Review: Ragamala Dance Company's ‘Children of Dharma' lays bare the sacrifices of war — with oneself

Chicago Tribune

22-03-2025

Ragamala Dance Company of Minneapolis returned to the Harris Theater this week for the third time, bringing their latest production, 'Children of Dharma,' for one performance only on Friday.
It's gorgeous, though 'Children of Dharma' isn't quite as opulent as 'Written on Water' or 'Fires of Varanasi,' performed for Ragamala's first and second visits to the Harris in 2019 and 2021. 'Children of Dharma' is a bit more restrained without going so far as to feel minimalistic. And unlike those other two, this 90-minute work, which premiered last year, draws directly from sacred texts, leaning on the 'Mahabharata' as inspiration for original dance, music and poetry which seem to detail the life cycle — birth and death — and what we do with the space between them.
At its core, the 'Mahabharata' is about the struggle for power, with two warring families battling for the throne. But it's also about the sacrifices and compromises one makes — a war with oneself, so to speak, in blind pursuit of that power.
'Children of Dharma's' three sections are divided by location: the forest, the court and the battlefield, demarcated by stunning projections from frequent Ragamala collaborator Willy Cessa, whose remarkable lighting makes up for the piece's relatively sparse scenic design. The piece opens in silhouette, a single dancer, Garrett Sour, carefully posed as a guttural throat sound booms through the Harris' cavernous auditorium. Then, a voice:
'Dharma — the basis for life — forever sprouting, transforming, dissolving and renewing,' says a voiceover by Leon Conrad.
It's fitting for this time of year, isn't it? The irises are beginning to sprout through still-frozen ground, doggedly determined to usher in spring. They're teasing, of course, but that perennial optimism is a perpetual, annual reminder of brighter days ahead.
Sour, bare chested and wearing only peachy shalwar pants and a garnet string around his neck, is soon joined by an ensemble of five women, traditionally dressed for the classical Indian dance form Bharatanatyam. They wear fanned skirts and cap-sleeved tops (by costumer D. S. Aiyellu) hued in summery gold, orange and red. Unlike Sour, the wear ankle bells to accentuate spritely footwork. Indeed, the group appears to almost frolic through their proverbial forest, weaving geometric patterns through one another and among white fabric panels which give depth to Cessa's projections. These also provide chances to appear and disappear while still on stage, as though playing hide-and-seek in a woodland.
Sour's idiosyncratic style and intentional separation from the group allow him to stand out in this section. He's more a pied piper than a protagonist, playing an invisible flute and guiding his fellow nymphs in slow, meditative patterning scattered among the more playful moments.
If there's a hero in this story, it's Krishna, the spirit of the natural world embodied by Ashwini Ramaswamy near the end of this section. She oscillates between care and concern, miming the flora and fauna of the forest and an apparent storm beginning to brew. Thunderclaps shiver through Ramaswamy's hands as percussive tabla dodges in and out of the score. She cowers, covering her ears, seeming to foreshadow destruction and chaos ahead.
As the setting shifts to projections of stone idols indicating a move to the royal court, Ramaswamy is joined by her sister, Arpana, for a gorgeous, protracted duet. It begins as joyous exaltation, with arms unabashedly thrust skyward. A new character, Draupati, is introduced here, described as the manifestation of Mother Earth and responsible for maintaining balance between the five elements — fire, water, air, etc.
I'm not convinced she suceeds. Humans are flawed, after all, and Arpana appears to more easily yield to her desires for materialistic pleasure. Even as the two sisters dance in unison, Ashwini appears more pragmatic and austere while Arpana loses herself in a kind of rapturous revelry. Ashwini mimes a rope over her shoulder, leaning away from her sister as if literally yanking her away from temptation.
It's an extraordinary tension, made perfect by this intergenerational company who builds exquisite, contemporary worlds with Bharatanatyam better than any American company I've seen. Ranee Ramaswamy, their mother, appears in the third section as Gandari, a grieving mother who feels the weight and complicity of her children's selfish thirst for power. That's the fictional allegory on stage, though it's hard to ignore contemporary layers of meaning.
Ranee Ramaswamy, now in her 70s, has far more than a cameo in 'Children of Dharma.' Though her choreography is more measured than that of her daughters or the ensemble, her striking presence is felt all the way to the back row of the Harris Theater. The message, transmitted close to the audience as dancers Jessica Fiala and Tamara Nadel mime a slow-motion, rolling of dice, is crystal clear: There are consequences to gambling with karma.