Just a while ago, I was on Instagram, doom-scrolling, and I stumbled upon a trailer that caught my eye. It was for an animated adaptation of the Ramayana. At first glance, it was a visually polished effort. I almost said to myself, “Now, India has got it figured out.” I was inspired by the effort and even had a fanboy moment when the shot of the Ram Setu construction played out—Hanuman dropping a stone from the sky, and it falls face-up with the name राम etched on it in Devanagari.
The very premise and story evoke awe and reverence in the Indian audience. So naturally, I was rooted. But that one single frame yanked me out of my suspended disbelief. And one question echoed in my head:
“What was the language used in Treta Yuga?”
I did some research and found that the earliest known form of Indian script—Brahmi—appeared somewhere between the 3rd to 1st century BCE. Devanagari, the script used today for Sanskrit, Hindi, and Marathi, evolved much later, around the 7th century CE, and wasn’t standardized until roughly the 11th century.
Now, as per the scriptures, the Ramayana is set in Treta Yuga—an era that predates our recorded history by thousands of years.
In the Yuddha Kanda, specifically verses 22–24, it describes the vanaras (monkey army) building the bridge under the guidance of Nala, the architect and son of Vishwakarma. They gather trees, stones, and mountains and throw them into the sea to form the bridge. There is no mention of writing “Ram” or any name on the stones.
The idea that the stones floated because they had “Ram” inscribed on them is a later devotional addition, popularized by various versions, folk retellings, Bhakti-era poetry, and dramatizations—especially during the medieval period. This concept aligns more with the symbolic power of Ram Naam (the name of Ram), a key idea in the Bhakti tradition, rather than in Valmiki’s original epic.
During the Bhakti movement (roughly 12th–18th century), many poets and saints emphasized the power of devotion and chanting the name of Ram. Stories and visual representations evolved to reflect this sentiment. It was during this time that the imagery of floating stones with “Ram” written on them likely gained traction as a symbol of faith over physics.
It served its purpose for the audience of the time. And for that era, it was the right approach.
But we’re retelling the story for a modern audience—the digital-savvy audience that knows how to hunt for facts online. Whether or not it falls in their area of interest, the algorithm will eventually expose them to a wide array of information.
Now, I understand the makers of the Ramayana animation followed the norms set by their predecessors. It was never meant to be literal. That shot is symbolic—a shortcut. A visual bridge between the myth and the Bhakti-era devotion many grew up with.
But the question arises—will what worked for a Bhakti-era audience resonate the same way with today’s digital generation?
Will what once served an audience steeped in devotional sentiment now stand out as an anachronism to a generation trained to spot inconsistencies, dissect timelines, and question internal logic?
And that brings us to the larger issue: when you adapt mythology for a modern audience, do you simply repackage what was once made for another era—or do you reimagine the world so the new audience can truly inhabit it?
Nostalgia is not a substitute for detail. Reverence isn’t world-building.
Tumbbad pulled this off masterfully. It didn’t just tell a story—it built a world you could feel under your skin. Set in early 20th-century colonial India, the details were precise. The dialects, the costumes, the lighting, even the rain—nothing felt misplaced. Most importantly, the mythology it explored was invented, but it felt older than memory. It worked because it respected the intelligence of the audience. It knew mood isn’t built with exposition—it’s built with conviction.
A multi-crore adaptation of the Ramayana isn’t just a film. It’s a cultural event. And when that scale is in play, shortcuts show.
Why not design an iconography of the Kosala kingdom?
Why not use a sigil on the stone instead of a script from a different millennium?
If you want the audience to suspend disbelief, you can’t give them obvious reasons to question it. World-building isn’t just aesthetics. It’s a mythic logic of emotion. One misplaced detail—like a Devanagari-inscribed stone in Treta Yuga—can unravel the whole illusion.
Now, having sailed in the same boat, I understand the pressures. Storytelling at that scale is commercial. It’s collaborative. And it’s chaos.
But audiences don’t see the budget, or the boardroom decisions, or the compromises. They see what’s on screen. And if the world doesn’t hold, neither will their attention.
So yes, go back to the drawing board if it helps.
Valmiki never mentioned Devanagari etched in stone.
So don’t drape invention in the garb of scripture.
Build a world your audience can believe in—not just inherit.
Because storytelling isn’t just what you tell.
It’s how honestly you build the world that tells it.