The word Rasa in Sanskrit cannot be adequately defined. It has no specific meaning, other than indicating a sense of coloring, a shade of feeling, an emotion, a state of being, a nervous excitation or deceleration, or in a broader sense, a reaction to an action. Every human expression is essentially a rasa, and it is the human face that reflects the prevailing manifestation of it. A delectable lift of the eyebrow, the shortest of smirks, the look in the eyes, the nuances of laughter – these are the manifestations of rasa. It is in dance that rasa is most effectively portrayed, because the dancer, through intense training is able to evoke and express the physical quality of a Rasa in their bodily postures; in music, the evocation is more internal and less physically expressive; the sounds and notes of musical composition delineate an inner landscape of time, space and being by delicately working on our nervous systems. In literature, the verbal descriptions affect and evoke the appropriate Rasa. In short, all the arts — visual, physical, and verbal — are ways of artificially evoking a Rasa and channeling the esthetics of perception, either singly or in combination. The Indian theory of Rasa was developed in Bharatha muni’s ancient work “ Natyasastra” supposedly written around 200 BC. This text is the basis for Indian music – both Carnatic and Hindustani, dance, and the theater.
The above paragraph was meant as a very brief introduction to the mini-series currently showing on Netflix titled “Navarasa” – an anthology of nine emotions, presented by Mani Ratnam and Jayendra Panchapakesan. In the last year or so, we have seen several anthologies make their way to the Streaming platforms in the absence of any meaningful film production work happening due to the Pandemic. Not all of them are worth watching, or even close to what the artists involved in them are capable of. There has been a lot of hype over Navarasa though. For the past few weeks, or a couple of months perhaps, a trailer of Navarasa directed by Bharat Bala featuring a beautiful collage of human emotions expressed, synchronized and shot with high fidelity cameras, and accompanied by Rehman’s lilting violin score, have whetted our artistic appetites. The idea behind the production and making of Navarasa also had a noble aim. The profits of the project will go towards assisting the members of the Film fraternity, many of whom have suffered immeasurable financial hardships during the last two years. And more importantly, all the artists, technicians, and other involved have given their time and effort without corresponding remuneration. All this is highly praiseworthy indeed and shows the commitment and passion the South Indian film community has for the art and its people. If not for any other reason, this series is a must-watch to show our support for this meaningful and compassionate cause.
That said, I have watched four of the nine episodes so far; out of which, I liked only one. Karuna – compassion/kindness, Haasya – laughter, Adbhuta – wonder, and Bhibatsa – disgust/indifference are the first four rasas covered. The series is new, and I will therefore refrain from coloring your choice and enjoyment of the series by pointing out the episode I enjoyed. I wish I could have said that all the four parts are wonderful, but unfortunately, I cannot bring myself to do that. Technically, all four stories are told well. There is finesse, precision, and class in each; but what is conspicuously lacking in three of them is the expression of the rasa itself, or the failure to find the right storyline to showcase the emotion. It is not enough to assemble a fantastic set of actors, enough substance should also follow suit. There is one story in particular that is so utterly ridiculous and fails so badly in painting the emotion it is supposed to, that I switched off the TV in disgust. How could a team so talented, assume that such a story will resonate, or even make sense to the common man, and secondly, what the hell did the story have to do with the simple and the most universal emotion it was expected to project. I have read enough science fiction in my life, and this one redefined the meaning of the genre. I couldn’t understand it all. In a two-minute monologue, the protagonist conjures the weirdest pseudo-scientific theory I have been privy to. To me the emotion is confusion. But if the creative team in charge of the episode believes what they have shown is wonder, then I have nothing to say. Oops, I have given away a hint, but that’s OK. Among the four seen so far, one of them is brilliant, and that brilliance is simply because the story is closely tied to the raw emotion it attempts to evoke. The Rasa stands out at the end of the episode, and aesthetically one can recognize its operation in all of us in different guises and forms. The other two episodes are passable.
When I started this series, I was very enthusiastic about finishing the entire series this weekend — i.e binge watch. After four episodes, it is fair to say, my enthusiasm has waned a little. I think I will henceforth watch one episode per day to complete the rest of the stories. On a personal note, I have never thought highly of Arvind Swamy’s acting skills, even during his heydays as a mainstream Hero. There were many friends ( mostly from the opposite sex) who would go gaga over him. Yes, he is fair, handsome in some ways, and therefore he was given roles that needed a rich/sophisticated/ educated/high-born young man. But by way of really doing any acting, I haven’t seen much. Arvind is attempting a comeback, or at least, I am seeing him again after nearly two decades ( the last I saw him was in a Sridevi movie, a pretty forgettable one), and my disappointment with his acting continues. Perhaps, we will see more of him again, and I hope, this time “more” also means better.
I may write a second installment on “Navarasa” once I finish watching the series. It depends on how the rest of it goes.
God bless…
yours in mortality,
Bala
I will watch and give comments😋😋
Thanks amma. Its come throught