Anita Ratnam brings A Million Sitas at NCPA: ‘Every Indian woman must meet Sita at least once’

The first iteration of A Million Sitas was created in 2012 for a conference called Epic Women. Since then, it has travelled extensively and evolved into almost an entirely new avatar, with nearly 40 performances across three continents. Because the Ramayana lives so vividly in people’s minds, it is a story that keeps transforming. Today, even a quick search for Ramayana brings up countless versions, be it AI retellings, podcasts, comic books, TV serials, or films. There are nearly 2,000 Google pages on it, and 26 Sanskrit Ramayanas alone. With more than 3,000 versions told across India and Southeast Asia, this work continues to evolve, drawing from interpretations in Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Indonesia, and other regions where the story has travelled.

I believe Sita is a character, a persona, whom every Indian woman must encounter at least once in her life. Growing up in South India, there was always an unspoken expectation that we should be like Sita who was perfect, loyal, beautiful, accomplished, faithful, and intelligent. She was constantly held up as an ideal to emulate. In my artistic journey, I knew I had to meet her on my own terms. I wanted to reclaim her—and not just her, but all the sisters in her story— Queen Mandodari of Lanka, Princess Surpanakha, Ahalya, and Manthara. Sita is the fulcrum, and I felt that my dance journey would be incomplete without acknowledging and recreating her.

My choice of the four women was deliberate. I had initially included Shabari, the humble indigenous bhakta, but the work became too long, so I eventually dropped her.

Mandodari is extremely vibrant and vital. There is even a story that she was once a frog. In North India, she is considered the daughter of Vishwakarma, the architect of the heavens. In every telling, she is wise, gracious, dignified, and empathetic. She holds Ravana’s moods together and served as his most trusted counsel, though he never listened to her warnings about abducting Sita.

Surpanakha has always fascinated me. She is a strong woman, one of the early feminist voices, who grew up with three brothers who constantly criticised and ignored her. She ruled over a beautiful forest domain. When she sees the handsome Prince Rama, she falls in love and boldly approaches him. She is a princess, not the ugly, fanged ogre that later versions portray. I see her like Tina Turner, who is tall, powerful, long-legged, with a whip-like attitude, almost like a corporate CEO. She knew her mind.

Ahalya represents the politics of desire. She did not ask to be created, but Brahma, in his ego, created her as the most beautiful being. All the gods lusted after her. Without her permission, she is given in marriage to the old Rishi Gautama, who had no real need for a wife. To me, she is the 'trophy wife’, perfect, flawless, yet unloved. Her husband is consumed by career, power, and ego, while she yearns for a kind word and a loving touch. Many modern women experience this: accomplished and successful, yet deeply lonely.

Manthara was the loyal maid who raised Kaikeyi. For her, the queen was everything. If she had not reminded Kaikeyi of the two boons at the crucial moment, we would have no Ramayana; Rama and Sita would have been crowned, and the story would simply end. Today, she would be seen as an astute political strategist who understood timing. As a choreographer, I was also drawn to the distinct physicalities of these women—Manthara’s gait, Mandodari’s origins as a frog, Surpanakha’s strength and entitlement, Ahalya’s fragility like mist. They offered me the possibility of creating different physical vocabularies.

Yes, absolutely. The work has been shaped by retellings from Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Indonesia, and other regions through which the story has travelled. These diverse interpretations continue to inform and influence the evolution of the production.

I approach these women and the story with deep respect. My work focuses on reclaiming and re-examining the female voices within the epic, not distorting or sensationalising them. By grounding each character in traditional lore, regional variants, and emotional truth, I aim to balance honouring the epic’s sanctity with asserting my own creative interpretation.

As a choreographer, I look at the physicality of each character. Mandodari’s physicality emerging from a frog, Surpanakha’s strength and entitlement, Ahalya’s fragility like mist, and Manthara’s distinctive movement qualities helped me integrate multiple genres. Their stories allowed me to evolve a physical vocabulary over 13–14 years, blending classical and contemporary elements while keeping each form’s integrity intact.

To Sita, I would ask: Would you say your immense love for Rama blinded you to the sorrow, betrayal, hurt, insults, and public humiliation you endured? Was it worth it? Why did you not return to Mithila and rule as queen when you were raised to be one?

To Ahalya, I would ask: You were not at fault. All you wanted was to be loved and acknowledged. Why did you not rebel? Why did you not ask Gautama why he ignored you, and why tapas and prayer mattered more to him than your presence?

To Surpanakha, I would say: You go, girl. You were strong and forthright, but unprepared for the cruelty and disfiguration you faced. Even today, strong, forceful women still encounter attempts to ‘cut them down’ metaphorically—people trying to make them smaller than they are.

I want them to rethink the story they have inherited. Many tell me they never knew these versions or these women’s perspectives. Most agree that Sita never received her due. I want audiences to return thoughtful, proud of belonging to a land with so many stories, whispers, murmurs, and layers of retelling. We have this Ādikāvya, this original and eternal story, to interpret and make our own.

After all, the phrases Agni Pariksha and Lakshman Rekha belong to Sita and Sita alone. She chose to cross the line, and she chose to walk through the fire. These phrases, so often used against women, originate from her—and belong to all of us.