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ARTICLEDraupadi in the Sabha: Are we communicating injustice or displaying suffering?- Sushma Kotireddye-mail: sushmakoti30@gmail.com October 20, 2026 There are certain episodes in our epics that leave us deeply disturbed, no matter how many times we hear them. The dragging of Draupadi into the Kaurava Sabha is one such moment. It is a scene of humiliation, helplessness, injustice and, above all, the silence of those who had the power to prevent it. Whenever I think of this episode, I wonder how such a painful moment in our epic tradition should be brought alive on the Bharatanatyam stage. Recently, I watched a dance performance in which the episode was portrayed with great physical intensity. The character playing as Draupadi was dragged from one corner of the stage to another, kicked, punched and subjected to repeated acts of physical aggression for nearly three to four minutes. The scene was difficult to watch. I understood the intention to convey the brutality of the incident, but a question remained in my mind: Was it necessary to show so much physical violence to make the audience understand Draupadi's suffering? And when the performer is a young student of fourteen, does this question become even more important? I see Bharatanatyam as an ability to communicate the deepest human emotions through the smallest of gestures. A fleeting glance, a trembling hand, a sudden withdrawal of the body or a moment of complete stillness can sometimes convey what words cannot. I have always believed that the true power of abhinaya lies not in how much we show, but in how deeply we make the audience feel. When we think of Draupadi in the Sabha, what is it that we want the audience to remember? Is it the sight of her being dragged and assaulted, or is it the pain of a woman who stands before kings, elders and warriors, asking a question that none of them has the courage to answer? Is it the physical cruelty imposed upon her, or the moral failure of the men who sit silently before her? Surely, the tragedy of this episode lies in both, but it is the latter that gives the scene its power. Imagine Draupadi being brought into the Sabha through a few carefully chosen movements. A gesture towards her hair, a sudden withdrawal, a step that suggests she is being pulled against her will. And then, silence. She turns towards the elders, one after another, searching their faces for an answer. Her body may be still, but within her, a question with no answer. Through her eyes and expressions, the dancer can tell distrust, suffering, anger and the growing realisation that the dharma has failed her. Would this not be powerful abhinaya? Would a prolonged silence, filled with the unanswered questions in Draupadi's eyes, not leave a deeper impression on the audience than repeated demonstrations of physical violence? The Natya Shastra offers us a rich understanding of rasa, bhava and abhinaya. It teaches us to look beyond the external action and understand how emotion is communicated through performance. It does not prescribe a specific choreography for this episode, nor does it provide a simple rule about how many moments of violence may be shown. The purpose of performance is not merely to show an incident, but to transform it into an experience that brings thought and emotion to the audience. This brings me to another concern. What happens when such a scene is performed by a child? A fourteen year old student, who may have the ability to execute the movements to portray suffering as choreographed. But should ability alone determine whether a particular form is appropriate? This does not mean that young dancers should not be taught a difficult subject. Our epics contain complex moral dilemmas, and dance can be a beautiful way of helping students explore them. The question is how we introduce these subjects and what we ask our students to do with them. There is a difference between helping a child understand the suffering of Draupadi and making the repeated physical humiliation of Draupadi the central spectacle of a performance. As teachers, we must ask ourselves whether we are using violence to reveal the truth of a story or relying on violence to create an immediate impact on the audience. These are uncomfortable questions, but they are worth asking if we wish to preserve depth of our art. I often feel in Bharatanatyam, abhinaya is the hardest section and limitation is one of the most difficult skills an artiste must learn. It is easy to make a scene louder, more dramatic or more physically intense. It takes a different kind of understanding to know when to stop, when to hold a moment, and when to allow the audience's imagination to complete what the dancer has begun. In abhinaya, what remains unshown can sometimes speak more powerfully than what is shown. For me, that is the true power of abhinaya: not merely to show suffering, but to awaken understanding; not merely to depict injustice, but to make us question it; and not merely to bring a story to life, but to help us understand why that story continues to matter.  An M.A. graduate in Bharatanatyam, Sushma Kotireddy, Director of Ravindra Natya Nikethan, Nairobi, trains over 100 students in Bharatanatyam and also volunteers at Children's Garden and Home, teaching Indian classical and folk dance to more than 40 orphaned children. Serves on the Executive Committee of the Kenya Music Festival. Post your comments Pl provide your name along with your comment. All appropriate comments posted with name in the blog will also be featured in the site. |
