Trunyan’s death practices are not sustained by tradition alone. They are actively held in place by those who serve as ritual timekeepers—the pemangku (village priests), jero (ritual leaders), and elders whose roles are not symbolic but central to the maintenance of spiritual order. These figures are the keepers of knowledge that isn’t written down. They carry the memory of what each gesture means, when each offering must be made, which incantation is said at which moment, and how the spirit is to be guided from the body to the ancestral realm.

Death, in this worldview, is not a one-day event. It stretches across time. The days following death, especially the first three, are charged with ritual significance. The soul is believed to linger, not yet fully released, watching, waiting, sometimes confused. It is the task of the pemangku to ensure it does not become lost or trapped. Offerings are made, words are spoken—for direction, to help the dead know what to do, where to go. It is spiritual care of the most intimate kind.

Throughout the Balinese pawukon calendar—a 210-day cycle based on lunar and solar phases—certain days hold greater potency for connecting with the ancestral realm. On days like Tumpek Wayang or Galungan, when the veil between worlds thins, villagers may make special offerings at Seman Wayah or quietly visit to commune with the spirits of relatives. During these times, the dead are not mourned but spoken to. They are consulted. Included. Remembered as part of the ongoing life of the village.

Children are taught from a young age how to prepare offerings, how to behave in sacred spaces, and why certain deaths require different rites. There is no sanitised version of these teachings. Death is part of life, and life requires attention to death. It is the elders who tell the stories. Who remind the young why only eleven may rest beneath the tree. Why the bamboo cage must be built just so. Why you leave rice, flowers, and betel leaves near the skull of someone who hasn’t spoken in decades but still listens.

In Trunyan, the presence of the dead does not linger as haunting—it lingers as guidance. Ritual keeps the relationship clear. Without it, things unravel. Spirits can become restless. Illness can emerge. The land itself can grow unsettled. The pemangku know this, and so they maintain the weave. Quietly, daily, seasonally, they move between worlds so others don’t have to. Their work is sacred maintenance. Without them, the bones might still lie beneath the Taru Menyan, but they would no longer speak. The relationship would fray. And Trunyan would become a place where death is seen but no longer understood. The pemangku, then, are not just guardians of ritual. They are translators of silence. Facilitators of return. Carriers of memory, not in books or archives, but in bone, breath, and flame.