Sangyong

(THE BALINESE VISHNU DANCE)

In that far-off little island of Bali in the Eastern Archipelago, Hinduism still struggles with a gasping breath for existence, with an innate capacity for resistance against overwhelming odds. Of all the curious customs of this enchanting island, none is more strange than the celestial dance ‘Sangyong’ observed several times during the year in honour of God Vishnu. It is an amazing faculty of the Polynesian race that, while assimilating the best that was in Hindu culture, they did not lose their particular creative faculty in the field of art, literature or ritual. In short, the Balinese never copied completely.

So the Sangyong, instead of being the gesticulations of a fanatic wildly beating about in an ecstasy of religious frenzy, is a classic dance-art par excellence, which creates a genuine thrill of emotion with the accompaniment of the gamelan gong orchestra.

Sangyong is generally performed when sickness or danger threatens the islanders, even as we Hindus do Rama Bhajana in times of pestilence. It was in Balelong I once observed the ceremony. Two little girls, brought up by the temple priest, dressed in rich garments of golden yellow hue, reverentially kneel before the altar. A bowl of incense is placed before them. Little lamps glitter all around, while the onlookers watch in pin-drop silence the mantrams which the ‘pathanda’ priest utters. The girls inhale the stupefying fumes and are soon fast asleep in a state of intoxication. They reel their heads, describing circles. Suddenly the gamelan gong strikes up, the girls whirl their heads in rapid turns with the quickening music, and then they fall down unconscious. The lady attendants wipe the sweat on their brow and place golden crowns on their heads. Then slowly, but steadily, the girls rise as though under a hypnotic spell. They look indeed very beautiful and begin to dance in a most impressive manner, moving their hands, head and feet in a rhythmic symbolical expression. The women begin to sing and the men too join the chorus, while the gamelan gong pours forth its deep hollow notes.

I was inspired and thrilled. Sangyong, the dance celestial, had worked a miracle; my heart had become light. This reminds me of an incident, which had happened years ago, in my village. A party of ‘Parivrajaka Sanyasins’ had camped by the side of the river, beneath the canopy of a big banyan tree. It was a moon-lit night. Everything was calm, and most of the villagers were already in their beds; I also felt sleepy: But-lo! there came, on the gaily wafted cool breeze, the sound of ‘Haribole’ sung by these Sanyasins in unison. ‘Haribole’–just one word, but what magic there is in it, I cannot say. It came as a harbinger of peace. I heaved a sigh of relief. Sorrow and misery were forgotten. A quiet calm came over me. Even so was the effect of Sangyong. The entertainment was more wonderful than any that I had ever witnessed, for it is an expression of that racial culture of which the Balinese and we Indians are a part. It is our love, our emotion, and our adoration for the supreme Vishnu which the dancer dances, and the gamelan rings.

The dance being over, the girls are seated on golden chairs, and all sick people of the village come and touch their garments and hope to be cured.

Bali is a daughter of Ancient India. She has strayed away from home. It is centuries since the mother forgot all about her. But the call of Bali is irresistible. Her plaintive cry for resurrection is clearly audible in Sangyong. It behoves every Indian to try to bring the dying Balinese race to the Hindu fold, before this ancient Hindu cultural colony is irretrievably lost in the stampede of modern civilisation.