The Other Mask

The Majapahit Empire in Bali, Indonesia
The 15th Century

Diah had spent most of her twelve years watching Grandmother tend the temple masks. There were dozens of them, each resting in its own wooden case and each demanding its own peculiar care. Twelve monkey faces lined one wall, carved from light wood and painted grey, with round eyes and tufts of hair jutting in every direction. Nearby hung the heavier faces of kings and ministers, princes and jesters, their painted expressions fixed somewhere between dignity and mischief.

Then there were the masks kept in the back room. The ones that never saw sunlight.

Grandmother stored them behind a second door, wrapped in white cloth and protected from the salt air drifting inland from the sea. Diah had glimpsed them only a handful of times, and never for very long.

“Why must they stay in the dark?” she’d often asked.

“These masks need rest. In the darkness they can sleep.”

Diah wasn't sure she believed that. Yet she had never seen Grandmother enter the room with nothing more than flowers and incense. The glowing tips of the smoking sticks offered only the barest of light.

As Diah grew older, Grandmother shared more of what she knew. That a mask couldn’t be carved until its maker sought permission from the tree that offered its wood. How the ceremonies before and after the making were elaborate and heartfelt. Why the maker inscribed part of the tree's very spirit into the mask before it was consecrated and given to the mask keeper to protect.

Grandmother also talked of current matters. That a mask keeper needed to ensure each mask in her care stayed whole. How every mask in her grandmother’s care had come from the old days and boasted at least four dozen layers of paint. Why the masks fed on the powers of incense and holy water and flowers.

Only later did Diah understand that "the old days" meant more than long ago. It meant another island and another temple, a life her family had lost before crossing the sea. And "current matters" were never current matters at all but lessons for the day when the masks would belong to Diah's care.

Of all the masks hidden in the temple storehouse, Diah avoided only one: the face with bulging eyes and curling fangs. Even wrapped in white cloth, it seemed to watch the room. It sat in a box away from the other masks, and always in view of the box containing the Barong. 

Everyone knew about the Barong, the whimsical lion protector that guarded their people. His mask was revered among all, a red head covered in thick white fur and wearing jewels adorned with shiny mirrors. He pranced like a puppy one moment and charged with teeth bared the next, the very ideal of joy and power.

No one spoke much about the other mask though, the one that sat apart from the rest. Grandmother called it Rangda, but Diah had never heard that name before. 

Not among the temple-goers and not from her many friends.

“Do we need it?” Diah asked one morning.

Grandmother looked up from polishing the Barong's mirrored crown. “Need what?”

Diah pointed toward the dark box. “That one.”

Grandmother’s lips pressed flat. “A dance without that mask would teach only half the truth.”
Diah thought about that conversation in the months that followed. As her twelfth birthday approached, her grandmother declared she was finally old enough to do something beyond watching. This time, she could help.

“Fetch the flowers and the incense,” Grandmother said. These days she struggled to climb the steep black stone staircase that led to the temple garden, much less beyond.

Diah poured her a tumbler of cool water and recited the instructions she’d already memorized. “Kamboja and marigolds for all, but also hibiscus for her.” Like the others, she didn’t speak Rangda’s name aloud. “Find the incense maker at the far end of the market, furthest from the sea. He has the freshest wares.”

Grandmother didn’t praise her, but her satisfied sigh was enough. “Be sure to listen to what people are saying. We can whisper their truths to the masks.”

A simple request that was harder to accomplish. People chattered about all sorts of matters in the market. The village was busier than ever for the spring festival. Artisans offered decorations of flowers and shells; musicians tuned instruments for the gamelan; and tailors offered last minute alterations for the dancers. From afar it seemed as though the whole village was excited for the performance.

But as Diah waited for her strings of flowers, grumblings of jealousy seemed everywhere.  She heard one vendor accuse another of stealing customers by lowering his prices. The argument began in whispers and ended with both men refusing to face one another.

At the incense stall, two women spoke sweetly to one another until a third turned her back. Then envy spilled from their mouths as easily as water from a tipped jar.

And as she returned home, old grievances arose all around her. Talk of longstanding feuds that resisted new beginnings, even though everyone pressed their palms together at the chest and invoked the Barong as the solution to their troubles.

Diah returned to the temple and listed what she had heard to her grandmother.

She only shrugged and inspected Diah’s purchases with a keen eye. “The village is as it has always been. Now you understand why we dance.” 

But that evening, she handed Diah a ring of keys. Not the iron keys used for the monkey masks and the masks of kings. These were brass, worn smooth by generations of hands.

Diah stared at the keys in her palm. Though she had spent her life watching Grandmother tend the temple masks, the back room had always remained beyond her reach. Even as a child she understood that some doors opened only when a person had proven themselves worthy to cross the threshold. The masks within had slept there longer than Diah had been alive, wrapped in white cloth and protected from sunlight, sea air, and careless hands. Now Grandmother was entrusting their care to her.

Together they crossed the temple courtyard. Evening approached, and preparations for the spring festival filled every corner of the grounds. Women knelt beside woven trays overflowing with fruit and flowers, arranging offerings beneath the shrines. Beneath a nearby pavilion, musicians coaxed their instruments into harmony while tailors hurried to finish the last alterations for the dancers. The scent of incense drifted through the temple and mingled with the salt carried inland from the sea. Yet as they approached the storehouse, the bustle of the festival seemed to recede behind them until only the scrape of sandals against stone and the distant murmur of the gamelan remained.

Grandmother unlocked the first door and then the second. Cool air greeted them from within. The room smelled of old wood, dried flowers, and incense that had seeped into the walls over generations. Diah entered the space with new authority. Wooden boxes lined the room beneath lengths of white cloth, some small enough to carry beneath one arm and others requiring two people to move. Here the masks waited between dances, resting in darkness until they were called upon once more.

Grandmother set down the flowers and incense and nodded toward the basin of water.
“Wash first.”

Diah poured water over her hands and scrubbed them carefully, first as she had been taught and then a second time for good measure. Grandmother watched without comment. Only when she appeared satisfied did she kneel beside the nearest box and fold back the white cloth covering it. She lit the first of the incense sticks and let the tiny flame linger.

Barong emerged from the darkness.

Though Diah had seen the mask countless times during performances, the sight of it resting quietly within its box felt strangely different. Without the dancer beneath it, without the crash of cymbals and the laughter of children, the lion seemed smaller and older. Mirrors set into the crown reflected the wavering light of the incense flame, scattering tiny fragments of orange across the walls. Thick white fur framed the red face, while layers of paint applied across generations gave the wood a richness that seemed almost deeper than color itself.

Grandmother dipped her fingers into a bowl of holy water and flicked droplets across the mask. Then she tucked fresh marigolds among the fur and motioned for Diah to do the same.
The flowers released their fragrance as she worked. She wondered about the countless hands who had tended this mask before them, because no mask like this could belong to any one person. It belonged to time itself.

Satisfied, Grandmother adjusted one final blossom and blew out the flame. “Good.”

They replaced the cloth and moved deeper into the room. The second box waited with an almost urgent presence. Grandmother knelt before the box and rested her hand upon the lid for a moment before opening it.

Rangda stared upward.

The mask was larger than Diah remembered. Bulging eyes protruded beneath an elaborate crown, and curling fangs framed a mouth fixed in a perpetual grin. Long silver-white hair spilled around the edges of the box like waves. As a child, Diah had often lingered outside the storehouse and imagined that hair creeping across the floor after nightfall, slowly winding itself around the boxes of sleeping masks. Looking upon it now, she could see every strand carefully tied in place, every lock maintained by patient hands. 

Grandmother performed the same rituals she had performed for Barong. She touched holy water to its face. Lit a second stick of incense and let the flame flicker over drifting smoke. Whispered prayers in a voice too soft for Diah to catch.

Only the flowers differed.

Instead of marigolds, Grandmother arranged three crimson hibiscus blossoms before the mask. Their color glowed against the white cloth.

“Why hibiscus?” Diah asked.

Grandmother adjusted one of the petals. “Because she prefers them.”

Together they cleaned the mask. As Diah worked, details emerged that she had never noticed before. A fine crack beneath one eye had been sealed and painted over so carefully that it disappeared unless the light struck it just so. A section of carved wood near one fang had been repaired by another hand using a slightly different grain. Beneath the newest layers of paint, she glimpsed traces of older colors, each preserved beneath the next.

The repairs stretched backward through time, evidence of caretakers whose names Diah would never know. Women who had mixed pigments, polished wood, replaced strands of hair, and carried the mask through temple courtyards long before Diah had been born. Women who had crossed the sea carrying what remained of their old lives with them.

The longer she studied the mask, the harder it became to see only the fangs.

When the cleaning was done, Grandmother placed the final hibiscus blossom before Rangda and folded her hands.

“There,” she said softly. “Now they are ready.”

Outside, the first notes of the gamelan drifted across the temple grounds. One instrument answered another, and then another after that, until the evening air itself seemed to hum. Throughout the village, lamps were being lit and offerings set into place.

Soon the masks would leave the darkness. Soon the dance would begin.

The temple courtyard filled quickly once darkness settled across the village. Families arrived carrying lanterns and offerings. The scent of incense mingled with woodsmoke and the perfume of fresh flowers. The bronze notes and steady beat of the gamelan beckoned the village to come into the temple.

Diah had watched the dances—and this particular one—many times before, but this time was different. Instead of sitting among the crowd, she remained near the performers, carrying water where it was needed and relaying instructions from Grandmother. Dancers stretched their limbs and nearby, musicians adjusted tuning pegs. Costume keepers inspected every fastening twice.

The dance began as it always had, with a lone monkey appearing first. The creature bounded across the courtyard with more enthusiasm than dignity, scratching itself, stealing fruit from unattended offerings, and narrowly escaping the reprimands of kings and ministers. The audience delighted in every foolish antic.

Other characters followed: princes and servants and nobles. Figures Diah knew by heart. Then the drums changed. The shift was subtle at first. A slower rhythm beneath the others. Anticipation gathered through the crowd—the Barong was coming.

The great lion emerged from the shadows at the edge of the courtyard. A murmur swept through the audience. Children rose onto their toes for a better look. Adults pressed their palms together in greeting. One elderly woman bowed her head altogether.

Under the lantern light, the mirrors woven into Barong's crown scattered fragments of brightness across the gathered crowd. The thick white fur shimmered as he moved. One moment he bounded playfully among the spectators. The next he stood watchful and alert. For a time, laughter lingered in the courtyard. The musicians settled into a steady rhythm, and even the children who moments before had struggled to remain seated now watched attentively.

Before, when Diah had watched her grandmother work, she’d followed those masks across the stage, tied to their success and looking for flaws in the work. Now though, she found herself watching the crowd as often as the performers. Old men who spent most days complaining of sore joints sat straighter. Women carrying private worries laughed alongside their neighbors. Even the two merchants she had seen quarreling in the marketplace earlier that day shared a smile at one particularly ridiculous exchange.

For a short while, the grievances of the village seemed to loosen their grip. Then the music changed again, this time growing deeper. One by one conversations faded. Laughter disappeared. The crowd straightened.

A different presence approached.

Diah found herself searching the edge of the courtyard. All around her, heads turned in the same direction.
The performer emerged slowly from the darkness. Rangda.

The lantern light caught her crown first, then the wild tangle of black hair spilling around her shoulders. The familiar bulging eyes reflected the firelight. Her fangs gleamed white against painted lips.

No one cheered and no one laughed. No one looked away either.

Diah felt her chest tighten. As a child, she had always assumed the mask frightened people because of its ferocity. The protruding eyes, the snarling mouth, the impossibly long hair—all of it seemed designed to inspire fear.

But standing among the crowd now, she began to suspect that was not the reason at all. Because these villagers weren’t looking at a stranger. They were looking at something familiar.

The merchant she had overheard in the marketplace appeared again within the dance, his envy transformed into accusation. Small disagreements grew larger. Friends became rivals. Promises weakened beneath temptation. Pride hardened into stubbornness.

The stories unfolding on the stage weren’t new. They were the same stories she had heard all morning, only now they wore masks.

The village had arrived seeking Barong. Yet it was Rangda who seemed to know them best.
For the first time, Diah understood why Grandmother offered hibiscus to this mask as carefully as she offered marigolds to Barong.

The drums quickened.

What had begun as a measured rhythm beneath the dancers' feet gradually gathered strength until it seemed to fill the entire temple courtyard. Bronze gongs rang out in overlapping patterns. Cymbals crashed. The pulse of the kendang drums echoed through stone and bone alike. One by one the sounds folded into one another until Diah could no longer separate instrument from instrument, only feel the music moving through the crowd as surely as blood through a body.

The story unfolded alongside it.

Characters who moments before had seemed wise became stubborn. Allies turned against one another over imagined slights, small grievances hardening into lasting injuries. Each mistake bred another and each wound invited retaliation. More than once, Diah caught someone smiling with obvious discomfort, as though recognizing too much of themselves in the performance.
Rangda remained at the center of it all. Not directing events so much as revealing them.

The dancers moved around her in widening circles. The white hair of her mask whipped through the lantern light. Her eyes seemed fixed upon everyone and no one at once.

Then the kris bearers entered.

A murmur passed through the audience.

Each man carried a ceremonial dagger. Their expressions were calm, almost serene, yet the music surrounding them had become wild enough to shake the air itself. They advanced toward Rangda as one body, drawn forward by the rhythm.

The courtyard grew impossibly still. Only the music continued.

The dancers circled. Once. Then twice. And, finally, a third time. The daggers flashed.

Gasps rose from the crowd.Yet no blood appeared.

Again, the dancers surged forward, blades turned inward. Again, the steel failed to penetrate flesh. All around Diah, prayers mingled with whispers. Some villagers bowed their heads. Others stared without blinking.

The distinction between performer and audience began to blur.

The same grievances Diah had overheard in the marketplace seemed present here among the dancers. So too did the same hopes. The same acts of loyalty. The same desire to belong to something larger than oneself. Everything she had witnessed throughout the day—the envy, the pride, the kindness, the forgiveness withheld and offered in equal measure—had found its way into the courtyard.

Not because the dancers had brought those things with them, but because they had always been there. The realization settled over Diah gradually, arriving with the certainty of a tide rather than the force of a wave.

The music rose to its final crescendo and then slowly began to unwind. One instrument fell silent. Then another. The dancers lowered their daggers. The tension that had held the courtyard together for the last hour loosened its grip. Only then did Diah realize she, too, had been holding her breath.

The final notes of the gamelan lingered in the night air long after the dancers left the courtyard. For several moments no one moved. The audience remained seated where they were, as though reluctant to disturb whatever had settled over the temple grounds. Then, gradually, conversation returned. A child laughed somewhere near the outer wall. Someone rose to relight a lantern that had nearly burned itself out. The spell loosened, and the village remembered itself.

At the edge of the temple grounds, the women from the incense stall stood together beneath a flowering tree. Their conversation remained private, but now and then one would laugh and the others would answer in kind.

Still Diah understood this truth: the old grievances had not vanished, and the jealousies had not disappeared. Tomorrow they would likely return, just as surely as the tide returned to shore. Tomorrow. But tonight, neighbors helped neighbors. The dance hadn’t changed the village. It had simply reminded people what kind of village they wished to be.

Diah found Grandmother sitting upon a low stone wall overlooking the courtyard. The older woman watched the villagers move through the temple grounds with the same quiet attention she gave the masks.

Grandmother rose slowly and brushed dust from her hands.

“Come,” she said. “There is yet work.”

Diah helped Grandmother back to the storehouse. The excitement that had filled the evening seemed distant now, retreating alongside the crowd. In its place remained only the familiar work that followed every ceremony. Flowers were sorted. Bowls were washed. Mats were rolled and carried away.

At last, only the masks remained.

The performers had already removed their costumes. Barong rested upon a low table beneath the pavilion, his white fur tangled from the night's work. Rangda waited nearby, strands of silver hair spilling across folded cloth.

Without instruction, Diah fetched the basin of water. Together they began the work.

The mirrors woven into Barong's crown caught the incense glow as Diah polished them one by one. She removed stray leaves tangled within the fur and replaced the wilted marigolds with fresh blossoms gathered from the temple garden. Only when everything sat precisely as it should did Grandmother nod her approval.

Then they turned to Rangda. Diah reached for the hibiscus before Grandmother could ask.

The older woman paused, but only for a moment before she handed over the bowl of holy water.

The mask seemed different now than it had that morning. The bulging eyes remained. The curling fangs remained. Yet as Diah cleaned the painted wood, her attention lingered less upon those features than upon the careful repairs hidden beneath them. Tiny cracks filled by patient hands. Fresh paint layered over older colors. Strands of hair replaced by someone who had long since passed into memory.

The work of generations was in her hands. 

Not only Grandmother's but that of others stretching backward through time. Women who had crossed the sea carrying stories, rituals, and masks from one island to another. Women who had tended these same faces beneath different roofs and different skies.

When the cleaning was complete, Diah lifted the white cloth. For years she had watched Grandmother perform this task. Now she wrapped the mask herself. The fabric settled gently across Rangda's features until only the outline remained.

Barong received the same treatment.

As Grandmother prepared to close the boxes, Diah noticed once again how they faced one another. The arrangement had always existed. She simply had never thought to question it.
“Were they always kept this way?” she asked.

Grandmother followed her gaze. “Always.”

Diah considered that answer while the lids were secured and the cloths arranged.

Grandmother locked the final box and pressed the brass key into Diah's hand. Within the storehouse, the Barong and Rangda waited in darkness. Outside, the village continued its endless conversation beneath the stars.

And somewhere between the two, Diah finally understood why the dance needed both.