A Critical Analysis of Girish Karnad’s Naga-Mandala: Play with a Cobra

 A Critical Analysis of Girish Karnad’s Naga-Mandala: Play with a Cobra

Girish Karnad (1938–2019) was a renowned Indian playwright, actor, director, and public intellectual who wrote primarily in Kannada and English. Known for blending folklore, mythology, and contemporary themes, his plays such as Tughlaq, Hayavadana, and Nagamandala challenged social norms and redefined modern Indian theatre.

Girish Karnad’s Naga-Mandala: Play with a Cobra is a remarkable example of how Indian playwrights have drawn upon indigenous narrative forms to explore contemporary social realities. Blending two Kannada folktales collected by A. K. Ramanujan, Karnad constructs a multilayered drama where myth, fantasy, oral tradition, and social critique converge. Naga-Mandala is a feminist retelling of the age-old stories of marital relationships, chastity, and female agency. The play demonstrates the vitality of Indian folk theatre by using surreal elements, symbolic imagery, and performative devices to question oppressive structures, particularly those governing women’s lives.

Role of Flames & Story

 The play opens with a Prologue where a playwright, condemned to die before sunrise unless he stays awake all night, is visited by a disembodied Story. This Story, personified and feminine, offers to narrate herself to keep him awake. This metafictional device immediately sets the tone for a self-reflexive play. Story in Naga-Mandala is not a passive medium but a living, breathing presence—one who demands to be heard, remembered, and retold. As the Story says, “You can’t just listen to the story and leave it at that. You must tell it again to someone else.” Her interaction with Flames, Man, and Rani occasionally blurs the boundary between fiction and reality and emphasizes the power of storytelling to challenge silence and repression.

The flames that gather to listen to the Story every night further strengthen this magical, oral quality. The Flames serve as chorus and witnesses, and guardians of collective memory. They represent the continuity of oral tradition, where every tale is preserved, retold, and reshaped by communal imagination. The presence of these elemental beings lends a sacred and ritualistic atmosphere, evoking Bharata’s Natyashastra notion of performance as yajna (sacrificial rite).

Interwoven Folktales

Karnad merged two tales—one about a Story who was suppressed deep inside a woman, fighting to enter the world and be freed (A Story and a Song) and another about a woman with an uncaring husband, a man constantly preoccupied by his mistress. She receives a magic love potion, but ends up feeding it to a snake (The Serpent Lover). Karnad deliberately changed the original folktale, which was usually shared by women in private, and instead makes it a story told to a man on stage. By doing this, he moves a personal, hidden story into a public space. The coded language of female storytelling now becomes visible and performative within a patriarchal theatrical space.

 Folktales often function as both prescriptive and subversive forces—while they reinforce traditional norms, they also carry the seeds of resistance. They serve as a coded discourse which explores the space where women like Rani express their lived realities, fears, and desires within an oppressive patriarchal framework. Through Naga-Mandala, Karnad transforms such narratives into a powerful feminist critique, revealing how folklore can be a tool for both sustaining and challenging dominant social structures.  

By incorporating folk tales, Karnad reclaims oral tradition not as backward but as rich in symbolic power. The play stages issues like marital neglect, sexual alienation, societal surveillance, and female desire—issues as relevant in urban India as in village settings. The Flames’ gossip, Kurudavva’s meddling, and the community’s verdict reflect the pervasive control society exerts over women’s bodies. Yet, by giving voice to a mute woman through the magical Story, Karnad underscores the redemptive power of narrative itself.

Surrealism

In Naga-Mandala, Rani, the innocent wife of the callous Appanna, finds herself caught between her biological husband and Naga, a shape-shifting cobra who, in the guise of Appanna, loves and cherishes her. Karnad created a plot where fantasy interrogates patriarchal authority. The magical root given by Kurudavva—an elderly blind woman who embodies the wisdom of folk practices—is central to the transformation of Rani’s fate. Though Rani initially uses the root to arouse Appanna’s desire, it inadvertently leads to the cobra drinking the potion and impersonating her husband. This surreal turn allows Karnad to explore desire, deception, and the construction of love. The root, in this sense, becomes a metaphor for agency—albeit one laced with unintended consequences. It signals the collision of folk belief with lived female experience, and how tradition can be both empowering and limiting.

Karnad employs surrealism to dismantle the logic of realism and allow multiple truths to coexist. Naga is not a symbol of villainy but of tender love, invoking both eroticism and divinity. The court scene, where Rani undergoes the test of chastity by holding a cobra and emerges unscathed, defies rational explanation. Naga's acceptance of death and transformation into a protective ornament for Rani’s hair further evokes the Hindu motif of the union between the divine and the feminine.

Psychoanalytical Dimensions

Karnad presents Appanna and Naga as two contrasting male figures who shape Rani’s inner world and reflect opposing forces of reality and desire. Appanna appears only during the day, cold and distant, embodying the superego—the societal lawgiver who imposes rigid patriarchal norms. He controls Rani’s movements, denies her affection, and acts as a symbol of male authority and judgment. In contrast, Naga appears at night, gentle and passionate, fulfilling Rani’s emotional and physical needs. He represents the id—the instinctive, unconscious drive that seeks pleasure and love without societal restrictions.

Caught between these two forces, Rani’s own psyche becomes a battleground. Her ego tries to maintain balance between the social expectations forced by Appanna and the private happiness offered by Naga. The version of Rani that responds to Naga—confident, expressive, and sensuous—emerges in the secrecy of the night, away from the controlling gaze of her husband. But during the day, she returns to the role of the submissive wife under Appanna’s rule. This day-night binary also mirrors the split between public suppression and private freedom experienced by many women under patriarchy.

Through these layered opposites—Appanna and Naga, day and night, law and desire, superego and id—Karnad explores the psychological and social conflicts at the heart of a woman’s identity in a traditional society. Rani becomes a symbol of the inner struggle between obedience and desire, chastity and agency.

This surreal texture echoes William Blake’s concept of “twofold vision”—the coexistence of contrary energies. Rani lives with two husbands—one neglectful and one loving, one human and one non-human. She embodies contradictions - submission and power - the passive wife and the divine mother, the victim and the judge, the chaste woman and the one who lies to protect herself.

Feminist Rewriting of Chastity

 Karnad draws from the rich mythical background of Indian serpent lore. The cobra or Naga has always symbolised fertility, sexuality, and immortality in Indian mythology. By associating Rani with Naga, Karnad elevates her from a submissive wife to a semi-divine figure—one who is worshipped and remembered. Her transformation mirrors the archetypal journey from victimhood to sovereignty, drawing parallels with deified women in folk narratives like Kannagi or Draupadi.

Rani’s pregnancy, which initially triggers suspicion, eventually becomes the proof of her chastity and the source of her authority. Her womb is both biologically and symbolically sanctified. In her, Karnad sees a prototype of womanhood that is resilient, compassionate, and divine.  Naga-Mandala reimagines the patriarchal chastity test – Snake Ordeal - not as a punishment but as a revelation of Rani’s inner strength. While the society demands “proof” of her purity, Rani ironically survives the ordeal by telling a “lie” that becomes a higher truth. She declares in court:

“I have never touched any man other than my husband… by my father, by my mother, by my ancestors, by all the gods, let this cobra not harm me.”

This statement is literally false but metaphorically true. Karnad thus critiques the fetishisation of female chastity in patriarchal cultures. The test of purity becomes an arena of female performance, where the woman outwits the system with wit and grace. The result is not the usual tragic closure but a narrative of survival, elevation, and even divinisation.

As Social Commentary of Marriage

In Naga-Mandala, Girish Karnad critiques the oppressive institution of marriage within a patriarchal society, portraying it as a space of control, silence, and unequal power. Appanna is the legal husband, yet devoid of intimacy. He treats her with indifference and locks her inside the house every day, reducing marriage to a transactional and one-sided arrangement. Her sexuality, identity, and agency are denied under the guise of marital duty. Marriage is shown as a tool of patriarchy where the woman is expected to obey and remain silent. He simply uses his authority as a husband and tells her what to do.

 Naga is an intruder, yet a lover. Rani is married legally but loved spiritually. The play exposes marriage not as a relationship of mutual respect but as a social construct that often silences the woman’s needs. By staging a wife who is "faithful" in unorthodox ways and a husband who must accept her divine elevation, Karnad overturns conventional notions of legitimacy and fidelity. The institution of marriage is shown to be fragile, fallible, and often unjust—but also open to reinterpretation and renewal.

During the trial, the village elders and the community subject Rani to a public test of purity, not to protect her but to preserve their honour. No one questions Appanna's actions; instead, all suspicion and shame are placed on Rani. She is forced to prove her fidelity, showing how patriarchal society polices female morality while excusing male misconduct. Karnad uses Rani’s silence, confusion, and forced participation in this ordeal to highlight how both marriage and the community work together to control and define a woman’s worth.

Subplot

The subplot of Kurudavva and Kappanna in Nagamandala serves as a parallel and contrast to the main story, deepening the play’s exploration of gendered power, desire, and fear. Kurudavva, a blind, widowed woman with strong opinions and earthy wisdom, represents a rare female voice in the play that is assertive and somewhat free from patriarchal control. She gives Rani the magical root that changes the course of her life, unknowingly helping her challenge the dominance of Appanna. Meanwhile, her son Kappanna, who climbs walls out of fear of women, adds a touch of dark humour but also symbolizes male anxiety toward female power and sexuality. His encounter with the yakshi, a seductive and supernatural female spirit who drags him into the unknown, mirrors the fear of feminine mystique and agency—a reversal of the typical woman-as-victim narrative. Though this subplot remains unresolved, it underscores the play’s central tension between control and surrender, fear and fascination, especially in how male and female bodies are seen and treated. It also reflects the folk tradition of blending supernatural elements with psychological truths, allowing the yakshi to stand as a haunting symbol of both desire and danger.

Denouement  

The denouement of Nagamandala is unconventional. The use of three different endings or open-ended narrative serves as a powerful dramatic device that deepens the play’s themes of myth, morality, gendered truth, and multiple realities. Each ending is presented through the Man character (who represents the outer narrative frame), and they carry both symbolic and structural significance. Karnad deliberately disrupts narrative closure, offering a modernist and postmodernist gesture of ambiguity.

·       Rani is vindicated and lives happily ever after (folk-tale resolution),

·       The Cobra dies in her hair, sacrificing himself (tragic/moral reading),

·       The Cobra hides and lives in her hair forever, representing continued magical love (surreal/mythic resolution).

This challenges the audience’s desire for tidy conclusions.

Ending 1: Rani lives happily with her child, her husband and a servant

At the climax of the trial by ordeal, when Rani is made to prove her chastity by handling a cobra, a miraculous event occurs—the cobra rises, spreads its hood like an umbrella over her head, then gently coils around her neck like a garland and retreats. The onlookers are awestruck and proclaim Rani a goddess incarnate. She is carried in a grand procession with Appanna, who is humbled and baffled by this revelation. Appanna’s former concubine voluntarily becomes Rani’s servant. The miraculous submission of the cobra is symbolic of Rani’s inner purity, but also of the transformative power of myth over patriarchal judgment. Karnad uses this public declaration of divinity not just to vindicate Rani, but to reverse traditional power hierarchies—Rani becomes the one revered, while Appanna is reduced to a repentant follower.

This ending is deliberately questioned by the Flames and the Man. Man insists that it is full of unresolved issues like the paternity of the child and Appanna’s psychological unrest. The Story(being the untold story of an old woman), speaking on behalf of Rani, subtly acknowledges that Rani must have known there was a difference between her two lovers—“no two men make love alike”—and cried in anguish every night to know the answer. The Man also demands an ending for Naga. Karnad here critiques the genre’s convention of closing stories with an idealistic resolution. He puts the storytelling truth in the words of Story: “When one says, ‘And they lived happily ever after’, all that is taken for granted. You sweep such headaches under the pillow and then press your head firmly down on them. It is something one has to live with, like a husband who snores, or a wife who is going bald.”

He exposes the conflict between ‘storytelling truth’ and emotional or psychological truth. By inserting doubt through the Man, Karnad invites the audience to think beyond the surface of the folk-tale structure. The Story resolves the psychological contradictions of Rani and Appanna with alternate endings.

Ending 2: Naga, heartbroken by seeing Rani with her husband and child, kills himself by coiling into her hair like a noose and dies silently, offering himself as a sacrifice.  In the morning, Rani complains her hair is heavy, and Appanna finds a dead snake entangled in her hair.  Rani mourns the snake’s death deeply and insists on performing last rites as though he were the child’s father. Appanna, now reverent of Rani, calls her a goddess.

Ending 3: In anguish, Naga visits Rani one last time and chooses to either die in her hair or live eternally within it. He uses magic to shrink himself and hide in her hair and is accepted by Rani to live within her forever—silent, secret, but safe. It echoes the coexistence of realism and folklore. Her tresses become a shelter, lover’s space, burial ground, and mythical realm. Her hair symbolises of power, protection, and union, echoing both matriarchal reverence and Hindu ritual symbolism. It reflects her transformation from a submissive wife into a complex, empowered woman. She harbours two realities within her: one of social duty, the other of erotic/spiritual transcendence.

Folk Theatre Devices

Girish Karnad’s Nagamandala draws richly from Indian folk theatre traditions, using devices such as storytelling, symbolic characters, music, and chorus-like commentary to structure its narrative. The play opens with a frame story, where a Man must hear a tale before dawn to escape death—this sets up a play within a play, a common folk device. The Story and the Flames are personified and act as narrators and commentators, much like a chorus in traditional village performances, offering moral reflections, emotional reactions, and occasional humor. Music, ritual elements, and stylized movement, such as the cobra’s appearance, deepen the mythical tone. The multiple endings, direct audience engagement, and blurring of reality and fiction all mirror folk forms like Therukoothu, Yakshagana, and Bhavai, where narrative flexibility and participatory storytelling are key. The multiple ending insists that truth is not singular—and that stories, like Rani’s hair, are capable of holding multiple truths simultaneously. These folk-theatre devices allow for elasticity in space, time, and identity, which realism cannot afford.

Metatheatre

Metatheatre refers to techniques in drama that draw attention to the fact that the audience is watching a play—a story being performed rather than real life. One major element is the play within a play, where a story is nested inside another. In Nagamandala, Karnad structures the entire plot around this device: the outer frame involves a Man cursed to die unless he hears a story before dawn, and the inner story is Rani’s tale, told by the personified Story itself. This layering emphasizes how stories are told, shaped, and retold. Another element is the use of self-referential characters who reflect on the nature of storytelling. The Man questions the logic of the tale, and the Story responds to Rani now and then. This invites the audience to be active participants in evaluating the narrative rather than passive viewers.

Another key feature is breaking the fourth wall, which means characters speak directly to the audience or acknowledge their fictional status. In traditional theatre, the "fourth wall" is the imaginary barrier between the stage and the audience; when it is broken, the illusion of reality is interrupted. In Nagamandala, the Flames and the Man frequently address the audience, openly commenting on the story as it unfolds. The use of multiple endings—where one version shows the cobra dying in Rani’s hair, and another shows it living on—highlights narrative ambiguity, a metatheatrical move that undermines the idea of a fixed, moral conclusion. Finally, there’s the blurring of reality and fiction: the Man is part of the outer "real" world, yet he is transformed through the inner story, and by the end, it's unclear whether he is still in the realm of fiction. These metatheatrical elements allow Karnad to explore how myths and folk tales influence identity, perception, and gender roles, turning the act of storytelling itself into the central subject of the play.

             Karnad’s use of multiple endings, metatheatre, and nested narratives challenges fixed notions of truth and fidelity. By merging folklore with postmodern doubt, he foregrounds women’s agency in reclaiming narrative space. Rani, once voiceless and powerless, ends the play as a goddess, a mother, and a mysterious figure with secrets known only to her and the story. The play, ultimately, is a celebration of storytelling itself—its power to preserve, to question, and to transform.