Title: Northeast India’s Hidden Theatre Traditions: From Manipur’s Shumang Leela to Assam’s Ankia Nat
Northeast India’s Hidden Theatre Traditions: From Manipur’s Shumang Leela to Assam’s Ankia Nat
I remember the smell of earth and monsoon in an Imphal courtyard at three in the morning. The monsoon had just broken, and droplets still clung to the old mango leaves overhead. A small crowd—maybe forty people—sat in a rough semicircle as two men in women’s saris enacted an absurdly funny domestic dispute, their exaggerated movements and sharp Manipuri dialogue cutting through the humid silence. Everyone laughed. Real laughs, not the performed kind. This was Shumang Leela, a form of theatre that has survived insurgencies, military occupations, and decades of cultural indifference from mainland India.
For over five centuries, the Northeast has been incubating theatre traditions that operate entirely outside the awareness of most Indian theatre practitioners and critics. While Delhi celebrates its Kathakali revivals and Mumbai cheers for Marathi theatre festivals, Manipur’s courtyard stages pulse with satire and subversion. While universities across India analyze Sanskrit classics, Assam’s Namghars—prayer halls that double as performance spaces—stage Bhaona performances that blend devotion with spectacular drama. The Naga warrior dances, the Mizo Cheraw, the Assamese Ankia Nat: these are not museum pieces. They’re living, evolving, often contentious traditions that are being systematically erased from the national conversation.
This erasure is not accidental. It’s political. It’s geographic. It’s economic. And it’s infuriating.
Shumang Leela: Theatre as Resistance in Occupied Manipur
Shumang means ‘enjoyment’ in Manipuri. Leela means ‘play.’ Together, they describe a form of theatre that exists in opposition to almost every convention about what theatre should be. There are no permanent stages. No elaborate sets. No written scripts—every performance is improvised within a loose narrative framework. The entire tradition has survived by being small, portable, intimate.
Shumang Leela emerged sometime in the 16th or 17th century in Manipur’s valleys, born from court entertainment and folk traditions. But it became something far more important: a language of resistance. In a state under constant military surveillance—first under the British, then embedded with Indian armed forces—theatre became a space where people could say things that couldn’t be said in public. The humour could be savage. The political commentary direct. A Shumang Leela performance could skewer local politicians, mock the armed forces, expose corruption, and have the entire courtyard cackling with recognition.
The form is instantly recognizable. All-male casts perform all roles, with actors in women’s parts often becoming the comic heart of the show through exaggerated movements and facial expressions. The actors stand or move around a small performance area, usually in someone’s courtyard, sometimes with a simple backdrop. The audience sits in three sides, close enough to see sweat, close enough to hear the musicians—usually just a drummer and perhaps a flute player—providing rhythm and mood.
What struck me most during that 3 a.m. performance was the precision of the physical comedy. An actor playing a nagging wife pursed his lips and swayed his hips with such painful familiarity that I understood he’d been watching actual women his entire life. Another, playing a mother-in-law, could convey three emotions in a single glance—exasperation, pity, scheming. The craft was as rigorous as any classical form, but it had none of that stiffness. Shumang Leela feels alive because it responds to its audience moment by moment.
The political content intensified dramatically after 1966, when Indian troops entered Manipur. The state became an armed battlefield. Militant groups emerged. The government declared curfews. And Shumang Leela, operating in courtyards and villages, became one of the only spaces where that reality could be articulated. Performers took immense risks. Some were questioned by security forces. Some went missing. Yet the tradition didn’t die. If anything, it sharpened.
Today, Shumang Leela is everywhere and nowhere in Manipur. Everywhere because courtyard performances still happen—young troupes like Sankat Mochan and older groups continue the work. Nowhere because the state government provides almost no funding, Delhi ignores it entirely, and academic institutions treat it as a folk curiosity rather than a sophisticated artistic form. Several veteran performers have passed away in recent years, and the knowledge transmission to younger actors is fragile. Some young actors are trying to document the form, to create scripts, but that risks killing its fluidity.
The irony is that Shumang Leela’s content—its fearless political commentary—is precisely why it deserves attention. This is not nostalgia. This is not museum preservation. This is living protest theatre.
Ankia Nat and the Namghar: When Prayer Halls Became Theatres
In 1456, a saint named Srimanta Sankaradeva wandered into Assam’s Brahmaputra valley and changed everything. He was a devotional reformer, influenced by Vaishnavite theology, and he wanted to make religious philosophy accessible to ordinary people. So he invented Ankia Nat.
Ankia Nat is Sanskrit-influenced devotional drama, usually performed in Assamese or Sanskrit-Assamese mixed language. The plays draw from Hindu epics—the Ramayana, the Mahabharata, the Bhagavata—but Sankaradeva didn’t stage them as literal adaptations. He theatricalized them. He added music, elaborate costumes, slapstick comedy, and emotional intensity. The plays ran for hours, sometimes all night, and audiences would sit through them as a form of worship.
But here’s what’s remarkable: Ankia Nat wasn’t performed in temples. It was performed in Namghars—prayer halls that communities built as meeting spaces. The Namghar became a venue for spiritual practice and social gathering simultaneously. On festival days, especially Bhaona performances during Bihu celebrations, a Namghar would transform. The space would fill with music and movement. Priests would become actors. The boundary between worship and entertainment dissolved completely.
I’ve sat in a Namghar on Majuli Island—that disappearing island in the Brahmaputra that’s slowly sinking into the river—and felt what this space means. The architecture is simple: wooden pillars, a raised platform, open sides. Light comes through open windows and doors. During Bhaona, the entire community attends. People bring food and sit together. The play unfolds as a communal experience, not a commodity.
Ankia Nat developed its own conventions. Stories were episodic, so a play could be performed in segments over multiple nights. Costumes became increasingly elaborate—gold brocades, towering headdresses, masks with dramatic expressions. The language combined scholarly Sanskrit with colloquial Assamese, making stories intelligible to all educational levels. Music from the pung (drum), the flute, the cymbals, the ektara (single-string instrument) provided the sonic landscape.
What makes Ankia Nat particularly sophisticated is its emotional vocabulary. The form explicitly codes different emotional states through music, colour, and movement. A character’s inner state becomes legible through theatrical vocabulary. This isn’t crude representation. It’s psychology made visible.
Yet Ankia Nat exists in precarity. Fewer villages maintain active Satras (monastic centres where Ankia Nat is traditionally preserved). The island of Majuli, once the spiritual heartland of Assamese theatre, is literally disappearing—about 100 square kilometres have vanished into the river in the past decades. Satras are moving, collections are being lost. Young people are leaving villages for cities. The transmission chain is breaking.
The Assam government has made some efforts toward preservation, but it’s band-aid work. There’s no serious funding mechanism. No universities teach Ankia Nat as a serious artistic discipline. No major Indian theatre festival regularly stages these works. Instead, Ankia Nat survives through the stubborn commitment of individual Satra leaders and communities that refuse to let their tradition die.
The Naga Tribes: Where Warrior Culture Meets Theatrical Tradition
The Naga peoples—the Ao, the Angami, the Konyak, the Sema, and dozens of other groups across Nagaland and parts of Manipur and Assam—have theatrical traditions so embedded in their daily life that many Nagas don’t even classify them as ‘theatre.’ They’re just what people do.
Consider the Ao warrior dances. Young men in traditional dress perform complex, synchronized movements that mimic combat—lunges, spins, strategic advances and retreats. The dances are competitive. Different villages pit their dancers against each other. But they’re also performative in the fullest sense: they’re telling stories of courage, strength, masculine virtue. There’s narrative underneath the movement. There’s drama in the competition itself.
During the Moatsu festival in autumn, entire villages participate in harvest celebrations that are frankly theatrical in nature. People dress in traditional garments they’ve invested months in creating. The movements are choreographed even if no one formally choreographed them. The stories being told—gratitude, abundance, community continuity—are performed through ritual action. An anthropologist might call it ceremony. An art historian might call it performance art. For the Ao people, it’s simply how they mark time and reinforce identity.
The Angami of Nagaland have similarly rich theatrical traditions embedded in their social practices. The Sekrenyi festival involves performances that are both entertainment and spiritual practice. Young people enact stories of heroism, love, and morality. There’s music, coordinated movement, elaborate costumes. But again, this isn’t categorized as ‘theatre’ in any formal sense.
The Konyak, known historically as headhunters with a warrior culture that was militaristic and hierarchical, developed complex performance traditions centered on martial prowess and storytelling. Their dances and dramatic enactments preserved historical narratives—stories of migrations, conflicts, victories, defeats. These performances were the equivalent of written history.
What all these traditions share is that they’re not hierarchically separated from daily life. There’s no distinction between ‘performers’ and ‘audience’ in the way Western theatre demands. Participation is fluid. People watch, then participate, then watch again. The performance space is communal space. The function is social and spiritual simultaneously.
This makes them nearly invisible to academic theatre studies in India, which inherited its frameworks from British and European traditions. Those frameworks demand separated spaces, professional actors, paying audiences. Naga theatre doesn’t fit. So it gets ignored, studied by anthropologists and folklorists but rarely by theatre scholars. Meanwhile, the traditions continue, sometimes evolving, sometimes fragmenting under pressure from economic change and cultural displacement.
Mizo Theatre: Bamboo Dances and Modern Narratives
The Mizo people, primarily from Mizoram in the far southwest of the Northeast, have a theatrical tradition that might be the most immediately recognizable to outsiders: the Cheraw or bamboo dance.
The Cheraw is visually striking. Four people sit with long bamboo poles held horizontally. They open and close the poles in complex, interlocking rhythms. Dancers leap into the space created by the opening poles, landing precisely in the gaps, then leaping out before the poles snap shut. The timing must be perfect. One miscalculation and the dancer gets hit. It’s dangerous. It’s balletic. It’s deeply satisfying to watch.
The Cheraw emerged as a celebratory performance, traditionally done during harvest festivals. But over time, it became a sophisticated performance art. Dancers developed increasingly complex patterns. Choreographers created narrative meanings—the opening and closing poles becoming metaphors for life’s challenges, the dancers’ precision representing human resilience.
Beyond the Cheraw, Mizoram has developed contemporary theatre practices that blend traditional Mizo culture with modern dramatic forms. Young Mizo playwrights and theatre groups are creating original works that grapple with contemporary issues—urbanization, migration, youth identity, changing gender roles. These works often incorporate traditional performance vocabulary, but they’re unambiguously modern theatre.
Mizoram’s theatre scene is small but vibrant. There are active theatre groups in Aizawl, the state capital. Universities have drama departments. But again, there’s minimal recognition from mainland Indian theatre institutions. The Cheraw is known by name in some circles, but most Indians couldn’t tell you anything about it.
The Politics of Erasure: Why India’s Theatre Establishment Ignores the Northeast
The invisibility of Northeast theatre in the national discourse is not accidental. It’s a product of specific structural inequalities.
First, there’s geography. India’s theatre establishment is concentrated in a handful of cities: primarily Delhi, Mumbai, and to a lesser extent, Bangalore and Kolkata. Northeast India is geographically remote from these centres. Getting a Shumang Leela troupe or an Ankia Nat performance to Delhi requires funding, logistics, and connections that most Northeast groups don’t have. Meanwhile, Delhi-based artists find it easier to perform within their ecosystem. The geography becomes a self-reinforcing system of exclusion.
Language is another barrier. Most major Indian theatre is performed in Hindi, English, Tamil, Telugu, or Marathi—languages with larger populations and therefore larger potential audiences. Manipuri, Assamese, Mizo, Naga languages are spoken by smaller populations. A Delhi theatre critic doesn’t understand Manipuri, so they can’t attend a Shumang Leela performance and write about it. Without critical coverage, the form remains unknown to the broader theatre world.
But the deepest issue is institutional and political. India’s theatre funding mechanisms are controlled by centralized institutions: the National School of Drama, government cultural departments, major festivals and theatre organizations. These are based in Delhi and reflect Delhi’s cultural assumptions. Classical forms with Sanskrit origins get privileged. Traditions with historical prestige get prioritized. Living folk traditions, especially those from regions that have been politically marginal or conflicted, get neglected.
There’s also a pernicious hierarchy embedded in how ‘Indian theatre’ gets defined. Many theatre scholars and critics operate with an implicit ranking: Sanskrit drama at the top, classical regional forms like Kathakali and Bharatanatyam in the second tier, folk forms at the bottom. This hierarchy is never stated but always present. It shapes what gets studied in universities, what gets funded, what gets celebrated.
Northeast theatre—especially living, evolving, socially engaged forms like Shumang Leela—doesn’t fit neatly into this hierarchy. It’s not ‘classical’ in the traditional sense. It’s not coded with Brahminical prestige. It’s often politically radical. So it gets ignored. The theatre establishment looks away.
There’s also a class component. Theatre that survives without major institutional funding is theatre that’s often performed by and for working-class and village communities. Indian theatre’s urban, English-educated establishment doesn’t naturally orient toward such work. They don’t have the language to discuss it. They don’t have access to it. And frankly, there can be a subtle class bias: folk traditions performed by village communities are seen as less sophisticated than theatre performed in urban venues by educated actors.
Finally, there’s the question of how the Northeast itself is imagined within Indian national consciousness. The Northeast has long been treated as peripheral, exotic, slightly dangerous, culturally alien. The major conflicts—insurgencies, military operations, ethnic tensions—have branded the region in negative ways. For many Indians, ‘Northeast’ triggers associations with violence and instability, not with rich cultural traditions. This regional marginalization gets reflected in how Northeast culture gets (or doesn’t get) represented at the national level.
Keeping These Alive: Contemporary Practitioners and Their Struggles
None of this should suggest that these traditions are dying passively. Across the Northeast, artists are actively fighting to keep these forms alive and evolving.
In Manipur, younger Shumang Leela performers have formed groups like Sankat Mochan, which performs regularly in Imphal. They’re experimenting with newer materials while maintaining the form’s core traditions. Some are attempting documentation—recording performances, creating reference materials—though this risks formalizing something meant to be fluid. They’re struggling with financing, with attracting younger actors, with police harassment in a state where political satire can get you questioned.
In Assam, Satras continue their work of preserving and performing Ankia Nat. The Satriya dance form, which grew out of the Ankia Nat tradition, has gained some recognition as a classical form and now has more institutional support. But this success for Satriya hasn’t automatically translated to protection for Ankia Nat itself. The village Satras where Ankia Nat originated continue to struggle.
In Nagaland, cultural organizations like the Nagaland Cultural Forum work to document and celebrate tribal performance traditions. Young Nagas are taking workshops to learn traditional dances so knowledge isn’t lost. But economic migration—young people leaving for cities—constantly threatens the transmission chain.
What these practitioners share is a commitment made against structural odds. They’re doing this work without major funding, without institutional recognition, without the possibility of making a career in theatre the way someone might in Delhi or Mumbai. They’re driven by cultural loyalty, by the belief that these traditions matter, by anger at the indifference of the broader Indian establishment.
Where and When to See These Traditions
If you want to witness these forms, you’ll need to travel to the Northeast. They’re not coming to you.
For Shumang Leela in Manipur, visit Imphal during spring and summer months when courtyard performances are most common. There’s no ‘official’ venue; performances happen in residential courtyards and community spaces. You’ll need local connections or at least willingness to ask around. Groups like Sankat Mochan occasionally advertise performances.
For Ankia Nat, time your visit to Assam around Bihu season (mid-January for Makar Sankranti and mid-April for spring Bihu). Visit the Satras in Majuli Island—though be aware the island is sinking and accessibility is becoming difficult. The Srimanta Sankaradeva Kalakshetra in Guwahati occasionally stages Ankia Nat performances and has documentation.
For Naga tribal performances, visit during festival seasons. The Moatsu festival (November) in the Ao regions features warrior dances and harvest celebrations. Sekrenyi festivals in Nagaland (February) showcase Angami traditions. Check with local tourism offices or cultural organizations.
For Cheraw and Mizo theatre, visit Aizawl during autumn and winter. The Mizoram film and theatre societies sometimes organize performances.
The Northeast Festival of Theatre (NEFT), held periodically in Guwahati, brings together theatre groups from across the region. It’s one of the few venues where you can see multiple forms concentrated. Check for upcoming editions.
Why This Matters: Theatre as Cultural Sovereignty
The fight to preserve and celebrate Northeast theatre traditions isn’t about nostalgia or tourism. It’s about cultural sovereignty. It’s about who gets to tell stories and who gets listened to.
When mainstream India ignores Shumang Leela, it’s not just ignoring a theatre form. It’s ignoring the voice of a people under military occupation. It’s erasing years of political resistance. It’s saying that Manipuri artists don’t matter enough to pay attention to.
When Ankia Nat is treated as a folk curiosity rather than a sophisticated theatrical form, it’s not accidental. It’s a reflection of how Assamese culture is marginalized within Indian high culture.
When Naga tribal performances are studied by anthropologists but not theatre scholars, there’s an implicit message: this is quaint ethnographic material, not serious art.
The Northeast needs these theatre forms. Young people need to see their culture treated as sophisticated and worthy of serious attention. Communities need spaces where they can tell their own stories, process their own realities, celebrate their own identities. National theatre institutions need to expand their idea of what Indian theatre is. The entire cultural ecosystem is diminished when entire regions’ artistic voices are erased.
This is what needs to happen: Universities across India should teach Northeast theatre forms as seriously as they teach Kathakali or Bharatanatyam. Theatre festivals need to actively commission and showcase Northeast work. Funding mechanisms need to reach Northeast practitioners directly, not just through filtered institutional channels. Critics and journalists need to go to the Northeast, sit in courtyards and Namghars, write about what they see. Theatre establishments in Delhi, Mumbai, and Bangalore need to actively seek partnerships with Northeast groups.
None of this will happen automatically. It will happen when enough people get angry about the erasure and decide it matters.
The Courtyard Awaits
I think about that night in Imphal, watching Shumang Leela under a mango tree, understanding so little of the dialogue but understanding everything about the precision of the comedy, the political bite, the community investment in the evening. I think about the actor in the woman’s sari, executing movements that had been refined over decades of courtyard performances, speaking directly to his immediate audience in ways that Delhi theatre could never manage.
That performance was real. It mattered. It was serious theatre, even if everyone involved would have laughed at calling it that.
The Northeast’s theatre traditions are waiting. They’re not performing for tourists or for the national theatre establishment’s approval. They’re performing for their communities because that’s what these forms do. They survive because people in villages and courtyards and Namghars believe they matter. The question is whether the rest of India is willing to pay attention.
The courtyard awaits.
— Link ‘Manipur’s Shumang Leela’ to: ‘A Guide to Shumang Leela: Manipur’s Subversive Courtyard Theatre’
— Link ‘Assam’s Ankia Nat’ to: ‘Ankia Nat and Satriya Dance: Understanding Assam’s Sacred Theatre Forms’
— Link ‘Naga folk performances’ to: ‘Tribal Theatre Traditions of Northeast India: Naga, Ao, and Angami Performance Forms’
— Link ‘Cheraw’ to: ‘The Cheraw Dance of Mizoram: Bamboo, Precision, and Celebration’
— Link ‘Srimanta Sankaradeva’ to: ‘Srimanta Sankaradeva: The Saint Who Created Ankia Nat’
— Link ‘Majuli Island’ to: ‘Majuli Island: Where Assam’s Theatre Heritage Is Literally Sinking’
— Link ‘classical Indian theatre forms’ to home page or ‘Understanding Indian Classical Theatre’
— Link ‘theatre funding in India’ to: ‘How Theatre Gets Funded in India: The Geography of Cultural Capital’