Pangléyakan is the term for Balinese sorcery/witchcraft, which can be for either good (tĕgĕ, right-handed magic) or for ill (kiwa, left-handed magic, resulting in disease, bad fortune, and death).1 Negative sorcery is suspected when conflicts arise, insofar as disease and discord are interlinked. Calonarang2 performance is seen as a way to alleviate sorcery’s negativity and tap its positivity for material and spiritual ends.3The performance is presented outside, at night, at the pura dalem, the temple found by the cemetery in each village, the temple that is associated with chthonic spirits, and which is presided over by the god Siwa (correlating with Shiva in Indian Hinduism) and his spouse Durga in her terrifying form. Spiritually strong performers play the primary roles. The witch (usually named Calonarang) will morph into the mask of Rangda, representing Durga in her demonic form. The male hero of the play, who opposes her, transforms into Barong Ket, a leonine body puppet/mask, representing Siwa in his chthonic manifestation. Barong Ket protects a group of kris (dagger) dancers, usually young males, who along with some members of the audience go into trances and engage in self-stabbing (but customarily without any blood or harm) or try to attack Rangda. Layers of protection are provided by the village pemangku (priest), who dispenses holy water, and the tukang undang (inviter), who dares any actual sorcerers/witches in the village to contend with him during this magico-religious performance. Historically, the form may be linked to curing cholera, but is likewise used for venting societal discord and returning calm. While the narrative frame may have originally been created to represent the léyak (witch/sorcerer) as the source of disease, Calonarang, the queen of all sorcery, is at the same time a Goddess savior.4 Ambiguity prevails.Balinese spiritual practice and calonarang performance intersect. Presenting calonarang is more than savoring a fictive story: the performance is felt to be “actual”—a practice of self-empowerment for those who perform. Discord is healed in a ritual that invites the viewers to experience the supernatural.5Today, calonarang has two modes. One is routinely offered for tourists, with a simple explanation of good defeating evil—the male hero transforms into a lion, Barong Ket, who subdues a plague-bringing widow-witch Calonarang/Rangda (Figure 1). This version was shared with colonial outsiders in the early twentieth century and was popularized internationally at the 1931 Paris Colonial Exposition, where a group, shepherded by Walter Spies, wowed Antonin Artaud and the European public. By the 1960s, calonarang emerged as a regular tourist offering at the village of Batubulan, north of the capital city of Denpasar in Gianyar District, under I Made Kredek (1906–1979), a major choreographer and troupe director from Singapadu village, who selected a Mahabharata story, Kunti Sraya/Sudamala (Kunti Rescues/Absolved from Evil), for the conflict/balancing between witch and lion.6By early 2020, pre-COVID-19, at least five different villages advertised calonarang tourist shows, bringing revenue to cash-strapped villagers via morning showings. The presentations entice the tourist gaze with spectacular masks and the spectacle of self-stabbing (ngurek) by bare-chested young men who emerge without loss of blood. Rangda and Barong provide a colorful introduction to rwu bhineda (literally “two in opposition”), a basic premise of Balinese spiritual thought that preaches duality of/in material existence. Life is balanced by death, day by night, male by female, sea by land, positive by negative, Rangda by Barong Ket, et cetera.Yet this photogenic, daily spectacle with paid actors is comparatively secular and its place in the cultural tourism scene has been detailed.7 This essay does not deal with these tourist shows, but rather considers the late-night performances that take place during temple celebrations for dewa yadhya (gods’ ceremonies). For these shows, the audience is the Balinese community. The ritual performances primarily seek religious, not financial, reward, and families will often provide one young male family member to the village performing group. Events are outdoors in front of the pura dalem, chthonic temple.This essay provides a sample narrative, notes selected performance resources, especially books of magical empowerment, and briefly introduces Balinese tools of tantrism used before and during performances to promote self and community purification. Tantra here is a religious philosophy that uses popular and sometime esoteric ritual techniques to achieve religious empowerment. This essay shows that participation in this drama is felt by participants to have the personal benefit of spiritual strengthening, while also balancing negative forces that are active in community life, via the spiritual power of the local priest and tukang undang (inviter). The performance effort is also believed to have cosmic efficacy: the malevolent is “turned back” from its destructive potential into its beatific opposite.This descriptive essay discusses current Balinese practices rather than calonarang’s historically cross-cultural links to Indian Hinduism.8 Tantrism in Balinese esoteric religion correlates the human body as a microcosm to the macrocosm, often situating the self as the center of the universe and co-identifing the individual with the ultimate deity’s cosmic power: major gods are envisioned at nawasanga (nine points), consisting of eight compass points and the center around/in the practitioner’s body. Sounds, words, images, and special configurations form imaginative tools for experiencing empowerment/enlightenment in performance. Tantric religion in Bali relies here on sometimes frightening deities: Rangda, who correlates with the Hindu Goddess Durga, as noted above, and Barong Ket, who is Lord Siwa. While addressing “secret” understandings, this essay follows current thinking in Bali that encourages more open sharing of sacred cultural knowledge in order to ensure preservation. Information presented here reflects the experience of I Nyoman Cerita, who has danced Rangda and other roles in calonarang.The narrative that appears in calonarang varies—involving Calonarang,as the mother of a beautiful unmarried girl, the male sorcerer Basur, and the queen Tanting Mas, as just a few possible main figures. Any of these characters can become the Calonarang/Rangda. We see them in their first human manifestation as an unmasked actor in that figure’s costume. Then she or he exits and reenters as the masked Rangda (played by a second actor). Time, place, and context—determined by the local temple festival committee in collaboration with the performing troupe—determines which narrative will start the evening.9 However, once the tale’s character for the witch (Calonarang, Basur, Tanting Mas, etc.) is replaced by the mask figure Rangda, the plot is moot, since the energy of Durga (Rangda) and the counterforce of Siwa (Barong Ket)—not any particular character(s)/narrative—guides the outcome. Barong Ket may fall into trance, the Rangda may seem to triumph, and sometimes mask characters may leave the performance site to dance through the village. The resolution of the show is a spectacle of mass karahuan (trance), which overtakes performers and even some viewers. John Emigh describes a performance about Cupak, a greedy man who steals his younger brother’s bride. Cupak suddenly becomes the mask Rangda as the brother becomes Barong Ket, who, though the latter is supposed to “win,” collapses in trance: [An] orgy of self-destructive energy, [with dancers] throwing themselves down on the blades and pushing these blades with all their might against the resistant flesh. Priests circulated in the scene, disarming men, carrying the now still and prone Barong dancer into the adjacent temple. . . . The performance was over. Yet the climax of the tale had not been reached. Worse, the “wrong side” [Cupak/Rangda] seemed to have won. . . . Still, no one but me seemed bothered. Clearly, something of great theatrical and human interest had taken place; but what it all signified I couldn’t fathom.10 The story dissolves as the performance continues. Priests and performers attempt to prevent injuries by using holy water and incense to facilitate the cool-down of those exhibiting extreme behaviors.The Calonarang role has two different manifestations that are customarily played by two different actors, traditionally always men. The first version usually is the widow, a feeble, unmasked grandmother (usually called Matah Gedé) with ordinary human form.11 She appears with young disciples who dance in classical, female style. Viewers learn (mostly though penasars or clown-narrators) that the widow is angry that her beautiful daughter Ratna Mangali remains unmarried because no one wants a witch for a mother-in-law. Calonarang prays to Durga for revenge and her demure disciples morph into buta kala (toothy demons), who spread plague.12 The corpse (bangké)—usually a young man in semi-trance, representing the dead—is carried in on a stretcher. The corpse (in trance) may appear to have stopped breathing and his/her skin may become bluish. In some recent performances, the performer may even be buried or briefly set afire.13In the most popular story, King Airlanga dispatches a minister/priest, usually called Mpu Baradah, a strong male-style dancer, to deal with the spread of disease. Using a stratagem, Baradah gets the witch’s magic book, Lipyakara. At this point, the old woman has been replaced by the Rangda dancer, wearing the distinct mask representing the power of Durga in her demonic form. This tusked, white mask has staring eyes, a long, lolling tongue, and matted white hair flowing to her knees. Her costume has pendulous, exposed breasts and black, white, and red-striped leggings—the sacred colors of gods Wisnu, Iswara, and Brahma. Sharp claws splay from each of the dancer’s fingers. She holds a kreb (scarf) on which are drawn special, magically protective diagrams called rerajahan. To counter Rangda, Baradah transforms into the two-man, body puppet Barong Ket, a chthonic manifestation of Siwa, whose red face is framed with a gold, leather, mirror-worked headdress. A shaggy white animal body, leggings striped with three sacred colors, and a scarf with rerajahan diagrams around his neck complete the costume.14 Barong Ket is accompanied by young males brandishing kris daggers who confront the witch-turned-goddess. She flicks her scarf as they run at her and they fall back, turning their daggers against themselves.Once trancing starts, sacred power takes precedence, and keeping people safe supersedes story. There are no injuries when all goes correctly. The Barong’s beard and the pemangku’s (priest’s) incense, and holy water calm the violently possessed. The tukang undang (inviter), discussed below, helps ensure order. Assistants carry the trancers to the inner temple, which serves as a backstage area. There, dancers decompress via smelling incense and hearing soothing song. When not in use, the consecrated Rangda mask, along with the mask for Barong Ket, is kept in this temple where the performance takes place. Both are called sesuhunan (“Your Majesties”) to show respect. Masks have been ritually carved and charged with taksu (power) by being placed in a cemetery at night while their makers meditate.15Calonarang performances are followed by a demon appeasement ritual known as caru, for troupe members only. The ritual takes place inthe graveyard where the corpse has been taken. The Rangda player wipes the corpse with parts of the Rangda costume to “wake up” the “dead.” The Rangda player, as he revives the corpse, is no longer the queen of black magic, but is now the pacifying Goddess Uma/Durga, spouse of Lord Siwa, returned to right-handed or white magic. The Rangda actor from the village community now embodies her great power for good. Resurrecting the corpse frees the collective from disease and death.The underlying dramatic action in this performance is to transform Calonarang/Rangda from the plague-bringer into a beneficent protector-goddess. For some Balinese, the transformation is seen as mechanical—just doing calonarang brings blessings. But, for the student of tantric thinking, preparing for and dancing in performance invites understanding of how ideas inherent in calonarang can be harnessed in both performance and real life. When negativity is redirected to positive outcomes, the self and the group win. Those who embody this power in themselves effect purification. This performance demonstrates how to be a tāntrika (tantric practitioner), dissolving negativity in both self and community.Rather than fictive “seeming,” the performance is seen as actual healing. Supermundane powers of battling magics are embodied in trance behaviors, and spectators often join the sometimes very violent attacks on self and the Rangda. The priest’s assistants must be quick to control the situation. Extranormal behavior is prompted by Rangda’s presence, but she is also seen as a stand-in for the actual witches/sorcerers in the community who are believed to come to disrupt performances through magic, to challenge the power of those overseeing. Due to its mystical nuances and magical elements, Balinese people never tire of this dance drama, and at least once a year most villages stage calonarang, either with local players or a performance group from somewhere else.16One feature that explains calonarang’s popularity is the tukang undang, the inviter of magic challengers, whose job is both to attract and to control those who use left-handed magic. The tukang undang is a spiritual stage manager dealing with challenges as trance overtakes participants. He provides a real-life analogue the story’s priestly minister, Mpu Baradah, who is the opponent who defeats the widow-witch/queen who causes illness. Since witches/sorcerers reportedly come to performances in order to show their power and anti-social animus, viewers wonder: will the tukang undang be strong enough to deflect challengers and avert injuries, mental breakdowns, and even death?A current tukang undang, Komang Indra Wirawan, teaches at the college IKIP PGRI-Bali (Institut Keguruan dan Ilmu Pendidikan-Persatuan Guru Republik Indonesia, Institute of Teacher Training and Educ-ation-Republic of Indonesia Union of Teachers).17 After dancing the Rangda role in the 1980s, he advanced to his current position. He states that becoming a tukang undang means “knowing culture, having extensive knowledge, and being multi-capable.” One must, first, “understand the meaning of calonarang; secondly, deliver the messages and intent of calonarang; and, thirdly, cover up any shortcomings in the performance.”18 If the tukang undang lacks correct spiritual devotion, the situation will become uncontrolled. Wirawan prepares by studying the “palm leaf manuscript Tutur Sang Hyang Aji Saraswati which gives formulas and ethics for the performer in calonarang.”19Another important role is the bangké (corpse), a stands-in for the community that is threatened by disease and dissension. The performer of this role, wrapped in a shroud, has gone through a funeral service before being carried to the local graveyard. The bangké is trained in spiritual power by a guru. Given spiritual safeguards, the corpse is expected to enter a state of suspended animation, but is also thought particularly vulnerable in the battle of right-handed against left-handed magic as léyak who attend try to “eat” (psychically attack), the corpse. For the bangké, like the tukang undang, the show tests spiritual training. Tales abound of sickness or mental damage to those who take the role without sufficient preparation. Jero Mangku Warsa, who trains bangké in the Ubud area (just north of the capital Denpasar), demands at least three days of fasting to “succeed as hoped and unite with the macrocosm as the microcosm dissolves in the performance”; Warsa’s trainees, youths between ten and twenty who are special crowd-pleasers, vie to go through this mini-death and learn, “Whatever comes from nature must return to nature.”20 He cites, as proof of spirit presences during performances, hovering balls of fire and visitations by monkeys, animals that are seen as Calonarang’s familiars.21Finally, there is fascination with Calonarang or Walunaténg Dirah (Widow Queen of Dirah). She stands in for the power that divides—disease and disagreement. She is the ur-léyak and represents those in the community who wish ill on the performance and audiences, challenging the tukang undang. Yet she is also Durga, mythologically the high goddess and co-creator with Siwa of the material world. In the palm-leaf manuscript detailing the Balinese creation myth Purwaka Bhumi (Origin of the World), Durga emerges from cosmic unity before anything else. She and Siwa, in their beneficent forms, meditate, creating the world. From her come earth, sea, and rivers. From Siwa sky, sun, and stars. But, with creation finished, she transforms: And full of wrath she became. Her urge was to eat mankind; She screamed, and like a lion roared Her teeth were long and sharp, like tusks, Her mouth an abyss in between.22 Siwa likewise devolves to demon. Siwa and Durga create havoc in the world, until their siblings—Iswara, Bhrama, and Wisnu—transform into priests and with bells, prayers, and incense, coax these divinities back to their peaceful forms: That mankind in the Middle Sphere At the full of the moon and when it is new Should not by Kala [Siwa as demon] be accurst, Should not by Durga be accurst. As they revert: Gone is the [demonic] form that They then had To their first [divine] form They have returned.23 Formulas of the Purwaka Bhumi are read in ceremonies like the Eka Dasa Rudra ritual held at Bekasih, the main temple of Bali, once every hundred years to calm the universe.24 Analogues of Durga and Siwa gone wild are both part of ancestral rites in Java’s Tengger highlands’ Entas-Entas ceremony to release the souls of the dead and prayers, which calm Siwa and Durga, that are part of the mantra read by puppeteers for wayang puppetry purification-exorcisms.25 Such passages/performances see the divine as ambiguous, both creator and destroyer. It is in this context, where divine power may remain beatific in its heavenly manifestation but on earth turn destructive, that calonarang performance exists. In the contained space of a theatrical performance, the potential of the divine to ruin us can be turned (by tukang undang, priests, and performers) into the auspicious divine, protecting the everyday. This is an old and recurring pattern that structures purification performances on Bali and Java.No performance of calonarang will have the same words or spells, even when separate performances stage the same narrative. Old texts in various prose and verse forms are valued, but they are for study or recitation/singing. For performances of calonarang, people such as the tukang undang or Rangda player, will have studied those palm-leaf texts, but they do not deliver memorized lines onstage. Performance is about improvisation, not a pre-set “text.” The stories and dialogue change; the masks remain constant. Rangda will screech in old, archaic Javanese, known as Kawi. Clowns clarify the action in contemporary Balinese. Once a story is decided, there will be a plan for roles and scenes, and then improvisation takes over. Yet, rather as the commedia dell’arte player might have stock speeches in a zibaldone book, some memorized pieces may be the wont of a certain performer.Performers study these lontar kawisesan palm-leaf manuscripts for mastery of supernatural power, since they provide mantras.26 These manuscripts traditionally were held within families or teaching lineages, but mantras today are found in print versions in dual language (Balinese and Indonesian) by publishers like Bali Wisdom.27 In such works, the character Calonarang represents the knowledge of léyak and Mpu Baradah is the health-giving antidote. Performers memorize formulas that spark their understanding. While these mantras are not always said aloud onstage, they prepare the performer for the role and are held in mind while acting. These spells support a practice of nyāsa (Sanskirt: “trust” or “renunciation,” meditational protocol), envisioning powers in and around a practitioner’s body, importing divine strengths into the self, and promoting personal connection to mystical power.Tantric tools that the actors employ include: (1) mantra (words or phrases repeated to aid in meditation or spiritual ritual practice), (2) yantra (called in Bali rerajahan, a diagrammatic drawing or image used for meditative or ritual efficacy), and (3) mandala (geometric figures/choreographies that represent the cosmos in Hindu-Buddhist frame). While these sounds, images, and techniques may be in texts, drawn on scarves carried in performance, or the arrangements in dance floor patterns, the inward meaning normally requires study with gurus and self-application of the adept to achieve real understanding.Mantras “bridge” the material and spiritual worlds.28 Different participants use different formulas, but the concepts of empowerment and protection recur.29 Participants study and memorize formulas—they serve as preparation and may either be recited subvocally onstage during a performance or muttered prior to making an entrance as Calonarang. Consider for example the Rangda mantra, “Kaputusan Rambut Sapetik” (“Perfection of Hair Piece”): Ki Calonarang is washing her hair with blood, garlanded with lungs, belted with entrails, gargling blood; I transform into a léyak, my head is Kumangmang [demonic head without body]; my hands are Tangan-tangan [a supernatural who is all hands]; my body is a huge Barong and my muscles are snakes; I transform into all powers, because I am potent, burning the hearts of all humans, utterly crushing them, so they fall helplessly, stricken with headaches, fevers, and convulsions; all suffering comes from me. . . . I’m free of all resistance and free of death . . . because I am Ki Calonarang consuming the 108 humans; I am powerful and horrific—8 [fold]—because I am beyond embodiment; come forth all you enemies and all humans: you all shall be burned.30 Another example is “Pangiwa Brahma Kaya Murti” (“Lefthand Spell of Divine Brahma”): I will myself to become universal fire; all light forms are within my body: amidst my eyes blaze a thousand suns; my navel is the thunderbolt whirlwind; I have one thousand heads, two thousand hands, eight depa tusks… all the gods are in my body, thousands of gods in my body, thousands of Buta demons are in my body, the whole of the universe is in my body; Wisnu is my at my left, soaring as white Garuda [eagle]; Iswara at my right, showing as Demon Mretyu; Brahma is in my heart, emerging as a thousandtigers.31 The power that such mantras generate emanates from the self and can be destructive. Antidotes come by accessing powers of Mpu Baradah to return negative forces back to their origins—to return Durga back to her pacific form as in the “Mantra of Mpu Baradah”: IH [honorific for divinity] Nini Kaki Bhuta Bhuti [Durga], is returned [to pacific form] by Mpu Baradah, returned by Mpu Siwagandu; burn away Ni Calonarang, burn away Ni Lenda, burn away Ni Lendi, burn away Ni Ratna Mangali, burn away Ani Bebahi, burn away Ki Gantawang, burn away Ki Ganduputih, go, go back to Candragomuka [buffalo horn crater of hell where souls are boiled to purify sins].32 For protection against Rangda and pangléyakan sorcery, performers also use mantras of akṣara (letters of hanacaraka, the Javanese alphabet). The creation of the alphabet is ascribed to the Indian culture-bringer Aji Saka. The letters are associated with the points of the compass, a directional mandala, and the center is seen as a place of divine power and associated with Siwa. Letters and numbers become a system of returning the performer from the microcosm to union with divine oneness (the center) and “burning away” the ephemeral toward union with the divinity. In this practice mantras are not just words/sounds but are the sonic power of the deities of directions, who take up residence in a speaker’s body. While white magic might name the gods of the four directions and their quadrants to arrive at the center, in the mantra above one is burning away the negativity represented by Calonarang and her witch disciples. The power will return the goddess (and by association the person using the mantra) to the auspicious form of the divine.One starts with the twenty letters of the Javanese alphabet and ideas with which they are identified, then envisions them reduced to ten—the four directions, the quadrants, and the center and the divine. Next, one moves to five (the four directions and center, each with their manifestation/god), to three (up, center, and down [head/god, earth/human, underworld/demon]), to two (rwa bhineda of Rangda/Barong), to primal oneness. This is a process of thinking and visualization that the actor undertakes to empower and protect himself onstage. The positive/divine is never separate from negative/demonic.If this seems obscure, it is part of the hermeneutics. The process involves putting self at the center of the universe, imagining the divinities in and around oneself, recognizing head, heart, and genitals as heaven, earth, demonic realms, understanding one’s androgyny, and moving back to that from which all that is comes and returns. Here is a tukang undang’s shortened formula in Nyoman Cerita’s translation: Behold the Sang Hyang Dasa Akṣara [Holy Ten Letters] in my body, reduce them to become the five, the three, the two letters ANG and AH, becoming the upside down Omkara in my crown, becoming Siwa.33 Understanding the magic process means defeating death. When water (the letter AH), which is associated with Barong, is above fire (the letter ANG), which is associated with Rangda, the process of life and death is seen as reversable (omkara sungsang or “upside down” om). Eternity is possible and death is defeated. So, the corpse revives. Christiaan Hooykaas discusses how the gods and directions are similarly reduced back to oneness in the blessing of protective holy water by a Śaivite pedanda (priest).34 A similar transition from many (earthly chaos and delusion) back to primal oneness is used by calonarang performers to move from the below/demonic to the above/purified. This is precisely what the mantras of the alphabet are about—the reabsorption of self in Siwa. Calonarang and Barong Ket, by the end of the performance, return to pacific divine oneness from their spectacular but chthonic manifestations.Tantric mantras are prompts to self-perfection.35 Mantras urge the performer to sound and to visualize the akṣara power and to embody the gods’ and demons’ unmatched strength. Through this sounding and visualizing, the actor works to transform consciousness, to deliver optimal performance, and to overcome any attacks—physical or spiritual.Besides mantras, visual tools of meditation can be worn or carried by major characters and other performers, as a traditional Catholic might wear a scapular to express piety. Yantras or rerajahan are diagrammatic drawings painted on cloth that signal spiritual ideas. Rerajahan combine two elements: (1) a representation of a god, demon, human, animal, or weapon and (2) akṣaras, the holy letters discussed above for centering the self as a site of power. Players of both Matah Gedé and Rangda roles have kreb (cloths), on which rerajahan are drawn; these they wear around their necks or hold in their hand. Figure 2 offers a sample image: “Iti Sanghyang Dasa Kala Muka” (Lord of Ten-Headed Kala), which is meant in calonarang to protect, to turn away witches and black magic.36The figure resembles the four-armed Siwa, but each hand becomes a trisula (a three-point weapon, representing Brahma, Wiṣnu, and Iswara [Siwa]). Below the trisula is a flower representing the four directions and the center, corresponding to the cosmos or the fivefold Siwa with buds for the quadrants (nawsangsa), inscribed with the sacred letters—ONG, MANG, TNANG, ANG, PRUH. Dancers study such images in preparation and then carry them in performance. They need not specifically think of the image they carry as they dance, but the image protects,nevertheless.The cloth that Rangda waves in performance, the one that wreathes the Barong Ket’s neck, the one carried by the corpse player, and the one worn by dancers under their costumes have such religious diagrams drawn/printed on their surfaces. Calonarang’s kreb cloth is her greatest weapon: if people are touched by Rangda’s cloth it is said they will fall ill. To the Rangda performer it is the ultimate protection to control how close people come during knife attacks. Though some performers lack full understanding of the images’ meanings, these diagrams are intended as prompts for tantric contemplation.37 Cloths used by different performers are not identical, but all rerajahan serve as visual tools for performers’ protection and invite metaphysical contemplation.Calonarang and her disciples choreographically move into a mandala arrangement while dancing. In order for Calonarang to spread her magic, she and her minions dance in a graveyard and at the crossroads of the East Javanese kingdom of Kediri to the sound of kamanak and kangsi, which are bronze clackers and small cymbals, respectively. The arrangement described in literature is emulated in performances. In this dancing, Calonarang takes the center of a mandala pattern, with acolytes stationed at surrounding compass points. According to the 1873 geguritan (a Balinese poetic form) version of Calonarang’s tale by Anak Agung Gede Pamenregan, as translated by Ceri