Commentary

In Bhabhi Ji Ghar Par Hain, laughter is manufactured cheaply. 

One of its most reliable devices is Gulfam Kali, the bar dancer whose exaggerated mujras, suggestive gestures, and comic villainy invite viewers to laugh at her presence rather than think about what she represents. On the surface, she is harmless entertainment. Beneath it, however, lies a familiar and troubling pattern: the tawaif reduced to a moral punchline. This is not merely about one character in one sitcom. It is about how popular Indian television continues to recycle a degraded image of hereditary performers, stripped of history, flattened into stereotype, and presented as culturally inferior to the “respectable” domestic world the show celebrates. Gulfam Kali is not named a tawaif, but her visual grammar is unmistakable: the kotha, the mujra, the excess, the implied availability. What is being mocked is not just a fictional woman, but an entire lineage of cultural labour. 

Historically, the tawaif was not a marginal figure. She was central to the development of Hindustani music, Urdu poetry, courtly etiquette, and aesthetic pedagogy. Tawaifs trained elite men in language, taste, and comportment; they sustained sophisticated systems of artistic transmission long before formal conservatories existed. Their worlds were governed by discipline, lineage, and rigorous training, not by the cheap eroticism with which contemporary media insists on associating them. Television, however, has inherited a colonial and postcolonial moral script that cannot accommodate such complexity. The mujra, once a refined performance practice, is now coded as inherently vulgar. The kotha, once a space of cultural exchange, becomes shorthand for moral decay. Gulfam Kali’s performance is never allowed dignity or interiority; it exists only as spectacle, something to be laughed at, feared, or morally dismissed. This flattening is deliberate. 

Sitcoms thrive on binary morality: the good wife versus the bad woman, domestic virtue versus public excess. In this schema, the tawaif-like figure must remain perpetually outside respectability. She cannot be intelligent without being manipulative, talented without being dangerous, or expressive without being obscene. The joke depends on her remaining illegible as a full human being. What makes this portrayal particularly insidious is its claim to innocence. Comedy, after all, is “just comedy.” But popular culture does not merely reflect social attitudes, it reproduces them. When mujra is repeatedly framed as laughable, when dancers are depicted as predatory or ridiculous, audiences absorb a lesson about whose labour counts as culture and whose counts as contamination. The result is not harmless humour, but cultural amnesia. This amnesia has consequences.

 Hereditary performers across India have spent decades battling stigma created by precisely these narratives. While their histories are erased from textbooks and institutions, television resurrects them only as caricature. The same society that once criminalised, reformed, and abandoned these communities now consumes their distorted images as entertainment. Gulfam Kali is not offensive because she dances. She is offensive because the show cannot imagine a dancer without moral degradation. Her body is allowed visibility, but not history. Her performance is shown, but never respected. This is not accidental, it is how cultural hierarchies sustain themselves. If Indian television wishes to be more than noise, it must learn to treat cultural memory with responsibility. Comedy need not be reverent, but it must be conscious. 

The tawaif does not need romanticisation, but she does deserve historical honesty. 

Until popular media learns the difference, it will continue to laugh at what it has already helped erase. And some jokes, especially those built on centuries of silencing, are simply not funny anymore. 

Colonial archives often present themselves as neutral repositories of knowledge—catalogues of customs, communities, and practices observed and recorded for posterity. Yet such texts are never merely descriptive. They are instruments of power, shaped by the administrative, moral, and epistemic priorities of the colonial state. Edgar Thurston’s Castes and Tribes of Southern India (1909), a seven-volume ethnographic survey produced under the auspices of the Madras Presidency, stands as one of the most influential such texts. Frequently cited in academic, legal, and reformist discourse, it has played a significant role in shaping modern understandings of Devadāsi and Basavi communities.

This essay presents a critically annotated reading of Thurston’s work, focusing on its representations of Devadāsis and related hereditary performer groups. Rather than treating the text as a transparent historical source, this analysis approaches it as an artifact of colonial knowledge production—one that simultaneously documents institutional complexity and participates in its dismantling. Through close annotation, this essay examines how Thurston’s ethnography records evidence of ritual, legal, and economic legitimacy while reinterpreting that evidence through a moralizing framework aligned with Victorian reformist ideology. In doing so, the text contributes to the epistemic conditions that made the abolition of Devadāsi institutions appear both necessary and inevitable.

By reading Thurston’s work against itself, this essay situates Castes and Tribes of Southern India not as a neutral record of “native customs,” but as a site where gender, sexuality, law, and performance were reorganized to fit colonial moral and administrative logics. Such a reading is essential for understanding how hereditary performance cultures, particularly those led by women, came to be erased from official histories of Indian classical dance.

Colonial Ethnography and the Illusion of Neutrality

At first glance, Thurston’s ethnography appears exhaustive and methodical. It catalogs caste names, ritual practices, marriage systems, inheritance laws, and regional variations with encyclopedic ambition. The language of classification measurements, genealogies, case examples, and legal references creates an impression of scientific objectivity. However, this very structure reveals the epistemological assumptions underpinning colonial anthropology.

Colonial ethnography operated within a framework that sought to make Indian society legible to the state. This legibility required reducing fluid social practices into fixed categories, prioritizing those aspects that could be regulated through law. In the case of Devadāsi communities, Thurston’s attention consistently gravitates toward sexuality, marriage, and inheritance, while ritual labor, artistic expertise, and institutional governance are treated as secondary or incidental.

This imbalance is not accidental. Victorian moral anthropology viewed female sexual autonomy as inherently suspect, particularly when it existed outside monogamous, patriarchal marriage. As a result, Devadāsi dedication, a complex ritual process involving temple service, performance, and religious obligation, is reframed primarily through the lens of sexual availability. Even when Thurston records practices that contradict this framing, such as temple stipends, land grants, or regulated adoption systems, these are subsumed within a broader narrative of moral disorder.

Thus, the illusion of neutrality dissolves under scrutiny. The text does not merely describe Devadāsi institutions; it reorganizes them into a moral problem requiring administrative intervention.

Sexualization as an Epistemic Strategy

One of the most striking patterns revealed through annotation is the persistent sexualization of Devadāsi life. Thurston repeatedly collapses ritual dedication, artistic performance, and economic independence into the category of prostitution. This occurs even when the evidence he presents suggests otherwise.

For instance, Thurston documents Devadāsis receiving salaries from temples, participating in ritual calendars, and holding recognized social status within specific caste hierarchies. Yet these details are often followed by moral commentary that frames such arrangements as evidence of institutionalized immorality rather than structured labor. The logic is circular: because Devadāsis do not conform to colonial norms of marriage, their work must be sexual; because their work is sexual, their institutions must be abolished.

This sexualization functions as an epistemic strategy. By foregrounding sexuality, the text displaces questions of artistry, pedagogy, and religious function. Dance and music, central to Devadāsi identity, are acknowledged but never analyzed as skilled disciplines. Instead, they appear as ornamental justifications for a system otherwise defined by sexual transgression.

Importantly, Thurston’s text also relies on euphemism and selective quotation. Proverbs, anecdotes, and isolated legal cases are mobilized to suggest widespread moral corruption, even when they lack representativeness. Through this method, colonial morality is laundered as indigenous consensus, masking the ideological work being performed.

Law, Inheritance, and the Threat of Female Autonomy

Another recurring theme in Thurston’s ethnography is anxiety around inheritance and family structure. Devadāsi and Basavi systems often operated through matrilineal or non-patrilineal inheritance, with property and ritual roles passing through women or adopted daughters. Such arrangements posed a fundamental challenge to Anglo-Hindu law, which prioritized patrilineal descent and male guardianship.

Thurston meticulously records these inheritance systems, noting their internal consistency and regional legitimacy. However, these descriptions are frequently accompanied by legalistic framing that casts them as aberrations or loopholes. Adoption, a common practice used to sustain ritual lineages, is reframed as trafficking. Dedication ceremonies are reinterpreted as disposal of minors. Economic independence becomes evidence of moral laxity.

The annotations reveal how colonial law did not simply prohibit Devadāsi practices outright; it first redefined them. By translating ritual obligations into legal violations, the colonial state created a framework in which abolition could be justified as protection rather than dispossession. Thurston’s text plays a crucial role in this translation process.

What emerges, then, is a picture of Devadāsi institutions not as chaotic or exploitative systems, but as organized social formations rendered illegible, and therefore illegal, by colonial legal epistemology.

Performance Without Pedagogy: The Erasure of Artistic Knowledge

Despite being foundational to the history of Indian dance, Devadāsi performance practices receive surprisingly little serious attention in Thurston’s work. Dance and music are acknowledged as components of Devadāsi life, yet they are never treated as bodies of knowledge requiring training, discipline, or transmission.

This omission is significant. By failing to document pedagogy, how dancers were trained, how repertoires were transmitted, how aesthetics were debated, the text effectively severs performance from intellectual labor. Dance becomes an accessory to ritual or sexuality rather than a skilled practice in its own right.

Annotations highlight moments where Thurston inadvertently gestures toward artistic rigor, mentioning specific performance contexts or regional distinctions, only to abandon these threads in favor of moral commentary. The result is an archival silence: the knowledge systems that sustained hereditary performance cultures are left undocumented, making their later absence appear natural rather than enforced.

This silence has long-term consequences. When Bharatanatyam and other classical forms were later “revived” through upper-caste reform movements, Devadāsi knowledge could be excluded without apparent loss, because colonial archives had already minimized its significance.

Internal Contradictions and the Logic of Abolition

One of the most revealing aspects of Thurston’s text is its internal inconsistency. The same volume that documents temple endowments and caste governance also argues for the moral degeneracy of Devadāsi life. These contradictions are not resolved; they are overwritten.

Annotations expose how evidence of legitimacy is repeatedly neutralized. A Devadāsi’s recognized social role becomes a historical relic. Her legal rights become administrative inconveniences. Her artistry becomes an aesthetic veneer masking immorality. Through this process, complexity is not denied, it is reframed as pathology.

This reframing is essential to the logic of abolition. For reform to appear necessary, institutions must be shown as irredeemable. Thurston’s ethnography does this work by presenting Devadāsi systems as simultaneously structured and corrupt, organized enough to be dangerous, but immoral enough to require eradication.

Thus, the text functions as both documentation and indictment. It records the very features that made Devadāsi institutions viable, only to reinterpret them as reasons for their destruction.

Reading Colonial Texts as Evidence of Erasure

The purpose of this annotated reading is not to extract “facts” about Devadāsis from Thurston’s work, but to understand how facts were produced, framed, and mobilized. The archive created by colonial ethnography is not merely incomplete; it is actively shaped by ideological priorities.

By annotating Castes and Tribes of Southern India line by line, this project treats the text itself as an object of study. Its omissions, emphases, and contradictions become data. In this sense, the archive preserves not lost practices, but traces of how practices were made to disappear.

Such a methodology is particularly important for studying hereditary performance cultures, where knowledge was embodied, transmitted orally, and embedded in ritual contexts. Colonial archives rarely capture these dimensions directly. Instead, they offer distorted reflections, valuable not for what they claim to show, but for what they reveal about the mechanisms of erasure.

Conclusion: Toward a Counter-Archive

Edgar Thurston’s Castes and Tribes of Southern India occupies an uneasy place in the history of Indian dance and cultural studies. It is both indispensable and deeply flawed. Its pages contain rare references to Devadāsi institutions, yet those references are filtered through a colonial lens that prioritizes moral judgment over understanding.

This essay has argued that the value of Thurston’s work lies not in its descriptive accuracy, but in its exposure of colonial epistemology. Through critical annotation, the text becomes evidence of how knowledge systems were dismantled, not through ignorance, but through reclassification, sexualization, and legal reframing.

Re-Learning the Nautch seeks to build a counter-archive: one that does not replace colonial texts with romanticized narratives, but reads them critically, ethically, and with attention to power. By preserving colonial ethnography as an object of analysis rather than authority, the archive creates space for rethinking how classical dance histories are written, and whose bodies, labor, and knowledge they continue to exclude.

In this sense, the annotation of Thurston’s work is not an act of recovery, but of refusal: a refusal to let colonial archives speak unchallenged, and a commitment to reading erasure as a historical process that can, and must, be documented.