Ashtanayika of classical dance: On the vipralabdha, a woman who sets out to meet her lover, and is left forlorn by his absence

A nayika delights, saddens, bewitches, angers. In many ways, she provides catharsis, because her unabashed narration of her story – her woes, apprehensions and joys – evokes those emotions of love and desire within ourselves, whose existence we perhaps knew not of.

In his Natyashastra_, written circa 200 BC, Bharat Muni expounded his theories on the practice and performance of theatre and dance in 36 chapters. It was within these verses that he crafted the ashtanayika, or the eight heroines based on eight different episodes from a woman’s life. The ashtanayika give voice to the thoughts of a woman caught in myriad situations concerning her lover, and are considered to be among the most beautiful and enduring forms of abhinaya in the study of Indian classical dance._

For centuries, each one of these instances has signified much more than the depiction of a woman’s conundrums and perils: they have come to denote her liberty to express herself, and her love — physical and spiritual — for her beloved. This is perhaps one of the reasons the concept of the nayikas has been nurtured through time, evolving with the world around it, while staying rooted to its essence. For a nayika is one woman, she is every woman, at some point, in some place.

In this Firstpost series, we explore the ashtanayika, their representation in Indian classical dance and the place they find in contemporary times and practice.

Read more from the series  here .

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A palpable sense of anticipation fills the air as the hour of a heroine’s secret rendezvous with her lover grows nearer; tension mounts when he fails to arrive at the decided hour, and gradually, sadness overcomes her being as she realises with dismay that he is not going to turn up. The vipralabdha | विप्रलब्धा, the deceived one, is left lonely and wistful, wondering why her beloved stayed away.

Of the varied nayika bheda (categories of heroines) as identified in Indian classical dance and drama, the ashtanayika are but one manner of distinction. They constitute a woman’s contemplations and reactions to her circumstances. But influencing these very responses are those bheda or differences which categorise a woman’s sensibilities basis her age, her temperament and her experience in the art of love and union.

Often times, such layers are transparent in the vipralabdha nayika, and an astute performer would know that to interpret the words of a thumri, a padam or ashtapadi (a poem with eight couplets) would mean to reveal those facets that portray the precise nature of the deceived one, through that particular composition.

For although a vipralabdha can be a sweeya, a woman faithful to her lover, she can just as easily be conjured as a parakiya, similar to Radha who sets out to meet Krishna, seeking spiritual union outside the bonds of marriage. When these underlying distinctions reveal themselves, the narrative of the abhinaya too is subtly altered: a young girl inexperienced in love would ponder on the ’no-show’ of her lover in her own mind, but a mature, knowing woman, like Radha, might vociferously demand an explanation from her beloved for his absence.

Within the traditional repertoire, the moment that makes the heroine a vipralabdha is preceded by a great build-up that often opens with the nayika receiving a message from her lover. Popular tropes depict a sakhi – a close friend or confidante – playfully teasing the heroine before finally indicating that her beloved will meet her at a secluded spot along the riverbank or the bower in the forest. Sometimes, a messenger will arrive with a note for the heroine, and if her sakhi tried to playfully snatch the letter from her, she would hide it away, bashful and unwilling to part with her delicious secret.

While the movement vocabulary in Indian classical dance varies with each style, the representation of most nayikas remains constant across each medium and the difference lies in the language of the verses and the manner of expression alone. So, across all dance styles, the first segment of a vipralabdha’s story is devoted entirely to the nayika readying herself to meet her lover.

There is a sensuality, an almost seductive quality to her movements as she glides about her boudoir dressing for the imminent tryst, and every part of her mind and body awaits a pleasurable encounter with her beloved.

First, she drapes herself in a beautiful saree. According to Mohiniyattam danseuse Sujatha Nair, it is these subtle distinctions that evoke the cultural moorings of a particular dance form. So, in Mohiniyattam, a classical style with roots in Kerala, the heroine would drape around herself an off-shoulder, pleated saree, but in Kathak, the same nayika would perhaps simply draw around her chest and head a pleasing dupatta.

Next, she would do her hair, slowly braiding the cascading waves that fall to her waist, or tying them in a knot on the side of her head. Then, from her jewellery box she would pick out bangles, a fine necklace, an intricate pair of earrings and finally, perhaps to emphaise her affection, would even wear the ring that her beloved once gifted her. Slipping into a trance, she would recall that tender moment before reaching for a bottle of perfume and applying it rather deliberately on her wrists, her neck and behind her ears.

The meaning of beauty is ever evolving, yet the inherent notion of assuming a pleasing appearance, as much for oneself as for the beloved has remained constant through time. As in the contemporary context, so too in the historical space, the nayika’s frenzy to dress up and look beautiful thus simply symbolises her joy of going to meet her lover.

So, she departs, beautiful and elegant, reaching the decided spot, along the riverbank, waiting…

As evening turns to dusk and in the twilight the river shimmers under an orange sky, she gazes upwards at the flock of birds turning home to roost, waiting…

The first specks of twinkling stars soon become visible in the fading light and with great sorrow, she finds herself sitting alone still, waiting.

Within a vipralabdha performance, the heroine’s trajectory until the moment of her departure is drawn out in excruciating detail, only to depict an excitement that comes completely undone when her lover fails to show.

In the contemporary urban space too, on being stood up on a date, the sharpest and most embarrassing recollections do remain largely those of borrowing a cute skirt, or finding the right restaurant, before the inevitable anti-climax.

And after waiting for hours, when the nayika realises at last that her lover will definitely not come to see her, doubts and questions start to form in her mind. Worry prompts the heroine sitting alone, despondent and tearful, to speculate about all the many reasons that may have kept her beloved away.

‘Maybe he found someone else and does not find me attractive anymore,’ she might think, or ‘perhaps he ran into trouble while coming to meet me.’

Nair, who received training from her mother, the Mohiniyattam exponent Jayashree Nair, suggests that in several ashtapadis, while contemplating why he failed to show up, a nayika will say to her sakhi, ‘When we last met, I didn’t pay much attention to him, is that why he didn’t show up this time?’

She says that in a Tamil padam, ’netrandhi nerathile…’, the nayika spies Krishna playing ‘aankh micholi’ (sharing furtive flirtatious glances) with another woman on the riverbank and demands to know who it was that captivated him so much that he chose to ignore her.

On another occasion, the nayika laments, ‘yami he kamiha sharanam…,’ asking where her thoughts might take refuge when her lord has not come at the said hour.

In the present context, especially amid social distancing norms brought on by the coronavirus crisis, virtual dates and video calls have replaced in-person conversations, and the young and old alike find themselves in the throes of an intense anxiety, caused by the idea of an online rendezvous. Being jilted by a lover, a date or a partner induces feelings of uncertainty that technology does little to alleviate. ‘Did he feign internet trouble or was he really facing a problem? Did he forget to call me or ignored me because he was truthfully in a meeting?’

However, it is interesting to observe the different patterns that emerge upon tracing the nayika’s relationship with her lover. A person happily married for decades would be more annoyed than unnerved on being stood up by their partner, and this irritation would seldom be left unexpressed. For a young adult, on the other hand, one who has only recently discovered the pleasures of love and infatuation, being stood up is tantamount to crisis within the self – agonising, hurtful and saddening by degrees.

Many times, students of Indian classical dance are introduced to the ashtanayika through the vipralabdha, because her story creates an uncomplicated but poignant entryway for young artists to navigate the predicaments of a woman’s mind, the highs and lows of love that they would perhaps soon discover for themselves through real, lived experiences.

So too this series introduces the novice, and reacquaints the rasika, with the nayika from where this journey commences for most performers: of discovering love and separation, loyalty and betrayal, desire and trepidation simmering within a woman’s heart.