Interviews

As part of the Re-Learning the Nautch project, we spoke with Sahil Mudaliyar a young Bharatanatyam and Kuchipudi practitioner about their experiences, reflections on classical dance pedagogy, and encounters with historical narratives, particularly around the Devadasi system and Sadir. Sahul has been studying Bharatanatyam for six years and Kuchipudi for five, offering a rich perspective as a student deeply engaged with both the technical and historical aspects of these art forms.

When asked about their exposure to discussions on Devadasis and Sadir, Sahil explained that while their formal education did not always foreground these histories, they encountered them through self-study and classroom discussions: “We used to have healthy discussions in class without disputes. Learning about Devadasis and Sadir gave me a deeper understanding of the cultural and historical roots of Bharatanatyam.” This awareness, they shared, reshaped how they view the dance: “Actually, learning even a little about Devadasis and Sadir changed how I view Bharatanatyam as a form. It is central to understanding it as an art, and not just a performance tradition.”

The interview highlighted the importance of engaging with difficult or complex histories in dance education. The practitioner emphasized that while knowledge of Devadasis and the transformation of Sadir into Bharatanatyam is essential, it should not be treated as a burden: “I think that practitioners have a responsibility to engage with these histories even if briefly, but not as a burden.” This perspective aligns with the goals of Re-Learning the Nautch, which seeks to amplify the lived experiences and historical contexts that have often been marginalized or erased.

Reflecting on the selective memory of history in classical dance, Sahil observed, “History is selectively remembered based upon events, popularity, and controversies. Some narratives are left unspoken. Sadir, which is now known as Bharatanatyam, has been widely refined and practiced, while the Devadasis have been largely erased from the history of Indian classical dance.” This insight underscores how societal, cultural, and institutional choices shape collective memory, affecting which stories are celebrated, refined, or erased.

The conversation also touched on the personal and cultural significance of dance. Sahil a Keralite, described how learning about the Devadasis reshaped their understanding of Bharatanatyam as an art form rooted in cultural practice: “It is rooted in my culture, so learning about Devadasis has changed my view, considering Bharatanatyam as a true art form rather than just a performance.” This reflects the way historical knowledge, personal identity, and embodied practice intersect in shaping a dancer’s experience.

Finally, Mr. Mudaliyar shared a reflective quote in Tamil that resonates deeply with the ethos of classical dance: “If the dance is worship, then the stage will be your temple.” This statement encapsulates the spiritual and performative dimensions of Bharatanatyam, emphasizing that dance is not only technical mastery but also devotion, expression, and cultural continuity.

The interview concluded with explicit consent for the material to be featured in the project’s journal, The Énoncé.Their perspective highlights the value of documenting practitioner voices, offering insights into pedagogy, historical awareness, and the ongoing negotiation between tradition and contemporary practice.

This interview exemplifies the aims of Re-Learning the Nautch: to create a living archive of classical and cultural dance traditions by recording the experiences, reflections, and interpretations of practitioners themselves. By foregrounding the histories of Devadasis, Sadir, and the cultural contexts of Bharatanatyam, this project encourages critical engagement, mentorship, and reflective practice, ensuring that these stories and embodied knowledge endure for future generations.

Through narratives like these, the archive fosters understanding not only of the art itself but also of the broader social, cultural, and historical forces that have shaped its evolution. It reminds us that dance is simultaneously personal and collective, a form of expression, memory, and cultural heritage, whose histories must be remembered, interrogated, and celebrated in their full complexity.

As part of the Re-Learning the Nautch project, we spoke with Ansh, a young Kathak practitioner of the Lucknow Gharana, about his experiences, reflections on Nautch history, and the ways in which gender, lineage, and memory shape the art form today. Ansh has been practicing Kathak for over a decade, though his formal training began only recently in class 11. His story highlights both the personal and social dimensions of dance in contemporary India.

When asked about his training journey, Ansh shared, “I haven’t formally learned Kathak since childhood, but I’ve always performed on my own. My family noticed my interest in dance and encouraged me to learn formally. This year, I took Kathak as my optional subject, so this is my first year of proper learning. However, I’ve been practicing roughly for 11 years.” Despite the informal nature of much of his early practice, his commitment and self-motivation reflect a deep, embodied connection to the art, echoing the improvisational spirit that characterized historic Nautch performers.

As a male dancer, Ansh has faced specific societal expectations and challenges. He described the tension between personal passion and public perception: “I faced many obligations in my childhood of being called feminine or gay. It was painful to live in a society where dance is often seen negatively. But my mother always supported me, and when I dance, I forget everything and just indulge in my art. Over time, I realized that dance is art, and art has no gender. I portray both female and male characters with full enthusiasm, without any guilt or shame.” His reflections underscore how Kathak performance is not merely about rhythm and narrative; it is also a negotiation of identity and a medium for expressing a spectrum of embodied energies.

Ansh’s engagement with the history of Kathak, particularly the role of Nautch dancers and Tawaifs, illustrates how contemporary practitioners confront gaps and silences in traditional pedagogy. He noted, “During my Kathak lessons, I learned about the Tawaifs—their origins, living standards, and their role in Kathak history. Kathak became popular in the Mughal era, evolving from temple performances to entertainment in kingdoms. Tawaifs played a crucial role in this history.” He was candid about the historical erasure of these artists: “Yes, they were treated very badly. They were erased from history books. A dancer, an artist, was often displayed in demeaning ways. But Kathak is art, and art can be acknowledged by anyone.”

Ansh’s perspective highlights the tension between authenticity and contemporary perception. When asked what students should know about Kathak, he emphasized history and significance. Regarding ongoing discomforts within the form, he explained, “People think Kathak is old-fashioned, maybe. Authenticity is required more.” When prompted to reflect on Kathak as a memory, and whose memories are represented in contemporary practice, he responded simply, “Something else,” hinting at alternative, often overlooked narratives that continue to shape the art today.

These reflections reveal multiple layers of Kathak as both heritage and living practice. Ansh’s story illustrates the transformative potential of dance as a medium for personal expression, cultural memory, and scholarly inquiry. His experiences also foreground the importance of mentorship, inclusive pedagogy, and critical engagement with history in shaping the next generation of Kathak practitioners.

Ansh’s contributions demonstrate the value of documenting lived experiences alongside formal training. By including voices like his, the Re-Learning the Nautch project seeks to recover stories of agency, resilience, and creativity that have often been marginalized or erased. His narrative emphasizes that Kathak is not only a technical discipline but also a space for negotiating identity, engaging with memory, and reinterpreting history in contemporary contexts.

This interview, conducted via chat, is part of the RTN project’s effort to combine scholarly rigor with personal narrative, creating a layered understanding of classical dance forms. By foregrounding the perspectives of active practitioners, the project provides primary sources that inform teaching modules, workshops, and curriculum development, ensuring that Kathak’s traditions are preserved, interpreted, and reimagined with integrity.

In Ansh’s words, the journey of Kathak—both as art and as lived experience—is defined not just by lineage or technique but by engagement, reflection, and resilience. He reminds us that dance is a medium for expressing the full spectrum of human experience, and that embracing its history and memory is essential to sustaining its relevance today.

The Re-Learning the Nautch project gratefully acknowledges Ansh’s participation and permission to feature this interview. His insights contribute meaningfully to the broader conversation about Kathak’s history, pedagogy, and future, and exemplify the type of nuanced reflection that RTN seeks to document.

As part of the Re-Learning the Nautch archive, this interview documents a conversation with Bharatanatyam practitioner Gulshan Kumar, whose journey challenges conventional assumptions about the dancing body, pedagogy, and access within Indian classical dance. Although this interview was not formally recorded, it is reconstructed from attentive listening and reflective note-making, preserving the core ideas, critiques, and insights shared during the conversation.

Gulshan Kumar is a dancer who identifies as disabled and practices Bharatanatyam while using a wheelchair. His practice, achievements, and public performances—some of which have received international recognition, including mentions of world records—stand as a powerful intervention in how classical dance spaces define capability, discipline, and legitimacy. Rather than positioning disability as limitation, Gulshan’s practice reframes it as a site of innovation, resilience, and expanded pedagogy.

A central theme of the conversation was access to training. Gulshan spoke critically about how many gurus and institutions hesitate to teach young students with disabilities, often due to assumptions about “physical structure,” correctness of posture, or the perceived impossibility of executing prescribed movements. This exclusion, he noted, is rarely articulated openly but operates through silence, discouragement, or denial of opportunity. His critique was not directed at individuals alone, but at a larger pedagogical culture that equates classical dance excellence with a narrowly defined able-bodied ideal.

Importantly, Gulshan emphasized that his engagement with Bharatanatyam is not a symbolic or diluted version of the form. He performs Bharatanatyam as Bharatanatyam, without redefining it as something lesser or separate. The grammar of movement, rhythm, expression, and devotion remains intact. Where footwork would traditionally be articulated through stamped steps, he translates rhythm through the controlled tapping and movement of his wheelchair, aligning his upper body, hands, and torso with tala and musical structure. This adaptation, rather than deviating from the form, reveals its underlying logic more clearly: Bharatanatyam is not only about legs—it is about rhythm embodied.

In this sense, Gulshan’s practice exposes an often-unquestioned assumption within classical dance pedagogy: that authenticity depends on a single physical template. His work suggests instead that authenticity lies in commitment to structure, intention, and rasa, not in conformity to a fixed body type. By performing with the same rigor, seriousness, and aesthetic discipline as other Bharatanatyam dancers, he resists narratives that frame disabled dancers as inspirational exceptions rather than serious practitioners.

The conversation also addressed achievement and recognition. Gulshan spoke about reaching national and international platforms and being associated with world records, including Guinness recognitions. These accomplishments matter not as trophies, but as evidence that disabled dancers can meet—and redefine—standards of excellence when given access and opportunity. At the same time, he was careful not to present success as the only measure of worth. The deeper concern, he suggested, is building systems that do not require extraordinary achievement simply to justify inclusion.

Another important insight from the interview was Gulshan’s forward-looking stance. Rather than dwelling only on barriers he faced, he spoke about building something new—a future where classical dance pedagogy is more inclusive, thoughtful, and flexible without compromising rigor. This involves training environments that adapt teaching methods rather than excluding bodies, and gurus who are willing to rethink how they communicate rhythm, movement, and expression. His vision aligns closely with the goals of Re-Learning the Nautch: to question inherited structures while remaining deeply respectful of tradition.

Gulshan’s narrative also raises critical questions for the broader classical dance ecosystem. Who is classical dance for? Whose bodies are imagined when syllabi are written, stages are built, and auditions are conducted? And what histories of exclusion remain unexamined under the guise of “purity” or “discipline”? While his interview focused on disability, these questions resonate with other marginalized experiences across gender, caste, class, and geography.

Within the context of Bharatanatyam’s long history—shaped by reform, codification, and selective visibility—Gulshan’s practice becomes part of an ongoing process of reinterpretation. His work does not reject tradition; it insists on its capacity to hold more than it currently does. By embodying rhythm through wheels, gesture through precision, and devotion through persistence, he expands what the Bharatanatyam body can signify.

This archived interview is included in Re-Learning the Nautch as a record of lived pedagogy—knowledge produced not only in classrooms or texts, but through bodies navigating structures that were not designed for them. Gulshan Kumar’s journey reminds us that classical dance is not static inheritance, but a living practice shaped by those who dare to enter it on their own terms.

This conversation foregrounds pedagogy as a deeply personal and reflective practice rather than a purely technical one. Ms Nainika situates memory primarily within the personal—recalling her own experiences as a student—while also acknowledging the presence of inherited gestures that exceed individual training. Rather than attaching fixed meanings to these movements, she describes her relationship with dance as holistic, suggesting an understanding of embodiment that resists rigid historicization.

Her articulation of lineage is notably non-hierarchical. Instead of positioning lineage as authority-bound or guru-centric, she frames it as something accessed through stories, repertoire, and historical continuity. This aligns with RTN’s interest in lineage as transmission rather than ownership.

Importantly, Nainika identifies silences within dance ecosystems—particularly around privilege, access, mental health, and abuse. While performances and histories are publicly celebrated, the structural and emotional realities of training remain under-discussed. Her reflections on privilege—urban access, nutrition, and bodily conditioning—extend this critique to contemporary pedagogy, highlighting how training spaces can unintentionally exclude many bodies and backgrounds.

Her response to questions of authenticity resists absolutism. By emphasizing honesty and process over fixed definitions, she acknowledges the generational gap in how authenticity is perceived, while refusing to position one era’s understanding as superior. Finally, her hope that future dancers question perfectionism and performativity reflects a pedagogical ethic grounded in care, dialogue, and critical self-awareness.

Together, her responses contribute to RTN’s thesis of dance as a living archive—one that preserves lineage while remaining open to interrogation, vulnerability, and change.

In this interview, Kathak practitioner Shweta Satish Kushwah offers a reflective and historically grounded perspective on the relationship between Kathak, Nautch, and the tawaif traditions, addressing the tension between artistic continuity and shifting social perceptions. She emphasizes that while the contexts in which Kathak was performed changed over time, from temples to royal courts and later to kothas, the art itself remained intact in its aesthetic purity, technical rigor, and expressive depth.

Shweta draws attention to the gendered ways in which tawaifs were historically viewed, particularly as women performing before male-dominated audiences in courtly and nawabi settings. She notes that this social framing often led to their work being dismissed as mere entertainment, obscuring their profound artistic contributions. However, she resists the notion that these associations compromised the form. Instead, she asserts that Kathak’s movement vocabulary, rhythmic complexity, and emotional expression were preserved and, in many ways, enriched during this period.

A significant part of her reflection centers on the role of tawaifs in shaping Kathak’s abhinaya and musical traditions. She highlights the development of thumri and bhav pradarshan as key expressive forms that flourished through the artistry of tawaifs, naming figures such as Gauhar Jaan as cultural innovators rather than peripheral performers. Through this lens, tawaifs emerge not as passive transmitters of tradition but as composers, interpreters, and custodians of refined aesthetic knowledge.

By separating moral judgment from artistic practice, Shweta challenges narratives that position Kathak’s courtly history as a deviation from an earlier, “purer” temple tradition. Her account underscores a core argument of Re-Learning the Nautch: that the marginalization of tawaifs represents a historical and cultural erasure, not an artistic decline. The interview thus reframes Nautch not as a footnote in Kathak’s history, but as a central chapter whose contributors deserve recognition within both pedagogy and performance discourse today.

This interview offers a layered exploration of Indian classical dance as both embodied practice and historical construct. Moving fluidly between personal experience, academic reflection, and critical inquiry, the speaker develops a nuanced argument about how dance forms such as Kathak and Odissi are not static inheritances from antiquity, but evolving systems shaped by colonial intervention, nationalist reconstruction, and ongoing pedagogical choices. The conversation ultimately becomes less about documenting facts and more about tracing how knowledge itself is produced, withheld, and reimagined within classical dance traditions.

At the heart of the discussion is a critique of how history is—or is not—taught within dance training environments. The speaker recalls that their early exposure to Odissi and Kathak was largely devoid of structured historical context. Instead, training emphasized repetition, devotion, and an almost mythic timelessness. Dance was framed as something sacred, ancient, and spiritually significant, but rarely situated within concrete socio-political histories. The few symbols present in the studio—images of deities like Nataraja, Jagannath, and figures like Kelucharan Mohapatra—stood in for a much larger and more complex history that remained unspoken.

This absence of historical instruction led the speaker to independently pursue research into the origins and transformations of the forms they were learning. What they discovered fundamentally altered their understanding of classical dance. Rather than seeing Kathak and Odissi as unbroken traditions, they began to see them as reconstructed forms shaped significantly in the mid-20th century, particularly in the aftermath of colonial rule and nationalist cultural consolidation. Odissi, in this interpretation, emerges not as a continuously preserved ancient form but as a codified reconstruction in the 1950s, drawing from fragmented ritual and performative practices. Similarly, Kathak is understood as having undergone radical redefinition in post-independence India, particularly through institutional frameworks that standardized technique and narrative.

A key conceptual pivot in the interview is the idea of “rupture.” Rather than viewing colonialism and reform movements such as the Anti-Nautch campaigns as simple disruptions or losses, the speaker proposes that these ruptures actively generated new dance histories. Colonial intervention did not merely suppress existing performance traditions; it also reclassified, reorganized, and in some cases enabled their transformation into what are now recognized as classical forms. In this sense, the present-day structure of Indian classical dance is not separate from colonial modernity but deeply shaped by it.

The speaker’s engagement with the Anti-Nautch movement becomes particularly significant in this context. Rather than treating it as a singular historical event, they interpret it as part of a broader ideological shift that redefined performance, sexuality, and legitimacy in Indian dance. The movement is linked to efforts to remove hereditary performers—such as Devadasis, Tawaifs, Baijis, and Maharis—from public and institutional recognition. This restructuring of performance culture is also understood as tied to emerging nationalist desires to present a “respectable” image of India, particularly one that could align with Victorian moral frameworks.

Within this framework, the speaker introduces a critical insight: the history of classical dance is inseparable from the politics of respectability and gender. The transformation of hereditary performance communities into marginalized or erased figures is not incidental but foundational to the creation of “classical” status itself. In other words, what is recognized today as refined, spiritual, or classical was partly produced through processes that excluded or sanitised the very communities that sustained these traditions.

The interview also highlights how sensuality was systematically reinterpreted or removed in this process. The speaker references how poetic and musical language—such as the substitution of words in thumri traditions (for instance, replacing “jobanwa” with “karijwa”)—reflects a broader cultural shift in which bodily and erotic expression was increasingly edited out. This shift is not merely linguistic but deeply ideological, marking a transition from embodied, lived traditions to codified, moralised performance forms. The result is a version of classical dance that often separates aesthetic form from its historical sensuality and social contexts.

Another major theme that emerges is the institutional framing of dance knowledge. The speaker critiques the dominance of exam-oriented definitions and standardized historical narratives in Kathak training. These narratives often present the dance form as originating in temples, moving into courts, and eventually stabilizing as a modern classical form. While widely accepted, this version is described as reductive and constructed, reinforced through institutional repetition rather than critical inquiry. The speaker points to academic work—such as that of Margaret E. Walker—as challenging these simplified accounts, revealing the extent to which “official” histories are themselves products of selective storytelling.

This critique extends to broader academic and canonical writings on Indian classical dance, including works by scholars such as Sunil Kothari and Kapila Vatsyayan. While acknowledging their importance, the speaker suggests that these texts often reproduce a continuous lineage narrative that smooths over historical discontinuities. This narrative, they argue, contributes to the perception of classical dance as timeless and unchanging, rather than historically contingent and politically shaped.

In contrast to this institutional framing, the speaker emphasizes the importance of embodied research and lived inquiry. Their own journey into dance scholarship begins not in formal academic settings but through curiosity sparked in the studio. A casual remark by a guru about the Anti-Nautch movement becomes a catalyst for deeper exploration. From there, the speaker expands their research to include not only Devadasis but also a wide range of hereditary performers, including Tawaifs, Baijis, Maharis, Hijra performers, and Gandharva traditions. This expanded field reveals a complex ecosystem of performance lineages that challenge narrow definitions of classical art.

A particularly important insight in the interview is the idea that dance forms are not simply preserved but actively reconstructed. The speaker argues that both Kathak and Odissi, as they exist today, are products of mid-20th-century reconstruction efforts. Odissi, in particular, is framed as a modern codification that draws from temple practices, regional movement vocabularies, and revivalist agendas. Kathak, similarly, is understood as having been standardized through institutional and postcolonial cultural processes that shaped its pedagogy and aesthetics.

Despite this critical perspective, the speaker does not reject the notion of classical dance. Instead, they reframe it as a living system that derives its vitality from continuous reinvention. Timelessness, in this view, is not the absence of history but the ability of a form to remain generative across time. The endurance of Kathak and Odissi is thus attributed not to their preservation in an unchanged form, but to their capacity to produce new meanings and variations through each generation of practitioners.

This perspective is also reflected in the speaker’s embodied practice. They describe how they experience Kathak and Odissi differently in terms of movement quality and internal intention. Kathak is associated with lightness, spontaneity, and improvisational energy, while Odissi is associated with strength, control, and a more grounded physicality. These distinctions are not external impositions but internalized understandings of the forms’ aesthetic logics. The dancer thus becomes both interpreter and re-creator of tradition, shaping their practice through both inherited technique and personal sensibility.

The interview concludes on a reflective note, with mutual recognition between interviewer and interviewee regarding the significance of this emerging research perspective. The speaker’s work is acknowledged as part of a broader intellectual shift in which younger practitioners are beginning to question inherited narratives and engage critically with dance history. The conversation suggests that dance scholarship in India is undergoing a gradual but meaningful transformation, driven not only by academic institutions but also by practitioners who move between studio and archive.

Ultimately, this interview functions as both testimony and critique. It documents a personal journey into dance practice while simultaneously exposing the historical and ideological structures that shape what counts as tradition. It challenges the idea of classical dance as fixed heritage and instead presents it as a contested, reconstructed, and continuously evolving field. Through this synthesis of embodied knowledge and historical inquiry, the speaker positions dance not only as performance but as a site of ongoing intellectual and political negotiation.

This interview explores the complex, often contested history of courtesans within the evolution of Kathak, situating the discussion within broader postcolonial, social, and institutional frameworks. At its core, the conversation grapples with a central tension: why courtesans—despite their foundational role in shaping the aesthetics and repertoire of Kathak—are rarely acknowledged as pedagogues or knowledge-producers in mainstream discourse.

One of the key insights that emerges early in the interview is that the recognition of courtesans as pedagogical figures is itself a relatively recent development in scholarship. Historically, they were not viewed as repositories of knowledge, but rather as stigmatized, sexualized figures. This deeply entrenched stigma prevented their acknowledgment as gurus or transmitters of artistic traditions. Even contemporary attempts to “recover” courtesans tend to frame them aesthetically—as performers embodying grace, beauty, and refinement—rather than as educators who actively shaped and transmitted the form. This reveals a gap in both historical memory and academic framing.

The interview also highlights the methodological challenges involved in reconstructing courtesans’ contributions, particularly their dance practices. Unlike music, where elements such as tabla compositions have been preserved, the embodied nature of dance makes it far more difficult to archive. The absence of video documentation means that scholars must rely on photographs, textual descriptions, and indirect traces in early cinema. Even in these sources, what survives are fragmented “echoes” rather than complete vocabularies. As a result, what remains is often an aesthetic memory—stylized, partial, and sometimes distorted—rather than a fully recoverable tradition.

Another significant theme is the erasure and restructuring of lineage. The interviewee points out that knowledge systems within Kathak were often reorganized along male-dominated lines, which contributed to the marginalization of courtesans’ roles. This restructuring was not accidental but tied to broader socio-political processes, including the anti-nautch movement of the late 19th century. While colonial forces played a role in stigmatizing courtesans, the interview emphasizes that Indian reformers—particularly upper-caste elites—were equally complicit. They sought to “sanitize” dance traditions by distancing them from courtesan culture and aligning them with notions of respectability, morality, and nationalism. This process involved not only removing courtesans from public spaces but also redefining the dance itself.

However, the interview complicates the idea of complete erasure by examining the persistence of certain elements within the Kathak repertoire. Forms such as aamad, which have clear courtly and even Persianate origins, continue to be widely practiced. This persistence suggests that while ideological shifts attempted to reshape Kathak into a more “devotional” and Sanskritized form, the embodied nature of the tradition resisted total transformation. As the interviewee puts it, “they stay in the body.” These elements are not merely remnants; they are active traces of a layered history that cannot be entirely rewritten.

The discussion of costume and presentation further illustrates this transformation. Early depictions of Kathak dancers—particularly male figures—show them in courtly attire such as angarakhas and topis, reflecting the form’s association with Mughal and Nawabi courts. Over time, however, these visual markers were replaced with more ascetic, “classical” aesthetics that aligned with nationalist ideals. This shift was not limited to movement vocabulary but extended to the entire visual and symbolic framework of the dance.

The interview also addresses the evolving structure of Kathak itself. Elements such as vandana and kavits, now considered integral to performances, were not always central. Their increased prominence reflects modern interventions in the form’s repertoire, often driven by institutional and ideological priorities. This reinforces the idea that Kathak, as it exists today, is not an unchanging tradition but a product of continuous reconstruction.

A particularly compelling aspect of the interview is its reflection on contemporary tensions within the practice and study of Kathak. The interviewer observes that even today, Persian and Muslim influences are often under-acknowledged, despite being actively practiced. Concepts like Ganga-Jamuni tehzeeb, which once symbolized syncretic cultural exchange, are increasingly contested. This points to a broader cultural and political moment in which questions of heritage, identity, and ownership are being renegotiated.

Finally, the interview shifts to a more personal and methodological reflection on navigating these complexities as a young researcher. The interviewer expresses discomfort in challenging their guru’s perspective, particularly when it attributes changes in Kathak solely to colonial influence. The interviewee responds by affirming the importance of questioning and critical inquiry while also acknowledging the practical challenges of doing so within hierarchical systems like the guru-shishya tradition. They emphasize the distinction between practice and scholarship, noting that expertise in one does not necessarily translate to authority in the other.

The advice to “compartmentalize” one’s intellectual and practical worlds is particularly striking. It reflects a pragmatic approach to navigating institutional and interpersonal dynamics while continuing to pursue critical research. At the same time, the interview underscores that disagreement and reinterpretation are essential to the evolution of knowledge.

Overall, this interview offers a nuanced exploration of Kathak’s history, foregrounding the complexities of memory, erasure, and reconstruction. It challenges simplified narratives and highlights the need to recognize courtesans not only as aesthetic figures but as central contributors to the pedagogical and cultural foundations of the form.

This interview offers a reflective and grounded perspective on the journey of a young Dhrupad practitioner navigating both institutional music education and the traditional guru-shishya parampara. Speaking from just three to four years of focused training, the interviewee presents not authority, but thoughtful engagement—drawing from lived experience, textual study, and ongoing learning.

His musical journey began formally with harmonium training, completing Visharad-level studies, before entering the Faculty of Performing Arts at Maharaja Sayajirao University of Baroda. However, a significant shift occurred around 2021–2022 when he began training in Dhrupad under his guru, Shri Chintan Upadhyay. Alongside practical learning, he immersed himself in classical texts such as the Natya Shastra, Sangeet Ratnakar, and Sangeet Parijat, engaging with them in both Marathi and English. This dual engagement—with embodied practice and textual inquiry—shapes much of his perspective.

A key theme in the interview is the contrast between institutional and traditional modes of learning. In the university system, music education is structured around syllabi, examinations, and time constraints—often requiring students to prepare a large number of ragas within a limited period. The interviewee describes this as overwhelming and, at times, counterproductive. In contrast, training under a guru emphasizes depth over breadth. Spending an entire year on a single raga is not only acceptable but desirable. The focus shifts from accumulation to internalization—from covering material to embodying it.

This pedagogical difference is not merely technical but philosophical. In Dhrupad, the interviewee finds a meditative approach to music, rooted in stillness and sustained attention. He describes early lessons that involved spending 30–40 minutes on a single note in the lower octave, aligning the voice with the tanpura. This practice, he suggests, is akin to meditation and reflects the concept of Advaita—non-duality or oneness. For him, Dhrupad becomes a means of dissolving the self into sound, of engaging in what he calls the “worship of naad.”

His preference for Dhrupad over Khayal emerges from this inclination toward stillness. While he acknowledges the devotional depth in Khayal, citing artists like Bhimsen Joshi, he personally finds it too dynamic or “chanchal.” Dhrupad, in contrast, offers a stable and grounded space for exploration. This is not framed as a hierarchy of forms, but as a matter of individual temperament.

When discussing history, the interviewee adopts a cautious and critical stance. He challenges the commonly accepted narrative that Dhrupad transitioned linearly from temple to court settings, noting the lack of concrete textual evidence for such a shift. Much of what is believed, he argues, is based on folklore and scattered references in texts like the Ain-i-Akbari and Akbarnama. He cites figures like Tansen and Swami Haridas, as well as stories involving Gopal Nayak and Amir Khusro, but emphasizes that these accounts are often unverifiable.

This skepticism extends to broader historical claims, including the influence of the Mughal period on Dhrupad. While acknowledging minor shifts—such as changes in syllabic patterns in alap—he does not see evidence of fundamental transformation. Instead, he traces a longer lineage from Dhruva Gita in the Natya Shastra, through Prabandha forms, to modern Dhrupad. This continuity, he suggests, is more significant than any political or cultural rupture.

The interview also addresses the classification of musical forms into “classical” and “semi-classical.” The interviewee rejects this binary as a colonial construct, arguing that traditional Indian music was not originally organized in this way. He prefers the terms Shastriya and Upa-Shastriya, but even these, he suggests, have become rigid over time. He highlights how forms like Thumri and Dadra—despite their richness and emotional depth—have been historically undervalued due to associations with courtly and courtesan cultures.

Importantly, he resists these hierarchies altogether. For him, the value of music lies not in its classification but in the sincerity and depth of the artist’s engagement. Whether it is Dhrupad, Khayal, or Thumri, what matters is the artist’s ability to transcend ego and connect with the essence of sound.

On the question of dance, he acknowledges that while Dhrupad is not commonly associated with dance today, there are instances of its use in both Kathak and Bharatanatyam. Traditional compositions in specific talas have been adapted for choreography, indicating a more fluid relationship between music and movement than is often assumed.

The discussion of stigma reveals an interesting contrast. While dance traditions like Kathak have grappled with the legacy of courtesan culture, Dhrupad has largely retained a perception of respectability. However, this does not mean it is free from exclusion. The interviewee points out that women were historically barred from performing Dhrupad, resulting in a lack of documented female practitioners. This absence is now recognized and regretted, with more recent efforts to include women in the tradition.

On the topic of tawaifs, he notes the lack of clear evidence linking them to Dhrupad, though their contributions to Thumri and related forms are well acknowledged. Again, he emphasizes the need for critical engagement with sources, distinguishing between folklore and verifiable history.

Finally, the interview returns to the personal. Despite his accomplishments—formal degrees, performances, and scholarly reading—the interviewee repeatedly emphasizes his status as a student. His goals are not limited to mastering a tradition but extend to personal growth. He speaks of learning languages like Marathi to access texts, of observing senior artists like Ullas Kashalkar, and of striving to become someone worth listening to—not just musically, but as a person.

In essence, this interview is not just about Dhrupad. It is about a way of approaching art—with humility, curiosity, and a commitment to depth over display.