The Hindu/ Footloose/ The Outside Eye

An ‘outside eye’ is crucial to creative work. This article explores what this concept of an ‘outside eye’ is and why it is important. No good work is created without real or imaginary feedback from a relatively impartial outsider.  This person must be one with considerable knowledge about or experience in the field. He or she must have a critical eye and be someone who is not personally involved in the creative process. Finally, this person must be someone who matters to the creator, whose opinions and feedback the creator trusts and values.

This happens in several creative fields. For example, in the world of academia, before a PhD is submitted for evaluation, it is repeatedly scrutinized by a supervisor. A critical dialogue happens between the doctoral student and the supervisor, who provides the ‘outside eye’. Through this dialogue, decisions regarding the work are arrived at collectively before the final product reaches the public in the form of a thesis or book. The thesis or book is still credited to the author, but the book benefits greatly from the scrutiny of the 'outside eye'. This isn’t a choice, but a condition for the creators to get their work into the public sphere. Journal articles and books are routinely peer reviewed before publication. 

In the art world, however, this appears not to be a prerequisite to the display of art work. The absence of critical scrutiny before an art exhibition, a music concert, a play, or a dance performance does not, on the surface, hinder the end result. A dance performance, for example, is not withheld from public simply because the choreographer did not have his or her work critically viewed by an informed well-wisher before a performance. Therefore, very often, this aspect of the creative process is left out during the creation of work in dance. It is often believed that the choreographer knows best how to view, edit and go about choreographing his or her work.

While this is largely true, it does not mean that an outside eye is not important for the creation of dance. Choreographers certainly know better than anyone what their idea and concept is, and should be more than capable of selecting and training their dancers. For the dance piece itself to be as complete as possible, however, there is more skill required. Is the idea communicating through movement? Is this communication so abstract that it doesn’t translate clearly enough, or too literal that it leaves nothing to the imagination? To be sure about answers to these questions, bringing in an ‘outside eye’ is tremendously beneficial.

This is not to say that choreographers are incapable of judging whether their ideas are communicating appropriately. But it is possible to get carried away by an idea when working on your own. An outside eye has several advantages. First of all, the outside eye, has not been personally and emotionally attached to the concept or the choreography. Therefore, it provides an objective view of the piece in a way that a choreographer perhaps cannot. Moreover, an outside eye can provide a fresh perspective on the work and make the choreographer view his work from a different viewpoint. Finally, it can point out things in the piece that are or aren’t working, that the choreographer, for several reasons, may have overlooked.

Often choreographers realize things in retrospect. Receiving harsh critical feedback after a performance or watching a performance video, they realize they could have done some things differently. But in many ways, its too late. The work has already been subjected to public scrutiny. Judgments have been made, grants or further performance opportunities have been lost, auditions have been unsuccessful – whatever the context.

Perhaps the use of an ‘outside eye’ could have changed negative outcomes into positive ones in some of these situations. Because this external standpoint gives choreographers something that they can easily lose sight of – objectivity and critique. Moreover, it provides fresh perspectives and inputs, points out flaws which choreographers may have overlooked. All this feedback comes from a critical eye the choreographer values and an outside opinion that the choreographer trusts. And crucially, the outside eye provides all this before the work goes public. Before its too late to turn back.

The Hindu/Footloose/Dance Criticism

Dance journalism in India leaves much to be desired. Dance is rarely spoken or written about in the media, and when it is, it is often uneducated, badly researched and uninteresting to read. The rare writings on dance mostly take the form of reviews of performances. Dancers use these critiques to legitimize their work. Only a handful of critics are around to validate or discredit the work of thousands of dancers. Herein lies the first problem. Dance criticism is dying in India. There simply aren’t enough critics to review the work of a growing number of performers. Moreover, because of the lack of critics, the few who exist are placed on a pedestal and become unquestionable. The lack of a space for communication and dialogue between the dancer and critic make the reviews, once published – indisputable. There is no room for the critic to clarify any doubts before printing their reviews, and no space for a dancer to respond to this critique in as public a space as the one in which the review appears. This creates mistrust between the dancer and critic.

Secondly, the nature of these reviews have come under scrutiny in the past (see Sadanand Menon’s article in 1984 titled ‘Those large liquid eyes’) and today’s reviews also largely leave many questioning the validity and legitimacy of the critics. This might be so because the relationship between the dancer and the critic is not of mutual understanding and learning, as it should be. In my view, the job of the dancer is to communicate his or her idea through her dance. In turn, the critic’s job is to constructively guide a dancer with his or her critique. Sometimes, however, a review leaves a dancer feeling demoralized and perplexed.

At a very basic level, the mistrust is further fuelled by badly conducted research. Last year, a newspaper article that was covering Mandeep Raikhy’s ‘Inhabited Geometry’ read that its choreographer was Desmond Roberts, who was in fact, the photographer whose photograph was enclosed in the article. Another review wrote off a choreographer as German, when in fact, he was an Indian dancer who had trained in Austria. In yet another article, a Bharatanatyam dancer was said to be a Kalakshetra graduate. In reality, she was trained in Delhi in the Kalakshetra style. Poor research and lack of attention to detail then must be a reason for this mistrust.

Another reason for this mistrust is the regurgitation of ‘programme notes’ and passing this off as a critique. Descriptive rather than analytical pieces of writing betray a reluctance to scrutinize and appreciate the dancer’s work. Reviews often use most of the space available to describe the ambience, the nature of the audience and the general atmosphere rather than the dance itself.

Finally, some critics make sweeping statements which often contradict themselves. One review mentioned that the ‘charismatic’ dancer ‘lacked energy and emotion’ and then went on to say that the dancer performed abhinaya ‘in a captivating manner’. In making such a contradictory statement, it is imperative to explain how a ‘charismatic’ dancer lacked ‘energy’ and how it came to be that a dancer who ‘lacked emotion’ was able to perform abhinaya ‘in a captivating manner’. Otherwise, the critique is meaningless and vexing!

To conclude, it is absolutely vital that we find some way to arouse the interest of young journalists to write about dance, and train them in a proper manner. Further, those that take this up as a profession must be more careful and responsible when critiquing work, keeping in mind their main purpose – to constructively and objectively critique work.

 Dance criticism needs an overhaul, without which this relationship between the dancer and critic may fall apart completely. This is alarming, because dance criticism is a lively and integral part of the dance world. A good system of criticism keeps dancers on their toes. It also informs the larger world about new work being created in the dance world everyday. Finally, it opens up the possibility for dialogue between the performers and spectators – something that brings the art and artist closer to the people. We need this overhaul now – because good critics are crucial to an intelligent and responsive dance community.

When Dance Criticism is Constructive...

My previous article on criticism led to some speculation on what exactly constructive criticism is. Did the term imply that the critic’s role is to always praise the dancer? Is constructive criticism by a critic meant to help the dancer?

The answer to the first question is a definite ‘no’. Constructive criticism does not imply praise. The very fact that the word ‘criticism’ appears in that phrase implies that it is distinct from unconditional praise. The critics’ role is definitely not to always praise the dancer, and certainly not if it is undeserved. A critic’s job is to critically observe and comment on a piece of work. This may involve praise, but equally it may not. That really depends on the quality of work being critiqued and the detail with which a critic scrutinizes a piece of work.

The answer to the second question is a bit more complex. It begs further questions regarding what it means to ‘help’ a dancer. If the second question is linked with the first, then this kind of ‘help’ (undeserved and unrelenting praise) is, as I mentioned earlier, not the critic’s job. But constructively criticizing the work of a dancer is helpful to a dancer in that it inevitably points out what isn’t working in the piece. So in that sense, the critic’s role does lend a helpful hand to the dancer by constructively commenting on his or her work.

At this point, it becomes crucial to explain what I mean by ‘constructive criticism’. Constructive criticism is compatible with honest, hard criticism. A poor piece of choreography must be reviewed as so, but it will be a comprehensive critique only if the reasons for why this choreography is poor are made clear. In such an instance, it not only informs the readers about the work but also lets the choreographer know what went wrong. This is crucial for a responsive relationship that a dancer and a critic ideally share.

An article in the New York times mentioned that what we need are “more authoritative and punishing critics – perceptive enough to single out the voices that matter for legitimate praise, abusive enough to remind us that not everyone gets, or deserves, a gold star”. It goes on to say that criticism is about “making fine distinctions” and involves “talking about ideas, aesthetics and morality as if they matter”. This, to me, is constructive criticism. So, reviews that are detailed descriptions of events cannot do justice to this kind of critique that is crucially needed in the world of Indian dance.

Constructive criticism is so much deeper than the largely descriptive critiques we often see today. Constructively criticizing a dance piece must involve engaging with the ideas that are being put forth by the choreographer. It must involve an informed analysis of movement and whether or not it connects conceptually to what the dancers dance on stage. I also believe that the critic’s personal voice should be more prominent, since it is his or her valued opinion that is appearing in print. As a reader of the review, it is interesting to know whether the conceptual ideas of the choreographer were translated capably into movement. As a choreographer and a dancer, this is not only interesting but also helpful. If it did, then the critique must legitimately involve praise, but if it did not, the critic must feel free to criticize the work. The artists are then informed that their ideas did not translate. This can seem hurtful and harsh, but again necessary for a responsive dance community and a thriving relationship between the critic and artist.

In turn, and this should not be taken lightly either, the dancers and choreographers must value this constructive critique, regardless of whether it praises or harshly criticizing them. Constructive criticism has no ulterior motives and therefore no imaginable reason for criticizing dancers unnecessarily. So, just as dancers shouldn’t be subjected to undeserved praise or criticism, a constructive critique must not be dismissed by dancers. It is in the interest of dancers to take such critique seriously.

As a dance community, we must collectively end the circle of mistrust. The parallel but destructive ideas coming from both dancers (“Why should we take their critique seriously? It’s descriptive, lacks analysis of any kind – praise or criticism”) and critics (“Dancers never take criticism seriously anyway”) can be a never-ending merry-go-round. A resolute decision has to be made by both to trust each other more. A change in the way reviews are written might reflect a change in the dancers’ perception of reviews. Further, a resolve to seriously internalize and appreciate legitimate critique by dancers might improve the way reviews are written. It will undoubtedly be a slow process. Mistrust takes a while to disappear. But if constructive critique becomes the norm, and dancers begin to appreciate the laborious work of critics who put this effort into writing reviews, this mistrust will slowly but surely evaporate into thin air.

The Hindu/Footloose/Today's Guru-Shishya Phenomenon

The role of a teacher, mentor or Guru is a crucial one in any field. The teacher-student relationship is a revered one the world over. Upon examining the meanings of and transformations in dance pedagogy, the teacher-student relationship in India is invariably complex and fascinating.

In traditional India, the Gurukul system laid out norms for the relationship between the teacher and student. Students spent an extensive amount of time with the guru. The gurus were traditionally the male nattuvanars, and dance students dedicated more or less their entire time to their art. They even learnt other art forms such as music to enhance their understanding and practice of dance. Still, the transmission of privileged knowledge required the student’s demonstration of worthiness. All in all, the guru-shishya relationship remained peaceful as long as the guru had what Ananya Chatterjea calls the ‘student’s unconditional surrender’. In Kumudini Lakhya’s words, there was no room for questioning in the gurukul system.

Amongst the changes that began in modern India with regard to the guru-shishya relationship, Rukmini Devi’s example is noteworthy. After just a brief period of training with her guru, Rukmini Devi performed her debut or Arangetram in 1935, against her guru’s wishes. Moreover, the institutionalization of dance education since the 1930s with the establishment of institutes like Kalakshetra and Kathak Kendra, took away the role of the traditional gurus and therefore a part of the gurukul system as well. Further, with this institutionalization, the one-to-one method of dance training more or less disintegrated. According to Mrinalini Sarabhai, by the time independence dawned on India, the ‘teacher’ had replaced the ‘guru’.

T.G. Vaidyanathan argues that when the harmony and symmetry of this guru-shishya relationship is broken – as it often does in modern India – there is a crisis of identity and authority. I believe this is so because the transition from tradition to modernity is sketchy and incomplete.

On one hand, dancers in the classical world today are still expected to surrender to their gurus and be ‘photocopies of their gurus’, as Kumudini Lakhya puts it. On the other hand, the questioning atmosphere under which modern students grow and live makes this deference to the guru seem strange, notes Leela Venkataraman. While the modern guru is still seen as the ultimate imparter of knowledge, knowledge is often held back from the student. One of the reasons for this, according to Leela Samson, is that the current market forces can result in a guru and shishya competing for the same space and funds. According to Anjana Rajan, a student can even lose out on performance opportunities if they fall out of favour with the guru. Finally, with dance institutions springing up all over the country, students of dance are exposed to a sort of democratization of dance – they elect to train in several dance vocabularies and with several teachers at a time. Yet, dance institutions do not allow their students to train outside of their academies, arguably restricting their learning potential; and despite being taught by several teachers, the inevitable question of ‘Who is your Guru?’ continues to shape a dancer’s identity, says Stacey Prickett.

In India, the concept of ‘guru-shishya’ has survived despite all the modernizing mechanisms adapted in dance pedagogy in India. But it has not survived entirely unscathed. The modern guru-shishya relationship is, at the moment, an uncomfortable blend of the traditional gurukul system, and the modern (and sometimes western) teacher-student relationship. It is altered by institutionalization, democratization and current market forces even as it simultaneously tries to maintain the stark hierarchy and unquestioning reverence that existed in the traditional gurukul system. The modern guru-shishya phenomenon is yet to find its balance in the constant renegotiation between tradition and modernity that Indian dance is currently undergoing.

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.