“Katha Surpanakha”: Performance as an Advocate Against Nationalist Ideology

Sinjini Chatterjee*

Abstract

This essay explores Katha Surpanakha, a work of Odissi choreographer Sharmila Biswas. A celebrated epic in India, The Ramayana has been systematically used as a political tool since the twentieth century. Additionally, cultural practices such as Indian “classical” dances have become instrumental in uplifting the historical narrative of Hindutva and thus perpetuating Hindu dominance. This has not only demonized various tribal and indigenous groups of the subcontinent but has also primitivized their culture, often leading to significant violence that disrupted their lives. This paper through a critical analysis of Katha Surpanakha demonstrates how dance disrupts stereotypes that mark indigenous women’s bodies.

Keywords: Indian classical dance, epics in India, fundamental Hinudtva

Introduction

The constitution still calls India a secular republic. But the facts on the ground suggest otherwise . . . In reality it is their [BJP’s] aggressive chauvinism that has cost Indian society dearly, and it is Muslims who are treated as second-class citizens. Human Rights Watch warned last year of the government’s “systematic discrimination and stigmatization of religious and other minorities, particularly Muslims” and of increasing violence by BJP supporters against targeted groups.

The new temple is not just a symbol of these political struggles, but part of them. It stands on the site of the 16th-century Babri Masjid mosque, built by the Mughal emperor Babur, and razed in 1992 by a Hindu nationalist mob who believed a temple previously stood there; Ayodhya is said to be the birthplace of the deity Lord Ram. The BJP had inflamed sentiment and BJP politicians stood and watched as thousands tore down the mosque. Its destruction sparked communal violence in which more than 2,000 people died. Then, in 2019, the supreme court ruled that the demolition of the mosque had been illegal—but that nonetheless the site belonged to Hindus, allowing the new building’s construction.

Ayodhya’s story was central to the BJP’s rise.
The Guardian View

In India, Ramayana is an ancient Sanskrit epic^[1] which narrates Prince Rama’s quest to rescue his beloved wife Sita from the clutches of the demon-king Ravana with the help of an army of monkeys. It is traditionally attributed to the composition of the sage Valmiki and dated to around 500 BC to 100 BC. Ramayana and its many retellings^[2] have predominantly served as a tool to “other” in terms of caste, race, gender and the notion of an ideal personhood. Simultaneously, there exist retellings that also challenge the narrative of supremacy present in Ramayana. In this essay, I study Katha Surpanakha, a choreographic work of Kolkata-based Odissi dancer Sharmila Biswas. The 47-minute-long choreography, conceptualized in the late 1990s, narrates an alternative story of Surpanakha, who is a rakshasi (demoness).

In the context of India, the Ramayana is not just an epic narrative that has significant political consequences. Instead, the epic has severe ramifications in the geography, archaeology and architecture of the region. Looking at the historical trajectory of the Ramayana, eminent historian Romila Thapar explicates that the story of Rama, also called the Rama–katha was appropriated by the brahmans in the early centuries AD, transforming the narrative from an epic literature to a literature of the sacred (“Epic and History” 6). The consecutive centuries witnessed the transformation of Rama from a prince, and hero, to an incarnation of Lord Vishnu, and the subsequent glorification of the deity.

Additionally, the nineteenth century was marked by explorations in the inter-relatedness of language, culture and notions of biological race. Around this time, German theorist Max Muller stressed on the theory of Aryans as a superior race. He hypothesized that this fair-skinned Indo-European group branched into Asian Aryans and European Aryans. The Asian Aryans conquered the Dravidians of India and composed the Vedas and developed the Sanskrit language. The late nineteenth and twentieth centuries witnessed the establishment of the thought that the upper-caste Hindus, especially the brahmans, are of Aryan descent. Indologist Christian Lassen presented the Ramayana as the story of an Aryan invasion of the southern non-Aryan regions of the Indian subcontinent. Lassen’s argument presented the Aryans of Ayodhya, the people of Rama, as a civilized society, while pushing the Dravidian lands to a realm of uncouth wilderness. Following these debates, nationalists’ groups such as Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS) and the Theosophical Society of India, turned this notion into a mechanism for alienating the oppressed caste and indigenous populations of India (Thapar “Epic and History,” “Theory of Aryan Race”). Sheldon Pollock (“Ramayana”) also affirms that whatever might have been the real state affairs, the ruling elite has always drawn on the many retellings of the Ramayana to analyze the troubled present and to recreate an imagined past.

The Babri Masjid mosque, Faizabad, India. Photo: Web/Commons Wikimedia, public domain

The demolition of the Babri Masjid mosque in 1992 was a moment of historical change in India, as the fundamentalist Hindutva Party, the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), in power since May 2014, established, very physically, the philosophies and outlook of Hindutva. The mosque was demolished because of its location in Ayodhya, which is regarded as the birthplace of Rama, the main figure in the Ramayana. Babri Masjid’s demolition, and the subsequent construction of Rama, laid bare the violent politics of Hindutva, which is rooted not just in constant othering in terms of religion, caste, indigeneity, but in systematic erasure of the same.

Following the 1992 demolition, the Supreme Court of India allowed the establishment of a Temple given that the land was Hindu or belonged to the Hindus. The 5th of August 2020 marked the Bhoomi pujan, or a ceremony to worship the land before the temple construction began. Cultural Studies scholar Brahma Prakash notes that on this day Prime Minister Narendra Modi’s (assumed office in May 2014) discussions on the different Ramayana traditions available within other religious traditions of Buddhism, Jainism and Sikhism further strengthened the cultural supremacy of the narrative.

Given this political context, the cultural dominance of the text and its subsequent interpretations, it is essential, as Prakash remarks, to offer an advocate against this narrative (52). That said, I examine how Katha Surpanakha advocates against this principal narrative by portraying an alternative character of Surpanakha. Katha Surpanakha, I argue, attempts to disrupt the “function of the epic” (Thapar 4) from hierarchical, ideological and religious to a mode of interrogation which emerges as a strong critique of the narrative of the Ramayana.

Rama spurns the demon lover. Donald Alexander Mackenzie (1873-1936). Photo: Web/Commons Wikimedia/Pubic domain

Surpanakha has been portrayed as the significant “other” (Erndl 32–39, 67–88; Pauwels 320–29) female to the ideal woman Sita, the wife of Aryan prince Rama. At the same time, the terms rakshash (demon) and rakshashi (demoness) are plentifully used in the Sanskrit epics of The Ramayana and The Mahabharata. Both terms are usually used to refer to the many indigenous tribes who were different from the fair-skinned Aryan race. Valmiki’s Ramayana, for example, features names of indigenous tribes such as the Asuras, Nagas, Matsyays and others, who either helped the Rama in his quest or fought for Ravana. The rakshasha clan has primarily been used to differentiate between the good Aryan and the bad non-Aryan, which resulted in demonizing the latter. The rakshashas are generally attributed with traits of violence, untamed sexuality, cannibalism and dark skin color (Dhirghangi and Mohanty).

Following this narrative of idealism and supremacy, Surpanakha is described as uncouth, ugly and a promiscuous woman. Surpanakha’s independent sexuality and unreserved voicing of the same has been represented in the Ramayana and most of its retellings, with a heteropatriarchal Brahmanical as well as a nationalistic gaze. For instance, in Tulsidas’s sixteenth-century version Ramcharitmanas, Surpanakha becomes a representation of disorderly female sexuality. Kampan’s twelfth-century Iramavataram, though, adds an element of sympathy to Surpanakha by describing her heartache for the Aryan prince Rama and categorizes Surpanakha as a woman “with lies in her heart” (Pillai, 161). These characterizations of Surpanakha echo the emotions of patriarchal and caste-ist literatures and scriptures critiquing unhindered female sexuality and underlining the perils of “promiscuity.”

On the contrary, Biswas’s Katha Surpanakha casts princess Surpanakha as a woman with desire. The study of this work becomes important in the context of the Hindutva nationalism of India and increasing communal violence. Hindutva nationalism propagates the image of a pure chaste desexualized woman; additionally, it attempts to erase the diversity that intersperses the Indian subcontinent.^[3] In this situation, the study of the so-called “other” is essential to negotiate with the ways they are mostly portrayed through.^[4] Biswas’s Katha Surpanakha, in challenging the image of a desexualized woman, in celebrating the erotic desires of a women and in questioning violence against women, becomes a powerful site to negotiate with the nationalist ideals of India.

Indian Classical Dance and the Hindu Epics

The late-nineteenth and early-twentieth-century India witnessed a steady rise in anti-colonial sentiments and nationalist movements. Initiated by elite Indian cultural pioneers, the aesthetic label of Indian Classical Dance developed amidst this political scenario as one of the strongest anticolonial responses. It was perceived as a superior expression of ancient Hindu culture, a marker of “authentic” India. But its formation rested on simultaneous codification and erasure of pre-existing ritual, court, hereditary practices which were both sources of stigma and fascination to national and colonial elites. The post-independent Indian state institutionalized it and extended support through established cultural policies, financial and training initiatives. Today, including Odissi, there are eight officially recognized Indian Classical Dances each belonging to a different state.^[5] Together, they exhibit a unified national cultural heritage symbolizing pan-Indian and regional state power.

Odissi was recognized as a classical dance form of India by the government of India in 1964. The present form of Odissi dance developed from its systematic codification, which began in the 1930s and culminated in the early 1960s when it was recognized as a classical dance form by the Sangeet Natak Akademi (Banerji 283). Odissi and its subsequent classical status since then have been used as a tool to tie together the culturally diverse region of Odisha. The image of Odissi dancers proliferates on Odisha tourism sites, airports, political campaigns, outer walls of politician’s houses, shops, educational institutions and so much more. However, at the same time, Odissi, in absorbing plural idioms of other non-classical performance practices, also works towards the erasure of those aesthetics and practices.

The choreographies of Indian Classical Dance forms, including those of Odissi, reflect the ideology of the nation—ideologies that are rooted in Hindu traditions. To present a pristine pre-colonial glorious Hindu past, the choreographies of Indian Classical Dance most often depict episodes from the Hindu epics The Ramayana and The Mahabharata, as well as mythical stories and beliefs associated with the Hindu religion. In one of her interviews, Bharatanatyam dancer-activist Nrithya Pillai belonging to the hereditary icai-vellar dancer community remarked that prior to the reformist movement of the mid-twentieth century that led to Bharatanatyam’s development as a classical dance, choreographies on Rama were rarely a part of Bharatanatyam’s repertory. However, post Bharatanatyam’s status as “classical” dance, varnams—which were historically centered on erotic themes—began to incorporate songs praising Rama, thus reflecting a shift towards more religious and devotional themes in the dance form. This shift from the erotic to the religious was primarily to accommodate the new Brahmin patrons of Bharatanatyam. Odissi, as well as other Indian classical dance forms, incorporated dance pieces celebrating Rama both as a mode of retrieving and reclaiming an indigenous past, rooted in Hindu nationalist imaginings, and to serve the upper caste elite patrons and practitioners of the dance form.

Sharmila Biswas’s choreography, although it features the epic narrative of Ramayana, is different in the way it critiques the narrative. Biswas’s depiction adds to the corpus of literature and performance that critically assesses the hegemonic narrative of the epic and vehemently questions the physical violence enmeshed within notions of ideology. The 47-minute-long choreography narrates the story of Surpanakha. Biswas’s choreography projects Surpanakha as an independent queen of the forest and underlines the cultural differences between the communities of Aryan and non-Aryan. It stresses the mutilation of Surpanakha at the hands of the Aryan princess. In doing this, the choreography refrains from showcasing Surpanakha as the “other” in comparison to Rama and his people.

***Moke Bhogya Koro*: Lust and the Mutilation of the Demon-Princess**

Katha Surpanakha deviates from contemporary performance (choreographic, filmed, theatrical) representations of Surpanakha which undermine her sexuality in attempts to garner sympathy and respect. Surpanakha, Ravana’s sister and the princess of Lanka enters the epic in the Aranya Kanda (The Book of Forest in Valmiki Ramayana) while Rama, Lakshmana and Sita are spending years of their exile at Dandakaranya. She desired Rama and asked him to be her lover, unaware of the fact that he was married or had taken the pledge not to be with any other woman. Turned down by Rama and referred to Lakshmana, she turns to him expressing her desire for him. Here, too, she faces rejection and is tossed time and again by both brothers.

Sharmila Biswas in a still from Katha Surpanakha. Her hand gestures the desires Surpanakha has for Rama. Photo: Courtesy of Sharmila Biswas

The twenty-first-century performative renditions of the Ramayana treat Surpanakha’s mutilation as a heinous crime and present Surpanakha as a victim or as widow—positions which already garner sympathy from the audience before the mutilation occurs. Additionally, it reasons Surpanakha’s sexual attraction towards Rama by depicting it as a method to seek revenge on either her brother Ravana or the Aryan princess (Pillai, “From Villainess to Victim”). For instance, in the genre of Indian classical dance, Ashavari Majumder’s choreography Surpanakha—A Kathak Performance (2012) depicts the dancing body of Surpanakha alone on stage, using projected images of Rama, Sita and Ravana in the choreography to portray Surpanakha’s relationship to each. Here too, the mutilation is shrouded in the revenge narrative, as Majumder’s Surpanakha urges her brother Ravana to abduct Sita to avenge the former’s mutilation. Next, the dance drama Sri Ram, performed annually by Sri Ram Kala Kendra in New Delhi India, uses movements and costume from Kathakali dance form to depict Surpanakha’s mutilation with a critical lens. Pillai notes that while earlier performances, like traditional Ramlilas, used humor to depict the mutilation scene, since 2001 both organizers and dancers have shifted to a more serious portrayal, thereby expressing solidarity with the character (“From Villainess to Victim”). Though critical, the reliance of these choreographic ventures on the revenge narrative to justify lust and, therefore, gain sympathy for the already “othered” character problematizes these attempts to showcase the mutilation of Surpanakha as a heinous act or link it to narratives of rape and sexual violence against women.

Another important critical depiction of Surpanakha is seen in Nrithya Pillai’s collaboration with musician Nakul Krishnamurthy to co-create Lal̩itam Varn̩n̩am Asuram (2021). The piece reimagines Surpanakha exploring themes of caste-based violence and patriarchy. Shifting away from traditional Sanskritized movements of Bharatanatyam, Pillai jettisons a movement vocabulary which, though intrinsic to the icai–vellalar community, was dismissed and erased at the onset of Indian nationalism owing to Brahmanical hegemony. Although Pillai’s choreography ends at Surpanakha professing her desires towards Rama, it nevertheless becomes a celebration of other kinds of cultural aesthetics that are an intrinsic part of India but have been pushed to the periphery due to caste-based violence.

Katha Surpanakha, without resisting the independent sexuality that characterized Surpanakha and excluding the revenge narrative, simply narrates how Surpanakha falls in love with the beauty of Rama after seeing him for the first time and is elated when she decides to meet him. The choreographic depiction of Surpanakha is punctuated with desire. Biswas as Surpanakha walks to the left corner of the stage towards the imaginary Rama figure. She extends her right hand as if to touch Rama’s shoulder as her left hand performs the kuchastale viniyoga—the palms are slightly cupped in the pataka gesture and circled around the breast to illustrate it or its beauty. The hand movements depict Surpanakha’s erotic longing as she is mesmerized by Rama’s beauty and pines for him. In addition to this, the choreography directly confronts fixed gestures of grotesque, fearful, ugly, promiscuous and evil associated with the body of Surpanakha. It highlights emotions of the always othered Surpanakha. Biswas’s expressions denoting Surpanakha’s desires are rooted in shringar rasa and are punctuated with subtle smiles and sideways glances towards the desired, which illustrate a certain coyness. Her expressions shift from previous examples of Surpanakha which had depicted her as grotesque. This alternate image urges the viewer to see Surpanakha, “the other,” in a new light, specifically as a woman, a human being with desires.

Sharmila Biswas in a still from *Katha Surpanakha*. The image depicts the look of desire on Surpanakha’s face as she sees Rama. Photo: Rajesh NV

On approaching Rama, he advises Surpanakha to pursue his brother Lakshmana, who is similar in appearance to him. To Surpanakha, who has never seen an Aryan man before, Lakshmana appears the same. Charmed by his beauty, Surpanakha approaches him but is turned down and advised to go to Rama. Rama rejects her the second time and directs her towards Lakshmana. She approaches him but is turned down and advised to go to Rama. Rama rejects her the third time and directs her towards Lakshmana.

This continues, without Surpanakha realizing that the brothers are making fun of her. The despair of the demon princess is demonstrated choreographically as Biswas’s face with scrunched eyebrows, lowered narrowed eyes showcase Surpanakha’s desolate condition. As the choreography further emphasizes the despair, Biswas’s palms join in a sign of plea, requesting the brothers to stop this humiliation. In utmost confusion, full of misery, she runs from Rama to Lakshmana again and again with folded hands. Exhausted, Surpanakha finally falls to the floor, her hands on her head, which signifies her miserable state. Her head falls between her folded legs, thus illustrating deep distress.

Biswas’s choreography mobilizes the despair and confusion of Surpanakha, thus enabling the spectators to see the “other,” who has always been linked to ideas of disgust and has generated fear owing to their perception of grotesqueness. This shift in the evocation of emotion is important because, so far in the retellings and receptions of the Ramayana, especially in performative receptions, Surpanakha’s body was illustrated through the tropes of fear and disgust or through humor, as in Ramlila performances. Biswas’s illustration of Surpanakha, therefore, acts as a refusal to the grotesque, the fearsome, the promiscuous, while mobilizing other identitarian traits of the character.

This shift in the portrayal of Surpanakha cannot be incorporated under the alternative interpretations of Ramayana. Drawing on scholar Brahma Prakash, Biswas’s choreography, in amplifying the despair of Surpanakha at the hands of the Aryan ideal princes, I claim, advocates against the narrative of the Ramayana, against its very foundation. The despair of Surpanakha, besides laying bare the emotions of the always othered, also criticizes the ideal Rama and Lakshmana. It is in this criticism of the ideal that Katha Surpankha becomes more than a mere alternative or a counternarrative; it deters, registers a choreographic protest the fundamental narrative of the Ramayana—the ideal Rama, Lakshmana, Sita versus the evil Surpanakha.

“Ta tha kim. Ta tha kim everyone keeps asking me what happened”: Narratives of Victim Blaming

Sharmila Biswas in a still from *Katha Surpanakha*. The photograph depicts the mutilation episode. Photo: Rajesh NV. Courtesy of Sharmila Biswas

As the stage darkens, the recorded music loops on the phrase: “Ta tha kim, Ta tha kim everyone keeps asking me what happened.” Biswas’s Surpanakha uses her right hand to cover her face partially hinting at the mutilation. She circles the stage frantically, her eyes exuding fear, as she finally drops down on center stage, her left hand raised above perpendicularly. The raised hand becomes a sign for “stop,” as Biswas’s Surpanakha demands spectators, the ideal citizens of the Hindu nation,the readers of the Ramayana to stop questioning her. The music stops, and there is a sudden darkness thus engulfing the theater in an eerie silence.

Sharmila Biswas in a still from *Katha Surpanakha*. Photo: Rajesh NV

I propose that it is at this moment of questioning that Biswas’s choreography gestures towards a historical shift. While various retellings of the Ramayana have generally upheld the dominant narrative of good triumphing over evil, they have also registered change. For instance, one of the most prominent shifts in how the Valmiki Ramayana was received and circulated came during the Bhakti movement in medieval India. During this time, retellings in various vernacular languages emerged which not only made the story of Rama accessible to a broader audience but also addressed caste, class and gender issues. Historian Romila Thapar (“Epic and History”) proposes that changes such as this reflects a shift in the Ramayana’s function—from reinforcing Brahminical hierarchy to challenging caste and class inequalities.

At the same time, Thapar (“Epic and History”) suggests that though rare, within the cultural, philosophical and aesthetic milieu of India, epics are changed in form, at times deliberately reconstructed, to further certain ideological thoughts. This is especially evident in the case of Ramayana. As explained earlier, since the mid-twentieth century, and notably under the current political situation, the Ramayana has been instrumental in reflecting and promoting the cause of fundamental Hinduism in India. In addition to this, the episode of Surpanakha, although historically changing across retellings and their receptions, has dominantly created a marked distinction between the “ideal” and the “promiscuous” woman. It has been used as an instrument to justify violence against women (specifically, those understood to be “corrupt,” “lascivious” under broader understandings of goodness) and disguised as moral correction. For instance, most television and theatrical adaptations of theRamayana have highlighted Surpanakha as a promiscuous woman, approaching a married man and shamelessly running after two men. The mutilation episode has been either depicted through the emotion of humor such as in traditional Ramlilas or through sympathy (Pillai, “From Villainess to Victim”), thus making Katha Surpanakha’s depiction of the same a nuanced portrayal of the episode. In Biswas’s choreography, Surpanakha boldly inquiries, “Why does everyone keep asking me?” It is at this very moment that Biswas endeavors for a historical change; a change that is not simply religious or ideological, but a change in the very function of the text.

As explained earlier, in Indian Classical Dance traditions, performances on the Ramayana have been used to bolster the dance forms’ emergence in a “glorious pre-colonial” Hindu India, to put forth the image of an ideal woman by highlighting the character of Sita while critiquing that of Surpanakha. Instead, in Biswas’s choreography, the function of the Surpanakha episode lies in questioning traditional norms of femininity which are intimately tied to the erotic desires of a woman. It probes at the justification of violence on women and empathizes with Surpanakha. Thereby showcasing is a complex process of empathizing with Surpanakha as well as criticizing the people who continue to question her.

Sara Ahmed speculates that through declaration of shame and the past wrongdoings committed by the ideal community, the identity of the other might be claimed (102–03). If the spectators of Katha Surpanakha are thought to be representatives of the ideal Hindu nation, then following Ahmed, it might be suggested that the feeling of shame by the spectators could work towards a process of reconciliation through acknowledgement of past wrongdoings. The role of the spectators is important here, since it is the spectators who have previously recognized the failure of the “other” in relation to the ideal (103), and the “other” was shamed through recognition of their failure. Therefore, in this choreography the reversal of shame from the body of the “other” to the body of the ideal personhood strongly challenges the victim-blaming that the character of Surpaṇakha has always been subjected to. The choreography does not directly shame but invokes the emotion of shame as Biswas, through her movements, exposes the despair of Surpanakha that has been caused by the two men, who are pillars of ideal human nature. This exposure of Surpanakha’s despair, caused by the two men deemed exemplary ideal characters, might be read as a method to reverse shame and to incite a compassion in the spectators for Surpanakha.

Ahmed questions “Wouldn’t ‘shaming’ individuals show how this past injustice remains in the present?” (102). Yes, it would, and especially in the contemporary socio-political conditions of India, where women are still blamed for rape, molestations and assault on them, and declaration of female desire is still a taboo. Additionally, Aryanism has been tied to dominant caste, especially Brahmanical Hinduism. In this regard, the violence inflicted upon Surpanakha might be compared to the sexual and other kinds of violence the dominant caste and class people perpetrate on bodies of caste and class oppressed and indigenous women.

In twenty-first-century India, where the Ramayana’s popularity increases daily, with the characters of Rama and Lakshmana projected as ideal deities, their way of life as an epitome of fairness and justice, statistics from National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) reveal a disturbing surge of 45% in reported cases of rapes against women from 2015 to 2020. Furthermore, data shows that an alarming average of 10 incidents of rape involving Dalit women and girls are reported every day in India. The Hathras rape case in 2020 is a glaring example of ignorance to the physical violence oppressed caste and indigenous women face. The court released three men accused of the brutal gang rape and murder of a 19-year-old Dalit girl in September 2020. Despite the victim identifying her attackers in her dying statement, the court dismissed the rape and murder charges against the men, who belong to an influential upper caste known as “Thakurs.” The victim was from the historically marginalized Dalit community. Social scientist Jayshree Bajoria explains how “silencing” as a tactic is frequently used by dominant caste and class individuals to repress Adivasi women, so that they don’t speak of the abuse experienced.

In the Ramayana, we encounter a similar narrative: Surpanakha’s mutilation at the hands of these brothers is never acknowledged. Though in some renditions of the epic, this is placed as the precursor to the epic battle between Rama and Ravana (the good and the evil), Surpanakha never gets any kind of justice. Neither is there any acknowledgement of this violent misdemeanor from the side of Rama and Lakshmana. Despite this scenario, both the brothers are still today exemplified as ideal men, as deities. Rama, in past as well as varied contemporary narratives, is perceived as the “ideal man,” the maryada purushottama, the “epitome of morality,” much like the dominant caste-class men who are looked up to. On the other hand, women are constantly silenced using brutal force, coercion tactics, threats among many more methods.

India’s reluctance to acknowledge the reality, to accept its responsibility to uphold the legal obligations to address the discrimination and cruelty of the caste system and the brutality towards various indigenous and religious communities continues. Therefore, injustices towards Surpanakha still live in contemporary India. As scholar Brahma Prakash states:

against the backdrop of Dalit, Adivasi, and Mandal politics, The Ramayana has significantly reinforced the cultural dominance of Brahmanical Hinduism. The surge in right-wing sentiments is fueled not just by the explicit doctrines of Hindutva but also by the moral narratives in the epic, promoting the ideals of the perfect son, servants, wife, family, and nation, as well as a glorified and aestheticized concept of violence. These adaptations and standardizations can be interpreted as forms of ‘internal colonization.’” (66)

Conclusion

Throughout this essay, I have explored how Katha Surpanakha not only makes Surpanakha’s despair visible but also critiques the Ramayana’s narrative, signaling a shift in its function. Biswas’s choreography reimagines Surpanakha from a figure of fear and ridicule to one of sorrow and confusion, thereby challenging traditional portrayals. This representation humanizes the previously demonized and critiques the idealized depictions of Rama and Lakshmana, casting them as oppressors, inflictors of extreme violence rather than heroes. By focusing on Surpanakha’s anguish, Biswas’s work transcends being a mere alternative narrative, offering a choreographic protest that questions the foundational ideals of the Ramayana and emphasizes the experiences of marginalized characters. Additionally, the reversal of shame in Katha Surpanakha can be seen as Biswas’s initial attempt at reconciling communities. This alternate portrayal not only presents Surpanakha in a new light but also addresses caste, class and gender-based issues prevalent in India, where marginalized groups are often misrepresented.

Lastly, Biswas’s Katha Surpanakha moves away from using the Ramayana as a tool of oppression and religious fundamentalism. Her choreography aligns with historian Romila Thapar’s view that, rather than politicizing the Ramayana by making it a source of conflict, it should be seen as a shared cultural heritage among communities. The performance illustrates that the Ramayana is not only about Rama and Aryan culture but also about Surpanakha, Ravana and their culture, where women freely expressed their desires and beauty standards were inclusive. I hope more adaptations like Katha Surpanakha emerge, challenging the hegemonic narrative of the Ramayana and offering alternative perspectives.

Endnotes

^[1] The Ramayana is considered as an epic narrative given it has all the constituents of an epic: it is composed in the form of a poetry containing a central plot—the triumph of good over evil, the changing fortunes of hero, the heroic battle, a quest to save the kidnapped princess and so on. However, unlike the Greek epics, the epics of India (The Ramayana and The Mahabharata) have both changed and continue to change across time. These changes are multiple: in form, in content, as well as function of the epics (Thapar 4-7).

^[2] I use the word “re-telling” or “telling” instead of “variation” or “version” following the work of A. K. Ramanujan. Ramanujan explains how, in the context of Ramayana, the word “version” or “variant” might implicate the existence of an original Ramayana. Valmiki’s Sanskrit Ramayana might in this case popularly be understood as “most prestigious” (134), though the story differs in most retellings. Hence, to shift away from projecting Valmiki’s composition as the “authentic” version of the Rama story, I use the word “retelling” to signal the many different narratives in existence.

^[3] As quoted by The Guardian, “BJP stands for the flagrant social dominance of the upper castes of Hindu society, pro-corporate economic growth, cultural conservatism, intensified misogyny.” The Bharatiya Janata Party, BJP has been advocating one nation, one state since its inception. The primary agenda was Hindi, Hindu and Hindustan. In 2019, home minister Amit Shah put forward the case of making Hindi the national language of India, thus attempting to curb the linguistic diversity. Additionally, Hindutva nationalism aims at curbing other religious identities from the secular sub-continent. For more, see: link1, link2.

^[4] The pluralistic nature of the Ramayana is exemplified by several retellings that deviate from Valmiki’s narrative. Jain Ramayanas such as Vimalasuri’s Paumacariyam (5th century) and Ravisena’s Padmapurana (7th century), reject divine and demonic portrayals, instead presenting all characters, including Rama and Surpanakha, as flawed humans. This humanization questions the ethical superiority traditionally attributed to Rama (Clercq). Chandrabati’s Ramayana (16th century) from Bangladesh, as analyzed by Nabaneeta Deb Sen, offers a feminist critique, focusing on Sita’s experiences and critiquing Rama’s treatment of her. More recent feminist retellings include Kavita Kane’s Lanka’s Princess which explores Surpanakha’s childhood. Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s The Forest of Enchantments narrates Sita’s story from a romantic perspective. Sini Panicker’s Sita: Now You Know Me focuses on Sita’s life post-abandonment, while Vaishnavi Patel’s Kaikeyi reimagines Kaikeyi as a warrior princess. While these texts often reframe Sita as a feminist icon, they seldom critique the central figure of Rama and characters like Surpanakha still remains marginalized (Nadamala and Tripathi). Biswas’s Katha Surpanakha conceptualized prior to these twenty-first-century reimaginations, by critiquing Rama and Lakshmana, aligns with feminist approaches like Chandrabati’s, endeavors that are free from revenge or sympathy-driven narratives.

^[5] The eight classical dances of India and the states they belong to are: (1) Bharatanatyam, Tamil Nadu; (2) Odissi, Odisha; (3) Manipur, Manipur; (4) Kathak, Uttar Pradesh; (5) Kathakali, Kerala; (6) Mohiniattam, Kerala; (7) Kuchipudi, Andhra Pradesh; (8) Sattriya, Assam.

Bibliography

Ahmed, Sara. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. Edinburgh UP, 2004.

Banerji, Anurima. Dancing Odissi: Paratopic Performances of Gender and State. Seagull Books, 2019.

Bajoria, Jayashree. “‘Everyone Blames Me’ Barriers to Justice and Support Services for Sexual Assault Survivors in India.” Human Rights Watch, 2017. Accessed 19 June 2024.

Biswas, Sharmila. Personal Interview. 2021.

Brockington, John L., and Mary Brockington, editors. The Other Rāmāyaṇa Women: Regional Rejection and Response. Routledge, 2016.

Candrābatī. Chandrabati’s Ramayan. Translated by Nabaneeta Deb Sen, Zubaan, 2020.

De Clercq, Eva. “Śūrpaṇakhā in the Jain Rāmāyaṇas.” Rejection and Response in the Rama Tradition: The Portrayal of Secondary Women, edited by Mary Brockington and John Brockington, Routledge, 2015, pp. 18–30.

Dirghangi, Aditi and Seemita Mohanty. “De-mythifying the Ramayana: A Study of the ‘Devoiced’ Surpanakha.” Proceedings of the 6^th Annual Conference on Arts and Humanities, vol. 6, 2020, pp. 8-15.

Divakaruni, Chitra Banerjee. The Forest of Enchantments. HarperCollins Publishers, 2019.

Erndl, Kathleen M. “The Mutilation of Surpanakha.” Many Ramayanas: The Diversity of a Narrative Tradition in South Asia, U of California P, 1991, pp. 67-.85

Fanon, Frantz. Black Skin, White Masks, translated by Charles Lam Markmann. Pluto Press, 1986.

Golwalker, Mahadev Sadashivrao. We our Nationhood Defined. Bombay, 1938.

Kané, Kavita. Lanka’s Princess. Rupa, 2017.

Lassen, Christian. Indische Altertumskunde. 1-2. ed, L.A. Kittler; Williams and Norgate, 1874.

Mishra, Satish. “Controversy over Hindi Language; an Attempt to Divert Attention from Important Issues?” Observer Research Foundation, 2019. Accessed 19 June 2024.

Mitra. Royona. “Decolonizing Immersion, Performance Research.” Performance Research Journal, vol. 21, no. 5, 2016, pp. 89-100.

Nadamala, Bhagyashree, and Priyanka Tripathi. “The Politics of Subversion, Power and Deviance: Sita, Surpanakha and Kaikeyi in Select Feminist Re-Visioning Of Ramayana.” Journal of Positive School Psychology, vol. 6, no. 6, 2022, pp. 10487–10499.

Panicker Sini. Sita: Now You Know Me. Rupa Publications, 2021.

Patel, Vaishnavi. Kaikeyi: A Novel. First edition., Redhook, 2022.

Pauwels, Heidi Rika Maria. The Goddess as Role Model: Sītā and Rādhā in Scripture and on Screen. Oxford University Press, 2008.

Pillai, Sohini. “Vamp or Victim? Representations of Śūrpaṇakhā in Contemporary India.” A Tale for All Seasons—The Rāmāyaṇa from Antiquity to Modernity in South Asia: A Symposium on Recent Studies in Rāmāyaṇa Scholarship Conference. 2016, University of California, Berkeley, CA. Conference Presentation.

—. “From Villainess to Victim: Contemporary Representations of Śūrpaṇakhā.” Oral-Written-Performed: The Rāmāyaṇa Narratives in Indian Literature and Arts edited by Danuta Stasik, e-book ed., CrossAsia Ebooks, 2020, pp. 159-176. Accessed 19 June 2024.

Pollock, Sheldon. The Ramayana by Valmiki, Book 3. New York UP, 2016.

—. “Ramayana and the Political Imagination of India.” Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 52, no. 2, 1993, pp. 261-97.

Prakash, Brahma. “Epic as an Ideology of the Nation Empire: Dominance, Hegemony, and the Imperialist Repertoires of the Ramayana Traditions in India.” Prabuddha: Journal of Social Equity, vol 7. no. 1, 2022, pp. 52-78.

Ramanujan, Attipate Krishnaswami A. K., et al. The Collected Essays of A.K. Ramanujan. Oxford UP, 1999.

Richman, Paula. Many Ramayanas: The Diversity of a Narrative Tradition in South Asia. U of California P, 1991.

Savarkar, Veer Damodar. D. Hindutva, who is Hindu. Bombay Written and Distributed, 1922.

Sen, Nabaneet Deb. “Rewriting the Ramayana: Chandrabati and Molla.” India International Centre Quarterly, vol. 24, no. 2/3, 1997, pp. 163–77. JSTOR. Accessed 5 Oct. 2024.

Thapar, Romila. “Imagined Religious Communities? Ancient History and the Modern Search for a Hindu Identity.” Modern Asian Studies, vol. 23, no. 2, 1989, pp. 209–31. JSTOR. Accessed 11 Sept. 2024.

—. “Epic and History: Tradition, Dissent and Politics in India.” Past & Present, no. 125, 1989, pp. 3–26. JSTOR. Accessed 11 Sept. 2024.

—. “The Theory of Aryan Race and India: History and Politics.” Social Scientist, vol. 24, no. 3. Social Scientist, 1996, pp. 3-29.

“The Guardian View on Modi in Ayodhya: An Alarming New Era for India.” The Guardian, 22 Jan. 2024. Accessed 19 June 2024.

*Sinjini Chatterjee is a postdoctoral scholar in the Department of Dance at The Ohio State University. She has a PhD in Critical Dance Studies from the University of California, Riverside. Her research traces interdependence between Odissi, a South Asian “classical” dance style and other folk, tribal and ritualist performance practices of Odisha. Chatterjee has trained for 15 years in Odissi dance under the able guidance of Smt. Aloka Kanungo. She has performed widely in India and the United Kingdom.