Masked appeal

Staring at me from a deep, dark corner of the room, his bulbous, fire-filled eyes almost seared their way through my soul. His bared teeth frozen in a deadly grimace, cobras flaring from his crown as if ready to strike. It was only after my pulse steadied that I realised this terrifying profile was not a man at all, but a mask...

To be more specific, this was Ravana, the demon king from the Ramayana. Immortalised in Sri Lankan lore and carved into a fearsome Raksha mask. Found at a dusty old curio shop in Ambalangoda, the Emerald Isle’s southern town famed for mask-making, it was my first encounter with a tradition that is both artistic and spiritual. Raksha masks, grotesque yet compelling, are believed to ward off evil. Their exaggerated features, replete with bulging eyes, gaping mouths, serpent hoods, evoke the many-headed Raksha clan that once served Ravana. Among them, the Naga Raksha, adorned with cobras, is perhaps the most iconic, its fierce visage standing as protector rather than destroyer.

Just a short walk away, I found myself inside the Ariyapala Mask Museum, a place where Sri Lanka’s mask heritage is meticulously preserved. Rows of glass cabinets displayed everything from vividly painted Kolam masks to the terrifying Sanni masks. Informative panels narrated their history, showing how masks animate folk plays, heal the sick, and guard communities. Upstairs, in a small workshop, artisans chiselled and painted the wooden masks, keeping alive techniques passed down through generations. The museum wasn’t simply a display; it was a cultural archive, a conduit between past and present.

It was here, among the museum’s collection, that I first encountered the playful Kolam masks. Boldly painted in reds, yellows, and blacks, they seemed to brim with mischief. A curator explained that Kolam masks once lit up village squares in evening dramas, where actors performed satirical skits about kings, queens, tricksters, and drunkards.

Standing before the Raksha Queen Kolam mask, with her arching brows and sly smile, I could almost hear villagers roaring with laughter under oil lamps. These masks proved that the tradition is as much about amusement as it is about reverence.

Motifs and divine links

Masks also have the power to heal, I was told. The aforementioned Sanni masks form the heart of ritual exorcisms known as Sanni Yakuma. Each of the 18 represents a specific malady. Be it insanity, blindness, or snakebite, and fever. Even phlegm! Grotesque features with their swollen throats, contorted jaws, hollow eyes, were designed to terrify the demons believed to cause illness. Watching the mask of Amukku Sanniya, its throat bulging in an eternal gag, I realised these performances were more than superstition. They brought psychological relief and collective catharsis, binding entire villages in shared belief.

In the hill country near Kandy, I encountered another motif: the peacock, vehicle of the war god Kataragama. Revered as a divine protector, it has elegant feathers that adorn certain masks. In a tiny workshop, I watched an elderly craftsman paint delicate plumes across a Kolam mask. “It is an offering, not just a trade,” he told me, his brush moving with devotional steadiness.

The history of these masks is also a history of wood. Carved from the soft, light kaduru tree (or Pagiantha dichotoma, a native Sri Lankan tree which bears poisonous fruits), they are shaped with chisels and then painted in luminous reds, blues, and golds. In roadside workshops, I watched blocks of wood transform — eyes carved deeper, lips curled tighter — until mythic personalities emerged, as if the spirits themselves inhabited the grain.

A wall of stories

By the time I left Sri Lanka, I had amassed a small collection, not mere trinkets, but tangible stories. A peacock mask now joins my patio wall display, sitting proudly alongside vibrant faces from Russia, Bali, Tanzania, and Mexico. To guests, it might appear exotic décor, but to me, this Sri Lankan mask embodies protection, storytelling, and resilience.

Travelling across the island, I came to see these masks as more than relics. They are living art, still danced, still carved, still revered. They bridge mythology and medicine, laughter and healing, spirituality and satire. Each one is, quite literally, a face of Sri Lanka. And through them, I glimpsed the enduring soul of the island itself.