Reflections on Ramayana, Baththa, creative freedom, political polarization, and the disappearing art of emotional storytelling.

There is a fundamental difference between knowing a story, telling a story, and making someone experience that story. And increasingly, I wonder whether we are forgetting that difference.

Over the years, I have watched countless films, theatrical productions, and adaptations of stories that have been part of our cultural consciousness for generations. Some have stayed with me long after the curtains closed or the credits rolled. Others, despite their grandeur, elaborate sets, extraordinary technology, and celebrated performers, have left me surprisingly unmoved.

Why?

Because a familiar story can still be extraordinarily powerful. Equally, even the greatest story can become emotionally ineffective when the filmmaker focuses more on narrating what happened than exploring why it happened. Two recent cinematic experiences brought this distinction into sharp focus for me.

Ramayana: When Knowing the Story Is Not Enough

I recently watched Ramayana, and I walked away disappointed. Not because I expected something entirely new. Not because I wanted the filmmaker to rewrite our Itihāsa. And certainly not because I was looking for a political interpretation. My disappointment was far more fundamental.

I knew what was happening on screen. But I wasn’t always feeling why it mattered.

For generations, the Ramayana has shaped our understanding of dharma, relationships, sacrifice, responsibility, leadership, and human values.

Śrī Rāma is not simply a protagonist moving from one event to another. He is Maryādā Purushottama. His significance lies not merely in what he does, but in the principles behind his decisions, the responsibilities he accepts, and the personal sacrifices those decisions demand.

Consider the difference between showing Rāma accepting exile and making the audience experience the weight of that acceptance. One narrates an event. The other reveals character, conviction, conflict, and consequence. That is where storytelling begins. An adaptation need not explain every philosophical dimension of its source. Cinema has its own language and limitations. But surely, it must give us enough emotional and moral context to understand why a character’s choices matter. Otherwise, we risk turning profound experiences into visually impressive sequences of familiar incidents. I appreciate the scale, ambition, and effort behind such productions. But technology cannot substitute for emotional connection.

Spectacle can capture attention. Storytelling must capture the heart.

Then Came Baththa!

Shortly afterward, I watched Baththa on Netflix. What a contrast!

Here was a film built around a relatively simple premise, without the monumental expectations attached to an epic. Yet I found myself completely drawn into its world. The characters, their circumstances, their interactions, their decisions, and the emotional reasoning behind those decisions made the experience compelling. I wasn’t simply watching events unfold. I was invested in understanding the people experiencing them. I recommended the movie to several friends. Some returned with an enthusiastic verdict: “Movie of the year!” I wouldn’t suggest that everyone must agree with that assessment. Cinema is subjective, after all. But personally, Baththa reminded me why I love films in the first place. In many ways, it erased the disappointment I had carried after watching Ramayana. And it reinforced something I have increasingly come to believe as a director and writer:

The strength of a story is not determined by how extraordinary its events are, but by how meaningfully we experience them.

A simple story, told with emotional honesty and an understanding of its characters, can leave a deeper impression than a grand production that struggles to connect with its audience. This is not an argument against spectacle, visual effects, or ambitious filmmaking. All of them have their place. But they must serve the story, not become substitutes for it.

Are We Criticizing Art, or Defending Our Ideologies?

There is another dimension to this discussion that concerns me deeply. Look at what happens on social media whenever a film, play, novel, or artistic interpretation touches our cultural heritage. Before we discuss the writing, performances, direction, cinematography, or emotional depth, the conversation frequently shifts toward ideology.

• Is this left-wing cinema?
• Is this right-wing propaganda?
• Is the filmmaker attacking tradition?
• Is the audience being manipulated?
• Has the director betrayed the original?

These can sometimes be legitimate questions. Artists make choices that carry cultural, philosophical, and political implications. Audiences have every right to question those choices. But must every artistic discussion begin and end with ideological allegiance?

When we decide whether to support or condemn a creative work based primarily on who made it, rather than what they created, we stop evaluating art and start defending identities.

And that is a loss for everyone. We should also recognize that not every criticism is ideological.

• Someone can dislike a film because of its screenplay, pacing, characterization, direction, or lack of emotional depth.
• Someone can question an adaptation because it departs significantly from its source.
• Someone can appreciate the technical brilliance of a production while remaining disappointed with its storytelling.

None of these positions automatically makes that person left-wing, right-wing, conservative, progressive, or politically motivated. Sometimes, an audience member is simply asking for better cinema.

The Freedom to Interpret Is Also the Responsibility to Understand

Consider S. L. Bhyrappa’s Parva, a remarkable literary reimagining of the Mahabharata. It approaches familiar characters through human experiences, personal motivations, and complex social realities. Its narrative choices invite readers to reconsider stories they thought they knew.

• One may agree or disagree with those interpretations.
• One may question their faithfulness to traditional sources.
• One may even find certain portrayals deeply uncomfortable.

But should that discomfort prevent the work from being written, performed, adapted, or discussed? Certainly not. At the same time, an artist’s freedom to reinterpret does not make the interpretation immune to criticism. An adaptation of the Vālmīki Rāmāyaṇa, for example, can legitimately be examined for its relationship to the original text. A work inspired by a traditional narrative should be honest about its sources and creative liberties. That is not necessarily censorship or political polarization. That is intellectual and artistic accountability. There is an important distinction between saying, “I disagree with your interpretation,” and saying, “You should not be allowed to present that interpretation.” The first is criticism. The second threatens creative freedom. Similarly, there is a difference between defending an artist’s right to create and insisting that audiences must accept the resulting work without question.

Creative freedom and critical accountability are not opposing principles. They are essential partners.

What Theatre Can Teach Us

Theatre has always had a remarkable ability to confront uncomfortable questions. A powerful production does not necessarily give its audience answers. Sometimes it leaves them with questions that linger long after they leave the auditorium. Consider a work like Girish Karnad’s Tughlaq. Its exploration of idealism, authority, contradictions, political ambition, and human failure remains compelling precisely because it challenges audiences to think. Theatre is not merely an exercise in agreement. It is an invitation to explore the human condition. And this is where I worry about our increasingly polarized conversations.

• If every difficult character must be celebrated or condemned, every creative decision interpreted as an ideological statement, and every uncomfortable portrayal treated as an attack, what room remains for artistic exploration?
• More importantly, what happens to the next generation of storytellers?
• Will they create what they genuinely believe is worth exploring?
• Or will they create only what they believe will be socially acceptable?

We should be concerned about a cultural environment in which artists begin censoring their own imagination, not because their work lacks merit, but because they fear how different ideological groups might react. Yet artistic courage must also be accompanied by artistic responsibility. Provocation alone is not storytelling. Controversy alone is not creativity. And challenging tradition does not automatically make a work profound, just as remaining faithful to tradition does not automatically make it artistically successful. Ultimately, the quality of the work must matter.

We Know What Happened. But Do We Understand Why?

For me, this is the question that connects everything. Whether we are adapting the Ramayana, interpreting the Mahabharata, staging Tughlaq, or making a simple film about ordinary people, storytelling requires more than recounting events.

• A character must have a reason to act.
• A decision must carry consequences.
• A conflict must mean something.
• An emotion must be earned.
• And the audience must be invited into that journey.

The filmmaker does not need to tell us what to think. But the filmmaker must give us something meaningful to think and feel about. This principle applies equally to audiences.

• We, too, must learn to engage with creative works beyond our preconceived positions.
• We can respect a source and question its adaptation.
• We can disagree with a filmmaker’s ideology and still acknowledge artistic excellence.
• We can love a story and dislike the way it was presented.
• And we can defend someone’s freedom to create without agreeing with what they have created.

That is not inconsistency. That is intellectual maturity.

The Question I Leave With Every Storyteller

As a writer and director, I often ask myself whether I am merely presenting events or actually creating an experience.

• Am I explaining what happened?
• Or am I helping the audience understand why it happened, why someone made a particular choice, and why that choice matters?

Those are very different creative responsibilities. And perhaps we, as audiences, must ask ourselves an equally important question:

Are we watching a film to experience another perspective, or simply to validate the perspective we already hold?

A society that cannot tolerate artistic disagreement risks losing something essential: its capacity for curiosity, empathy, imagination, and independent thought. But a creative community that forgets emotional depth and meaningful storytelling risks losing something equally important: its connection with the audience.

• Ultimately, art should be free to question.
• Audiences should be free to criticize.
• And storytellers should remember that their greatest responsibility is not merely to show us a story, but to make us understand why it deserves to be told.

Because knowing what happened is information. Understanding why it happened is insight. Making someone feel why it mattered is storytelling.

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Dr. S2M2

Harmonizing Technology with Empathy & Truth!