). If you work hard and continue to try,
you will find what you want inside you. Tirta amerta is not a kind of tirta
(holy water). What is the meaning of tirta amerta? “Tirta” means water;
“a” means not; “merta” means to die. So this means that water which is
the cause of us not dying. This you will find inside yourself. Because
inside yourself you have fire and water—everything, all the elements.*?
 
At this point in the discussion it became clear that Mirdiana was pointing not simply
to self-knowledge and self-awareness in general but to esoteric knowledge—to the mystic
union of fire and water depicted by Budiana. Mirdiana agreed: “If we study this [the myth]
deeply, it is about lessons concerning kemoksaan [liberation from the cycle of births and
 
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
deaths].” Mirdiana’s version of the story and the version summarized by Hobart both empha-
size the obtaining of spiritual or esoteric knowledge. Why does man have to die? What is the
nature of dreaming? What is the purest thing in the world? The three questions that Bima poses
to Tunggal (Acintya) in Hobart’s version clearly touch on some of the highest mysteries of
the human soul. Although Mirdiana made no mention of these questions, they might be un-
derstood generally to refer to esoteric knowledge concerning the self and its spiritual goals.*?
 
The bare story of Nawaruci leaves the uninformed with the impression that tirta amerta
is simply a magical potion to confer immortality. Yet the deeper interpretation given by
Mirdiana is consistent with Angela Hobart’s narrative and indeed makes sense of otherwise
puzzling elements of it. For the peasant and the child watching the wayang puppet theater,
Nawaruci is an enthralling tale of heroic adventures in a magical realm. For more educated
members of the audience, it holds a moral lesson that might be emphasized, for example, in
the ethical views promoted by the Parisada Hindu Dharma: believe in yourself and strive
with a brave heart and firm mind to achieve your goals. For the seeker after spiritual under-
standing, yet other treasures of mystical knowledge lie hidden there. In this instance, Mir-
diana is interpreting the stories he heard in his childhood in the light of new knowledge he
was acquiring —both through our discussions with Brahmana priests and other literati and
through our reading of texts.
 
If we return to Budiana’s Ombak (Plate 12), we find that the central figure wrestling with
the two naga is evidently Bima. Not only does he wear the distinctive necklace of a coiled
snake, but the hand grasping the naga is in danu-mudra (the fingers clenched and the long
nail of the thumb used as a stabbing weapon)—two features symbolic of Bima.** But there
is no Tunggal or Acintya in Budiana’s painting, just waves and snakes. And although the
stance is the same as in Mirdiana’s painting, this Bima is very different. He is naked, with a
hairy lower body, while the face is refined and the tendrils of hair suggest the rays of the
sun. This figure represents the self cast in heroic mode, rather than the story of Bima. For
Budiana, the heroic journey is a riding of the waves of desire created by life. Mirdiana, at a
different stage in life, is more concerned with obtaining knowledge and succeeding on one’s
own. Yet both artists are concerned with inner heroic journeys. The material world repre-
sents the Mother; the hero’s task is to use the power derived from her, transforming it in the
process. Thus we can see both artists pointing to deeper levels of mystical meaning contained
in conventional tales and myths.
 
Exploring the Myths of Siwa and Uma
 
Mirdiana’s interest in esoteric teachings and his growing knowledge of such matters are indi-
cated in his treatment of familiar Balinese topics such as the stories of Sutasoma, Gana, and
Bima. These tales of heroic exploits he learned and loved as a child. As he grew up, he saw
the same stories illustrated in the paintings of the many artists who came to work and study
with his grandfather’s younger brothers, Kobot and Barat. He heard the stories they told and
listened to their interpretations of the myths. By the time he came to work for me, therefore,
he had gained an extensive knowledge of these oral traditions, which he had absorbed sim-
ply as part of growing up in a household of artists. During our work together he was exposed
 
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to other influences—verbal explanations from Brahmana priests and other knowledgeable
persons, as well as textual versions of myths. This material expanded his understanding of
the stories he knew and introduced him to others that he had not heard before. The paint-
ings discussed in the previous section were based on the knowledge he had derived from
oral tradition and performance. We now turn to works based on myths that he encountered
during his work as my research assistant.
 
I first came across these myths concerning the high god Siwa and his consort, Uma,
through conversations with Brahmana scholars and priests (pedanda).** Although these
myths seemed important, I could find only brief references to them in the anthropological
literature, so I began to look for their literary sources. I discovered some key leads in
C. Hooykaas’ work—especially in the text of what he calls the Litany of the Resi Bhujangga,
which tells how the world was created by Siwa and Uma. But I could get no clear sense of
how widely known this myth was or what place it might have in present Balinese thinking.
When I turned to my Brahmana informants, they suggested various lontar texts. At the
Gedong Kirtya lontar library, I found these were mostly unpublished lontar texts of a mys-
tical and philosophical nature—a type of text usually categorized as tutur. With the help of
a translator, an expert in Kawi from Udayana University who rendered the material into
Indonesian for me, I thought I would see what I could make of them. Throughout the
process, Mirdiana assisted me by interpreting during interviews and helping with the writ-
ten Indonesian translations.”°
 
I soon discovered that this textual material provided a useful basis on which to ask new
questions of my pedanda informants. Perhaps pleased by my efforts to read the texts (how-
ever clumsy in the eyes of the professional philologist), pedanda and others began to respond
to my new questions with more precise and fuller answers. Furthermore, I began to reread
the published texts, in particular Hooykaas’ extensive opus, with new eyes. Elsewhere I have
referred to my method as an “anthropological reading of the texts.”*° This is not a means of
producing authoritative translations of texts: it isa means to deepen the exchange between
ethnographer and respondent in a situation where the respondent’s knowledge is based on
written sources.
 
Although Mirdiana was unfamiliar with most of the myths of Siwa and Uma we found
in the tutur texts, he soon began to realize that they were expressed in rituals and sacred per-
formances he had witnessed all his life. As we follow the unraveling of these tales, we will
find that they express, though in a very different way, the same mystical themes explored
by Budiana. For a long time I assumed that knowledge of these myths was confined largely
to Brahmana scholars and other literati. Eventually, however, I discovered that many stories
relating to Uma and Siwa, including several previously unknown to me, are discussed by Leo
Howe, whose research was based on ethnographic fieldwork among ordinary village people.”’
 
The Balinese myths of Siwa and Uma, and their offspring Kala, Kumara, and Gana,
emphasize cosmic transformations from the divine to the terrible and back again.** The
stories Mirdiana elects to paint highlight certain important episodes in the cycle. All involve
as their central theme the role of desire as a cosmic force bringing the world into being and,
at the same time, leading to its destruction. These myths reveal that all dangerous and
destructive forces in the cosmos originate from a single source: the divine pair, Siwa and
Sakti. Moreover, all terrible forces and entities can be returned to their divine source by
 
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means of human ritual, thus averting the destruction of the world.*? Mirdiana’s paintings
in this series vividly depict the terrifying transformations and monstrous creations brought
about in the amorous play of Siwa and Sakti.
KALA: THE DEMONIC SON OF SIWA AND UMA
The god of all terrible and destructive forces in the world, Sang Hyang Kala, begotten in
anger and born without contact with his mother’s body, is nevertheless the son of Siwa and
Uma.*° The mythic account of his birth is the subject of Mirdiana’s painting Siwa and Uma
Riding Nandini (Plate 17).There is nothing in the painting to suggest the ominous con-
sequences of this occasion. Indeed the mood is lyrical: the handsome young god and his
beautiful consort soar through space, their robes and hair flying gracefully in the wind.
Siwa’s face is suffused with tender passion as he gently places his arms around Uma’s waist.
As if to reject his embrace, she turns away, her diaphanous robes just baring a glimpse of
dainty thigh. Here we find the divine pair in god form, gentle, and beautiful. When I com-
mented to Mirdiana that this was the first of his paintings to depict only beautiful images,
he replied: “Yes, but this is the origin of a very horrible thing!”” He was referring to the birth
of the god Kala.
 
We were first told the story of the birth of the monstrous Kala by the late Ida Bagus
Sutarja, a learned Brahmana scholar, priest, and maker of exquisite masks. Later we found
in the Gedong Kirtya library, at Singaraja, a transcription of the lontar text Kalatattwa that
recounts the birth and exploits of the monstrous god.” Sutarja’s oral version, which inspired
this painting, begins with the high god Siwa and his wife Uma flying through space on their
mount, the bull Nandini. As they descended toward the earth, its material influence caused
Siwa to be overcome by erotic desire. When the wind caught Uma’s robes, exposing her
thigh, Siwa attempted to embrace her. Uma protested that his behavior was unworthy of the
gods and struggled against him, whereupon his sperm fell into the ocean. Siwa and Uma then
departed the scene quarreling, but below, in the sea, a monstrous egg formed. From it
emerged a terrifying ogre: the god Kala.
 
Mirdiana’s painting focuses on the gentle and beautiful nature of the divine pair, their
godlike, or dewa, characteristics, as if to emphasize the extreme poles of cosmic forces rep-
resented by Siwa and Uma. This benign form is referred to in the lontar texts as somyarupa.**
From this pinnacle of divine beauty, Siwa and Uma can transform into monstrous creatures
of mind-numbing horror, as we find in subsequent paintings. It is as if Mirdiana wants noth-
ing to detract from this vision of the beautiful pair just before they begin to quarrel. The
connection with the birth of Kala is left implicit. When I asked why the painting does not
suggest the link to Kala’s birth, Mirdiana explained that he had already painted Kala together
with his brother Kumara. (We will turn to this painting next.)
 
The lontar text Kalatattwa, which describes Kala’s origin from Siwa’s sperm, goes on to
tell how the giant emerged from his egg in the middle of the ocean to find himself all alone
and abandoned. The newborn looked in vain for his parents:
 
He wanted to know his father and mother. He watched the ocean but it
was completely deserted; he looked to the east, deserted; to the south,
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deserted; to the west deserted; to the north deserted; below deserted; and
above also deserted. Suddenly the giant screamed, he roared very loudly,
the earth shook, and every corner of heaven swayed.”?
Frightened by the terrible sound, the gods looked down from heaven and saw the giant. They
rained arrows upon him, hoping to kill him. Instead of retaliating, the giant spoke politely
to them: “Oh, I am very pleased to meet you. Don’t attack me, I only want the truth.” **
 
The gods are not reassured by this and attack him again, but the giant continues to
advance on heaven. Finally Siwa himself confronts him, but even Siwa’s thunderbolt (bajra)
could not wound Kala. When Siwa demands to know why the fearsome ogre is attacking
heaven, Kala again explains: “I don’t want to attack anyone, I only want to ask something.
Forgive me, my lord, but I do not know who my father and mother are.”’*° Siwa instructs the
giant to break his right tusk and he will learn who his parents are. Siwa reveals that he him-
self is Kala’s father and Uma is his mother. Both parents give special rights and duties to their
son, including the right to devour all sinners and, with his deputies the bhuta kala, the right
to punish those on earth who neglect their duties. He was, however, admonished to spare
those who performed the appropriate rituals. If humans perform the correct sacrifices
(jadnya)—which are prescribed in detail by Siwa in the text—the hideous Kala and his
demonic minions will be totally transformed as a result. Siwa explains to Kala:
 
You can change from terrifying form to gentle form (somyarupa), together
with your followers, and stop all your cruelty and punishments. You all
will enjoy purification (lukatan) from Siwa and Buddha priests that can
remove the dirt inside yourself and outside yourself. Certainly you will
become gods and goddesses, and you, Kala, will become one again with
your father and mother and enjoy life in heaven.*°
 
Kala himself represents the extreme of godlike power become destructive. The hideous
product of anger between his divine parents, his role is to wreak havoc in the world. But
just as he originates from the god and goddess, he possesses the potential to return and
become one with them again in heaven. If Kala is “the Evil One,” as C. Hooykaas calls him,*’
his destructive role represents not a continuous state but a phase in an ever-repeating cycle
of transformations from destructive to benign. For human beings, the imperative is to pro-
vide sufficient offerings to keep the cycle moving toward the positive pole.
 
Kala and Kumara (Plate 18) depicts the terrible Lord Kala as a huge, heavy-bellied ogre
with popping eyes, the flesh-tearing teeth ofa ghoul, and a great bald pate. His hands reach
out like the talons of some gigantic bird of prey to pounce on the small, soft creature below
him. In a fury of blood lust he leaps and dances, his robes and royal ornaments whipped
about by the storm of dangerous energy roaring around him. The innocent babe he is about
to crush with his right foot is the divine Kumara, who is also the son of Siwa and Uma and
thus Kala’s own brother. To the left of Kala, taking up a large part of the left field of the paint-
ing, is an intricately drawn kakayonan, the cosmic tree of the wayang kulit puppet theater.
 
The story of Kala and his brother Kumara provides the mythic basis of a ritual that must
be performed for all Balinese born on a particular date. The Javo-Balinese calendar year,
 
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consisting of 210 days, is divided into thirty wuku, each with its own name.” Kala, accord-
ing to the myth, was born in Wuku Wayang and asked his father Siwa for permission to
devour everyone born on that date. Subsequently his brother, the beautiful infant Kumara,
was born in Wuku Wayang, whereupon Kala insisted on his right to eat him. How Kumara
was saved from his terrible brother is told in a lontar titled Kala Purana.*° Siwa tried to save
Kumara by cursing him to remain forever a child and then instructing Kala to wait until his
brother grew up before he could eat him. But Kala was not so easily discouraged. Finally Siwa
sent Kumara to earth to seek refuge with a powerful king. Kala pursued him, however, and
even the king’s soldiers could not drive him away.
 
After various narrow escapes, Kumara came across a puppeteer about to give a wayang
kulit performance and wept and begged for help. The clever dalang quickly hid the child in
the bamboo sounding tube of his gender, a musical instrument used for the wayang kulit.
Shortly afterward Kala arrived howling with rage and hunger and demanding to know
where Kumara was. Sighting the offerings to the gods that the dalang had set out before his
performance, Kala fell upon and devoured them. Bravely confronting the monster, the dalang
courteously pointed out that because Kala had consumed all the offerings, he was now
indebted to him. In payment of this debt, the dalang said, Kala should spare Kumara and give
his promise, to be recorded in the lontar, that he would never disturb Kumara again. Kala
conceded to the dalang’s request—whereupon an amazing change came over him: “The
heart [literally, liver] of Bhatara Kala became gentle: he rejoiced and no longer wanted to
devour Kumara.’”*° In this way the dalang became the protector of everyone born in Wuku
Wayang.** The large kakayonan—the cosmic tree that marks the beginning and end of the
wayang kulit performances that we see in the painting—refers to this story of the wise pup-
peteer who saves Kumara.**
 
From a philosophical perspective, Kala is time and death, which inevitably devour all
human beings and all material things.** Kumara, cursed by his father never to grow up, rep-
resents immortality—that which cannot be devoured by time. The pair might also, therefore,
be said to symbolize the material and spiritual aspects of existence.** The bestial Kala, with
his raging anger and hunger, represents material existence, while the sweet-faced baby,
immune from age and death, represents the immortal beauty of the spirit. Mirdiana’s paint-
ing, however, suggests that these two opposites are in a sense one. Kala, though huge and
threatening, mirrors the shape of the baby below him, with the same plump body, the same
bald head, the same golden ornaments. Kala is but a large, distorted version of the beautiful
child Kumara. This image takes us back to the description of the birth of Kala in the lontar
text Kalatattwa. Here the newborn surveys the world about him and cries in fear and lone-
liness for his parents. Although his appearance is monstrous, Kala is but an abandoned child
wailing for the mother who has left him and returned with Siwa to heaven.
 
Mirdiana has chosen to paint the lord of all terrible and destructive forces in cool shades
of blue, gray, and green, with details of gold and smaller touches of red, the whole infused
with a bright, clear luminosity. The delicate floral designs, the intricate patterns of jewelry
and drapery, the feathery kakayonan—all lend a graceful elegance so that the grotesque,
heavy figure of Kala himself takes on a strange beauty. Mirdiana expresses the mythic truth
that even the most horrible entity in existence ultimately derives from a divine source and,
if properly treated and cared for, will return to its original pure state. Kala sprang from kama
 
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salah, wrong desire, between his divine parents. Mirdiana pointed out to me that Siwa, the
high god himself, was overcome by erotic desire because he had come too close to the earth
and thus was influenced by physical desire. He could not control himself and was filled with
anger when his wife rejected his embrace. Uncontrollable desire and anger bring monstrous
consequences. Yet even the hideous and destructive Kala can be returned to gentle form
(somyarupa) if given the prescribed offerings. The Lord Kala is demon, hungry infant, and
also the divine Siwa himself.
 
The cycle of transformations from divine to demonic is strikingly depicted in Dewi
Rohini (Plate 19). Monstrous and exquisite forms of the divine pair spin together in a four-
sided tangle of shapes—now godlike, now hideous. At the top left of the painting is Siwa,
calm and handsome, seated in silent meditation. Below him is his consort, Uma, who has
taken the hideous shape of Durga, flames issuing from her mouth as she leaps about in an
angry dance. Above her, to her right, prances the demonic Kala, greedy mouth open in a leer,
claws about to seize her. Below him, in the right bottom corner of the painting, is a gentle
girl, Dewi Rohini, kneeling in an attitude of prayer.
 
This painting represents another story told to us by the late Ida Bagus Sutarja. Dewi
Rohini was a beautiful Brahmana girl who aspired to nothing less than marriage with the
high god Siwa. To this end she performed endless austerities in the graveyard until the power
generated by her intense spiritual concentration succeeded in attracting the attention of the
god. When the lovely Rohini revealed her determination to marry no one but him, Siwa
replied that he would have to call upon his wife Durga and his son Kala in order to grant her
wish. Siwa hoped to resolve the unfortunate situation that had arisen following the birth of
the monstrous Kala. After being cursed by Siwa for rejecting his embrace and causing his
sperm to be shed in the ocean, Uma in anger descended to earth as Durga. Her son, born
without entering his mother’s body, now desperately sought to possess her. But since she
was his mother, albeit having assumed the guise of Durga, this was forbidden. Siwa, for his
part, was missing his consort and wanted Durga to resume her beautiful form of Uma. Thus
he proposed to transfer the spirit of his wife, Durga, to the body of the beautiful Brahmana
girl, Rohini, so that she would become Uma and return to Siwa in heaven. To enable this,
the spirit of Rohini must first be transferred to the body of Durga—and this in turn would
also allow Kala to possess Rohini in the material form of Durga, as she was not his mother.
Thus the desires of all four could be met.”
 
The entangled shapes of the painting reflect the ambiguities of identity, one merging into
the other. Siwa is Kala, since Kala is his son. Kala is also Durga, since Uma is his mother. Durga
is Uma and ultimately Uma is Siwa, since all originate from Siwa and all return to him.
Although Rohini adds a fourth presence required for the plot of the story, essentially she
represents the gentle form of the beautiful goddess Uma. Kala’s role in this myth as the son
who desires to possess the mother, an element stressed by Sutarja, suggests various inter-
pretations. Stephen Headley, in a discussion of Kala myths connected to Javanese ruwatan
(exorcisms), draws attention to the theme of incest, pointing out that this is also a prominent
element in Indian myths of Shiva.*° From a Freudian perspective, the focus on Kala’s desire
for the mother might be seen as a reflection of everyman—of the inherently incestuous
desires that underlie all erotic attraction and the need to displace them onto a woman who
is not the mother. It might equally be seen as reflecting the bestial nature of all erotic desire
 
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in contrast to the purity of spiritual love. In mythic terms, Kala is the male principle
untouched by the mother, born without the shelter and nurturing of a maternal womb. This
was the element in the story that Mirdiana emphasized; he suggested that Kala’s destruc-
tiveness must be modified by contact with the maternal element. Yet this should not consti-
tute an incestuous meeting—another form of kama salah, wrong desire. If one instance of
kama salah between Siwa and Uma in their divine form gave rise to the monster Kala, what
frightful entity might emerge from an incestuous union between the terrible Durga and Kala?
 
The seething energy and the dark, almost murky colors dominating the painting sug-
gest the threat of destruction on a cosmic scale. The small, calm figure of Siwa is the point
of origin and, at the same time, the means of averting the danger. Yet even Siwa is part of
the cycle, drawn toward the other figures by centripetal force—indeed the figures seem to
spin, so that as we watch them they begin to merge.
 
SIWA KALA AND DURGA: THE MONSTROUS FORMS OF SIWA AND UMA
 
When touched by earthly desire and anger, Siwa and Uma in their divine form conceived a
monstrous son. But the creator pair take on terrifying shapes themselves, and Mirdiana pro-
vides startling images of their metamorphoses. In Kama and Ratih (The God and Goddess of
Love; Plate 20) we find that the handsome young Siwa depicted in previous paintings has
here become a grotesque ogre burning to ashes with his yogic fire the god and goddess of
love. Mirdiana shows Siwa in destructive form as even more horrific and awe inspiring than
his monstrous son. Whereas Kala, as imaged by Mirdiana, seems always to have a touch of
the infantile or vulnerable about him, Siwa Kala is a nightmare shape of sheer power with
his great hairy body, his one huge staring eye, fire streaming from his gaping jaws and ignit-
ing from his bulging arms and shaggy head. The fire that issues from Siwa Kala is anger.
 
The painting was inspired by a mask of Siwa Kala made by Ida Bagus Sutraja and what
he told us of this demonic form of Siwa. Mirdiana already knew the story of Kama and Ratih,
but his understanding was now greatly enhanced by our discussions with Sutarja and
others. The literary source of this myth is an Old Javanese kekawin (poem), the Smaradahana,
a copy of which was obtained for me and translated by I Nyoman Suarka after he saw
Mirdiana’s painting in progress.*” According to Mirdiana’s version of the story, Siwa had
retired from heaven and the world to meditate in a mountain forest. He was gone so long,
however, that the gods in heaven became worried; they sought ways to rouse him from his
deep contemplation and persuade him to return, but to no avail. Finally they sent the god
and goddess of erotic love, Kama and Ratih, to distract Siwa from his austerities. Provoked
by the amorous dalliance of the beautiful couple, Siwa’s concentration was broken, and in
rage he advanced upon them, assuming the frightful shape of Siwa Kala. From the great eye
of the monster flame burst forth and the heat was so intense that Kama and Ratih were
burned to ashes. Nothing was left but the finest of ashes that fell upon the earth and all liv-
ing creatures. Love thus became invisible, without physical form, but the fine particles of
ash filled the world, so that all living creatures are influenced by erotic desire.**
 
The artist has chosen to show fire streaming from Siwa Kala’s mouth—not his eye as the
myth relates. Fire is symbolically a feminine element for Mirdiana, as for Budiana. Accord-
ing to Mirdiana’s interpretation, Siwa’s concentration was broken because he had spent a
 
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long time on the earth meditating and thus had been influenced by the panca maha bhuta,
the physical elements that constitute the earth. These give rise to the five senses (panca
indriya), which in turn give rise to the six vices (sad ripu): lust (kama), greed (lobha), anger
(krodha), drunkenness (mada), confusion (moha), and jealousy (matsarya).*° In other words:
physical embodiment is the inevitable source of material desires. All beings touched by the
material world become subject to these desires, even the high god Siwa.
 
Overcome by rage, Siwa is filled with the demonic energy and destructiveness inherent
in the physical world. Seething with lust, greed, and hatred, he lays waste to all in his path.
The fire that spews from his gaping maw is the element of the Terrible Mother, as we have
consistently found in Budiana’s works. Mirdiana has chosen to emphasize the link to the
destructive feminine principle—a connection that is further revealed in the treatment of the
mouth and teeth, which closely resemble the fangs and tongues of fire of the goddess Durga
to be seen later in the painting Panca Durga (Plate 21). It is said, in English, that love or
indeed any strong emotion is blind, but the metaphor tends to lose the obsessive fixation of
desire upon a single object or intent. Lust, hunger, and anger allow no quiet assessing of a
situation; they impel immediate action to achieve satisfaction. Siwa Kala’s one staring eye
conveys this mindless drive. Although sight, and thus the eyes, usually suggest the power
of the mind and reason, this single great orb sees nothing but the object of its passion.
 
The myth, and this painting, focus on two kinds of emotion: Siwa’s anger and his erotic
desire. Is this another instance of the kama salah (wrong desire) that gave rise to the dread-
ful Lord Kala? Kama and Ratih are the god and goddess of love. Their union in itself cannot
be wrong. Yet by disturbing Siwa’s meditations, their act of love results in the benign high
god, Siwa, taking terrible form and destroying them. Is this simply the antithesis between
spiritual concentration and the physical desires that drive the body? According to the myth,
erotic desire is not in fact destroyed, only its physical form ceases to exist, but as an unseen
force it spreads over the earth and all living creatures. Is erotic love thus to be understood
as something divine in origin? The myth seems to play with these ambiguities. Is kama
simply a sin—one of the sad ripu? But we have seen that there is kama and there is kama
salah—desire and wrong desire. Even the gods can be guilty of kama salah, as we found in
the myth of Kala’s origin, an event that also was a result of too strong an influence from the
material world.
 
Kama is the force that draws separate entities together to unite and to produce new enti-
ties. In this sense it is a cosmic force of divine origin and, in turn, the origin of all entities.
Perhaps Siwa meditating alone wished to remain a single unity; perhaps he did not want to
concern himself with the world or the gods. The force of kama, however, draws him to seek
out another entity with which to unite. Thus when drawn out of his self-containment, he
turns destructive as he becomes aware of his incompleteness. But this destructiveness can
be turned to creativity in achieving a new union. The myth suggests that it is desire as a cos-
mic force which creates the dynamic behind the cycle of cosmic transformations.
 
As Mirdiana pointed out to me, the story offers tantalizing hints of matters developed
elsewhere. Other myths reveal that Kama and Ratih are the son and daughter of Uma and
Siwa—again raising incestuous, oedipal themes, at least in a Western interpreter’s mind. Mir-
diana suggested that the myth should be understood metaphorically to mean that Kama and
Ratih are actually part of Siwa himself: his own feelings (rasa) concerning love (cinta) and
 
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affection (kasih sayang). Thus Siwa, disturbed from his self-absorbed contemplation by his
own feelings and memories of love and attachment for other entities, wants to burn away
these distractions and return to a higher state of awareness.
 
While it dwells on the awe-inspiring figure of Siwa Kala, Mirdiana’s painting is never-
theless composed of elegant forms, exquisite decorative motifs, and crisp graceful lines. The
coloring is rich but subdued, the red flames cooled by the black and gray rocks and clouds.
Floral elements—the wildflowers growing around Siwa’s mountain retreat—are interwoven
with the jewellike flames that engulf the beautiful lovers. The composition has a fierce
energy to it, yet it is contained within the fine, precise lines that define each form, even Siwa
Kala’s distorted face and bulging body. Again we see Mirdiana’s unique ability to render the
grotesque, and terrifying, beautiful.
 
Durga is well known to Balinese as the consort of Siwa and the goddess resident in the
Pura Dalem of every Balinese village. In Balinese Hinduism, Durga is the demonic form
assumed by Uma, the beautiful and gentle wife of Siwa, but one hears much less of Uma than
of Durga from ordinary Balinese.” The five terrifying ogresses exuding the stench of blood
and graveyard decay that confront us in Panca Durga (The Five Durgas; Plate 21) are but the
other side of the exquisite goddess pictured in Plate 17. They are the counterparts of Siwa
Kala—the terrible aspect of Siwa. The similarities between Siwa Kala and Durga as depicted
by Mirdiana are evident when we compare Panca Durga (Plate 21) with Kama and Ratih
(Plate 20). The heavy shape of the bodies, the shaggy hair, the protruding eyes, the coarse
nose, the large ears, and especially the gaping jaws, fierce tusks, and tongues of flame, are
of a piece. In Durga, Siwa Kala finds a fitting mate.
 
We first heard the story of the Five Durgas from two Brahmana priests, and both later
gave me handwritten texts of the story in Balinese and Indonesian.” Subsequently we
obtained a copy of the lontar text Siwagama,” which gives a fuller though very similar
account. It tells how the beautiful goddess was cursed by her husband Siwa and in anger
descended to the earth as Durga. Reaching the crossroads, she divided into five—creating a
Durga for each of the four directions and the center. Together the five fiends plotted to
destroy the world. Meanwhile Siwa in heaven was beginning to regret cursing Uma and driv-
ing her away, and so he resolved to win her back. Cursing himself, he became the monstrous
Kala Rudra and went to earth in search of her. (Siwa in terrible form is given different names
by different texts: Siwa Kala and Kala Rudra seem to be interchangeable.)”* At the crossroads
Kala Rudra met the Five Durgas. Each requested his touch and from their meeting was
spawned a host of terrible creatures in all five directions. This was the origin of the bhuta
kala—all the dangerous and destructive forces that plague the world.”
 
This centrally important myth explains the origin of caru offerings. All Balinese rituals
begin by making caru offerings—usually placed on the ground, unlike offerings for the gods
(dewa), which are placed on stands of varying heights. The contrast has been interpreted
by many Western scholars as indicating the lowly status of the bhuta kala. Yet, as we learned
from Budiana’s work, the bhuta kala represent the energies and forces of the earth. Caru offer-
ings are placed on the ground, or close to the ground, because they are directed to the
chthonic powers. The aim of the caru rituals is not to exorcise these powers but to convert
them from negative into positive energies. The theme of sacrifice as a means of persuading
dangerous entities to become protectors has already been touched on in the discussion of
Mirdiana’s treatment of the stories of Sutasoma and the god Kala.
 
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The nature and intent of caru rituals are clearly revealed in the myth. After the meet-
ing of the Panca Durga with Kala Rudra and the creation of the bhuta kala, destruction was
unleashed on humankind. Meanwhile in heaven the Tri Semaya—Brahma, Wisnu, and
Iswara—had become worried about the doings of Siwa as Kala Rudra on earth. Among
themselves they discussed how they could persuade him to return to heaven in his gentle
form (somyarupa).°* They decided to go in search of him and found him on earth, with Durga,
sitting on the Bale Agung (a ceremonial structure located in the village temple, the Pura
Desa). Kala Rudra had now taken the name and form of Sang Jutisarana and Durga had taken
that of Sang Kalikamaya. Both names include a word meaning “deception” or “disguise” (juti
and maya).”° Despite their disguised form, they were recognized by the Tri Semaya, who then
approached the king of the country of Galuh, King Batatipati, and instructed him to make
appropriate offerings, including blood and raw meat, to satisfy the cannibalistic hunger of
the demonic deities. When all was prepared, the offerings were laid out in front of the Bale
Agung. The ceremony, called caru pancasia, was led by the Tri Semaya who took the form
of Brahmana priests (pedanda). The Tri Semaya then constructed a stage, and the god Iswara
became a dalang (puppeteer). With Brahma and Wisnu on either side of him, he performed
a shadow puppet play depicting the journey of Kala Rudra and the Panca Durga on earth.
 
After watching the performance, an extraordinary change came over Kala Rudra and
Durga. They became aware, and then ashamed, of their murderous actions on earth—where-
upon they were transformed back to their benign divine forms of Siwa and Uma. Their
demonic minions, the bhuta kala, were also transformed after they consumed the offerings
set out for them—resuming their original forms as the nymphs (bidedara, bidedari) of heaven.
Thus by means of the rituals taught to humankind by the Tri Semaya, the terrible potential
of Kala Rudra, Durga, and their followers was defused. This myth not only explains the ori-
gin and intent of caru rituals. It also explains the role of temple entertainment (imen-imen),
such as the wayang kulit, in bringing Kala Rudra and Durga to awareness of their destruc-
tive deeds.’ Furthermore it asserts that the Brahmana priests (pedanda) in their role as ritual
leaders are no less than manifestations on earth of the gods Brahma, Wisnu, and Iswara. The
role of the king, guided by his priestly advisers, is also emphasized.
 
Mirdiana’s comments on the painting (Plate 21) reveal an understanding of Durga that
is very similar to Budiana’s. When I asked him about the circle above the head of the cen-
tral figure, he replied: “That is the moon—the moon is the symbol of the Mother.” The moon
is usually associated with the goddess in beautiful form, either as Ratih, the goddess of love,
or as Uma, Siwa’s consort. Balinese also liken beautiful women to the moon. The moon thus
reminds us that Durga is the other face of the beautiful mother goddess. I asked why the five
fiends were draped in snakes or worms like so many Medusas. The worms, Mirdiana
explained, are the worms of the graveyard, indicated by the human skulls on which the cen-
tral Durga dances. Worms perform the function of breaking down the corpses in the earth.
Although this is horrible, Mirdiana continued, it is a necessary part of life: bringing matter
back to its source so that it can be used again to create new life forms. This is the same theme
that Budiana has explored at length—the role of Durga as pelebur who smelts down matter
to its original constituents. The long fiery tongues of the Five Durgas, Mirdiana added, rep-
resent desire.
 
This indeed is demonic desire at its most grotesque: the five fiends ready to devour the
world and inciting Kala Rudra to join in their orgy of destruction. One fiend clutches a baby
 
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to her breast, but it is not clear whether she is about to give it suck or if it is a corpse she is
about to devour. Although the painting has to be observed closely to identify what is being
held in the monster’s claws, the ambivalence provoked by the Mother could hardly have been
shown more directly. The colors are dark and heavy, redolent of blood, decay, and the
frightening shadows of the graveyard, yet the painting is filled with the wild energy of the
witches’ dance. For Balinese the graveyard is a place of great power, magical and spiritual.
Those who desire sakti, mystical power to influence material things, must meditate in the
graveyard and pray to Durga to achieve their desires. Mirdiana observed that Durga’s great
tusks, two from below and two above, symbolize the union of powers from below, the earth,
with powers from above. This meeting of energies from above and below generates intense
power that can be harnessed—for good or for evil—by human beings. Again the emphasis
is on the dual potential of these powers. Durga’s power is terrible, but its consequences
depend on how humans attempt to deal with it.
 
Mirdiana shows us a nightmare scene. Yet the prancing forms possess a strange grace,
and the elegant lines and flowing composition draw us to a realization of an underlying
beauty. Like the fire of Budiana’s Kebakaran (Plate 2), Mirdiana’s Panca Durga is both terrify-
ing and beautiful.
 
RWA BHINEDA: THE MEETING OF FIRE AND WATER
 
Another important myth concerning Siwa and his consort Uma is the subject of Rare Angon
(The Cowherd; Plate 22). The story has often been represented by Balinese artists,** although
not always with a deep understanding of its meaning. The literary source of Mirdiana’s paint-
ing is the lontar text Siwagama.” According to this version—there is always more than one
version, even in the written texts, and different sources weave together the elements in vary-
ing ways—Siwa decided to test the faithfulness of his wife, Uma.°° He instructed her to go
to earth and find him the milk of a black Jembu (ox). He then changed himself in a cowherd,
descended to earth, and waited for Uma. After searching high and low for a black female
lembu, Uma finally came upon the cowherd Rare Angon. Seeing that he possessed the milk
she needed, she asked to buy it from him. When he demanded to know what she would pay,
she replied she would give him jewels and gold, as much as he desired. But he refused, say-
ing gold and jewels were of little use to him: he would only give her the milk if she agreed
to make love with him. At first Uma refused, but as she was unable to persuade him to part
with the milk in any other way, she finally agreed. According to this version of the myth,
she carefully placed his loincloth between her thighs so he would be deceived into think-
ing he had penetrated her hymen. Another version relates that she submitted to the
cowherd’s request, but only on the condition that he touched her legs, not her genitals; thus
his sperm was shed between her thighs and fell down into a cut on her foot. Both constitute
kama salah (incorrect unions).
 
When Uma returned to heaven, Siwa asked their son, the elephant-headed Gana, to
divine how his mother had managed to obtain the milk. Gana possessed a special lontar book,
given to him by Siwa, enabling him to see into the past and the future. When he opened the
book he saw there the meeting of Uma with the young cowherd. Uma was furious that her
actions were disclosed by Gana. In her anger she became Durga, burned the lontar with the
 
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fire of her rage, and threatened to kill Gana.°' Siwa then intervened and asked whether Gana
had spoken the truth. When Uma finally confessed to her adulterous meeting with the
cowherd, Siwa cursed her and sent her to earth.
 
The story continues with Durga arriving in the cemetery of Gandhamayu and meeting
there her daughter Kalika, who had also been cursed by Siwa for sexual misdemeanors and
sent to earth in demonic form. Kalika obtains from Durga secret teachings of sorcery and
black magic to spread sickness and plagues in the world and instructs her disciples, human
women, in these black arts. In payment for their lessons, the women had to provide the flesh
of their own husbands, children, and other relatives for Durga’s minions, the bhuta kala, to
eat. This, the /ontar explains, was the origin of witchcraft and sorcery in the world.°
 
In Mirdiana’s painting, the elephant-headed Gana is shown on high, reading his lontar,
wherein is revealed the scene, spread out below him, of Uma meeting with the cowherd on
earth. To either side of Gana are his mother, Uma, and his father, Siwa. Although the myth
specifies the milk of a black cow or ox, Mirdiana has placed two large buff-colored cows in
the center of his composition. Here aesthetic considerations have outweighed the need to be
faithful to every detail of the narrative. Uma is shown as a beautiful girl, richly dressed, but
modest in demeanor with downcast eyes. In her hands she holds a dainty vessel in which
to collect the milk. Rare Angon, the cowherd, is a handsome youth with broad shoulders, a
bold expression, and simply a loincloth, yet he still looks more like a god in disguise, which
he is, than a peasant. He leans back casually, resting his arm on a large calabash of milk. Some
artists have depicted the cowherd as an old man, bald and ugly, possibly to emphasize that
he offered no temptation to the goddess. The name of the cowherd, however, suggests a
young man or a boy. “Rare” in Old Javanese means a small child or “a young man or woman
in service.”°* Furthermore it is usually boys or youths who tend cattle. According to a text
used by the pemangku (temple priest), quoted by Hooykaas, Rare Angon is explicitly linked
to the body of the pemangku and said to be incorporated in it: “The Cowherd Boy functions
as a temple priest in your body. . . . The entire contents of the Microcosm are in your body,
located in the place where the liver is hanging—that is called The Cowherd Boy.”®* I was also
told by a Brahmana priest that the reflection one sees in the pupil of the eye is Rare Angon.
Given that the pedanda identifies with Siwa in his rituals, it seems that the more humble
pemangku is identified with Rare Angon, a disguised human form taken by Siwa.
 
Mirdiana creates a sense of erotic tension between the two figures, the handsome boy and
the graceful girl. There is nothing to suggest the disastrous consequences of this meeting.
The overall impression of the painting is gentle and soft; the pastel colors on a pale bluish
gray background, the rounded forms and kindly bovine faces of the animals, the elegant
human figures, the tendrils of flowering vines, all provide an idyllic pastoral scene. Yet like
the equally idyllic rendering of Siwa and Uma on their bull flying through space, this
encounter also presages divine anger and danger for the world. Yet again Uma’s anger,
roused by Siwa, results in the beautiful goddess becoming the terrifying Durga and bring-
ing death to the world—this time in the form of the disease-inflicting sorcery she teaches to
human women.
 
How is humankind to be saved from the depredations of Durga and her disciples, the
human witches? Since it is Siwa who tricked his wife and then cursed her to go to earth as
Durga, only he can stop her devastation of the earth. In another lontar text, Andabhuwana,°”
 
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
Siwa himself instructs Durga to inflict sickness on humankind, specifying what diseases
should be spread during which months of the year. Finally Durga asks Siwa when she will
meet him again, and he replies that later he will come to earth in the terrible form of Dur-
gakala to meet her.°°
 
It is this extraordinary meeting of terrible powers, exploding with dynamic energy and
force, that is revealed in Mirdiana’s Barong and Rangda (Plate 23).This painting is hardly the
conventional depiction of Barong and Rangda that, like Budiana’s painting of the same title
(Plate 9), usually presents views of masked actors playing out the battle between the witch
Rangda and the shaggy beast Barong. Mirdiana focuses not on the temple performance but
on the mythic meaning that underlies it. The two figures in fierce embrace are not costumed
actors but the cosmic powers symbolized by the actors and masks. Mirdiana’s Rangda is
Durga, and Barong is Siwa in monstrous form come to meet his banished consort. “Rangda,”
as is well known, also means widow or a woman estranged from her spouse.°’ Since Durga
is Uma when driven away by her husband, she is in truth a Rangda.
 
Durga/Rangda, like the Five Durgas of Panca Durga (Plate 21), is a half-naked ogress
draped in entrails. Her staring eyes, great tusks, and long red tongue of fire are those of the
Rangda mask; her whirling mass of knotted hair is Rangda’s wig; and in her right hand she
brandishes the kreb, the white cloth Rangda shakes at her attackers. Barong leaps upon her,
grasping her in his talons, as his beard entwines with her tongue. His body is covered with
a curly white pelt and ends in a long tail that wraps around Rangda/Durga’s right leg. His
crown and golden ornament sparkle with jewels representing rain.
 
The monstrous bodies move together in a wild dance, but the huge, hairy animal bulk
of Barong dominates and encompasses Rangda. Flames burst from them as the energy gen-
erated by their meeting reaches a crescendo. Yet the terrible power raging in the center is
contained, encapsulated within the spinning movement of the figures, so that surrounding
them is a quiet ground of empty space. In this union the destructive power of Durga is met
and contained by the male principle represented by Barong. Here the male principle is
ascendant—in contrast with the meeting between the Five Durgas and Kala Rudra, where
female power predominated five to one. When Kala Rudra touched the Five Durgas, they gave
birth to the bhuta kala, filling the world with destruction. In this new meeting, the masculine
principle prevails with the result that the fire of Rangda’s anger is met by the water, semen,
of Barong. The two elements neutralize each other, becoming vapor that rises upward, repre-
senting the transformation of destructive power back to its divine source. In the language of
mythology, Siwa takes monstrous form to bring under control his angry consort, thus return-
ing Durga to heaven as the gentle Uma. These myths reveal that Siwa is both the source from
which the anger and destructive power originate as well as the source to which they return.
 
The dreadful shapes assumed by Uma and Siwa when they come to earth as Durga and
Kala Rudra are described in detail in the lontar text Bhumi Kamulan. Here I quote Hooykaas’
translation of the relevant passages:
 
The Goddess then looked on Her Self
 
And full of wrath She then became.
 
Her urge was then to eat mankind;
 
She screamed, and like a lion roared.
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[ The Paintings of | Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana ]
 
Her teeth were long and sharp, like tusks,
 
Her mouth an abyss in between,
 
Her eyes shone, they were like twin suns.
 
Her nostrils, deep and cavernous.
 
Her ears stood like two thighs, straight up,
 
Matted and twisted was Her hair;
 
Her body was misshapen, huge,
 
There was nothing that broke its height.°*
 
Observing Uma’s metamorphosis, Siwa assumes a similar monstrous shape:
 
He screamed, and like a lion roared,
 
His teeth were long and sharp, like tusks,
 
His mouth an abyss........,
 
His eyes shone, they were like twin suns.
 
His nostrils, deep and cavernous,
 
His ears... 6... eee eee
 
Matted and twisted was His hair,
 
His body was misshapen, huge.°?
These descriptions given in the Jontar texts are entirely consistent with Mirdiana’s repre-
sentations of Durga and Kala Rudra, just as they are with the conventional forms of Barong
and Rangda created by the masks and costumes used in present-day temple performances.”°
 
Clearly for Mirdiana, as for Budiana, the dance/drama in which Barong meets Rangda
is much more than an inconclusive morality play. At a deep level it is about the meeting and
redirection of cosmic powers so that the destructive potential of the cosmic feminine element
may be reversed and returned to its pure source. Although Mirdiana focuses more explicitly
on mythic narratives in his work, the meanings he expresses are essentially the same as those
that Budiana explores in different ways. Like Budiana, Mirdiana also points to the meeting
of these powers within the self. Here the narrative language of mythology is replaced by
abstract mystical symbols. The union of fire and water is brought about in the self through
yogic practices and meditation—either with the aim of purifying the self of sickness and sin
or achieving the spiritual goal of moksa (liberation). These esoteric yogic practices are
described in various lontar texts that are discussed more fully in later chapters. One text,
Siwa Linga Suksma,”* which Mirdiana helped me to translate, describes how the water from
a golden vessel, visualized as located in the brain, must be poured down to meet fire in the
navel, washing away the ashes of the dirt consumed by the fire and thus cleansing and
purifying the self of all disease and sin. This is the meeting of fire (ANG) and water (AH)
constituting the union of opposites: rwa bhineda. Out of this meeting of fire and water in the
self arises vapor symbolizing the atma or soul. Thus the two—rwa bhineda—give rise to One:
Tunggal. This One is both the atma and the one god, Tunggal, since one is but a part of the
other. From this perspective, the temple dance of Barong and Rangda can be understood as
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[ CHAPTER 3 ]
a public ritual means of achieving in the external world (bhuwana agung) the same
purification from disease and sin and the same return to divine unity as achieved in the self
via yogic visualization. We shall take up this point again in Chapter 5.
 
In Mirdiana’s final painting, Kerinduan (Longing; Plate 24), Siwa and Uma have resumed
their beautiful, heavenly forms, yet between them still looms their monstrous son Kala. This
painting is not in fact based on a mythic narrative; it represents the artist’s mythic reflections
on an actual natural event he observed: a planetary eclipse during which sun, moon, and
earth were aligned. Siwa, at the top of the painting, is the sun, Siwa Raditya. In the center
is the earth, the material realm characterized by the monster Kala. Below is the moon, the
feminine element in its heavenly aspect, the goddess Uma. Mirdiana explained that such a
rare planetary alignment generates great power since the energies of all three worlds come
together at this time. If one knows how to attract and draw this energy to the self, one can
gain great spiritual power—indicated in the painting by the flames bursting from the points
of intersection between the three heavenly bodies. When I pointed out that he had reversed
their comparative size and that the earth seemed on the point of devouring the moon, the
artist replied that Kala, the earth, was between his two parents and thus controlled by them.
Although Siwa is the smallest figure, he is at the top and his stance is the most dynamic; he
dominates Kala. Kala, the earth, appears to be about to attack his mother, Uma, the moon,
because the earth’s shadow is about to cross the moon but does not extinguish it. According
to Mirdiana, Kala contained between his two parents indicates that the great natural energy
of the earth is aligned with the spiritual power of the heavens. No longer in conflict, the three
powers are focused in one line.
 
When the partial eclipse took place, Mirdiana observed it alone from his house temple
(pemrajan). He recalls feeling a deep peace within himself: “I was praying, and at that time
I felt very close to the planets, as if I were pulled by the moon. I felt this was a perfect situ-
ation. Very complete. Because at that time in the family, in myself, in my spiritual connecting,
all were in one line like that. I felt very happy, very peaceful, and powerful.” Here the artist
expresses his satisfying spiritual experience of a correspondence between the inner world
of the self (bhuwana alit) and the outer world (bhuwana agung). For him this is a rare expe-
rience, like the eclipse itself. The “Longing” of the title refers both to his own longing for
such contentment and to the longing that draws separate entities together on a cosmic scale.
 
Although Kala’s destructive potential is controlled for the moment, it remains—and as
the celestial bodies move away from each other again, it will be unleashed once more. The
movement of the three figures, the fire, wind, and clouds surrounding them, and especially
the sense that Kala is about to leap out at us, all convey this potential. We feel that any
moment Uma may revert to Durga and that Siwa will take angry form as Siwa Kala or Kala
Rudra. Following the myths of Siwa and Uma, Mirdiana’s painting reveals the Balinese
cosmos as an endless cycle of transformations: dynamic forces ever moving from divine to
destructive and back to their source. The painting brings about a resolution and harmony,
but the perfection achieved is just for a moment.
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
The Influence of Tantric Thought
 
WHAT PATTERNS can be discerned in the previous two chapters? And to what
extent might they represent Balinese philosophy and religious understanding? In
attempting to answer these questions, I want to explore certain broad similarities
between the Balinese mystic themes identified in the work of Budiana and Mirdiana
and the doctrines of Shivaitic Tantrism as redefined in recent studies by Indologists.
These explorations will lay the basis for the new interpretations of Balinese ritual
presented in Chapter 5.
 
Budiana offers us a cosmic view that is clear and consistent. This, of course, may
be an idiosyncratic view based on his own spiritual insights, the esoteric teachings
of a particular group or guru, or a combination of all of these. Here I have exam-
ined only twelve of his paintings, but I have selected them to be representative of
his work as a whole. The same themes are revisited again and again, though each
time presented in a fresh and creative way, in Budiana’s extensive oeuvre. His paint-
ings are in no sense didactic; he is not trying to preach any simple moral message.
The paintings are almost like snapshots—obtained who knows how—of the inner
workings of the spirit: glimpses into the fires and cauldrons of the human heart.
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
There is no doubt he is painting directly from his own inner vision. Yet these visions are
informed by a culturally constructed reality, that is, Balinese ritual and religion. My aim in
this book is to elucidate these connections and, in doing so, show how the artist’s unique
vision can vivify for us, and cast in a new light, the cultural sources of his inspiration. Thus
Iam really searching, not for what is unique, but for what is shared in the artist’s vision—
an approach that perhaps typifies an important difference between the art critic and the
anthropologist. For myself, writing as an anthropologist, the sparkling individuality of the
artist speaks for itself and the aesthetic appeal of the works is for me a mystery that I do not
seek to unravel. Rather the enchantment inherent in the aesthetic becomes a means of
approaching the cultural forms that inform the artist’s creations.
 
I begin my discussion with Budiana not only because he is the more famous and more
established artist but because his works present a cohesive view of certain key themes that
lie at the heart of Balinese understanding of the cosmos, the powers that constitute it, and
the place of human beings within it. His view is very far from the stereotypical descriptions
that have become entrenched in much of the Western scholarly literature—stereotypes that
some Balinese themselves, including many artists, have come to internalize at one level as
received wisdom and readily repeat when questioned by foreigners about their beliefs.
 
Budiana’s cosmos is a clashing symphony of powers, now terrible, now divine, ever
exploding into chaos, drawn by frightful passions, united in cataclysmic meetings, resolved
and rising upward into exquisite forms and light, to descend again into terror and the
inferno in never-ending cycles. Human beings, swallowed up by the maelstrom or tossed
about like flotsam and jetsam on the surging waves of existence, are but momentary ex-
pressions of soul unified with matter—for a cosmic second—to disintegrate again, on and on,
endlessly. Yet in this chaos the human spirit can find a way to realize its potential to achieve
liberation (moksa). It is via ritual and meditative practice to train the spirit that this poten-
tial can ultimately be realized.
 
Evidently this is Budiana’s view as expressed in his paintings. But are we to accept it as
an accurate reflection of the understanding of other Balinese? In the first place, Budiana him-
self firmly believes that what he expresses in his work reflects shared Balinese thinking and
teachings. In his own view, his most important works are the temple sculptures he has made
for many communities around the Ubud area and the sculptures, paintings, and other equip-
ment that he produces for cremation ceremonies—all without accepting payment. No reclu-
sive mystic obsessed by a private vision, Budiana follows most faithfully the living tradition
of the Balinese artist sharing his skills to the benefit of all in enhancing the ritual life of his
community. The paintings bought by Western collectors, such as the works discussed in this
book, are not set apart from his life and work as a whole; they are simply another expression,
in another medium, of the same ideas and mystical insights.
 
Like many Balinese known personally to me, Budiana belongs to a study group centered
on a spiritual teacher (guru). Many different groups, focused on different spiritual leaders,
who are often healers as well, flourish in Bali today, but their existence tends to be known
only to their adherents. It is difficult to describe these groups as they are informal, usually
known about only by word of mouth, and requiring some form of initiation in order to gain
access to them. People seeking healing of an ailment, or perhaps spiritual guidance, may be
drawn to such a group or advised to join by friends. A person might consult a traditional
healer (balian) to obtain treatment and then become a follower of the healer, whose spiritual
 
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[ The Influence of Tantric Thought ]
 
advice has attracted a like group of followers. Healers who do not employ traditional meth-
ods of treatment are known to Balinese as “paranormals” rather than balian. The spiritual
practices advocated by such a healer may be based on a mixture of personal revelations and
methods derived from foreign sources. Other groups form around priests, usually pedanda
(Brahman priests), who may offer both healing and spiritual advice (which in Balinese belief
are not easily separated). Then there are the kebatinan groups, which tend to emphasize a
combination of martial arts and spiritual practices, often deriving from Java. I have also heard
many rumors about various teachers of magic specializing in techniques to control and use
the kanda empat (the four spiritual siblings possessed by every person).
 
It is difficult, in the absence of methodical studies,t to know whether these groups
represent new developments in Balinese religious life or simply represent continuations of
informal study groups and followings that gathered around particular healers, teachers, and
priests in the past. Certainly my impression is that they are nothing new and constitute some-
thing rather different from the reform movements studied by Frederik Bakker,* Michel
Picard,’ and Leo Howe.* The reform movements appear to constitute a more formal level of
self-conscious reassessment of religious practice. It is this intellectual and Western-
influenced level of discourse that Clifford Geertz referred to as constituting a process of
“internal conversion.”° It is no easy matter to separate popular and intellectual levels of dis-
course in changing worlds, however, and clarification of these matters must await future
research. My point here is that although it might appear that the themes expressed in Budi-
ana’s works derive from recent, imported teachings, they are based on mystical understand-
ing deeply embedded in Balinese culture. Yet it is certainly true that Budiana’s opinions—and
equally Mirdiana’s—reflect to some degree the influence of the modern, reformed version of
Hinduism in Bali that places emphasis on moksa, karma pala, and other ethical concepts that
had much less salience in the past.° Given the wide currency of such ideas in contemporary
Balinese discourse, it could hardly be otherwise; but this is not to assert that older under-
standings have necessarily been supplanted.
 
A further dimension is added when we consider Mirdiana’s paintings, which explicitly
draw on Balinese mythology. I have discussed the literary sources at some length to show
that the themes developed by Budiana are not only expressed in Mirdiana’s paintings but
constitute the crux of several key Balinese myths. The /ontar texts on which Mirdiana draws
are classified under the category of “tutur”: works dealing with philosophical and religious
matters. In effect, they are the texts likely to be studied primarily by Brahmana priests and
scholars. It was through my conversations and interviews with such persons, during which
Mirdiana usually acted as my Balinese interpreter, that he came to know of the myths of Siwa
and Uma and we both began to realize their significance. Mirdiana’s own interpretation of
this material is important; he grasped things quickly and, given his cultural background,
ideas immediately made sense to him that remained puzzling to me. Thus he helped me to
make connections that I would never have seen for myself.
 
An Emerging Pattern of Mystical Themes
Based on the material presented in the previous two chapters, I think we can see an emerg-
ing pattern of mystical themes. The cosmic cycles of terrifying and turbulent powers
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
depicted by Budiana are also explicitly described in the myths. As we have seen, the divine
pair, Siwa and Uma, move constantly between extremes—raging upon the earth as Durga and
Kala Rudra, then resuming their gentle forms and returning to Siwa’s heaven. The myths
further reveal that the feminine cosmic principle—what Budiana simply refers to as “the
Mother’ —is the active principle, the power that gives rise to all material forms, and in doing
so eventually becomes destructive. It is Uma’s anger that leads to the birth of Kala, to the
creation of the bhuta kala, and to the origin of disease and witchcraft on earth. Drawn by
desire to reunite with the feminine, the male principle, constituting spirit, is pulled by mate-
riality and thus also degenerates into lower forms. Siwa, missing his wife, takes terrible form
and follows her to earth where he finds the Five Durgas in all of the five directions. Budiana’s
painting Merah Putih (Plate 8), where a hideous female form stands astride and merges with
a male monster, is another representation in a different form of the fateful meeting described
in the myth of the Panca Durga, where the destructive feminine principle is dominant.
 
Cosmic meetings are represented in the myths as sexual unions between the god and god-
dess in their multiple forms. The results of these unions are likewise divine and demonic.
At times Siwa descends to earth in monstrous form to contain the dangerous power of
Durga. In the shape of Barong, a demonic force possessing a positive potential, Siwa brings
the destructive potential of the Mother under control. Water, the element symbolized by
Barong, meets fire, symbolized by Rangda. Their meeting neutralizes both elements and gives
rise to a nonmaterial entity, the soul, represented by vapor. In the self, also, this “marriage
of fire and water” can be brought about by inner yogic visualization. Fire, the female
element, is also Kundalini, representing the goddess in the self. Union with the divine is
achieved when Kundalini is made to rise up and meet her spouse Siwa.
 
Such myths reveal that it is through ritual action—and appropriate sacrifices made to
the destructive forces inherent in the material world—that these powers can be directed back
to their original divine source. This is not a matter of exorcising, dispelling, or placating
demons. The nature of cosmic powers is to follow a cycle beginning with a divine unity,
which has no concern with the world, to ever-multiplying and degenerating forces that begin
to feed on what they have created. Human ritual is constantly needed to redirect these forces
toward the positive pole. Yet these forces are not different entities or powers; it is simply a
matter of encountering them in different states—now controlled, now out of control. They
cannot be destroyed or banished since they are the very origin of our existence.
 
If the perfect unity of the one god (Tunggal, Acintya, Paramasiwa) had never been
broken, no material world would exist.’ Once that unity is broken, and material beings and
entities are brought into existence, the forces giving rise to them take lower and lower forms.
Thus every act of creation eventually leads to destruction. Human beings, however, have
been given the means to preserve themselves and their world. Through performance of the
appropriate rituals, destructive forces can be reoriented and persuaded to return to their pure
source. Human beings, composed of both material and spiritual aspects, aim to return both
aspects to their sources. Thus the material constituents of the body are smelted down to
become matter from which new bodies are created, while the soul (atma) returns to its divine
source. Such, I suggest, is the hope and aim of the complex Balinese mortuary rituals.* Yet
the soul is not so easily freed from its attachment to physicality, and it keeps being pulled
back again and again to seek new incarnations in the material realm.
 
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[ The Influence of Tantric Thought ]
 
Spirit and matter are endlessly drawn together by the invisible force of desire to unite
and thus produce living beings. Once divided, the original unity is separated into forces and
entities ever desiring to achieve that perfect unity again. Desire to merge, to unite, becomes
a dynamic that moves the cosmos. The union of the god and his Sakti is the highest expres-
sion of desire, leading to a return to the blissful state of original unity—but not forever. Sakti
is that aspect of the godhead that cares about the world. Without her no world would have
been created. But in the process of creating and caring about the material world, she grows
too attached to her creations and finally becomes dangerous and destructive. This change is
clearly described in a Balinese myth of the origin of the world translated by C. Hooykaas.
Having brought forth the world, the creatrix then turned upon her creations in anger:
 
The Goddess Uma glanced around
 
And everywhere Her feet had touched
There was whiteness, there was redness,
There was yellowness, and blackness.
The Goddess then looked on Her Self
And full of wrath She then became.
 
Her urge was then to eat mankind;?
 
She screamed, and like a lion roared.
 
Fred B. Eiseman quotes an authoritative Balinese interpretation of this myth specifically
referring to Siwa and Uma’s excessive attachment to their creations:
 
After creation, the earth could not yet produce anything. Dewi Uma cre-
 
ated the matter or material of all living things. And Siwa gave them all life
 
or spirit. But Siwa and Uma became extremely attached, too attached
 
(terikat) to their creations. This attachment was not good and built up too
 
much energy in Siwa and Uma and they changed into strange and fright-
 
ening forms. Uma changed herself into Durga in the shape of Rangda;
 
Siwa changed into the form of Rudra.’®
The same theme, I believe, is expressed in the myth of Rare Angon where Uma is sent to earth
to find the milk of a black lembu. Although she acts out of concern to help her husband,
when confronted with the choice between failing to get the material/medicine he needs or
committing an unfaithful act, her love and concern for Siwa outweigh her need to be con-
sidered a faithful wife. This decision leads to her exposure by Gana and her descent to earth
as Durga. This narrative reiterates the theme that the Mother's care and love lead to over-
attachment to materiality and thus ultimately lead into terror and destruction.
 
This dual aspect of Sakti, her creative and destructive power, is, I believe, the key to
understanding the mystical/magical power referred to by Balinese as sakti—a concept that
has created much difficulty for Western interpreters, as Hildred Geertz’s work in particular
has shown." In Budiana’s view, those persons whom Balinese refer to as anak sakti (people
who possess sakti) seek through ritual practices to acquire power from the Mother: her power
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
and herself are one and the same. (Though he does not advertise the fact, he himself might
well be considered to be such a person.) Sakti is the invisible, mystical power to create,
influence, and destroy material entities. Human beings who develop these powers in them-
selves may use them to constructive or destructive ends.’* The balian uses his or her sakti
to help others; the Jeyak uses the power to inflict sickness and harm. It is, however, the same
power—and this duality, as we have seen, inheres in its very nature. Belief in witches and
the power of human sorcery is not peripheral to Balinese religion, as Hildred Geertz points
out although on somewhat different grounds,’’ but is integral to underlying concepts of the
very nature of the cosmos and the forces that bring it into being and sustain it.
How Representative Are These Ideas?
My understanding of these themes did not emerge from working with Budiana and Mirdiana
alone. The ideas the two artists expressed in their works were explained to me by many other
Balinese and elaborated in the texts to which they referred. Perhaps my most important
informant—in the sense that my discussions with him, coming early in my fieldwork, chal-
lenged what I thought I knew about Bali and introduced me to ideas I am still today un-
raveling—was the Brahmana mask maker and scholar, Ida Bagus Sutarja of Mas. I first met
Sutarja when I went to view his amazing collection of masks. Later I returned to ask him
about the masks of Rangda and Barong. What he had to say so impressed me that I soon
returned to ask further questions. This grew into a regular dialogue, and for many months
I conversed with him for several hours each week. Gradually my questions and his answers
were leading to a comprehensive picture of a Balinese religion that seemed very different
from what I had read about in the general anthropological literature. Sutarja’s knowledge, I
learned, was based on textual sources and so I began to seek them out. I also sought out as
many other informants as I could, as I became aware of the many different levels of under-
standing that prevailed. The question of who knows what—and what kinds of knowledge
people were disclosing to me—became uppermost in my mind.
 
Over a period of three years, in addition to observing daily life and ritual, I consulted
many Balinese, including ordinary villagers, men and women, gentry and commoners, uni-
versity-educated elite, temple priests (pemangku), puppeteer priests (dalang), local leaders
(bendesa adat, klian banjar), healers (balian) of various kinds, spirit mediums (balian katak-
son), Brahmana priests (pedanda), Brahmana scholars, artists, traditional architects, wood-
carvers, mask makers, performers, and others. Undoubtedly the best informed, those with
the most comprehensive view, were Brahmana priests and scholars, although I also encoun-
tered pedanda who were not so learned. I found that village priests were rarely able to
articulate the themes explored here. Balian usada, by contrast, were evidently familiar with
these ideas; but I always found healers to be more interested in selling cures or talismans than
in offering information, and most were reluctant to part with professional secrets. The prob-
lem arises, of course, that the kind of knowledge I was seeking was essentially esoteric
knowledge and access to it requires an ongoing relationship of trust with the person con-
cerned—a relationship that cannot be built with a large number of people or even several.
Thus it is really impossible to know precisely what another person knows—only what they
 
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will disclose to you in certain circumstances. It was for this reason also that I sought out tex-
tual knowledge so that I would not be entirely dependent on what particular individuals
were prepared to tell me.
 
Sutarja, the Brahmana mask maker, once commented that my researches were leading
me to the “deep meaning” of Balinese culture. At the time I felt embarrassed and laughed,
thinking he was seeking to flatter me. He explained there are three basic levels on which
rituals are conducted and three different levels of understanding them. He called them the
nistha, madhya, and uttama, the ordinary, middle, and highest levels.'* I had heard other
people use these terms to describe a ceremony’s level of complexity and elaborateness: ordi-
nary people might conduct a ceremony at the nistha level, those of greater status or wealth
might aim at the madhya, while only kings and princes could afford the uttama level.
According to Sutarja, all religious and ritual matters can be understood on the basis of these
three levels. The ordinary person knows enough to prepare the offerings and carry out the
physical work necessary to perform a ceremony. At the middle level are the community lead-
ers—the pemangku (village priests), the bendesa adat (local leaders), and other local officials—
who know what is needed to guide and organize the people's labors. Then there is the level
of the scholars and priests who study the /ontar texts and understand the underlying
significance of the rituals. In the past, and even today, Sutarja insisted, it is not appropriate
for people to know more than their status and role require. Each knows what is necessary
to their functioning within the whole scheme.
 
From this perspective, it might be expected that each level of society possesses a rather
different view of what is going on and that many Balinese might know nothing of the eso-
teric themes and metaphysical understandings under discussion. Certainly in Sutarja’s view,
those who are privy to the “deep meaning” are Brahmana scholars and priests like himself.
Yet I was to find that many other Balinese possessed similar understandings. Essentially my
observations concerning the different levels of knowledge parallel studies by philologists,
referred to in Chapter 1, concerning the distribution of traditional literacy in Bali. Those who
have the most extensive knowledge are the pedanda and Brahmana scholars—the apex of the
literacy pyramid. But many others, according to vocational needs, personal ability, and
preference, are deeply versed in the mystical understandings I have described. The ideas
expressed by Budiana and Mirdiana are not common knowledge in the sense that every
Balinese can articulate them, but neither are they confined to a specific elite. Like traditional
literacy, to which it is evidently closely linked, this knowledge is much more broadly dis-
tributed throughout the populace.
 
Clifford Geertz’s influential observation that Balinese religion is more about praxis than
ideology may be true for some or even many Balinese, but not for all. The textual scholar
C. Hooykaas made the same point many years ago—challenging Geertz’s assertion that all
Balinese were uninterested in philosophy and metaphysical speculation and drawing atten-
tion to the proliferation of translations into Indonesian of Balinese mystical texts, a trend that
continues to the present.'° Furthermore, these ideas are propagated indirectly in other ways.
Mirdiana, brought up in a household of distinguished artists, knows most of the myths he
paints from listening to his elders tell stories and especially from watching wayang kulit
performances as a child. His experience is typical of many. Stephen Lansing has drawn atten-
tion to the way in which Hindu ideas were propagated in Bali (and all over Indonesia)
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
through performance in the form of the shadow puppet theater and the many dances,
dramas, and textual readings that accompany rituals of all kinds.*° My informants often
commented that the mystical understanding they described was in fact expressed in public
ritual; it was not secret or hidden from those who cared to listen. Indeed when I was
alerted to the meaning of textual readings at temple festivals and started to pay attention to
wayang lemah—the daytime puppet theater “performed for the gods” —I discovered in them
the stories of Siwa and Uma taking demonic form as well as the origins of caru rituals held
for the bhuta kala. If one listens to the words of the Pandung (the king’s minister) at per-
formances of Calong Arang, the mystic marriage of fire and water is mentioned, as is the
rwa bhineda (the two different ones; the union of opposites). Most members of the audi-
ence, it is true, seem little aware of these details, but they are there for those who are
interested.
 
Although many Balinese cannot articulate them in so many words, I am convinced that
the ideas revealed in the works of Budiana and Mirdiana are in fact widely known. Indeed
the reason I have chosen these two artists as the focus of my discussion is that their works
express in concrete form understandings described to me by many other Balinese. I find
further compelling evidence in Howe's ethnographic study of Balinese culture where, on the
basis largely of explanations given by ordinary villagers and observations of a wide range
of ritual activities, very similar ideas and understandings are described.’’ I have noted
many parallels in the previous two chapters. In particular, Iam struck by Howe’s emphasis
on the demonic forms of the high gods, the nature of the bhuta kala, the intent of caru rituals
as returning demonic entities to benign form, the importance of mother goddesses such as
Ibu Pretiwi, Uma, and Sri, the association of the earth with wealth and riches and materiality,
the meetings and separation of Mother Earth and Father Sky, the cycles of transformation
through birth, marriage, and death rituals, and the cosmological notions where high, center,
and masculine prevail over low, periphery, and female. Furthermore, I am impressed by the
degree of conceptual coherence that Howe reveals in the vast diversity of the ethnographic
evidence he presents. Starting from an entirely different perspective, drawing on different
informants and sources of information, Howe presents an analysis of the cultural concepts
and idioms shaping the Balinese worldview that is entirely consistent—although not iden-
tical—with the mystical themes expressed by my priestly and literati informants.
 
Sutarja’s explanation of the three levels of understanding clearly implies that the differ-
ent levels are not unrelated and, moreover, that the ritual actions of the ordinary person are
guided by others who know more. This points to an underlying pattern of significance
shaping the ritual action. We have glimpsed something of this in the connections between
the symbolism of the Barong and Rangda temple performance and the marriage of fire and
water as described in Jontar texts.'* Nor are the vast quantities of offerings required for
various ritual occasions simply left to the discretion of village experts. They are minutely
detailed in the /ontar texts—further indicating that the link between the texts and ritual per-
formance might be an intimate one. I am not suggesting the existence of a precisely formu-
lated doctrine. Rather I wish to suggest that certain shared ideas and understandings, such
as those I have cited in the previous two chapters, constitute a core of organizing themes
around which ritual is structured. I will return to these arguments in Chapter 5.
 
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[ The Influence of Tantric Thought ]
 
Parallels with Tantric Thought
 
Although the themes of transformation, ambivalence of divine forces, and power of the
Mother that I have identified may seem unfamiliar in the context of Balinese religion, they
are by no means foreign to Hindu thought in general, especially Shivaism. As Shakti Gupta
observes: “In Hindu mythology and symbolism, Vishnu, Shiva and Shakti, the Mother God-
dess, are visualised as both terrible and benign, creative and destructive, ugly and hand-
some.”’° Mirdiana’s handsome and horrific representations of Siwa and the mother goddess
Uma clearly belong to the same conceptual world; in Budiana’s work the emphasis on sexual
symbolism, the power of Sakti, Kundalini, and the union with god within the self evokes
classic Tantric themes.
 
A central theme of Tantrism is an emphasis on “the divine energy and creative power
(Shakti) that is represented by the feminine aspect of any of various gods . . . above all as
the wife of Shiva.”’° Budiana’s fascination with the Mother, especially in her terrible forms,
suggests even the more extreme forms of Indian Sakta teachings.*' If we are inclined to dis-
miss this fascination as merely his eccentricity or the result of modern influences, we need
only remind ourselves of the predominance of terrifying images of Durga in Balinese temple
sculpture and the hideous Rangda in temple performance (see Plates 25-28). It was through
my investigations into the meaning of Rangda and the mythical beast Barong that I first began
to learn of the “power of the Mother.”* I was astonished to hear Brahmana scholars, such
as the mask maker Ida Bagus Sutarja, speak so eloquently of Rangda (I had thought she was
merely the evil witch) as the “Mother,” the source of all physical being and existence.
Sutarja once remarked to me that when he was a child his father once pointed to the masks
of Barong and Rangda and told him: “These are our great parents.” Sutarja scoffed at the idea
Rangda was killed in the temple performances. This was impossible—to kill her would be
to destroy the very source of our own being. The Mother possesses enormous power, and
this constitutes a great danger if it gets out of control. The role of Barong, who is also Siwa,
is to bring this dangerous, terrible, but creative power under control.
 
The relation between Siwa and his Sakti was explained to me in the following terms by
a Brahmana priest. Siwa is the pelebur, the destroyer, the divine principle whereby the
physical universe is returned to its original state. It is usually, however, Siwa’s Sakti or female
energy, the Dewi, in her fierce form of Durga, who performs this role. God is not concerned
with the material world; it is only his Sakti that is drawn to the material and is responsible
for creating and caring for it. “It is like this,” the pedanda observed jokingly: “If people bring
presents and food here to the griya [Brahmana household], the pedanda does not think about
them, but his wife (pedanda istri) will care and will take and use those material gifts.” Thus
the Sakti is that aspect of divine power which concerns itself with the physical world of
material substance and bodies. The “power of the Mother” (Dewi/Sakti), which plays such
a central role in Budiana’s oeuvre, is, I believe, a highly important aspect of Balinese mysti-
cal thinking that has been overlooked by many European scholars, though certainly not all.
 
It has long been thought that the form of Hinduism brought to Bali was Shivaism
strongly influenced by Tantrism. More than forty years ago, Jacoba Hooykaas noted several
important Tantric elements in Balinese ritual:
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
The religion which found its way from India to Java was a Siwaistic
Tantrism. . . . In this religion the sexual union of the Upper God Siwa and
His spouse plays a prominent part. It is believed that a yogin who is able
to effect in his body the intercourse of these two gods achieves liberation.
In Java several images of the divine figure have been found in which is
expressed this complete blending of male and female. They are called
Ardhanareswari and have one male and one female breast. In Bali nowa-
days, when the Brahmin priest, to prepare the holy water, achieves this
mystic union in his body, he mentions the divine couple (dampati) in his
chant; his manuals recommend him to concentrate his thoughts on Ardha-
nareswari.”*
 
The Sanskrit scholar Sylvain Lévi had even earlier drawn attention to the pervasive
influence of Tantrism in Bali.** The clearly Tantric nature of many texts found in Bali has
been noted by several textual scholars.*” Archaeological studies have revealed Tantric ele-
ments in old Balinese sculpture, structures, and inscriptions.*° The anthropologist James
Boon has identified Tantric elements in Balinese ritual and religion while at the same time
observing that these have been underplayed by most scholars.*’ A reluctance to engage with
the obvious Tantric elements in Balinese thought has been further noted by Barbara Lovric;**
her detailed investigation of Balinese traditional medical texts (usada), unfortunately unpub-
lished, provides extensive and important data to demonstrate the pervasiveness of Tantric
influences in Bali. Hildred Geertz too refers to Tantric aspects of Balinese ritual, especially
in relation to witchcraft and sorcery.”
 
Tantrism remains a topic surrounded by much misunderstanding and popular sensa-
tionalizing and has only recently become the subject of serious scholarly study among
Indologists themselves. *° Indeed just to mention the word “Tantrism” immediately conjures
in some minds visions of sexual orgies and revolting rituals thinly disguised as spiritual prac-
tices.*! Naive enthusiasm in the West for Eastern religions, along with New Age spiritual-
ism, have added to the problems of sensationalizing, debasing, and exoticizing. Any attempt
to place Balinese mysticism in the context of Tantric thought must struggle against these
strong opposing currents.
 
But a coming of age of Tantric studies among Indologists is beginning to offer a fresh
basis for understanding Tantrism,*? recognizing it as an important and pervasive stream in
Indian thought, not a decadent backwater. Teun Goudriaan explains that a simple definition
of Tantrism is impossible: “The extremely varied and complicated nature of Tantrism, one
of the main currents in the Indian religious tradition of the last fifteen hundred years,
renders the manipulation of a single definition almost impossible.”** Recent studies by
Indologists are revealing the philosophical and spiritual insights that inform Tantric ritual
practices, as well as the metaphysical concepts underlying the use of mudra, mantra, and
yantra, all of which had previously appeared to many Western scholars to be so much
mumbo-jumbo. Tantrism in India is no longer dismissed by serious scholars as a bizarre con-
catenation of sexual and graveyard imagery. It is now recognized as a “practical individual
road to salvation” that provides for many an alternative to the Vedic sadhana (an alternative
to orthodox vedic practices).**
 
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[ The Influence of Tantric Thought ]
 
These new understandings are contributing to a renewed scholarly interest in Tantrism
in Bali and pre-Islamic Java.*° A recent study by Raechelle Rubinstein has drawn attention
to the strong Tantric elements in the Balinese kekawin literature, identifying the very aim
of the kekawin genre of poetry to be nothing less than a form of “literary yoga.”*° Rubin-
stein develops Zoetmulder’s insights concerning the mystical function of Old Javanese
kekawin poetry as providing a concrete vehicle—yantra—in which the presence of the deity
could be invoked in order to bring about a mystical union of the soul of the poet with the
divine.*’ Rubinstein shows, however, that the Balinese works have their own character and
emphasis, drawing much more extensively on sexual imagery to depict the beauty of the
natural world celebrated by the poet. She observes:
 
An interesting shift would appear to have taken place in the conceptual-
 
ization of nature’s beauty, from the female body in Java to the sexual
 
union of a man and woman in Bali. However, these images are not irrecon-
 
cilable but can be seen to complement each other. Whereas the beauty of
 
nature depicted as sexual union that Nirartha observed symbolizes the
 
union of the self and the cosmic soul by way of the ritual copulation of
 
the divine couple, the beauty of nature expressed as female beauty in Java
 
symbolizes and celebrates the goddess alone. Worship of the divine
 
female consort, the Sakti, is a prominent element in Indian Tantrism. In
 
Tantrism, the Sakti is the Mother Goddess known by a number of names
 
such as Devi, Durga, Uma and Kali. . . . The beauty of the natural world
 
is represented as Woman, for she represents unevolved nature, the seed
 
of the material universe. The poet contemplates and immerses himself in
 
nature-Woman as a mystical rite, as ritual copulation. His goal is yogic—
 
to become one with the goddess, to mystically unite with the cosmic
 
source.**
Underlying the Balinese poet’s Tantric goals, Rubinstein further shows, is a complex phi-
losophy and practice wherein written letters and syllables take on a mystical significance
developed in yogic meditation.*” The resemblance of this “alphabet mysticism” to similar
ideas in Indian Tantrism, she observes, has been noted by several Balinese scholars includ-
ing Goris, Weck, and Soebadio.*°
 
Rubinstein’s bold departure from previous reticence by textual scholars to deal with the
erotic in Balinese literary and philosophical works is reinforced by new research by Helen
Creese and Laura Bellows on Balinese sexuality in nineteenth-century textual sources.*' They
describe how earlier scholars avoided erotic texts and note the tendency to dismiss any text
with overt erotic content as pornography and thus not worthy of serious scholarly attention.
Their discussion ranges over Balinese kekawin texts describing courtly love and a number
of tutur texts dealing explicitly with sexual matters and what the authors term “sexual yoga,”
drawing attention to similarities with various Indian erotic texts. These arguments open up
a new perspective on the erotic in Balinese mysticism.
 
In view of this renewed interest in Tantrism in Balinese culture, as well as the emerging
maturity of Indian Tantric studies in recent decades, a broad reassessment is due. As a step
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
in this direction, I wish to undertake an extended comparison of the basic premises of
Tantric thought, as outlined in a groundbreaking study by the Indologists Gupta, Hoens,
and Goudriaan,* with Balinese mysticism. Although I do not advocate an approach that sees
Balinese religion as merely a reflection of Indian models, I think such a comparison can help
us advance beyond old stereotypes and begin to appreciate the breadth of Tantric thought
as a philosophical system. Goudriaan, of course, worked extensively with Hooykaas on
Balinese materials.** A problem for textual scholars is to discover the relation between the
texts they examine and the place of those texts in contemporary ritual practice. Soebadio,
for example, in translating the Jadnasiddhdnta, a recognized Tantric text from Bali, observed
that the manuscript hardly seemed to have been used or even opened, suggesting it played
little part in contemporary Balinese understanding.” Such, I think, is often the assumption
of the philologist, who in any case is not primarily concerned with how a text might be used
in contemporary religious life. This, however, is precisely the concern of the anthropologist.
Rubinstein’s work is especially valuable here since she approaches the kekawin genre not as
a static body of texts, as one might expect a philologist to do, but from the perspective of
kekawin composition as a ritual act or process.
 
Before I begin my comparison, I would like to draw attention to the fact, rarely remarked
upon by Western scholars,** that the word for “religion” in Balinese, in Old Javanese, and
in modern Indonesian is “agama.” This word in Sanskrit, from which it derives, is the term
usually applied to Tantric scriptures. Literally meaning “the source of teachings,’*° the
word “agama” in Indian Hinduism specifically refers to the teachings Shiva gives to his
Shakti. Such texts are usually structured as dialogues between Shiva and Uma whereas texts
in which the goddess is the proclaimer are termed “nigama.’*’ Hooykaas notes that a “well-
beloved form of literary composition,” both in the Indian Tantra and in Old Javanese/Balinese
tutur texts, consists of Uma/Parvati being instructed by her spouse Lord Siva.** With this
in mind, it is not difficult to see why the Balinese myths concerning the divine couple might
prove to be so important. The origin of the term “agama” suggests that in Java and Bali the
very essence of mystical and spiritual teaching was that deriving from the agamic dialogues
of Siwa and Sakti.*°
Key Features of Tantric Thought
In seeking to trace parallels between Balinese thought and Indian Tantrism, I should stress
that my aim is not to establish historical antecedents. As Indologists refine their understand-
ing, it is evident that what previous scholars may have identified as Tantric themes may no
longer apply or must be broadened to encompass new ideas. My aim here is to demonstrate
certain fairly obvious parallels between the ideas reflected in the artworks I have discussed
and the central premises of Tantrism as emerging from recent research by Indologists. This
is not to assert that the Balinese themes I cite are directly linked historically to India but
simply to place them in the same generic group of ideas constituting the multiplex traditions
that have come to be known as Tantrism. I am not attempting to explain how these ideas
developed in Bali or detail their antecedents—a huge task that would involve careful his-
torical investigation of what is known of Tantrism more generally in Indonesia, especially
 
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[ The Influence of Tantric Thought ]
pre-Islamic Java. Iam simply trying to establish that many elements of Balinese mysticism
can, in Teun Goudriaan’s terms, be clearly identified within the Tantric tradition.
 
Goudriaan observes that in Indonesia there are “various traces of Hindu Tantrism” and
that in Bali “various Tantric elements are well known. . .. Among them are the six cakras
and the Kundalini as well as micro-macrocosmic symbolism.”*° I think his observations can
be taken considerably further than this: much more than “traces” of Hindu Tantrism can be
found in Bali. In seeking to outline the nature of Tantrism as a system of thought in India,
Goudriaan cites eighteen key distinguishing features.*' I want to discuss each feature in turn
to reveal the important parallels that can be drawn with Balinese religious thought and ritual.
Most of what I describe are in fact well-known aspects of Balinese thought, but they have
not always been recognized as Tantric.
 
1. Tantrism offers “an alternative and practical individual road to salvation, characterized as a
Sadhana, beside the Vedic one which is often considered to be antiquated.”’”? Here Goudriaan
asserts that Tantrism in India is a system complete in itself—a position we are not yet ready
to argue in the case of Bali, where Tantrism has so far been identified in “fragments” or
“traces.” Yet it is clear that Balinese Hinduism constitutes a complete system. C. Hooykaas
offers a short comparison of the Indian panca-yajfia and the Balinese panca-yajfia (five
sacrifices), pointing to the differences between them, although revealing overall a basic
similarity in nature and intent.** Although Balinese often use the term “veda,” the Indian
Vedas have not been found in Bali, suggesting that these texts are unlikely to provide the
basis of Balinese religious thought and practice.
 
2. Tantrism expounds “mundane aims beside spiritual emancipation. . . . Tantric methods are
considered applicable for various sorts of practical attainments including astrology, medicine and
magic. . .. Many written sources of Tantrism are pre-occupied with the description of supernatural
abilities. . . . There remains, however, always a connecting thread between . . . the magical and the
spiritual.”°> The intense interest in magic and sorcery in Bali has been understood by many
Western scholars as separate or tangential to religion, the legacy of a primitive past of ani-
mistic belief.*° Yet it is widely recognized that astrology, medicine, and magic are the sub-
ject of a great many Balinese Jontar texts. Hooykaas has discussed and translated several
magical texts.*” The predominance of Balinese texts dealing with medicine is such that a
special category of these works exists, the usada,** and the manuals of magic are referred to
as kawisesan.*° In his study of Tantric magic,°° Goudriaan discusses some magical texts from
Bali; Lovric, in her extensive investigation of Balinese usada texts and healing rituals, has
emphasized a “strong Tantric orientation” in Balinese magic. Yet in general, Western writ-
ers have overlooked these Tantric elements in Balinese magic. For many, especially the early
Christian missionaries and Dutch colonial officials, a division between religion and magic was
assumed, a point also emphasized by Hildred Geertz.°’ This notion, I suggest, from the out-
set led to assumptions that such apparently primitive practices as sorcery had nothing to do
with the higher teachings of Hinduism. Similar assumptions have pervaded the approach of
Indologists to Tantrism in general, as Max Nihom points out.°’ Certainly not all scholars of
Bali have treated magic as marginal to Balinese religion, especially anthropologists,°* but few
have categorized these practices as Tantric.
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
Goudriaan suggests that the spread of Tantric doctrines in India and Southeast Asia must
be understood, at least in part, as motivated by the appeal of such teachings, promising mun-
dane achievements, to local rulers.®” Kings desiring to increase their own secular powers
would have good reason to give patronage to sages who presented themselves as superior
magicians and sorcerers. Margaret Wiener’s recent study of the importance of magical/super-
natural powers in the history of Balinese dynastic struggles against colonialism provides
ample evidence to support this view.®°
 
Balinese magic must be approached, not as an outworn relic of decadent “left-hand”
Tantric practices or primitive animistic beliefs, but as an integral part of a complex, highly
developed Tantric philosophy and worldview. That simple village people understand magic
in simple terms is, of course, no reason to assume theirs is the sole level of understanding.
We are dealing here with what is essentially esoteric knowledge. In the Tantric view, the
acquiring of magical powers, the siddhi, is a natural consequence of the development of spir-
itual powers—but a potentially dangerous one since it can pose serious obstacles to further
spiritual development.°’ Balinese have often told me that some students of the Jontar texts,
including pedanda, become so fond of exercising these powers that their development to
higher levels is blocked and they become powerful magicians rather than spiritual adepts.
 
3. Tantrism “teaches the practice of a special variety of yoga destined to transform the animal
instincts and functions by creating an upward movement in the body along yogic nerve centres
(cakra). The process is most commonly expressed as “rousing . . . the Kundalini.”°® We have seen
Budiana’s understanding of kundalini clearly revealed in works like Mahkota (Plate 10),
where the upward movement of the snakelike Goddess from “the animal instincts and func-
tions” is vividly depicted in the twisting forms of the painting. Goudriaan states that kunda-
lini is “well known at present in Hindu Bali.”°®? Kundalini, who in Tantric teachings is
revealed as the goddess Uma in the body, is mentioned in Soebadio’s published translation
of a Kawi text, the Jfidnasiddhdnta, found in Bali.”° Soebadio also notes R. Goris’ discussion
of “Kundalini and amrta-Kundalini” in Balinese philosophy.”* In her examination of the
usada texts, Lovric points to the knowledge of kundalini yoga in Bali and refers to lontar texts
providing instruction in its practice.”
 
The technical terms used in kundalini yoga, such as prana, pingala, susumna, nadi, bindu
(windu), and nada,” are also found in unpublished Balinese tutur texts that make no mention
of kundalini or refer only briefly to it.’”* Some of these texts, such as Siwa Linga Suksuma,
describe the mystic marriage of fire and water in the self achieved through yogic visualiza-
tion, as I discussed earlier in relation to both Budiana’s and Mirdiana’s works. This union of
opposites in the self, if not identical to, is very similar to the kundalini practices, where
Kundalini/Sakti is united with Siwa in the body of the adept. There is a further similarity
with the union of opposites described in the texts of the Brahmana priest’s daily ritual, where
at the climactic moment the priest concentrates on Ardhanareswari: Siwa and Sakti united.”
 
Although the precise relationship between these different esoteric teachings has yet to
be established, what seems very clear is the prominence of yogic practices aimed at achiev-
ing a union of cosmic energies within the self. (I will discuss Rubinstein’s work on literary
yoga in section 5 and Creese and Bellow’s description of sexual yoga in section 11.) Further-
more it is evident from the works of our two artists that living traditions are involved, not
 
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merely textual survivals. Lovric notes that several of her informants were familiar with the
practice of kundalini yoga.’ Likewise I have been told by Balinese well known to me of their
personal experiences of raising the kundalini in healing rituals. Thus there is extensive evi-
dence to indicate that kundalini yoga has long been known to Balinese—the Jfidnasid-
dhanta, for example, is dated by Soebadio to the Majapahit period—and that it continues to
play an important role in Balinese mystical thought.”
 
4. “Connected with this yoga is the elaboration of a mystic physiology in which the ‘microcosm’
of the body is identified or homologized with the ‘macrocosm’ of the universe and the world of the
gods. Insight into and meditation on the various aspects of this identification, concomitant with the
worship of internal divinities, is necessary.”’* The correspondence between the bhuwana agung
(macrocosmos) and the bhuwana alit (microcosmos) is one of the best-known characteristics
of Balinese religious thought and ritual,” yet it has rarely been acknowledged as an aspect
of Tantric thought. Goudriaan and Rubinstein, however, have both drawn attention to the
important similarities of this Balinese concept with Tantric ideas.*° The numerous lontar texts
dealing with the four spiritual siblings (kanda empat) describe, though often in different
ways, the correspondences between the human body and the natural world: the grass is hair,
the mouth a cave, and so on.* The skin, flesh, bones, and organs of the body are identified
as the dwelling places of the various gods and are assigned mystical sounds, letters, and
mantras. Meditation and visualizations of these internal deities are clearly evident in the
unpublished lontar texts referred to earlier, as well as the texts translated by Hooykaas and
Lovric.
 
5. “Important are speculations on the mystic nature of speech and its constituents (the articu-
lated sounds; in practice: the Sanskrit alphabet); the existence is assumed of a phonic creation par-
allel to the material phenomena.”*? The constant references in Balinese tutur texts to the
dasaksara (the ten sacred letters) and their numerous transformations—and the importance
of meditation on the ongkara, windu, ardhacandra, and nada,* all of which are written
symbols related to mystic sounds—can leave no doubt as to the significance of such matters
in Balinese mysticism. Hooykaas and Zurbuchen have described the dasaksara and the ritual
manipulations of them.** More recently, Rubinstein has drawn attention to the Tantric
nature of what she describes as Balinese “alphabet mysticism.”** Many Balinese have empha-
sized to me that the very shape of the sacred letters, as well as their sound, exerts a mystical
influence on the user; thus to encounter the texts in transliterated or translated form is to
lose much of their power. In other words: the conceptual level of understanding is but a small
part of the meaning invested in these symbols.
 
Once the Tantric nature of this “alphabet mysticism” is recognized, it becomes clear that
a great many Balinese mystical texts are essentially Tantric. The Brahmana priest’s Surya-
Sevana is evidently one, as are the unpublished tutur texts referred to earlier, as well as Soe-
badio’s Jadnasiddhdnta. Rubinstein’s work goes even further to establish in detail that the
whole genre of kekawin poetry in Bali has a Tantric cast. The primary aim of composing
kekawin poetry, Rubinstein argues, is to achieve a union between the poet and the divine—
a process she describes as “literary yoga,” the poem serving as a yantra into which the divine
or Siwa soul is ritually invested. If Rubinstein is correct—and she supports her arguments
 
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with careful and extensive philological evidence—then her study has a far-reaching impli-
cation: a large amount of what Western scholars have understood as merely literary works
must now be reassessed in terms of their mystical, essentially Tantric, import. And there are
yet further ramifications in that the shadow puppet theater (wayang kulit), and other types
of drama, dance, and performance on ritual occasions, all to some extent draw on the
kekawin literature. These genres too must now be reassessed in the light of Rubinstein’s work.
 
6. “This has been developed concretely in the very frequent use of generally short, often
wholly or partly unintelligible formulas (mantras and bijas) invested with supernatural power by
means of definite ritual procedures and made the object of cosmic symbolism.”°° The important
role of mantras and bijas—the same terms are used in Balinese texts—is obvious in Hooykaas’
many translations, although he himself does not remark on the Tantric nature of such ele-
ments. Lovric emphasizes the importance of mantras in Bali mystical thinking, describing
the “power of utterance (sabda)” in Balinese texts.*” The pervasive use of mantras is evident
merely by watching priests and even laypersons performing rituals, and Balinese will com-
monly refer to any formula recited in a ritual context as “mantra.”
 
7. “General use of concrete devices like intricate formulas, geometrical designs (mandala,
yantra, cakra), gestures (mudra) for the expression of metaphysical or other abstract principles . . .
such concrete resources are apt to be burdened with one or more symbolic meanings, by preference
three, often distinguished by the terms sthdla- ‘coarse’ or ‘material’; suksma- ‘subtle,’ which may
refer to the phonic plane; and para- ‘supreme’ or ‘metaphysical’.”°°> The importance of the mudra
is well documented in the works of Hooykaas and others and easily observed in the ritual
performances of Brahmana and commoner priests.*? The use of geometrical designs is most
evident in the nawasanga, which represents the nine directions and is often drawn as a
padma (lotus) in a circular geometric form.” Such a diagram usually includes the gods of each
direction with their female energies (Sakti), each with its specific color and emblems, and
may include sacred letters such as the ongkara, or bija mantra, written on each petal of the
lotus.”' The cakras of kundalini yoga have been noted by Goudriaan.”? The cakras and the
nawasanga can be regarded as types of mandalas. Diagrams drawn on the ground are used
today in the caru ritual known as Resi Gana. Hooykaas’ compendium of Balinese “magic
drawings” (rarajahan) provides many other examples,”* as does Lovric.** Rubinstein and
Zoetmulder have identified literary works as “yantra.”°° The different levels of symbolic
meaning carried by these concrete devices, referred to as sthula, suksma, and para, are dis-
tinctions also commonly made in the Balinese texts between different levels of phenomena.
 
8. “Realization of the supernatural world by specific methods of meditation (dhyana), involv-
ing in the first place the creation of mental images or pictures of gods and goddesses who may be
worshipped internally. The deity thus created may be invoked for social, especially medical, aims.””°
The role of visualization in Balinese ritual is clearly indicated in texts such as Siwa Linga
Suksma, where the adept is instructed to imagine a golden vase pouring nectar (amerta) over
him, or in the kanda empat texts, which provide vivid correspondences between the adept’s
body, the natural world, and the heavens, so that his physical body becomes a reflection of
the universe.”’ Hooykaas’ translations provide many examples, such as Surya-Sevana, the
 
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text of the Brahmana priest’s daily ritual.** The text is replete with instructions to visualize
each step of the rite, as the priest’s soul is removed from his heart to just above his head, so
that the burning and washing away of all impurities in his body can be performed, until the
climactic moment when the priest must focus his attention on Siwa as Ardhanareswari (Siwa
and his Sakti united in one body). At many points in the text the precise form in which the
deities are to be invoked—their shapes, colors, decorations—is described in detail. There can
be no doubt, reading the text, that the aim of the ritual is to induce a vivid mental picture
through meditative concentration. Watching the performance, one observes that the priest
appears to be in trance.
 
9. “Ambivalence of divine—and human—existence: the divine and the demoniac, as also the
erotic and the destructive, are considered to be complementary aspects of the same awesome
invisible reality."°” Western scholars of Bali are by no means unaware of the demonic forms
taken by Siwa, Uma, and other high gods, but less attention has been paid to the processes
of cosmic transformation these forms imply.'°° Hildred Geertz is one of the few Western
scholars who has pointed to ambivalence and transformations of deities and spirit beings as
constituting a pervasive and important theme in Balinese religion.'°' Lovric, whose view is
based primarily on medical lontar texts (usada), likewise draws attention to these themes:
 
Things are fluid. Nothing is unalterably fixed. Spirits, deities and demons,
 
the prime causal agents in the fluctuations of existence, defy definition
 
and determination. They have an existence of “becoming,” of illusions
 
and of transforming rather than being. They are mobile, not confined.
 
They mutate and merge. Bhuta-kala, when decontaminated by caru, can
 
become widydara-widydari and gandharwa-gandharwi. The non-linear or
 
cyclical mode of thought inherent in constructions of beings and things
 
becoming something else or assuming new embodiments is unlike the
 
analytical linear thinking which emphasizes the polarity and the fixity of
 
opposites.’
Yet for many scholars the idea that the Balinese cosmos constitutes an unchanging hier-
archical ordering, reflecting the social order, seems to have prevailed against evidence to the
contrary.
 
Exploring transformations of the divine and the demonic has been one of the central
concerns of this book. I have traced these transformations, not only in the works of Budi-
ana and Mirdiana, but more importantly as they are revealed in Balinese mythology—espe-
cially in the myths concerning Siwa, Uma, and their offspring Kala and Kumara. These
mythic narratives point to abstract and philosophical understandings of the cosmos and the
forces that shape it—understandings that clearly reflect Tantric concepts. In my view, the
dynamic nature of the Balinese cosmos is a key to understanding Balinese religious thought.
 
10. “The importance of female manifestations called Saktis.”'°> The importance in Balinese
mystical thought of the “power of the Mother,” or the Sakti, has been one of the major
themes of my discussion so far. Yet while the literature in general recognizes the importance
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
in Bali of female deities, such as Dewi Saraswati, Dewi Sri, and Durga, on the whole these
have been described as “goddesses” with little attention to their more esoteric significance
as Sakti, or female energies of gods. Those who have noted the Tantric elements in Balinese
religion, however, such as Boon’*™ and Lovric,*” refer to Sakti and stress the importance of
feminine deities. It is well known that the gods of the four (or nine) directions possess
female counterparts, and textual materials provide endless references to Siwa and Sakti. Few
textual scholars, however, have made the Tantric implications of this parallel as clear as
Rubinstein in her discussion of images of the feminine in Balinese kekawin literature.'°°
 
The negative aspect of the Sakti as Durga in Bali deserves particular attention.‘°’ Durga
is associated with the death temple, not because she is simply destructive, but because of
her important role as pelebur, the one who returns dead life forms to their source. What this
means is that Durga, as Siwa’s Sakti, takes on his role as pelebur, the Sakti being the active
principle. This function has, I think, been misconstrued by many Western scholars as the
remnants of some kind of demonic cult centering on black magic and graveyards, with
Durga as the queen of the witches.
 
Hariani Santiko, for example, observes in the iconography of Durga statuary in Java
during the tenth to the fifteenth centuries a change from a beneficent form of the goddess,
represented as the slayer of the demon Mahisa, to later portrayals of her as a demonic figure.
In Santiko’s view, this change came about because of popular misunderstandings of Tantric
rituals in which the goddess was worshipped, which “caused her image to be tarnished, turn-
ing her into an evil raksasi, not a goddess, but a fanged queen of the dead who lives in grave-
yards.”'°° What Santiko does not explain is how this “popular” misconception was then fed
back into the court circles responsible for commissioning the literature and statuary portray-
ing demonic forms.'°? In Bali today, the beautiful form of Durga as the slayer of the demon
Mahisa is still known, though far less common than the demonic form. Balinese refer to Dewi
Durga, as well as Durga, indicating a less terrible, more beneficent, form. Some would say
that it is Dewi Durga who is found in the Pura Dalem and Durga or Rangda who is found in
the cemetery. The point is that we are dealing here with transformations along an axis from
divine to demonic and back again. Uma becomes Durga/Rangda on earth; is returned via
ritual to the Pura Dalem as Dewi Durga; and ultimately returns to Siwa’s heaven as Uma.
These transformations are not aberrations but inherent in the cosmic powers that the myths
portray.
 
Budiana’s work gives us a more subtle understanding of the demonic aspect of Durga.
He shows that Durga is horrific in the graveyard, yet her function is positive: to return what
is damaged and degraded to its original perfect condition. So long as Durga and her minions,
the leyak, are confined to the graveyard, they serve an important end. Only when they get
out of control and start to attack the living are they dangerous. Thus the figure of Durga is
not a figure of evil but represents the necessity of death and dissolution for all living en-
tities. In the mother’s womb, material elements are combined to create a new physical body;
in the grave, Durga dissolves these elements so they can return to their source and be recom-
bined in new forms. Though death and dissolution are horrible to behold, they must be
embraced as an aspect of the awesome reality of life. This, I think, is the very quintessence
of Tantric thought. It is of course easy to love the beautiful nurturing mother as represented
by Saraswati or Sri; but to love her in her demonic aspect requires true spiritual insight. This
 
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is what Budiana reveals to us—and is evident in the role Durga plays in Balinese religion as
a whole.
 
11. “The practice of realizing the double-sided nature of existence by an intentional, regulated
contact—often performed only mentally—with socially disapproved persons or entities such as
meat, wine, low-caste women or bodily excretions.”"'° It is of course this aspect of Tantrism that
has earned for it such notoriety in the West. Literal-minded Western commentators have
often confounded meditation and ritual with actual acting out of the forbidden and horrify-
ing. Meditating in the graveyard on the dissolution of the body is not the same as devour-
ing corpses; nor is meditating upon the god and goddess in sexual union to be understood
as fornication performed by the priest. That some cults may have interpreted such acts liter-
ally does not vitiate the argument that in general they are carried out on a higher level than
physical reality.
 
By way of comparison, it is interesting to note that Tibetan Tantric practices have usu-
ally been understood as involving symbolic actions visualized in meditative states of con-
sciousness. Why Western writers should have assumed a literal meaning in the case of the
Hindu texts is not clear to me, although it evidently satisfies a desire for sensationalism. The
difference may be that Tibetan scholars have made much more extensive efforts to explain
their rituals to a Western audience. Budiana’s erotic visions and nightmare glimpse of the
corpse’s decay are clearly not to be taken as depictions of actual events in waking reality:
they are insights into secrets revealed in states of higher consciousness. Of course, at the time
of the experience they are totally real to the practitioner.''’ Likewise the grotesque Balinese
temple reliefs depicting all kinds of graveyard horrors are not primarily depictions of black
magic but images of Durga’s role as pelebur. This is not to deny, however, that Balinese
believe that human beings who wish to acquire mystical power to inflict illness and harm
on others can acquire them from Durga, since she is mistress of the pathological processes
of death and decay.
 
Important new work on erotic themes and symbolism in nineteenth-century Balinese lit-
erature by Creese and Bellows has drawn attention to a body of tutur texts dealing with
sexual techniques in which the sexual act is raised to a mystical identification with the divine.
Noting the parallels with Indian erotic texts, as well as their Tantric nature, the authors iden-
tify these practices as “sexual yoga.” Since such texts were deliberately avoided by earlier
scholars, this work, along with Rubinstein’s, offers a fresh perspective on the pervasive
eroticism in Balinese mystical symbolism. The relationship of this “sexual yoga” with what
Rubinstein calls “alphabet mysticism” and “literary yoga” is not entirely clear, however. The
tutur texts quoted by Creese and Bellows do not appear to use the symbolism of either the
cakras of kundalini yoga or the symbolism of the sacred letters (dasaksara). Perhaps they
simply represent a different tradition of teaching—comparable to the “five m’s” of Tantric
practice in which sexual intercourse (maithuna) serves a ritual means of “realizing the
double-sided nature of existence.’””"!?
 
Yet the Balinese tutur texts described by Creese and Bellows are explicitly concerned
with sexual intercourse as a procreative act: the aim is conception. In Tantric ritual, by
contrast, sexual encounters are directed to semen retention and the absorption of the female
partner’s sexual fluids.*'* Furthermore, the Balinese rituals involving kundalini yoga or
 
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manipulation of the sacred letters (dasaksara), such as that described in the Surya-Sevana
or the Jadnasiddhdnta, involve a union of Siwa and Sakti in the self. No human partner is
involved or required. The “sexual yoga” Creese and Bellows describe would seem, therefore,
to be of a rather different nature. They themselves observe that, in contrast to the tutur texts
they examine, the kekawin literature places virtually no emphasis on the reproductive aspect
of sexuality. Although I never tried to obtain such texts, I often heard Balinese refer to lontar
describing how to conceive a “good son” (suputra)—that is, a male child perfect in all
respects, physically, mentally, morally, and spiritually, the perfect son all Balinese parents
desire. It is possible that the texts Creese and Bellows describe represent rituals directed to
achieving this end, rather than mystical union with the Siwa soul. This, however, in no way
vitiates the authors’ arguments concerning the sacred nature of sexual union as a partici-
pation in the divine loveplay (lalita) that gives rise to the material world. My point is
only that the intent of these sexual treatises may not be to achieve spiritual enlight-
enment or liberation but rather to create a child in which the highest human potential can
be realized.''* In any case, the Tantric nature of the ideas underlying these practices is
unquestionable.
 
12. “Emphasis upon the absolute necessity of initiation (diksa) by a qualified spiritual guide
or teacher (guru)—who is commonly identified with the chief deity.”''” This is clearly evidenced
in the requirements surrounding the Balinese Brahmana priest who must undertake initia-
tion, where the same term “diksa” is used. The rituals have been described in detail by
V. E. Korn. The identification of the teacher (guru) with the “chief deity” is also present, and
in Bali it is common for Siwa to be called Bhatara Guru. Korn notes that Balinese Brahmana
priests commonly referred to their teacher or mentor as their “Siwa.”*!° Recently Rubinstein
has drawn attention to the Balinese parallels with Tantric practices of initiation.'*’
 
13."The development of a complete set of ritual practices besides the traditional, Veda-oriented
one. This created a ‘double framework’ for the practice of Hinduism.”'’® To determine whether
this statement might also apply to Bali, we would need a comprehensive comparison of Bali
rituals with Vedic rituals, which does not yet exist, so I will put it aside." It is evident, how-
ever, that Balinese religion has developed its own “complete set of ritual practices.”
 
14. “A far-fetched categorization of reality, especially in the symbolism of numbers and of
speech."'*° This is another prominent characteristic of the Balinese tutur texts. Hooykaas in
his discussion of the five Resi has drawn attention to the Balinese propensity for elaborate
categorizations of multiple entities:
 
Anthropologists are familiar with the “classificatory” thinking of the
Javanese, but might be surprised by the tour de force of the Balinese who
manage to equate the pafica-vara, the five-day week, with the pajica-
sGnak, the five brothers, i.e. the four elder brothers and the younger one,
and the Pafica Kosika, being the Gods of the four directions plus Upper
God. This unity of macrocosm and microcosm is a basic and beloved
piece of Balinese philosophy.'7*
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Lovric describes the same kind of extensive categorization using the nine directions.'** The
archaeologist A. J. Bernet Kempers also notes the importance of number symbolism.'”*
 
Speculations on the ten sacred letters (dasaksara), the five (pancaksara), the three (tryak-
sara), the two in one (rwa bhineda),'** and the various sacred syllables are an ever-present
feature of the tutur literature and can be found in all the unpublished Jontar texts referred
to earlier.'?? Indeed this extensive symbolism of numbers and speech is one of the most
noticeable characteristics of the tutur literature I have examined, and this impression is rein-
forced by the work of Zurbuchen and Rubinstein.'”°
 
15. “Further elaboration of speculations common in (or produced by) Brahmanism.. . ten
manifestations of Brahman as against the usual number of five.”'?” I have no evidence con-
cerning this characteristic, as the texts have yet to be examined from this point of view.
 
16. “Aconnection of the yoga mentioned under 3 with the very old alchemical practices of the
Siddhas.”'*° Again I lack the data to make this detailed comparison.
 
17. “The existence of a special religious geography by the cultivation (also in symbolic form)
of places of pilgrimage of its own.”'”° Pilgrimages to special temples or sequences of temples
are very popular in Bali today. Indeed Budiana recommended I visit each of the main temples
of Bali to seek permission to write this study. Hooykaas notes the correspondence between
the six cakras of the body and the six principal temples (sad kayangan) of Bali.'*° Thus the
pilgrimage could also be effected through inner meditation. Rubinstein further emphasizes
the symbolic importance of journeys in Balinese kekawin poetry and their Tantric
significance.**"
 
18. “The use of a special set of terminology or even of ‘code language,’ both of them requir-
ing particular methods of exegesis which were originally meant to be handed over only orally by
the guru."'* Balinese lontar, especially the tutur and usada texts, are notoriously difficult to
understand and are often said to require oral instruction in order to reveal their deep mean-
ing. Soebadio, for example, observes that the tuturs in general are intended, not as manuals
of instruction, but for the use of students and teachers already well informed on the topic.'**
She further notes that in the case of aspirants to the status of pedanda, the student is
required to live with a mentor and study with him.'** Thus it can be inferred that “many
lessons are given orally and that the texts need not, therefore, be too elaborate, for the pupil
is not expected to study them alone.”’*” Many Balinese have stressed this very point to me.
The role of the guru and the importance of secrecy with regard to the tutur literature is fur-
ther emphasized by Rubinstein, who explicitly compares contemporary Balinese practice
with Tantric textual practices.**®
Further Parallels
Having examined Goudriaan’s key features of Tantrism, I wish to add two further possible
parallels with Bali. The first relates to ideas about the hero, the vira; the second is the wor-
 
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
ship and symbolic import in Bali of the lingam (Shiva as the generative force in the universe).
Although Goudriaan does not list these as defining characteristics of Tantrism, they consti-
tute, I think, significant similarities in Balinese and Indian thought.
THE HERO: THE VIRA
In the same volume as Goudriaan, Dirk Hoens outlines the important role of the hero (vira)
in Indian Tantrism.’*’ His description has much resonance with those heroes depicted by
Budiana and Mirdiana—and in Balinese mythology generally. The vira is one whose state of
spiritual development is above that of the ordinary person, but not yet that of the enlight-
ened sage. In him is an urge to reach beyond the sthula: the coarse, material realm. He is
engaged in a heroic battle with the six enemies (the passions) but has them already well
under control. Budiana’s painting Ombak (Plate 12) shows such a hero—the man who dares
the waves of passion. Mirdiana’s concern with mythic heroes partly reflects a youth’s fasci-
nation with heroic deeds, yet it is clear from what he says about the hero, Bima, that Mir-
diana is also concerned with deeds of spiritual heroism. For Mirdiana, Bima is not just a
mighty warrior on the battlefield: he is the spiritual warrior, and, like the struggle between
Gana and Detya, Bima’s battle takes place in himself.
LINGAM WORSHIP IN BALI
The lingam, usually a stone pillar in the form of a phallus symbolizing the god Shiva and in
which form he is worshipped,'** is a predominant symbol in Indian Hinduism, especially
Shivaism. Hooykaas has drawn attention not only to the archaeological evidence for ancient
lingam worship in Bali but also to the continuing importance of lingam symbolism in Bali-
nese religion.’*”? The myth of the Linggodbhawa, originating from the Indian Isana-
Purana,'*° is well known in Bali and a popular subject for Balinese artists.'*' (Indeed during
the period he painted the other works illustrated in this book, Mirdiana began, but did not
finish, a powerful ink drawing of the Linggodbhawa.) The myth tells of a dispute over who
was the most powerful deity. When Siwa became a lingam of immense height and challenged
Brahma and Wisnu to determine its limits, Brahma flew upward to find its peak and Wisnu
downward to find the base, but both were unsuccessful and finally had to acknowledge
Siwa’s supremacy. Balinese interpretations given to me of this well-known myth reiterate the
obvious: Siwa is the most powerful of the gods. More learned persons might add that the
other gods are but emanations of Siwa.
 
In addition to several lingam statues at Besakih and other important Balinese temples,
Hooykaas shows that a structure to be found in every Balinese temple—the padmasana—is
also in essence a lingam representing Siwa.'*? This “lotus seat,” as is well known in Bali, rep-
resents Siwa in his form of Surya, god of the sun. This structure is also to be found in house
temples, where it is invariably the highest structure, placed in the most auspicious position,
the northeastern corner. For those who contend that the Hindu high gods have little place
in the lives of ordinary people, the prominence of the padmasana should be kept in mind.
Hooykaas also argues on textual grounds that the padmasana has an even more esoteric,
Tantric significance as the lotus throne where Siwa as Ardhanareswari (Siwa and Sakti
 
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united in one body) is manifested. He also refers to the term “padmasana” as referring to
“a kind of coitus” and concludes jocularly: “A Balinese drawing of Ardhanaréévari in Pad-
masana might be revealing; I do not expect to find depicted Siva and Uma sporting in a
pond!’”’"**°
 
The sprinkler known as the lis, used by Balinese priests in dispensing holy water, an
object of everyday use in Bali, is also identified by Hooykaas on textual grounds as symbol-
izing the Siwa-lingam.'** The mantras recited when using the lis clearly establish this iden-
tification and further underline the importance of the lingam as a symbol of Siwa in Balinese
ritual practice. For example:
 
ON AN HOMAGE TO THE UNION OF NATURE AND SPIRIT,
 
TO THE GOD OF THE DROPLET, THE ENJOYER, THE LORD OF THE WORLD;
HOMAGE TO THE PARAMOUNT UNION OF GOD (SIVA) AND GODDESS (UMA),
HOMAGE BE TO PARAMA SIVA, HAIL!'*°
 
Hooykaas also discusses the observances of Shiva-Ratri in India and Bali and considers
their associated lingam worship. He notes too that Siwaratri in Bali was rarely observed and
was considered to be the special prerogative of princes.'*° Today, however, it has become a
popular observance in Bali—even parties of schoolchildren, led by teachers, undertake all-
night vigils in temples. This change has presumably come about as a result of reforms imple-
mented by the Parisada Hindu Dharma intended to bring Balinese ritual observances closer
to Hindu models. In any case, the Balinese texts Hooykaas quotes describing the Siwaratri
ritual clearly reveal the mystical union achieved by causing the Siwa soul to descend to the
lingam, where it is united with the supplicant’s soul. This, as Hooykaas points out, contrasts
with the Surya-Sevana ritual, where the yogic union takes place in the body (or just above
the head) of the priest. If recent changes have caused the observances to became more wide-
spread in Bali than in the past, it is evident that the basis for them, and practices of lingam
worship, were part of a preexisting Balinese tradition.
 
Hooykaas’ evidence is extensive and can leave little doubt, I think, of the presence and
pervasiveness of lingam symbolism and worship in Bali that have close parallels with Indian
practices. Not only does archaeological and textual evidence indicate that these practices
have a long tradition in Bali, but the continued importance of ritual structures and objects
like the padmasana and the lis make it evident that lingam symbolism remains part of living
culture in Bali. I am not suggesting that these elements were imported directly from India.
Undoubtedly the symbolism has important precedents in Java; my point is that the Balinese
forms remain very close to the Indian roots from which they originally drew inspiration and,
moreover, can be seen to embody classic themes of Shivaitic Tantrism.
 
A Balinese Tantrism?
It should now be evident that much of Balinese esoteric religious thought is clearly
identifiable as Tantric. Here I have been able to draw close Balinese parallels with fifteen
of the eighteen key features of Tantric thought outlined by Goudriaan. In addition, I have
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[ CHAPTER 4 ]
 
suggested two further parallels: the role of the vira (hero) and lingam worship. Nor do I claim
to have exhausted all possible similarities; I have touched only on those that seem to me the
most obvious. Although these elements are on the whole well-known characteristics of
Balinese thought, only occasionally have they been acknowledged as Tantric. Clearly the
nuanced and sophisticated understanding of Tantric philosophy being developed by scholars
like Hoens and Goudriaan allows us to go beyond those earlier writers who recognized
Tantric influence only in overtly bizarre forms such as graveyard imagery and “sexuo-
cosmology.”'*’ In my view, the evidence summarized here clearly indicates that Balinese reli-
gion and ritual are essentially Tantric in nature, although not necessarily following any single
tradition or sect.
 
As noted earlier, Lovric has suggested that scholars of Balinese religion deliberately
avoid the topic of Tantrism.*** Their reluctance to deal with any material of an apparently
erotic nature has been revealed by Rubinstein, as well, and by Creese and Bellows.’*° This
avoidance is not surprising given the negative and sensationalizing view of Tantrism that
has long prevailed, even in India. In a nation where Balinese Hindus are vastly outnumbered
by adherents of Islam, there is still a strong political need to present Balinese religion in a
light acceptable to Islamic (and to Christian) sensibilities in order to elicit national and
international support for their cause. Yet paradoxically, this position has led to a situation
where much of Balinese belief is in danger of being oversimplified or trivialized as mere rit-
ualism in popular view. A broad appreciation of the metaphysical depths and complexity of
Balinese religion is needed to redress the balance, but this involves coming to terms with the
obviously Tantric nature of Balinese ritual and belief. Curiously, Tibetan Tantrism seems not
to have been devalued in the same way as Hindu Tantrism. Nihom has pointed out, for ex-
ample, that while Tibetan Tantric texts have received serious consideration from Western
scholars of Indian Tantrism, Tantric Buddhist texts of Indonesian origin have been regarded
as essentially indigenous and independent products—a position strongly challenged by his
research. '”°
 
The question that faces us now is not whether Balinese mysticism is Tantric in nature
but, rather, what kind of Tantrism do we encounter in Bali? Indologists have identified many
schools of Tantric thought.'*' Furthermore, we need to keep in mind that whatever the nature
of the teachings introduced directly from India, and later via Java, they had centuries in
which to develop unique and divergent forms. Although our present state of knowledge does
not allow any specific identification of the kind of Tantrism closest to Balinese practice, cer-
tain features of Balinese mysticism stand out and may lead us to the source of the teachings:
 
m The importance of holy water (¢irta—another word of Sanskrit origin,’°? of
 
which there are many kinds including those referred to as amerta and amerta
kundalini)
 
m@ The prominence of kundalini yoga
 
m™ The meditations described in numerous lontar texts on ongkara, windu, and
 
nada, all key terms and concepts to be found in the Indian Tantric traditions’
 
m The importance of Ardhanareswara/Ardhanareswari (Siwa and Sakti combined
 
in one body)'**
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[ The Influence of Tantric Thought ]
Two outstanding features of Balinese mysticism seem absent in current studies of Indian
Tantrism—the concepts of rwa bhineda and kanda empat—although both are expressed in
words of Sanskrit origin.
 
Hooykaas refers to evidence that the sect of Shivaism introduced to Java was the Pasu-
pata.’°° The leader of the sect, Lakulisa, had four disciples: Kusika, Garga, Mitra, and Kau-
rusya. These four figures, Hooykaas shows, form the basis of the Catur Lokapala (guardians
of the four cardinal directions) and the kanda empat in Bali, and many lontar texts support
the connection he establishes. This would indicate that the kanda empat have a Tantric ori-
gin, even if the concept as developed in Bali (or Java) has no clear Indian parallel. Recent
research by the philologist Max Nihom also points to Pasupata influences in Indonesian
texts.'°° Although further historical and textual research is needed to confirm whether the
Pasupata sect is indeed the most likely source of Balinese mysticism, it seems to offer an
intriguing lead.
 
In arguing for close parallels between Balinese mysticism and Hindu Tantrism, as
revealed in the works of Indologists such as Goudriaan and others, it is not my aim to estab-
lish that Balinese practices are an exact or even rough copy of Indian prototypes. My intent
is to emphasize that Balinese thought represents a unique variant on classic Tantric themes.
Given the diffusion of ideas over long periods of time and the lack of any central religious
authority or overarching structures, this is only to be expected. As in other examples of the
“Indianization” of Southeast Asia,’°’ Indian philosophy, mysticism, and art inspired new
expressions in different contexts. Bali adapted these Indic influences and reshaped them
through its own creative genius. The result, however, is not a mishmash or quaint mixture
as many Western scholars would seem to assume. As we shall begin to see more clearly in
the next chapter, the result was a new vision, expressed in local forms, of central themes in
Shivaitic Tantrism.
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe
IN BROAD TERMS the cycles of transformation from divine to demonic, which
play such an important part in Balinese mystical thought as revealed in the previous
chapters, have striking similarities with esoteric themes in the Indian mythology of
Shiva as described by Wendy O'Flaherty’ and in a more recent study by Richard
Davis? of ritual practice in medieval Indian Saiva-Siddhanta. Neither study describes
precisely the same cosmological view that we find in Bali, yet the resonances be-
tween the three are great, I think, and can lead us to important new understanding.
O'Flaherty analyzes the vast corpus of Indian myths surrounding Shiva and
finds a basic paradox in his asceticism and eroticism that is resolved in the cyclical
movement of the cosmos between states of quiescence and states of energy.’ Shiva
poses, as it were, a dual threat to the world. His wild energy can annihilate the
world; yet when he withdraws into the quiet contemplation of the ascetic, his
absence removes the creative principle from the cosmos. To save the universe, Shiva
must be kept moving between these two extremes. O'Flaherty, quoting Sir Charles
Eliot, observes that cycles of activity and quiescence play a key role in Tantric teach-
ings, which regard the universe as
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
an eternal rhythm playing and pulsing outwards from spirit to matter (pra-
 
vritti) and then backwards and inwards from matter to spirit (nirvritti). . . .
 
The Tantras recognize and consecrate both movements, the outward
 
throbbing stream of energy and enjoyment (bhukti) and the calm return-
 
ing flow of liberation and peace. Both are happiness, but the wise under-
 
stand that the active outward movement is right and happy only up to a
 
certain point and under certain restrictions.*
Both the Tantric adept and Shiva himself follow these two paths, according to O'Flaherty,
the outgoing surge of energy and material creation and then the return to quiescence to
regain power.
Cycles of Emanation and Reabsorption
The cycle we find in Balinese myths of Siwa and Uma, moving from the benign downward
to become destructive and then returning to benign origin on high, mirrors this Indian
Tantric worldview and is illuminated by it. We can now better understand the Balinese para-
dox that as Sakti/Uma creates more and more entities, so she eventually reaches the point
where she assumes terrible form and turns upon her offspring and devours them. This is
a mythological statement of the Tantric view just quoted: the movement outward toward
materiality is good and right only up to a point. The Balinese myths of Siwa and Uma reveal
that without the rituals taught to human beings by the Tri Semaya (Brahma, Wisnu, Iswara)
to reverse the process, the world would be destroyed. The cosmic cycle must be reoriented
by ritual means from materiality and directed inward and upward toward spirituality again.
 
The danger that Siwa will be tempted to lose himself in austerities and take no further
concern with the world finds expression in the Balinese version of the story of Siwa burning
Kama, which closely parallels the Indian myths recounted by O’Flaherty.” In the Balinese ver-
sion, as we have seen, Siwa’s austerities are interrupted by the god and goddess of erotic love,
Kama and Ratih.° They had been sent by the gods who were afraid because Siwa had so long
absented himself from the world. Furious at the interruption, Siwa takes terrible form and
burns Kama with the fire from his third eye (from his mouth in Mirdiana’s painting). When
I asked the artist about his depiction, Mirdiana explained that he felt Siwa was so angry
because seeing Kama and Ratih together reminded Siwa of his own experiences of love and
sadness and thus drew his thoughts back to the material realm when he simply wanted to
be free and alone and at peace in his yogic meditation. Mirdiana explained that he painted
the fire coming out of Siwa’s mouth because, by giving in to his anger, Siwa had already been
pulled down in the direction of materiality, the realm of greed, the domain of the Mother.
Thus the artist explicitly recognizes a similar, if not identical, meaning to the one O'Flaherty
gives to the Indian version.’
 
According to O’Flaherty, Kama is not destroyed by Shiva but only transformed. As in
the Balinese version, Shiva’s fire reduces Kama to fine particles of ash that then fall upon earth
influencing all living creatures; thus although Kama is now invisible, all things are drawn
by the power of erotic attraction. O’Flaherty points out that Kama in fact becomes more
 
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[ CHAPTERS J
 
powerful as a result of Shiva’s action: his “magic is made stronger by the advantages of in-
visibility, no longer concentrated in one anthropomorphic form but diffused into the world,
like the demons released from Pandora’s box.’”* Indeed Shiva is about to be conquered by
Kama since he now finally gives in to the request of the gods to marry. Although Shiva
tries to present his marriage as a sacrifice to the interests of others (the gods want Shiva to
marry so he will produce a son capable of defeating the terrible demon Taraka), he is over-
come with passion (kama) for Parvati/Uma. Shiva in a sense is himself Kama, O’Flaherty
argues, and in his actions is constantly being swayed by desire and thus drawn back to the
world of materiality.°
 
The Indian myths discussed by O'Flaherty reveal that kama, the force of erotic attrac-
tion, provides the dynamic that leads to the movement outward toward materiality. With-
out Kama, Shiva would remain forever in his state of quiescence, lost in his pure state of
meditative consciousness. It is Shiva’s desire for his Sakti that sets the outward process in
action. This reflects the Balinese priest’s explanation, quoted in the previous chapter, that
the god has no interest in the material world; it is only via the medium of his Sakti that he
engages with it. This is an ancient and central theme in classic Hinduism, expounded as early
as the Rig- Veda, where desire is represented as “the first movement of the Absolute towards
manifestation.’”’'°
 
The erotic meetings depicted in the works of Budiana, together with the mythic mar-
riages painted by Mirdiana, conjure before our eyes the dynamic, transformative power of
cosmic desire. Desire inevitably leads to terrible and demonic forms as material forms
multiply and become more and more differentiated; yet without it no material world would
exist. The imperative is to keep the opposing tendencies in the universe in balance. Yet as
O'Flaherty shows, such a balance is not a matter of stasis:
 
In many myths Shiva is merely erotic or merely ascetic, as a momentary
view of one phase or another. But in the great myths . . . he participates
in cycles of cosmic dimensions which melt into a single image as they
become ever more frequent... creating an infinitely complex mosaic.
The conflict is resolved not into a static icon but rather into the constant
motion of the pendulum, whose animating force is the eternal paradox of
the myths."?
 
O’Flaherty’s analysis of the classical Indian myths of Shiva invites closer comparison
with the Balinese myths.'* Not only are the central themes the same, but some key myths
such as that of Siwa burning Kama and the myth of the Linggodbhawa are virtually identical,
the Balinese deriving directly from Indian models.’* Yet most of the Balinese myths of Siwa
and Uma have a distinct and unique character of their own. The stories concerning Kala are
a clear example. In Indian mythology Shiva is known to take the form of Mahakala, destroyer
of the world, and in this respect the Balinese Kala’s identity with Siwa is entirely appropriate.
But the actual stories of the birth of Kala from the kama salah between Siwa and Uma, his
birth from the egg hatched in the sea, his advance on heaven and confrontation with Siwa,
and his attempts to devour his brother, Kumara, correspond with no well-known Indian
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
myth.'* There are certain similarities with the tale of the asura, Andhaka, the son of Shiva
and Parvati/Uma, who confronts Shiva and is defeated.’* Yet his mode of birth—he is con-
ceived when Parvati playfully places her hands over Shiva’s eyes—is quite different from that
of the Balinese Kala. Andhaka also has incestuous desires toward his mother, Parvati, as does
Kala. In the Balinese myth painted by Mirdiana, however, Kala wants to possess Durga. The
young Brahmana woman who practices austerities in the graveyard to attract Siwa’s attention
brings to mind Parvati/Uma herself, since in the Indian myths it is only via her austerities
that Parvati succeeds in marrying Shiva. Furthermore, the name of this girl, Rohini, suggests
Mohini, the beguiling female form Vishnu takes to seduce Shiva in the Indian myths."® It
seems as if the Balinese myths are combining elements derived from the Indian myths, ex-
pressing similar themes and concerns, but in new narrative form.’’
 
Likewise the plot of the Balinese myth of Uma going to earth to find milk for Siwa pivots
on an event—the tricking of a spouse into adultery by disguise as someone else—that O’Fla-
herty identifies as a highly popular motif in Indian folklore.'* Yet the story as a whole has,
to my knowledge, no exact Indian parallel. Shiva and Parvati, like their Balinese counter-
parts, are ever quarreling, separating, and reuniting. This in O’Flaherty’s view represents
Shiva’s constant movement between erotic and ascetic extremes. In the Balinese versions,
anger between Siwa and Uma, usually created by Siwa, causes Uma to take terrible form as
Durga and wreak destruction on the material world. Here the emphasis is placed on the
destructiveness of the Sakti when separated from the male principle of spirit. As Uma moves
away from Siwa, she becomes the terrible Durga; the movement out toward materiality
finally reaches danger point and must be returned “backwards and inwards from matter to
spirit (nirvritti).”’° Mirdiana’s painting Panca Durga (Plate 21) shows the destructive forces
as they move out in all directions and Siwa himself is about to be drawn down to the material
world by desire to meet them and thus engender yet more horrible entities. The Balinese
myth of the creation of the bhuta kala, recounted in Chapter 3, reveals Siwa himself out of
control, drawn down to meet his terrible Sakti, and ritual must intervene to avert impend-
ing disaster.
 
With regard to the Indian cosmos, O’Flaherty observes that Shiva himself is the source
of the movement between the extremes of “action and quiescence, passion and peace,”*°
implying that no ritual action by mortals is relevant to these fluctuations. A somewhat dif-
ferent view is offered in a recent study by Richard Davis of ritual practice in medieval Indian
Saiva-Siddhanta texts. Davis clearly demonstrates the close connections between Indian
ritual performance and what he calls an “oscillating universe”:
 
The universe oscillates. It comes and goes, emerges and disappears. This is
a basic cosmological tenet for many schools of Hindu thought: the universe
as we know it undergoes an endless cycle of creations and destructions.
Within each cycle, the cosmos begins as an undifferentiated “something”
from which evolves, in orderly sequence, the multiplicity of creation that
we see all around us. In time the cosmos exhausts itself, and all this multi-
plicity merges once again into its undifferentiated source. A period of
cessation or sleep follows, and then the cosmos begins its evolution again
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[ CHAPTERS J
in the next cycle. In this way, our universe oscillates between moments
of creation and destruction, evolution and involution, activity and qui-
etude, expansion and contraction.
For Saivas, this pulsation does not confine itself to cosmogonic
motion. Rather, it is a ubiquitous principle of a dynamic universe, govern-
ing all creation.”!
 
This idea of an oscillating universe is evidently very similar to O’Flaherty’s cosmic
movement between quiescence and energy, but it goes somewhat further. Davis argues that
the two fundamental processes—one of emission and one of reabsorption—give order to these
cosmological pulsations.”* Emission, or creation, moves downward and outward from unity,
integration, subtle, pure, superior, high, and center.** Reabsorption moves upward and
inward from differentiation, disintegration, gross, impure, inferior, low, and periphery. The
oscillations between these opposite poles are “under the direction of Siva, the ultimate
instrumental cause of all transformation.”** Davis explains:
 
For Saiva cosmology, mdyd is the material cause of our world. It is real and
substantive . . . not illusory, and it is ontologically separate from Siva. .. .
At the outset of each creation, mdyd is undifferentiated and pervasive.
Siva then agitates maya with his appointed powers and causes it to emit,
in orderly sequence, the differentiated thirty-one tattvas of the impure
cosmos. .. . While mdyd is subtle, its derivative tattvas become increas-
ingly tangible until we reach the five material elements (bhita), among
which Earth is the most highly differentiated and gross of all tattvas.
These differentiated tattvas enter into multiple combinations with one
another, together constituting what we recognize as our ever-fluctuating
world of samsara. At the time of reabsorption (pralaya), each tattva
remerges into its source, until all are reintegrated into mdyd. Quiescent,
unitary mdyd then awaits another emission.**
 
In this way, the whole cosmos emerges from nothing by a process of differentiation into
increasingly more manifest and coarse elements. It is also returned back along the same route,
so that the gross, impure entities of the material world are reabsorbed back into their pure
and subtle constituents. Shiva’s function of pralaya is not “destruction” in the sense usu-
ally conveyed by the English word but a truly divine function whereby every gross, hideous,
and dreadful material entity or force can be transformed back into the pure source from
which it originally emanated. Davis clarifies a central idea that seems extremely difficult for
Westerners to grasp: in Hindu thought, destruction or dissolution does not mean a final end;
rather, what is created is later reabsorbed back into the original unity. This idea helps to
resolve the problems we may have in understanding how the most frightful horrors created
by the Balinese Durga and Kala Rudra can be “returned to original form.” The terrifying
Durga/Rangda is not killed or destroyed; she is dissolved back, reabsorbed, into her pure
original form of Uma (or, in Davis’ terms, Maya).
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
Saiva-Siddhanta and Balinese Daily Ritual
 
Saiva-Siddhanta, developed in South India, is considered by many scholars to be the form
of Shivaism brought to Java and Bali.*° Pointing out that it was mainly from the south that
Indian culture was spread to Southeast Asia, Hooykaas has made a detailed comparison of
Saiva-Siddhanta ritual in South India and Bali, based on his translation of the Surya-Sevana
text, the daily rites of the Balinese Brahmana priest.*’ Since Davis is concentrating on
medieval Saiva-Siddhanta texts, rather than modern practice, his interpretations are based
on material that may be even closer to the practices originally introduced to Bali. But as Soe-
badio observes, it is not yet certain what schools of Shivaism were originally brought to Bali,
and we should be wary of assuming any exact correspondence.**
 
The rites Davis describes are similar in many respects, although not identical, to the Bali-
nese Brahmana priest’s daily ritual, Surya-Sevana, recorded by Hooykaas.”’ Both involve
purification of the priest’s body by ritual means, the removal of the priest’s soul from the
body, then the burning of bodily impurities, washing away the remains, and imposing
mantras on the hands and body of the priest—thus creating a new “body of power.”
Shiva/Siwa is then invoked to enter this carefully prepared vessel. At this point the actions
diverge. The South Indian rituals require the priest to use his Shiva powers to cause Shiva
to enter a lingam statue, where he is offered elaborate worship, and the rituals are conducted
in a temple for the benefit of others. The Balinese rituals, by contrast, are performed by the
Brahmana priest in his home and directed to producing holy water. The priest achieves a
union in his own body of his soul with Siwa, visualizing the union of Siwa and Sakti as
Ardhanareswari (half lord/lady) and the amerta (water of immortality) issuing from the divine
couple.*° In this way the water in his container becomes mystically infused with the subtle
essence of amerta.
 
Although the aim and climax of the rituals are different, the preparations up to the point
of Shiva/Siwa entering the priest’s purified body are very similar. Not only is the ritual action
similar in form, but similar mantras and mudras are used and both employ similar formulas
of utpatti (appearance), sthiti (maintenance), and pralina (reabsorption).*' All are directed to
the same intent: first to reabsorb the impurities of the priest’s material body, raising it to a
higher, more subtle level, and then to transform it into a subtle body of mantra so that it now
has reached a level where it may be entered by Shiva/Siwa. Davis explains that the problem
for any worshipper of Shiva is that in order to worship the god, he must first become a Shiva
himself. That is to say: the unmanifest, undifferentiated purity of the ultimate unity of Para-
mashiva must become manifest in the differentiated form of Sadashiva; only then can Shiva
be comprehended and approached by human worshippers. This involves a process of emis-
sion that begins at the most subtle (suksma) phonic level of mantra. According to Davis,
Shiva constructs for himself a mantra body through which he is able to act and from which
less pure and more manifest entities emerge. The movement is from para (ultimate) to suksma
(subtle) to sthula (coarse or material)—distinctions commonly made in the Balinese texts as
well. Mantras themselves begin at a level above sound and then are manifest as speech
(sabda). As Shiva moves downward toward more differentiated form (the process of emana-
tion), the human priest follows the path of reabsorption, purifying the coarse elements of
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
his body and then creating a subtle mantra body. In this manner, the paths of emission and
absorption meet, whereupon the priest’s soul (atma) can be unified with Shiva.
 
The same logic is evident in the Balinese Surya-Sevana rituals. These rites involve a re-
absorption—as the impure elements of the priest’s body are collapsed back into the refined
elements from which they originated—and an activation of the process of emission whereby
the pure and high moves downward in differentiated form until it meets the earthly officiant.
This meeting (in which the priest acts as female earth, pradana, to the descending male spirit,
purusha) reactivates a new process of emission. In the language of mythology, Siwa is drawn
down to unite with Sakti.
 
Davis’ arguments that cosmic processes of emission and reabsorption constitute the
basic organizing principle of Shivaite ritual in general can, I believe, put Balinese ritual in
a new perspective, so that what on the surface appears to be meaningless rote action takes
on a clear logic of operation.*? Next I want to examine certain Balinese mystical texts describ-
ing inner meditative practices and then turn to the public rituals of the temple festival
(odalan), the dance/drama in which Barong meets Rangda, the important calendrical rites of
Nyepi, Galungan, and Kuningan, and the grand observances of Eka Dasa Rudra to show how
each can be understood to embody the ritual logic outlined by Davis. I hope also to shed new
light on the role of holy water and the complementary roles of the pedanda Siwa and the
pedanda Buddha. To conclude the discussion, I offer a reinterpretation of the so-called
Balinese cosmic map, the nawasanga, showing how it too mirrors the cosmic processes of
emanation and reabsorption.
 
Balinese Yoga Texts
 
There are numerous unpublished Balinese tutur texts, cited in previous chapters, that out-
line various yogic practices to purify the self and achieve union between the soul of the prac-
titioner and the Siwa soul. The texts I consulted included Siwa Linga Suksma, Aji Mayasandi,
Tattwa Kala, Kanda Empat Rare, Tutur Dalem Turaga, Tutur Dalem Gading, Kanda Empat
Dewa, and Pancamahabhuta.** These represent only a sample, and they have as yet to be
translated into English. In my view, they constitute an important source of information about
Balinese mysticism that is still largely untapped. Such texts are notoriously difficult to
understand—intentionally so, since they were intended as guides to esoteric mystical prac-
tices that required oral instruction from a guru. As a result, most Western scholars have been
discouraged from exploring them in depth, preferring instead to concentrate on literary and
historical works.**
 
In drawing attention to this material, I do not pretend to have succeeded where others,
much better informed, have failed. My concern is that since the majority of scholars apart
from Hooykaas have until recently steered away from these mystical texts, anthropologists
and others have not really been aware of their nature and extent. It is therefore easy to assume
that Balinese lack mystical teachings and knowledge of yogic practices—or else to attribute
such things to recent reformist efforts to remodel Balinese religion along Indian lines. My
efforts to engage with this material, as discussed in Chapter 3, represent an anthropological
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
reading that draws on present-day Balinese understanding. The Balinese translator of these
texts is, for my purpose, a key informant and his interpretation of this material has its own
value as a source of ethnographic information.* Furthermore, the texts I obtained follow a
discernible pattern that is recognizable in its basic outlines in published texts such as Surya-
Sevana*® and the Jfidnasiddhdnta;*’ this pattern is further reflected in the work of the phi-
lologists Zurbuchen and Rubinstein on Balinese mystical notions concerning the written
word.** Rubinstein also refers briefly to the role of the ten sacred letters, the dasaksara, in
yogic practice,*? while practices surrounding “sexual yoga” as outlined in the tutur texts
have been identified recently by Creese and Bellows.*° In view of this previous work, I am
persuaded that my interpretations are credible, although I look forward to correction from
textual scholars.
 
The texts to which I refer are similar to the Surya-Sevana rituals employed by the Brah-
mana priest as discussed in the previous section. The key difference is that in Surya-Sevana
the priest brings about an inner union with the Siwa soul in order to obtain holy water that
can be used by, and on behalf of, other people, whereas the yogic texts I refer to describe a
purely inner procedure that benefits only the practitioner. The fact that the yogic texts refer
to practices that benefit only the practitioner seems to indicate a lesser, or perhaps more
limited, level of spiritual practice. The works I obtained make no mention of kundalini or
the six cakras;*! they express the union of Siwa and Sakti in the abstract symbolism of the
meeting of fire and water, a theme we have encountered several times with reference to Budi-
ana’s and Mirdiana’s paintings. Hooykaas explains the link between the symbolism of fire
and water and the ten sacred letters in this way:
 
Well known is the formula sa-ba-ta-a-i, the so-called pafica-brahma, five-
fold fire, consisting of the initial syllables of the five of the best known
of Siva’s one hundred names: Sadyojata-Bamadeva-Tatpurusa-Aghora-
Isana. The pafica-brahma is often followed by the pafica-tirtha, five-fold
holy water, being na-ma-si-vd-ya, this time no abbreviations but two
words plainly meaning: homage be to Siva. . .. Whether one examines
the Saiva priest’s ritual at home or in public, in temple or in graveyard,
directed mainly in adoration of the godly powers or mainly in averting the
evil powers—fire and water, water and fire are the dominating forces.
Pafica-brahma and pajfica-tirtha together are called dasaksara—dasa
aksara—the ten syllables.*”
 
In the yogic concentration described in Siwa Linga Suksma, fire is visualized as rising
from the navel to meet water poured down from a golden vessel (cucupu mas) located in the
brain.** This text gave me an important insight into a small ink drawing by Budiana that
depicts the artist’s head emerging out of a base of flames. (See Figure 1.) From the eyes fall
torrents of tears to meet the flames; to the side of the drawing, rising out of the flames as they
mix with tears, is a tiny, naked figure of the artist with hands in a gesture of prayer—the
sembah, which also symbolizes unity. This figure, I realized, represents the soul (atma)
emerging from the meeting of fire and water, a realization which first alerted me to that fact
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
Figure 1. Melihat Diri Bape os ee ee a ee ee
(Behold Yourself), ink ne fo ee ee ee 3 a
on paper, by I Ketut ee Cee eat ease) Sem ee ee
Budiana. ° ae Ss) 1 eee oe sso el gare
Co Re a NW SONAR GS
2 os : es : sae , # aes \ 3 : . ND : i at
Ass 1 aes ought oe oS ee : . IK Lm
that Budiana was well acquainted with the concepts described in the text. When directly
asked, the artist confirmed this and further explained that, in his opinion, there is no dif-
ference between this meeting of fire and water and the union of Kundalini and Siwa in the
highest cakra. It is the role of one’s teacher or spiritual guide to elucidate these matters, he
noted, as the texts provide only part of the information required. This, as we saw in the pre-
vious chapter, is characteristic of Tantric teachings in general.
 
The duality of fire and water, represented by the sacred syllables ANG and AH, is
referred to as rwa bhineda (literally “two different’). Often misunderstood to be a binary
opposition along the lines suggested by French structuralism, the tutur texts reveal that the
rwa bhineda, when associated with the ANG AH formula, symbolizes in essence the union
of Siwa and Sakti, purusha and pradana.™ The key point here, I suggest, is not the opposi-
tion but the uniting of the two into one. When fire and water meet, they neutralize (duma-
lada) or dissolve each other to become one in the form of vapor. Thus two material entities
or elements—fire and water—are transformed into a single, more pure, less coarse entity—
vapor—that symbolizes the soul (atma) or more generally the spiritual, nonmaterial realm.*°
Here we can see that the path of reabsorption described by Davis is being followed. To
explain this more fully, I need to go back to trace how the adept is able to realize rwa bhineda
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
in the self. Basically this is achieved through meditations upon the ten sacred letters (dasak-
sara) and their contractions. Hooykaas,*° Soebadio,*’ Zurbuchen,** and more recently Rubin-
stein*” have examined such practices in some detail, and the similarities with the texts I
describe are evident.
 
In essence, these Balinese yogic texts focus on the central mystery of how the material
world originates from a nonmaterial, pure, undifferentiated source and how it can, by ritual
effort, be returned to this source. As Zurbuchen observes: “In accordance with the main
philosophical thrust of Balinese Hinduism (which was heavily influenced in ancient times
by the Saiva-Siddhanta school of South Indian thought), Siwa is the supreme principle from
which all creation emanates and the void into which, eventually, all will dissolve.” *° The Bali-
nese texts emphasize the essential unity of microcosm and macrocosm, so that what pertains
to the external world also pertains to the individual self, and what is contained in the exter-
nal world is also contained in the self. This doctrine is constantly reiterated in the numerous
tutur texts dealing with the kanda empat, the four mystical siblings.*’ Indeed Rubinstein
argues that this mystical correspondence provides the very basis of the perceived efficacy
of the sacred letters, “thereby associating the Divine and the human body through the
agency of aksara.”°? Zurbuchen likewise emphasizes that “language, according to Balinese
traditions of metalinguistic commentary, is a representation of the congruence between the
structure of the inner self and external reality (micro- and macrocosms).”*’
 
Siwa and Sakti exist in the self, just as they exist in the macrocosmos, and can be unified
in the self. The first step in this process requires that the multiple diversity of the material
world be gathered together, as it were, and reabsorbed back into the duality from which it
all originated. The differentiated diversity of the phenomenal world is represented by the
ten (sometimes twenty) sacred letters or syllables (dasaksara). Zurbuchen notes that in recit-
ing the dasaksara “‘one in effect recreates the dimensions of the universe with all its ordered
variation, at the same time naming the higher-order principle that subsumes it all.”>*
 
The Balinese yogic texts instruct the adept to focus on these letters—and on their
sounds, since the level of sound, as we have seen, is a subtle level of the process of creation.
The texts further provide various mantic formulas to compress or reabsorb each letter or
syllable into a higher level. “Sa ba ta aina ma si wa ya,” the ten letters, are collapsed into
five, the pancabrahma; then they are compressed into three, the tryaksara; then into two,
rwa bhineda; and finally into one: Tunggal or Eka.”* The tutur text Siwa Linga Suksma out-
lines the method whereby the adept can unify all the differentiated parts and essences of the
self to become one:
 
You need to understand how to compress Sang Hyang Dasaksara to
 
become pancabrahma; then to be compressed to become tryaksara (ANG,
 
UNG, MANG); the tryaksara then becomes Sang Hyang Rwa Bhineda
 
(ANG, AH). The rwa bhineda then becomes Sang Hyang Ekasara—one.”°
At this point the phenomenal world, in this case the physical body of the adept, has been
reabsorbed back, and up, to its pure origin. This, however, does not mean it has been
returned to the ultimate point of origin, since, as Davis shows, the process of emission from
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
the original void progresses downward through several steps of increasing differentiation
from Paramasiwa to Sadasiwa to Siwa, who unites with Sakti to create the phenomenal
realm. Thus to reabsorb the material realm back to its pure origin is to return it to Maya or
Sakti, while beyond and above her lie many increasingly higher levels of purity and unity.”’
 
In texts such as Siwa Linga Suksma, the rwa bhineda is unified to become One: Eka or
Tunggal. This level of unity is represented by the sacred letter and sound OM, or ONG, but
it too can be dissolved back into yet higher and more purified levels represented by the sym-
bols ardhacandra (in the shape of a crescent moon), windu (a circle with a dot in the center),
and nada (a pear-shaped dot) until finally the original void, sunya, is reached. Manipulations
and explanations of these mystic terms fill the pages of the unpublished texts I collected.
Nada, according to Indian Tantric teachings, stands for the primordial sound caused by the
union of Shiva and Sakti and thus is the origin of, and the point of return, for all creation.**
Windu can be given various meanings: it can refer to Shiva, but it can also symbolize zero,
empty, the ultimate void. Soebadio,”° Zurbuchen,®° and Rubinstein®’ have discussed in some
detail these various components of the ongkara, the written symbol that represents the
sacred sound OM.
 
My Balinese informants gave a similar range of meanings. Budiana explained that the
ongkara, which includes the letter ONG surmounted by the ardhacandra, windu, and nada,
is a model of ourselves (see Figure 2).°* The lower ONG letter signifies the physical body; the
symbols above it represent the spiritual aspect, the soul or atma. The crescent, circle, and
pear-shaped drop can also represent Brahma, Wisnu, and Siwa,** in ascending order, or Siwa,
Sadasiwa, and Paramasiwa. They also represent fire, water, and ether,°* as well as moon, sun,
and stars. Thus the ongkara, as Budiana explained, is also a model of the universe: the lower
part is the material world, the impure realm; the upper part is the pure realm and its differ-
 
ent levels from Siwa up to Paramasiwa.
 
A Budiana located the meeting with Sakti that
brings about the differentiated world as
taking place between Sadasiwa and Sakti (as
Davis does). My point in quoting Budiana
here is not to suggest that his is the most
reliable interpretation but to indicate that
the concepts revealed in the tutur texts are
part of contemporary Balinese understand-
ing and are not confined to purely priestly
or Brahmana elites.
 
Davis’ oscillating universe is further re-
vealed in the symbolism of the sacred syl-
lable ONG (OM) in this quotation from the
Jndanasiddhanta:
 
Figure 2. Ongkara Symbol, ink on paper,
by I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana.
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===PDFPAGE 119===
[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
Out of the Unmanifest the resonance is born, and out of the resonance
the dot appears;
 
Out of the dot the (half)moon is born, and out of the (half)moon Visva
(the sound OM) appears time and again.
 
Visva vanishes into the (half)moon, and the (half)moon vanishes into
the dot;
 
The dot vanishes into the resonance. That is the course of Reality.
 
The resonance dissolves into the Void, the Void again is born;
 
Or what is more Void than Void, extremely Void.
 
The details of the Balinese yogic texts vary, but all reflect the same cosmic movement
downward from a single, pure undifferentiated immaterial source and upward from impure,
differentiated material forms to more subtle forms. Different teaching and different practices
probably aim at achieving different levels of reabsorption, but most that I have encountered
employ the marriage of fire and water as the central symbol of unification and progression
toward a higher state.°° This does not, however, involve moksa or final liberation. The soul
is raised to a purer level where it can unite briefly with the Siwa soul, but it is clear that what
is aimed at is a temporary union; following this brief bliss, the adept returns to the mundane
realm and to life. The texts reveal that the union of fire and water gives rise to new life. Thus
when death approaches, the adept in his meditations must reverse the formula ANG AH, so
that fire is above and water is below and the two cannot meet. The adept who can achieve
this, the texts tell us, will achieve permanent release from the material world and will not
be reborn as a person.°’
 
The bliss experienced by the adept during his temporary union with the divine is sym-
bolized by amerta, the water of life—visualized in his meditations by the Brahmana priest
as flowing down from Ardhanareswari, Siwa united with Sakti—a union that also symbol-
izes Siwa’s mystic meeting with the soul of the priest.°* The yogic marriage of fire and water
aims at a temporary union between the material realm and the spiritual realm. To achieve
this, the material realm or the physical body must be purified and raised to a point where it
meets with the pure realm. This encounter constitutes the union of purusha and pradana,
Siwa and Sakti. In terms of the oscillations of emission and reabsorption, the aim is to bring
about a meeting between the two movements in the self. In this manner, all the sins, sickness,°°
and impurities of the material body are reabsorbed back into their pure origins, raising the
body to a level of sufficient purity to meet with the pure realm of spirit. From this union issues
a new phase of life symbolized by amerta. (The Indian Tantric significance of amerta (amrita)
as representing the combined sexual fluids of Shiva and Sakti is described by Feuerstein.)”°
The Balinese Temple Festival Reconsidered
A similar meeting of the dual processes of emission and reabsorption can be discerned in the
Balinese public ritual of the odalan, the temple festival, and the caru sacrifices that proceed
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
 
it, both of which were briefly described in Chapter 1. The usual account of the temple fes-
tival explains that it is a time when the Balinese gods are invited to descend to their temple
and receive worship from human beings in the form of offerings and entertainment.”’ For
days they are regaled by their human hosts and then duly sent back to heaven. Accordingly
the caru rituals that precede the odalan are conventionally explained as necessary to clean
the area before the gods are invited down. Many European scholars have assumed that this
cleansing involves placating demonic entities with offerings of meat and blood so that they
will depart the scene and not disturb the proceedings; thus it is thought to constitute a lesser
part of the proceedings. Jacoba Hooykaas, reflecting this view, refers to the caru rituals as
“a casting out of the demons before the really holy (and more Hindu) part of the ceremony
is enacted.””* The caru rituals are thus interpreted as a survival of primitive practices rather
than an integral part of what is going on.
 
I suggest that the caru can be more accurately understood as a ritual process of reab-
sorption whereby the disruptive forces in the material world, the bhuta kala, are drawn
together from the four corners to the center, given their offerings, and thus reabsorbed into
positive forms. This is why a caru ritual is performed in the crossroads, as well as in the
temple, so that the bhuta kala are drawn from all four directions to the center, following the
movement from periphery to center cited by Davis. Once the pemangku has called the bhuta
kala and asked them to partake of their feast, he leads the people in a dance around the offer-
ings, moving in an anticlockwise direction (prasawya), and amid shouting and yelling the
offerings are broken and tossed around—representing the bhuta kala devouring their feast.
The prasawya circumambulation of the offerings in the center symbolizes a movement
upward. (We shall see that when the gods descend, they do so in the opposite direction,
pradaksina.) This signifies that the bhuta kala have moved up to a less dangerous and purer
form. Even ordinary people will say that the bhuta kala have now become “kala hyang,” that
is, purer entities. “Hyang” is the title usually given to gods (dewa). In other words: the dis-
ruptive chthonic forces have been dissolved into higher, more positive forms. Leo Howe offers
a virtually identical account of a caru performed to cleanse a temple, noting that offerings
are laid out in the four directions; then the bhuta kala, considered to be “demonic forms of
the guardian gods,” are summoned to eat their fill so that they “will calm down and so change
back to their divine forms.””’ It is evident that the ritual movement of the caru is inward from
periphery to center, and then upward from impure to pure (or relatively pure), following the
logic outlined by Davis. In mythic terms, as we saw in the story of the creation of the bhuta
kala, the terrible Durga and Siwa Kala have been returned to heaven as Uma and Siwa—that
is to say, ritually reabsorbed back into their original divine forms.
 
Once the caru rituals have been completed, the odalan can begin. Now the ritual move-
ment is from high to low as the gods are invited to descend and officiants circumambulate
offerings in a clockwise direction (pradaksina). Now pure entities—gods and goddesses, dewa
and dewi—are being invited to descend to the less pure earth. A process of emission is ritually
activated to match or meet the process of absorption begun in the caru rituals. The first step
was to reabsorb dangerous entities into more benign ones, beginning the movement upward;
now a counterbalancing movement downward is brought about. Why should this be? If the
process of reabsorption was carried to its logical conclusion, the world would ultimately dis-
appear into the void from which it originated. The first ritual aim is to arrest the process of
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
emission before it reaches the point where it becomes dangerous and destructive; but if the
material world is to continue to exist, a new process of creation must be initiated. In other
words: as one purifies and dissolves degenerate forms, so one must begin to replace them
with new ones—otherwise life will cease altogether. In the language of mythology, Siwa must
not be allowed to lose himself in austerities; he must be enticed back to the world and per-
suaded to unite once again with his Sakti.
 
The esoteric meaning of the odalan, according to my most knowledgeable Balinese
informants, is that it involves a marriage and a birth. The marriage is between sky and earth,
purusha and pradana, god and goddess, Siwa and Uma. What is born from this union is tirta
amerta (holy water). The significance of the term “odalan” has often been linked to “medal,”
meaning to “go out, to be born,” leading some European scholars to the erroneous conclu-
sion that the odalan represents the birthday, or anniversary, of the temple.”
 
A close examination of the rituals of the odalan reveals that a marriage and birth are
doubly enacted. First they are enacted in the ritual performance of pemangku and the con-
gregation. Then they are realized in the ritual performance of the pedanda as he produces
his holy water. We have already seen how this is carried out in the pedanda’s daily ritual prac-
tice, Surya-Sevana. The priest, through his yogic meditation, invokes Siwa to descend into
his own body while he focuses his concentration on Siwa as Ardhanareswari: Siwa unified
with his Sakti.” From this divine union is produced tirta amerta. At the temple festival, the
pedanda goes through the same ritual to produce holy water—with the difference that he
performs his rituals in the temple in front of the congregation. What is taking place is not
evident to the audience, of course, since the divine marriage and the resulting birth of holy
water are brought about in the yogic visualizations of the pedanda’s inner concentration.
 
This inner vision, however, is also being acted out on the public stage through the
actions of the pemangku and their helpers (though most do not seem to be aware of it). Prepa-
rations for the odalan begin by taking down with much ceremony—from the place in which
they are usually stored in the most holy part of the temple—the tiny images, the pratima,
that symbolize the gods.”° The pratima are always a pair, male and female, and usually a
temple possesses only one pair. This process of taking out the pratima is referred to as
“nedunan” (coming down). They are always stored in a high place (gedong nimypanan pra-
tima) and must be brought down by the pemangku and then directly given offerings, which
are circumambulated in a clockwise direction (pradaksina) by a member of the congregation
bearing the pratima on his or her head. The pratima are then cleaned and decorated to make
them fitting receptacles (tapakan) for the divine powers that will enter them. Later, at dusk,
they will be carried in procession to a nearby spring or stream to wash. When it is dark the
odalan begins with the pratima (along with other sacred masks and paraphernalia) being
carried out in procession from the inner part of the temple (jeroan) to a temporary structure,
the pangubengan, erected in the middle courtyard (jaba tengah). Here the pratima are placed
on the pangubengan after being carried three times around it in a clockwise direction. The
congregation gathers around and prays. The gods have now descended.
 
On the pangubengan, the place of meeting, has been placed along with many other offerings
a large babangkit offering that symbolizes Ardhanareswari, the lord who is half lady, or the
god in union with his Sakti.’? The pemangku then makes a segehan agung offering on the
ground in front of the pangubengan. This offering involves mixing the blood of a decapitated
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
 
chicken with coconut milk and spices. According to knowledgeable Balinese, this symbol-
izes conception—the red reproductive fluids (kama bang) of the female mixing with the
white reproductive fluids of the male (kama petak) to form an embryo. Following this, the
pratima and other sacra are taken from the pangubengan and carried into the inner part of
the temple via the Kori Agung (inner enclosed gateway). In the inner courtyard, the pratima
are placed on the pesamuan, a central shrine or place for the gods to stay. The reproductive
symbolism is continued in these movements, since, according to my informants, the three
parts of the temple are correlated with the lower part of the female body: the jeroan is the
womb, the jaba tengah the thighs, and the jaba the feet.”* The temple thus symbolizes the
earth, pradana, lying supine to receive the god-power descending from above. The place of
meeting/union is the temporary shrine, the pangubengan, in the jaba tengah—between the
goddess’ thighs. Conception, the mixing of reproductive fluids, is symbolized in the segehan
agung offering, following which the embryo is carried, via the Kori Agung (symbolizing the
vagina), into the jeroan (the womb) to develop.”
 
At this point the pedanda, seated in the inner temple (jeroan), begins his work. The con-
gregation sits around in the jeroan and outside in the jaba tengah as the pedanda goes through
the lengthy procedure of making the holy water. This is the “child” about to be born. When
after forty minutes or so the pedanda has completed his ritual, he gives a signal whereupon
the angklung orchestra begins to play in the jeroan, the kulkul (wooden slitgong) begins to
sound, and in the outer court (jaba tengah) the gamelan orchestra starts up and the masked
dances begin. At the same time, the pemangku assisted by his helpers takes holy water and
proceeds to sprinkle it (malis) throughout the three parts of the temple. Then the pedanda
officially presents (mangatur) the assembled offerings to the gods. Finally the congregation
prays and each worshipper receives holy water. The entertainment in the outer courtyard
continues as new worshippers arrive bringing their offerings and receiving holy water. The
climax is now over; the “baby” has been born. Or rather tirta amerta—which symbolizes
new life and presages the beginning of a new phase of emission—has been born (medal).
 
Eventually this new phase will degenerate into lower forms, but for the time being sky
and earth are brought together. The upward movement toward reabsorption is balanced by
the downward movement of emission. For the moment, a time of maximum harmony is
achieved on earth as the dangerous forces have been reabsorbed into purer forms and the
new emission is still close to its pure, spiritual source. The product of this cosmic meeting,
where the forces of reabsorption and emanation are momentarily in perfect balance, is tirta
amerta.
 
At the close of the odalan, the gods are duly sent back to heaven along with all the for-
merly negative forces in the area, the bhuta kala, who are now returned or reabsorbed back
into their original pure form. As one Balinese text tells us, demons and ogres return as the
angels and nymphs of heaven.*° But human beings need have no fear that the material
world will vanish along with them, since the process of emission has already started. Two
hundred and ten days later, the cycle will be judged to have reached danger point again and
the rituals must begin once more. Everything must be cleansed again, the cosmic forces
brought into alignment, for a moment of perfect harmony, a union, and then a birth that
starts it all anew. Human ritual is essential in this worldview since to allow either cosmic
process—that of emission or that of absorption—to proceed unchecked would lead to the
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
destruction of the universe. Either it will descend into ever more terrible and differentiated
forms—exploding into something like the maelstrom of fire that Budiana reveals to us—or
it will gradually be absorbed back into ever more pure and simple forms until it collapses
into the void: into the emptiness (sunya) from which it originated at the dawn of time. The
caru and odalan rituals together strive to achieve a balance between these two opposing ten-
dencies, but such a balance in fact involves constant movement, not stasis, and is achieved
but for a brief time.
 
Every temple in Bali holds its own odalan, preceded by the caru sacrifices, every 210
days, and there are great variations from region to region. Even in the same temple there are
different levels of observances: some odalan last only a day and are conducted by the
pemangku alone; others extend over many days and involve the participation of several
priests of different type and rank. It might appear that in attempting to identify a single pat-
tern in these multifarious observances I am blatantly ignoring the evident diversity of ritual
practice. Furthermore, since other gods and goddesses are given worship in these temples,
how can I suggest that all are celebrating the mystical marriage of the high god Siwa and his
consort? In the first place, we must keep in mind that Siwa and Uma are but mythological
names to symbolize cosmic forces; Siwa and Uma represent more generally purusha and
pradana—male and female cosmic principles. The odalan, of whatever form, aims to bring
about a meeting of the two. Some Balinese might express it as a meeting of heaven and
earth.*?
 
The cosmic oscillations or pulsations that Davis describes do not simply constitute a reg-
ular cycle of creation and destruction involving the cosmos as a whole. Rather, different oscil-
lations are taking place simultaneously within the world, so that within each individual, or
within each community, or locality, varying pulsations are taking place. The world is thus
composed of a seething mass of opposed energies. The yogin might succeed in achieving a
perfect balance of forces within himself while around him others are subject to disease and
suffering. Likewise one community, via the correct rituals, might achieve peace and harmony
while another experiences disaster. Fluctuations or oscillations in cosmic powers are felt to
occur in localized pockets, as it were, each community or temple congregation striving to
regulate the flows of emission and reabsorption within its small area. Ultimately all these
energies derive from the same source—described as Siwa and Uma—but since these energies
have local manifestations, they can also be understood as deities specific to that locality or
temple. The bhatara and bhatari of a particular temple are perhaps known to their congre-
gation as named entities and individualized personages. The pratima—the sacred images of
the gods held by each temple, always a pair (sometimes more than one pair), one male and
one female—represent these localized deities and the union celebrated at the odalan is their
marriage. Yet at the same time this is also the mystic union of Siwa and Uma, since all other
powers are but refractions of the divine pair.
 
The Kayangan Tiga, the three temples that exist in each Balinese community, are con-
ventionally said to be devoted to Brahma, Wisnu, and Siwa. This, however, should not be
understood as involving personal worship of these three gods. At a higher level, the three
symbolize the three functions of god-power: creation (utpatti), sustenance (sthiti), and
destruction (pralina). All derive from Siwa. Some Balinese will explain that the Pura Dalem
is the place where Durga resides, not Siwa, although Siwa is of course her spouse. This
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
emphasizes that Siwa as the destroyer or pelebur is but one aspect of his power. In all these
temples, the odalan brings about a union between purusha and pradana—aspects of, local
manifestations of, cosmic forces ultimately deriving from Siwa and Sakti.
 
Some Western scholars have observed that the ideas concerning the union of Siwa and
Sakti so important in Shivaitic Tantrism found fertile ground in Indonesia because of indige-
nous notions concerning sacred unions between Mother Earth and Father Sky.** One can
only speculate how indigenous forms in Bali were accommodated to Hindu mystical notions.
Hindu temples built in Java can be seen to have followed Indian models closely, but the Bali-
nese temple retained its open structures reminiscent of the Polynesian mare.** Nevertheless
the present plan of the Balinese temple, as we have seen, lends itself to a mystical interpre-
tation well suited to the idea of the temple as pradana made ritually ready to receive her
spouse, who descends from above. Possibly before the arrival of Hinduism, the Balinese
temple already served as the place of a ritually celebrated union between sky and earth and
thus was easily accommodated to the new understandings. Possibly also the Kayangan Tiga
system of village temples was based on indigenous worship of originating ancestors, the
ancestors of the living community and the spirits of the recently dead, which were then easily
incorporated into Hindu concepts of the three functions of god-power: creation, sustenance,
and destruction. In any case, one can see the extent to which ritual practice in Balinese
temples has been shaped to express Tantric mystical concepts.**
 
The Meeting of Barong and Rangda
 
In mythic terms, it is by means of the caru sacrifices that Durga and Kala Rudra are together
reabsorbed back into their divine forms of Uma and Siwa, whereupon the odalan celebrates
their marriage in order to initiate a new phase of life. At certain times, however, Durga alone
rages upon the earth, inflicting on humankind pestilence and death. In these circumstances
different ritual measures are needed to contain her destructive power. Several Balinese
myths, as we saw in Chapter 3, tell of occasions when Uma, cursed by her husband Siwa,
takes terrible form as Durga and descends in fury upon the earth. The problem then is how
to restore her back to her gentle form of Uma before she, along with her followers, succeed
in their desire to destroy humankind.* Since the cause of her anger is a quarrel with her
spouse, she must be reconciled with him before she can resume her benign form. This is
Barong’s role. Siwa takes the form of a monstrous beast to meet with Durga on earth. When
Barong confronts Rangda he brings under control her raging, destructive energy.*° Fire
(Rangda) is met by water (Barong), a calm, purifying agent, and the two neutralize each other.
From this meeting is born vapor, symbolizing the soul, or purified spiritual aspect.
 
The meeting of Barong and Rangda and the meeting of rwa bhineda in the self follow
the same pattern—only one is an interior yogic visualization while the other is a public perfor-
mance. In fact some of the verbal commentaries given by actors during the dance performance
explicitly state the connection with the textual sources. At a Calong Arang performance held
at Pura Puncak Padung Dawa in Tabanan on 30 May 2002, for example, the Pandung, just
before attempting to stab Rangda, spoke to the audience, referring to rwa bhineda, Siwa and
Uma, purusha and pradana, ANG and AH.*’ The mystic significance of the confrontation
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
with Rangda is clearly alluded to for those who are already familiar with the texts; but of
course the majority of the audience does not possess this esoteric knowledge and thus is
oblivious to the meaning of the words the actors recite.**
 
Following the ritual logic outlined by Davis, we can understand that both meetings are
directed to the same end: bringing the impure world or the physical self back to a pure level.
In this way all dirt, disease, and sin in the self (microcosmos), and in the external world
(macrocosmos), can be reabsorbed back into their source. The fearsome Durga is transformed
back into a pure and less dangerous form. In Davis’ terms, I think that what is achieved in
the mystical marriage of fire and water—whether in the self or in the ritual dance of Barong
and Rangda—is the reabsorption of the impure realm back into maya, which is the cause of
the impure material realm yet itself part of the pure realm. At the same time, the union of
rwa bhineda also presages the creation of new life since the vapor arising out of the meeting
of fire and water will later become water, tirta amerta, the water of life.
 
The first step in the process of returning Durga to her gentle form of Uma is to encounter
the most dangerous form of Durga: Berawi (Bhairava) Durga,*’ who is at large in the grave-
yard with her minions, the leyak, inflicting plagues of disease on human beings. Barong meets
and contains this most degenerate level, so that the terrible Mother resumes the less danger-
ous form of Dewi (Goddess) Durga, who resides in the Pura Dalem. From this higher, purer
level, she can be absorbed back into her original divine form of Uma. When contained in
the Pura Dalem, Durga’s destructive power is a necessary part of the process of lebur,
whereby dead matter is returned to its pure origins. By providing appropriate offerings and
sacrifice, humankind seeks to ensure that she and her followers are satisfied to remain there.
Once they leave the Pura Dalem, however, and enter the graveyard, their dangerous powers
and energy increase to the point that they threaten the lives of the whole community. This
is why Barong meets Rangda in the graveyard but at the end of the performance Rangda is
returned to the temple. Berawi (Bhairava) Durga has been met and transformed into Dewi
Durga, a higher and less dangerous force that can be contained in the temple. Durga herself
has several forms, as we saw in the myth of the Panca Durga, where Durga divides into five—
four emanating from the center. Accordingly, following the process of reabsorption, the four
on the periphery are drawn back to the center and become one, Dewi Durga, who is returned
to the temple. The multiple nature of Durga herself is also indicated in the fact that often a
temple possesses not one but two Rangda masks, one white, one red. The red mask repre-
sents the more dangerous form, Berawi Durga; the white mask signifies the goddess Durga.
 
Dance/dramas in which Barong confronts Rangda are performed at times of danger when
disease is rife and leyak are believed to be attacking the community.”° For this reason the per-
formances have been considered to be exorcistic rites against evil and especially witchcraft.
Certainly the aim is to deal with destructive powers—not to banish or defeat evil but to reab-
sorb dangerous, impure entities back to pure and thus less dangerous levels. This is achieved
by collapsing the diversity of the material realm back into rwa bhineda, which unites to
become one.” Or to use a different symbolism, one contained in the concept of rwa bhineda,
a meeting of fire and water is brought about, giving rise to a purer single entity: vapor. What
the individual (bhuwana alit) achieves through inner yogic visualization—purification of the
body of all sin and physical disease—can be achieved for the community (bhuwana agung)
via public ritual performance in which fire, Rangda, is met by water, Barong.””
 
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Nyepi: The Day of Silence
Important Balinese calendrical rituals such as Galungan, Kuningan, and Nyepi can also be
understood as ritual efforts to control the cosmic processes of emanation and reabsorption.
The rites we have considered up to this point are confined to particular individuals, temples,
or communities, but some rituals aim to coordinate the cosmic fluctuations of emission and
reabsorption on an islandwide basis.
 
Nyepi, the day of silence, offers a particularly clear example. This observance, based on
the Hindu Saka year of twelve lunar months, is observed by the whole island at the same
time. During the day of silence no activity of any kind is permitted. People must stay qui-
etly in their houses; no fire or lamp may be lit; no work can be performed. The roads are
empty and the whole island appears deserted. What is the significance of this empty day?
Hooykaas offers the following explanation:
 
Once a year, at nyépi, i.e. practicing silence and desertion, the Balinese
 
people try to keep quiet as much as possible and to forgo lighting lamp
 
or fire, avoiding light and smoke, the best visible signs of life. This sug-
 
gests to the ever invading forces of evil, bhita, that the island has been
 
deserted. The exorcist priests, sénguhu, try actively to expell the bhata
 
and to that purpose recite a litany which should exist of at least three
 
hundred octo-syllabic lines.°*
How this litany, which turns out to be an account of the origin of the world, disperses the
demonic forces, Hooykaas does not attempt to explain. And the idea that people hide in their
houses to avoid the bhuta seems just a little too simplistic, even if some Balinese may have
expressed such a notion to Hooykaas.
 
The day of silence must be understood in the context of the rituals that precede it and
are part of it. Two or three days before the day of silence, every community performs a large
caru ritual: Taur Kasanga (Repayment of the Ninth Month). According to my informants, this
repayment is to Durga. Put another way, this means that the rite is intended to transform the
destructive entities created by Durga into more positive, higher forms. Taur Kasanga begins
with melasti, when all the sacra, including the pratima and the Barong and Rangda masks,
from each village temple are carried in procession to the sea. There on the beach, facing the
ocean, the sacra are given offerings, Brahmana priests recite their mantras, and the village
congregations pray. The aim is to begin the process of purification—that is, to reabsorb all
negative and dangerous influences back to higher, purer forms. After this cleansing in the
sea, the sacra are carried back to the village and placed on the Bale Agung in the Pura Desa.
 
At midday the caru offerings are presented in the crossroads, where according to the
myth Siwa Kala met the Panca Durga to create in all directions the bhuta kala. Accompanied
by exciting gamelan music to attract the bhuta kala, the offerings are given by the pemangku.
Meanwhile, on the Bale Agung, a pavilion in the Pura Desa, the Barong and Rangda masks
are placed side by side, like Durga and Siwa Kala in the myth, to receive their offerings.”*
Later in the day the pratima and other sacra are returned to their temples. People also make
smaller caru offerings in their homes. At twilight (sandykala) people make as much noise as
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
possible (ngrupuk), circling their houses banging pots and pans to chase away, it is often said,
any remaining bhuta kala. In fact the loud noises are intended to attract any remaining bhuta
kala, like the loud exciting gamelan music played when the caru offerings are made earlier
in the day, the aim being to bring any remaining disruptive forces to the center to be re-
absorbed into higher entities. In the evening people perform mabiakaon rites intended to
purify themselves—that is, transform all negative bhuta influences in themselves into posi-
tive influences. Now every effort has been made to reabsorb into purer forms all disruptive
forces in the self, in the household, in the temples, and in the community as a whole. The
next day is the day of silence. The world has been emptied and returned to the original quiet
before creation began. As the tutur texts put it, all has been collapsed back into the one from
which all originated.
 
Nyepi thus represents the logical end achieved by caru rituals: to return all to its undif-
ferentiated source, ultimately the void, sunya. Symbolically the world has been reabsorbed
back into the void. Now a new process of creation must be awaited. Accordingly this is
enacted by the senguhu priests as they recite the tutur text that Hooykaas refers to as the
Litany of the Resi Bhujangga.”° I have referred to Hooykaas’ translation of this text to illus-
trate several points in the discussion so far. Now we are in a position to appreciate its
significance as a whole. The litany begins with the void, Sang Hyang Sunya.”° Since the
world, symbolically, has been purified back into the void, this is the logical starting point
for the recitation. The text relates that Sunya, the void, becomes desirous of companions and
creates six children. The firstborn is a woman, the lovely goddess Uma. Then five sons are
created, one of which is Siwa, who together with Uma creates the material world.
 
The litany goes on to relate how, once the process of creation is completed, a strange and
terrifying change comes over the goddess Uma. Turning back to observe her creations, she
suddenly is overtaken by a wild anger. Transforming into Durga, she descends to earth to
devour the human beings she has just created. Siwa follows her, also taking terrible form as
Siwa Kala, and together with their followers they lay waste to the earth. Finally the high god
takes pity on humankind and sends the Tri Semaya (Brahma, Wisnu, and Iswara) to teach
human beings how to control the wild energy of creation. Thus Iswara becomes a resi (sage,
holy person), Brahma a Brahmana priest, and Wisnu a bhujangga (exorcist priest),°” and they
show human beings how to perform the sacrifices and worship necessary to avert annihila-
tion by Siwa Kala and Durga.”* The offerings are made, and after consuming their feast the
demonic hosts are transformed back into their divine forms of Uma, Siwa, and the bidedara-
dedari (nymphs) and all return to heaven in perfect form. The litany thus establishes that
human ritual can persuade the gods to resume their original gentle forms (somyarupa). In
abstract terminology, the flow of cosmic energy has been redirected back and up toward its
original pure source. The recitation of the bhujangga priests does not enact a return to the
void (sunya), however, but to the more differentiated, yet still pure, level of Siwa’s heaven.
Thus humankind can be assured that the process of emission will soon begin anew. Indeed
on the following day the world returns to its usual active state.
 
This myth of creation chanted by the bhujangga priests at Nyepi clearly depicts the cosmic
movements of emission and reabsorption—beginning with creation from the void, the move-
ment downward as the creative process degenerates into the wild energy of Durga and Siwa
Kala, and the counterbalancing function of human ritual that serves to return, or reabsorb,
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
the dangerous energy back to its pure origins. The cosmic flow of transformations is explic-
itly stated in the text. Evidently much more is involved than the simple warding off of evil
that Hooykaas suggests. Furthermore, if one places Nyepi in the context of the ritual actions
of Taur Kasanga and melasti that immediately precede it, we see that the disruptive forces
of the bhuta kala have already been purified, reabsorbed, the day before and that Nyepi sym-
bolically brings into being the pure silence and emptiness of creation returned to its source:
the void (sunya).
Galungan and Kuningan from a Different Perspective
Galungan and Kuningan, as noted in Chapter 1, represent a time of family celebration and
feasting accompanied by ritual activities in homes and temples throughout the island. The
period begins with the three days of Galungan (Penampahan, Galungan, and Manis Galun-
gan) and then, ten days later, the three days of Kuningan (Penampahan, Kuningan, and Manis
Kuningan). These observances are timed by the 210-day Javo-Balinese calendar and thus take
place roughly every six months. Galungan and Kuningan are observed by the whole of Bali
at the same time, although observances in southern Bali tend to be more elaborate than in
the north.
 
For most Balinese today, Galungan and Kuningan represent a kind of festive season when
everyone buys new clothes, visits friends, and consumes lots of rich food—much like Christ-
mas and New Year in Western countries. The religious significance, like that of Christmas,
is understood only in general terms by most people. Large quantities of elaborate offerings
are made and placed in the houses and temples. On Penampahan Galungan many chickens,
ducks, and pigs are slaughtered to provide the meat offerings required, and human beings
too get plenty to eat. This is repeated on Penampahan Kuningan. These meat offerings are
not for the gods (dewa) but for the chthonic forces, the bhuta kala.
 
Lovric observes that Galungan is a bhuta yadnya, or sacrifice to the demonic forces,” as
does Howe,’ although the usual Western accounts of the observances give little indication
of this.'°' The need for so many offerings containing blood and meat indicates that the dis-
ruptive forces in the world have reached a peak and must be brought under control. Lovric
also notes that Galungan once coincided with the change in seasons in Bali, “a dangerous
time in terms of illnesses.”'°* As we have seen, offerings and sacrifice are meant not simply
to persuade the bhuta kala to depart but to transform them into positive entities. That is to
say, the negative energy they represent is reabsorbed back into higher and purer forms.
 
During the period between Galungan and Kuningan many Barongs are abroad. Accom-
panied by youthful musicians, Barongs can be seen parading the village streets, stopping in
front of each house to receive offerings or small payments of money. This practice is referred
to as nglawang, and the Barong is said to bring the bhuta kala under control by this means;
sometimes it is even said that the bhuta kala are persuaded to enter the Barong and are
thereby removed.'°* Barong, with his gold and mica ornaments, his bells and peacock
feathers, is evidently an auspicious monster and part of the general air of celebration.’
People are happy to welcome him as he prances past their homes.
 
Various stories and myths are attached to Galungan. The following account was related
to me by Dewa Nyoman Batuan, a renowned artist and bendesa adat for his community:
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
Siwa was quarreling with his wife Uma, so that she became angry and
 
went to earth as Durga and was killing the populace. Finally Siwa sent his
 
son, Ganesha, to find his mother and ask her to stop destroying the
 
world. When Ganesha found his mother she explained that the people
 
had forgotten about her, they no longer made offerings to her in the
 
temple, they thought only of themselves. Ganesha told the people that
 
they must remember to hold ceremonies and make offerings, so that Durga
 
would not be angry with them, and that he would check on them every
 
210 days. Siwa then sent Barong to nglawang past every gate to see that
 
people had not forgotten Durga. This is the origin of Galungan.
The lontar titled Usana Bali attributes the origin of Galungan to a king of Bali, Jayakasunu,
who prayed in the graveyard to Durga that he might be spared the fate of several of his prede-
cessors who had died shortly after taking office and whose people had likewise been deci-
mated by plagues.'” Durga appeared to the king, explaining that for a long time the ancestral
temples and shrines had been deserted and the proper sacrifices to the bhuta kala, and
herself, had not been made. She told the king that in order to avert the plagues of sickness
he needed “to make offerings in the week (wuku) of dungulan in order to entice the demon
trinity (Sang Kala Tiga) to enter the Barong (Sang Kala Gede).” "°° In this account, the demonic
forces causing death and disaster to the populace must be contained by making sacrifices to
persuade them to enter—to be reabsorbed—into the auspicious Barong.
 
According to one of my most knowledgeable sources, Ida Bagus Sutarja, Galungan is an
extremely dangerous time of the year when three very powerful demons, Bhuta Galungan,
Bhuta Dungulan, and Bhuta Kuning, attack the world. These are the offspring of the god-
dess Durga, and their arrival presages a time when the dangerous energy inherent in the
material world is at a height. For this reason, large quantities of offerings must be presented
to the demonic forces to assuage their hunger. Lovric quotes from a lontar text, the Sunar
Agama, that closely parallels Sutarja’s opinion:
 
On the day named panyekeban, Sanghyang Kala Tiga Wisesa commence
 
their descent to become Bhuta Galungan and to receive offerings prepared
 
for them by mankind. . . . It is a dangerous time when human welfare is
 
in jeopardy. The following day, panyajaan, is a time when people should
 
meditate and free themselves of passion because on this day Sang Kala
 
Tiga appear. The next day, named panampahan, is a time when offerings
 
and animal sacrifices should be made at the crossroads and in houseyards,
 
for Sanghyang Kala has now become Sang Bhuta Galungan. They have the
 
potential to harm the population or they can protect it. On this day
 
danger culminates. Abaya-kala offerings, aimed to secure the well-being
 
of individuals, should be made so that people have a long life and are
 
undisturbed by illnesses.'°”
What these different accounts have in common is the understanding that Galungan repre-
sents an attempt to avert the danger for humankind that arises when the terrible Durga and
her demonic followers rage uncontrolled on earth.
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
 
We have seen that the Balinese myths of Siwa and Uma describe many occasions on
which Uma is cursed by Siwa to descend to earth as the terrible Durga. In order to return
Durga to her gentle form, she must be reunited with Siwa. The myth of Rare Angon,
recounted in Chapter 3, is a clear example, and I believe this story is the mythic counter-
part of Galungan. Uma’s encounter with the cowherd (Siwa in disguise) is revealed by their
son, Gana (Ganesha), and in consequence Siwa curses Uma to go to earth as Durga and inflict
disease and plagues on humankind. When Uma asks when she will meet with her husband
again, Siwa replies that she must ask people to build the mrajapti as a place for them to meet
on earth. He promises to descend in the form of Durgakala accompanied by all his heavenly
followers in demonic form.
 
We have seen, too, that in some myths Siwa assumes terrible form and meets with Durga
to generate yet greater destructive energy—as in Hooykaas’ Litany of the Resi Bhujangga,
which we have just considered in relation to Nyepi, and in the myth of the origin of the bhuta
kala discussed in Chapter 3. When Siwa assumes the form of Barong Ketket to meet Durga,
however, he does so to bring Durga’s dangerous energy under control. Galungan is the sea-
son of Barongs since this is the time that Siwa comes to earth as an auspicious beast to meet
with Durga and tame her wild desires. His presence is welcomed by the people, seen as a pro-
tector and even savior, since only he can satisfy Durga. In Barong form, he parades through
the villages and attracts to him from every gateway the disruptive bhuta kala forces within
each household. These bhuta kala are in fact his own creations, engendered in the meeting
of the Panca Durga with Siwa Kala. Now he reabsorbs them back into himself, upward to
their purer form and origin. Durga and her minions are thus doubly satisfied: by their huge
offerings of meat and by being united again with Siwa/Barong.
 
At Kuningan more offerings of meat are given, and people say that the ancestors descend
to every household. Special decorations called tamiang are hung around the house to rep-
resent, it is said, victory. Dharma has won over adharma—order over disorder. In mythic
terms, Siwa as Barong has succeeded in controlling the negative energy of Durga, who can
now be returned to her divine form of Uma. In mystical terms, pradana (a purified earth) is
now ready to meet with purusha (sky/heaven), as divine power descends to bring about a new
marriage between Siwa and Sakti and thus the generation of new life. The processes that we
traced in the odalan festival are also enacted in the observances of Galungan and Kuningan—
but with the difference that here the whole island participates at the same time in the reab-
sorption of dangerous energies and the initiation of a new, pure phase of emission.
 
The view of some earlier scholars that Galungan and Kuningan were originally based on
agricultural observances is not incompatible with this interpretation. We need only remind
ourselves of how Christian rituals in Europe were accommodated to pagan calendrical feasts.
The rice harvest, when people have a lot of time and resources to put into rituals, is natu-
rally a time of rejoicing and celebration—a time of plenty. The present-day Parisada Hindu
Dharma view that Galungan and Kuningan symbolize the victory of dharma (order) over
adharma (disorder) simply puts an ethical emphasis on the complex metaphysical themes of
dangerous energy and the ritual reabsorption to purer forms. Galungan and Kuningan rep-
resent a ritually created period when the downward cosmic process is reversed by drawing
the dangerous energies in toward the center, then reabsorbing them into their purer origins,
so that the world as a whole (that is, the island of Bali) is brought back to a state of purity.
 
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
Once this has been achieved through extensive sacrifices to the chthonic forces, the purified
earth can connect with the pure realm of spirit. For a few days, the world enjoys a state of
peace, harmony, and goodwill as it is infused with the positive power of the divine realm.
For the ordinary person, the presence of gods and ancestors and their benign influence are
felt all around. At another level, this ritually created time of harmony is a realization of the
mystical marriage of Siwa and Sakti—intimation, at least, of the divine bliss of the soul’s
union with the Siwa soul. And from this mystical union flows a fresh stream of life.
The Eka Dasa Rudra Ritual
The Eka Dasa Rudra ritual is a grand ceremony to purify the whole island of Bali. Ideally it
should be performed approximately once every hundred years, but in recent times it has
been held twice, in 1963 and 1979.‘ Although a very special occasion involving enormous
expenditure of time and resources, in essence it is an extended and elaborated version of the
Taur Kasanga rituals held to mark the last day of the Balinese lunar year, preceding Nyepi,
the day of silence, and thus it constitutes a bhuta yadnya, or sacrifice to the demonic forces.
It is not, however, celebrated separately in each community like Nyepi, Galungan, and
Kuningan but is held at Besakih Temple, the most important temple in Bali, on behalf of the
whole island. David Stuart-Fox , who observed the 1979 Eka Dasa Rudra, points out that the
notion of “demons” needs to be understood in a more subtle sense than simply evil forces:
 
Bhuta yadnya ceremonies are directed to potentially disruptive nether
 
world forces, the demons. Bhuta means element; and kala, another word
 
for demon, means time or energy. Demons are personifications of forces
 
derived from the five elements (panca mahabhuta) at such times as these
 
forces exceed their normal intensity and bring misfortune to man.'°°
Yet he nonetheless explains that the intention of the ritual is to “placate the demons.”
 
Other scholars, such as Leo Howe,'!° have observed that the aim of the Eka Dasa Rudra
is in fact to transform the demonic forces into benign ones. Hildred Geertz has suggested that
the aim is to reorient the destructive forces at large in the universe.*'* Stephen Lansing points
out that this aim was symbolically expressed in two drawings placed in the temple during
the rituals: “The first showed the god Siwa springing out of the demon Kala, the second
showed the goddess Uma springing out of the demoness Durga.”"'* He also observes that this
“process of dissolution and realignment of elements” should occur both in the external world
and in the inner world of each individual.*’* Although Lansing clearly describes a process
of transformation, he goes on to compare it with cycles of growth and decay,** making the
ritual’s intent somewhat more comprehensible to a Western audience. Lansing thus stops
short of revealing the interplay of the processes of absorption and emanation I have cited.
In a later publication, however, he explicitly states: “Various sacred texts describe Rudra as
an ancient Sanskrit destroyer god, the fierce demonic incarnation of the supreme god Siwa.
The culmination of the Eka Dasa Rudra ceremony is an attempt to transform Rudra from an
agent of chaos into his godlike form as Siwa.”*!°
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[ CHAPTERS J
 
Texts relating to the Eka Dasa Rudra performed in 1963, compiled by C. Hooykaas,
constantly reiterate that the aim is to restore all things to original or perfect form. Hooykaas
himself refers to the “conquering” of evil and the “exorcising” of demons,'’® since in his
view what is evil can only be banished or defeated. But his text reveals a different picture:
 
May banished be the evil shape, may the natural form return,
 
Ogresses become like Uma, ogres then become like Guru,
 
Youths become like heaven’s fairies, maids become as female fairies.''”
Such passages, of which there are numerous examples in the text, clearly reflect the themes
of returning dangerous and impure entities back to pure form. Demons are to be transformed
into gods. The text declaims:
 
In the past thou hast been bhiita, yaksa, yaksi; return to thy godlike
 
shape.''®
 
The following passage, which invokes the many forms of Kala, the god of evil according to
Hooykaas,'!? would be incomprehensible if the ritual’s intent to convert Kala to benevolent
form were not understood:
 
Om Lord Kala...
 
this is the food offered to thee, enjoy its essence, do not be
 
fastidious and particular; enjoy it, be good and eat of it as thou canst.
 
If in any respect there is something to blame, great may be thy
 
forgiveness. When thou hast enjoyed the essence, I hope thou wilt
 
bestow a favour upon me: Protect X and accompany him where ever
 
he may go and do not trouble him; accompany him on the right path,
 
[make him] turn [from evil ways] and enjoy the Eternal Law of
 
Absolution.'”°
Here the dreaded demon Kala is being requested to be not only the supplicant’s protector
but indeed his moral guide.
 
One of the key passages of the text is titled “Praise of Bhita-Kala, Called Five Great
Bhuta.” It presents a kind of summary of the Five Great Bhuta, who are identified with the
five directions, five weapons and emblems, five days of the week, and five holy letters con-
stituting their mantra. It also lists the five different levels of forms these entities take, the
top two levels being resi (sages) and gods. The text declares:
 
As résis thou art called / Kursika / Garga / Maitri / Kurusya / Patafijala / :
as Gods thou art called /Isvara / Brahma / Mahadeva / Visnu / Siva /!2*
The demons, or bhuta, are but aspects of transformations of the high gods. Each level, from
bhuta to god form, is a transformation of the other.
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[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
If the Eka Dasa Rudra is, as Lansing points out, a bhuta yadnya “simply made more com-
plete and comprehensive than ever before,”’?* a point also stressed by Howe,’”? it is to be
expected that its aim is essentially the same as ordinary caru sacrifices. We have already seen
that caru are said to have originated when Durga and Kala/Rudra brought into being the
bhuta kala in the five directions. Caru are intended to persuade Durga, Kala/Rudra, and their
followers to return to god form. The drawings of Uma springing from Durga, and Siwa from
Kala, mentioned by Lansing confirm this as the goal of the Eka Dasa Rudra observances.
Hooykaas includes in his text two drawings that he describes as Durga eating Uma and Kala
eating Siwa.'** In fact the drawing can be interpreted in both ways, since Uma descends in
anger to become Durga and Siwa descends to become Kala/Rudra. This is the state of affairs
at the beginning of the ritual. But following its completion the process is reversed; then Uma
arises out of Durga to return to divine form, and likewise Siwa arises out of Kala/Rudra.’*°
 
Possibly because the Eka Dasa Rudra rituals have been the object of recent observation
and study by Western scholars—and also because the scale of the event tends to bring into
clear relief its main elements—the transformatory intent of this sacrifice has been better
understood than that of the ordinary caru sacrifices. Yet evidently they follow the same
pattern. The Eka Dasa Rudra ceremony, I suggest, can be understood as the pinnacle of ritual
efforts to achieve the reabsorption of all the dangerous and impure elements in the world
that have reached a critical point of extreme danger. In the language of mythology, the eleven
Rudra of the eleven directions have been drawn together and upward to their pure source,
Siwa.
 
The fact that the Eka Dasa Rudra is performed in one place, Besakih Temple, on behalf
of the whole island (symbolically the whole world) perhaps also results in an explicit empha-
sis on Siwa and Uma since they are the ultimate manifestations of the cosmic principles to
which this grandest of all Balinese rituals is directed.
 
Holy Water (Tirta) and the Role of the Pedanda Buddha
 
Two further aspects of Balinese ritual can be illuminated, I think, by placing them in the
context of absorption and emanation: the various types of holy water made by priests and
the different functions of so-called Siwaistic and Buddhistic Brahmana priests. The prolif-
eration of different kinds of holy water used in Balinese ritual might well be considered just
another instance of the Balinese love of elaboration and replication in artistic and ritual
expression.'”° Yet I suggest that this seemingly random diversity can be understood as vari-
ations on the same ritual pattern I have emphasized throughout this chapter. Although
there are many different kinds of holy water and methods of preparation, two basic forms
have been identified by Hooykaas.'?’ Hildred Geertz too identifies two basic types—one seen
as “cleansing and providing protection against evil-minded spirits” and the second also for
cleansing “but providing the positive blessings of health and fertility.”’** The former is usu-
ally referred to as tirta panglukatan and the latter as tirta amerta kamandalu.’?? Since “lukat”
is conventionally translated as “exorcism,” tirta panglukatan would be holy water to exorcise
evil. But such a rendition fails to recognize that evil is not exorcised but, rather, negative
 
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[ CHAPTER 5 ]
 
influences are transformed into positive ones. When, for example, in the lontar text
Siwagama Durga is instructed by Siwa that she must receive “lukat” from the hands of
Sahadewa in order to become Uma again and return to heaven, this does not mean that Durga
is exorcised but that she is transformed back to her pure state as Uma.'*° Tirta panglukatan
purifies not by extirpating evil but by reabsorbing it back to its pure origins. It is an agent
of reabsorption—that is its function and constitutes its value. Tirta amerta kamandalu, by
contrast, which confers blessing and fertility, is the holy water that is “born” following the
marriage of purusha and pradana at the odalan (temple festival). It is the divine substance
that the pedanda visualizes as issuing from the limbs of Ardhanareswari (Siwa and Sakti
united in one body). “Amerta,” as we have seen, means literally “no death.” It is the elixir
of immortality, representing new life, and the cosmic process of emanation. Therefore it
brings material blessings such as fertility, but it also cleanses because it represents a new
process of emanation still close to its pure source.
 
Balinese often told me that preparing tirta panglukatan was the special province of the
pedanda Buddha and that, furthermore, pedanda Buddha were especially knowledgeable in
carrying out caru and taur rituals. Some observed that the syllable BU (bhu) is root of the
words bhumi (earth), bhuta (demon or element), and Buddha.'*' Many said that the pedanda
Buddha's role was to deal with the demonic forces and observed that ideally all important
yadnya required the presence of both pedanda Buddha and pedanda Siwa.'** The special role
of the pedanda Buddha with respect to bhuta yadnya is also described by Hooykaas,'** whose
texts pertaining to the Eka Dasa Rudra ceremonies were in fact derived from pedanda
Buddha. Nevertheless he assumed that because of their falling numbers, pedanda Buddha no
longer play a prominent role in Bali. According to my informants, however, the decline in
numbers relates to family lines dying out and subsequent difficulties in finding appropriate
candidates to become pedanda. The services of pedanda Buddha continue to be essential, and
those remaining officiants find themselves in great demand today.
 
Some Western scholars have written as if the pedanda Buddha represented a different sect
or denomination. Even Hooykaas tends to give the impression that the pedanda Buddha's
position is a historical relic of a time when Buddhism was in competition with Hinduism.'**
Yet it is clear from Balinese statements—and from the fact that pedanda Buddha and pedanda
Siwa continue to the present day to perform their rituals side by side at important cere-
monies—that they operate within the same system and certainly not as competitors.'*’ Their
complementary role can, I suggest, be understood as related to the complementary processes
of absorption and emanation. The pedanda Buddha with his tirta panglukatan and his special
knowledge of caru and taur deals with the ritual directing of the process of reabsorption—
that is, returning all the dangerous and destructive forces out of control in the world to their
original pure source. But his actions must be balanced by the pedanda Siwa, who through
his rituals brings Siwa and Sakti to unite and thus begin a new process of emanation—the
symbol and instrument of which is tirta amerta.
 
Numerous scholars of Old Javanese have written on the Siwa-Buddha cult of Java, usually
stressing the fusion of the two figures.'*° Marijke Klokke, for example, draws attention to the
oneness of Siwa and Buddha in Old Javanese texts and quotes several texts illustrating the
concept that Siwa and Buddha are “different manifestations of the same highest principle.”’*’
 
124
 
===PDFPAGE 135===
[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
 
I would suggest that in Bali, Siwa and Buddha represent not a unity but rather the two
different that become one, or rwa bhineda. Rubinstein notes that in Balinese texts the rwa
bhineda is composed of two syllables, ANG and AH, and that ANG is associated with Bud-
dha and AH with Siwa.'** The two syllables are also associated with inhaling and ex-
haling,'*? ANG representing the inward movement and AH the outward movement.'*° This
clearly represents, in my view, the cosmic processes of absorption and emanation as
expressed in the movement of breath in the human body, the control of which, of course, is
such an important part of yogic practices. From this perspective, Buddha can be understood
as the “calm returning flow of liberation and peace” and Siwa as “the outward throbbing
stream of energy and enjoyment”: the eternal opposing rhythms of nirvritti (from matter
back to spirit) and pravritti (from spirit outward to matter) that give rise to our universe and
thus are one.'*"
 
Budiana often mentioned how Buddha and Siwa represent two opposite flows of energy.
In his view, Buddha symbolizes the quiet return to the inner self, to silence and emptiness,
whereas Siwa represents the outward flow of life, ever differentiating into richer and more
diverse forms. Art, according to Budiana, follows these two directions. There is art that flows
outward from the inner spirit, creating objects of beauty in the material world that can
inspire admiration and wonder in the populace, so that even ordinary people feel compelled
to praise and worship the divine powers depicted by the artist. And then there is art that
through its purity and simplicity directs our attention back inward toward the source of all
creation: the pure and empty void. Classic Balinese art, with its endless multiplication of rich
and elaborate forms surging upon themselves, represents the flood of creation outward. The
contemplative forms of Buddhist art and the classic statuary of Hindu deities of the medieval
kingdoms of Java, by contrast, represent the sage’s vision of the soul’s return to its pure
source. Art serves these two ends: it can instill in the common person respect, awe, and love
for the majesty, beauty, and power of the divine forces that control and give life to the world,
while a different kind of artistic vision speaks to spiritually more developed persons, height-
ening and refining their awareness of the spiritual potential within the self. Modern artists,
Budiana believes, are able to draw on either or both of these potentials.
 
Although the Balinese rituals I have discussed here are clothed in specifically Balinese
details of expression, their underlying themes are demonstrably the same that Davis has
identified as the basic pattern for all Shivaitic ritual. From this perspective it becomes evi-
dent that many of the apparently random and quaint rituals of Bali can be understood at a
deeper level as clear symbolic expressions of classic Hindu cosmological and mystical under-
standings. The Balinese cosmos is not simply a matter of periodic cosmic cycles of creation
and destruction; rather it is a matter of constant pulsations of cosmic forces—operating in
individuals, in specific locations, and generally within the material world as a whole. For this
reason ritual action in some form is constantly being required, leading to the impression of
an endless proliferation of ritual. The otonan performed for each individual, the odalan per-
formed in each temple, the Galungan and Kuningan ceremonies performed by the whole
island every six months, Nyepi every twelve months, and the Eka Dasa Rudra once a
century—all reflect these constant pulsations and fluctuations of cosmic forces and the
imperative need to bring and keep them under ritual control.
 
125
 
===PDFPAGE 136===
[ CHAPTERS J
 
Models of a Dynamic Cosmos
 
Like Richard Davis, I have worked from the assumption that we need to understand the
“matrix of propositions that constitute the world” within which a ritual system operates.'“*
Balinese ritual is so multiform and variable that the surface differences make it almost impos-
sible to discern similarities. If, however, we approach this complexity from the perspective
of the two cosmological processes outlined by Davis and Wendy O’Flaherty, an underlying
pattern or core of organizing beliefs emerges—one that can be seen to generate the differ-
ences we encounter as variations on this underlying pattern.
 
Finally, let us consider the nawasanga (nine directions)—the cosmological grid that so
many scholars have identified as the fundamental model of the Balinese universe. (See Fig-
ure 3.) A lot of ink has already been spilled on this topic.'*’ Ironically this key symbol has
usually been seen as confirmation of the hierarchical and static nature of the Balinese cosmos,
each cardinal direction given its appropriate god, color, and emblems, with Siwa in the center
 
i A & 4
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Figure 3. The Nawasanga, ink on paper, Df y
by I Ketut Budiana. Y
126
 
===PDFPAGE 137===
[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
represented by the five colors (panca warna or brumbun). This directional model of space,
it has been assumed, provides the basic pattern of orientation for the human household, the
village settlement, and the world as a whole, modeling all upon a divinely appointed order.
Furthermore, the cosmos is layered into different worlds—swah (the world of the gods), bwah
(the world of human beings), and bhur (the netherworld) plus seven or more layers of heavens
and hells—reflecting the hierarchical positioning of gods, humans, demons, and animals.'**
 
What this conventional view fails to consider is that the nawasanga is not a static
grid.'* It represents a spinning helix or cone.’*° In addition to the eight cardinal points and
the center, there are two more points—up and down—making a total of eleven, or ekadasa
(as scholars writing about the Eka Dasa Rudra rituals have observed). In terms of the num-
ber symbolism discussed earlier, the number eleven has the mystical significance that ten
becomes one—that is, when ten is reached, the numbers return to one. This symbolizes the
cosmic origin from, and return to, a single source. The cosmos is represented as spinning out-
ward and downward from a single point in a clockwise direction—and this clockwise move-
ment, pradaksina, we have observed in the temple festival as representing the descent of the
gods to earth. At the same time, there is a counterbalancing movement, anticlockwise,
prasawya, that is followed when the gods are returned to heaven and when the caru offer-
ings are given to transform the bhuta kala into purer entities.'*” The Brahmana scholar Ida
Bagus Sutarja drew my attention to this fact early on, remarking that I must not think the
nawasanga is still: it is in fact spinning like a top. It has taken me a long time to grasp his
meaning. He also spoke of how as one force field spins down in a clockwise direction,
another is moving up toward it in the opposite direction until they meet and lock together
as in a sexual union. The temple festival, he explained, aims to bring the two together so that
the powers of the earth and heaven meet—and for a moment a perfect balance of cosmic
forces is achieved. The cosmic movement is symbolized here as downward and outward from
a center; from the periphery, below, it moves upward toward the originating point. Thus the
nawasanga symbol itself expresses the processes of emanation and reabsorption outlined
by Davis.
 
If we examine the nawasanga in Figure 4, we can see that the increasingly differentiated
material world is depicted in the widening segments of a cosmic circle. Each segment, rep-
resenting one of the eight directions, comprises a god standing on the head and shoulders
of a larger demon. This represents the idea that as the divine forms move away from their
origin (Siwa in the center of the circle), so they become dangerous and destructive forces ever
expanding outward. The potential for expansion is infinite—until the whole explodes into
a maelstrom of degenerate forms. To avert this catastrophe, ritual means must constantly be
employed to return the flow of dangerous energy to its source. Likewise in the microcosmos,
the self, the yogin seeks to encounter the cosmic energy and then redirect it back to its
quiescent source. This is the vision of the Tantric hero, the vira, that Budiana presents to
us. What the vira achieves within himself, the Brahmana priest achieves with his mystical
union with Siwa as a way to purify others—via the tirta amerta that results from his mystic
union with the divine.
 
The many levels of Balinese heavens and hells do not, from this perspective, represent
a hierarchically ordered cosmos. Rather they express symbolically the many different levels
of creation—beginning with the void (sunya) and Paramasiwa; moving downward to
 
127
 
===PDFPAGE 138===
[ CHAPTER 5 ]
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Cp (| ORO 4
 
Figure 4. The Nawasanga, ink on paper, by I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana (above) following a painting by
Dewa Nyoman Batuan in the author’s collection (opposite).
increasing differentiation as Sadasiwa, Siwa; and then to the numerous gods and goddesses
as multiple manifestations of the original divine source that gave rise to other entities until
ultimately the material world emerges. Once the material world appears, the creative process
degenerates into increasingly negative energies until finally Siwa descends into Siwa Kala,
the demonic level.
 
Some versions of the nawasanga depict it as an eight-petaled lotus with one of the ten
sacred letters (dasaksara) written on each petal and the final two in the center (Figure 5).
As we have seen, the dasaksara represent the differentiated world that in the process of ritual
reabsorption is compressed into five, then three, then the two that become one. In this way,
the cosmic movement from periphery to center, and upward, is also indicated in the diagram
of the nawasanga. Following its lotus shape, this version is referred to also as a padma (lotus)
and sometimes as a mandala. The mandala is also the cakra, or wheel. This form evidently
suggests movement. Although to a Western observer the nawasanga may appear static, to
 
128
 
===PDFPAGE 139===
[ Balinese Ritual in a Dynamic Universe ]
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an informed Balinese eye it is essentially dynamic, spinning like a wheel, since all that has
life moves. As Budiana observed in relation to the dancing stance of his figures, the movement
of the dance represents life. Stillness is death. The world mandala, lotus, wheel, is inherently
dynamic. '**
 
Furthermore, the world is not simply spinning in one spot: the forces that constitute it
are moving up and down, in and out, on a vertical axis as well. This vertical axis is, in mytho-
logical and mystical terms, the Siwa lingam. The Balinese myth of the Linggodbhawa recounts
how Siwa demonstrated his power to Brahma and Wisnu by confronting them with the
lingam that reached down into the earth so far that neither could find its origin and so high
into the heavens they could not find where it ended. This infinite power of Siwa constitutes
the central axis of the Balinese universe. At the highest level is Paramasiwa; at the lowest is
Siwa Kala. The vertical axis is divided horizontally into the pure and impure realms. The
earth is part of the impure realm. The earth and its contents originate from the meeting of
Siwa and Sakti in pure form, but they exist in the impure realm. As the process of emission
 
129
 
===PDFPAGE 140===
[ CHAPTER 5 ]
 
descends into the impure realm, it begins to
degenerate into lower and wilder forms. In
the language of mythology, dewa (gods)
become kala (demons); Siwa becomes Siwa
Kala—but, as we know, the process can be
reversed and reoriented through ritual. vy
 
The nawasanga or padma also provides 3)
a model for the self and the force fields oper- th)
ating within it. Once again, the processes of
emission and reabsorption are evident. In aw
the center is the self, lega prana; in the four A %Y)
directions are the four spiritual siblings, the ‘(oe b\
kanda empat.’*° The siblings can be called
into the center, to unite with the body, and
sent out in the different directions to guard Figure 5. The Nawasanga in the form of a lotus
the self or carry out its commands. Thus inscribed with the dasaksara, ink on paper, by
there is a pulsating movement out fromthe —_I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana.
center. There is also movement up and
down, since the kanda empat and the self have many levels. Basically these are divided into
three: the demonic (bhuta) level, the human (manusa), and the divine (dewa). At the bhuta
level, the kanda empat are Angapati, Mrajapati, Banaspati, and Banaspati Raja. At a higher
level they represent the Catur Lokapala, or four heavenly guardians, with Siwa in the cen-
ter (that is, the self). The many different levels and names are given in the numerous /ontar
texts concerning the kanda empat.'”° One level can be transformed into the other—obviously
by ritual means. Every 210 days, every Balinese adult observes an otonan when offerings are
given to the kanda empat. The intent, I believe, is to align mystical forces within the self to
ensure that the movement downward toward the bhuta potential is checked before it becomes
dangerous, yet ensuring that life continues. In other words: this ritual brings about a meet-
ing of the paths of reabsorption and emission within the self. Here the meeting in the self is
achieved via an external ritual process, the otonan observances, rather than an inner state
of visualization as in the yogic practices of the adept discussed earlier. Further research is
necessary to confirm my arguments. But given the correspondences between the bhuwana
agung and the bhuwana alit in Balinese mystical philosophy, I have little doubt that, as my
most knowledgeable Balinese informants assure me, the same general principles apply.
 
Another pictorial representation of this cosmic dynamic is found in Balinese paintings
of Pemutaran Mandara Giri, which depicts the churning of the oceans to obtain tirta amerta,
the water of life.'°' A line drawing based on Kamasan-style painting of the story is shown
in Figure 6. The mountain, which is also the Siwa lingam, is being turned in the ocean by
the combined efforts of the gods and demons. The naga Basuki is being used as a rope tied
around the mountain/lingam that is being pulled in one direction by the gods (pradaksina)
and in the opposite direction by the demons (prasawya). Both forces are necessary to keep
the mountain turning. As the mountain turns, so eventually emerges the water of life, tirta
amerta. The sexual symbolism is also evident: the lingam moving in the yoni, Siwa and Sakti
united, the beginning of new phase of emission. In this context, the gods and the demons
 
130
 
===PDFPAGE 141===
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Figure 6. Pemutaran Mandara Giri, ink on paper, by I Gusti Nyoman Mirdiana.
 
===PDFPAGE 142===
[ CHAPTER 5 ]
 
need to be understood—not as forces of good and evil, which a Christian perspective would
lead us to expect—but as the pure and impure realms, or spirit and matter. Both are neces-
sary to create life in the world. Indeed life comes about only when matter is infused with
spirit. Since this is in essence the theme of the temple festival, Budiana explained that paint-
ings of Pemutaran Mandara Giri are often displayed in the temple during this time. For the
same reason, the story of Pemutaran Mandara Giri is also a popular subject for wayang kulit
performances held during temple festivals.
 
At this point we are beginning to appreciate the redundancy of ritual symbols. As
Freud observed of dream symbols, there are an infinite number of different symbols, but all
point to a few underlying themes.'°? Balinese religious symbolism is so profuse and so rich
in detail that the observer is easily mesmerized into thinking that each represents something
different—rather than realizing that the symbolic repertoire consists of countless variations
and embellishment on basic themes. Many Western attempts to understand Balinese religion
and ritual have, I believe, foundered on attempts to analyze the surface detail combined with
the assumption that all this burgeoning richness must be the result of a haphazard mixing
of cultures and traditions. From this perspective, there is no point in looking for some
underlying pattern of organizing ideas.
 
In contrast to this view, I have argued that Balinese mystical symbolism repeats, in end-
less variations, certain basic themes. The whole cosmos is moving and pulsating—up and
down, in and out—transforming from divine to demonic through meetings and marriages.
The aim of ritual is to bring about a balance between these dynamic forces and energies. Thus
it is not surprising that Balinese try to explain to Westerners that they seek to achieve har-
mony in the cosmos. Yet this is not a reflection of a divine harmony—quite the contrary.
Ritual seeks to bring dynamic forces into balance, a goal that can only be achieved through
constant efforts to bring counterbalancing powers to meet, to fuse, and to give rise to new
life. To stop the movement of the universe would mean death and a return to the void. Ritual
aims to keep the movements of the material world within certain limits by reabsorbing dan-
gerous energies, before they spiral down out of control, and bringing them back closer to
their pure origins. When the two meet, a momentary balance is achieved: the two opposites,
spirit and matter, fuse and give rise to new life. The movement downward then begins again.
 
The Balinese universe, like the classic Hindu view described by O’Flaherty and Davis,
is one of pulsing oscillations, of swings between wild energy and quiescence. This movement
is not simply cyclical; it represents the incessant dynamic flow of cosmic forces. The universe
is a divine play of opposing forces, drawn together by desire, united into one, exploding
forth into new forces and entities, in endless succession. The universe is brought forth by
the erotic play of Siwa and Sakti, ever drawn together, ever drawn apart, now creative, now
destructive, now demonic, now divine.
 
Balance and harmony are not inherent in the Balinese cosmos; they are what human
ritual strives to achieve: a balance between the processes of emission and reabsorption in an
ever-fluctuating and dynamic universe.
 
132
 
===PDFPAGE 143===
[ CHAPTER 6 ]
Visualizing Pure Realms
FOR TOO LONG Western scholarship has helped to perpetuate views of Balinese
religion that fail to do justice to its mystical insights and spiritual practices, to its
degree of conceptual organization, and to its closeness to the central concepts of
classic Hinduism. New and very different views are now beginning to emerge from
the work of numerous scholars, including philologists, anthropologists, and histo-
rians. This book has argued the view that rather than fixed hierarchies, harmony,
and balance, Balinese cosmology can be better understood in terms of transforma-
tions, ambivalences, and dynamic cycles of desire and destruction—that far from
being primarily an “orthopraxy,” Balinese religion encompasses important streams
of mystical thought including the inner, spiritual discipline of various yogic prac-
tices. I have further argued that Hindu concepts are not merely a thin veneer, or only
one of many strands of thought making up Balinese religion, but instead permeate
all levels of Balinese religious life. I have drawn attention as well to the value of a
more nuanced approach to Indian Hinduism, especially Tantrism, in informing our
understanding of Balinese religion. And, finally, I have pointed to classic Shivaitic
Tantric ideas as a conceptual basis for the vast diversity of Balinese ritual practice.
133
 
===PDFPAGE 144===
[ CHAPTER 6 ]
 
Certainly much more work is needed to fully flesh out and confirm—or refute—the argu-
ments presented here. With respect to ritual, I have dealt mainly with the dewa yadnya, the
bhuta yadnya, and calendrical observances. What of the pitra, manusa, and resi yadnya—the
sacrifices for ancestors, human beings, and teachers and sages? Can the same arguments be
applied to them?’ My most knowledgeable Balinese sources assure me the same principles
apply. Furthermore, Leo Howe's detailed ethnography of the manusa and pitra yadnya
identifies cyclic cosmological notions that appear to be closely related to my arguments con-
cerning emanation and reabsorption.* To do justice to the topic, however, would require new
ethnographic and textual data—and another book to describe it. Then there is the question
of the textual sources. The Balinese tutur literature, alone, remains a vast, largely unexplored
source. C. Hooykaas’ pioneering efforts have resulted in many key texts being made available,
but his translations are now in need of reassessment, for his interpretations are sometimes
based on misunderstanding of basic Balinese concepts. I mean no disrespect to Hooykaas,
whose groundbreaking work has been of the greatest importance to me. Like all scholars of
Balinese religion, I owe him a great debt and have drawn extensively on his work through-
out this book.
 
There is the further need to combine ethnographic observation of the rituals with
textual evidence and with expert Balinese elucidation of both text and action. In the past,
philologists studying texts and anthropologists observing ritual action in the field have usu-
ally worked separately. Undoubtedly textual scholars observed rituals and anthropologists
consulted texts, but comparatively few have attempted to integrate the two. Now, however,
there are various studies exploring new ways to achieve this integration.’ A large part of the
argument presented in this book has been based on relating textual material to observations
of ritual in action. I hope I have demonstrated the value of such an approach, yet at the same
time I recognize the limitations of my engagement with the texts. I have only skimmed the
surface of the relevant material, much of which still awaits systematic study by philologists.
 
An equally pressing need is to place Balinese religion more accurately within the gen-
eral traditions of Hinduism. This book has drawn many parallels between Balinese and
Indian mythology, mysticism, and ritual practice as well as the basic philosophical principles
underlying them. If the first wave of European scholarship was inclined to overestimate
Indian influence in Bali and in Indonesia generally, the effort to redress the balance by the
next generation of scholars was overcompensating. Textual scholars, it seems, were inclined
to assume that because the Indonesian texts were couched in less than perfect Sanskrit (in
what has been called rather condescendingly “Archipelago Sanskrit’’), the philosophical con-
cepts of Hinduism must have been equally bowdlerized. This impression of a naive borrow-
ing and an unsophisticated syncretism of foreign and indigenous elements was, of course,
only likely to be confirmed by actual observations of the overwhelming complexity of Bali-
nese ritual life. In the view of many of these Western scholars, Balinese only thought they
were Hindus.* Balinese had clearly strayed too far from the letter of the book still to be
Hindu. What this view did not sufficiently appreciate, of course, is that for Hinduism there
is no book. Western scholars of the time possessed a limited understanding of Hinduism—
one that had yet to come to terms with the philosophical nature of Tantrism and yet to pay
attention to popular Hinduism in India and its varied ritual expressions.
 
A central theme of this book has been that Balinese Hinduism is a unique cultural
expression, or local variant, of Hinduism emphasizing mystical understanding arising from
 
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[ Visualizing Pure Realms ]
 
Shivaitic Tantrism. The issue for the future, I believe, is to what extent Balinese religion (and
Javo-Balinese religion) is a departure from classic Hindu ideas and to what extent its myth-
ology, mysticism, and ritual are a unique creation. This is a direction in which textual
scholars are already taking the lead.” It involves not pushing the Hindu parallels aside as
irrelevant, as in the recent past, but paying new attention to them. I believe it is only by
developing deeper and more subtle appreciation of Hinduism as a system of thought that
Western and Indonesian scholars will come to understand the deeper reaches of Balinese reli-
gious thought.
 
It is important, too, that Balinese Hinduism be appreciated in its own right as a uniquely
beautiful cultural expression of profound mystical and spiritual truths. In this book I have
argued that a core of mystical beliefs provides an underlying pattern of significance to public
ritual. I have pointed to the correspondence between the public rituals and the rituals per-
formed in the inner concentration of priests and other adepts. The “thrilling mystery of the
marriage of fire and water,’® I believe, is indeed the central mystery of Balinese Hinduism
and the template of ritual practice. If this view is correct, then what we encounter in Bali
may be a whole culture organized according to the mystical insights of Shivaism.
 
In a recent study Stephen Lansing has come close to this position in identifying a “cos-
mic map” that regulates flows of energy in the inner and outer world.’ Barbara Lovric has
presented an ingenious interpretation linking the well-known legend of Nirartha with the
practices of kundalini yoga and a trance possession ritual (Sanghyang Bungbung), thus
demonstrating a clear correspondence between rituals performed for the group (Sanghyang
Bungbung) and rituals performed in the inner concentration of the individual (kundalini
yoga).® Raechelle Rubinstein’s recent work on Tantric influences in Balinese kekawin litera-
ture demonstrates the ways in which the mystical understandings of the yogin are translated
into cultural forms to influence and shape the daily lives of ordinary people according to
these deep principles. Laypersons do not need explicitly stated beliefs or doctrine; simply
by following the rituals prescribed for everyday life, they act in harmony with the cosmos.
This is much more than acting in a moral or ethical manner. It means nothing less than to
be in harmony with the erotic flow and play of the universe: Jalita.
 
Certainly the evidence presented in this book demonstrates that there is a much greater
correspondence between the written Brahmana traditions and the actual performance of
household and temple ritual than has been recognized, or even contemplated, by most
Western scholars. The rituals are not simply ad hoc growths that perpetuate themselves willy
nilly; they are coordinated with the dual cosmic processes of emanation and reabsorption
described in Chapter 5. What we find in Bali may not be paralleled precisely by the teach-
ings of any identifiable sect of Shivaism today or in the past. Yet it is an organized vision
reflecting the efforts of sages and priests to shape a consistent worldview. Undoubtedly it
involves a mixture of different elements (like Freud’s “dream work” or Obeyesekere’s “work
of culture”).° Nevertheless, it is a consistent, crafted pattern—not the layers of evolutionary
development, with animism at the broad base and Hinduism at the narrow apex, as earlier
approaches would have it.
 
What might be the origins of such a unified vision?’° Has it existed from the earliest
times when Hindu teachings were first introduced to Bali? Or has it developed gradually in
situ? Or does it represent a new unified philosophy brought at some specific time to Bali and
deliberately propagated there? The Balinese myth of the demonic king Mayadenawa, for
 
135
 
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[ CHAPTER 6 ]
 
example, might refer to a time of reform when this new vision was incorporated into Bali-
nese life. Or perhaps the story of the coming of the sage Nirartha to Bali marks its intro-
duction. Or it may date from the arrival of the Javanese Majapahit dynasty in Bali in the
fifteenth century. Majapahit kings and ministers needed to impose a new order on their Bali-
nese subjects; presumably they, and their priests, sought to spread their own doctrines and
rituals." The Bali Aga (people inhabiting the mountain regions), located in more remote
areas, might perhaps have continued to maintain earlier forms of social and religious organ-
ization. Yet archaeological and epigraphic evidence of the presence of Buddhist and Shivaitic
Tantrism in Bali dates from as early as the eighth century ApD,’* and much of it has been found
in the mountain regions occupied by the Bali Aga.’* Furthermore, evidence of direct contacts
between Bali and India go back much earlier to the beginning of the first century AD at
least.‘* My aim is not to resolve these historical questions of origins but only to raise them
with respect to the unified view of Balinese religion that I am proposing.
 
The different levels of understanding that Balinese themselves have of their own reli-
gion must be taken into account. Clearly one cannot reconstruct esoteric doctrines by ques-
tioning only laity or uneducated priests. What picture of Catholicism might emerge from an
anthropological description based solely on a village congregation of peasant farmers and
their parish priest? If there are at least three basic levels of Balinese understanding —those
who perform the rituals (the ordinary people), those who are responsible for guiding their
actions (the village leaders and village priests), and those who understand the mystical
meanings expressed in the ritual action (the educated scholars and Brahmana priests who
are able to read the sacred texts)—then clearly it is the third group that we must consult if
the underlying principles are to be understood.'” The view of an essentially Brahmana elite
of scholars is important not because it is an elite but because it possesses an understanding
of the philosophic and mystical principles that underlie Balinese religious practice as a whole.
 
This is not a matter of the common people and the Brahmana elite following essentially
different religions, as some Western scholars have asserted.'° The point is that intellectual
understandings are largely irrelevant to ordinary people.'’ Budiana, Mirdiana, and many
others have often stressed to me that Balinese approach religious matters primarily through
“feeling.”'* Howe's extensive ethnography, based on information provided by ordinary
villagers, further convinces me that the views I have described here are part of a cultural logic
that permeates in some way all levels of Balinese thought.’? Indeed it is this assumptive world
that most people never question or strive to articulate. The important thing for Balinese is
that they participate in ritual actions that are designed to bring about the desired alignment
with the flow of cosmic and spiritual forces to which all are subject. It is the resi, the sages,
who determined what these rituals were—or the Tri Semaya themselves if we look to the
mythology—and showed human beings how to carry them out. From this perspective, every
movement of Balinese life might be seen to be choreographed, as it were, according to the
sages’ mystic visions of inner spiritual truths.
 
Persuaded by prevailing Western views that Balinese practices represent a garbled or
naive view of Hinduism, many Balinese intellectuals have turned to India for guidance in
reforming and modernizing their religion.”° Paradoxically, from the perspective argued in
this book, it may well be that what we find in Bali represents not only a unique cultural
expression of the mystic traditions of Shivaitic Tantrism but even a purer version of it—in
 
136
 
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[ Visualizing Pure Realms ]
the sense of closer to its original sources—since up to the present Bali has experienced far
less external pressure for change and reform than India, and for centuries religion in Bali was
left to follow its own course.
 
Bali, even today, represents a kind of living miracle (although not necessarily a paradise)
where a deep metaphysical understanding of an inner world has been projected onto an
external world and become a plan for everyday living. At this point it might be thought that
having rejected them at the outset, Iam now invoking stereotypical images of Balinese culture,
especially those promoted in the tourist literature of an island paradise, or falling back on
earlier notions of a hierarchical cosmic order projected onto the mundane realm, or perpet-
uating Clifford Geertz’s view of Balinese culture as aesthetic performance. Such is certainly
not my intention, yet each of these views holds an element of truth. They point to an in-
definable quality that pervades Balinese life—a sense, a feeling, that whatever might be the
ugly realities and banalities of daily existence, somehow a vision of a pure realm is brought
into being through ritual performance, a vision distilled from the very chaos and ugliness
that surrounds us. This unique quality, which continues to permeate and imbue the forms
of everyday life, is in my view the secret of the enduring fascination Balinese culture holds
for the modern world.
 
Along with ritual, Balinese art is one of the key means of realizing this vision. The role
of the Balinese artist is to give concrete form to insights and intuitions about the pure realm:
to grasp the nature of a hidden reality. Artists express their individual perceptions, shaped
through their personal histories and characters, of an ultimate reality transcending the
self—yet which is to be found within it. Art seeks to realize the world of the spirit, the pure
realm beyond the impure realm of physical existence. Or, rather, the Balinese artist seeks to
bring about meetings between these two realms, just as Balinese ritual aims to do.
 
If we, the products of an overly rationalized, secularized, and commercialized age, can-
not participate in this achievement as religion, we can respect it and honor it as art and thus
enrich our own spirits. The metaphysical complexity and spiritual richness of Balinese
Hinduism as it is lived today we have encountered in the paintings of Budiana and Mirdiana.
Many of Mirdiana’s images are grotesque and monstrous, yet his paintings are imbued with
a soft, clear light and a shining purity. For all their dynamic movement, they convey a sense
of discipline—of physical energy being transformed into a contemplative consciousness. In
the monstrous and terrible, Mirdiana finds a potential for exquisite beauty and spiritual
refinement. Thus he points to one of the great central truths and mysteries of Balinese
Hinduism. Budiana emphasizes the cosmic movement downward, whereby the spiritually
pure and refined becomes material and coarse, finally to degenerate into monstrous, destruc-
tive forces. He focuses on the mystery that this degeneration is inherent in the very nature
of the divine creativity that gives rise to the material world. Budiana immerses himself—and
us—in the horror while at the same time hinting at a divine potential to return again to pure
origins. In this time of Kali Yuga, over which the destructive principle reigns, it is only
natural that Budiana’s paintings impact upon Western sensibilities: his works speak to our
troubled times. Together the works of Budiana and Mirdiana reveal to us cycles of cosmic
creation and destruction that form the very core of Balinese mysticism and the central
dynamic of Balinese ritual life.
 
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===PDFPAGE 149===
Notes
 
INTRODUCTION
 
1. See Vickers (1989) for a lively history of the engagement of the West with Bali; see also Picard (1996).
 
2. Barth (1993, 217-220) gives a clear description of the “decentered” nature of Balinese Hinduism
today, particularly as compared with Islam.
 
3. According to Coedés (1968, 129), epigraphic evidence dating from the eighth and ninth centuries
AD reveals that by this time there existed “an Indo-Balinese society that was independent of Java,
used a dialect peculiar to the island, and practiced Buddhism and Sivaism at the same time.” See
also Kempers (1991, 34-38) for a discussion of this evidence. More recent archaeological evidence
indicates that direct contacts between India and Bali were taking place early in the Christian era
(Ardika and Bellwood 1991).
 
4. Since each of these assumptions is examined in detail in Chapter 1, I will not locate them in the
literature at this point. See Stuart-Fox (1992) for a comprehensive bibliography of the scholarly
literature on Bali published from 1920 to 1990.
 
5. Lovric (1987, 8-9) has drawn attention to a “straitjacket” of assumptions that has strangled Western
understanding of Balinese religion. Specifically she challenges Western ideas that Balinese cosmol-
ogy is structured according to binary oppositions in the form of dualism such as gods and demons,
good and evil, mountain and sea; that the sea is the source of evil and disease; that many major
periodic and seasonal rituals are concerned with agricultural fertility and represent thanksgiving
for good harvests; and that there exists a popular peasant culture significantly different from “an
elite scriptural one of the ruling gentry.” The arguments presented in the following chapters sup-
port her four points. One might add that university-educated Balinese scholars today are themselves
still struggling within this same straitjacket in an effort to formulate their own understanding in
ways comprehensible to foreign scholars. See also Picard (1999, 40-41) for a discussion of the
 
139
 
===PDFPAGE 150===
[ Notes to Pages 3-11 ]
reaction of Balinese intellectuals in the 1920s and 1930s to foreign opinion that Balinese religion
in fact owed little to Hinduism.
 
6. My fieldwork was carried out over three years beginning in 1996 and ending in 1999. I am grate-
ful to the Lembaga Ilmu Penelitihan Indonesia for sponsoring the research and to the Australian
Research Grants Council for a grant that provided funding for this period.
 
7. Howe (2001, 1).
 
8. Ibid.
 
9. Rubinstein (2000, 3) deals elegantly with the problem of referring to a “traditional” Bali—observ-
ing that it cannot be delimited by dates but rather constitutes “a set of nineteenth century or
earlier cultural values,” pockets of which can still be found today alongside “modern Bali.”
 
CHAPTER 1: DEFINING BALINESE MYSTICISM
 
1. See, for example, Covarrubias (1994, 260, 275), Swellengrebel (1960, 36ff), Gonda (1975, 42), and
Kempers (1991, 57-58). Clifford Geertz (1980, 102) makes a classic statement of this view: ‘The state
cult was not a cult of the state. It was an argument, made over and over again in the insistent vocab-
ulary of ritual, that worldly status has a cosmic base, that hierarchy is the governing principle of
the universe, and that the arrangements of human life are but approximations, more close or less,
to those of the divine.” Recent views along the same lines include Eiseman (1990, 2-10), Lansing
(1995, 23f£), and Hobart et al. (1996, 98-99). In opposition to such views, Lovric (1987, 9, 48ff) has
drawn attention to various misleading assumptions perpetuated in the scholarly literature and has
argued extensively against the established view concerning cosmological order and binary oppo-
sitions. Hildred Geertz (1994; 1995) has challenged old stereotypes about hierarchy and order, as
well, stressing the importance of transformations of powers.
 
2. See Vickers (1996), Rubinstein and Connor (1999), and Vickers et al. (2000).
 
3. M. Hobart (1999, 268).
 
4. See Stephen (1995).
 
5. This information, drawn from a wide range of different sources including interviews, field obser-
vations, and Balinese texts, has been examined in three earlier articles (Stephen 2001; 2002; n.d.).
 
6. See Forge (1978), Djelantik (1990, 11-26), Couteau (1999, 42ff), and Ramseyer (2002, 60-64).
 
7. Couteau (1999, 35) ina recent catalog of the Museum Puri Lukisan collection includes Budiana as
a representative of the “post—Pita Maha Ubud School” but also comments on the “modern dimen-
sion” of his works.
 
8. I Gusti Ketut Kobot and I Gusti Made Barat; see Djelantik (1990, 31-32) and Couteau (1999, 28,
65).
 
9. There is now a growing and important literature concerning the impact of foreign influences on
Balinese art and culture. See, for example, Vickers (1989), H. Geertz (1994), Picard (1996), Haks et
al. (1999), and Couteau (1999).
 
10. The religious nature of traditional Balinese art is well established; see Forge (1978), H. Geertz
(1994), Couteau (1999), and Ramseyer (2002).
 
11. Pers. comm., Drs. I Nyoman Suarka, Fakultas Sastra, University of Udayana, Bali.
 
12. Picard’s (1999) study of “Kebalian,” Balinese identity, suggests that such metaphors have evolved
out of a dialogue among the emerging Balinese elite rather than from indigenous Balinese concepts.
See also Howe (2001, 8). Nevertheless, the idea preserves something of the traditional sense of the
indivisibility of realms that have only recently become conceptually separate.
 
13. Barth (1993, 191-220).
 
14. Ibid., 219.
 
15. Ibid., 217.
 
16. Picard (1999, 40).
 
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===PDFPAGE 151===
[ Notes to Pages 11-14 ]
 
17. Ibid., go-41.
 
18. Direct evidence of Hinduism and Buddhism in Bali, in the form of inscriptions on clay and stone,
dates from the eighth century AD (Ramseyer 2002, 35-36). See also Swellengrebel (1960, 18-19)
and Kempers (1991, 33-49). But archaeological evidence indicates that direct contacts between Bali
and India were already occurring at the beginning of the Christian era (Ardika and Bellwood 1991,
231).
 
19. Kempers (1991, 33); a similar view is expressed by Bellwood (1997, 139).
 
20. Covarrubias (1994, 261).
 
21. See, for example, Swellengrebel (1960, 29-30) and C. Hooykaas (1973p, 1).
 
22. The diverse nature of what has come to be called “Hinduism” in India often seems to be forgot-
ten by scholars of Balinese Hinduism. See Dalmia and von Stietencron (1995) for a collection of
essays describing the multiple constructions of Hinduism as part of ongoing dialogues of national
and political identity and modernization in India. Howe's (2001) recent study of religious change
in Bali provides a much more nuanced picture showing how Balinese religious reformists selected
particular strands of contemporary Hinduism in India as the basis of their reforms.
 
23. See Soebadio (1971, 8). See also Phalgunadi (1991) for a recent attempt by a university-trained Bali-
nese scholar to assess the relationship between Indian and Balinese culture.
 
24. C. Hooykaas (1973b, 1); Couteau (1999, 7).
 
25. See, for example, H. Geertz (1994, 31).
 
26. Swellengrebel (1960, 28); Lansing (1995, 67); Bellwood (1997, 139).
 
27. Balinese kinship terminology suggests that reincarnation is more likely to be expected at the level
of great-grandchild, since the terms for great-grandfather and great-grandchild are the same—
kumpi. In the actual examples that people related to me, however, the person in question was
thought to be reincarnated in his grandchild. In other cases, much more distant ancestors were
involved. Thus the emphasis in practice is not simply on the great-grandchild.
 
28. Huntington and Metcalf (1979, 85-87).
 
29. H. Geertz (1994, 2).
 
30. Writing more than forty years ago, Swellengrebel (1960, 74) referred to an “overestimation” of the
contribution of Hinduism to Balinese culture in general. His generation of scholars did their best
to counteract such an emphasis.
 
31. Boon (1977; 1990); C. Geertz (1980); Lansing (1983); and Howe (1980; 2001).
 
32. Howe (2001, 1).
 
33. Nihom (1994, 13).
 
34. Ibid., 15.
 
35. Creese (2001,13).
 
36. C. Geertz (1975, 177).
 
37. The following description is based on fieldwork I carried out—mainly in the Gianyar, Ubud, region
of Bali—from 1996 to 1999 as part of the ethnographic study of Balinese concepts of dreaming
referred to earlier.
 
38. See C. Hooykaas (1975, 251).
 
39. Howe (2001, 148) points to such ideas as characteristic of the reformist views propagated by the
Parisada Hindu Dharma. In my view, ideas concerning offerings and other religious symbols “as
outward and material signs of inner feelings” (ibid.) are present in older mystical texts and repre-
sent a degree of continuity with the past, although previously such understandings were not so
widely disseminated as they have been under the influence of the Parisada.
 
40. Picard (1999, 49) notes the many different names Balinese themselves have employed in a modern
context to refer to the highest source of spiritual power. These include Bhatara Siwa, Sang Hyang
Tunggal, Sang Hyang Suksma, Sang Hyang Widi, Sang Hyang Widi Wasa, Sang Hyang Widi Wisesa,
Sang Hyang Parama Wisesa, Tuhan, Tuhan Esa, Allah, and so forth. See also Ramseyer (2002, 91).
 
141
 
===PDFPAGE 152===
[ Notes to Pages 14-21 ]
 
41. Jensen and Suryani (1992, 108-109) note the feeling of inner peace Balinese women derive from
presenting offerings at the temple.
 
42. For general descriptions of the life-cycle rituals see Covarrubias (1994, 120-159), Eiseman (1990,
84-99), and Hobart et al. (1996, 101-126). A detailed account is given in Mershon (1971). The most
comprehensive and coherent anthropological account is given by Howe (1980).
 
43. The death rituals are described by Covarrubias (1994, 359-388), C. Hooykaas (1976), and Eiseman
(1990, 115-126). A detailed description is provided by Howe (1980, chap. 12).
 
44. See Goris (1960a, 85; 1960b) and Ramseyer (2002, 111-119).
 
45. See Belo (1953) and C. Hooykaas (1977) for detailed accounts of the temple festival.
 
46. Ramseyer (2002, 112-114).
 
47. The complex calendrical rituals are described by Covarrubias (1994, 277-287), Goris (1960c,
114-129), and Eiseman (1990, 182-190).
 
48. The different explanations of the identity of the Barong are discussed in detail in Stephen (2001).
The local political significance of Barongs has been revealed in MacRae’s (1998; 1999) detailed stud-
ies; his view is complementary to mine in that he focuses on the level of local and adat concerns
rather than mystical understandings. There are in fact not one but several kinds of Barong, a point
I return to in the next chapter.
 
49. Goris (1960c, 126-127).
 
50. Lovric (1987, 310-313).
 
51. Swellengrebel (1960, 41).
 
52. Lovric (1987, 332) argues on the basis of lontar texts that Nyepi is essentially a bhuta yadnya, or
sacrifice to the chthonic forces.
 
53. See Goris (1960c, 114-129) and Eiseman (1990, 172-192) for descriptions of the Balinese calendars.
 
54. See Eiseman (1990, 181-182).
 
55. Ibid., 185.
 
56. Howe (1980; 1983; 1984) and Lansing (1983; 1995), however, have provided comprehensive views.
 
57. M. Hobart (1985, 170).
 
58. See Covarrubias (1994, 320), C. Hooykaas (1978), Howe (1980; 1984), Lovric (1987, 230-267),
Wikan (1990), H. Geertz (1994, 49-95), and Stephen (n.d.).
 
59. See Stephen (n.d.).
 
60. H. Geertz (1994, 94, 126-127).
 
61. Ibid., 94.
 
62. See Korn (1960, 134-138), C. Hooykaas (1966), and Rubinstein (2000).
 
63. See C. Hooykaas (1973b, 11-18) for a description of the different kinds of priests.
 
64. See Belo (1960), Connor et al. (1986), and Suryani and Jensen (1993).
 
65. See Rubinstein (1996) for a description of Balinese /ontar and how they are made.
 
66. C. Hooykaas (1978, 2-3); Rubinstein (1996, 140-143).
 
67. Almost all balian usada, whose knowledge depends on studying the texts, are male.
 
68. Zurbuchen (1987, 60-61) and Rubinstein (2000, 42) stress the importance of oral instruction by a
teacher.
 
69. Barth (1993, 217).
 
70. See Stuart-Fox (1992, 353-358) for a bibliographic listing of published lontar texts; see under
“Hooykaas” for his extensive oeuvre.
 
71. See also Zurbuchen (1987, 50-63) and Rubinstein (2000, 39ff) for descriptions of the mystical qual-
ities attributed to texts and writing.
 
72. See, for example, Covarrubias (1994, 261) and Swellengrebel (1960, 64-65).
 
73. Swellengrebel (1960, 29).
 
74. Connor (1982).
 
75. Lovric (1987, 190-193).
 
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===PDFPAGE 153===
[ Notes to Pages 21-29 ]
 
76. See, for example, C. Geertz (1980), Vickers (1991), Wiener (1995), Schulte Nordholt (1991; 2000).
See Howe (2001,113-119) for a discussion of how kings and priests contested power in pre-
colonial Bali.
 
77. Zurbuchen (1987); Rubinstein (2000).
 
78. Zurbuchen (1987, 60-61).
 
79. Rubinstein (2000, 32ff).
 
80. Zurbuchen (1987); Rubinstein (2000).
 
81. Lovric (1987, 109-111), who worked mainly with healers and medical texts (usada), makes similar
points about access to esoteric texts.
 
82. Rubinstein (2000, 30).
 
83. Ibid., 38.
 
84. The literary sources of Balinese art in general are of course well known; see H. Geertz (1994, 6),
Couteau (1999, 9-10), and Ramseyer (2002, 60-64). Rubinstein (2000, 32) notes that the wood and
stone carvers (sangging) also have their own text in Kawi: the Dharma Pasanggingan.
 
85. See Howe (1983), Zurbuchen (1987, 44), and Rubinstein (2000, 24).
 
86. See also H. Geertz (1994, 32) and Couteau (1999, 10).
 
87. Ramseyer (2002, 9).
 
88. The Balinese term “sangging” is used to refer to “specialists in the art of drawing and painting”
(Ramseyer 2002, 60); “undagi” refers to architects. In my experience, such terms are used only
of those specialists attributed with esoteric knowledge derived from textual sources.
 
89. Ramseyer (2002, 10).
 
90. Pers. comm., Drs. I Nyoman Suarka, Fakultas Sastra, University of Udayana, Denpasar.
 
91. Ramseyer (2002, 9).
 
92. C. Geertz (1975, 170ff).
 
93. See Bakker (1993) and Picard (1999), Howe (2001); for religion in the school curriculum see
Parker (1992; 2000).
 
94. Howe (2001, 156-161).
 
95. Howe (2001, chaps. 8-9).
 
96. Barth (1993, 219).
 
97. Howe (2001, 93-108).
 
98. Ibid., 148-149.
 
99. See J. Hooykaas (1961, 276) and Soebadio (1971). Ramseyer (2002, 36) refers to archaeological evi-
dence of Tantrism in Bali as early as the eighth century AD.
 
100. H. Geertz (1994, 32).
 
101. C. Geertz (1975, 175).
 
102. Ibid., 174.
 
CHAPTER 2: FIRE, DESTRUCTION, AND THE POWER OF THE MOTHER
 
1. See Neka (1989, 57), Djelantik (1990, 70-71 and color pl. 15), Taylor (1991, 57-58), Kam (1993,
118-123), and Couteau (1999, 35, 71). Budiana’s works have been acquired by the Tropenmuseum,
Amsterdam; Museum of Ethnology, Berlin; Fukuoka Art Museum, Japan; Museum Puri Lukisan,
Ubud, Bali; Neka Museum, Ubud, Bali; Agung Rai Museum of Art, Ubud, Bali; Art Centre, Den-
pasar, Bali; and Rudana Museum, Ubud, Bali. A major exhibition of Budiana’s paintings was held
by the Tokyo Station Gallery, Japan, from 7 June to 21 July 2003. A superb full color catalog of
the exhibition, I Ketut Budiana: Illusory View from the Balinese Spiritual Cosmos, illustrating more
than sixty of his paintings, was published by the gallery. The themes I identify in this book can
be followed through the numerous works illustrated in the catalog and I recommend it to all who
would like to see more of Budiana’s rich oeuvre.
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[ Notes to Pages 30-37 ]
 
2. Budiana evidently represents a classic example of the vocational literacy described by Rubinstein
(2000, 32), as discussed in the previous chapter. In a recent catalog of Budiana’s painting (Tokyo
Station Gallery 2003, 14), Jean Couteau stresses, as I do, that Budiana’s imagery owes little to “the
subconscious” as such. Rather they “are coded works, which cannot be fully appreciated with-
out a good knowledge of the symbols, narratives and philosophy that feed them with meaning.”
 
3. See C. Hooykaas (1980) for a collection of rarajahan drawn from Balinese /ontar texts.
 
4, The Balinese lontar texts are written in several languages. The majority are in Kawi (a mixture of
Old Javanese, Middle Javanese, and Javanese-Balinese); some employ a literary High Balinese;
others are in Sanskrit or incorporate Sanskrit passages (Rubinstein 1996, 138).
 
5. My discussions with Budiana took place in Indonesian; he uses many Balinese terms, however, as
there are often no effective translations of basic concepts. Budiana is able to read and write Kawi
and Balinese.
 
6. That such ideas are not confined to artists or literati but are well known to ordinary villagers is
clearly supported by Howe's detailed ethnography (1980; 1983; 1984), where many parallels can
be found with the themes Budiana develops. The importance of Ibu Pretiwi in Balinese cosmo-
logical ideas is emphasized by Howe (1980, 167ff), who also observes that a shrine to Ibu Pretiwi
occupies the most sacred location in house temples in villages in the Gianyar region (pp. 72-74).
Howe explores at length the connection between popular and mythological ideas concerning
rice, gold, material riches and the earth, and mother goddesses, such as Ibu Pretiwi, Dewi Sri, and
Dewi Uma (pp. 169-179), all of which resonate strongly with the ideas expressed in Budiana’s
paintings, although Howe’s information is based on the opinions of ordinary villagers and obser-
vations of ritual performance.
 
7. For an example see Covarrubias (1994, 323).
 
8. Lovric (1987, 257), describing similar ideas about perceived female power, notes that women are
considered to be more sakti because they menstruate, thus clearly indicating a link between men-
strual blood and mystical power.
 
9. See H. Geertz (1994, 81, 83-85; 1995) for a discussion of problems in defining the term “sakti.”
 
10. C. Hooykaas (1976, 49). See also Kam (1993, 118-123) for a detailed discussion of the esoteric sym-
bolism of fire and water in another painting by Budiana.
 
11. Howe (1980, 187, 252-253) describes identical concepts based, not on textual material, but on the
opinion of ordinary villagers. Lovric (1987, 79, 81), on the basis of medical texts (lontar usada),
describes the same concepts. These Balinese concepts seem to have many resonances with Indian
Tantric ideas about body substances, especially sexual fluids, as described by White (1996, 4-6).
 
12. Budiana’s demons bear a remarkable resemblance to the strange faces and forms of the fifteenth-
century Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch. See, for example, Schwartz (1997, 7-8, 65, 70-72).
 
13. Lovric (1987, 253) observes that Durga has assumed all three roles of the Trimurti (Brahma, Wisnu,
and Siwa) in Bali and that she is “the creator, the destroyer and the protector.”
 
14. Witches are usually depicted balancing on one leg; see H. Geertz (1994, 72-73) for a series of paint-
ings of a woman transforming herself into a leyak. C. Hooykaas (1980, 61, 77, 125, 163, 200) pro-
vides several line figures based on Balinese talismanic drawings of /eyak and their mistress, Durga,
dancing on one foot.
 
15. See also Lovric (1987, 63). I have discussed this issue at some length elsewhere (Stephen 2001,
170-177; 2002, 73-77):
 
16. See, for example, Howe (1980, 224-236), Stuart-Fox (1982, 29), Lansing (1983,140; 1995, 34-35),
Lovric (1987, 132-140), Eiseman (1990, 6, 11), and H. Geertz (1994, 31-32).
 
17. Lansing (1983,140).
 
18. M. Hobart (1985, 178).
 
19. Ibid.
 
20. Howe (1980, 220ff).
 
144
 
===PDFPAGE 155===
[ Notes to Pages 37-41 ]
 
21. Zoetmulder (1982, 278).
 
22. Zoetmulder (1982, 767) gives “wicked, evil, base” as the first meaning of “kala’”—which at first
glance seems to fit well with conventional notions of the bhuta kala. But Zoetmulder questions
whether the word is an adjective describing the nature of demons or whether it refers to a class
of demons. He does not, in fact, offer the latter meaning as a clearly established one.
 
23. Ibid., 768.
 
24. Howe (1980; 1984) has described at length the different categories of persons and spirit beings
based upon this threefold distinction.
 
25. The names and stages of development of the kanda empat vary according to different Jontar texts.
See C. Hooykaas (1974, 93-128) for extensive comments and translations of texts relating to the
four spiritual siblings.
 
26. See Howe (1980, 260-261).
 
27. For a detailed discussion of banas see Stephen (2001, 159-163). Bosch (1994, 67) notes that in the
Indian literature the banyan tree, the Javanese and Balinese waringin, is referred to as “vanaspati”
(lord of the forest). In Balinese texts, Banaspati Raja (king of the lords of the forest) is the name of
one of the kanda empat and the Barong Ketket. This suggests a possible classic Indian element in
the Balinese conceptualization of the powers of great trees, referred to as “banas’”—an idea that
might otherwise be simply interpreted as indicative of indigenous animism in Balinese thought.
See also Zoetmulder (1982, 201), who gives this possible meaning of “banaspati”: “big tree (‘lord
of the forest’?).”
 
28. Zoetmulder (1982, 789).
 
29. See Bosch (1994) on the importance of plant symbolism generally in Javanese and Balinese
mysticism.
 
30. C. Hooykaas (1974, 105-106, 111, 115-116) tabulates the elaborate classification systems attached
to the kanda empat. The Balinese directions, as many writers have pointed out, do not in fact cor-
relate with the points of the Western compass except in southern Bali. The four basic Balinese
directions are kangin (in the direction of sunrise), kelod (in the direction of the sea), kauh (in the
direction of sunset), and kaja (in the direction of the mountains).
 
31. For Balinese, witches are not so much a matter of belief as a matter of cultural logic. The intractable
jealousies and rivalries that dominate the life of the Balinese extended family are couched in witch-
craft idiom. When people become sick, when babies die, witchcraft used by a family member is
seen as the cause. Although witches are commonly thought to be female, witchcraft is not exclu-
sively the prerogative of women. These beliefs are not a thing of the past; in my experience, they
are a very present reality for most Balinese. Wikan (1990) has provided a detailed study of the
important influence of beliefs in witchcraft and sorcery in contemporary Balinese life. See also
Howe (1984) and Stephen (n.d.).
 
32. Durga’s mythic role as the originator of human witchcraft is discussed in Stephen (2002, 82-86).
See also Chapter 3 of this book.
 
33. This monster resembles the makara monster familiar in Javanese and Balinese art (Bosch 1994,
20-22).
 
34. See A. Hobart (1987, pl. 31) for an illustration of the kakayonan.
 
35. Rawson (1973, 45).
 
36. The equivalence of birth and death in Balinese cosmological understanding is emphasized by Howe
(1980, 176).
 
37. This sudang coffin form might also be linked to the makara monster.
 
38. The centrality of such ideas in Balinese cosmological notions in general has been demonstrated
by Howe (1980, 170, 252).
 
39. Rubinstein (2000) has recently drawn attention to the prominence of similar erotic themes in Bali-
nese kekawin literature. I will return to these parallels in Chapter 4.
 
145
 
===PDFPAGE 156===
[ Notes to Pages 41-44 ]
 
40. The metaphorical linking of warfare and eroticism is a well-known literary device in Old Javanese
kekawin poetry. See Supomo (2000).
 
41. Red and white are also the colors of the Indonesian flag. Some Balinese give a mystical significance
to this parallel, but I do not think Budiana is making any kind of political comment in his paint-
ing.
 
42. Kinsley (1986, 120 and pl. 121) observes that in Indian iconography Kali is almost always shown
as dominant; when depicted in sexual intercourse with Shiva, she is shown above him. I am not
suggesting here a historical source but rather a thematic similarity between the Balinese and the
Indian conceptualizations of male and female dominance and their consequences.
 
43. This painting suggested to me the myth of the creation of the bhuta kala—all the dangerous, dis-
ruptive forces in the world. According to one myth (discussed in detail in the next chapter), the
bhuta kala were created when the god Siwa and his wife Uma descended to earth in terrible form
as Durga and Siwa Kala. Uma transformed into the Panca Durga or Five Durgas and then was met
in each of the five directions (north, south, east, west, and center) by Siwa Kala, giving rise to
hordes of bhuta kala in each direction. When I asked Budiana if his painting could be understood
in this way, he agreed it could since the bhuta kala were engendered in a situation where the fem-
inine material aspect of creation predominated, as represented in not one but five terrible god-
desses. But his intention, he explained, was not to depict the myth but rather any situation in
which matter predominates over spirit.
 
44, See Stephen (2001, 156-157 and nn. 3 and 8) for further discussion of the different kinds of
Barong and their significance. According to a Brahmana priest I consulted, four Barongs are sym-
bolically linked to the four directions: white in color, associated with the god Iswara, Siwa, and
the direction kangin (where the sun rises) is Barong Ketket; red in color, associated with the god
Brahma, and the direction toward the sea (kelod) is Barong Bangkal (Pig); yellow in color, associated
with the god Mahadewa, and the direction in which the sun sets (kauh) is Barong Mong (Tiger);
black in color, associated the god Wisnu, and the direction of the mountains (kaja) are Barong Lan-
dung (a pair of giant human figures, one male and one female). From this perspective the Barong
figures are emanations, or lower forms, of the gods of the four directions, and thus ultimately all
are emanations of Siwa. It is Barong Ketket, however, who is explicitly linked to Siwa and paired
with Rangda in dance/dramas.
 
45. See Stephen (2001) for a detailed discussion of previous interpretations of Barong’s encounter with
Rangda.
 
46. The Phallic Mother, who combines the attributes and powers of both parents, is a well-known
figure in Western psychoanalytic literature (Rycroft 1977, 117). According to Klein (1994, 131-132)
this figure of the Phallic Mother or combined parents is one of the central psychic images in the
emotional development of the child, male or female. While it is not my intention in this book to
identify the unconscious sources of Budiana’s imagery, I think that this image of the mother with
a penis, which so far as I know does not have a Balinese cultural precedent, is a representation
drawn from the deep unconscious. Although such images might exist in the manuals of magic
drawings (rarajahan), I have not found any in the published sources.
 
47. Rycroft (1977, 123).
 
48. The role of the kris in the Balinese marriage ceremony clearly indicates its phallic significance: with
his kris the groom punctures a small mat on which the bride has just sat; in fact it is held by her
as he stabs it. The laughter of the audience that accompanies this action leaves no doubt that the
sexual meaning is explicitly recognized.
 
49. Once again, Howe (1980, 170, 188) cites similar concepts as central to Balinese cultural under-
standing.
 
50. These transformations, described in detail in Stephen (2002), are discussed in the following
chapter.
 
146
 
===PDFPAGE 157===
[ Notes to Pages 44-51 ]
 
51. The Tantra of the Great Liberation (Avalon 1972), a classic text of Indian Tantrism, identifies
Kundalini as Uma, or the power of Uma, Shiva’s spouse, in the human body.
 
52. The same word, with the same connotations of excessive attachment, exists in Old Javanese (Zoet-
mulder 1982, 2035).
 
53. That these ideas concerning the threefold potential of human beings are part of popular under-
standing is clearly established by Howe (1980; 1984).
 
54. Howe's (1980, 248-251) discussion of Balinese marriage rituals emphasizes how much effort is
devoted to removing animal and negative influences from the couple so that their purified union
will give rise to physically and morally superior offspring. Similar ideas clearly inform Budiana’s
depiction of the part-animal, part-human beings in Kasih Sayang (Plate 11).
 
55. See Stephen (2002, 73-82).
 
56. See Stephen (n.d.) for a discussion of the different attributions of supernatural power to women
and men. I argue that in practice women are identified as leyak whereas men are labeled as anak
sakti. Thus negative attributions of power fall usually on women, as they are associated with its
uncontrolled and dangerous aspects.
 
57. A. Hobart (1987, 138).
 
58. These cyclic themes expressed in Budiana’s works have been clearly identified by Howe (1980,
292ff) in the thought and ritual of ordinary Balinese.
 
CHAPTER 3: MYTHIC TRANSFORMATIONS OF DESIRE
 
1. For discussions of the wayang style see Djelantik (1990, 11-15), Couteau (1999, 9ff), and Ramseyer
(2002, 60-64).
 
2. The results of this research have been published in two journal articles (Stephen 2001; 2002).
 
3. The exhibition “The Riches of Balinese Art” was held at La Trobe Gallery in February 1999 and
curated by Rhonda Noble, who also arranged for the artists to visit Australia. Appreciating the
outstanding qualities of Mirdiana’s work, Professor Michael Osborne, the vice-chancellor, pur-
chased seven of Mirdiana’s paintings (including the dancing Ganesha referred to earlier) for the
university’s permanent art collection.
 
4. Schulte Nordholt (1991, 153) observes that in certain cases of political contestation, various cri-
teria, especially aesthetic considerations, are appealed to in order to establish which Jontar texts
have greater authority. My information does not challenge this observation; my point is that Bali-
nese generally seem open to different interpretations of a text or myth. Where specific interests
are at stake, the situation is evidently different.
 
5. Obeyesekere (1981, 77-78, 122-123).
 
6. Jung (1964, 61, 68); Henderson (1964, rorff).
 
7. In addition to ongoing discussions with Mirdiana as part of our work together, I also questioned
him specifically about each painting and tape-recorded his comments for this book. I will not ref-
erence each comment, however, as they derived from the same two interviews held in September
2001. Our discussions usually took place in English or a mixture of English, Indonesian, and Bali-
nese. Mirdiana’s ability to express himself fluently in English is evident. Indeed he is able to
communicate more directly to the reader than through my translation.
 
8. See Ramseyer (2002, pl. 53 and 56) for illustrations of Sutasoma stories painted on the ceilings of
the Kirta Gosa, Klungkung. Couteau (1999, 153-154) describes the Sutasoma stories as used by
Balinese artists. See Couteau (1999, 56) for an illustration of a painting by Ida Bagus Buda of Suta-
soma about to be devoured by the tiger.
 
9. Zoetmulder (1974, 342).
 
10. The Sutasoma story is summarized by Zoetmulder (1974, 329-341) and has been the subject of a
considerable scholarly literature by Old Javanese scholars including Ensink (1974; 1978), Santoso
 
147
 
===PDFPAGE 158===
[ Notes to Pages 52-59 ]
(1975), and O’Brien (1988-1989; 1990-1991; 1993; 2000). The Sutasoma story also forms part of the
repertoire of the shadow puppet theater (Hinzler 1981, 29; A. Hobart 1987, 47). In the present dis-
cussion, Iam concerned with Mirdiana’s interpretations of the limited oral version known to him—
not with the complex mystical meanings of the poem as discussed by Western scholars. Mirdiana
and I did not discuss the Sutasoma story with our Brahmana informants.
 
11. Howe (1980, 231), however, specifically notes that the purpose of the caru rituals directed to the
bhuta kala is not only to purify the area but also to “facilitate the reversion of the spirit to its divine
form.”
 
12. Anantabhoga is a mythological serpent known in Balinese, Old Javanese, and Indian mythology.
According to A. Hobart (1987, 47), “Antaboga” is a “snake god who lives in the seventh layer under
the earth.” See also Howe (1980, 166). The literary version of the Sutasoma story mentions at the
beginning a serpent that is not further identified (Zoetmulder 1974, 333); at the end of the story
Bhatara Kala transforms himself into a naga (p. 341). Thus it is Mirdiana’s personal interpretation
that the serpent in question is Anantabhoga.
 
13. The Balinese equation of serpents with the earth, gold, riches, and food—and thus the female
element or Ibu Pretiwi—is described by Howe (1980, 179), who further notes that Anantabhoga
means “abundance of food.” Lovric (1987, 90) refers to a Balinese story in which Brahma descended
to the earth during a time of famine as “a Naga Anantaboga (ananta meaning ‘endless,’ bhoga mean-
ing ‘sustenance’).” These accounts support Mirdiana’s identification of the serpent with the earth,
abundance, food, and nurture. Such things in Balinese thought are inherently female regardless
of whether Anantabhoga is referred to in other contexts as a male entity.
 
14. According to Zoetmulder (1982, 73, 250), “ananta” means in Sanskrit and Old Javanese “endless,
boundless, eternal” and “bhoga” denotes “enjoyment, eating; any object of enjoyment, food;
profit, utility, pleasure” (p. 250). Thus “Anantabhoga” might be translated as “boundless or end-
less pleasure.” Whether or not Western philologists agree with this rendition, it is one given by
Balinese—as Howe (1980, 179) and Lovric (1987, 90) confirm.
 
15. This is Mirdiana’s version based on stories told to him by his grandfather. The literary source
appears to be the Old Javanese kekawin known as the Smaradahana, which describes the birth of
Gana and his overcoming of the terrible demon Nilarudraka. In the literary version (Zoetmulder
1974, 294), the breaking of Gana’s left tusk is explained as the result of a blow from the demon’s
bajra (diamond weapon). This kekawin is included in the repertoire of the shadow puppet theater
(A. Hobart 1987, 47), which is probably the source of Mirdiana’s story.
 
16. Mirdiana himself had experienced the tooth filing ceremony shortly before painting this picture,
which is perhaps why it was so prominent in his mind at the time.
 
17. Hinzler (1981, 158-162); A. Hobart (1987, 32-33).
 
18. A. Hobart (1987).
 
19. Ibid., 32-33.
 
20. See A. Hobart (1987, pl. 7).
 
21. If this talk about finding what you need inside yourself seems to have a distinctly modern ring
about it, we need to recall that this is precisely the meaning of the mystical concepts of the great
world (bhuwana agung) and the little world (bhuwana alit): all that is contained in the external
world is contained in the self.
 
22. Pott (1966, 122-123) has drawn attention to the mystical significance of this myth: in his view, a diffi-
cult journey is used to symbolize the internal yogic process of attaining supreme spiritual insight.
 
23. A. Hobart (1987, 103) notes this is the symbol of Bima, Hanuman the monkey god, and Bayu, god
of the wind. Bayu is the father of both Bima and Hanuman.
 
24. See Stephen (2001; 2002).
 
25. Most of the unpublished Jontar texts referred to in this book were obtained in transliterated form
from the Gedong Kirtya lontar library, Singaraja. The knowledgeable staff were helpful in locating
 
148
 
===PDFPAGE 159===
[ Notes to Pages 59-61 ]
material relevant to my interests. These transliterated texts were then translated from Kawi into
Indonesian by Drs. I Nyoman Suarka, lecturer in Jawa Kuno (Old Javanese), of the Fakultas Sastra,
University of Udayana, Bali, who discussed each text with me and explained important points.
Then Mirdiana and I together translated from Indonesian into English, which is how he acquired
his knowledge of this material. My aim, as an anthropologist, was to approach this material from
the perspective of my Balinese informants.
 
26. Stephen (2002, 63-66).
 
27. Howe (1980; 1984). In addition to references to myths similar to those I discuss here (Howe 1980,
163, 224-225), Howe describes many other myths, stories, and folktales that deal with related
themes, such as the separation of the earth and sky, the origin of rice, and other forms of wealth
such as gold and precious stones. Howe notes that in fact the goddess Uma’s name is another term
for “rice field.” This same information was given to me by a pedanda Buddha, from the village of
Batuan, who observed that “uma” was an old-fashioned term for rice field.
 
28. See Stephen (2001; 2002) for a detailed discussion of myths concerning Siwa and Uma. Howe (1984,
204-205) draws attention to the prominence in the Javo-Balinese literature of ‘the motif in which
various gods, most frequently Siwa and Uma, metamorphose into their antithetical forms and
appear as huge and uncontrollable ogres.” Mark Hobart (1985, 170-171) describes the transfor-
mative powers and inherent ambivalence of Balinese gods, especially Siwa and Durga, who have
both benign and terrible forms. Lovric (1987, 89-90, 133) recounts myths attributing the origin
of disease and the origin of the bhuta kala to the actions of Siwa and Durga. She concludes:
“Clearly, there is a blurring of distinctions between deities and demons, as well as between one
form of the demonic and another. Philosophically, dewa are bhuta are kala” (p. 133). Hildred Geertz
(1994, 81) emphasizes that in Bali demons are not necessarily malevolent and gods are not totally
benevolent; ritual, she says, aims to transform powerful beings from malevolence to benevolence.
She also draws attention to the transformations of Siwa and Uma as revealed in the Eka Dasa Rudra
rituals (p. 125). Covarrubias (1994, 340-341) briefly refers to the “krodha” (angry) transformations
of the gods, especially Siwa and Uma, but he notes this in a section on black magic and not as a
central aspect of the creator pair; furthermore, he tends to present the Hindu gods, such as Siwa
and Uma, as largely irrelevant to most Balinese.
 
29. See Stephen (2002).
 
30. See Covarrubias (1994, 291-292) for an account of Kala’s birth. See also Howe (1984, 207-208), M.
Hobart (1985, 170), and Lovric (1987, 310-311).
 
31. Kalatattwa (unpublished manuscript). See Stephen (2002, 66-73) for a detailed discussion of tex-
tual sources of the Kala myths. C. Hooykaas (1973a, 306-311) summarizes a wide range of texts from
Bali and Java dealing with Kala. See also Headley (1991) for a discussion of Kala myths in Javanese
ruwatan exorcisms. There are many different texts and versions of the stories concerning Kala. In
this discussion I focus on the specific sources pointed out by my Balinese informants. Thus Ida
Bagus Sutarja’s oral recitation of the birth of Kala prompted me to look for a textual source. A
manuscript I subsequently obtained from the Gedong Kirtya library provides my textual source.
That this text continues to be an important one in the Balinese view is indicated by the Kantor
Dokumentasi Budaya Bali’s publication of an almost identical text in Tutur Anda Bhuwana, Tattwa
Kala, Aji Swamandala (Kantor Dokumentasi 2000).
 
32. According to Zoetmulder (1982, 1804), “somya” derives from the Sanskrit “saumya” and denotes
“gentle, mild, benevolent, benign, kind.” “Somyariipa” he defines as “with gentle or benign (non-
terrifying) appearance.” See Stephen (2002, 81-82) for usage of the term by Balinese writers.
 
33. Indonesian translation by Drs. I Nyoman Suarka of Kalatattwa (unpublished manuscript), p. 2.
See Kantor Dokumentasi (2000, 1-26) for a Kawi text and translation into Indonesian of a similar
manuscript given the title Tattwa Kala.
 
34. Ibid., 2.
 
149
 
===PDFPAGE 160===
[ Notes to Pages 61-64 ]
 
35. Ibid., 3.
 
36. Ibid., 7-8.
 
37. C. Hooykaas (19738, 6).
 
38. See Covarrubias (1994, 314-316) and Eiseman (1990, 172ff) for information about the complex Bali-
nese calendrical systems.
 
39. Indonesian translation by Drs. I Nyoman Suarka of Kala Purana (unpublished manuscript). Many
other versions of this story are given by C. Hooykaas (1973a) and are referred to by Headley (1991).
When [asked for texts relating to Kala, the Gedong Kirtya staff led me to this one. Mirdiana helped
to translate this text and thus became familiar with the details of the story—the general outlines
of which he already knew, as I did, from Sutarja.
 
40. Kala Purana, p. 14.
 
41. These ceremonies are still performed today in Bali for persons born in Wuku Wayang. See also
A. Hobart (1987, 39).
 
42. Representations of the birth of Kala are comparatively rare but can be found in Kamasan (classic
Balinese) paintings; see, for example, Forge (1978, no. 13). A drawing by the famous Balinese artist
Lempad, reproduced in an article by Jacoba Hooykaas (1961), shows Siwa and Uma riding their
bull with Kala to one side. Hooykaas gives a rather different interpretation, but Mirdiana believes
Lempad’s drawing represents the birth of Kala. In the drawing Kala holds the kakayonan, the cosmic
tree that marks the opening of a performance of the shadow puppet theater. Hooykaas (p. 278,
pl. 2, n.) puts this detail down to Lempad’s eccentricity and lack of familiarity with written texts.
Mirdiana’s view is that the kakayonan is an allusion to Kala’s birth. According to the story in Kala
Purana, Siwa and Uma came to earth on their bull to try to stop Kala from devouring Kumara, and
Lempad’s drawing might refer to that confrontation. I think not, however, since Siwa and Uma
are clearly depicted by Lempad in amorous embrace, Siwa touching the breast and vulva of his
consort. This amorous play is not in accord with the meeting between Kala and his parents as de-
scribed in the Kala Purana but clearly fits with the story in Kalatattwa of Kala’s conception and birth.
 
43. See Howe (1984, 208) and M. Hobart (1985, 178) for Balinese interpretations of Kala as time.
 
44. This interpretation of the painting was offered not by Mirdiana himself but by I Nyoman Suarka,
who translated the text on which the painting was based. Mirdiana, however, agreed with Suarka’s
suggestion.
 
45. I have not been able to find a textual source for this story, so I am unable to say where it comes
from. Although to my knowledge it has no precise Indian parallel, there are certain intriguing simi-
larities with Indian myths. In the Indian myths, for instance, Uma (Parvati) through the power of
her austerities in the graveyard succeeds in obtaining Shiva as her husband (O'Flaherty 1981,
151-155; Kramrisch 1981, 351ff). Thus the Balinese Dewi Rohini does indeed seem to be another form
of Uma. Her name, however, echoes that of Mohini, the seductive female form taken by Visnu to
tempt Shiva (O'Flaherty 1981, 32; Kramrisch 1981, 372). Regardless of the source (it may even be
Sutarja’s invention or a mixing of different tales), the story clearly reflects the themes of the divine
and demonic transformations of Siwa and Uma—and it evidently fired Mirdiana’s imagination.
 
46. Headley (1991, 90-93).
 
47. A summary of the twelfth-century Old Javanese kekawin known as the Smaradahana is provided
by Zoetmulder (1974, 291-295). Sedyawati (1994, 127) refers to this text as an account of Gana’s
(Ganesha’s) birth. For an illustration of drawings from a Balinese Jontar text of the Smaradahana
see Rubinstein (1996, 143). In Bali the Smaradahana is part of the repertoire of the shadow puppet
theater (A. Hobart 1987, 47), and it is probably from such performances that Mirdiana first learned
the story of Kama and Ratih and learned of the birth of Gana.
 
48. The burning of Kama is a key episode in the Indian myths of Shiva (O'Flaherty 1981, 143-151;
Kramrisch 1981, 351-352). Zoetmulder (1974, 296-298) has discussed the parallels between the
Indonesian Smaradahana and Indian versions.
 
150
 
===PDFPAGE 161===
[ Notes to Pages 65-70 ]
 
49. See Eiseman (1990, 363).
 
50. The Indian Durga is somewhat different from the Balinese Durga, who more closely resembles the
horrific form of the Indian goddess Kali. (See Kinsley 1988, 119-124, for the iconography of Kali.)
Durga in India is more often portrayed as a beautiful young warrior goddess who defeats demons
(Kinsley 1988, 95-105). Sedyawati (1994, 111, 113, 164, 190, and n. 116) traces the changes of Durga’s
iconography in Java, where she comes to be seen as a terrible form of Uma. But Durga Mahisa-
stiramardini (Durga the slayer of the buffalo demon Mahisa)—in which form Durga is depicted as
a beautiful young woman—is known today to Balinese artists and has been represented by Mir-
diana in a recent painting (not shown in this book).
 
51. Both priests were pedanda Buddha, not pedanda Siwa. For the written text see Stephen (2002, 79,
n. 12); see also p. 80, n. 13, for an extract from a book of texts, used for temple recitations
(palawakia) in the community of Pengosekan, that gives the same story of the Panca Durga.
 
52. Siwagama (unpublished manuscript).
 
53. Rudra as the fierce form of Siwa is known in Bali in relation to the Eka Dasa Rudra rituals (Stuart-
Fox 1982; Lansing 1995, 117).
 
54. Lovric (1987, 89) quotes from another lontar source, Tutur Kayuktian, a story of how the Five and
Seven Durgas created disease in the world. She also quotes from a Jontar text, Purwa Bhumi Kamu-
lan, another myth of the origin of the bhuta kala from Siwa and Uma that closely resembles
C. Hooykaas’ (1974, 60-71) Litany of the Resi Bhujangga.
 
55. Translation into Indonesian by Drs. Nyoman Suarka of Siwagama (unpublished manuscript),
p. 96. The rest of the story as related here is drawn from this text.
 
56. “Juti,” according to Zoetmulder (1982, 756), means “assumed deceptive form; delusion, deception;
falsehood, treachery.” “Maya,” derived from Sanskrit, Zoetmulder (p. 1129) translates as “illusion,
unreality; deception, fraud; sorcery, magic, unreal or illusory image.”
 
57. See Stephen (2002, 77-79) for a detailed discussion of the mythic explanation of the origin of
temple performances. A number of Western scholars refer to the myth of the origin of the shadow
puppet theater (J. Hooykaas 1961, 275; C. Hooykaas 1973a, 307-308; A. Hobart 1987, 22; Eiseman
1990, 318) yet pay little attention to its significance. Lovric (1987, 311) refers to a story concern-
ing the origin of the Barong dance as a parody on the actions of Durga and Rudra.
 
58. A Balinese painting in a very different style of Uma and the cowherd is illustrated in J. Hooykaas
(1961, pl. 1, opposite p. 272). There the cowherd is old, bald, and ugly.
 
59. Translation in Indonesian of Siwagama (unpublished manuscript).
 
60. See C. Hooykaas (1973a, 306-311) and Headley (1991) for other versions of the story of Uma and
the cowherd/shepherd. Boon (1982, 184-188) provides an interpretation of this myth in terms of
Balinese marriage alliances.
 
61. This episode of the myth is to be found in older wayang-style paintings. An example by the famous
Lempad is illustrated in Rubinstein (1996, 145).
 
62. The text specifies “teluh, desti, tranjana” (Siwagama, unpublished manuscript, p. 143). Zoet-
mulder (1982, 394, 1983) gives “andesti” the meaning “to bewitch”; “téluh” he glosses as “(black)
magic, witchcraft.”
 
63. Zoetmulder (1982, 1513). C. Hooykaas (1978, 21) translates “rare angon” as “young shepherd.”
 
64. C. Hooykaas (1977, 24).
 
65. Andabhuwana (unpublished manuscript).
 
66. The name “Durgakala” seems anomalous here since “Durga” is the name of Siwa’s consort and
“Kala” is the name of his son. In other texts we find Siwa in terrible form referred to by the names
Siwa Kala, or Kala Rudra. The significance of these different names must await more detailed
research by philologists.
 
67. According to Zoetmulder (1982, 1502) the word “rayda” means a widow or widower “whether by
death or by divorce.”
 
151
 
===PDFPAGE 162===
[ Notes to Pages 71-82 ]
 
68. C. Hooykaas (1974, 64-65).
 
69. Ibid., 67. My ellipses follow those of Hooykaas’ text.
 
70. Lovric (1987, 310-311) has drawn attention to the similarity between the Bhoma mask and Siwa
Kala, suggesting that it probably forms the basis of the mask of Barong Ketket. See Stephen (2001,
168-169) for further discussion of the iconography of the Barong and Rangda masks.
 
71. Siwa Linga Suksma (unpublished manuscript).
 
CHAPTER 4: THE INFLUENCE OF TANTRIC THOUGHT
 
1. Connor (1982, 156ff), however, has provided valuable information concerning largely secret groups
seeking magical and spiritual power that form around so-called balian kebal in Bangli.
 
2. Bakker (1993).
 
3. Picard (1996).
 
4, Howe (2001).
 
5. C. Geertz (1975, 170ff).
 
6. Howe (2001, I-2).
 
7. Many different names are used in the Balinese texts to refer to this original unity; other terms
include Sunya and Windu.
 
8. It is well known that the aim of cremation (ngaben) is to return the physical constituents of the
corpse to their origins—the panca maha bhuta. See C. Hooykaas (1976). Howe (1980, 293-321) pro-
vides a detailed description of the death rituals revealing these themes.
 
9. C. Hooykaas (1974, 64).
 
10. Eiseman (1990, 318).
 
11. H. Geertz (1994; 1995).
 
12. In Budiana’s view, all human beings, as creations of the Mother, possess sakti; it is not so much a
matter of acquiring it as knowing how to use and develop it.
 
13. H. Geertz (1994, 94).
 
14. See Soebadio (1971, 16).
 
15. C. Hooykaas (1973b, 20). This continuing trend of publishing Indonesian translations of Balinese
mystical texts has been emphasized in a recent article by Creese and Bellows (2002). Such works
might have offered an alternative way of exploring the themes I cite here, but that would require
another, very different, book.
 
16. Lansing (1983, 75-92) describes the importance of what he calls “the sounding of the texts.”
 
17. I had not read Howe's (1980) study at the time I wrote the first draft of this book and therefore
was not influenced by his work.
 
18. For a published Jontar text referring to the marriage of fire and water see Soebadio (1971, 57).
 
19. Gupta (1979, 1).
 
20. Schuhmacher and Woerner (1989, 354).
 
21. See Goudriaan and Gupta (1981, 2ff) for problems in defining Sakta and Saktism.
 
22. See Stephen (2001).
 
23. J. Hooykaas (1961, 276).
 
24. Lévi (1933, xiii-xiv).
 
25. See Soebadio (1971), Goudriaan (1978, 57, 94, 126, 134-135, 186, 198-199, 246-247, 298, 326, 328),
Gupta et al. (1979, 24, 39, 60n.), Goudriaan and Gupta (1981, 35, 37, 102), and Nihom (1994, 15).
 
26. Kempers (1991, 53-54, 58-61); Ramseyer (2002, 35-36).
 
27. Boon (1990, 163-164); see also Boon (1982).
 
28. Lovric (1987, 426).
 
29. H. Geertz (1994, 127).
 
30. See Goudriaan (1979, 3-5) and Nihom (1994, 10-11).
 
152
 
===PDFPAGE 163===
[ Notes to Pages 82-86 ]
 
31. As Goudriaan (1979, 3) also observes.
 
32. Goudriaan (19990, 1). The complexity and elevated nature of Tantric philosophical speculation are
clearly indicated, for example, in Dyczkowski's (1987) study of Kashmir Shaivism.
 
33. Goudriaan (1979, 5). See also White (2000, 7ff) for a discussion of the problems of definition.
 
34. Ibid., 7.
 
35. The philologist Max Nihom (1994) has argued on the basis of a reinterpretation of Old Javanese
Tantric Buddhist texts—the Kufijarakarnadharmakathana and the Yogatantra—that such Indo-
nesian texts might hold important evidence for reconstructing Tantrism in India in the early and
medieval period. He has also examined, from the same perspective, various Old Javanese Shivaite
texts (Nihom 1995; 1996; 1997). O’Brien (1988-1989; 1990-1991; 1993; 2000) has also undertaken
extensive study of Tantric Buddhism in the East Javanese period.
 
36. Rubinstein (2000).
 
37. Zoetmulder (1974).
 
38. Rubinstein (2000, 125).
 
39. Ibid., 43-60.
 
40. Ibid., 43.
 
41. Creese and Bellows (2002).
 
42. Gupta et al. (1979).
 
43. Goudriaan and Hooykaas (1971).
 
44. Soebadio (1971, 62).
 
45. But see Picard (1999, 31-32), who notes this meaning and describes the changing significance of
the term in Balinese discourses.
 
46. Schuhmacher and Woerner (1989, 4); Goudriaan (1979, 13).
 
47. Goudriaan (1979, 13).
 
48. C. Hooykaas (1964, 198).
 
49. Soebadio (1971, 59) notes that the agamic dialogue between Siwa and Uma features in much of the
Jiidnasiddhanta.
 
50. Goudriaan (1979, 39).
 
51. Ibid., 7-9.
 
52. Ibid., 7.
 
53. See, for example, Boon (1990, 158) and Goudriaan (1979, 39).
 
54. Hooykaas (1975).
 
55. Goudriaan (1979, 7).
 
56. See Covarrubias (1994, 320-358); C. Hooykaas (1973b, 9-10); and Eiseman (1990, 127-134).
 
57. C. Hooykaas (1974, 85-128; 1978; 1980).
 
58. C. Hooykaas (1978, 2); Lovric (1987).
 
59. C. Hooykaas (1978, 9).
 
60. Goudriaan (1978).
 
61. Lovric (1987, 101); see pp. 64, 101, 127-132 for her discussion of the usada texts.
 
62. H. Geertz (1994, 94, 126 n. 13).
 
63. Nihom (1994, 10-11).
 
64. See, for example, Howe (1980; 1984), Connor (1982), Schulte Nordholt (1991), and Wiener (1995).
 
65. Goudriaan (1979, 24). This point has recently been emphasized by White (2000, 25ff) also.
 
66. Wiener (1995).
 
67. For a discussion of the siddhis see Schuhmacher and Woerner (1989, 333-334).
 
68. Goudriaan (1979, 7).
 
69. Ibid., 39.
 
70. Soebadio (1971, 79).
 
71. Goris (1928, 118-119) quoted in Soebadio (1971, 79).
 
153
 
===PDFPAGE 164===
[ Notes to Pages 86-91 ]
 
72. Lovric (1987, 320-324).
 
73. Gupta (1979, 168, 176-179, 181-182); Pott (1966, 7-8).
 
74. See, for example, Siwa Linga Suksma; Aji Mayasandi; Tattwa Kala (Kantor Dokumentasi 2000,
23-25); Kanda Empat Rare; Tutur Dalem Turaga; Tutur Dalem Gading; Kanda Empat Dewa; and
Pancamahabhuta.
 
75. C. Hooykaas (1966, 84-85).
 
76. Lovric (1987, 322).
 
77. Soebadio (1971, 59-62).
 
78. Goudriaan (1979, 8).
 
79. See, for example, Eiseman (1990, 6), Lovric (1987, 68-70), and C. Hooykaas (1974, 3).
 
80. Goudriaan (1979, 39); Rubinstein (2000, 49).
 
81. C. Hooykaas (1974, 93-128).
 
82. Goudriaan (1979, 8).
 
83. See note 74.
 
84. C. Hooykaas (1964, 36-38); Zurbuchen (1987, 41-81).
 
85. Rubinstein (2000, 43ff).
 
86. Goudriaan (1979, 8).
 
87. Lovric (1987, 116-118).
 
88. Goudriaan (1979, 8).
 
89. C. Hooykaas (1966, pl. 1-24; 1973c, 116-164).
 
90. Eiseman (1990, 4); Kempers (1991, 61-63). See Pott (1966, 132-136) for a description of the mystic
significance of the Balinese nawasanga.
 
91. Zurbuchen (1987, 53-54).
 
92. Goudriaan (1979, 39).
 
93. C. Hooykaas (1980).
 
94. Lovric (1987).
 
95. Rubinstein (2000); Zoetmulder (1974, 181-184).
 
96. Goudriaan (1979, 8).
 
97. See unpublished lontar texts referred to in note 74.
 
98. C. Hooykaas (1966).
 
99. Goudriaan (1979, 8).
 
100. See, for example, J. Hooykaas (1961, 269), Hobart (1985, 170), Stuart-Fox (1982, 29), Howe (1984,
204-205, 209), and Lansing (1995, 117, 121).
 
101. H. Geertz (1994, 31-32, 125; 1995).
 
102. Lovric (1987, 112).
 
103. Goudriaan (1979, 8).
 
104. Boon (1990, 164).
 
105. Lovric (1987, 252-253).
 
106. Rubinstein (2000, 125).
 
107. See Lovric (1987, 131-132).
 
108. Santiko (1997, 223).
 
109. See Sedyawati (1994, 111, 113, 164) for the special characteristics Durga assumed in Javo-Balinese
religion as revealed in Old Javanese texts.
 
110. Goudriaan (1979, 8-9).
 
111. In previous publications (Stephen 1989; 1995) I have developed the concept of autonomous
imagination as a means of understanding different states of consciousness and the vivid visuali-
zations that may accompany them. Such imagery is in every way real to the person experiencing
it, who may in fact interpret the experience as a higher or more valid spiritual reality. Thus what
might be described in texts as events taking place in reality cannot simply be understood as a
 
154
 
===PDFPAGE 165===
[ Notes to Pages 91-95 ]
physical reality. White (2000, 15-18) provides a balanced assessment of how literally Tantric sex-
ual symbolism should be interpreted.
 
112. Feuerstein (1998, 239ff).
 
113. Ibid., 237: “The preservation of semen and the energy for which it stands is an important aspect
of Tantra that is almost completely ignored in Western Neo-Tantrism, whose votaries take their
lead from the Kama-Sitra rather than the Tantric heritage.”
 
114. At this point we might think back to the discussion of Budiana’s painting Kasih Sayang (Plate
11), where monstrous parents are shown with their even more monstrous offspring. Human
children conceived in animal lust, without appropriate ritual, will be thus. Balinese sometimes
say that children conceived out of wedlock—that is, without the appropriate ritual—are less than
human. That is to say: of the threefold potential, it is the lowest or bhuta level that is accentu-
ated. I suggest that the sexual tuturs described by Creese and Bellows are intended to realize the
divine potential of the child by ensuring that at the moment of conception the parents are raised
to a state of divine bliss—and not sunk in animal lust as in Budiana’s Kasih Sayang.
 
115. Goudriaan (1979, 9).
 
116. Korn (1960, 133).
 
117. Rubinstein (2000, 32-35).
 
118. Goudriaan (1979, 9).
 
119. But see C. Hooykaas (1975) for a brief attempt at comparing Balinese and Indian rituals. The
Tantra of the Great Liberation (Avalon 1972, 193ff) refers to nine or ten (depending on caste)
purificatory ceremonies to be observed for a child (conception, pregnancy, and birth of the child,
the giving of its name, its first view of the sun, its first eating of rice, tonsure, investiture, and
marriage) that seem similar to the Balinese manusa yajfia (see, for example, Lansing 1995, 34-35)
but confirmation of this parallel would require a detailed comparison of the two.
 
120. Goudriaan (1979, 9).
 
121. C. Hooykaas (1974, 3).
 
122. Lovric (1987, 70-71).
 
123. Kempers (1991, 59-61).
 
124. See also Lovric (1987, 72).
 
125. See note 74.
 
126. Zurbuchen (1987, 53f£); Rubinstein (2000, 43ff).
 
127. Goudriaan (1979, 9).
 
128. Ibid.
 
129. Ibid.
 
130. C. Hooykaas (1973b, 4).
 
131. Rubinstein (2000, 99-126).
 
132. Goudriaan (1979, 9).
 
133. Soebadio (1971, 58).
 
134. See also Korn (1960).
 
135. Soebadio (1971, 58).
 
136. Rubinstein (2000, 33-35).
 
137. Hoens (1979, 72-74).
 
138. Schuhmacher and Woerner (1989, 202).
 
139. C. Hooykaas (1964).
 
140. Ibid., 155.
 
141. Couteau (1999, 150).
 
142. C. Hooykaas (1964, 95-96).
 
143. Ibid., 102.
 
144. Ibid., 148.
 
155
 
===PDFPAGE 166===
[ Notes to Pages 95-101 ]
145. Ibid., 150.
146. Ibid., 201.
147. Kempers (1991, 61).
148. Lovric (1987, 426).
149. Rubinstein (2000); Creese and Bellows (2002); see also Supomo (2000).
150. Nihom (1994, 13).
151. Goudriaan (1979); Dyczkowski (1988); White (2000).
152. See Zoetmulder (1982, 2019).
153. Soebadio (1971, 10) argues for a South Indian parallel here.
154. Balinese texts tend to refer to Ardhanareswari, whether intentionally or by mistake I am not sure.
155. C. Hooykaas (1974, 131).
156. Nihom (1995; 1996).
157. Coedés (1968).
CHAPTER 5: BALINESE RITUAL IN A DYNAMIC UNIVERSE
1. O'Flaherty (1981).
2. Davis (1991).
3. O'Flaherty (1981).
4. Ibid., 312, quoting Eliot (1921, 1xxxi).
5. Ibid., rqrff.
6. Kama is also referred to as Semara or Smara in Bali.
7. Since I had not myself read the Indian version of the myth at this time, I could not have even
inadvertently influenced Mirdiana’s interpretation.
8. O'Flaherty (1981, 162).
9. Ibid., 160ff.
 
10. Schuhmacher and Woerner (1989, 171).
 
11. O'Flaherty (1981, 318); see also pp. 313 and 317.
 
12. Rubinstein (2000, 109) has drawn attention to Balinese similarities with the Indian mythology of
Shiva.
 
13. As C. Hooykaas (1964, 156) observes, the Balinese myth of the Linggodbhawa is similar to the
Indian myth recounted in the [sana-Purdana. Mirdiana began a large painting of this myth during
the time he was painting the other works discussed here, but it remains unfinished.
 
14, There may be parallels, but it would require an extensive search of the Puranas to determine this.
Part of the text of Kalatattwa quoted in Chapter 3—where Siwa admonishes Kala to prey upon
sinners and spare those who perform the appropriate sacrifices—has close parallels with Canto
Lof the Markandeya Purana (Pargiter 1995, 250-256), although in this case Brahma is the creator
of a demon called Duhasa. My thanks to Dr. Greg Bailey of La Trobe University for pointing this
out to me.
 
15. For discussion of the myth of Andhaka see O'Flaherty (1981, 190-192) and Kramrisch (1981,
374-383). In particular, Kramrisch’s description of Andhaka (p. 381) seems to capture the essence
of the Balinese Kala as described in Kalatattwa: “Hideous, black, blind Andhaka acted out his
destiny. Born through an act of indiscretion on the part of his mother, abandoned by both
parents, and made over by Siva to the demons, where by looks and disposition, he belonged,
legally confirmed in his new status but repudiated by his new family, Andhaka in anguish
longed for a mother of supernatural perfection, and desired her who was unapproachable.”
 
16. See O'Flaherty (1981, 228-229) for Puranic accounts of Shiva and Mohini.
17. Almost all the stories of Siwa and Uma discussed in this book have, of course, been filtered
through Old Javanese literature and texts. Pigeaud (1967-1970), Zoetmulder (1974), and many other
156
 
===PDFPAGE 167===
[ Notes to Pages 101-106 ]
Old Javanese scholars have provided detailed studies of this material and its possible relationship
to Indian sources. My concern here, however, is with those versions of the stories that exist in Bali
today and are known to Balinese such as Mirdiana and Budiana. My interest in Indian parallels
is not to identify precise historical sources but rather to show important thematic similarities
between Balinese conceptualizations and classic Indian mythology.
 
18. O'Flaherty (1981, 227).
 
19. Eliot (1921) quoted in O’Flaherty (1981, 312).
 
20. O'Flaherty (1981, 313).
 
21. Davis (1991, 42).
 
22. Ibid., p. 44.
 
23. Howe (1980, 164) describes, in a similar manner to Davis, Balinese cosmological concepts of crea-
tion as moving from “abstract, essence, immateriality, spirituality, all-inclusion, integration, unity,
perfection, completion, restraint, above, male, gods” to “concrete, substance, temporality, least-
inclusion, dispersion/differentiation, multiplicity/fragmentation, imperfection, incompletion,
immoderation, below, female, demons.” Although Howe does not at this point describe the move-
ment back to perfection or the process of absorption, later (p. 231) he does note that demons can
through ritual action be returned to divine form.
 
24. Davis (1991, 44-45).
 
25. Ibid.
 
26. See, for example, Bosch (1961, 16-17), C. Hooykaas (1966, 155), Soebadio (1971, 10), and Phalgu-
nadi (1991, 120).
 
27. C. Hooykaas (1966, 141-156).
 
28. Soebadio (1971, 8).
 
29. C. Hooykaas (1966).
 
30. Ibid., 85, 91.
 
31. See Hooykaas (1966, 141-156).
 
32. Davis (1991, 47).
 
33. For the source of these texts see the “Unpublished Manuscripts” section after the Bibliography;
for Tattwa Kala see Kantor Dokumentasi (2000, 23-25). The texts I consulted were translated from
Kawi into Indonesian for me by Drs. I Nyoman Suarka, lecturer in Kawi and Balinese studies, Uni-
versity of Udayana, Bali.
 
34. Creese (2001, 14).
 
35. I Nyoman Suarka, in addition to being an expert in Kawi, has a keen interest in the topics I was
researching and indeed has written several papers in Indonesian on Barong and Rangda, the
Calon Arang dance/drama (in which Rangda and Barong appear), and Balinese mystic symbolism.
He was thus a knowledgeable Balinese guide to the mystical texts.
 
36. C. Hooykaas (1966).
 
37. Soebadio (1971).
 
38. Rubinstein (2000, 43ff); Zurbuchen (1987, 51ff).
 
39. Rubinstein (2000, 60).
 
40. Creese and Bellows (2002).
 
41. The staff at the Gedong Kirtya library was able to identify several Jontar dealing with kundalini
for me, but this material has yet to be transcribed and translated.
 
42. C. Hooykaas (1964, 37).
 
43. Siwa Linga Suksma (unpublished manuscript), p. 5.
 
44. Soebadio (1971, 57) notes with respect to the Jidnasiddhdnta that the “most important opposites
are male-female, and the rva-bhineda is thus primarily connected with the parents.” I would point
out, however, that the Tantric concepts involved make it evident that the ultimate male-female
elements and parents are none other than Siwa and Sakti.
 
157
 
===PDFPAGE 168===
[ Notes to Pages 106-111 ]
 
45. This process was discussed in previous chapters.
 
46. C. Hooykaas (1964, 36-38).
 
47. Soebadio (1971, 10-14).
 
48. Zurbuchen (1987, 41-81).
 
49. Rubinstein (2000, 43ff).
 
50. Zurbuchen (1987, 53-54).
 
51. See, for example, C. Hooykaas (1974, 93-128).
 
52. Rubinstein (2000, 49).
 
53. Zurbuchen (1987, 95-96).
 
54. Ibid., 54.
 
55. C. Hooykaas (1974, 116-117) also draws attention to the numerous tutur texts containing specula-
tions on the panca and tryaksara.
 
56. Siwa Linga Suksma (unpublished manuscript).
 
57. As Rubinstein (2000, 110) observes, the term “maya” is more often used in Balinese texts to refer
to the notion of deception and veiling, so that the beauty of nature is felt to veil “a divine pres-
ence.” But in either case the idea is that behind the overt and manifest forms of the material world
lies Sakti in her pure state.
 
58. Hoens (1979, 93-94).
 
59. Soebadio (1971, 10-11).
 
60. Zurbuchen (1987, 56-57).
 
61. Rubinstein (2000, 55-58).
 
62. Compare Zurbuchen (1987, 54-55 n. 28).
 
63. See also Zurbuchen (1987, 56).
 
64. Ibid., 56-57.
 
65. Soebadio (1971, 199, 201).
 
66. The Jidnasiddhanta notes many different levels of yogic teachings and attainment (Soebadio 1971,
111-113). Gonda (1975, 54) too refers to various kinds of yogic teachings in Bali.
 
67. Unpublished texts that mention reversal of the ANG and AH formula to bring about death (in the
self) include Siwa Linga Suksma, Tutur Dalem Turaga, Tutur Dalem Gading, and Aji Mayasandi.
See also Soebadio (1971, 11) for this reversal. Klokke’s (1994) reassessment of the mystic significance
of the so-called East Javanese portrait statues suggests to me that these royal images might depict
these yogic practices to achieve moksa (liberation) at death. See Santiko (2000) for similar
arguments.
 
68. C. Hooykaas (1966, 65; 1964, 139).
 
69. Rubinstein (2000, 58-59) notes that Zurbuchen (1987, 46-48) and Lovric (1987, 75-76) discuss the
use of the dasaksara in healing rituals performed by balian usada. The unpublished yoga texts I
have consulted indicate that the process of purification achieved via meditation on the dasaksara
can also be used to heal physical illness. A published Indonesian text of the tutur text Tattwa Kala
(Kantor Dokumentasi 2000, 25) illustrates this process. In my view, the yoga texts suggest that the
adept is able to bring about healing in the self or to use similar manipulations of the dasaksara to
treat others. This makes more sense when we understand that the aim of compressing the dasak-
sara to become one represents the process of reabsorption of all impurities back to their pure
source.
 
70. Feuerstein (1998, 232-233).
 
71. Belo (1953); C. Hooykaas (1977); Lansing (1983, 35ff); Eiseman (1990, 249ff); H. Geertz (1994, 25).
 
72. J. Hooykaas (1960, 427).
 
73. Howe (1980, 231-232).
 
74. Some Balinese also use the term “wali”—meaning “retribution, compensation” and “to come
back, return” (Zoetmulder 1982, 2182). This could be interpreted as a repayment to the gods, but
 
158
 
===PDFPAGE 169===
[ Notes to Pages 111-115 ]
one pedanda told me the term refers to returning the dangerous powers in the world back to their
benign form.
 
75. Although Indologists (O’Flaherty 1981; Kramrisch 1981) usually translate the term “Ardhanaris-
vara” as “androgyne” or “hermaphrodite,” the Balinese texts (such as the Surya-Sevana) suggest
that Ardhanareswara (Ardhanareswari) refers to the divine couple in sexual union.
 
76. The term “pratima” is from Sanskrit and means “image, figure, statue, doll” (Zoetmulder 1982,
1408). This points to a more thorough Indianization of the temple ritual than many scholars
would admit (Swellengrebel 1960, 29), since these are the most holy representations of divine forces
kept in the temple.
 
77. The symbolism of the babangkit offering as representing Ardhanariswara is also noted by Kam
(1993, 126).
 
78. Many Balinese informants described the body symbolism represented in the tripartite division of
the temple as head, trunk, and feet. The temple as the lower half of the female body represents, I
believe, an esoteric level of understanding not known to all.
 
79. The sexual, reproductive symbolism is continued in the Kori Agung and the split gate (Candi
Bentar)—one represents the vagina and the other the legs or thighs. The jeroan, the term for the
inner part of the temple, is also a word for “womb,” which it symbolizes according to this view.
Covarrubias (1994, 266-267) notes other interpretations of the two gates that have been offered
by Western scholars. (Plate 28 shows the Kori Agung seen through the split gate.)
 
80. C. Hooykaas (1974, 76).
 
81. See Howe (1980, 160ff).
 
82. See, for example, J. Hooykaas (1961, 268-269).
 
83. Swellengrebel (1960, 28-29). Indeed, in Swellengrebel’s view not only the temple structures but
all the rituals performed in them represent a pre-Hindu layer of Balinese culture.
 
84. The interpretation I offer here of the mystical significance of the temple festival (odalan) does not,
of course, vitiate other interpretations of its significance and function at different levels—such as
Lansing’s (1983, 7-8) arguments concerning the cultural, social, economic, and agricultural
significance of the odalan as part of the Balinese temple system.
 
85. We can see here that Hildred Geertz’s (1994, 81) idea that the aim of Balinese ritual is to return
powerful beings from malevolence to benevolence better expresses the intent of the ritual in which
Barong meets Rangda than any notion of good triumphing over evil.
 
86. Howe (1980, 234), whose data are based primarily on the understanding of ordinary villagers rather
than literati, also notes Barong’s role in the pacification of the bhuta kala.
 
87. Mirdiana observed this performance and gave me this information.
 
88. I Nyoman Suarka, the specialist in Kawi who translated the lontar texts for me, also dances the
part of Rangda in temple performances in his home community in Tabanan. The lines he recites dur-
ing the performances derive from lontar texts; when Rangda appears she describes herself in words
almost identical to C. Hooykaas’ (1974, 71, ll. 245-248) text of The Litany of the Resi Bhujangga.
Lansing (1983) has described in detail the role of temple performances in spreading Indic culture
throughout Bali, a process he terms “sounding the texts.” The overt level of the performances as
an educative medium has long been recognized by Western scholars; often overlooked, however,
is that a deeper, mystic significance is also alluded to in the Kawi lines spoken by actors. Eiseman
(1990, 317), for example, notes that the actors playing Rangda and Rarung (one of Rangda’s dis-
ciples) usually know a little Kawi, but he does not speculate on the significance of their lines.
 
89. Bhairava is the fierce form of Shiva (O’Flaherty 1981, 381), and Bhairavi is the feminine form. In
Balinese texts with which I am familiar, the fierce form of Siwa is usually referred to as Siwa Kala
or Kala Rudra, but the name “Berawi Durga” sometimes occurs.
 
90. Some scholars, especially Lovric (1987), have emphasized the exorcistic function of Barong and
Rangda performances in averting disease and plagues.
 
159
 
===PDFPAGE 170===
[ Notes to Pages 115-121 ]
 
91. Lovric (1987, 311) offers an interesting Balinese interpretation that clearly points to the mystical
significance of the meeting of Barong and Rangda in dance as symbolizing the union of water
and fire elements in the self. She notes that in Sanur a Barong dance is always preceded by a
masked dance of eight jauk-sandaran figures, the jauk wearing red and the sandaran white
masks. The red jauk are said to represent “embodiments of the mystical syllables SANG BANG
TANG and ANG, that is, the umbilicus, the heart, the kidney and the gall bladder, the fiery
elements of the body.” The white sandaran represent the “watery elements” of the body and the
syllables NANG MANG SING and WANG. With the two remaining syllables, ING and YANG
(which are embodied in the Rangda), these constitute the dasaksara. In the dance the four white
and four red elements combine to become anggapati, mrajapati, banaspati, and banaspati raja,
the names of the four spiritual siblings (kanda empat). In turn, the first three of these become
helpers of Rangda and the fourth becomes Barong. In my view, it is evident in this account that
masked dancers, in representing the fiery and watery elements of the body, are enacting in the
meeting of Barong and Rangda, the rwa bhineda, the union of fire and water, and the reabsorp-
tion of the ten sacred letters into the one—in the self.
 
92. If we consider the emotions generated in the performance—the wild energy of the actors and the
excitement of the crowd—it is not difficult to see a correlation with the generating of fire in the
self, and the raising of Kundalini to meet Siwa, achieved in the inner visualization of the adept.
 
93. C. Hooykaas (1974, 2).
 
94. See Chapter 3.
 
95. Hooykaas’ text is based on a composite of various versions of two tutur texts: the Purvaka
Bhumi and the Bhumi Kamulan (Origin of the world).
 
96. C. Hooykaas (1974, 11).
 
97. Ibid., 73.
 
98. Hefner (1985, 182) discovered that the liturgy of the Hindu Javanese Tengger people has a direct
counterpart in the Balinese texts referred to by Hooykaas as the Litany of the Resi Bhujangga.
Furthermore he concludes that the purpose of this “most important of liturgies is to insure the
balance of spiritual forces in the world by perpetually transforming Kala, Siva in demonic form,
back into his beneficent incarnation as Guru-Siva” (p. 183). Hefner thus presents a totally inde-
pendent interpretation of the Litany that clearly concurs with mine. He also goes on to note that
in contrast to the priest who knows the liturgy, the ordinary Tengger villager seems to know little
of these deeper meanings of the rituals, much as we might observe of many Balinese.
 
99. Lovric (1987, 310-313).
 
100. Howe (1980, 233).
 
101. See, for example, Eiseman’s (1990, 182-184) description of Galungan and Kuningan, although he
does discuss the significance of Barong performances during this period (p. 320ff).
 
102. Lovric (1987, 312).
 
103. Howe (1980, 234); Eiseman (1990, 319-320).
 
104. As well as Barong Ketket, the form that meets with Rangda, there are abroad barong bangkal
(pig/wild boar) and barong macan (tiger).
 
105. Lovric (1987, 312).
 
106. Ibid., 311.
 
107. Ibid., 313.
 
108. Stuart-Fox (1982, 28) explains that the Eka Dasa Rudra ceremony is in essence the pinnacle of
purificatory ceremonies held every Balinese lunar year, the Taur Kasanga. Every decade—that
is, every Sakta year that ends in a zero—a larger ceremony called Panca Wali Krama should be
held. And once a century, when the Sakta year ends in a double zero, the Eka Dasa Rudra
should be performed. It is also appropriate to hold it at times of major natural and human
 
160
 
===PDFPAGE 171===
[ Notes to Pages 121-125 ]
disasters, such as earthquakes, plagues, or war. See also Lansing (1983, 129-139) for an expla-
nation of the reasons for the 1963 and 1979 observances.
 
109. Stuart-Fox (1982, 29).
 
110. Howe (1980, 231).
 
111. H. Geertz (1995, 125).
 
112. Lansing (1983, 141).
 
113. Ibid.
 
114. Ibid., 142.
 
115. Lansing (1995, 117).
 
116. C. Hooykaas (1973c, 167-168).
 
117. Ibid., 185.
 
118. Ibid., 195.
 
119. See C. Hooykaas (19732, 159).
 
120. C. Hooykaas (1973¢, 203-205).
 
121. Ibid., 217.
 
122. Lansing (1983, 140).
 
123. Howe (1980, 231).
 
124. C. Hooykaas (1973, 174-175).
 
125. C. Hooykaas (1975, 255-256) explicitly rejects the opinion of the Balinese scholar I Gusti Ngurah
Bagus that bhuta yadnya are but variations on the dewa yadnya and not a separate category.
 
126. See Howe (1980, 46-55) and Eiseman (1990, 51-62) for an idea of the complexity of these differ-
ent kinds of holy water.
 
127. C. Hooykaas (1973a, 167) identifies two basic forms of holy water: toya panglukatan and toya
pabresihan. See also Hooykaas (1977, 45-46).
 
128. H. Geertz (2004, chap. 5).
 
129. Ibid.
 
130. Siwagama (unpublished manuscript), pp. 162-166.
 
131. Iam not suggesting that this etymology is correct but that the similarity between the sounds of
the words suggests to Balinese a meaningful link between the entities.
 
132. My informants stressed, however, that both types of priests could prepare both kinds of holy
water and that in the absence of one priest the other could act in his stead in any ritual requir-
ing a Brahmana priest.
 
133. C. Hooykaas (1973c, 167-168).
 
134. Ibid., 167.
 
135. Hooykaas recognizes the importance of pedanda Buddha in the past but thinks they are not
significant in contemporary Bali. Swellengrebel (1960, 67) links the “pédanda Boda” to the “left
path,” which “brings him in contact with graveyards, corpses, and the like—in short with
elements which in the Balinese bipartite classification belong in the kélod sphere” and notes that
at rituals he occupies a “lower, inferior place” to that of the pédanda Siwa—i.e. he sat “more kélod
than his colleague.”
 
136. These include Pott (1966, 120ff), Sakar (1967), Ensink (1974; 1978), O’Brien (1993, 220-224,
330-334), Klokke (1994), and Jordaan (2000). The relationship of the Javanese Siwa-Buddha
cults to present-day Bali is an important question but one that goes beyond the scope of this book.
 
137. Klokke (1994, 189).
 
138. Rubinstein (2000, 55).
 
139. Ibid., 57.
 
140. Zurbuchen (1987, 58).
 
141. O'Flaherty (1981, 312) quoting Eliot (1921, 1xxxi).
 
161
 
===PDFPAGE 172===
[ Notes to Pages 126-135 ]
 
142. Davis (1991, 22).
 
143. See, for example, Covarrubias (1994, 296), Swellengrebel (1960, 36ff), Zurbuchen (1987, 51-54),
Lansing (1995, 25ff), and Hobart et al. (1996, 98ff). See Pott (1966, 133-136) for a more esoteric
understanding of the nawasanga. Howe (1980, 63ff) provides a detailed ethnographic description
of how the nawasanga is used to orient daily life.
 
144. See Lansing (1995, 23-24).
 
145. Zurbuchen (1987, 54), one of the few Western scholars to recognize this point, observes that the
pedanda’s daily ritual involves a mental revolving of the directions. Thus when the whole system
is set “in motion, revolving, the ordered differences can begin their condensation into fewer and
fewer forms until the final, single distillation is achieved—the goal of the mystic adept’s medita-
tion.” She therefore shows how the nawasanga is used in meditation to represent the process of
absorption back to an original unity.
 
146. According to Chevalier and Gheerbrant (1996, 907): “The double helix around the Brahman’s staff
and the twofold movement of the nadi around the central sushumna artery” symbolize ‘the
polarity and balance of the two opposing cosmic currents.” The same notion, they observe, is
expressed in the Hindu myth of the Churning of the Sea of Milk (which is the basis of the Balinese
story of the Pemutaran Mandara Giri). Once again a link between yogic practices and public ritual
is evident, since the story of Pemutaran Mandara Giri also provides the basis of a shadow puppet
play often given at temple festivals (odalan).
 
147. Some scholars—for example, Soebadio (1971, 11-12)—have been inclined to interpret ritual
movements to the left, and reversals such as that of the ANG AH formula, as relating to black
magic and sorcery. In my view, this involves a misunderstanding of the process of reabsorption,
although evidently this process is concerned with the transformation of demonic forces.
 
148. Gonda (1975, 12) observes that the Buddhist monument of Borobudur is in effect an enormous
mandala “representing the whole universe in its process of emanation and reabsorption, develop-
ing from an essential Principle while rotating round a central axis and serving the adept as a
means of identifying himself with the forces which govern the universe and with the Highest
Reality.” This mandala seems to be closely related in form and meaning to the Balinese nawasanga.
 
149. See C. Hooykaas (1980, 30) for Balinese drawings of the four mystical siblings and lega prana.
 
150. See also C. Hooykaas (1974, 93-128).
 
151. This is a popular topic for Balinese artists; see Couteau (1999, 150).
 
152. Freud (1971, 153).
 
CHAPTER 6: VISUALIZING PURE REALMS
 
1. C. Hooykaas’ (1976, 46) reference to the mystery of the “union of fire and water” indicates that
the themes I have explored are likely to be present in the death rituals classed as pitra yadnya
(sacrifices for ancestors). Hooykaas himself points to many similarities with the rites performed
for the dead person and the rites performed by the priest during his Surya-Sevana observances.
My reference in Chapter 5 to the parallels between the otonan of the individual and yogic prac-
tices points in the same direction. Given the correspondence between the bhuwana agung and the
bhuwana alit (the individual), a correspondence in the rituals performed for each domain seems
only to be expected.
 
2. Howe (1980, chaps. 10-12).
 
3. See, for example, Howe (1983), Lansing (1983; 1995), Lovric (1987), A. Hobart (1987), Zurbuchen
(1987), Rubinstein (2000), and Creese and Bellows (2002).
 
4. Swellengrebel (1960) represents a classic example. Picard (1999) discusses the negative opinions
held by many early Western scholars of Balinese religion.
 
5. Creese (2001, 13) reviews these developments in the field of Old Javanese studies.
 
162
 
===PDFPAGE 173===
[ Notes to Pages 135-136 ]
6. C. Hooykaas (1977, 49).
7. Lansing (1995, 117-121).
8. Lovric (1987, 317-325).
9. Obeyesekere (1990).
 
10. O’Brien’s (1993) work on East Javanese kingship suggests to me a unified view: a mystical view of
the universe is projected onto external reality, much as I have expressed it here for Bali.
 
11. Creese (2000), however, has drawn attention to the tendency to overestimation—by Western
scholars and Balinese alike—of the importance of the coming of Majapahit for Balinese culture.
 
12. Ramseyer (2002, 36).
 
13. Reuter’s (2002, 304-307) recent study of the Bali Aga points out the likelihood that these appar-
ently marginal and isolated mountain people might in fact be the heirs to Bali’s first Hindu king-
doms. He notes that the earliest direct evidence of Hindu influence—in the form of inscriptions,
stone monuments, and statuary dating from the ninth to the eleventh centuries apb—has been
found in the Puncak Penulisan region, close to Kintamani. The statues of Balinese kings and queens
still preserved in the temple of Puncak Penulisan closely resemble the famous “portrait statues”
of Javanese rulers, whose ritual and mystic significance has been described by Klokke and others.
Klokke (1994, 188) argues that these figures are not mortuary statues, as previously thought, but
instead represent the subject in meditation. This depiction of the ruler in meditation, according
to Klokke (p. 191), “implies attainment of the highest spiritual knowledge which entails release of
the material world and unification with god.” See Kempers (1991, 42, fig. 29) for an illustration of
a statue of a royal pair at Puncak dated 1o11 AD: both figures are standing, their eyes downcast,
and holding what appears to be a lingam in exactly the manner described by Klokke (1994, 190).
Thus it appears that even the mystic yogic practices discussed in this book might have been known
from these early times.
 
14. Ardika and Bellwood (1991).
 
15. As we have seen, there are several levels of esoteric understanding. Thus the myths provide a
narrative level that points to the more abstract symbolism of sacred letters and numbers. I have
observed a tendency among village priests and local leaders, who are not scholars of the texts, to
ponder the meaning of ritual actions. Such speculations are often, I think, offered to foreigners
seeking explanations for rituals.
 
16. See, for example, Covarrubias (1994, 261), Swellengrebel (1960, 64-65), and Connor (1982).
 
17. Budiana and other Balinese often mentioned to me that there are different kinds of worship appro-
priate for different persons: karya (work), bhakti (devotion), and jnana (abstract understanding).
 
18. Wikan (1990, 35-37, 137-141) has discussed with much sensitivity the different emphasis that Bali-
nese place on the role of thinking and feeling compared with Western culture. She argues that for
Balinese thought and feeling are not opposed but rather combine to give people deeper insight
into their world.
 
19. Howe (1980).
 
20. See Bakker (1993), Picard (1999), and Howe (2001).
 
163
 
===PDFPAGE 174===
 
===PDFPAGE 175===
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UNPUBLISHED MANUSCRIPTS
 
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171
 
===PDFPAGE 182===
 
===PDFPAGE 183===
Index
Acintya, 14, 32, 34, 57, 58, 76 and religion, 9-10; as ritual work,
Adat (customary practice), 3, 26-27 24-25
Agama Hindu, 3, 6, 8, 17, 26, 27, 75, 95; Artist: and community service (ngayah), 24,
fundamental beliefs, 18 29-30; and ritual power, 23-24, 25, 30-31
Amerta. See Holy water Attachment and love, 65-66; and compassion,
Ancestors, 12, 15, 17, 18, 114, 120-121, 134 52, 53; excessive attachment, 45-47, 54, 77
Andabhuwana, 69
ANG and AH (mystical formula), 71, 106-107, Bakker, Frederik, 75
114; connection with processes of emana- Bali Aga, 136, 163n.13
tion and reabsorption, 125; connection Balinese religion: and change 25-26, 75, 136;
with Siwa and Buddha, 125; reversed at cohesive patterns in, 18; decentered, 1, 10;
time of death, 109, 158n.67, 162n.147 defining nature of, 10-13, 27-28; five
Animism, 2, 11, 19, 86, 135 basic assumptions about, 2
Anthropological perspective contrasted with Banas, 36, 38, 46, 145n.27
art critic/historian, 8, 74; anthropological Barat, I Gusti Made, 9, 49, 50
reading of the texts, 59, 84, 105, Barong, 16-17, 71, 76; connection with Siwa,
148-149n.25 44, 70, 81, 114, 119, 120; different types
Ardhacandra, 87,108 of, 42, 146n.44; at Galungan, 118-120;
Ardhanareswari (Siwa and Uma united in one mask, 38, 78, 116, 152n.70; meeting with
body), 82, 86, 89, 94-95, 96, 103, 109, Rangda, 42-44, 70-72, 104, 114, 115,
111, 124; meaning of term, 159n.75 160n.91; political significance of, 142n.48;
Art: and emanation and reabsorption, 125; symbol of the masculine principle of
modern influences on, 9-10; produced spirit, 43
without thought of gain, 25, 29-30; Barth, Fredrik, 10
173
 
===PDFPAGE 184===
[ Index ]
Batuan, Dewa Nyoman, 7, 50, 118 Dasaksara (ten sacred letters), 87, 91, 92, 93,
Bellows, Laura, 83, 86, 91, 92, 96, 105 105-107; and healing, 158n.69; link with
Bhumi Kamulan, 70 processes of emanation and reabsorption,
Bhuta kala (the chthonic forces, demonic 107, 158n.69; link with the marriage of
entities), 14, 16, 35, 61, 67, 69, 70, 76, 80, fire and water, 105, 107; link with the
110, 112, 127; definitions of 36-37, 51-52, nawasanga, 128; link with rwa bineda,
121; and Galungan, 118-120; myth of 107, 160n.91
origin of, 66-67, 110, 151n.54; and Nyepi, Davis, Richard, 98, 101-103, 108, 110, 115,
116-118; as transformations of the high 125, 126, 127, 132
gods, 122 Death and dissolution, 39-40, 46, 48, 66, 67,
Bima, 47, 56-58; as spiritual warrior, 94 68, 90, 115
Blood, 32, 33, 35, 43, 44, 66 Demons: demonic form, 36-37, 44, 54, 55, 67,
Boon, James, 12, 82, 90 69, 76, 80, 89, 90, 100, 110, 117, 119, 120,
Brahma, 11, 15, 38, 67, 94, 99, 108, 113, 117, 121, 127, 128, 130; as symbolic of the
122, 129 material world, 132; as transformations of
Buddha, 51; Buddha priests, 60, 124. See also the high gods, 122. See also Bhuta kala;
Siwa and Buddha Durga; Kala; Kala Rudra; Siwa Kala
Buddhism, 2, 11, 12, 18, 36, 51, 52 Desire: as a cosmic force, 41, 43, 47, 59, 65,
Budiana, I Ketut, 6, 7, 8, 25, 27, 29-32, 54, 58, 77, 100; demonic desire, 67—68; erotic
59, 66, 68, 71, 73-74, 76, 78, 79, 86, 91, desire, 45-46, 60, 65, 100; instinctual/-
94, 100, 105, 113, 125, 127, 132, 137; animal desire, 37, 44, 46, 47; as Kundalini,
cosmic view of, 74, 81; explanation of the 44; material desires, 65; oedipal desire,
ongkara symbol, 108; publications about, 43, 63-64, 65; tongue symbol of, 67;
143n.1; use of color, 32, 34, 38, 45; use of wrong desire (kama salah), 63-64, 65,
humor, 39, 45; views as representative of 68, 101
Balinese mystical thinking, 74-75 Dharma (order) and adharma (chaos), 17, 18,
51, 52, 120
Cakra, 85, 86, 93, 105, 106, 128 Dreams, 6, 7, 8, 33, 56, 57, 132
Calendrical system, 17, 61-62 Durga, 15, 18, 39, 44, 52, 63-64, 65, 69, 70, 71,
Calon Arang, 114 77, 81, 90, 101, 102, 110, 114, 117, 119,
Caru (rituals for the chthonic forces), 16; myth 120; Berawi (Bhairava) Durga, 115; differ-
of origin of, 66-67, 80, 109-110; at Nyepi, ences from Indian Durga, 151n.50; the five
116, 117; as process of reabsorbing nega- Durgas (Panca Durga), 66-68, 70, 76, 101,
tive energies, 66, 110, 113, 123; as ritual 115, 120; resides in the Pura Dalam, 113
of purification, 110; Taur Kasanga, 116,
118, 121 Eiseman, Fred, 77
Community service (ngayah), 24, 25, 29-30 Eka Dasa Rudra, 104, 121-123
Conception, 33-34, 91; symbolized by segehan Emanation (emission) and reabsorption, 102,
agung offering, 112 103, 104, 107, 108, 109, 157n.23; and art,
Connor, Linda, 21 125; connection with ANG AH formula,
Cosmos as dynamic. See Emanation and re- 125; and holy water, 123-124; as provid-
absorption; Transformations ing the basic pattern of Balinese ritual,
Covarrubias, Miguel, 11 125, 132; reflected in the nawasanga,
Cowherd, 68-69, 151nn.60, 61. See also Rare 126-130; and roles of pedanda Buddha and
Angon pedanda Siwa, 124-125; in the self, 130;
Creese, Helen, 13, 83, 86, 92, 96, 105 symbolized in Eka Dasa Rudra, 121-123;
Cremation, 12, 15, 30, 40 symbolized in Galungan rituals, 118-120;
Cycles, cosmic. See Emanation and reabsorp- symbolized in Kuningan rituals, 120-121;
tion; Ritual; Transformations symbolized in meeting of Barong and
174
 
===PDFPAGE 185===
[ Index ]
Rangda, 114-115; symbolized in Nypei Hanuman, 34, 148n.23
rituals, 116-118; symbolized in the temple Harmony, balance, and order in Balinese reli-
festival, 112-113 gion, 2, 5, 6, 47, 89, 100, 112, 121, 126,
127, 132, 133, 135, 137, 140n.1; balance
Female creative principle, 31, 33-34, 41, 43, 45, achieved through constant movement,
70, 71, 76; Mother Earth, 114. See also 113, 132
Goddess; Terrible Mother Headley, Stephen, 63
Feuerstein, Georg, 109 Healers (balian), 19, 74, 78
Fieldwork, 6-8, 50, 59, 78, 140, 140n.6, Hefner, Robert, 160n.98
141n.37 Hero, 47-48, 52, 56, 58; myths, 51; the Tantric
Fire, 32, 34, 35, 36, 40, 41, 43, 46, 53, 70-71, hero, the vira, 93-94, 96, 127
76, 108; and anger, 64-66, 68-69, 70, 99; Hinduism, 1, 2, 3, 10, 11, 12, 36, 79, 81, 85, 94,
sacred syllable representing cosmic ele- 100, 114, 133, 134, 135
ment of fire, ANG, 71. See also Marriage Hobart, Angela, 56
of fire and water Hobart, Mark, 6, 18, 36-37
Five senses (panca indriya), 65 Hoens, Dirk, 96
Five yadnya (sacrifices), 14-15, 85, 134 Holy water (tirta), 33, 35, 56, 82, 96, 103, 104,
Freud, Sigmund, 63, 132, 135 105, 111; produced at temple festival, 111,
112; the sexual fluids of Shiva and Sakti,
Galungan, 16-17, 104, 121; myths of, 118-119; 109, 111, 124; sprinkler (lis), 95; tirta
reinterpretation of, 118-120; Western amerta, 57, 103, 109, 112, 115, 123-124,
interpretations of, 17 127, 130; types of, 123-124
Gana (Ganesha), 50, 54-56, 68-69, 77, 94, 119 Hooykaas, Christiaan, 12, 21, 33, 37, 59, 61, 69,
Geertz, Clifford, 12, 13, 19, 25, 27-28, 79, 137 70, 77, 79, 84, 85, 87, 88, 92, 94, 95, 97,
Geertz, Hildred, 12, 19, 27, 77, 78, 82, 85, 89, 103, 104, 105, 107, 116, 122, 123, 124, 134
121, 123, 159n.85 Hooykaas, Jacoba, 81, 110
Goddess (the Mother), 31, 35, 48, 76, 80, 83; Howe, Leopold, 3, 12, 26, 37, 59, 75, 110, 118,
as the creative cosmic principle, 31, 34; 121, 123, 141n.39; similarities with Howe's
her body symbolized by the temple, description of the Balinese cosmos and
111-112; and death and dissolution, 40, ritual, 80, 134, 136, 144nn.6, 11, 145n.38,
48, 67, 90; and desire, 37; as destructive 146n.49, 147nn.54, 58, 148nn.11, 13,
force, 32-35, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 149nn.27, 28, 157n.23, 159n.86
48, 65, 70; as the earth, 31, 32, 35, 36, 37,
144n.6; her essential duality, 48, 68, 77, Incest, 43, 63-64, 65
90; and greed, 37, 100; as mother, 31, 33, Initiation (diksa), 22, 92
46, 48, 77, 80, 81; symbolized by the ser- Inversion of fire and water, 41-42, 109
pent, Anantabhoga, 53-54, 148nn.12, 13, Islam, 1, 10, 12, 96
14; as volcano, 32-35; as the witch, 32-33, Iswara, 38, 67, 99, 117, 122
35-36, 39, 40, 41
Godlike/gentle form (somyarupa), 60, 63, 67, Java, 11, 51, 75, 82, 83, 84, 85, 90, 95, 96, 97,
117 103, 124, 125
Goris, R., 12, 83 Jfiadnasiddhdnta, 84, 87, 92, 105, 108-109
Goudriaan, Teun, 82, 84, 85-93, 95, 97 Jung, Carl, 51
Greed, 38, 39, 42, 45, 46, 53, 100
Gupta, Sanjukta, Dirk Jan Hoens, and Teun Kala (son of Siwa and Uma), 37, 89, 121, 122;
Goudriaan, 84 depictions of his birth, 150n.42; Indian
Gupta, Shakti, 81 parallels with, 156nn.14, 15; myths of,
Guru (spiritual leader/teacher), 73, 74, 104; 60-64, 65, 66, 76, 101, 149n.31; symbol-
role of, 93, 106 izing the earth, 72
175
 
===PDFPAGE 186===
[ Index ]
Kala Purana, 62 MacRae, Graeme, 142n.48
Kala Rudra, 66, 67, 70, 71, 102, 123 Magic, 85-86; black magic, 90, 91; drawings
Kalatattwa, 60, 62 (rarajahan), 23, 31, 34, 35-36, 88
Kali Yuga (the present age), 42, 137 Mahabharata, 47, 56
Kam Garrett, 143n.1, 144n.10, 159n.77 Majapahit period, 87, 136
Kama and Ratih (the god and goddess of love), Male creative principle, 32, 33, 41, 43, 46, 70,
64-65, 99-100, 150nn.47, 48 76; Father Sky, 114
Kanda empat (the four mystical siblings), Mandala, 88; and the nawasanga, 128-129
37-39, 45, 46, 75, 87, 88, 97, 107, 130 Mantra, 88, 103, 104
Karma, 11, 75 Marriage (meeting) of fire and water, 33, 41, 43,
Kekawin literature, 83, 87, 88, 93, 135 44, 57, 70-72, 76, 80, 86, 105-106, 109,
Kempers, A. J. Bernet, 11, 93 114, 115, 135, 144n.10, 160n.91; Budiana’s
Klokke, Marijke, 124 depiction of this meeting in the self, 44,
Kobot, I Gusti Ketut, 9, 49, 50 71, 106; compared with Kundalini yoga,
Korn, V. E., 12, 92 106; link with the dasaksara, 105,
Kris (dagger): phallic significance, 43; signifi- 160n.91; mystical formula ANG (fire)
cance of kris dancers 43 and AH (water), 106
Kumara (son of Siwa and Uma), 61-62, 89, Maya, 102-103, 108, 115, 158n.57
100-101 Meditation, 31-32, 71, 74, 83, 87, 88, 91, 93,
Kundalini, 44, 76, 81, 85, 86-87, 91, 96, 105, 99, 105, 107, 109, 111; and visualization,
106, 135 88, 91, 103, 105, 111, 115, 130
Kuningan, 16-17, 104, 121; reinterpretation Microcosm and macrocosm, 38, 47, 48, 72, 87,
of, 120-121; Western interpretations of, 92, 107, 115, 117, 130
17 Mirdiana, I Gusti Nyoman, 6, 7, 8, 25, 27,
49-50, 74-75, 78, 79, 81, 86, 94, 99, 100,
Lansing, Stephen, 12, 36, 78-79, 121, 123, 135 101, 137; use of color, 54, 62, 64, 66, 68,
Levels of knowledge, 20, 78-80, 136, 163n.15 69, 105; views representative of Balinese
Lévi, Sylvain, 82 mystical thinking, 75
Lingam (symbol of Shiva/Siwa), 96, 103, 130; Moksa (liberation), 44, 57, 71, 74, 75, 109
as axis of the universe, 129; importance in Moon, 72; as symbol of the Goddess, 67
Bali, 94-95 Mother. See Female creative principle; Goddess;
Linggodbhawa: myth of, 94, 100, 129; Indian Terrible Mother
parallels with, 156n.13 Mudra, 88
Litany of the Rsi Bhujangga, 59, 70-71, 117, Mysticism, 25, 27, 28, 31, 58, 71, 74, 79, 85,
160n.98 105, 133, 135, 137; “alphabet mysticism,”
Literacy: and artistic production, 22-23; 83, 87-88, 91, 105-109; mystical nature
“literary yoga,” 83, 91; and religious of speech, 87-88, 107; mystical themes
knowledge, 21-22, 78-80, 136; “voca- expressed in Budiana’s works, 75-78;
tional literacy,” 21-22 mystical themes expressed in Mirdiana’s
Lontar texts, 3, 8, 17, 19-22, 23, 25, 30-31, 34, works, 75-78; mystical union, 92, 95, 103,
50, 59, 68, 69, 70, 71, 75, 79, 80, 85, 104, 104, 105, 106, 109, 113, 114, 115, 121,
124; erotic texts, 83; link with ritual per- 127, 129, 130, 137; patterns in Balinese
formance, 80, 114-115, 134, 135, 159n.88; mystical thought, 73-80, 137; Tantric
tutur texts, 59, 60, 62, 66, 75, 83, 84, 86, mysticism, 85-93; temple festival (odalan)
87, 92, 93, 105, 106, 107, 108, 117, 134; as celebrating a mystical union, 111-114,
unpublished yoga texts, 86, 87, 93, 120-121. See also Holy water; Marriage of
104-109, 148n.25 fire and water; Meditation; Yoga
Lovric, Barbara, 17, 21, 82, 87, 88, 89, 90, 93, Myths, 76, 79, 89; hero myths, 51; multiple
96, 118-119, 135, 139n.5, 160n.91 interpretations of, 50; origin of bhuta kala,
176
 
===PDFPAGE 187===
[ Index ]
66-67; origin of caru rituals, 66-67, 116; Power of the Mother, 31, 33, 35, 36, 37, 42, 44,
origin of sickness, 70; origin of sorcery 48, 81; in the human body, 44. See also
and witchcraft, 69; origin of wayang kulit Female creative principle; Goddess; Ter-
and temple entertainments, 67; origin of rible Mother
world, 77; Rare Angon, 68-69, 77; of Siwa Pradana, 104, 106, 109, 112, 113, 120
and Uma, 59-72, 75 Pratima (images of the gods), 111, 113, 116;
symbolizing purusha and pradana, Siwa
Nada, 87, 96, 108 and Uma, 113
Naga (serpent), 47, 53-54, 56, 58; Basuki, 130 Priests, 15, 16, 19, 21, 88; bhujangga (exorcist
Nawasanga (the nine directions), 88, 104; priest), 117; Brahma priests (pedanda), 22,
as cosmological grid, 126-127; dynamic 24, 59, 67, 69, 75, 78, 81, 86, 89, 93, 103,
nature of, 127-129; in the form of a lotus, 105, 111, 112, 116, 127, 136; Pedanda
128, 130; illustration, 126, 128, 129, 130; Buddha, 104, 123-125, 161n.135; Pedanda
as model of the self, 130; as reflecting Siwa, 104, 123-124; temple priests
process of emanation and reabsorption, (pemangku), 15, 16, 69, 78, 79, 110, 111,
126-130, 162n.145 112, 113, 116
Nihom, Max, 13, 85, 96, 97, 153n.35 Purification, 16, 35, 40, 44, 61, 71, 72, 103,
Nyepi, 16-17, 104, 121; as a means of con- 104, 109, 110, 116, 121, 124
trolling the processes of emanation and Purusha, 104, 106, 109, 114, 120
reabsorption, 116-118
Rangda: connection with Durga, 44, 70, 71, 114;
Obeyesekere, Ganath, 50, 135 mask, 38, 78, 116; meeting with Barong,
Offerings (banten), 14, 16; and textual 42-44, 70-72, 76, 81, 104, 114, 115,
knowledge, 23 160n.91; as the Terrible Mother, 42, 81
O'Flaherty, Wendy, 98-102, 126, 132 Rare Angon: myth of, 68-69, 77; and Galun-
OM (ONG) (mystical sound), 108 gan, 120
Ongkara, 87, 96, 108; illustration, 108 Rawson, Philip, 39
Oral instruction, 93, 104 Red, 32, 33-34, 41-42
Oscillating universe, 101-102, 108, 113. Redundancy of ritual symbolism, 132
See also Emanation and reabsorption Reincarnation, 11, 76
Reuter, Thomas, 163n.13
Padmasana (lotus seat), 94-95 Rig-Veda, 100
Panca maha bhuta (the five physical elements), Ritual: calendrical rituals, 16-18; caru rituals,
36, 39, 47, 65, 121 16; description of contemporary ritual life,
Parallels and differences with Indian thought, 13-19; five sacrifices (yadnya),14, 134,
2, 3, 4, 10, 11-13, 21, 27, 81, 83, 108, 109, 142n.42; importance in Bali, 13; as a means
114, 132, 133, 134-135, 136-137; myths of controlling processes of emanation and
of Shiva and Uma, 99-101, 150nn.45, 48; reabsorption, 112-113, 115, 117-118,
Tantrism, 85-95, 96-97 120-121, 123, 125, 130, 132; as a means
Paramasiwa (Paramashiva), 76, 95, 103, 108, of redirecting destructive forces, 76, 99,
127, 129 110, 112; mortuary rituals, 76, 142n.43,
Parisada Hindu Dharma, 26, 58, 95, 120, 162n.162; underlying pattern of, 80, 125,
141n.39 126, 133, 135, 136. See also Caru; Eka
Pasupata, 97 Dasa Rudra; Galungan; Kuningan; Nyepi;
Pemutaran Mandara Giri (churning of the Temple festival (odalan)
ocean), 130, 132; illustration, 131 Rohini, 63, 101, 150n.45
Phallic Mother, 43, 146n.46 Rubinstein, Rachelle, 21, 22, 83, 84, 86, 87-88,
Picard, Michel, 10, 75 90, 92, 93, 96, 105, 107, 135
Pilgrimages, 93 Rudra, 77, 121-122. See also Kala Rudra
177
 
===PDFPAGE 188===
[ Index ]
Rwa bineda, 68, 71-72, 80, 93, 97, 106, 108, 121, 123; unique character of Balinese
115, 125; and the dasaksara, 107, 114 myths, 101
Siwagama, 66, 68, 124
Sacred texts: and artistic production, 22-23, Siwa Kala, 64, 66, 110, 117, 128, 129, 130
30-31; nature of, 19-21; and spiritual Siwa Linga Suksma, 71, 86, 88, 104, 105,
authority, 19-21 107, 108
Sacrifice, 51-54, 61, 66, 76, 118, 123 Siwaratri, 17, 95
Sadashiva (Sadasiwa), 103, 108, 128 Soebadio, Haryati, 83, 84, 87, 93, 103, 107
Saiva-Siddhanta, 98, 101, 103-104, 107 Somyarupa (godlike/gentle form), 60, 63, 67,
Sakti (consort/energy of a god), 46, 77, 81, 86, 117, 149n.32
89-91, 94, 100, 101, 103, 104, 106, 108, Sorcery and witchcraft, 18-19, 38, 82, 115;
109, 111, 129, 132 myth of origin of, 69
Sakti (mystical or magical power), 32-33, 40, Soul (atma), 21, 43, 44, 48, 71, 74, 76, 83, 95,
46, 55, 68, 77-78, 83 103, 104, 105-106, 108, 109, 114, 121
Sang Hyang Widi, 14, 141n.40 Stuart-Fox, David, 121, 160n.108
Santiko, Hariani, 90 Styles of Balinese paintings, 9, 49
Saraswati (goddess of knowledge), 31; Sunya (the void), 108, 113, 117, 127; and
Saraswati day, 17 Nyepi, 117, 118
Serpent (naga): as symbol of source of all mate- Surya-Sevana, 87, 88, 92, 95, 103, 105, 111
rial things and riches, 53; as symbol of the Suarka, I Nyoman, 44, 140n.11, 143n.90,
Mother, 54 148n.25, 150nn.39, 44, 51n.55, 157nn.33,
Sexual fluids, 33-34, 60, 70, 91, 109, 112, 35, 159n.88
144n.11 Sutarja, Ida Bagus, 60, 63, 64, 78-80, 81, 119,
Sexual union and divine creation, 41, 46, 48, 127
76, 77, 81, 83, 91-92, 95, 104, 106, 108, Sutasoma, 51-53, 66, 147n.10
109, 130, 132 Swellengrebel, Jan, 17, 21
Shiva, 41, 63, 94; cycles of activity and quies-
cence, 98-100, 101, 102; mythology of Tantrism, 4, 12, 13, 18, 27, 39, 73, 81, 94, 95,
98-101; Shiva as Kama, 100 96, 99, 108, 109, 114, 127, 133, 135, 136;
Shivaism, 12, 13, 27, 73, 81, 94, 95, 97, 103, in Bali, 82, 83, 84-95, 97; a Balinese
104, 114, 133, 135, 136; basic pattern Tantrism, 95-97; defining Tantrism, 82;
identified by Davis, 125 key features of, 84-95; Tantric texts in
Sickness, 109, 115; myth of origin of, 70 Bali, 84, 87; Tibetan Tantrism, 91, 96
Sin, 40, 44, 61, 71, 72, 109, 115; the sad ripu Teeth (fangs), 34, 38, 40, 41, 55, 65, 66, 68, 71;
(six vices), 65 tooth filing, 55
Siwa, 11, 14, 15, 17, 44, 51, 55, 58, 59, 61, Temple festival (odalan), 15-16, 109-114, 120,
63, 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 76, 132; as a birth, 111-112; asa mystic union
77, 89, 90, 95, 103, 106, 107, 108, 109, of Siwa and Sakti, 111-114, 127
110, 113, 114, 117, 121, 122, 127, 132; Temple, 11, 15, 16; Besakih, 121, 122, 123;
as Bhatara Guru, 92; as lingam, 94-5; Kayangan Tiga, 113, 114; Pura Dalem, 90,
as purusha, 113, 114; and Sakti in the 113, 115; as symbolizing the Goddess, 112,
self, 107; as Surya, 94 114, 159n.79
Siwa and Buddha, 124-125; Siwa-Buddha cult Terrible Mother, 34, 35, 39, 40, 43, 44, 45, 46,
in Java, 124 47, 52, 65. See also Goddess as destructive
Siwa and Uma: myths of, 59, 60-72, 84, 114, force
120, 149n.27; compared with Indian Tiger (panther): as symbol of animal power and
myths of, 99-100; transformations of, ferocity, 38, 40, 52; tiger barong, 42
149n.28; transformations of depicted in Tongue, 33, 38, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 65, 66,
drawings displayed at Eka Dasa Rudra, 67
178
 
===PDFPAGE 189===
[ Index ]
Transformations: cosmic, 40, 43, 44, 48, 59-61, White, 32, 33-34, 35, 41, 44
69, 72, 74, 76, 89, 98, 100; of destructive Wiener, Margaret, 86
forces, 34, 43, 52, 53, 54, 59, 66, 67, 70-72, Windu (Bindu), 87, 96, 108
80, 99, 102, 110, 122, 123-124. See also Wisnu, 11, 15, 38, 67, 99, 108, 113, 117, 122,
Emanation and reabsorption; Ritual 129
Tunggal, 14, 56, 58, 71, 76, 107, 108 Witch (Jeyak), 19, 32, 33, 34, 38, 39, 40, 44, 46,
52, 68, 69, 78, 90, 115, 145n.31
Uma (consort of Siwa), 31, 44, 55, 59, 60, 61,
63, 64, 66, 67, 68, 70, 71, 72, 76, 77, 86, Yoga, 28, 71-72, 76, 82, 83, 104, 105, 125,
89, 95, 102, 110, 114, 115, 117, 122; cursed 130, 133, 163n.13; Kundalini yoga, 86-87,
by Siwa, 69, 114, 120; as pradana, 113, 114 91, 96, 160n.92; link to public ritual, 72,
111, 114-115, 121, 125, 127, 130, 135,
Water, 34, 41, 70, 71, 76, 108, 115; sacred 160nn.91, 92, 162nn.1, 146; “literary
syllable representing water, AH, 71. yoga,” 83, 87-88, 91; “sexual yoga,” 83,
See also Marriage of fire and water 91-92, 105, 155n.114; unpublished yoga
Wayang kulit (shadow puppet theater), 39, 47, texts, 86, 87, 93, 104-109, 148n.25
49, 56, 61, 62, 79, 88, 132; myth of origin
of, 67, 151n.57; wayang lemah, 80 Zoetmulder, P. J., 37, 38, 83, 88
Weck, W., 83 Zurbuchen, Mary, 21, 22, 93, 105, 107
179
 
===PDFPAGE 190===
About the Author
 
MICHELE STEPHEN—senior lecturer in anthropology at Latrobe University,
Melbourne, Australia—worked for many years on Papua New Guinea among the
coastal Mekeo people before turning her attention to Bali in 1996. She lived on
the Indonesian island for three years (1996-1999) and has visited frequently
since then. Her research interests include religion, witchcraft and sorcery,
dreams, trance and possession, and psychoanalytic approaches to cultural fan-
tasy and creativity. In Bali these interests have expanded to include a passion
for Asian art. She is the author of A’aisa’s Gifts: A Study of Magic and the Self
(1995), the editor of Sorcerer and Witch in Melanesia (1987), and co-editor with
Gilbert Herdt of The Religious Imagination in New Guinea (1989). This is her first
book on Bali.
 
nL
 
Production Notes for Stephen, Desire, Divine and Demonic
 
Book and jacket design and composition by Diane Gleba Hall
 
Text set in Apollo, with display type in Frutiger
 
Printing and binding by The Maple-Vail Book Manufacturing Group
 
Printed on 60 lb. Text White Opaque