Rama’s Thread: Rituals, Rivalry and Renewal

We didn’t set out to follow Rama across Indonesia.

In fact, when we arrived at Prambanan, near Yogyakarta, I expected a quick cultural stop — the largest Hindu temple complex in Indonesia, notable mostly because it rises in a predominantly Muslim country.

It also sits just 40 kilometres from Borobudur, the world’s largest Buddhist temple, built slightly earlier in the 8th–9th centuries — less a coincidence, and more what feels like an ancient version of competitive branding. (More on Borobudur in another post.)

Instead, our visit to Prambanan became the start of a thread — one that would wind its way through dance performances, roadside statues, and eventually into something far more immersive than we expected.

It’s also a story we’d already encountered — first in India, then again in Sri Lanka — and now, unexpectedly, here.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

A little context helps.

Hinduism arrived in Indonesia over a thousand years ago, carried by traders, priests, and rulers from India. By the 9th century, both Hinduism and Buddhism were flourishing in Central Java, and powerful dynasties were competing — not just politically, but spiritually… and, it seems, architecturally.

Borobudur came first, built in the 8th–9th centuries by the Buddhist Sailendra Dynasty — a vast, stone-carved mandala rising like a sacred mountain.

Not long after, Prambanan appeared, built in the mid-9th century by Hindu kings of the Sanjaya Dynasty.

Bigger spires. Sharper lines. Not just a place of worship, but a bold, stone-carved declaration of power, belief, and identity.

A kind of “anything you can build, we can build taller” moment in volcanic rock.

And it’s hard to miss the message.

Today, on Java, the religions that built Borobudur and Prambanan have all but disappeared — together, they account for well under one percent of the population. But just one island over, Hinduism didn’t just survive — it dominates, practiced by nearly 90 percent of the population.  And yes… we’ll get there in a minute.

Neither Prambanan nor Borobudur are simply ancient ruins. They still matter — deeply — to those who follow these faiths, drawing pilgrims from around the world – including the day we visited Prambanan.  The rest of us come too… less devout, perhaps, but no less awestruck, wandering through stone corridors, trying to comprehend the scale, the detail, and the ambition of it all.

Prambanan is spread out over approximately 39 hectares (97 acres), about 60 Canadian football fields laid side-by-side. At its peak, the complex included around 240 temples, arranged in precise, geometric order — a symbolic map of the universe. Today, many lie in ruins (thanks in part to earthquakes over the centuries), but the restored core still rises dramatically from the plains.

At the center stands the towering Shiva temple — 47 metres high — flanked by temples dedicated to Vishnu and Brahma. Together, they form the Trimurti, the three principal gods of Hinduism: creator, preserver, and destroyer.

Carved into the stone walls of the main temple at Prambanan are scenes from the Ramayana, one of the great stories carried here by Hindu traders and rulers from India. To our surprise, this wasn’t the first time we’d encountered this story — we suddenly realized we’d glimpsed it weeks earlier while cycling in Sri Lanka, in the vivid, brightly painted figures of a small roadside Hindu temple. This story has some serious legs.

The Ramayana tells the story of Prince Rama, whose wife Sita is abducted to the island nation “Lanka” (yup, that would be Sri Lanka in today’s parlance) by the demon king Ravana, setting off a rescue with the help of his loyal brother, Lakshmana, and the devoted friend, Hanuman. At its heart, it’s a story of love, loyalty, and the triumph of duty over ego and chaos — but for Hindus, it’s also a guide to living, still shaping religious practice, festivals, and cultural identity today.

Although our visit to Prambanan ended in a torrential downpour — Gary and I huddled under a small sign before finally giving up and embracing the inevitable — the Ramayana ballet that followed was indoors, giving us a chance to dry out. In the dry season, it’s performed outdoors with Prambanan rising behind the stage — something I can only imagine is spectacular — but even inside, the performance was colourful, riveting, and helpfully subtitled.

Watching Rama, Sita, Hanuman, Ravana, and Lakshmana come to life added a whole new layer to what we’d just seen carved in stone. The thread of the story was starting to reveal itself — stretching from India, through Sri Lanka, and now into Java.

Arriving in Bali, that island next to Java that I alluded to earlier, cultural shift was immediate and far greater than I had anticipated.  While I knew that Bali is a predominantly Hindu country, the most I had hoped for was a solid night’s sleep, away from the night-long Ramadan calls to prayer. However, during our three-hour drive from the airport to Munduk, I found myself wide. awake — staring out the window at an endless procession of temples. Small, medium, elaborate, understated… they lined the roadside one after another.

Our driver, Aditya, explained that Bali is known as the “land of a thousand temples” — and it felt like we passed most of them that afternoon. He went on to tell us there are three types of temples: home, community, and public. In this form of Hinduism, there are said to be millions of gods (far more than the classic Indian trinity of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva), and daily offerings are made to maintain balance between the spiritual and physical worlds.

That’s where the home temples come in. Nearly every household has its own small family temple — often tucked into a corner of the compound — where daily offerings honour ancestors and the gods, helping keep harmony in check. Hinduism in Bali is not occasional or ceremonial; it’s simply part of everyday life.

For example, Aditya had recently been married. Before even building a house, he explained, the first step is constructing the family temple — to ensure positive energy from the very beginning.  That’s what he’s currently saving his money to build.

And then, suddenly, there it was — a giant roundabout with the largest statue of Rama rescuing Sita I’d ever seen. Then another. And another. That’s when it clicked: the thread of the Ramayana wasn’t just in temples or performances — it ‘s woven right into the fabric of life here.

Which brings me to Nyepi — the Balinese day of silence and reflection marking the start of a new year. It’s immediately preceded the night before by Ogoh-Ogoh parades across the island, where giant, often wildly creative demon statues are carried through the streets to represent chaos and negative energy. By night’s end, most are ceremoniously burned in a symbolic cleansing — a ritual believed to clear away negativity, as leaving them unburned risks inviting imbalance and misfortune into the year ahead.

In Sidemen, where we are now, the “parade” took place in a local field — part ritual, part community fair, complete with food stalls and a slightly questionable midway of hard-to-win games. A makeshift fence marked the performance area, with spectators lining the edges. Around fifteen towering Ogoh-Ogoh statues stood ready, each telling a different story of chaos disrupting order — before, inevitably, being defeated.  Men to carry the statue, dancers in elaborate costumes, and large corps of musicians surrounded each of the statues, waiting for their cue to share their Ogoh-Ogoh story with the crowd.

The scale and detail were impressive. Sponsored by local businesses and built by community groups, these statues take months to create, along with the choreographed performances that bring them to life. Our guide, Ari, explained that while many stories draw from traditional myths, newer themes are emerging. In the parade we saw, several pieces tackled contemporary issues — three focused on abortion, symbolizing the suffering and purification of lost souls, while another addressed environmental damage caused by plastic and waste (a message that felt a bit ironic and lost on the crowd given the state of the field when we left). There were, of course, statues depicting the Ramayana tale, ensuring that the thread remains strong and present.

We watched all eight of the top performances, selected by a panel of judges. Later that night, most of the statues (except, perhaps the top ranked 1 or 2) would be returned to their communities and burned — clearing away negative energy and making space for renewal before the start of Nyepi at 6am the next morning, when everything falls completely silent for 24 hours.

And I mean silent.

Everything stops — cars, businesses, music, lights, work, school. The airports are closed.  No flights arrive or depart.  Only emergency vehicles are allowed on the roads – and only in the case of an emergency.  For one day, the entire island goes still: no traffic, no flights, no noise, not even crossing the street. In some places, even the internet disappears. People stay home with family, reflecting and resetting as part of a ritual that marks the Balinese New Year. It’s not just religious — it’s cultural, and everyone observes it.  As one of the staff at our hotel said, “today we sit and think about the last year, what went well and what didn’t and how we might make a better life and be better people over the next year.”

At our resort, we’re required to stay on-site for Nyepi. Lights are dimmed, activities paused, even meals feel quieter. The resort is split over two sides of a main road, but today there is no crossing over.  We walked to the edge of this road that was swarming with vehicles just last evening.  Today?  Nothing.  Everyone, everywhere, respects Nyepi. 

And the silence? It’s real. Deep. Almost unfamiliar.

I probably shouldn’t even be writing this today.  No work.  No electronics.

That’s the point. A pause. A breath. A moment to step off the constant motion and simply be.  Think about what was, what is and what could be.

For now, the thread of Rama’s story comes to rest here — in stillness. And as the island resets, I can’t help but wonder… what might shift if the rest of the world tried this too. 

Happy Nyepi.