As the curtain lifts, the stage dissolves into a shifting forest of light and shadow. In Saugandhikaharanam, theatre director Piyal Bhattacharya does not simply retell an episode from the Mahabharata; he conjures a sensorial landscape where Bhima’s quest for the elusive saugandhika flower becomes a journey through layered realities, culminating in his encounter with Hanumana.
To shape this world, Bhattacharya turns to sage Bharata’s Natyashastra, championing Marga Natya—an ancient performance tradition rooted in rasa, or aesthetic emotion. The intent is not mere storytelling, but transformation. The play seeks to evoke a deeper, almost spiritual awakening, as celestial beings glide across the stage in a choreography that blurs the boundaries between the physical and the metaphysical. “I never intentionally set out to turn to the Natyashastra; it was always unfolding within me,” says Bhattacharya, 49. He resists calling his work “dance-drama.” “Such phrasing treats them as distinct disciplines, but there is no separation in the experience. In fact, dance and drama converge organically with music, lighting, and sculpture. Each element retains its identity,” adds the founder of Kolkata’s Chidakash Kalalay.
For him, Marga Natya is not about revival but inquiry. It is less a return to codified tradition than an immersion into it. “My inquiry doesn’t aim at a superficial blend of different domains, but at a space where every practice merges with the cosmos—where performance becomes a mode of being,” he says. That philosophy shapes the staging. A cloth curtain divides the performance space into three shifting layers, allowing scenes to unfold simultaneously in front of, against, and behind it. Masked kinnaris inhabit the foreground, while Hanumana appears in the background—poised between his animalistic vitality and yogic restraint. The veil functions as an avarana, a threshold separating multiple realities while allowing them to coexist.
Bhattacharya’s productions incorporate the 11 fundamental elements, or Ekadasha Natya Sangraha, outlined in the Natyashastra. But these are not followed as rigid prescriptions. “Bharata has listed these elements, but they are open to interpretation. So it is not a simple act of reading the book and bringing its guidelines to the stage; the elements require adaptation to fit the purpose,” he explains.
This interpretive freedom extends to characterisation. Bhima is portrayed by two performers—one embodying his inner consciousness, the other his outward strength. “The Natyashastra acknowledges the duality of existence, and this is how we have presented the combination of internal sattva and external abhinaya,” Bhattacharya says. Costume and makeup become extensions of this philosophy. Bhima’s attire is functional, enabling the movement of a forest-dwelling warrior, while Hanumana’s white fur is designed not as a burden but as an enhancer of presence, catching light to create an almost luminescent effect.
Even as the production draws deeply from classical theory, Bhattacharya refuses the mantle of authority. “In this, I do not position myself as a guru who leads the way; I remain a searcher,” he says.