Since Sri Lanka's independence from Britain in 1948, ethnically marked political parties have struggled over power, fostering nationalism and communalismFootnote 1 within their constituencies, and provoking the civil war that continued for almost thirty years (Jayawardena and de Alwis Reference Jayawardena and de Alwis1996). Although the official warring parties, the Liberation Tigers of Tamil EelamFootnote 2 (LTTE)—ethnically Tamil—and the Government of Sri Lanka—predominantly ethnically Sinhala—entered a Ceasefire Agreement in 2001, hostilities resurfaced in 2005 (Bose Reference Bose2007, 53–4). In 2007, Bharata Natyam performances throughout Sri Lanka's major city of Colombo addressed the twenty-six-year civil conflict between the LTTE and the Sri Lankan Government, which significantly escalated that year. As the animosity grew on and off the battlefield, civilians were continuously affected by the economic hardships of a stifling war economyFootnote 3 and by random acts of terror, including bombings and abductions, for which neither warring parties took responsibility.Footnote 4 The war was declared over in May 2009 with the killing of the LTTE leadership in the country, but it has been argued that both the LTTE and the Sri Lankan Army caused severe civilian causalities (Ethirajan Reference Ethirajan2009; New York Times 2009). Over this period, tens of thousands were killed, several thousand went missing, and hundreds of thousands sought refuge in Europe, North America, India, and Australia (Zolberg, Suhrke & Aguayo Reference Zolberg, Suhrke and Aguayo1989).Footnote 5
Sri Lanka is historically, to borrow the term from Neluka Silva (Reference Silva2002), a “hybrid island”—a place with a complex history where several cultures and people converge. The island is rich with linguistic, religious, and ethnic diversity. The Sinhalas are the largest ethnic group; they speak the Sinhala language and are primarily Buddhist, although there is a strong and established presence of Christians as well. Tamils, the second largest ethnic group, speak Tamil and are predominantly Hindu, but there is also a significant and longstanding Christian Tamil minority. Other ethnic groups include Muslims and Burghers, or Sri Lankans of European descent. Sri Lanka was colonized by the Portuguese (1505–1658), the Dutch (1658–1796), and the British (1815–1948). Although ethnic distinctions were less rigid in precolonial times, as with many nations colonized by European powers, identity has become a divisive marker, infiltrating and dividing people by language, religion, and culture.Footnote 6
The Tamil and Sinhala people share a country and a vast history but have been, through the ages, “created” as distinct.Footnote 7 And at the heart of the contemporary ethnic conflict is a belief in “the existence of cultural and ethnic purity, and a concomitant fear of mixing and borrowing” (Silva Reference Silva2002, i). Thus, there is a “historically constructed nature of identities of SinhaleseFootnote 8 and Tamil peoples in modern times,” forging the creation of ethnic difference in Sri Lanka while overlooking the commonalities between the Sinhala and Tamil peoples (Guneratne Reference Guneratne and Silva2002, 37). As ethnic identity continues to be meaningful in the context of Sri Lanka's civil conflict, the ways in which cultural practice intersects with ethnic identification remains significant as dance and culture continue to be labeled ethnically for political and personal reasons.
In the midst of the escalating civil conflict, in 2007, dancing Bharata Natyam became a political act in an increasingly militarized city marked with armed checkpoints, massive walls, cordoned neighborhoods, and mysterious kidnappings.Footnote 9 In a climate that not only silenced citizens from discussing the war in public but induced wariness of public gatherings, Tamil Bharata Natyam choreographers (all of whom were women) pursued their dance form, searching for performance venues and staging material that had contemporary significance. On the battlefields of stage and screen, nationalist images of nation and ethnicity jostled for power, and at other times, the very boundaries of ethnicity were complicated through the advancement of hybridFootnote 10 ethnic and religious experiences that complicated the boundaries of ethnicity. Mirroring the complexity of the ethnically marked civil war that was gripping the island and its ethnically diverse major city, these danced pieces offered strategies for staging multiply signified performance within and across the ethnic compositions of the bodies dancing and watching. Exploring the meanings, perceptions, and receptions of Bharata Natyam practice, in this essay, I examine closely two Bharata Natyam choreographies that were danced responses to the civil war in Sri Lanka that year.
I argue that choreographic strategies intersected with nationalism, ethnic identity, and the civil conflict in the country, and were revealed through discreet negotiations between concepts of tradition and innovation within the dance practice. My discussion also illuminates the function of space and venues in Bharata Natyam performances in the city of Colombo, and the ways in which dance practitioners used their limited agency to present work in an environment of escalating nationalism and war. How were Tamil women choreographers dealing with ethnic conflict in a context of militarization and the repression of political views by both the state and society? What views were expressed in and through Bharata Natyam dance? How did audiences and dancers shape these views? And finally, how were choreographers using their power to address the civil war critically in a context that silences such discussion?
I will analyze Draupadhi Sabatham (“Draupadhi's Curse”), which was performed at the seventy-fifth anniversary celebration of the Tamil Maanavar Sangam (Tamil Student Association) of Ladies' College, a high school in Colombo, and Shanti (translated as “Peace”) performed as part of an arangetram (debut dance concert). Both pieces were choreographed by Janaki, a well-established Tamil female dance teacher. In her mid-sixties, Janaki was raised in Colombo, but her family is from Jaffna. An established dance teacher who trains students primarily at her residence, she previously taught at various community organizations, including the Kalalaya School of Music and Dance.Footnote 11
The Ethnographic Method
The primary method I use throughout this work is ethnographic. Dance and ethnography have come together in dance scholarship as a means of exploring systems of power, theories of aesthetics, and subject formation embedded within cultural practice (Ness Reference Ness1992; Novack Reference Novack1990; Savigliano Reference Savigliano1995; Sklar Reference Sklar2001). Admitting to the constraints of the body of the dancer-ethnographer, dance ethnography has also grappled with issues of representation, introducing to the field a self-reflexivity that releases the reader from the lure of a comprehensive ethnographic understanding by revealing the construction of representation and the partiality of understanding. Critical dance scholarship also views spectators as a worthy subject of analysis. Susan Manning (Reference Manning2004) has considered how spectators have read race, gender, and nation while watching performance. Her project also examined how spectators from different social locations read the same performances differently; mine explores how choreographies attend to the composition of their respective audiences in a context of an ethnically marked civil conflict. Priya Srinivasan has utilized the trope of the “unruly-spectator” to analyze Bharata Natyam and its intersections with nationalist, Orientalist, and patriarchal discourses (Reference Srinivasan2012). My study employs the experience of the “spectator-ethnographer” attending and watching dance performance to highlight notions of ethnic identity and difference, which are tied to experiences of civil war, particularly in Sri Lanka.
Engaging in dance ethnography, I address the ways in which my body is already implicated in the “field” site. As a diasporic practitioner of Bharata Natyam, I am interested in the ways in which my own body shapes my understanding and experience of the dance practice. As a practitioner, and as an American-Canadian-Malaysian-Sri Lankan Tamil who has memories of grandparents from Jaffna, Sri Lanka, my body visibly “fits” in the politics and ethnic labels of Sri Lanka. As a third-generation Sri Lankan Tamil presently living in the United States, it appears as if the “field” cannot separate itself from my body. The kinesthetic response I felt living in Colombo—subjected to security checks like a local citizen, and frequently being questioned about my last name, my origins, and my reasons for being in the country—brought home the ways in which I fit within a complex system of identity and knowledge. My training in the dance form is diasporic; I studied the form in India, Canada, and the United States. My experience and familiarity with the dance practice and my familial connections to the “field” influenced the reading and acceptance of my body in the many communities with which I interacted in Sri Lanka.
Bharata Natyam Practice in Colombo
The flourishing of Bharata Natyam was nurtured through the understanding that the new dance “tradition” emerging in IndiaFootnote 12 was a tool for demonstrating a rejection of Western influence in Sri Lanka, which was valuable as anticolonial sentiment grew in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Bharata Natyam, predominantly studied and performed by women, became a means for the preservation and promotion of culture and ethnic identity.Footnote 13 (For more on the history of Bharata Natyam in India, see A. Srinivasan Reference Srinivasan1985; Kersenboom-Story Reference Kersenboom-Story1987; Meduri Reference Meduri1996.) However, sociopolitical developments in Sri Lanka, including the development of the civil war, influenced the significance and meaning of the dance form and its relationship to ethnic and national identity. From the beginnings of its practice in Colombo until now, the dance has been assigned different labels—“Indian,” “Oriental,” and “indigenous”—each term bearing political implications that impact the development of Bharata Natyam as a signifying female practice.
In the Sri Lankan Tamil community, negative associations with the devadasis and dancing girls were present in the late nineteenth and early twentieth century, which initially barred many Tamil girls from engaging in dance practice (Thiruchandran Reference Thiruchandran1998, 39). This contentiousness surrounding the dance was influenced, in part, by the social reformer Arumuga Navalar (1833–1870) who promoted Tamil language, literature, and practices as a means of resisting Westernization and European colonial influence. Navalar's reform also encouraged Sri Lankan Tamil daughters to be raised to demonstrate the four qualities of an acceptable Tamil woman: fear (of doing the wrong thing), innocence, shyness, and chastity (Thiruchandran Reference Thiruchandran1998, 91). This mission to revive Tamil traditions placed the female body at its center, as women were the strong focus of discussions of identity and cultural preservation. Dance, however, was not part of this process in the nineteenth century.
Internalizing the stance of the Tamil social reform movement that emanated from the city of Jaffna, Colombo-based women's organizations were founded to counter the potential loss of Tamil culture and the predominance and influence of British and Western culture. The Ceylon Tamil Women's Union was founded in 1909 (“Kalalaya's Fifty-Year History” 1998). Similar women's organizations, such as Saiva Mangaiyar Kalaham, were also formed in order to uphold and protect Tamil culture (“Saiva Mangaiyar Vidyalayam” 1998, 24). Although Saiva Mandaiyar Kalaham was a Hindu Tamil organization, and the Ceylon Tamil Women's Union was founded by both Christian and Hindu Tamil women, both organizations viewed Tamil culture as threatened by British colonialism. In response, they organized themselves and took on the responsibility to educate young people in the Tamil literature and Hindu mythology that were influential in wider Tamil culture.Footnote 14 Tamil tradition was to be accessed through three aspects: language, religion, and the female body.Footnote 15 With nostalgic sentiments, their missions reflected a desire to inculcate young Tamil women with a Tamil culture that was believed to exist prior to the influx of British culture and colonialism. This nostalgic glance to the past was inspired by a fear of cultural loss, a need to recover a “true” culture that rejected miscegenation, and the longing for a return to an idyllic, singular, and stable precolonial culture.
Images of the several women leaders of the Sri Lanka Tamil Women's Union at Kalalaya School of Music and Dance (2008). Photo courtesy of the author.
Since dance was not a means of fashioning Tamil identity, it did not initially fit within the criteria of Tamil women's duties and expectations. However, one emerging dance style, Kalakshetra Bharata Natyam, the style taught through the Kalakshetra dance school that was founded by Indian dancer Rukmini Devi Arundale in the early twentieth century, helped to significantly shape Bharata Natyam as a reputable practice in Colombo.Footnote 16 In brief, Rukmini Devi's approach to women's decorum, her stance against “vulgarity” in dance practice, and her rooting of the tradition in the ancient past all fit well with the gendered and cultural concerns of Navalar's social reformation movements and the developing anticolonial movements.Footnote 17 Kalakshtetra Bharata Natyam reconstituted as a timeless, untainted, and ancient practice would become a tool against the feared cultural dilution that came with British colonialism.
Kalakshetra Bharata Natyam's approach to the dance as constructed in the distant past also was attractive to the diverse community of Colombo. It removed Bharata Natyam from being identified as a local Tamil tradition and positioned the practice instead as a universal Indian tradition, relevant to the subcontinent and the world through its association with Sanskrit and hence with antiquity, which attracted students from outside the religious tradition of Hinduism and the Tamil language (Coorlawala Reference Coorlawala2004; Meduri Reference Meduri1996; O'Shea 1998, Reference O'Shea2007, Reference O'Shea, Peterson and Soneji2008). This opened doors for Sri Lankan students of various backgrounds to identify with the dance practice, and even Buddhist Sinhala students took up the form quite early in Bharata Natyam's emergence. The dance, at its adoption in Sri Lanka in the early twentieth century, was already a multicultural phenomenon. The popularity of Bharata Natyam in Sri Lanka and across South Asia also facilitated the creation of Sri Lanka's own distinct national dance form: Kandyan dance. The emergence of Kandyan dance reveals the intersections of Sri Lankan ethnically marked politics with performance (see Photo 2).
Dancers at the All-Ceylon Dance Festival of 1950. Image courtesy of Ms. Mahinda. Used with permission.
Susan Reed's (Reference Reed2009) study of the transformation of the male-centered, Buddhist, village-based ritual Kohomba Kankariya into Kandyan dance, the national dance form of Sri Lanka, traces the ways in which a local, religious ritual and dance practice were formerly “recontextualized” to become a key symbol of Sinhala culture during the growth of Sinhala nationalism in Sri Lanka in the mid-1950s. Initially labeled “Sinhala dance,” by 1956 the dance was labeled as “national” or “Kandyan,” masking its ethnic exclusiveness (Reed Reference Reed2009, 11, 128). Developed from a male-only dance and drumming practice, Kandyan dance has been influenced by Bharata Natyam, incorporating Bharata Natyam's “feminine” movement qualities, so that the form would be attractive to Sinhala women as well (Reed Reference Reed2009, 203).
The labeling of Kandyan dance and its associated national significance revealed through Reed's historical and anthropological study is integral to understanding the circulating significance and meaning attributed to Bharata Natyam practice in Colombo. It highlights how one ethnic dance was transformed to become representative of the entire nation during a period of Sinhala ethnic nationalism that gripped the nation. Demonstrating how dance practice is ethnically marked in Sri Lanka, Reed's analysis also shows how one dance–Kandyan–was created in response to a dance practice ultimately deemed not Sri Lankan—Bharata Natyam—a practice that appealed to Colombo's ethnically diverse population.
Thus, Bharata Natyam practice and its implementation on local and national stages demonstrates an ethnically marked contentiousness, exposing its belonging to or rejection from the Sri Lanka nation-state. From the point of its introduction into organizations like Saiva Mangaiyar Kalahma and the Ceylon Tamil Women's Union until the present day, this dance form has been and continues to be labeled as either “Indian,” “indigenous,” “Oriental,” or “Tamil.”Footnote 18 These classifications carry political weight with the rise of ethnic nationalism in the post-colonial era. For example, in the years following Sri Lanka's independence from Britain, several political parties in Sri Lanka were organizing to rid the country of Indian Tamils who were considered distinct from Sri Lankan Tamils because they had been brought over as laborers under British colonialism.Footnote 19 Thus, different classifications of the dance had political implications. “Indian” and “Oriental” are labels that assigned a “foreignness” to the dance, and which entitled the culture (and the people) engaged with this dance to fewer rights within the country. When identified as “indigenous,” however, Bharata Natyam could be accepted as belonging to Sri Lanka and as part of Sri Lankan culture. The classification of “Tamil” appointed cultural ownership of the dance to the greater Tamil community both in Sri Lanka and India.
As we will see in the choreographies discussed below, the terminology, meaning, and cultural/ethnic associations with Bharata Natyam dance continue to hold significance in Sri Lanka. Of particular interest is how practitioners such as Janaki attend to the dance's perceived meaning as well as how the experience of living in and experiencing war in Colombo continuously influences Bharata Natyam dance choreography and significance.
Draupadhi Sabatham, Ladies' College, May 11, 2007
On May 11, 2007, I attended the seventy-fifth anniversary celebration of the Tamil Maanavar Sangam of Ladies' College in Colombo-seven, a posh neighborhood of the city (see Photo 3). As I approached the College (a Christian parochial, secondary school for girls) in a call-taxi,Footnote 20 the street was packed with cars. Outside of the school gates was a well-dressed crowd, excited about the students' presentation that they were about to witness. Walking past young women in their matching saris of pastel chiffons, I entered the auditorium, which was a rustic venue with high ceilings embellished with wood details and solid wooden-folding chairs.
Invitation to 75th Anniversary Concert of Tamil Maanavar Sangam (2007).
The program opened with the lighting of the traditional lamp, a short event during which a tall brass oil lamp draped with jasmine flower garlands is lit by the invited guests of honor. The small, white flowers always catch fire, causing plumes of smoke to rush from the lamp. Like the audience, I had become familiar with the smoking fire hazard that sits at the edge of the stage. After the guests of honor were recognized with this ceremony, the program officially started, as the choir of the Tamil Maanavar Sangam (Tamil Students Union) at Ladies' College ascended the stage. Wearing chiffon saris of pastel pinks and blues that glistened in the lights, the same young women I had noticed as I entered the auditorium were now standing on risers. They opened with Tamizh Mozhi Vaazhttu (translated loosely as “Long Live Tamil”), a tribute to the Tamil language. The song is a composition of Subramania Bharati (1882–1921), a Tamil poet, Indian independence fighter, and social reformer who argued for the rights of Indian women, and who was from Tamil Nadu, India. An iconic lover of the Tamil language, literature, and its people, “Mahakavi Bharathiyar” (the “Great Poet Bharati”), as he was known, composed several songs and poems that praised the greatness of Tamil, a well-known example of which is Tamizh Mozhi Vaazhttu.
Another of his works Panchaali Sabatham (Draupadhi'sFootnote 21 Curse), drew from the notorious dice-game scene in the Mahabharata and inspired the main piece of the evening, the Bharata Natyam theater production, Draupadhi Sabatham.Footnote 22 The voiceover in Tamil introduced this piece as “a scene from the epic the Mahabharata,” which is an epic that displays the consequences of depraved “jealousy between cousins, causing a war within the family.” I was curious whether the audience, like me, reflected on the war in Sri Lanka upon hearing the words, “war within the family.” I wondered whether the word “war” is heard so frequently that it has lost its meaning and emotional impact, or whether it is so close to home that its meaning overflows with emotional significance. With the phrase “war within the family” resonating in my nerves and muscles, I immediately felt curious to see the staging of the Mahabharata through this new lens connecting the episode with “war in Sri Lanka.” Although I had both danced and witnessed this scene countless times, this time it had already attained a newfound meaning.
In brief, the Mahabharata is a Sanskrit epic about two sets of cousins (the Pandavas and Kauravas) who were raised together, and trained and educated by the same teachers, but would eventually fight a deadly war against each other, killing uncles, fathers, cousins, and gurus. The five Pandava princes are the protagonists throughout the epic, as the 100-brother Kaurava clan continuously vies for power against them. Draupadhi is the wife of all five Pandava princes. She was won in a game by one of the Pandavas, Arjuna. Upon his returning home and announcing the win, his mother, Kunti, declared (without knowing the prize) that whatever had been won must be shared equally between all of her sons. In the multiple-scene dance-drama, Draupadhi Sabatham, the Kauravas have planned a dice game with the Pandava princes, rigging the game with faulty dice, and exploiting the gambling habit of Yudishthira, the eldest Pandava. In the course of the danced drama, Yudishthira wagers the Pandavas' wealth, army, and kingdom; then his brothers and himself and, finally, Draupadhi.
Inside the historic theater, the stage was kept simple—no props, just a glimpse of curtains on both wings and a dark black curtain as backdrop. The scene began with Duryodhana of the Kaurava clan pacing across the stage multiple times, appearing deep in thought. Danced by a female dancer dressed as the male antagonist prince, Duryodhana sported a hefty black beard, and was bejeweled with a golden crown. The lyrics of the taped music accompaniment, which featured a vocalist, mridangist or drummer, violinist, and nattuvangam, or the small cymbals, in the Carnatic musical style,Footnote 23 described the actions and thoughts of Duryodhana, revealing that he is set upon destroying the prosperity of his cousins, the Pandavas, and will approach his uncle, Shakuni, for help. Shakuni, who is described in the Tamil lyrics as “an embodiment of lies and cunningness,”Footnote 24 was played by another female dancer. She was also dressed as a man, wearing golden-colored pants and tunic with a long, upturned, bushy moustache. The stances of the two “men” were wide, and their elbows were positioned away from their torso, while their hands were held in fists—true to their roles as scheming royal figures. With their arms shifting from folded at the chest to holding the chin, they strutted back and forth on the wooden stage. The lyrics, “Let me know a way to destroy the five brothers and Draupadhi,”Footnote 25 were gestured by Duryodhana through mudras. With excitement visible through his expansive body and arm movements, “the evil-hearted uncle”Footnote 26 Shakuni devised a plan for the Kaurava clan to beat the Pandavas and win over their kingdom. With quick, successive mudras, he suggested to Duryodhana to invite the Pandavas over to play a game of dice, assuring him not to worry, the game will be rigged in the Kauravas' favor. As his eyes looked side-to-side (as if checking to see if someone is watching them), Uncle Shakuni wrung his hands. Duryodhana wondered whether Uncle Shakuni's plan would work; his eyebrows were knit as his hand with the pointed finger gesture of the suchi mudraFootnote 27 was placed by his bearded chin. Finally he agreed, nodding. Both Duryodhana and Shakuni exited the stage.
In the second act, Duryodhana and Shakuni welcomed the Pandavas to the Kauravas' court with extended arms and soft bows of reverence. The Pandavas were portrayed by Tamil female dancers of various body types, dressed in prince-like costumes and donning either a moustache or beard. Duryodhana quickly suggested that they play a game of dice by his cupping hands, shaking them in the air, and lifting his eyebrows. Yudishthira, the eldest and the leader of the Pandavas (who is always in front of his brothers), portrayed excitement at the idea of the game by raising his eyebrows, smiling widely, and nodding in obvious agreement; his hands were placed on his thighs. Duryodhana and Yudishthira slowly sat themselves across from each other at center stage. Depicting both a bow and arrow through mudras, Duryodhana decided the first wager would be the Pandava army. Yudishthira agreed, shaking the dice in his cupped hands while the beats of the mridangam (two-sided drum) on the taped music played rapidly—mimicking the shaking and tossing of the dice. The Pandavas' faces and body gestures revealed that Yudishthira loses the wager; they are shocked and disappointed, but not broken in spirit. In a similar back-and-forth gestured conversation between Duryodhana and Yudishthira, the Pandavas' wealth, the Pandava Kingdom, and the five Pandavas were wagered and lost in the following rounds of the game. With the loss of themselves—essentially becoming slaves to their cousins—the four younger Pandava princes stood in disbelief behind the gambling-addicted Yudishthira.
Duryodhana then suggested that one more possession of the Pandavas would enable them to win back all their losses. His eyes were large as he looked at Yudishthira and extended his arm lovingly toward his cousin. “Do not worry, you can win it all back with this final toss, just wager your wife, Draupadhi,” he expressed with compassion through his knit eyebrows.Footnote 28 Although the younger four Pandava brothers shook their heads in objection, Yudishthira took the dice in his hands again. The entire court focused on his move as he opens his cupped hands. The Tamil lyrics stated the outcome as the Pandavas displayed their grief, their heads in their hands and their eyes with sorrow:
With their final win, the conniving Kauravas were ready to collect their prize. “Bring her, o' brother, bring her,” Duryodhana commanded, facing the wings. Dushasana, the younger brother of Duryodhana, dressed similarly to his elder brother, entered the stage from the direction of his elder brother's glance. With him was Draupadhi, portrayed by a tall thin dancer in a blue and white sari-like dance costume, whom he dragged by her long black hair with tight mushti Footnote 30 mudras. He then pushed her with forceful pataka Footnote 31 mudras to fall in front of men of the court. Draupadhi grabbed the side of her head in pain, her eyes worried, her body shirking away from him. Unable to keep his desires to himself, Dushasana displayed his lust for Draupadhi, gesturing the lyrics, “She, whose beautiful eyes are dark like the rain clouds—today onwards, she is mine!”Footnote 32 His desire to dominate the wife of the Pandavas was demonstrated through his fast and large gestures culminating with his right hand clenched in a fist or mushti mudra above his head as if ready to strike. The Pandava brothers looked at him, but were helpless to assist Draupadhi as she ran away from her attacker.
With her mouth open in shock and her hands extended away shielding her as she was chased in circles on the stage's periphery, Draupadhi was silently screaming. Pushed to the ground before the men of the court, she appeared shocked at what was happening to her, her eyes large and confused. She finally lifted herself from the ground to notice the presence of her husbands; her eyes looked at each and every one of them, but her gaze was unreturned by her humiliated husbands. Shakuni ordered her to be stripped, conveyed through the lyrics and simultaneous gestures. Dushasana lunged toward her with a mushti mudraFootnote 33 to suggest the pulling of her sari. With the sari's unraveling and a public disrobing forced upon her, Draupadhi started to spin with shame and fear easily read on her face. After a set of spins, Draupadhi faced the audience and called out to Lord Krishna with outstretched hands, asking for his divine intervention. Granting her a sari of infinite length, performed for the audience through her seemingly endless spins, Krishna provided her rescue from public humiliation and sexual assault while a bell rang in the musical accompaniment to mark the miracle.
Draupadhi's anger then surfaced as she stood facing the audience. She stated her vow, which echoed the vow in Bharati's Panchaali Sabatham:
Upon uttering this vow, Draupadhi, with her eyes large and her hands stiff with rage, was lit with a center spotlight and surrounded by the Pandavas, who stared at their cousins with equal conviction. The sound of “Om” resonated three times, as if to seal the vow. The Kauravas faces showed worry and fear. The lights went to black.
Why Draupadhi Sabatham? Who or what do the Pandavas and Kauravas symbolize, and must they symbolize something or someone? The Mahabharata, like most epics, has clear heroes and villains—as in this staged episode of the dice game. In this telling of the curse of Draupadhi, all characters, aside from Draupadhi, were culpable. Whom did “Draupadhi” represent? Did the Pandavas represent the Tamils? Did Draupadhi represent the Tamils? Did Draupadhi symbolize the innocent people of Sri Lanka, wagered in a game played by the LTTE and the Government? I was flooded with various possible combinations and connections.
Although overt political meaning was not ascribed or obvious, what I did know was that Janaki wanted to present an episode about war for the Tamil Students Association of Ladies' College. In choreographing Draupadhi Sabatham, she chose a piece that could be included within the “tradition” of Bharata Natyam and Tamil culture. Kalakshetra Bharata Natyam popularized dance dramas and promoted them as part of the revived tradition in contrast to the typical solo dance and margam Footnote 35 format of the devadasis. The “revival” of Bharata Natyam dance, and the use of dance dramas in the repertoire, broke with known devadasi “traditions,” but became acceptable in the revived dance practice (Allen Reference Allen1997). Admittedly, Janaki was aware of the significance of the format. She wanted to create a piece that was accepted as “tradition” and would be read as such by many dance practitioners in Colombo.
This use of this dance-drama format, read as part of the Bharata Natyam “tradition,” allowed Janaki to avoid criticism from many Bharata Natyam practitioners and audience members. Some Colombo-based practitioners believe that Bharata Natyam should not portray themes outside of Hindu texts, or use choreographic formats outside of margam repertoire or the dance drama form. One particular teacher, Yogendran,Footnote 36 who trained in Jaffna under Ramiah Pillai, said:
Someone asked me, “Why don't you do more social themes?” I said that “There is drama for social themes.” In dance, there are more religious themes, so that's what we do. There are compositions by Alvars, Aandaal,Footnote 37 so we do that. Then the people who come [and see the dance] want to learn what the religion is. If all of us turn to social themes and contemporary dancing, then they won't know what Bharata Natyam is and what the religious aspect is.Footnote 38
For Yogendran, Bharata Natyam dance practice must adhere to its “traditional” form as a religious practice. To emphasize her point, Yogendran recalls renowned Tamil Hindu saints who wrote religious literature as source material for Bharata Natyam choreography. But, beyond ideas of religion and thematic sources, Yogendran's statement furthers notions of cultural loss through “contemporary” or “outside” influences, paralleling anxieties present during and after Navalar's social reform movement, and at the beginning stages of the Bharata Natyam practice in Colombo.Footnote 39
Strategically, Janaki's use of Bharati's work allows the piece to fall within the larger Tamil literary and cultural tradition: Bharati's compositions and life feature strongly in the Tamil imagination, whether in India or in Sri Lanka. Tamizh Mozhli Vaazhttu, sung at the beginning of the anniversary celebration of the Tamil Maanavar Sangam, is an exposition of deep love for the Tamil language. And Panchaali Sabatham already resonated with political significance, as Bharati had utilized the rape of Panchaali/Draupadhi in the Mahabharata as a metaphor for the British colonization of India (Hiltebeitel Reference Hiltebeitel1981). It was not the first time that I had heard Bharati's works in Colombo, even on television: he is a prominent figure in Tamil culture. His famous poem, Kani Nilam Vendum (translated loosely as “I would like a piece of land”), often aired between programs on the Sri Lankan Tamil language television channel, Shakthi TV, almost resembling a public service announcement. I was surprised that such a political request—demanding land, which was a central motive of the LTTE separatist struggle—was broadcast into peoples' homes with such frequency. Although there are many popular South Asian Hindu narratives about war, Janaki's choice of Draupadhi Sabatham fits well within Tamil tradition.
Janaki's choreographic work thus not only touched on the popular works of the Tamil poet, Bharati, and incorporated a known Hindu epic—the Mahabharata—using the dance drama format of the respected Kalakshetra Bharata Natyam style so that it was read and accepted as reflective of both Bharata Natyam and Tamil “tradition,” but it also connected to the contemporary conflict in Sri Lanka. Draupadhi Sabatham staged violence and suffering that arises from political competition—the precursor to war. That succinct narrative mirrors my own understanding of the current conflict as a consequence of various episodes of violence and political maneuvers for power and votes that ultimately led to division and difference. In the decades following independence, Sri Lanka has been the setting for several riots (1958, 1977, 1981, and 1983) and insurgencies (1971, 1987–1989). Like the Pandavas and Kauravas, political groups and official and unofficial parties have been complicit in initiating these episodes of violence, and perpetuating the devastation of “non-participants” or innocent citizens (Little Reference Little1994, 4–7; Tambiah Reference Tambiah1986, 13).
In its portrayal of the victimization of Draupadhi, Draupadhi Sabatham highlighted the suffering of civil society. Watching the performance, I was reminded of the citizens in Colombo (and elsewhere on the island) who, in 2007, endured daily checks at security checkpoints, early morning security raids of homes and personal property, and the “white van syndrome,” where a mysterious unmarked van abducted people off the streets leading to a growing number of disappearances (see Photo 4).Footnote 40 Both the perpetrators (Kauravas) and the so-called defenders (Pandavas) appeared to be one and the same as they wagered for possession of the defenseless in their larger game of dice.
Sri Lankans for Peace newspaper ad featuring “white van” (2007).
The fact that Draupadhi is the only female in the piece (and the only one who is physically violated) is also significant. Her body is the prize for the highest wager in the game between the family members. In Sri Lanka, the violation of women has been a constant in the conflict, as “women's bodies” become “the primary site for declaring the power of one ethnic group over another,” which “exacerbates violence against women from the same community” (Ruwanpura Reference Ruwanpura and Perera-Rajasingham2008, 104).Footnote 41 But, as we see in Draupadhi Sabatham, Draupadhi demands a violent end to her attackers, and, in the same way, women have also transformed their “often subordinate gender roles, lives and positions in non-obvious ways” during conflict (Rajasingham-Senanayake Reference Rajasingham-Senanayake and Thiruchandran1999, 140). Janaki's selection of Draupadhi Sabatham was certainly a compelling parable, especially in the setting of an all-girls school—the Ladies' College.
In addition, Draupadhi's concluding cry for vengeance mirrored the ongoing conflict in Sri Lanka as each political party engaged in a cycle of retaliation for previous transgressions. This call for vengeance, performed before a Tamil audience, may also be more than incidental, perhaps echoing the complex relationship between Tamils and the LTTE. This relationship straddled both respect for the rebel army (for standing up to the discriminatory policies of the Sri Lankan Government) and detestation of it (as its own authoritarian methods silenced many peace-loving Tamil and Sinhala voices), while controlling the Sri Lankan Tamil community both in Sri Lanka and in the diaspora.
Finally, in the introduction to Draupadhi Sabatham, the voice-over described the Mahabharata as an epic that shows a “war within the family.” The portrayal of the Kauravas and Pandavas, first cousins who engage in a great battle that results in the death of many—family, friends, and citizens—also resonated within the context of Sri Lanka. The portrayal mirrored the civil conflict where nationalism and communalism had created distinct conceptions and histories for Tamils and Sinhalese. Both historically and in the present time, there are many shared histories, beliefs, and practices between the Sinhalese and the Tamils. Watching Draupadhi Sabatham, I was reminded of this by the performed foreshadowing of a conflict wherein the participants shared histories, beliefs, and blood. Having confidence that science would bring peace to the country, Ariaratnam, a close friend and mentor of mine in Colombo, would often say to me, “DNA will prove that there is no difference between Tamils and Sinhalese.” Although he identified as Tamil, and was born and raised in Jaffna, he believed in a shared history between the communities of Sri Lanka. It was this idea of shared culture and shared experience that emerged in the next piece, Shanti.
Shanti, Bishop's College Auditorium, July 1, 2007
“This will be a unique opportunity for you,” Janaki said on the phone, as she invited me to her students' arangetram.Footnote 42 It would be unique because it was a combined arangetram between Shankari, a Tamil Bharata Natyam student, and Anushka, a Sinhala Bharata Natyam student. Janaki was presenting a new choreography created especially for the occasion. Even though I had attended many arangetrams in the United States, I was excited to see this one, having heard much about how Tamil and Sinhala families approach Bharata Natyam arangetrams differently (to reflect their cultural identities).
The arangetram was held in Bishop's College Auditorium in Cinnamon Gardens, Colombo-seven. When I spoke of it with Janaki earlier in the year, she mentioned that it had become difficult to find spaces to hold arangetram because of the war. Parking lots were now closed, and street parking in certain areas was no longer permitted. Cinnamon Gardens (the neighborhood that houses the residences of the President and Prime Minister, the University of Colombo, high-end shopping areas, and beautiful, sprawling grand mansions) was an area especially affected by the new regulations.
Despite the hassle and confusion at the parking lot on that Saturday evening in July, Bishop's College Auditorium was filled with excited guests. Two distinct groups of young girls, one Tamil and one Sinhala, welcomed us. The young Tamil women distributed some essentials: cakrai (rock sugar), kumkum (vermillion), and candanam (sandalwood paste). They also sprinkled rosewater on willing guests. Bearing the responsibility to experience the event fully in order to write about it later, I was a more than a willing guest, and partook of all the services offered. I gladly accepted all of these gifts, enjoying the smell of the candanam, the beads of water in my hair, and the sweetness of the sugar melting in my mouth. Unwilling to end my experience of being formally welcomed (unlike the other guests welcomed by this group who walked into the auditorium after the welcome), I walked to the second group of young Sinhala girls. They were distributing cakrai too, but theirs was mixed with lentils. Both groups were dressed in beautiful saris, but they were tied in different styles. A few of the Tamil girls wore the conventional style of the sari, while some wore the pavadai thavani (half-saris) with its long skirt, blouse, and shawl tied around the waist and draped over the left shoulder. The Sinhala girls all wore the Kandyan-style sari (which is identified as traditional Sinhala-style). As I stated previously, most guests did not visit with both groups. Instead, as they entered, they took notice of both groups of girls, and then chose one. Perhaps, I thought, they visited with the group according to the family that invited them or according to their own ethnic affiliation.
Upon seeing Janaki, I approached her. But before we could speak, she was asked to greet the chief guest of honor and left me holding her purse. “Can you hold on to this?” she said, “I'll be back.” I watched as she was introduced to the special guest by the parents of both groups of girls. After the brief formalities, Janaki walked back to me, collected her purse, and said, “I'm happy you could make it. It should be something special that you haven't seen before.” I was happy and relieved to be so warmly welcomed. I was nervous about having to socialize in a new city and country where I didn't know many people, and I felt self-conscious that I would appear to be “different,” or out of place. As Janaki left to go backstage, I circulated among the guests, finding a few familiar faces among the crowd: dance students that I had interviewed, and mothers whom I had met and spoken with before. Smiling, I said brief “hello's” and “how are you's.” I then decided to go find a seat. I found one in the middle row of the auditorium, on the right side, which allowed me to see the orchestra.
The program began with the master of ceremonies providing, in English, a brief history of Bharata Natyam, identifying it as an Indian dance form and connecting the dance to the Natyashastra, subsequently tracing the dance's roots to the second century C.E. This historical narrative of Bharata Natyam as an ancient dance form conflated a nuanced practice with a complex history, paralleling the event of the arangetram itself.Footnote 43 The arangetram is also part of a post-revival and twentieth-century “revision” of the debut dance performance of the devadasis. Unlike the event that marked the beginning of the devadasi's inauguration into ritual and commitment to dance practice, the contemporary arangetram among the South Asian diaspora, and even in Sri Lanka, often marks the termination of dance study. And, like Janet O'Shea's discussion of the arangetram in the contemporary global practice of Bharata Natyam, in Sri Lanka the event is typically an opportunity for both Tamil and Sinhala families to present their daughters to “their own community,” marking “their respectability as women and daughters” through a demonstration of “cultural continuity” (O'Shea Reference O'Shea2007, 155). I would add that the event has also become an opportunity for families to display their monetary affluence.
Moving beyond the history of the dance form, the master of ceremonies introduced Janaki and listed her accomplishments, including her study of the form under the renowned dancer and dance teacher in the Kalakshetra Bharata Natyam tradition, Adyar K. Lakshmanan. After this, a Hindu priest, marked with tirunuru (ash) on his forehead, walked onto the stage from the front row of the audience and did a small puja Footnote 44 for the Nataraja (the bronze depiction of Lord Shiva as dancer), which was positioned on the right side of the stage. Everyone in the audience stood up. Anushka and Shankari prostrated to the Nataraja, after which Janaki picked up their ankle bells that were sitting at the foot of the deity. They then both prostrated to Janaki and received their bells from her.
With the opening of the curtain, the Carnatic musical accompaniment with vocalist, mridangist (drummer), violinist, and Janaki on nattuvangam (small cymbals) were seated stage left—visible from my seat. Anushka and Shankari came out in unison in matching conventional Bharata Natyam–style costumes, dancing to the upbeat rhythm of alarippu.Footnote 45 I could not help but notice their facial expressions and their youth. They looked extremely happy to see each other on stage. It made me reflect on the appearances of my dance friends and myself when we danced in a company together in high school. I remembered how dancing with others gave me reassurance when steps were mis-stepped and movements were forgotten. Anushka and Shankari performed alarippu, jatiswaram, sabdam, and varnam, which are typical items in a margam repertoire. They performed each song together, mostly in unison. All the songs' lyrics were in Tamil.Footnote 46 After the first half of the show, there was a brief intermission.
In the second half, the girls danced individually, alternating their dance pieces. These items were listed as “padams” in the program. The master of ceremonies stated that padams have a quality of “bhakti sringara rasa,” or the sentiment of having “devotional love for God.” This description, different from those which translate sringara rasa as “erotic sentiment,” was another reminder of how the work of the “revival,” Rukmini Devi (and her style of Kalakshetra Bharata Natyam), refigured the dance. Although those hailing from the devadasi tradition found the erotic elements in the repertoire as devotional and spiritual, the revivalists (drawing from nationalism and orientalist elements) sought to make changes to the practice to preserve the respectability of the new groups of women dancing and eliminated from the devadasi repertoire songs and song parts that were considered “erotically suggestive” (Allen Reference Allen1997, 79).
However, to many Bharata Natyam practitioners in South India or in the Indian diaspora, these songs would not be classified as padams. In the padam genre, the relationship is between the nayaki (a female devotee) and a nayaka (a male deity, or patron), emulating the relationship between the lover and beloved; this relationship is mediated by a female sakhi (friend) who serves as a messenger (Allen Reference Allen1997, 76). These songs had no tripartite relationship signature to the padam genre. I had noticed this trend of categorizing such pieces as padams in Colombo. Shankari's pieces were devotional songs, and could also be labeled as kirtanams, another Carnatic composition often praising various aspects of the god or the goddess that became included in Bharata Natyam repertoire during the “revival” (Allen Reference Allen1997). Anushka's pieces were in the Sinhala language, and instead of being accompanied by the Carnatic orchestra that had played for all the danced pieces thus far, her solos were set to taped music that was not in the Carnatic style. Like Shankari's pieces, Anushka also used mudras and abhinaya from Bharata Natyam to interpret the lyrics (Nritya), and danced Nritta during rhythmic breaks in the song; there was no difference in costuming or incorporation of Kandyan style dancing.Footnote 47 One song, Nangiye Malliye, which was about childhood memories, resembled Bharata Natyam dances of naughty little Krishna pulling pranks and playing hide-and-go-seek games. The audience really enjoyed these songs, clapping at the introduction of their tunes, laughing at the lyrics, and nodding their heads with the movement. I guessed these must have been popular songs, remembered fondly.
Arangetrams are very personal productions, produced in part by the dancer's family who manages the expenses, the venue, its decorations, and the refreshments. Personal influences also often seep onto the stage. Anushka's and Shankari's arangetram illustrated specifically how arangetrams (and Bharata Natyam practices) are personalized for the student, and the student's religious and ethnic identity. The second half of the arangetram, in particular, demonstrated personal touches that were made for the event. Including traditional and popular Sinhala songs, which happen not to fit within the traditional Carnatic music repertoire in Bharata Natyam, was important to Anushka's family. The popular songs chosen were familiar to the audience, and they responded with cheers.
After the solo items were danced, the master of ceremonies announced that, in lieu of the mangalam item that customarily closes the dance performance, Anushka and Shankari would present Shanti (“Peace”), a new and original dance choreographed especially for the arangetram. But before dancing the final item, Anushka and Shankari took to the lectern and gave brief speeches, introducing themselves in each other's language; the audience clapped and cheered. Everyone appreciated this gesture of cultural understanding and respect. Anushka and Shankari continued with a vote of thanks in English.
As Shanti opened, the stage was lit with a red glow. Sounds of gunshots and bombs, played on a synthesizer by a musical accompanist, were heard. Anushka and Shankari ran in from either side of the stage, the fear expressed on their faces shifted to worry, then sorrow. They ran to several areas on the stage, not acknowledging each other's presence. Crouched on opposite sides, they saw each other, and both began to slowly move towards the center of the stage. The red lights pulsed on and off with the sounds of the bombs and gunshots, and the dancers crouched again covering one another with their arms. Moving their hands back and forth from their heads to their ears, they began to hold each other. As the “attack” passed with the fading of the battle-sounds, a prayer-song began. Continuing their holds on each other, they both slowly rose. The lyrics of the music, in both Tamil and Sinhala, asked for peace:
Facing the audience, Anushka and Shankari used synchronized hand gestures and facial expressions (mudras and abhinaya) to enact the lyrics as they were repeated several times in both languages. Their feet stamped out tattu-mettu Footnote 49 to the beat of the music in unison. The piece concluded with recited invocations that incorporated both common conventions from Buddhist (Buddham saranam gacchami, dhammam saranam gacchami, sangham saranam gacchamii Footnote 50 ) and Hindu (Om shanti shanti shanti Footnote 51 ) religious traditions. The dancers stood facing the audience as each held their hands in anjali mudra,Footnote 52 moving their hands in unison from above their heads to their foreheads and then to their hearts.
I was pleasantly surprised at the piece. I had never seen this literal representation of war, nor had I seen a danced work with an obvious call for peace on stage in Colombo. Reflecting the two linguistic, religious, and cultural practices of the dancers the dance piece, Shanti used Bharata Natyam to portray struggle, suffering, and hope. But like much of the arangetram, Shanti attempted to represent the religious and cultural backgrounds of Anushka and Shankari. Janaki was fundamental to the creation of this production, instructing her Tamil and Sinhala students to join together for the arangetram.Footnote 53 But in bringing these two families together, Janaki used this event to stage a piece on war, and the audience, from their applause, smiles, and cheers, enjoyed and appreciated the piece immensely.
Through an innovative, nontraditional, Bharata Natyam piece, Shanti found a balance between an acknowledgment and a minimization of ethnic, linguistic, and cultural difference. And unlike the personally chosen songs that immediately preceded the finale, which demonstrated ethnic difference and separateness in the arangetram, Shanti illuminated a collective experience between the two dancers. The work promoted a notion of shared experience and shared belief between two individuals read as distinct from each other. Through their shared unison movement, belief and desire conveyed through the prayers and wishes were shown as shared between Anushka and Shankari, suggesting communal harmony and commonality.
In Shanti, commonality was also evoked through the mutual experience in war. Anushka and Shankari, as sixteen- and seventeen-year-old girls, respectively, have only lived in Sri Lanka during war. Yes, they experienced a “peace” brought through the conditions of the Ceasefire Agreement,Footnote 54 but more often than not, they have lived through constant hostilities between the LTTE and the Government of Sri Lanka. In Shanti, war was signified, and the emotions experienced in war were tapped, as a shared experience. The dance piece did not identify a culprit or a guilty party in the war, but sought to demonstrate the emotional quality of two individuals who were clear representatives of the two opposing sides (Sinhala and Tamil), presenting how they both cope with war, evoking shared emotional qualities: fear, worry, and hope.
Similar to the placement of the two separate groups of young women who received guests in the lobby, Shanti also highlighted multiculturalismFootnote 55 as a possible practice for attaining peace. Religious and cultural differences were represented through the use of both Hindu and Buddhist mantras. This recognition of difference, I would say, was in line with several trends I witnessed that were taking place on Bharata Natyam stages. Collaborative dance pieces, which brought together dancers from Kandyan and Bharata Natyam dance practices, were common, as were examples of synthesis, where a dancer of one form—most frequently Bharata Natyam—utilized steps from Kandyan dance, and referenced the style through changes in music and musical styles. Shanti evoked multiculturalism through the juxtaposition of religious invocation that was derived from two different faiths, and lyrics, which, when sung in two different languages, had the same literal meaning. But, Bharata Natyam movement vocabulary was used throughout.
For Shanti, Janaki hired a singer who sang the Sinhala lyrics and the Buddhist invocation. He stood next to the seated Carnatic orchestra. When I met her after the performance, Janaki stated that the Carnatic musicians were nervous about pronouncing the Sinhala words in Shanti. Most Carnatic musicians learn a repertoire of several languages including Sanskrit, Telegu, Tamil, and Kannada; my own guru in the United States frequently asked musicians to sing North Indian songs, rationalizing that Carnatic and Hindustani music styles share many ragas (musical scales) between them. Knowing these many languages, most Carnatic musicians are able to manage broad language and style variances. Thus, I was surprised at the hesitation of these Colombo-based Carnatic musicians to perform these two pieces, since they were all fluent in the Sinhala language. Nevertheless, the mention of this nervousness reinforced again the significance that language has held in this ongoing ethnic conflict; it has become a test or marker of difference or assimilation—even “passing.”
A frequently mentioned example of the importance of language was “passing” during the riots of 1983. Friends in Colombo would tell me how Tamils were saved from violent mobs through their knowledge of Sinhala. These mobs determined whether one was Tamil or Sinhala through their pronunciation of Sinhala. If their target didn't have the “right” accent when speaking Sinhala they were assumed to be Tamil, and attacked. Those who escaped would recollect that they were able to speak Sinhala with a Sinhalese accent.
In his study of Tamil-ness and its construction after the riots of 1983, Pradeep Jeganathan (Reference Jeganathan2003) argues that “tactics of anticipation” (of violence) have been produced. Examining a literary text, Rasanayagam's Last Riot, Jeganathan illuminates how pronunciation is a tactic used in anticipation of a repeat of violence. He states:
It is what might be called a “master” tactic of anticipation, the kind of tactic that is learnt by Tamils, so that they may be mobilized when confronted by a Sinhala mob, during a riot. Rasanayagam has learned over the years to pronounce the Sinhala word baldiya (bucket) the Sinhala way, as opposed to what might be thought of as a distinctively Tamil way of pronunciation—valdiya. The point for Rasanayagam is this: when confronted with a Sinhala “mob” who present him with a bucket and ask him to “name” it, he is able to perform his Tamilness as Sinhalaness, given the “tactics of anticipation” he has learnt. (Jeganathan Reference Jeganathan2003, 146)
Although Jeganathan is reflecting on a literary text, this example of “passing” as Sinhala (through pronunciation/accent) was discussed with me several times throughout my time in Colombo. But, it seemed as if some people were reluctant to speak the “other's” language in public. In the case of Anushka and Shankari's arangetram, the musicians, who were fluent in spoken Sinhala (but perhaps not literate in the language), were not confident enough to sing Sinhala lyrics and were unwilling to perform the Sinhala songs.
I met both Anushka and Shankari in person at Janaki's home several weeks after their arangetram. Sitting in the front yard of Janaki's home with the warm Colombo sun shining on us, the girls seemed intrigued by my presence and work, but also were confident they had something of value to share with me. I learned that the commonalities between the young dancers extended beyond the dance stage. In fact, both attended the same school, but had not known each other (due to the linguistic segregation policies that shape education in Sri Lanka) before being introduced by Janaki. Since they both wanted to hold their arangetrams at the same time and the joint arangetram would split the financial costs between both families, Janaki introduced them. She also saw the arangetram as an opportunity to bring the girls, their families, and their respective communities together. The possibility for creating a multi-ethnic space with these two students compelled Janaki to create a piece that staged their respective ethnic identities, which were understood to be “at war” in the civil conflict. Bringing together both of these girls from different, or, more obviously, “opposing” ethnic identities, was of interest to Janaki. Granted, this opportunity was also unique to the dancers.
One thing was for sure—they were proud of their friendship and their arangetram. “We met through Miss [their term for Janaki] a year and a half ago for the arangetram,” Shankari said.Footnote 56 Anushka explained, “We became good friends in dance class. This [dance] leads to a new group of friends that are not my regular friends at school. I'm Sinhalese, and Shankari's Tamil. I know about the ‘fashion’ of our friendship.”Footnote 57 I was intrigued by Anushka's use of the word “fashion,” as if having friends from various groups or experiences was “fashionable.” Considering how segregated I found the school system to be, perhaps it is. If fashion trends of the past come back in cycles, perhaps inter-ethnic friendship and multi-ethnic communities will become “fashionable.”
They discussed how their friendship emerged, with much of it developing in the dance classroom. Anushka expressed how important it was for her to gain an understanding of Tamil culture to perform for the arangetram. She spoke about the difficulties that both she and Shankari “had to overcome” because of her “unfamiliarity with Hindu mythology” common to Bharata Natyam. She stated, “She [Shankari] would stop after class to explain it to me…. I needed Shankari to help me with understanding the Tamil songs.” The effort required by Anushka to learn Bharata Natyam dance was recognized by Janaki too. She, like several dance teachers who teach in Colombo, noted, “Sinhalese girls work so hard to learn the dance and in fact are better at it.”Footnote 58 Many Tamil dance teachers seemed more appreciative of the dedication that Sinhala girls demonstrated in crossing ethnic boundaries and learning what they considered a Tamil form (Satkunaratnam Reference Ahalya2009).
Anushka and Shankari were happy with Janaki's decision to create Shanti for them. They were glad that it used Bharata Natyam to make the audience reflect on peace in Sri Lanka. I asked them about their friendship after the arangetram. Although they had spent every day together the month prior to the arangetram, they hadn't seen each other since the program until our meeting.
Post-Performance Discussion: Choreography and War
Attending to the works of Janaki is a project of deciphering nuanced movements that carry with them experiences of conflict and war. These staged works hint at the aspects—latent, subtle, and pervasive—of conflict that shapes lives, identities, and dance practice. Conflict shapes the reception and perception of a multitude of choreographic choices, from content, language, and venue to audience, staging, and form. It also frames the experience of developing and watching dance in Colombo. By examining the similarities and differences in Draupadhi Sabatham and Shanti, these nuanced negotiations are revealed further.
Draupadhi Sabatham and Shanti share similarities. Both illuminate experiences with conflict, specifically highlighting attempted aggression and the effect of violence on the female body. Both offer religion and spirituality as an intervention in violence, as the solution to suffering and the bringing of peace. However, the differences between the works bring to light the ways in which embedded within the choreographies are strategies significant in the context of Sri Lanka's civil war.
Analysis of these dances reveals that ideas of tradition, or traditional forms, and innovation are tactically employed to address issues of ethnic identity and ethnic conflict for different audiences and occasions. In her examination of Bharata Natyam as a transnational dance practice, Janet O'Shea states, “[I]ndividual dancers diverge in their understanding of what the most important aspect of the dance form's history is, how best to express allegiance to that history, and what elements of dance practice should be maintained or revivified” (2007, 28–9). Although O'Shea discusses contemporary meanings assigned to Bharata Natyam practice among Sri Lankan Tamils in the diaspora, the concept of allegiance to history and tradition remain significant in Colombo.Footnote 59 In the context of the conflict, Bharata Natyam's practice often expresses allegiance to an ethnicity and its representation, granting it meaningfulness. Simultaneously, dance practice exposes pervasive and normalized militarism, surveillance, and fear.
Draupadhi Sabatham was choreographed for a predominantly Tamil audience and involved only Tamil students. In this space, as a celebration of the seventy-fifth anniversary of the Tamil Students Association of Ladies' College, Tamil culture and language were at the forefront, hinted at through the opening song of Bharati's Tamizh Mozhi Vaazhttu. Draupadhi Sabatham staged a familiar, traditional theme commonly performed in Bharata Natyam dance practice. In using a familiar and traditional source for the material, Janaki did not deviate from concepts or definitions of Tamil culture and Bharata Natyam practice. She used familiar themes and traditional material to comment upon the current circumstances of war.
In this setting, this strategy of using a conventional, traditional, and Tamil theme and approach in Bharata Natyam serves specific purposes. The employment of tradition appears to be particularly useful for addressing war in this Tamil students' event. In 2007, Tamil identity became increasingly suspect, and armed military personnel at checkpoints in Colombo blatantly questioned passengers in vehicles whether they were Tamil or not (Satkunaratnam Reference Ahalya2009). Janaki's use of a traditional form of Bharata Natyam addressed the contemporary war through the staging of an ancient feud. It allowed for messages about war to be covertly inserted in choreography that was being watched by a predominantly Tamil audience. Draupadhi Sabatham personified, through the Kauravas, a malicious and conniving party who repeatedly vie for power and control over the Pandavas. Although who and what the Kauravas, Pandavas, and Draupadhi represent in terms of the Sri Lankan conflict are left unknown, and whether or not the piece even reflects on the civil war is up for question, the piece does forward a narrative of greed and competition as a precursor to war and debased lust and aggression toward women as innately part of the drive for power. The piece culminates with a cry for vengeance heralding a war to come within this Tamil space. The strategic use of tradition via Bharati's Tamil narrative to stage war within a curated Tamil space is important to note, as being Tamil became increasingly precarious with the escalating conflict.
The location of Draupadhi Sabatham in Ladies' College, an upscale and patrolled area of Colombo, was one of many areas where Tamil dance teachers faced increasing difficulty in staging events and productions. Certain areas of the city were considered dangerous for Tamils to be in (because of the plethora of security checks). Some practitioners talked openly of the assumptions about Tamils circulated by the state. Gowri, another Tamil teacher in Colombo, told me that since she is perceived as a “Colombo girl,” she is considered safe, and not suspect like those teachers coming from Jaffna. She stated:
As someone well established here [in] Colombo, I can't say no [to Government events] because then it will look like I don't support the government … I'm established here, [the government] suspects the teachers coming from Jaffna of their political allegiances, but because I'm from [Colombo], they know they can trust me.Footnote 60
In her statement, Ms. Gowri expresses a belief that there is suspicion of the Tamil body, and that even Tamil dance teachers are under suspicion of being against the government. With such experiences and understandings, Bharata Natyam appears to adjust for Tamil spaces. Draupadhi Sabatham was chosen by Janaki, not only to meet the demands of traditionalists, but perhaps because its connection to the Sri Lankan War and civil conflict was covert, and avoided suspicion in a Tamil space.
Past experiences with riots and contemporary existence in war have not only shaped the perceptions of the geographical terrain of Colombo—distinguishing safe neighborhoods from unsafe ones—but have also substantially influenced the meaning of the dance practice for practitioners. Tamil practitioners' experiences of the riots and life in Colombo after the official start of the war in the early 1980sFootnote 61 inscribed the dance form with significance as a Tamil cultural practice, reflective of the Tamil people, their contribution to the state, and their survival in difficult circumstances. Practitioners argue for the inclusion of Bharata Natyam as part of Tamil culture; young students—mostly young girls—are urged to be diligent in maintaining their cultural practices and identity. For many practitioners, it is as important to understand the connections between Tamil and Bharata Natyam as it is to maintain Tamil identity in a country like Sri Lanka (where Tamils are a minority). The same fear of cultural loss that shaped the formation of Tamil cultural organizations, such as The Ceylon Tamil Women's Union and Saiva Mangaiyar Kalaham, is now positioned in a different context—that of war.
Thus, the choreography of a story from a Hindu text, which utilized the dance-drama format accepted as traditional Bharata Natyam, was also able to adhere to conservative Tamil elements. Although Draupadhi's treatment can be compared to the Tamil experience in the country's civil war, more conservative practitioners, like Yogendran, who believe that Bharata Natyam should avoid social themes and adhere to religious narratives, would appreciate Draupadhi Sabatham's traditional formats of choreography. Moreover, this desire for the obedience to tradition in Bharata Natyam is often linked to obedience to Tamil culture and identity, which is significant in the history and context of ethnic conflict in Sri Lanka.
Obedience to tradition, culture, and identity were also performed and engaged within the setting of Anushka's and Shankari's joint arangetram. There was a demonstration of Sinhala and Tamil tradition in the groups of young women who welcomed the guests, in the solo-items incorporated in different music styles and both languages; and in Shanti, which wove together Tamil and Sinhala languages along with Hindu (“Om shanti”) and Buddhist (“Buddham saranam gaachami”) invocations, both of which are in Sanskrit, a third and, perhaps, shared or neutral language. Janaki encouraged the joint arangetram and the coming together of the two respective families and communities, and utilized the event to provide a space in which she could address the conflict in the country.
But Shanti, the final piece in the arangetram, showed ethnic difference and ethnic harmony, emphasizing the representation of Sinhala and Tamil traditions through an innovative piece that was not found in the Bharata Natyam tradition. Unlike Draupadhi Sabatham, Shanti employed a hybrid form in its use of language, religion, music, and thematic focus. Bharata Natyam movement vocabulary was used throughout the piece; however, ethnic difference was represented through language and religion.
This type of innovation within Bharata Natyam practice seemed necessary to allow for the representation of both Sinhala and Tamil ethnic identity. Bharata Natyam movement vocabulary was used, but the representation of ethnic difference was highlighted as a means to promote a multicultural society. Shanti highlighted diversity in religion and language, and through the dancing bodies of Anushka and Shankari, simultaneously demonstrated commonality in the experiences of war and the desire for peace, in both the Sinhala and Tamil communities. This hybridity in language and religion through an innovative Bharata Natyam piece seemed necessary so as to not subsume one culture within another but, instead, to represent both. Here, Bharata Natyam was a movement language used to convey multi-ethnic desires and commonality, and not a representation of solely Tamil culture.
Shanti offered a vision for a multi-ethnic state (or multiculturalism) as an answer to the war. The assertion of multiculturalism in Shanti circumvents discussions of cause and fault. Instead, it invokes shared experiences and commonalities of living with war. It does not deal with the “issues” that cause conflict, but instead engages with the shared elements of suffering in war and people's reactions to violence.
Innovation seemed necessary in the meeting of the two cultures at the arangetram; the refusal to subsume one culture within another was very strongly indicated by the juxtaposition of language, music styles, and religion throughout the arangetram program. Janaki's choice to innovate for this program was apparent throughout as a means to emphasize neutrality and representation between the two ethnic groups. For many practitioners, Bharata Natyam is a Tamil dance practice, but the use of Bharata Natyam in the program emphasized the ways in which both Sinhala and Tamil communities can participate in the form, and use it to represent diverse ethnic identities. This approach was important in the context of the joining of two communities through the arangetram production.
Using her influence, Janaki not only strategically employed Bharata Natyam to cater to multiple audiences and groups of dancers, but also shaped these choices according to circulating meaning about the form in conjunction with the ever-changing terrain of the city of Colombo as the war escalated. Her choreographic navigation of the meanings that audiences and dancers attributed to the form and to the physical spaces and geographic settings of Colombo illuminate the strategic ways in which citizens—particularly Tamil citizens—themselves maneuvered the civil war in Sri Lanka
In their anthology, Dance, Human Rights, and Social Justice, Naomi Jackson and Toni Shapiro-Phim discuss the ways in which “dance has been used repeatedly, at different periods in history and in many parts of the world, to promote strict adherence to repressive ideologies,” while being “a powerful vehicle for revealing, resisting and rectifying differing forms of abuse and injustices” (2008, xv). Exploring two works about war in Sri Lanka reveals how some practitioners who are part of a minority community desire to keep practices deemed traditional and vital to culture, as a means for resistance to domination by the majority ethnic community. In addition, these choreographies demonstrate how Bharata Natyam practice has created spaces to reflect on the ethnic conflict in a context of silence and repression in Sri Lanka. And finally, these pieces reveal how one particular Tamil, female choreographer has navigated geographies of exclusion and ethnic identity in Colombo due to the conflict, and strategically choreographed works according to those geographies and the ethnic make-up of these locations. And, perhaps, the sparse visual documentation of these two choreographies is testimony as well to the experience of conflict in the city of Colombo, Sri Lanka, in 2007 (see Photos 5 and 6).Footnote 62
Kalalaya School of Music and Dance, Colombo, Sri Lanka (2012). Photo courtesy of the author.
Kalalaya School of Music and Dance, Colombo, Sri Lanka (2012). Photo courtesy of the author.
