5. A Malayalam Ramayana Film from Kerala
Reimaging Rāma, Reclaiming Sītā:
Nature, Gender, and Caste in Kanchana Seeta
By Ankita Menon
“Can man be separate from nature?”1
Posed by a tearful Urmilā within the first 30 minutes of the film, this question addresses the heart of what G. Aravindan explores in his 1977 film Kanchana Seeta (“Golden Sītā”). Credited as pioneering an era of Malayalam independent art films, Kanchana Seeta is adapted from playwright C. N. Sreekantan Nair’s play of the same name, and interprets the banishment of Sītā in the Uttara Kāṇḍa of Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa (Rajadhyaksha 1994: 45). While several plotline elements remain true to Vālmīki’s, Kanchana Seeta is marked by the complete absence of Sītā, a striking contradiction when considering that she is the namesake of the film.
Yet, is Sītā truly absent, or does she manifest herself in an alternate form? How does Aravindan use nature to represent Sītā’s presence, and what does this suggest about the relationship between man and nature in the film, as well as the dynamic between husband and wife in the Rāmāyaṇa? Furthermore, how does the film’s reimagining of Rāma and Sītā, through both Sītā’s absence and the casting of tribal Adivasis, challenge dominant Brahmanical caste and gender hierarchies?
Here, I propose that despite being seemingly absent, Sītā is in fact more present than ever in Aravindan’s Kanchana Seeta. I will explore the presence of Sītā in the film as represented through nature and analyze the film's broader deconstruction of traditional structures – both in terms of gender (Sītā’s presence without a body and embodiment of prakriti, the samkhya concept of cosmic material) and societal hierarchy (who is chosen to embody Rāma).
The Forest Remembers: Sītā’s Presence as Nature
The film opens with Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa traveling to the Daṇḍakāraṇya forest to reproach Śambūka for practicing austerities as a shudra. They are shown journeying barefoot across a desolate landscape, a rather ominous drum sequence playing in the background. The drums fade away into a silence punctuated by the occasional crunching of leaves and cawing of birds, as Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa enter a lush forest. Sunlight filters through the greenery, until the two reach a dark enclave of the forest where the trees part to reveal an emaciated tapasvi (ascetic) hanging upside down from a branch, palms pressed together in meditation. “Śambūka!” Rāma shouts, the first dialogue we hear in the movie. Below the tapasvi, we see a woman tending to a fire, becoming visibly distressed and running to Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa when she witnesses them approaching her husband. “Please, don’t do it!” She cries, prostrating herself at Rāma’s feet. He seems to consider her plea, glancing back and forth between the tapasvi and Lakṣmaṇa. Finally, he gazes up at the sky, where the trees gently part, allowing sunlight to stream through. The darkness of the scene gives way to light, and after a montage of rustling leaves and sunlight-dappled branches, accompanied by gentle flute music, it becomes clear that Rāma has pardoned Śambūka.
What sets this scene apart, leading Rāma to a change of heart absent in other versions of the Rāmāyaṇa? The answer lies within the forest itself. This opening scene marks the first of many where we see Sītā’s presence embodied through nature. She lives in the rustling wind, the dappled sunlight, and the whispering trees. Through nature, Sītā has granted Rāma the strength for mercy and compassion. In Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa, Sītā and Rāma are separated and remain so through most of the Uttara Kāṇḍa. Rāma’s actions are dictated by his duty as a king, leading him to actions – such as the merciless killing of a blameless tapasvi – that direct our modern sensibilities to some degree of cognitive dissonance. However, as Usha Zacharias, late professor of communications at Westfield University, asserts, Kanchana Seeta reframes Rāma during this separation by introducing Sita’s presence through nature (Zacharias 2008: 99-107). Rāma’s dharma is no longer shaped solely by the expectations of kingship as in Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa, but continues to be guided by Sītā and her existence in the living world around him.
We then find out from a conversation between Lakṣmaṇa’s wife Urmilā and the two brothers that this journey to meet Śambūka occurred shortly after Sītā was abandoned at Vālmīki’s ashram located in the very same forest. “Did you forget to visit Sītā?” Urmilā questions, to which Rāma responds that they “did not receive Valmiki’s hospitality”. Adopting a forlorn expression, he elaborates further that “the king’s throne is a pit of fire; Sītā’s husband is only a servant of the public”. He retreats to meditate, gazing longingly at the forest as the setting sun sinks behind it.
This entire opening sequence establishes a tension that underscores the entire film; Rāma’s conflict between personal loss and separation, versus being a good ruler and therefore, a “servant of the public”. Rāma has abandoned Sītā not out of personal conviction, but due to political necessity, placing his duty as ruler above his personal loss. However, in abandoning Sītā to Mother Earth, Rāma has allowed her to become one with nature. Sītā has transcended her physical form, becoming an omnipresent force in the natural world around him.
Aravindan reflects this visually in the film’s landscapes, utilizing contrasting environments. Beyond the forest, the land is barren, lacking greenery, lacking water, and lacking Sītā. In contrast, the forest itself is lush and abundant, teeming with greenery and a vibrancy that stands out in stark contrast to the desolate land beyond its borders. Furthermore, scenes in the forest are accompanied by gentle flute music, whereas scenes placed outside the forest are often punctuated by the harsh beat of drums. Aravindan deliberately uses sensory cues, both visual and auditory, to signal Sītā’s presence, making it clear when she is on screen with us.
Like the viewers, Rāma too remains painfully aware of both his loss of Sītā and her continued presence in nature. Another such scene occurs when Bharata comes to visit his brother after a long separation. “How did you bear to be separated from me for 12 years?” Rāma tearfully embraces his brother. “The punishment of separation isn’t anything new,” Bharata replies, pointedly steering the conversation towards the topic of Sītā, as the two walk across a rocky landscape towards the forest. After confessing his desolation at her absence, Rāma announces his intent to perform the ashwamedha horse sacrifice without Sītā by his side. Bharata clearly expresses his displeasure, questioning if Rāma has visited Sītā, and whether he will ever “consider Sītā faithful”. The wind howls as a weighted silence hangs between the two brothers. “Sītā was certainly victorious in the agniparīkṣā,” Rāma admits. When Bharata presses further, Rāma becomes defensive and admonishes him: “Brother, if you were in my place, you’d realize!” Bharata’s response is fierce and unmoving – “to anyone who calls a woman like Sītā unfaithful, my sword would be the reply.” Their argument intensifies as they enter the forest and reach the mouth of a bubbling stream. Bharata refuses to support the ashwamedha, telling Rāma that he “has the strength to stop the ashwamedha of a dishonest king.” Rāma becomes enraged, stringing his bow and aiming it at Bharata. “The Rāma who spurned Sītā has the strength to spurn everything!” he declares. But Sītā does not allow herself to be forgotten. Nature interferes – the stream they are standing by splashes water at them, and the sky overhead darkens. The wind becomes turbulent, vigorously shaking the trees, and the same flute music backing the earlier Śambūka episode returns. Once again, Sītā has intervened as Rāma’s moral compass, an acknowledgement that Rāma makes by gazing up at the sky, his anger replaced by a peaceful expression.
In the original Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa, Sītā is never present nor does Rāma feel her existence in any form after her banishment. Once she is cast away, she is referenced but never truly felt by Rāma as an active presence in his life – she is physically and spiritually removed from Rāma’s world. By embodying Sītā through the forest, Aravindan has managed to do what Vālmīki’s Uttara Kāṇḍa failed to do; he has created a physical space where Rāma’s rigid sense of duty can be challenged, forcing him to reckon with the consequences of his actions. Additionally, in equating Sītā to nature, Aravindan has provided us with the unique lens to imagine how Sītā may have responded to Rāma’s actions in the Uttara Kāṇḍa. Unlike traditional tellings of the Rāmāyaṇa where Sītā’s voice is largely absent after her banishment, Aravindan allows her presence to persist and subtly guide the moral and emotional landscape of the film.
The closest we get to this concept of Sītā’s presence in the Uttara Kāṇḍa is in Bhavabhuti’s Uttararāmacarita, in which when Rāma goes to the forest to punish Śambūka, Sītā is present as an invisible shadow to witness Rāma’s grief at their separation. In his 2001 essay, Hebrew University indologist David Shulman asserts that the play is centered around the theme of recognition (pratyabhijñāna). Rāma hallucinates seeing Sītā everywhere in the forest, and finds himself unable to breathe until the shadow Sītā caresses him and brings him back to life. He then begs Sītā’s friend, the forest goddess Vasantī, to recognize that Sītā is right in front of them, to which she replies that Rāma has surely gone mad (Shulman 2001: 63-4).
This episode in the Uttararāmacarita is quite similar to Kanchana Seeta in that Rāma is acutely aware of Sītā’s spiritual presence in a metaphysical manner. Yet, in the Uttararāmacarita, Sītā remains an intangible force with little bearing on Rāma’s actions or moral decisions. This contrasts sharply with Aravindan’s film, where nature itself becomes a medium for Sītā’s communication, allowing Rāma to feel her presence and influence in a more tangible way.
Reimagining Rāma as Adivasi King: Casts and Caste
While Sītā is reimagined through her loss of a physical body in Kanchana Seeta, Rāma’s identity is challenged by the physical body Aravindan chooses to embody him with. The entire cast of the film, including Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa, are played by tribal Adivasis from Andhra Pradesh, the Rāma Chenchu tribe (also known as the Koya people). This tribe claims lineage to the Ikshvaku clan that Rāma belonged to, and they continue to live off the land, uniquely positioning them with a deep and enduring connection to the landscapes of the film (Mohana 1993: 132-46).
However, these actors are perhaps not what you’d expect after having viewed modern Rāmāyaṇa adaptations such as Ramanand Sagar’s Ramayan or Babubhai Mistry’s Sampoorna Ramayana, where the female characters are fair-skinned and adorned with jewels and fine silks, and the male characters are physically strong and conventionally handsome. Kanchana Seeta disrupts this iconography; Rāma is a pot-bellied king, and Lakṣmaṇa has pock marks all over his face. Urmilā is adorned in simple white garb, devoid of any glamour. Rather than modifying the actors’ mannerisms and appearances to portray the characters, Aravindan has simply transposed the Rāmāyaṇa characters into the bodies of these actors, allowing the cast’s inherent qualities to inform the portrayal.
Beyond a visual subversion of expectations, this casting choice calls into question dominant Brahmanical power structures that are pervasive even in the present day. India’s tribal people, now officially designated as “Scheduled Tribes”, are often grouped together and given similar status to that of the Scheduled Castes. The film was produced during a period of flawed but well-intentioned efforts in the mid-late 20th century to redistribute land to tribal people and uphold the “Tribal Panchasheel”, or tribal principles (Oskarsson 2010: 30-35). Regardless, indigenous communities are typically marginalized and associated with low caste, often not even fitting directly into the varṇa system (avarṇa).
This remains a stark contrast with Rāma and his brothers who are kshatriyas, only second to Brahmins in the social hierarchy and typically associated with values such as strength, nobility, and authority. By casting Adivasis as the central divine figures in Kanchana Seeta, Aravindan subverts this traditional association between divinity and caste – Rāma and Lakṣmaṇa’s divinity is tied not to their social status, but to their moral actions and connection to nature. The physical vessel of the divine becomes deemphasized, and in doing so, Kanchana Seeta challenges rigid hierarchies that have long governed representation in Hindu mythology.
Additionally, by reimagining Ayodhya in rural Andhra Pradesh, Aravindan rejects the anthropocentrism typically found in mythological narratives. Rather than depicting the city as a space distinct from nature, he blurs the boundaries between the two. The grand palaces of Ayodhya are transformed into mud huts and caves, as he integrates the landscape itself as an active force in the film rather than a passive backdrop as it remains in Sreekantan Nair’s play that the film is based on. This ultimately allows Aravindan to further strengthen the connection between his Rāma and nature, and by proxy, Rāma and Sītā.
Prakriti and Purusha: Beyond the Body
The film’s ending sequence depicts the ashwamedha, with a brass statue of Sītā (quite literally a kanchana Sītā) placed against a backdrop of sacrificial fire, almost as if the statue is burning. Rāma is solemn, gazing at the statue sitting next to him. The ritual is interrupted by Vālmīki, who enters the sacrificial hut with Lava and Kusha – Rāma then recognizes his sons, and a tearful reunion ensues. As Rāma holds his sons close in either arm, we are shown a beautiful montage of the forest once again, which then cuts to the hut being consumed by the sacrificial flames. The camera bounces between the flames, the forest, Rāma’s face, and his sons’ faces. “Sītā!” Rāma cries out, watching the hut burning down, as his sons cry out “Amma!” (mother). The last two minutes of the film show a disheveled Rāma, barren of all his kingly adornments, walking towards the riverbank with a flame in his hands. He calmly enters the water, eventually fully surrendering himself to the river. This ending sees Rāma reunite with Sītā in two ways; in his reunion with their sons (to which Sītā responds to their calls by putting on a fiery display), and later in his self-immolation through drowning in the river to rejoin Sītā.
In the samkhya system of Hindu philosophy, purusha, traditionally masculine, represents consciousness and awareness, referring more broadly to the spirit. Prakriti, traditionally feminine, refers to matter (most often used to refer to nature). Prakriti and purusha are separate entities from one another, but work together to create all existence. Kanchana Seeta exemplifies the separation and union of prakriti-purusha through Rāma and Sītā, offering an advaita (non-dualist) solution in which prakriti and purusha are inseparable, in response to samkhya-yoga’s dualism, where prakriti and purusha are distinct. Zacharias argues that within the framework of the film itself, Sītā is represented as prakriti, and it is this presence through nature as prakriti that allows for Rāma to follow his dharmic code and fully embody purusha (Zacharias 2008: 99-107). In the scenes where prakriti is absent, we see Rāma giving in to his anger and resorting to violence. Scenes in the forest where Sītā is present via nature show Rāma to be more merciful and compassionate – harmony prevails, though only for a short while. To ensure a complete and permanent union between prakriti and purusha, Rāma takes matters into his own hands, drowning himself in the river so that he may once again join Sītā. In doing so, he answers Urmilā’s question – no, man and nature cannot be separated, as their unity is absolute and eternal.
Conclusion
By redefining the relationship between Rāma and Sītā to be of the union between prakriti and purusha, as well as by subverting the physical expectations of both Rāma and Sītā, Aravindan reinforces the idea that their union is divine and exists in the metaphysical realm. Through rendering Sītā’s presence as an omnipresent force within the natural world, Kanchana Seeta rewrites the traditional narrative of her absence following banishment. Instead, Sītā guides Rāma through their separation, offering him dharmic direction and lending him strength and compassion. This representation departs from the traditional narrative in Vālmīki’s Uttara Kāṇḍa, where Rāma and Sītā’s separation is marked by loss and finality. Instead, Aravindan suggests that their connection is bound not by physical proximity, but by an eternal interplay between prakriti and purusha. Rāma’s ultimate dissolution into the river recognizes this, symbolizing his pratyabhijñāna (“re-cognition”). Just as Sītā returned to the earth, he surrenders himself to the waters, abandoning the constraints of kingship and suffering to reunite with Sītā in a realm beyond the material world. Unlike Vālmīki’s Rāmāyaṇa, where separation is absolute, Aravindan suggests a reunion that transcends the bodily form, reinforcing the cyclical and inseparable unity of prakriti and purusha. In this way, Kanchana Seeta is not merely a retelling but a reclamation of the Rāmāyaṇa, offering a version that prioritizes fluidity over rigidity, spirituality over religiosity, and a deep ecological consciousness that remains profoundly relevant today.
Footnotes
1. This translation of the dialogue in Kanchana Seeta, and all following translations, were done by Ankita Menon.
Sources/ Further Reading
Aravindan, Govindan. 1977. Kanchana Seeta. General Pictures.
Mohana, T.S. 1993. “Tribals of Andhra Pradesh.” Social Change 23 (2-3): 132–46.
Oskarsson, Patrick. 2018. Landlock: Paralysing Dispute over Minerals on Adivasi Land in India. Canberra: ANU Press, pp. 29–50
Rajadhyaksha, Ashish. 1994. Encyclopedia of Indian Cinema. London: British Film Institute; New Delhi: Oxford University Press
Shulman, David. 2001. “Bhavabuti on Cruelty and Compassion”. Questioning Ramayanas: A South Asian Tradition¸ ed. Paula Richman. Berkeley: University of California Press, pp. 49-82
Vālmīki, and Arshia Sattar. 2018. Vālmiki’s Rāmāyaṇa. Lanham, Maryland, Rowman & Littlefield.
Zacharias, Usha. 2008. “Prakriti and Sovereignty in Aravindan’s Kanchana Sita”. Ramayana Stories in Modern South India: An Anthology¸ ed. Paula Richman. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, pp. 99-107