Ancient Indian epics and the many retellings of the Ramayana have accorded Sita an importance inseparable from that of Ram. There is, after all, no Ram without Sita. Yet, reinterpretations of the 2,500-year-old epic well into the 21st century continue to impose new ideas upon a woman whose story has already been retold in countless forms. And one question that remains dominant in these discourses is: What does Sita look like? And why is an actor pitted against a mythological character and forced to emulate ideals set in a bygone era?
The question has once again come to the fore with Nitesh Tiwari's Ramayana, especially with the casting of Sai Pallavi as Sita. An actor whose features have long been celebrated has suddenly faced endless scrutiny from the internet over whether she is beautiful enough to play one of India's most revered mythological women.
Sai Pallavi herself has spoken about her battle with insecurities, which began around the time of her debut film Premam (2015). She has recalled trying multiple creams to clear her pimples and lighten her skin in the hope of gaining sharper facial features. Eventually, she abandoned them all and chose to embrace her skin and hair as they were.
In the years that followed, that decision became an integral part of how the actor was perceived. She was hailed as a "natural beauty" precisely for renouncing make-up and refusing to conform to the artificiality often associated with conventional glamour. Her features, once a source of insecurity, became the very things she was celebrated for.
Until The Ramayana: Part 1 trailer dropped.
Sai Pallavi as Sita was suddenly no longer considered beautiful. Her features were suddenly deemed 'unnatural' and her appearance 'culturally inappropriate' for the role of Janaka's princess. Her features were dissected, and her casting in the film was heavily criticised on social media. Rakul Preet Singh, who plays Soorpanaka, was described as a beauty who could "eat 50 Sai Pallavis for breakfast". Discussions ranged from "How could Sita have curly hair?", "Why was a South Indian cast as Sita?", "Why is Soorpanaka looking more beautiful than Sita" to "Why is an anti-national cast as Maa Sita?" Worse, Sai Pallavi was compared to actor Surabhi Das (who briefly appears as her on-screen sister Shrutakirti in the trailer), triggering comments that Surabhi was a better fit for Sita.
The criticisms reached a pinnacle when she was ranked "absolute trash" by users in comparison to Dipika Chikhlia, Nayanthara, Debina Bonnerjee and Kriti Sanon who played the character in various adaptations of the epic. The "ideal beauty" became one of the most-hated actors overnight in a debate surrounding a mythological character.
In a span of a few years, Sai Pallavi—once praised for her natural features—was dismissed the moment conventional beauty standards came into the picture. Their defense? Scriptures had repeatedly described Sita as the "epitome of beauty", and she did not fit the bill. But what we should instead be questioning is who gets to define beauty in a world where we are rarely offered a blueprint on who or what brings meaning to the word, especially in an ever-evolving landscape.
History's most celebrated women rarely fit into a rigid, cookie-cutter formula; instead, they were remembered for their charm, intellect, and cultural impact. Egyptian queen Cleopatra—whose true appearance remains a mystery—reportedly had an aquiline nose, a strong jawline, and a pointed chin, features that do not align with modern commercial glamour. So did Helen of Troy, whose recent depiction as black woman in The Odyssey sparked similar hate comments for Christopher Nolan and actor Lupita Nyong'o. Helen has no factual historical appearance; classical epics describe her as the daughter of Leda and Zeus, who took the form of a swan. The underlying logic fails to stand up to scrutiny.
Besides, for most of human history, a chubby body shape was considered the highest standard of female beauty and a symbol of high social standing. During the Renaissance, fuller female bodies were frequently associated with beauty, fertility, health and prosperity. In the Victorian era, waist-cinching corsets reflected the strict standard of a tiny waist and often caused physical distress. Most women of today would shun that, although it has now trickled down to contemporary fashion. In ancient Rome, parts of ancient and medieval Asia and Renaissance Europe, women used cosmetics containing lead compounds to create a pale complexion because it was associated with social status. Singer Ariana Grande was recently subjected to intense scrutiny regarding changes in her complexion and physical appearance.
Similarly, Sita is being scrutinised and dissected for features that cannot be substantiated through any pictorial representation in human history. So, where and why is there a necessity to establish a yardstick for what constitutes "real beauty"? If that is the standard we choose to apply to women across different eras, then it is worth remembering that Lord Ram and Krishna have often been described in scriptures as having blue or dark complexions—shyama or meghavarna, evoking a dark, radiant or cloud-like appearance. When this scrutiny and backlash are disproportionately directed at women, it exposes a deeply rooted gendered double standard. This is not merely a debate about historical accuracy or representation; it is about the male gaze and the persistent policing of women's bodies.
And those supporting Sai Pallavi's casting are not necessarily appreciating her for her string of critically acclaimed performances either. Instead, they place her on a pedestal for embodying ideals of "modesty" and "chastity" on and off screen, positioning themselves as self-appointed guardians of culture. By equating her with Sita through these deeply sexist ideals, society disproportionately reduces a talented woman to her perceived "purity" and conformity, rather than recognising her agency, individuality, and achievements as an actor.
History has rarely been kind to reinterpretations of ancient Indian epics and stories. Sanjay Leela Bhansali's Padmaavat (2018) was almost banned for Deepika Padukone's attire that showed her midriff. Manikarnika: The Queen of Jhansi (2019) also ran into trouble due to allegations of historical distortion. Ramayana: The Legend of Prince Rama (1993) also faced severe bans and protests as production coincided directly with the peak of the Ram Janmabhoomi movement. Om Raut's Adipurush (2023) continues to face heavy backlash even today, with detractors criticising Kriti Sanon’s costumes for being too 'revealing’. It is evident that the common thread that ties all these films is armchair activists spewing hatred and dictating what and how a female lead in a historical film should look like, essentially implying that they should be boxed inside the "traditional" image associated with the mythological/historical figure.
In perpetuating these ideas en masse, audiences hold up a mirror to society, reinforcing traditionalism and keeping patriarchal norms firmly in place. The irony is filmmakers often cast light-skinned women as sexy lamps in commercial projects who rarely aid in pushing the story forward. So, perhaps the larger debate should be—or rather, people should be enraged about—why a woman's face must first pass through a cultural, religious or patriarchal litmus test before she is allowed to embody a popularly known character.
Beauty in literature is metaphorical, cultural and contextual. Sita has never belonged to one fixed visual mold. Neither does Sai Pallavi. So why must beauty alone have a prescribed template? Perhaps it is the uncomfortable reality that women's bodies have long been treated as public property — to be examined, judged and defined. Sita was once put through an 'Agni Pariksha' to prove her innocence and 'chastity' to the society. Today audiences are putting Sai Pallavi through a different trial by fire to prove her Sita-ness. By doing so, we are not merely reading or celebrating the Ramayana anymore. We are actively becoming a part of it.