The Hindu/Footloose/Tradition or Modernity?

The relationship between tradition and modernity in the context of Indian dance is an intricate and interesting one. On one hand, I believe that modern dance in India has borrowed a great deal from India’s traditions. On the other hand, the example of Bharatanatyam also seems to suggest that the ‘revival’ of Bharatanatyam was perhaps an ‘invention of tradition’, or indeed the creation of a modern dance. Could Bharatanatyam then be modern?

According to historian Eric Hobsbawm, traditions which appear or claim to be old are, upon historical analysis, discovered to be inventions of recent origin. In short, tradition is fashioned by interpreting the past to suit current needs. It is re-appropriated to mould the present. Another scholar, Terada suggests that “in order to account for the present, justify it, understand it and criticise it, the past is selectively appropriated, remembered, forgotten or investigated”. It is possible that this is what happened to Bharatanatyam. The traditional past was selectively appropriated by post-colonial nationalists by reinventing the history of the Devadasis in order to justify a ‘revival’ of the dance form.

The noted anthropologist, Chris Fuller adds another dimension to this discourse in defining traditionalism as ‘forcefully and articulately expressing an ideological commitment to the authority and legitimacy of tradition’. Yet it accompanies the adoption of increasingly modernist values and attitudes, he notes. Thus, traditionalism constitutes and promotes modernity while simultaneously emphasising the divine authority of tradition. By emphasising tradition, changes introduced do not seem alien and unfamiliar. Thus, they are more easily accepted by society. The boundaries between tradition and modernity become seamless. Other scholars have echoed these thoughts. According to Milton Singer, the flexibility of Indian conceptions of tradition enables Indians to accept many innovations and changes by ‘traditionalising’ them.

The ‘revival’ movement in Bharatanatyam did just this. While a part of the ‘revival’ meant the invention

of a tradition, the simultaneous adherence to tradition in terms of learning from the traditional masters,

keeping the traditional repertoire, while simultaneously reinterpreting it, and making monumental modernist changes is consistent with the concept of traditionalism, and therefore with modernity.

In addition to the removal of traditional nattuvanars, and the focal shift from Krishna’s sensuality to Nataraja’s purity, other major changes include the spatial shift from temple to proscenium stage, and a change in pedagogy. Indeed, dance underwent a profound metamorphosis from Sadir to Bharatanatyam, from “untouchable to national art form and finishing school for young women of marriageable age”, says Matthew Harp Allen.

The revival of South Indian dance “involved a revivification or bringing back to life, it was equally a re-population, a re-construction, a renaming, a re-situation, a re-storation”, according to Allen. Given all the ‘re’s that Allen attributes to this revival, it could be argued that the art form was essentially stripped of most of what was traditionally ancient. According to Avanti Meduri, it was “re-interpreted in a respectable manner for the modern masses”. What emerged after the churning was a modern dance form called Bharatanatyam. In that sense, Amrit Srinivasan’s claim that “in a real and practical sense, it is the Devadasi dance that contemporary Bharatanatyam dancers perpetuate” can be questioned. It can be argued that what contemporary Bharatanatyam dancers perform is a modern Indian dance.

In fact, Bharatanatyam was modernized in several ways. Rajeev Bhargava states that “the generation of new types of collective identities such as the nation” is an important feature of modernity. By linking the ‘revived’ dance with the nation, a modern collectivity, ‘revivalists’ modernised Bharatanatyam. Educational institutions of dance modernized the guru-shishya relationship as well. The incorporation of Ballet into the reconstruction of Bharatanatyam (as suggested by Janet O’Shea) is yet another chraracteristic of modernity. Finally the presentation of Bharatanatyam was also modernized – the costumes were changed, and the musicians were placed on the side of the stage, rather than behind the dancer as was traditionally done.

Despite all this, the self-perception of post colonial nationalists is that of being revivalists, not as creators of something modern. But could it be that perhaps without even realising it, they did indeed create something much more modern than merely reinvigorating or purifying a dying tradition? 

The Hindu/Footloose/Ancient Dance, Modern World

The ‘ancient’ nature of Indian classical dance – specifically in terms of its teaching, practice and performance today – is a contested fact. Many, including myself, have argued that classical dance forms in India as we witness them today, are modern manifestations of their original ancient forms – not entirely unscathed and untouched by changes in history, such as imperialism, post-colonial nationalism, and the emergence of the middle class in India.

However, what need not be contested is its use of relatively ancient poetry and texts. In this sense, classical Indian dance forms still encapsulate and carry the ‘ancient’ within them today. They draw lessons from classical texts such as the Natyashastra, written somewhere between 200 BCE and 200 AD. They also extensively make use of texts such as the Gita Govindam written by Jayadeva, a 12^th century poet. Many padams belong to the 14^th and 15^th centuries and some dance pieces draw their literature from the ancient epics Ramayana (Valmiki’s dating back to approximately the 4^th and 5^th century BCE,

Kamban’s in the 12^th century, Kandhali’s in the 14^th and Tulsidas’ in the 16^th century) and Mahabharata, written possibly between the 4^th and 8^th century BCE.

It is the use of these texts and narratives that definitely gives an ancient colouring to these dance forms, however they may have been modernized from their inception until today. This use of ancient literature makes these dance forms a valuable art, binding the ancient past with the present. They also provide rich resources for choreographing abhinaya pieces, reminding the dancer and spectator of the beauty and complexity of Indian mythology. Indian classical dance, when paired with the ancient narratives, takes story-telling to a whole new level.

However, the acknowledgement that Indian classical dance has this ancient aspect to it has led to several questions and concerns within the world of Indian dance. For instance, what is the place of this ‘ancient’ dance in the modern world? How does it remain relevant in modern times?

I have struggled with these questions, and do not claim to have arrived at answers – there is always room for further research and introspection – but my instinct tells me that the answer may lie in the power of interpretation.

Many dancers struggle with this question of whether an ‘ancient’ dance form is relevant or even appropriate today. I do not think there is a simple monosyllabic answer to this question. With regard to some of the narratives, some of it can be argued to be old-fashioned and backward in its thinking – specially their reference to lower classes and women.  In a modern world where untouchability is frowned upon and equality between the sexes is openly advocated, these narratives seem inappropriate. If these narratives are to be performed literally, word-to-word, without the dancer digging deeper to find a meaning and interpretation that is relevant today, then the dancer loses the battle against his or her opponent. The most beautiful part of these narratives in dance, is that they are open to interpretation. If a dancer can interpret these in the modern world, in a modern way – no one could dare call them irrelevant. For example, behind the apparently powerless and hapless ‘nayika’ pining for her lover who has strayed into the arms of the ‘other girl’, there is the powerful strength to survive such a betrayal with dignity, and the potential to unleash her wrath upon the cheating lover when he finally arrives at her doorstep. And of course, as I have always believed, there are other narratives that will always be relevant due to the powerful human emotions that they are able to depict, display and make the dancer and audience experience.

But for all this to happen, the ancient texts must not only be simply read and mimed, but need to be understood, examined and interpreted to find contemporary relevance.

The Hindu/Footloose/From Love to Bhakti

The term ‘sringara’ in dance has had many meanings, definitions and connotations over the years. It has sometimes meant ‘love’, and at other times, it has meant ‘sensuality’, ‘sexuality’ and even ‘erotica’. It is a term in dance that has been historically redefined and often pitted against ‘bhakti’ or devotion. I argue that ‘sringara’ is not one or the other of the above terms, but all of them.

Before the onset of colonialism, which brought with it, an extremely Victorian idea of femininity and female sexuality – ‘sringara’ could freely define itself as all of the above. Whether it was the temples of Khajuraho, the Kamasutra or the devadasis that performed dance in temples – they all embodied this expansive fluid definition of ‘sringara’.       According to scholar Susan L. Schwartz, before colonialism, India was home to ‘some of the most erotic art the world had ever seen’. But this erotic art was equally about devotion, sensuality and love. After all, the Kamasutra is above all, a book about making love. Similarly, the Khajuraho temples, erotic sculptures aside, are built for in devotion to deities such as Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma, Vahana, Surya and so on. Finally, the devadasis too, it appears, did not make a distinction between love, sensuality, sexuality and devotion.

Due to several factors, this definition of sringara slowly became narrower, more codified and more rigid. It is incorrect to blame the entire change of mindset on the colonizers, but it is nevertheless important to recognize the monumental role they played in creating these divisions between love, sex and devotion.

The ‘sexual implications of the dancing body’ did not exist in India until western influence and sensibility pervaded the Indian mind, says Schwartz. The Victorian ideas of sexuality and womanhood changed the perceptions of sensuality and erotica and thus created the divisions within Indian dance between sexuality, love and devotion. According to Susan Reed, another dance scholar, local dances were viewed by the colonizers as ‘excessively erotic’ – the ‘love’ aspect of local dances, as well their inherently devotional nature were ignored. The seeds were sown for the redefining of the term ‘sringara’, which until now encompassed love, devotion and sexuality quite comfortably.

Post-colonial nationalists in India were provoked into responding to this portrayal of the native as sexually unrestrained and barbaric. But instead of fighting this view, they changed their own perceptions of Indian dance by appropriating the colonist conception. Therefore, they spoke about the need to ‘reform’ and ‘rescue’ Indian dance. The Devadasis, who became tainted with the labels ‘sexual’ and ‘erotic’, were slowly extradited from their own traditions, and a kind of ‘bhakti’ that distinguished itself from the Devadasi’s ‘sringara’ came into focus.

Some revivalists found the sringara of the devadasis to be very low sringara, unworthy of being performed by a respectable woman. They saw their goal as replacing sringara with bhakti. Those that were descendents of the traditional practitioners, however, felt that sringara was the supreme emotion. According to Balasaraswati, “no other emotion is capable of better reflecting the mystical union of the human with the divine”. For her, sringara was union, sensuality, love and devotion – all at once. Indeed, it was a union of sensuality, love and devotion.

To conclude, it appears that until quite recently, sringara encompassed love, sexuality and devotion. Sringara encapsulated bhakti, which was not separate from it. And while some of the reasons for making this distinction were possibly a way to let the dance form thrive in a world where it was condemned to possible extinction, it is nevertheless important to recognize that there was a time when sringara meant love, erotica and devotion simultaneously.

The Hindu/Footloose/ In thought and Emotion

Must Indian dance choose between ‘secular’ and religious?

My previous article argued that Indian dance is secular and religious at once, especially when one examines and understands the Indian conception of secularism. The concepts of ‘Principled distance’ as conceptualized by Prof. Rajeev Bhargava and ‘critical respect’, both of which are essential to the Indian conception of secularism allow dance pieces within Indian classical dance to have a religious narrative, but be secular as well. In that sense, Indian classical dance can be of equal value to a religious and secular person.

However, I find that even a person who subscribes to the ‘western’ conception of secularism i.e. non religious can find watching an Indian classical dance performance to be an enriching experience. When a classical Indian dance form is performed in a secular manner in the ‘western’ sense, it does not mean the removal of the religious, spiritual or devotional aspect of it. It merely means that the focus shifts to other facets of Indian classical dance. Apart from being embellished with religious narratives and culturally deep-rooted mythology, Indian classical dance concerns itself with geometry and linearity of form in the body, experiments with gravity, uses mathematical calculations to create intricate patterns of movement, and deals with and explores a plethora of human emotions.

Any dance form, to begin with, must concern itself with the body. Every breath between movement, every hand gesture, position of the legs and feet, and every expression for the narrative is made through different parts of the body. The dance forms in India therefore cannot be exempt from being concerned with the body’s geometry, linearity and anatomy. Further, like every other dance form, Indian classical dance involves the use of gravity and weight. Every movement is either succumbing to or defying gravity. Every stretch or bend away from the center of the body while illustrating the narrative is a re-organisation and re-balancing of weight within the body.

Moreover, Indian classical dance forms utilize mathematics in a fascinating and complex manner. In nritta or pure dance, every string of movement put together involves complex rhythmic patterns set to intricate mathematical calculations. Dance needs mathematics to make these strings of movement dynamic and interesting. The five jatis in dance – chatusram (4), tisram (3), misram (7), khandam (5), and sankirnam (9) facilitate these mathematical calculations, as do the different talams that several ragas are set to.

Finally, Indian classical dance forms provide various possibilities to explore emotions. Pieces from the Kamban Ramayana or from Jayadeva’s Gita Govinda – they are, of course, stories about Rama and Krishna, gods revered by many. They are tributes to these gods by their devotees. They are in praise of these gods. But equally they are stories of love and union, of pain and separation. They are human stories about separation from loved ones (Rama and Sita getting separated when Sita is captured, or Rama’s separation from his family during exile), and the excitement and intoxication of being in love (pieces about Krishna, and the gopis and sakhis). Similarly, there are Tillanas in Bharatanatyam dedicated to Gods, but equally beautifully choreographed Tillanas exist that make no reference to the divine and instead speak of institutions and human beings such as Kalakshetra (Bilahari tillana) and Rukmini Devi (Natabhairavi tillana).

To conclude, in addition to the religious and mythological narratives, there are many ‘secular’ aspects to Indian classical dance that may arouse the interest of non-religious people. These secular aspects do not and indeed, should not impinge on the cultural memory of dance pieces which have significant religious, spiritual and mythological undertones. Rather, for the religious audience they enhance the enjoyment of the narrative aspects of the dance forms. As for the ‘secular’ (in the ‘western’ sense) audience, they provide other avenues to appreciate Indian classical dance.

The Hindu/Footloose/ Indian Dance: Secular and Religious

The relationship between Religion and Secularism is a complex one. Attached to both terms are several connotations and implications, even within the world of dance. To my surprise, I found that the two co-exist in dance very uncomfortably in the minds of many people who feel the need to expel one or the other. To me, they are not in conflict.

Indian classical dance can be of equal value to a religious and secular person. But first, the term ‘secular’ must be explained, particularly in the Indian context. Professor Rajeev Bhargava, a political theorist, has done extensive work on ‘Indian secularism’ and has highlighted its difference from western models of secularism. It is imperative to explain this because western models of secularism are imprinted in Indian minds.

For the West, secular means non-religious. To ‘secularize’ something is often understood to mean removing the ‘religious’ from it. Politically, western secularism implies total non-interference of the state in the sphere of religion. Therefore, the US government does not interfere even when a man threatens to publicly burn the Quran. Western secularism could even be accused of being anti-religious. The French state banned the headscarf in the name of ‘secularism’.  If we apply these western conceptions of secularism to India and to dance, then sure – the religious and secular cannot co-exist in Indian dance.

But in India, this glaring contradiction between the religious and secular does not exist politically or culturally. The secular is not against religion as such but opposes relations of domination within it.  The Secular state in India is meant to practice what Bhargava calls ‘principled distance’. This means that the state doesn’t endorse any one religion, but at the same time, it interferes with regard to religion to prevent domination and suppression between and within religious groups. For e.g, the Constitution (which proclaims India to be a secular state) abolished Untouchability, a religiously sanctioned social evil. Equally, it may help religions by providing subsidies to educational institutions run by religious groups. This is the essence of Indian secularism. All religions are respected equally but ' respect' means  removing those aspects in every religion that permit or sanction any oppression. Nothing in this suggests hostility to religion. The two coexist happily.

Indian dance too is religious and secular at once. An ancient Tamil padam, ‘Muhattai Kaatiye Deham’ illustrates this. Here, a devotee pleads with Shiva to allow him at least a glimpse. Does he not reveal himself because the devotee lacks knowledge of the Vedas, he asks (implying that he is of a lower caste). He complains that when he comes with his tattered clothes to the temple, he cannot get near enough to the idol to see Him. The devotee dares to ask if Shiva's reluctance is due to some inherent blemish in Him? This is a beautiful religious piece about devotion, but equally it questions oppression within religion, invoking restrictions on dalit entry into temples. This religious piece embodies Indian secularism since critical respect towards religion is crucial to Indian secularity.

The legendary Balasaraswati herself believed that dancing spiritually based compositions of love had the same quality as dancing secularly based compositions that make no reference to the divine (see Douglas M.Knight Jr.). Indian classical dance doesn’t require us to make a choice between the religious and secular. It can be both. Then, this apparent conflict must arise in the minds only of those who either fail to grasp what secularism means or who fail to recognize the magnitude of what Indian classical dance is capable of.

The Hindu/Footloose/ Speaking of Shiva

During Mahashivaratri this year, social networking websites were flooded with dancers hailing it as the day for dancers. This celebratory mood was understandable. According to myth, Shiva is the cosmic dancer. However, in order to explore whether Shiva has always been at the pinnacle of importance in dance, it is interesting to trace Nataraja's history in that context.

Nataraja has played an important role in the South Indian religious tradition for centuries. He is seen in stone sculptures of Badami, and the beautiful bronze sculpture of Nataraja of the Chola era is famous today. Yet, according to Matthew Harp Allen, “Nataraja had never before been asked to play a role quite like the one reserved for him in the 20-century revival”, when Nataraja was accorded a central role.

In the performances of the Devadasis before the 1930s, Shiva in the form of ‘Nataraja’ was not the primary subject or deity of dance. Records suggest that in the early part of the century, dance was more concerned with sringhara prabandhas – songs involving aspects of romantic love. These were songs taken from Jayadeva’s 12th century Sanskrit text Geeta Govinda and other compositions written

between the 17th and 19th centuries. The protagonists of these stories were Krishna or Murugan - two youthful, playful and romantic characters in Hindu mythology. On the other hand, Shiva is generally considered to be more severe than Krishna or Murugan, according to Kalanidhi Narayan. Shiva’s dance, for many, represented the cosmic destruction of all impurities.

There is only one set of poems that paint Nataraja as a lover. These originated in Chidambaram and, according to Allen, were written in light of Shiva being the local, neighbourhood god, and not a “transcendent cosmic deity”. Other poems of the Devadasi era that mention Shiva neither cast him as a cosmic dancer, nor as a lover. These poems come under the genre of ninda stuti. Here, the god is teased by the devotee. In an 18th century Tamil composition, the poet mocks Shiva, saying “You always have one leg raised; Why such lameness, Lord?” The poem goes on to say, ‘That time you kicked Yama, the god of death…did you sprain your leg and have to raise it, limping?’

As Allen points out, it was during the ‘revival’ of dance in the 1930s that Nataraja becomes “both a patron deity for dance and a subject for portrayal in dance”. After dance moved out of temples, the Nataraja idol, over all other gods, began to be placed in the corner of the stage. Additionally, the number of compositions dedicated to and about Nataraja increased radically during the period of this ‘revival’. Old poems about Shiva and Nataraja that were previously performed as vocal recitals were brought into the realm of dance by choreographers in the 1930s and 40s. In fact, according to some, it is during this time, that ‘Natanam Adi Nar’, a currently celebrated kirtanam dedicated to Nataraja, became popular. It is said that Rukmini Devi always ended her recitals with ‘Natanam...’. Equally important in making Nataraja a central figure in Dance was Ananda Coomaraswamy, who wrote ‘The Dance of Shiva’. According to Allen, it has been the most influential publication in the 20th century popularization of Nataraja. 

Nataraja continues to be popular in the 21st century and stands today as an extremely important figure in the world of Indian dance, but clearly this was not always so. In fact, if Indian dance forms have existed at least since the first mention of Devadasis (around the 11th century) then Nataraja’s importance and centrality is incredibly recent. In that light, is it entirely appropriate to call Mahashivaratri the day for dancers in India? Indeed, can and should dance belong to any one particular god?

For the Hindu/Friday review/Stretching beyond Idea

Dance has been broadly defined as movements of the body, a form of expression and social interaction. It is defined in terms of technique. It can be ritualistic and ceremonial.  We dance to express and release emotions, and to explore the body in ways that are different to everyday experience, sometimes by taking the body to extreme limits. Dancers also reinterpret the perception of time and space - time is sometimes determined by music and rhythm, whereas space is defined by the path followed by the dancer and the space the body occupies.

My previous article proposed that dance has a tremendously broad and inclusive definition. In fact, it must have multiple and fluid definitions in order to include new and evolving forms of movement under its umbrella. It is equally important, however, to recognize that what we call dance, although broad and inclusive, is not limitless. Certainly, not everything we do is dance. So, on what basis do we classify something as dance, and something else as not dance? I argue that we can do this on the basis of intention.

Any form of sport also requires stretching the limits of the body to extreme levels. Sportsmen also express themselves freely on the playing field. Yet, it is universally agreed that sports and dance are two distinct categories. I believe the distinguishing factor is intention. In a sport, the emphasis and intention is on the competitive display of skills rather than enjoyment in the movement of the body. This is not to say that dance is not a display of skills, and that watching sports cannot evoke enjoyment in the movement of a sportsman. But I believe that the primary intention of the sportsman and dancer in the above example determine the category of movement to which they belong.

Another example can be a procession or a march. Again, movements here are choreographed and stylized, and powerful emotions of solidarity are expressed. But here again, the primary intention is the mobilization of people, not bodily movement or emotion. Certainly, the focus is not on the enjoyment of movement, or the awareness of how the body moves when marching.

Finally, the leap of a gazelle is sometimes more beautiful and graceful than a dancer’s movement. Here again, intention matters. When a gazelle leaps, it is performing an involuntary genetic movement, and its intention is to escape danger.  The leap is not intended to be an aesthetic self expression through the body.

Thus, one can argue that in order for movement to be considered as dance, the dancer must distinguish it as such and certainly must intend it to be dance. As is the case with the above examples, where a sportsman intends to display his skills to win a match, a person involved in a procession intends to mobilize people for a cause, and a gazelle leaps involuntarily in order to escape death, a dancer must intend to dance.

An American choreographer once choreographed a duet where two men simply stood still on stage or four minutes. It was undoubtedly a form of expression, perhaps even social interaction. It lacked dynamic movement, though. The experimental choreographer, however, intended it to be dance. Therefore, the spectators were aware that it was dance. 

A recent performance by choreographer Jerome Bel involved dialogue, two men sitting across from each other, talking about dance. Some would argue that the performance was theatre, not dance. The performers did dance, though for minimal amounts of time. Mostly, they talked. But the piece was undoubtedly about dance, and the power felt when both dancers depicted death through their respective dance forms was undeniable. This was the intention – to make people think about and experience the different dance forms. This intention allowed the performance to be called ‘dance’. 

To conclude, I contend that in addition to the exploration of the body movement that stretches beyond everyday activity, and the communication and release of emotions and self-expression, one must also consider intention when distinguishing dance from other patterns of movement.