ESHNA'S Insights on "classical"

Questions

1. Can you trace your training in Odissi and Kathak, including your gurus, institutions, and the order in which these forms entered your practice?

2. What were the earliest technical differences you were taught between Odissi and Kathak in terms of stance, weight, and alignment?

3. Were these differences explained historically, stylistically, or only practically during training?

4. Which specific Kathak and Odissi compositions or repertoires were central to your early years of learning?

5. How was abhinaya introduced in each form? At what stage of training and through which compositions?

6. Were there differences in how correction was given for expression versus footwork or torso movement?

7. Are there movements or postures that you were taught to repeat without verbal explanation? If yes, how were they transmitted?

8. Did your teachers ever speak about the origins of gestures, costumes, or aesthetics you were learning?

9. Can you recall your first public performance in each form? What repertoire did you perform and under what setting?

10. How were costume, makeup, and presentation explained to you in Kathak versus Odissi?

11. How was the history of Kathak taught to you during training? What was emphasized and what was left unspoken?

12. Was the history of Odissi’s reconstruction discussed in your learning environment? If yes, how?

13. Have you noticed differences in how institutions, festivals, or audiences respond to Kathak versus Odissi?

14. Were there expectations placed on you differently as a dancer of these two forms?

15. Looking back at your training, what aspects of your learning do you feel were assumed to be “known” rather than explained?

Interviewer:
Okay, yeah. So since you are training in both Odissi and Kathak, and both require a bit of difference, there is a distinction between them.

So how did you manage it—while learning both at the same time—how were you able to differentiate them, especially in Odissi class or Kathak class?

Interviewee:
I think initially I wasn’t able to separate it, actually.

If I watch my first few Kathak videos, I can clearly see that I’m not dancing Kathak. It’s all my Odissi training that is coming out.

My Odissi training formed a really good base for me to pick up other dance forms, I think. At least, that’s how I see it.

But eventually, I think the differentiation between the two in my body happened only during lockdown, actually—in 2020—because that was the first time I had free time just to practise.

So whenever I think about how I’ve been able to separate the two, it’s that I practised really hard, and I also had very watchful eyes over me.

I think my teachers were really good at identifying moments in my dance where either one would seep into the other.

Especially, I mean, it’s probably just a small anecdote—whenever my foot would go up in Kathak, my Odissi would come out. I couldn’t control it, and my teacher would keep pointing it out: “Whenever your foot goes up, your Odissi comes out. I don’t know why.”

So slowly, slowly, I began becoming more conscious of it.

And I think what also helped is that in 2018 or 2019—I can’t remember exactly—I started recording myself a lot more. Of course, I was recording myself to upload videos, but also to observe how I was dancing.

So I think it was all these three things combined that helped me slowly, slowly cleave the two in my body.

Interviewer:
I see. So in the early years of your Odissi and Kathak training—particularly Odissi—I’m not very familiar with it, so could you tell me briefly what the compositions were like?

What did you learn in the beginning when you started Odissi?

Interviewee:
Yeah.

So the Odissi repertoire is pretty simple. Every teacher you go to will teach the same things, usually in the same order.

You always begin with basics.

So like in Bharatanatyam you have adavus, the same concept exists in Odissi.

In Odissi, you have two—rather three—basic positions: Chowk, Tribhangi, and Abhanga.

Abhanga is more of a contemporary addition into the basic repertoire, but the original basics are Chowk and Tribhangi.

Chowk is your…

Square position, which is more like a plié—like a wider araimandi. And Tribhangi is your three-bend position that you will see on all temple walls across India.

So within each of these, there are ten steps. And the people who designed Odissi as a form made it very simple.

So one step is first Chowk, two steps is second Chowk, three steps is third Chowk. It’s a very simple naming system.

Once you finish those ten, then you start with your Mangalacharan, which is an invocatory piece. It is like a Vandana.

Usually we start with Ganesh Mangalacharan. But in Odissi, by virtue of its structure, it will often begin with a Jagannath Ashtakam, so it always starts with praising Lord Jagannath. Then you move on to whichever deity pleases you, but usually we start with Ganesha.

Then we go into the first Pallavi. Pallavi is a pure dance piece—non-narrative—focused on rhythm, taal, and melody.

The first one I learned was Basant Pallavi, which is usually the basic Pallavi you begin with.

After that, you go into Bhattu. Bhattu is again a non-narrative piece, which shows the sculptures of temples in Puri and Bhubaneswar—especially musicians: you see the veena, the manjira, the pakhawaj, the mardala.

Then slowly, you move into more Pallavis, more pure dance items.

I think I learned my first Abhinaya piece—if I’m not wrong, Dashavatar—around the age of 15. So about five or six years into training, I was given my first Abhinaya piece.

And of course, many Abhinaya pieces in Odissi are from the Gita Govinda, which is very intimate in nature. So my teacher refused to teach me those until I was 18. She said, “You won’t understand it—love and all, you won’t understand it yet.” So only after I turned 18 did she start teaching me the Ashtapadis from the Gita Govinda.

By that time, I don’t even remember how many Pallavis I had learned—I would have to go back and count.

But it is important to remember that the Odissi repertoire is not very extensive, because the dance form itself is actually quite new.

I was not aware of this when I was learning, of course, because the general narrative is that it is ancient—that it comes from the 2nd century BCE, that it is the oldest dance form and so on.

That is the narrative you enter into when you step into an Odissi classroom.

But that is far from reality.

The dances we perform today were actually reconstructed in the 1950s.

Exactly. I mean, it’s as old as—well, just about older than my parents, you know. So the repertoire itself isn’t and wasn’t that extensive.

Now, of course, several artists are working on expanding it and creating pieces that can be passed down from teacher to student.

Interviewer:
Alright. So do you think Odissi is more rhythmic or bound within the taal structure like Kathak?

Interviewee:
Not at all. It’s very different—very, very different, for several reasons.

In Kathak, you learn taal in your first class. I never learned taal in any class in Odissi. Taal is not treated as a concept.

So the training pedagogy and methodology are very different.

In Kathak, you are your own master of movement and master of rhythm. In Odissi, you dance to recorded music—at least that is how I was trained.

It’s not that this is the only mainstream practice. Perhaps in other Odissi lineages it is different, because musicians who can play specifically for Odissi are available in some contexts. But overall, it depends.

Also, Odissi music itself is neither like Carnatic nor like Hindustani—it is a separate genre. And there are very few people who fully understand it and can pass it down as knowledge outside of Odissi practitioners.

At least, this is from my experience.

So while Odissi has beautiful, intricate, and very addictive rhythm, you are not really taught it. You pick it up, and then you just regurgitate what you have picked up. There is no real creation in that sense.

I’m sure you and I can sit with teentaal and create several bandishes just like that, right?

But with Odissi, the chances are very less, because I don’t even know the dhaat and dinna of the mardala. I don’t know all the sounds the mardala can produce.

I have no idea.

And it is only now, in my training, that I am starting to learn taal as taal—simply as rhythm, as numerical structure, as matras, all of that.

And I have been training for 17 years. So this is a very late addition—though a necessary one.

But that just shows that at its base—and perhaps at the time I started learning Odissi as well—this consciousness was not yet developed. It was more of a dance form with a pre-prepared repertoire being passed from student to student.

Interviewer:
Okay. So I was very interested in something you said about expression and the intimacy that Odissi carries.

Because I also know that temples—not only Khajuraho but several temples in Odisha—are filled with sensual elements.

And I think Odissi is very much attributed to these elements of temple iconography.

However, when we come into classical dance or into the studio to learn…

…these elements, I think, as you also experienced, there is a bit of hesitation that teachers and gurus have.

So why do you think that is? And do you think it is just in your studio with your guru, or is it the same with others as well?

Interviewee:
Hmm. I’m not sure whether it is the same with other gurus as well, but I do think this is a general mood in the classroom within the Odissi context.

Of course, several other dance forms—as you also must know—have historically wiped out and sanitised their sensual elements and tried to convert that sensuality into bhakti. That became an alternative to the more sensual or erotic padams that were present in Bharatanatyam and other forms.

But in Odissi, perhaps because the Gita Govinda is so essential as a ritual text in temple contexts, those elements were maintained. And the Gita Govinda became a very seminal text within the Odissi tradition, which is why it continues to exist within the dance repertoire.

Of course, while learning it, my teacher would often teach the most sensual aspects with the least explanation. She would use very complex words to translate Sanskrit, and would avoid translating what might have become very explicit or sexual meanings.

And yes, there was also the fact that she only began teaching me those Ashtapadis after I turned 18. That does make me wonder whether it was simply about age or maturity.

But the idea was: once you grow up and begin to feel what Radha and Krishna feel for each other, then maybe you will be able to understand the depth of it. And it is not just a “raunchy” or “dirty” piece of literature—it has great depth.

And even if it were a raunchy piece of literature, it is still a brilliantly raunchy piece of literature.

But there was definitely jijhak—hesitation—in teaching these pieces.

Although in Odissi, we are very free in performance to show things like hips, breasts, kisses, embraces. It is very normal within the repertoire to represent such emotions.

But teaching it is a different thing.

It was taught more as movement and not as feeling. There was a clear distinction made: there is only so much I can teach you to understand. Beyond that, you have to make your own interpretations and associations.

I am not sure if that is helpful or unhelpful, but that is how it was.

I myself have not yet been able to teach anyone an Ashtapadi, so maybe when I do, things will change in how I see it as well. I may then understand the teacher’s position better.

But yes, there was definitely hesitation—almost like going around the bush, not really saying what is inside it.

Interviewer:
So did your teachers ever talk about the origin of the gestures or movements, or the feelings behind them—how Odissi actually came into existence?

Interviewee:
I don’t think so. As far as I know…

I had actually been sent that question earlier, and I was thinking about it today as well. I can’t remember if my teacher ever taught me the history of the form.

It was something I had to look up myself out of curiosity. I Googled it and tried to find out on my own.

But other than the fact that in the dance class there was a Nataraja, a Jagannath idol, and an image of Kelucharan Mohapatra, beyond that I think I only really had to know what Odissi “means.”

And of course, the fact that we wear Ikat sarees and silk sarees, and that we know the dance form is from Odisha. Beyond that, I don’t think any formal history class was happening inside the dance studio.

It was movement with a vague ritual past attached to it, and a very vague idea of an ancient origin attached to it. That’s about it.

And within that vagueness, we were taught to assign importance to the form as well—that you are dancing for God, and that it is something very, very old. That was enough to give meaning to the practice.

Which now I find a bit strange.

Now, when I do research and read about it, I know there are multiple stories and multiple narratives about this single form, which has passed through very complex historical periods to become what we see today.

But I think in the classroom, none of that was ever told explicitly. There was just a general feeling that you are doing something important, so just do it.

That’s about it.

And I think this is not only in Odissi. Even in Kathak, there is a similar kind of dogma or tradition where gurus are often not very interested in talking about history—about how the form was actually formed or transformed through different periods.

Even in my own training, I only became aware of this through one conversation my guru accidentally had with someone who came to our Kathak class. Through that, I learned about the anti-nautch movement and many other histories.

And I think there should be space in studios where the history of how movements were formed is actually taught.

Of course, but I also think there are several reasons why this does not enter the classroom.

One is the tradition itself—the idea that the guru is the beginning and end of knowledge. If their teacher never told them something, then it is not something that gets passed on.

So the idea that you can go beyond your guru to learn about the dance form is not really part of the practice. It is believed that whatever the guru gives is correct, and that it is the beginning and end of knowledge.

Which, honestly, is very dangerous to follow blindly.

And the second reason is that there are multiple histories—there is a convenient history, and then there is an inconvenient history.

“Convenient history” is what we already know. We already know it is ancient, it is old, it is from temple traditions, that we dance towards Hindu gods and all of that.

Then tell me—why is there a Tarana in your Kathak repertoire? How did Tarana come in? We are not dancing Tarana for Krishna. We are dancing Tarana because it is enjoyable musically, right? It is a non-narrative form.

Tell me why we wear chappkas when we dance. Why do we wear ghungroos? Where are these influences coming from? Who is going to explain these things to us?

We expect our guru to explain them, but the guru themselves may have their own agenda in the classroom—pushing forward a certain kind of history, a certain telling of the story.

For example, I have often heard that the Jaipur gharana never had a kotha system. That we had a guni jan khana, where the Maharaja would come to watch the dancers. The dancers would never go to the kotha.

That is the story, because “we are not like those kotha people.” We do not have that kind of “dirty”—I am using these words very freely—“dirty lineage” that the Lucknow gharana has.

The narrative becomes: it came from temples, it went to courts, it got “debauched” in courts, then it came into cinema. “All dirty places.” And so we do not dance that. We dance purely for God.

The Maharaja would come to us; we would never go to the Maharaja. We were that important.

Whereas historically, dance was both ritual and entertainment. And it is very possible that dancers in ritual contexts and dancers in entertainment contexts were completely different worlds.

But because there is a need to make these dance forms matter today, we link them to a past. Otherwise, what is the point? If we do not present it as a museum piece, what value does it have?

Interviewer:
Yes. I think the historicity and even the importance of classical dance is maintained only because it is linked to the divine, linked to religion.

If we separate it into either entertainment or sensuality, I think it will collapse, because we are not very open about it. And I think that is what is happening right now in studios and in classical dance.

Interviewee:
Yes. The more you see it, the more you realise this—especially with the Instagram wave.

Dancers perform on Hindu festivals. Dancers perform most on Hindu festivals. I mean, I will not even open Instagram tomorrow on Shivratri because I cannot stand watching the same three or four padas trending everywhere.

But what does that mean? It means we are increasingly associating dance forms with religiosity, with Hinduism, with something that fixes its identity.

And in my opinion—this is completely my view—the moment you fix that identity, it cannot move beyond it.

Then you start getting terms like “Sufi Kathak.” What is Sufi Kathak? Kathak has always had a Sufi past. We dance Rangmanch pranam, we dance salami, we dance both traditions. Even in exams, we continue to perform both.

So how much of the repertoire will you have to cut if you make Kathak purely Hindu? You will easily lose 60% of it. What will remain?

I think Kathak, and dance in general, has a very turbulent history. And in the post-independence period, it becomes either “Sufi Kathak” or “Hindu Kathak”—they are treated as separate.

But why must they be separated when both were equally integral?

It is debilitating to see these binaries. It harms not just me, but the potential of the dance form itself.

The dance will not die. There is no chance of that. But what will happen is that something already exclusive will become even more exclusive.

It will not include people.

Imagine practitioners who are not Hindu, who are Muslim—will they find resonance in it? Perhaps not, if it becomes rigidly tied to one identity.

And at a time when dance will always, in my belief, remain in a kind of “state of emergency”—we always feel not enough people are doing it. Although I disagree with that. There are always people doing it.

But there are not enough people able to make a living from it. And that is not about the dance itself—it is about the lack of a system around it. That is a completely different conversation.

Interviewer

So, as you told me about the Jaipur system—the Jaipur gharana not being associated with the kotha system at all—was this taught to you in the classroom?

Interviewee:
Hmm. This was told to us in a classroom, yes—more or less by Gangani ji.

So you expect it to be the truth, or at least a version of history. But there is a difference between history as a piece of knowledge and history as a piece of social commentary.

That’s quite interesting to hear.

Interviewer:
So, as we were talking about Odissi and the sensual elements—and the hesitation gurus have—do you think this was similar in Kathak?

Interviewee:
It was not similar in Kathak, because I think the context itself is not there.

At least from the pieces I have learned, that level of sensuality has not existed.

The pieces I’ve learned have not been that sensual, although maybe a couple of utthans, and a few aamads that Durga didi taught me—especially some pieces with chhed-chhad in them.

Those are very clearly explained. Like Krishna is coming to touch your hips, your waist, your breasts, or your arms, and you are trying to resist him. You push him away, but eventually you give in.

But the level of detail that exists in Odissi repertoire doesn’t exist in what I have learned in Kathak.

At least, I have not encountered anything with that depth of sensual detail in Kathak training.

And whenever something like that did appear, even slightly, it was very explicitly explained.

I think even when we talk about sensual elements in Kathak and Odissi, Kathak’s sensuality—though not fully mainstreamed—is somewhat normalized to a larger extent.

Not all elements, but to some extent, yes.

But if we talk about Odissi, I don’t think it has been normalized. I think it actually exists differently.

Because if you read the Gita Govinda, it is extremely descriptive—about where Krishna is kissing, where bodies are touching, who is holding what. All of it is very clearly described.

And it is described beautifully. The imagery Jaidev creates through poetry lends itself very naturally to dance.

Some Odissi pieces are extremely bodily. There are descriptions of love marks on bodies, of Krishna smelling of another gopi—very explicit visual imagery.

But these are not always taught explicitly.

Whereas in Kathak, what I have learned, chhed-chhad is very normal—but it usually remains at a surface level. Krishna hugging a gopi’s waist, stealing clothes, pulling the pallu, that kind of narrative.

There is sensuality in Kathak too, but of a different kind. Perhaps—this is just my speculation—it is connected to the fact that courtesans performed Kathak.

So sensuality is expressed through gaze, through nazar, through eyes, through subtle gesture.

But that is easier to explain because you are not talking about body parts that are socially restricted. You are talking about eyes, wrists, kalaiya, angdai, dupattas, nose pins—smaller details.

You are not directly talking about breasts, hips, waistlines, or nakedness.

So the way sensuality is handled becomes different.

But I do think Odissi, at least in my reading, presents a more forward image of sensuality on stage—even if teachers do not explain it explicitly.

When you watch Odissi performances, especially Ashtapadis that deal directly with erotic or intimate themes, you realize it is very open in its depiction.

It is not afraid of the erotic on stage.

And I don’t think Kathak is afraid of the erotic either. I think the language of the erotic is simply different.

Odissi is very sculptural, very bodily, very curvaceous—so you think through the body.

Kathak is more about finer articulation—the eyes, smile, neck, wrists, fingertips, eyelashes.

So attention shifts there because of the form itself.

It is not as simple as saying one is open and the other is closed. The contexts are too different to directly compare.

Even the obsession with eyes and eyelashes—maybe it exists because we avoid talking about other parts of the body. That is a possible question.

But I still think there is sensuality present in Kathak too.

So I don’t think either form is “afraid” of sensuality. But we only understand this fully when we push its boundaries.

Only when we push those limits do we understand what is actually accepted within the tradition.

Interviewer:
So in Odissi or Kathak, during public performances, were you ever performing something sensual—any composition?

Interviewee:
Hmm. In Odissi, yes.

I have performed Ashtapadis. There is Jheera Samira Yamuna Tire, which remains one of my favourites.

It describes a sakhi going to Radha and telling her that Krishna is waiting at the banks of the Yamuna. She urges her to go quickly.

He is waiting for the one with rounded hips—which is you—so go fast.

She says: you know how restless his hands are, so if you delay, he may turn to other women.

And then there are descriptions of how, when he plays the flute, it feels like he is calling your name.

So you should go quickly. He is making a bed for you with leaves, flowers, lotuses, and petals—so go and become one with him.

I have not yet learned the most explicitly detailed sensual pieces in the repertoire that exists.

And then there is a description of how, whenever he plays his flute, it feels like he is calling your name. So you should go quickly. He is making a love bed for you with leaves, flowers, lotuses, and petals.

So go quickly. Go be one with him.

I have not yet learned the more detailed sensual pieces that exist in the repertoire. I know they exist because I have seen other people perform them.

But recently, I had a very young audience watch this piece from very close distance, and I could both hear and see their reaction.

I was performing Dheera Sameera Yamuna Teere, and at the end there is a moment of union, almost a kiss. There were three children in the front row, and I could hear them audibly gasp—like “ah!”

I could hear all of it very clearly because they were very close.

And I wondered in that moment whether there should be an age rating for some of these things. But then again, they will grow up anyway and learn these things, so perhaps you might as well show them through dance first.

And I think the idea of sex education—which, if we talk in normative terms, is considered a Western concept—has always existed in fragments in India.

Not as an institutional subject, but in short forms: in dance, in music, in temple iconography. It existed, but not as a formalised system.

But sex education as a structured subject is a very modern, Western-influenced concept.

And this idea of sensuality and divinity being the same was something Western philosophers, thinkers, and the British found very difficult to understand.

And perhaps because of that distance from something so bodily, things like the Anti-Nautch movement began to happen. And over time, we also started to model ourselves on those frameworks instead of what existed here—which may have been more sensual, more fluid, more accepting.

But I say “may” because you cannot make one sweeping statement about an entire country or its past.

So yes, I think you are right. Sex education as a formal concept is Western, but it is now a valid and necessary one. It should be taught in schools because we no longer have those alternative forms of learning in a structured way.

Interviewer:
Were you taught, apart from what you mentioned about the kotha system, the history of Kathak?

Interviewee:
No, only in the context of my exams.

Because I gave Kathak exams. In Odissi I did not.

In Kathak exams, there is always a question like: “Define Kathak” or “Give an introduction to Kathak.”

And the answer is always the same: Kathak is a North Indian classical dance form that originated in temples, then moved to courts, and is performed today in its current form.

It is said that it was originally performed by Kathavachaks, storytellers who narrated the Mahabharata and Ramayana. That is the dominant narrative we all repeat almost instinctively.

There is a fascinating book by Margaret E. Walker on the history of Kathak, where she dismantles this narrative in a very detailed way. She shows how much of it is constructed.

And in that sense, the commonly repeated history is, honestly—pardon my language—utter bullshit.

So perhaps that is the only kind of “history” we learn in classrooms: a simplified, fixed version.

And that is also problematic, because we learn dance separately from its context. We treat it as something timeless and detached from history.

We learn it as something ephemeral, not tied to time at all. It becomes eternal in a way, which is strange. It becomes a museum piece—something you just reproduce and present.

But contemporary practitioners—people in the present—we still need to find resonance in it beyond just “we enjoy dancing.”

Yes, movement is joyful. But beyond that, we need context. We start asking: where did this come from? how did it evolve? what can I do with it now?

Interviewer:
And even in post-independence writing and the making of classical dance—books like Sunil Kothari’s Kathak: Indian Classical Dance or Kapila Vatsyayan’s writings—there is this narrative of origin.

This idea keeps getting repeated. And I think the linking of religiosity to Kathak and other dance forms was strongly shaped during the anti-Nautch movement and the post-colonial period.

Interviewee:
Yes, absolutely.

And what is fascinating is that the dance form survived. It resisted and remained.

We still dance it today, in whatever form—religious or non-religious.

And as a form, it continues to exist, still relevant, still being reinvented.

That is what makes it timeless.

Not the claim that it existed in the 2nd century BCE, but the fact that the form and its pedagogy still produce infinite possibilities even in 2026.

Interviewer:
So were there different expectations placed on you as a dancer when performing Kathak versus Odissi?

Interviewee:
Not externally, I think. Good dancing is good dancing—the expectation remains the same.

But internally, I had different expectations from myself.

I wanted my Odissi to look strong and fluid. I wanted my Kathak to feel lighter, airy, more spontaneous.

In Odissi, I want it to feel athletic in a sense. It is a strange word for such a fluid form, but thinking of movement through muscle rather than abstraction helps me make it clearer and more beautiful.

So I try to make Odissi more controlled, strong, grounded.

And I try to make Kathak more free, impulsive, and natural.

These expectations come from the nature of the forms themselves.

Kathak is spontaneous—it is like landing on a sam and performing a miracle.

Odissi, on the other hand, feels like: come, I will take you on a journey. It is slow, arduous, but beautiful.

So both forms have very different internal voices for me.

I don’t think expectations are external as much as they are internal.

My teachers, for instance, have not imposed such distinctions on me.

Interviewer:
So one last question—any feedback you would like to give to Relearning the Nautch?

Interviewee:
It’s interesting.

The fact that my guru was not the beginning and end of all knowledge for me is exactly what led me into dance research.

So along with being a practitioner, I am now also a researcher.

A serious researcher.

And within that context, when you look at dance forms, you can clearly see ruptures. And it is perhaps through these ruptures that something new has emerged.

When I look at colonialism and the Nautch in that context, I don’t see it only as disruption. I see it as a turning point that reshaped the entire dance landscape of India.

I also don’t think it is just “change.” I think we have actively recreated dance forms through that process.

Odissi, in my opinion, only emerges in the 1950s in the form we know today. It did not exist like that earlier. Kathak also undergoes a complete transformation after independence.

And it becomes important to ask: what image of India is being produced through these “classical” dance forms?

That, for me, is the centre of my research.

So I look at the Nautch not just as rupture, but as a moment that enabled a restructuring of dance practices, especially in relation to women’s autonomy in performance traditions.

And how that restructuring is tied to how the nation wanted to be seen.

That is my research area.

I don’t know if that really answers your question, but yes—that is what I am working on.

Interviewer:
Just one last thing. One sentence you would like to give for this project?

Interviewee:
I think it is fantastic. Very honestly, it is fantastic.

It has already given me several ideas.

I am very glad that there is a young mind working on expanding how dance research and dance itself is perceived in the Indian context.

The more curiosity that enters this space, the more it will grow.

I am genuinely impressed with what you are doing.

When you reached out, I was very excited to engage with it. I did not initially think I would be the right person, but I am very happy you contacted me.

Interviewer:
Is this a school project, a college project, or a personal project?

How did it come about?

Interviewee:
It began because, as I mentioned earlier, I was never taught the anti-Nautch movement in the classroom.

Then during class, my Kathak guru casually mentioned the decadence narrative and the anti-Nautch movement in conversation with a student.

That moment stayed with me.

I later went home and started searching about it. That led me into reading more and more.

I initially thought I would work specifically on Devadasis, but gradually I came across a much wider field—Maharis, Baijis, Tawaifs, and other women performers.

And not only women—Hijra performers, non-normative identities, Gandharva traditions—all of them were part of hereditary performing lineages in different ways.

That completely fascinated me.

I became very interested in working on this. I am genuinely very passionate about my project.

Interviewee (continued):
You should know—the anti-Nautch movement was enacted in Odisha, but the Maharis did not immediately stop performing. They continued temple dance practices until around the 1960s.

This is one reason Odissi formally emerges in the 1950s. The 1947 performance is often cited as an early point—it did not even have a fixed name at that time.

It is very interesting, actually.

Someone should be working on this seriously. I am glad you are.

You might want to look at Quoting Hindustan by Madhur Gupta. It discusses how Tawaifs and Baijis were also part of the Indian independence movement, although I find its lens somewhat problematic.

Still, it is a readable book.

There is also a documentary—wait, I am trying to recall the name—about Rasoolan Bai’s thumri tradition.

It focuses on how, in one of her thumris, the word jobanwa (meaning breast) was later replaced with karijwa (heart).

Through that change, it traces how sensuality was edited out over time, especially in performance traditions, and how ideas of propriety reshaped language, music, and dance.

There are so many layers to this history. So many.

Interviewer:
Sorry, can I ask how old you are?

Interviewee:
I am 15. I will turn 16 this February.

Interviewer:
You are 15 and thinking like this? That is very impressive.

I did not have this kind of clarity at that age.

Have you been learning for long?

Interviewee:
I started Kathak because my friends were going for classes.

I began in 7th grade, continued through 9th, then stopped midway through 10th, and rejoined in 11th.

Right now, I am very passionate about Kathak again.

Interviewer:
I am glad. Please continue learning.

I would love to watch you perform one day.

Interviewee:
I just performed recently. It was my first performance, last Sunday.