Witch doctors use masks. They are protection against evil and disease in all old cultures. Sri Lanka, with its syncretic past, has a multitude of masks such as the Garuda used in a ‘Raksha’ dance to scare away the cobra demon. The Sanni mask is a specialised instrument, directed at curing specific illnesses. There are 18 versions, all of which sport monstrous expressions. The Raksha mask, called Maha Kola, holds all the 18 Sanni devils in one mask bound together by enjoined serpents.
Worn by Sri Lankan exorcists, they are integral to the Vesmunuhu dance. Though the practice of sculpting all the masks are centuries old, it takes only about 45 minutes to carve a thick log of Balsa wood, paint it and create a Sanni mask representing the God of Fire. The black, protruding eyes, the large white teeth and the fangs of fire emulate power and fear. The 61-year-old Ananda Premlal, who lives in Ambalangoda village, has been carving them since he was a child.
The craft is an intangible heritage of the island country; almost 150 years old. Its design has similarities with masks from other ancient cultures: the Lakhe masks of Nepal and the devil masks of Tibet, Mongolia and Bhutan. Premlal is one of the last few surviving mask makers, who are also adept at dancing and performing in healing rituals. “Before, they were part of an elaborate dance drama, performed in many villages. Today, it happens only once a year as entertainment during the harvesting festival,” says Pratimi Samar Divakar, Premlal’s niece and the facilitator of the mask-making workshop held at hotel Cape Welligama; part of a private initiative to promote Sri Lankan art and culture.
Inside the hotel’s art studio, facing a lush green verandah overseeing the beach, are Premlal, daughter Ruchin and Pratimi, who have set up a few workstations for the hotel’s guests. They beguile participants with stories of traditional mask-making. On show is an array of masks. As visitors watch fascinated, Premlal begins to make a mask from scratch to show how it’s done. He first chips away at a square log of wood. He then draws a nose, eyes, large teeth and an elaborate crown on it. Even if he is surrounded by several phone cameras, attention to his art is unwavering.
After the mask has taken a definite shape, he invites his guests to try carving out the rough edges. Even though the wood is soft, it is hard work, which requires strength of the arm and focus of the mind. Some guests manage to chip away a bit, while others struggle to get off the mark. After carving it into shape, the mask must be first smoothened with a glass paper. Painting it comes next. Parts of the mask are outlined in a different colour and filled in with another; eyes have red outlines and black insides. Similarly, each crown section is outlined in blue and filled with white.
Some time passes with people carving, sculpting and cutting wood until it is time for Ruchin to hand out palm-sized masks to the participants and some paints and brushes. “Painting these masks is as much fun as carving them. It’s only thanks to these workshops that we have been able to survive,” she confesses. The masks have generational value; Ruchin learned the craft from her father, as he from his.
Mass production of Sanni masks for decorative and tourism purposes is due to limited availability of the Bilsa wood, which is available only around mangroves in Sri Lanka. Modernity advancing at the cost of tradition is part of the inevitable march of cultures. But even traditional artists like Premlal have to eat.
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THE THREE FACES OF FEAR
Vesmunuhu masks are classified broadly into three types: Sanni masks to heal head-related, bile or lung-related ailments; they are also worn during Sanni Yakuma, a sacred Sinhalese dance which traditionally comprises 18 masks representing different diseases. The Kolam masks engraved with royal and mythic creatures appear in comic folk dances. Raksha masks are usually placed outside the home to ward off the evil eye; they are found widely in street processions too.