• The Ramayana exists in hundreds of different versions across Asia and beyond. Each culture adapts the epic to its own civilisational memory
• For high value travellers who have journeyed across the Palk Strait with anticipation, such an experience feels underwhelming

For more than two decades, the Ramayana Trail has appeared in Sri Lanka’s tourism literature as a cultural offering of immense promise. It speaks to a shared civilisational memory between India and Sri Lanka, to an epic that continues to shape the religious, literary, and cultural imagination of millions. Yet, as we sit this year, the truth remains the Trail looks remarkably similar to how it did when it was first introduced in 2006. There have been brochures, occasional promotional drives and visiting delegations, but little in the way of structural evolution.

To understand why, and more importantly to examine what could be done differently, The Daily Morning spoke with author, speaker, researcher, the Director of the Bharat Lanka Cooperation and the former Convenor of the Global Encyclopaedia of the Ramayana, Bala Venkateswara Rao Sankuratri, widely known as Bala Sankuratri. Sankuratri is not a casual commentator on the subject. He walked away from a successful career in travel management in India to devote himself to Ramayana related research. His work bridges scriptural study, geography, oceanography and cultural diplomacy.

He speaks about Sri Lanka’s Ramayana tourism with both affection and visible frustration. “We are sitting in this interview in 2026, and the status is the same. Twenty-one years. No change,” he says candidly. “Unless structurally there is a problem, this should not happen. It is not about one issue. There are multiple issues.”

21 years of stillness

Sankuratri does not attribute the stagnation to a lack of interest among Indian travellers. On the contrary, he insists the demand exists and is growing. The problem, he argues, is structural and institutional.

“From 2006 to 2026, is there any dedicated employee assigned for this job in any department?” he asks pointedly. “No. It is always an additional responsibility. If something is an additional responsibility, it will remain additional forever. It will never become the main work.”

He draws attention to the absence of a clearly defined narrative framework. In his view, the tourism authorities attempt to promote sites associated with the Ramayana, but without a formally endorsed cultural script. “The Cultural Affairs Department should define the narrative. What is the history? What are the facts? What is our position? Then, the Tourism Department should take that rulebook and promote it. Right now, there is no script. Everyone is talking something different.”

This lack of a unified narrative, he believes, weakens credibility. It also leaves guides improvising, sometimes reducing a complex epic to a few hurried sentences delivered at a temple gate. For high value travellers who have journeyed across the Palk Strait with anticipation, such an experience feels underwhelming.

Sankuratri describes this as a failure of ownership. “If you don’t own the story, you can’t sell the story,” he remarks. “You can’t keep changing the tone depending on who is in front of you. There must be clarity.”

The cake and the ingredients

Perhaps the most memorable image that he offers during our conversation is what he calls the cake metaphor. It is simple, almost homely, yet devastating in its accuracy.

“When you go to a shop to buy a cake, you want the cake,” he says. “You don’t want the sugar separately, the flour separately, and the eggs separately. But, that is what we are doing. We are showing one site here, one site there. Sugar in one place. Flour in another. Eggs in another. Where is the cake?”

For Sankuratri, the Ramayana Trail should not be a checklist of temples and caves. It should be an immersive narrative journey. At present, he observes, tourists often travel five or six hours to reach a site such as the Seetha Amman Temple in Nuwara Eliya. They are given a brief explanation, sometimes no more than 30 seconds, and then ushered back into their vehicles. “It is a complete letdown and disappointment,” he says. “The expectation is something else. The delivery is something else.”

He believes that the most neglected component of the experience is the journey itself. “Five hours in a vehicle is not dead time,” he insists. “That is your golden time. That is where the story should begin. That is where the debate should start. That is where people should feel that they are inside the epic.”

He imagines coaches where trained master guides narrate the story dynamically, inviting discussion, presenting different perspectives of Rama, Sita and Ravana, and even encouraging role play. “You have to make the tourist live the story. Otherwise, it becomes a picnic. Ramayana is not a picnic. It is a civilisational memory.”

Moving beyond appeasement

One of the more sensitive aspects of the Ramayana narrative in Sri Lanka concerns the figure of Ravana. In much of the Indian telling, he is the antagonist - the abductor of Sita and the adversary of Rama. In Sri Lanka however, he is often viewed with a sense of ancestral pride. Sankuratri is frank about what he calls a “mental blockage” in the industry.

He argues that Indian audiences are not seeking a simplistic moral narrative; they are open to complexity. Indeed, the Ramayana itself exists in hundreds of versions across Asia, from India to Thailand, Indonesia, Cambodia and beyond. Each culture adapts the epic to its own civilisational memory.

“There is a fear,” he explains. “If we speak highly about Ravana, Indians will get offended. This is not true. Indians are not coming here to be told what they already know. They are coming here to hear your version.”

He argues that the instinct to dilute or soften the Sri Lankan perspective in order to avoid controversy ultimately weakens the product. “You are not supposed to appease the audience. You are supposed to tell what you want to tell, with confidence and with scholarship.”

In Sankuratri’s reading, Ravana was not merely a villain but a polymath. The 10 heads, he says, symbolise mastery over 10 branches of knowledge. “He was a master of medicine. He understood liquid tonics. He was a musician. The Ravanahatha (a bowed, string instrument) is attributed to him. He composed a Stotram, an ode. In every temple in India, people sing that stotram. They don’t object to it.”

By foregrounding Ravana’s intellectual and scientific attributes, Sri Lanka can present a nuanced narrative that does not negate the Indian version but complements it. “If you present Ravana’s scientific and historical contributions, they will admire it,” Sankuratri says. “You are adding a layer. You are not subtracting.”

Therefore, rather than attempting to replicate the Indian interpretation, Sri Lanka should confidently present its own. This requires reframing Ravana not merely as a mythic villain, but as a polymath.

Science, geography and encoded knowledge

What distinguishes Sankuratri’s approach is his insistence that the Ramayana is not merely mythology but an encoded civilisational document. He refers frequently to the Kishkindha (a kingdom) Kanda (a book) of the Ramayana, which he believes contains remarkably detailed geographical descriptions.

“People say that these are just stories,” he notes. “But, when you read carefully, the geographical markers are very specific. Directions, distances, references to mountains and seas. Why would that be there if it was only fantasy?”

He addresses one common sceptical argument regarding the Surya Siddhanta (an Indian astronomical treatise), which places Lanka on the equator. Critics sometimes argue that this does not correspond with present day Sri Lanka. Sankuratri counters by introducing the concept of magnetic north versus geographical north. “The ancient understanding was based on the magnetic North Pole,” he explains. “If you calculate using magnetic alignment, the longitude passes exactly through Sri Lanka. So, what we think is a contradiction may not be a contradiction at all.”

He also points to research conducted by the National Institute of Oceanography in Goa, India, which identified ancient river channels beneath the seabed between India and Sri Lanka. For Sankuratri, such findings resonate strongly with references in the Ramayana to land that was later submerged. “It speaks about the land being dug up by ancestors and the sea flowing in. These are not random poetic lines. It is the documentation of geography.”

His aim is not to force belief but to encourage inquiry. “At least let us study it seriously,” he says. “Let us not dismiss it because it is old.”

Learning from Bali

Throughout our discussion, Bali surfaces repeatedly as a comparative example. Bali has successfully integrated its version of the Ramayana into dance, theatre, tourism circuits and merchandise. Sankuratri attributes this success to cultural confidence.

“They don’t try to tell the Indian version. They tell the Balinese version. With pride. With art. With drama,” he says. “They have made it visual. They have made it social. It is not only for pilgrims. It is for everyone.”

Sri Lanka, he suggests, has the raw material but not the packaging. “We have the ingredients. We have the geography. We have the sites. But, we are not baking the cake.”

Hence, rather than attempting to align every detail with Indian expectations, the Island can articulate its own interpretive voice grounded in archaeology, folklore, geography and oral tradition. By inviting international scholars, artists and cultural practitioners to collaborate, Sri Lanka could create immersive performances, multimedia experiences and narrative installations that bring the epic to life.

However, the foundation must remain a clearly articulated local narrative. The goal is not imitation. It is ownership.

The seat in coach solution

Another practical concern lies in the quality of guiding. There are only a limited number of highly trained ‘master guides’ capable of delivering deep, interdisciplinary narratives. Many smaller tour groups travel in private vehicles with drivers who may lack the training or confidence to elaborate beyond basic facts.

For this, Sankuratri proposes a model known as the ‘seat-in-coach’. Instead of fragmented travel arrangements, tourists from different agencies could be grouped into larger coaches led by specialised narrators. This would achieve multiple outcomes: it would ensure narrative consistency, raise interpretive quality, and transform long journeys into communal experiences.

“Instead of three people in one car and two in another, with different levels of explanation, combine them,” he suggests. “Put 20 people in one coach with one well trained master guide. That is social tourism.”

He believes that the group dynamic itself enriches the experience. Discussions arise, questions are asked, perspectives are shared. “Ramayana tourism is a social event. It is more beautiful when it is a group interaction,” he says. Social interaction, he argues, is itself a value.

When 20 travellers share a story, debate interpretations, and respond collectively to dramatic storytelling, the epic becomes alive. The coach becomes a mobile classroom, theatre and forum. The physical discomfort of distance becomes secondary to the richness of engagement.

In this model, the Ramayana Trail ceases to be a checklist. It becomes a shared cultural exploration. This approach also addresses cost related concerns and ensures consistency in narrative quality.

A goldmine waiting

Despite his criticisms, Sankuratri remains optimistic. He describes the Ramayana Trail as a potential goldmine for Sri Lanka. “There is a great future,” he says. “Every issue of revenue can be addressed if this is structured properly.”

However, he stresses the importance of collective effort. “In the travel industry, everyone wants to do it for themselves. ‘Let me do’ is there. But, ‘let us do’ is lacking.”

He calls for a permanent, dedicated team within the relevant Ministries, armed with a defined rulebook and long-term vision. Only then, he believes, can the Trail move beyond what he calls a soda bubble effect, brief moments of enthusiasm followed by inertia.

At present, tourism promotion and cultural scholarship often operate in parallel rather than in partnership. The said Department may hold historical and interpretive expertise. The Tourism Promotion Bureau may hold marketing capabilities. But, without a unified framework, narratives remain inconsistent.

That is why Sankuratri calls for a clearly articulated rulebook. Such a document would not impose dogma; rather, it would establish agreed interpretive foundations. What are the key sites? What is the historical evidence? Where does folklore begin? How should contested narratives be presented responsibly?

Once established, this framework could guide training, marketing materials and digital content.

Consistency builds credibility. Credibility builds trust. And trust builds long-term tourism sustainability.

Ramayana as civilisational memory

Underlying the entire discussion is a broader philosophical proposition. For Sankuratri, the Ramayana is not merely a religious scripture. It is an encoded civilisational document. Within its verses lie references to geography, trade routes, ecological systems and political structures of the ancient world.

Sri Lanka occupies a pivotal role in that geography.The Island is not a peripheral backdrop; it is central to the epic’s dramatic arc. This gives Sri Lanka an extraordinary opportunity: to interpret the Ramayana not only as mythology, but as layered cultural memory.

Such an approach appeals not only to devotees, but also to historians, anthropologists and global cultural tourists. It situates the Trail within a broader conversation about how ancient narratives preserve collective knowledge.

As our conversation draws to a close, Sankuratri reflects on his own journey. “Sri Lanka has changed me from a normal travel agent to an author,” he says quietly. “If I am not talking about Ravana, who else will?”

His question lingers. The epic is already alive in the hearts of millions. The sites are in place. The scholarship is growing. What remains is the will to weave these elements into a coherent, immersive experience.

In an age when travellers increasingly seek meaning rather than mere sightseeing, this depth matters. The ingredients are ready. The oven is waiting. Whether the nation chooses to bake the cake is a matter not of mythology, but of policy, imagination and courage.

The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the interviewee, and do not necessarily reflect those of this publication