The Navarasa and Advertising - Sringara

Sringara:

The rasa that governs love, passion and beauty.

The expressions of these range from appreciating a thing of beauty to grooming oneself for a tryst with the lover.

Sringara is perhaps the most celebrated of all the rasas.

It is beauty, the appreciation of beauty, and the pursuit of beauty.

It even includes the desire to surround oneself with beautiful things.

The act of standing before a mirror, getting ready for an evening out.

A man adjusting his tie before an important meeting.The final glance before leaving the house.

All of these belong in Sringara.

Beauty has always occupied a special place in human life.

We decorate our homes, adorn our bodies, and cultivate gardens.Beautiful monuments, landscapes.

Very few human activities are purely functional.

We almost always seek beauty alongside utility.

Which is why we want our watches to look cool even though they just need to tell us the time.

Our houses are meant for shelter and yet we want them to be beautiful.

We want our nourishment plated beautifully.

The impulse toward beauty appears almost universal.

And so does the pleasure we derive from witnessing it.

Even before attraction enters the picture, there is admiration.

The simple joy of looking at something and finding it beautiful.

That too is Sringara.

Fashion, jewellery, cosmetics, luxury goods, fragrance naturally gravitate towards this rasa.

Beauty is not merely a feature, but the product itself.

And once beauty enters the picture, attraction is never very far behind.

If you look at our songs, dances and theatre traditions, Sringara is everywhere.

The heroine waiting for her beloved, the stolen glance, the playful argument, the anticipation before the touch.

At its heart, Sringara is the rasa of attraction.

But attraction itself takes many forms.

Within Sringara reside both Rati and Kama.

Rati is romantic love, often the emotional longing to be with another person.

Kama is desire and sensuality.

The pull of the senses.

Classical dance forms have spent centuries exploring these shades.

Love, yearning, longing.

Another aspect of beauty is the awareness of being beautiful.

And that’s how vanity fits into Sringara.

A raised eyebrow, a half-smile, a glance held for a moment longer than necessary.

Entire performances have been built around emotions so subtle that they would be invisible to an untrained eye.

Look at how Sringara is portrayed in theatre.

It is courtship, eagerness and desire. Not just physical attraction.

Cinema also plays by the same rules.

Just like Hasya found a home in comedy and Veera in action films, Sringara found its natural habitat in the song sequence.

For decades, Indian cinema has expressed love not through dialogue but through music. Two people run around trees, dance in mustard fields, sing on snow-covered mountains and somehow communicate emotions that ordinary conversation never could.

The song becomes the emotional language of attraction.

Sometimes the song speaks of Rati.

A quiet yearning, a lover waiting.

And sometimes it speaks of Kama.

The electricity of first attraction, and the thrill of being desired.

This is because Sringara is not an emotion that likes to be stated directly.

It likes suggestion, anticipation and imagination.

The lover approaching is often more powerful than the lover having arrived.

The promise is often more intoxicating than the fulfilment.

And that is why Sringara remains one of the most enduring rasas in storytelling.

It allows the audience to participate, to imagine, and to complete the emotion in their own minds.

The storyteller merely lights the spark.

The audience creates the fire.

Hasya:

Hasya, the rasa of laughter, is not a single emotion.

Just as there are many ways to cry, there are many ways to laugh.

A smile, a chuckle, a belly laugh, or a mocking sneer.

Classical thinkers recognised this and broke Hasya into several shades.

Smita is the gentlest form.

The smile that appears almost involuntarily.

Makes hardly a sound.

Hasita takes it a step further.

A small chuckle. A light laugh.

The sort that escapes when someone says something amusing.

Vihasita is what most of us would recognise as ordinary laughter.

The laughter of a good joke.

Comedy-show funny.

Upahasita introduces another dimension altogether.

This is not laughter with someone.

It is laughter at someone.

The mocking smile. The sneer. The ridicule.

Apahasita

When you guffaw loudly, the LOL.

The laughter that leaves you gasping for breath and wiping tears from your eyes.

Atihasita

This one is at the other end of the spectrum – the ROFL.

Unbridled, uncontrolled laughter.

The kind that takes over the body completely.

Where one bends over, clutches one’s stomach and struggles to breathe.

And tears begin to flow from the eyes.

The kind where the joke is no longer the only funny thing.

The laughter itself becomes funny.

If Smita is a smile that barely disturbs the face, Atihasita is laughter that consumes the entire person.

And just as not every situation calls for tears of grief, not every situation calls for Atihasita.

The intensity of the laughter must match the occasion.

A gentle observation may deserve a smile, and clever joke may deserve a chuckle.

But only the rarest moments earn complete surrender to laughter.

Karuna:

Karuna is the rasa of sadness, grief, melancholy, loss, despair.

But it is also the rasa of compassion.

And that makes it very different from what we normally think of as sadness.

Most emotions are self-directed.

Fear is about what may happen to me.

Anger is about what was done to me.

Desire is about what I want.

Karuna often begins with somebody else’s suffering.

The emotion arises because we are able to place ourselves in their situation.

For a brief moment, their pain becomes ours.

Which is why Karuna occupies such a special place in storytelling.

Every great story eventually finds its way here.

The suffering of the hero, the separation of the lovers, the sacrifice of a mother.

We see the sorrow of the characters on the screen, and we grieve with them.

Because we have emotionally moved into their world.

Their sorrow, for that moment, is ours.

The remarkable thing about Karuna is that we don’t enjoy sadness in real life.

And yet we willingly seek it in stories, in tragic films, and in heart-breaking songs.

We read novels that leave us emotionally devastated, and then reach out for the next one by the same author.

Not only that, we also recommend them to others.

Karuna in art is not the same as suffering in life.

It is the romanticised version of sorrow.

Real suffering isolates, while cinematic suffering connects.

Which is why some of the most memorable moments in cinema are not around triumph.

They are moments of loss - the death of a beloved character, the sacrifice, the unfulfilled love story.

They stay with us. We love the feeling when Karuna-art leaves us devastated.

Where Karuna seeks resolution, it becomes empathy. Kindness.

The ability to look at another human being and think - I may not be carrying that burden, but I can feel its weight.

Raudra:

The rasa of anger, it derives its name from Rudra, the fierce form of Shiva.

The destroyer. The force that appears when something can no longer be tolerated.

Most people think of anger as a negative emotion.

But anger is not merely loss of control.

It is also raw emotional energy.

The kind that arises when one encounters injustice, betrayal, humiliation, oppression, cruelty, or violation.

A person keeps tolerating.

Till eventually a line is crossed.

And when that happens, Raudra awakens.

This is why some of the most powerful moments in mythology are moments of anger.

The kind that emerges when a moral boundary has been violated.

There is a reason people say that those who love peace are willing to go to war for it.

Because Raudra appears in defence of something valuable.

A family, a promise, a homeland, a way of life.

The anger is merely the weapon.

The thing being protected is almost always something else.

This is why Raudra has powered some of the greatest stories ever told.

The audience does not merely watch the hero fight.

They want him to fight.

They want the villain annihilated.

They’d do it themselves if they could.

We had an entire era of ‘dishoom dishoom’, remember?

The anger creates a longing for resolution.

Something is wrong, and must be corrected.

Our hero character must act.

Modern media understands this instinctively.

News channels thrive on it and social media algorithms amplify it.

Raudra is not an emotion that likes to sit quietly.

Once invoked, it seeks movement.

It seeks action. And resolution.

A joke can end in a smile, and a love story in a kiss.

But anger demands an answer.

Bhayanaka:

The rasa of fear, dread, anxiety.

While Raudra urges us to move towards something, Bhayanaka makes us step back.

The looking over the shoulder, double-checking the lock, tracking your child’s Uber journey.

Fear is a primal emotion.

We fear the unknown, the future, the other side of the wall.

The interesting thing about Bhayanaka is that it works best without the reveal.

Feeding the imagination. Leaving things unsaid.

Remember horror films?

A sudden sound, a movement in the bushes, a chill running down the spine.

Create anticipation and then the audience fills up the gaps themselves.

No need to show the whole story.

Sometimes, even a long silence is enough to create a moment of horror.

Bhayanaka has a wide range.

Right from the fear of a cockroach to that of losing a job.

The acute fear when a storm is coming.

The anxiety from a blackmail text.

The fear of the unknown and the fear of the known.

Just as Raudra seeks justice, Bhayanaka seeks safety.

The audience needs to eventually feel protected, and reassured.

They seek calm.

Bibhatsya:

Disgust, revulsion, aversion. The instinct to recoil.

While Bhayanaka makes us fear something, Bibhatsya makes us reject it.

It stands for all things dirty, grimy, filthy.

This rasa is nature’s defence mechanism.

It kept humans away from things could make them ill.

Bibhatsya is also the rasa of disdain for the repulsive.

Rotten food, bodily emissions, foul smells, rot and decay.

It also applies beyond physical filth. Moral contamination.

One gets disgusted by corruption, hypocrisy, cruelty.

Storytelling demonstrates this.

Some villains are repulsive, not terrifying.

Bibhatsya ensures that the audience emotionally rejects them long before justice catches up.

Like Raudra, this rasa too needs resolution.

It can be steered towards Hasya or Shanta.

It can even do a total 360 and go into Sringara.

Adbhuta:

The rasa of wonder and amazement.

It is what makes you go ‘wow!’

This is the rasa in action on seeing a magic trick, or while watching the Northern Lights.

It is the thrill of watching something new.

The joy of a never-before experience.

When something you thought was impossible, actually happens.

It is the rasa of discovery.

When you understand the science behind an eclipse.

Or when you find out that dolphins kick puffer fish around like a football just for sport.

Channels like Nat Geo and Animal Planet operate entirely on Adbhuta.

We all know a lion eats a fox.

But when you actually see it happen before your very eyes, it’s a whole different feeling.

When you watch your child take their very first steps, you knew it was going to happen.

And yet you are filled with wondrous joy.

Another aspect of Adbhuta is when it makes you feel humbled.

Standing in a field looking up at the milky way.

Watching a wave rise way above you and come down upon you.

Standing on the summit of a mountain.

Fantasy books and movies operate within Adbhuta.

It is that rasa where the audience questions nothing.

Logic is allowed to leave the scene.

Age-old principles can be broken.

An entire new universe can be created with its own set of rules, science and math notwithstanding.

Human achievements are also seen with wonder and amazement.

Awe lives in Adbhuta.

The sheer adrenaline-pumping moment when you watch a football player hit an impossible goal.

When you’re watching the Olympics or seeing an astronaut land on the moon – the predominant feeling is that of amazement.

The realisation that life is extraordinary.

Adbhuta is also the joy and everyday wonder you experience in the little things.

Observing a flower in full bloom, feeling the kick of the baby on a pregnant tummy.

Watching the sky change hues as the sun rises, or a butterfly that settles next to you.

When the world feels larger than it did a moment ago.

Veera:

Brave, fearless, intrepid, warrior-like.

The physical manifestation of Veera is when you scale a wall or climb a mountain.

That leap when you go sky diving or bungee jumping.

It is the rasa of the adrenaline junkie.

As we go deeper into Veera, we find courage.

When you stand up to your bully.

Or fight for your rights.

When you’re unshakeable and unstoppable.

Then there’s perseverance.

Refusing to quit.

Swimming against the tide.

Believing in something, someone, or even yourself.

It is also the rasa of those who seek justice.

Who fight for the rights of others.

Their fight is for the greater good.

Veera is the rasa of righteousness and fearlessness.

Veera can stem from Raudra.

Dissent, rebellion, irreverence – these oscillate between Raudra and Veera.

It can also come from love – the fierce protection of a mother towards her offspring.

Veera is the predominant emotion behind duty, responsibility and patriotism.

The mother applying the Tilak to her son leaving for military duty.

The war cries and chants that evoke goosebumps.

The very stance of a soldier is sheer Veera.

The rescuer, the saviour, the protector.

The intrepid fireman who enters a burning house with no regard for his own safety.

It is also the rasa of inspiration.

Courage is contagious.

It often comes from one small act by one person.

One spark that lights a fire.

There is also the quiet courage.

Showing restraint, being the bigger person.

Walking away from conflict because it is the wiser thing to do.

Not giving in to rage.

Telling truth no matter what the risk is.

Speaking up when everyone else is silent.

Looking the powerful person in the eye. Punching up.

The silent, non-dramatic Veera is often the most powerful one.

Shanta:

The calm rasa, the reflection of stability.

It is stillness, meditation, zen.

All that is soft, gentle, calm, wise, kind belongs here.

Retrospection, observation, pondering, thinking, rethinking.

It is often the rasa of culmination.

The resting place of the other rasas.

Acceptance.

The wisdom that comes from perspective.

Where restraint is not required because provocation is not felt.

The power to be imperturbable. It comes from a sense of detachment.

You could experience any emotion.

But once it reaches the peak, it is followed by peace.

It is the emotion of contentment.

Where you don’t want or need anything.

Like the end of a movie where the camera zooms out and goes distant.

Birds chirping, mild breeze, the sense of completion.

Shanta is the rasa of closure, of equilibrium.

Where everything around is suspended, and you take a breath.

Quiet and understated, it is where movement ends.