Just Like That | Rhythm, rasa, and reverence: Why classical dance captures India’s soul
Classical dance isn’t mere entertainment but a sadhana or practice, resonating with the spirit of Diwali and other festivals in India.
In the celebrations of Deepawali, I was watching recently a beautiful Odissi dance performance, depicting the theme of the festival of lights. I am surprised that even educated Indians, who consider themselves “cultured”, are often unaware of the eight classical dances of India, and unable to differentiate one from the other. Nor do they know the deep philosophical significance of the structure and format in which they are presented, and what their antiquity is.
Opinions differ, but to my understanding, there are eight recognised forms of classical dance in India — Bharatnatyam, Kuchipudi, Odissi, Kathakali, Mohiniyattam, Manipuri, Sattriya, and Kathak. Bharatnatyam is the oldest among them. Its origins lie in Bharat Muni’s seminal treatise Natya Shastra, consisting of 36 chapters and six thousand shlokas. The amazing thing is that this remarkable compendium of Indian music, theatre, rhythm, bhava, and dance was written as far back as around 200 BCE!
Bharatnatyam’s developed existence is noted in the second-century Tamil epic, Sillapattikaram, and its postures are found in ancient temples all over India, especially in the South, in the magnificent Chola bronzes, and in the stunning set of the entire 108 dance postures in the Chidambaram temple. Given this verifiable antiquity, it is generally believed that all the other classical dance forms are derivatives of Bharatnatyam, although each of them has by now developed well-etched distinctive features of their own. Kathak, it is argued, is perhaps the latest addition to the list, being a product of the creative intermingling of Hindu and Islamic influences, although Kathak historians like Shovana Narayan ascribe a much greater antiquity to it.
All classical dances are a carefully structured symphony of rhythm, movement, metre and meaning. For purposes of illustration, let us take the sequential flow of a traditional Bharatnatyam performance. It begins with the alarippu, a burst of pure rhythm, where the dancer captures the attention of the audience with the sophistry of her movements to the beat of the mridangam and cymbal. This is followed by the jatisvaram, where music is introduced to the metre. Then comes the shabdam, where meaning is added to the music and metre. In the varnam that comes next, the dancer has the freedom to improvise and explore the full emotive canvas of the song's lyrics. The next stage, the padam, introduces a contemplative pause, where to more subdued music, the artist performs abhinaya, or dance-drama, and a hushed atmosphere of quietude and reverence embraces the viewers. This lull is followed by the tillana, the climax, where to the full accompaniment of music and rhythm, the dancer breaks into pure dance.
The great Bharatnatyam exponent Balasaraswati evocatively described the whole process: “The Bharatnatyam recital is structured like a Great Temple: we enter the outer tower of alarippu, cross the half-way hall of jatiswaram, then the great hall of the shabdam, and enter the holy precinct of the deity in the varnam….the dark inner sanctorum…yields to the soul-stirring music and abhinaya of the padam…Then the tillana breaks into movement like the final burning of the incense.”
All the other classical dances follow similar structural forms, where, even if there are specific variations, the purpose is to lead the viewer through carefully structured levels to a climactic moment, which produces the emotion of joy or rasa. And, all of them require years of practice and sadhana, to reach a level of perfection where the sheer geometry of body movement, the bend of the upper torso, the graceful movement of the legs, the elegant flexing of the knee, the spectacular footwork, the practised arching of the eye and the expressive facial movements, acquire an effortless vocabulary of movement, rhythm, music and cerebral content.
Every admirer of classical dance has a favourite form. Dr Karan Singh, a great lover of this genre, makes no secret of his love for Bharatnatyam. In fact, as president of the Indian Council for Cultural Relations, he used to say this in his speeches, until I, as the director-general, advised him that this may not be to the liking of the exponents of the other equally remarkable classical dances. My own choice is eclectic. A good classical dance, of any kind, is a pleasure of its own kind, although I must confess that I too have a special place for Bharatnatyam, but I am also mesmerised by the sheer fluidity of Odissi. I must also say that I am not a votary of fusion in classical dance, where the modern or alien elements introduced appear jarring and contrived. Nor do I necessarily or rigidly distinguish between classical and some folk dances. For instance, the Bihu dance of Assam has to my mind every reason to be considered classical.
In our country, be it Diwali or Holi, dance is the best medium for the expression of Anand. No wonder then, that Krishna is called Natwar, and Shiva is Nataraja.
Pavan K Varma is author, diplomat, and former Member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha). Just Like That is a weekly column where Varma shares nuggets from the world of history, culture, literature, and personal reminiscences. The views expressed are personal
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