Am I a pining Nayika?

June 22, 2020

Recently, a friend remarked—half in jest, half in exasperation—that she was weary of the pining nayika in Bharatanatyam. “Dancers should move on to fresher themes that speak to a twenty-first-century mindset. What woman really pines anymore?” she quipped.

I couldn’t bring myself to agree that the pining nayika—the archetypal heroine longing for her beloved—was outdated or dull. I did, however, concede that the portrayal demands a certain delicacy, a sensitivity of approach, for its layers to truly resonate.

Longing—far from being a frivolous indulgence—is often at the heart of the artistic impulse. A deep and earnest yearning forms the seed from which creativity often blossoms.

If the nayika conjures images of a fragile woman writing tear-soaked letters to an indifferent lover, perhaps it is time to revisit historical counterparts like Mirabai, Andal, and Akka Mahadevi. These mystic poetesses of India’s Bhakti movement poured forth verses of fervent, sensuous devotion to a divine beloved—usually a male deity—but they were anything but meek or bound by the roles society prescribed to them.

Mirabai defied convention and refused to join her husband on his funeral pyre. Akka Mahadevi cast off all possessions—including her clothing—and wandered in ecstatic devotion to Shiva. Andal, raised in a conservative Vaishnava household, penned passionate poems in praise of Vishnu, daring to imagine herself his bride.

In their hands, longing was not passive suffering—it was sacred fire. Their verses are a rich tapestry where the earthly and the divine, the metaphorical and the literal, are woven into one. The beloved, in this context, becomes both muse and metaphysical ideal.

If we approach nayika bhava—the emotional landscape of the heroine—through the lens of such profound devotion, then abhinaya (the expressive component of Indian dance) too can transcend the literal. It allows for a sincerity of emotion, and a narrative spaciousness that reaches beyond the boundaries of familiar gestures.

As dancers, we often know this intuitively. But do we truly take the time to reflect—deeply and deliberately—before we step into performance?

I’m endlessly captivated by how classical poets luxuriate in the imagery of longing. Consider this line from Swathi Thirunal, an eighteenth-century royal composer:

Jalajabandhuvumiha jaladhiyil anayunnu

The companion of the lotus has extinguished itself in the ocean.

What a lush and decadent metaphor for something as simple as: the sun has set, and my beloved has not come. To immerse oneself in such poetry is to access new shades of emotion that dance can then embody.

In Jayadeva’s sixteenth Ashtapadi, Radha, in separation, laments:

Sajala jalada samudAya ruchirENa daLati na sA hrudi viraha bharENa

The one who delights in his company cannot fathom the scorching ache of separation—for he is like a rain-laden cloud.

Here, Krishna becomes more luminous, more irresistible, through Radha’s yearning. Though the underlying mood is viraha—the sorrow of separation—the poetry leans not into despair, but into an exquisite, almost indulgent, articulation of desire.

We are heirs to a magnificent treasury of classical compositions—padams, javalis, and other poetic forms crafted for dance. For some of us, this repertoire feels sacred and daunting; for others, it becomes a script we rush through, reducing rich emotional terrain to stylized repetition. And in that haste, the nayika risks becoming what my friend feared: flat, forgettable, and fatigued.

Perhaps the way forward lies in embracing the nayika not as an outdated trope, but as a timeless symbol—one that can be reimagined through the lens of contemporary insight. To quote filmmaker Sumantra Ghoshal, a compelling work “has the thrust of the narrative and the pull of the emotion.” Dance, too, deserves both.