Dancing the Body Politic

Ranjini Nair wears a few hats. Trained as a classical dancer in her native New Delhi by gurus Seetha Nagajothy, Jayarama Rao, and Vanashree Rao, she later found herself deep within the world of academia. Her ideas were enough to get her a scholarship to Cambridge where she completed a PhD on the politics and aesthetics of Indian classical dance.

Ranjini Nair. Photograph courtesy of the artist

Lately she has been working as a facilitator of workshops and talks about classical dance and the navarasas. More recently, Nair was selected by Sadler’s Wells to lead an Artist-Led Session as part of their Artist Development Scheme, a programme that Associate Artistic Director Rob Jones hopes to address “underrepresented areas of the dance ecology and support space for research and community building.”

During our interview we discuss what exactly the navarasas are, dance as political propaganda, and how learning to commit to the bit might lead us to comprehend the fractured world around us.

How did you arrive into the world of Indian classical dance in the first place?

I dance Kuchipudi, one of the classical dances of India. It’s from the southern state of Andhra Pradesh. I was put into it at eight so it’s all I know when it comes to dance-forms, but it really grew on me as I got older, all the investment in movement. After getting my undergrad in literature I wanted to do it on a more full time basis, training to do solos, becoming a part of my guru’s productions. It’s an intense training but it's also quite informal: you’re not going to a conservatoire, I didn't undergo any exams. It was really an oral tradition that I learned while at the homes of my gurus. There was no sprung floor or anything like that (she laughs).

As I became more entrenched in the training and the system I noticed that there were things within classical dance that didn't really sit well with me. The political climate was changing in the country at the same time, there was an emerging idea of “real Indians” and Hindu India being the “real” India. I realised that my form comes from a very Hindu space—which is absolutely fine, I myself am Hindu—and that many classical dances had been historically used to further the narrative of a Hindu nation. There is also this reputation in India of these religious and social hierarchies that tend to be communicated through classical dance too.

When did your interest in research begin to come into dialogue with your practice?

I began reading critical texts while still training. I noticed that scholars of South Asian dance described how Indian classical dance in the 50s and 40s, when the nationalist movement was rising post-independence, was an integral part of this new country’s identity. The root really starts in the 1890s during an anti-dance movement, which was supported by Christian missionaries and upper caste Hindus. They would describe these women, who come from hereditary and professional dance communities, as somehow publicly immoral. This same movement led into the reform and revival movement, where upper caste women began to sanitise these traditional forms—creating an authentic but “pure” Indian culture.

A lot of these “immoral” women were looked down upon because they were quite independent. They could own land and wealth, they didn’t always follow typical, heteronormative family patterns. They didn't necessarily get married to patrons or partners because they had a little more control over their lives. It wasn’t a utopia, but they had more freedoms. These women were completely sidelined by upper caste women, I say that as someone with a traditionally upper caste background. Those hereditary communities have spoken up about the damage of that, but it's still typically privileged women who perform these dances today. A lot of traditional communities actually shun their practice, “dancing woman” is seen as a derogatory term.

Ranjini Nair. Photograph courtesy of the artist

How do you see these classical forms become politicised in the current political climate in India?

What is coded in classical dance plays a big role in creating an idea of India. Even before the rise of political nationalism and the Hindu right, a lot of classical dance is filled with Hindu lore and iconography. Other communities have their own dances but they’re not often seen or they are somehow linked to the Hindu tradition. When you look at Kathak, from the north, you will see that certain historical accounts written post-independence brush over how the Mughal court, which was Muslim, was involved in stylising the form. The Hindu origins of Kathak are prioritised. The historicising of these forms follow that pattern and it's really only in the last few years that modern scholars, who have done incredible work, have highlighted that act of rewriting history.

This all really comes to head in this modern push for a more Hindu India, in the religious hierarchies we see in classical dance. The dancer Manjari Chaturvedi’s Kathak performance was stopped because she danced to Qawwali, which is a form of Muslim devotional music. Kalakshetra, a Bharatanatyam dance institution in the south of India, cancelled a book release by T.M. Krishna, a renowned Carnatic musician, because he wrote about mrdangam drums which uses cow hide—a traditionally sacred animal to Hindus. The same people who craft those drums also come from the Dalit community, who are a lower caste group. So much of this is all entrenched in the art. If we don’t acknowledge this we really risk furthering the project of a strictly Hindu India.

You presented a workshop with Sadler’s Wells recently exploring the Navarasas. How did you come across this concept?

After my viva voce I felt so forceful in my way of speaking about dance that I wondered would I be able to ever return to something I was so critical of. It was realising that that joy of dance is still somehow linked to this structure of oppression, and that’s a very hard truth to reconcile. So I went on to undergo this training called Navarasa Sadhana, which was developed by a kutiyattam practitioner, Guru G. Venu, in Kerala. It completely changed my life. The navarasas are the nine emotional states, the nine flavours we as performers want to bring out of the audience. It’s a fifteen week residential programme. It completely changed my relationship with emotion, with breath, with how I stand in a space. I got to do it both before and after my PhD so it bookended that period of research.

Once I completed it we asked our guru how we could possibly spread this method, and he was quite eager that we go forth and teach it in our own way. How can you possibly take the knowledge of a man so entrenched in years of theatrical tradition in the same way? For me it was recognising how joy interacts with structural oppression, how every emotion is part of a larger power structure. Who do we feel compassion for and who are we allowed to feel compassion for? How do we respond to the pain of an unseen other? At this current moment we’re fending off crisis after crisis. I began to think of how we can use this tool within a broader scope. What can we change?

Ranjini Nair. Photograph courtesy of the artist

How did the room respond to it?

Most of the people in there were totally new to it. We had everything from therapists, dancers, writers, musicians, theatre people. One of the most engaged was a young girl of about 11. There was someone who said they had no creative practice at all. When we approached fear, wonder, I would feel the energy in the room shift. When we looked at shanta, which is peace or self-acceptance, I really felt the room shift. Of course you want the room to feel these feelings as a facilitator, but after people had some time to sit with their thoughts and everyone began to pack up their things, I was there for another thirty minutes with people wanting to discuss their thoughts. It gave them new ideas, something to work with. I’m always curious to see what people have taken on board.

I think a lot of being in a workshop is just committing to the bit. You might come into the space and think it’ll all be really stupid, and it will be. You might think it’ll be great. I think, especially in this kind of work, that you need to be willing to give a little bit of yourself. There also isn’t any hierarchy, it’s not like my own regimented training in Kuchipudi was. I’m not an authority, let’s have a dialogue.

We see nowadays dance being extolled as this treatment for health issues, for depression and loneliness. But do you think dance can really help people cope with, and perhaps even fight against, an unjust world?

I think art of all kinds can, but it’s not other artists we should be engaging, it's the layperson. When Sadler’s Wells wanted to facilitate this workshop I intentionally kept a broad call, that anyone could participate, because there’s a value to be found there. What a lot of people struggle with in dance and theatre is putting your body in a vulnerable position. As dancers we take for granted how much our inhibition is shedded, even if by nature you might be an introvert when off-stage. Taking the time, even if it's an hour a year, to distil what you feel within you can be greatly beneficial.

The prompt that I led with was how movement can lead you into emotion, oftentimes it's the other way around. How can you move to trigger an emotion within your body? It’s challenging but it’s rewarding. I think that practicing dance, just as an amateur or layperson or out of interest, is a great way to allow ourselves to feel. Do we really allow ourselves to ever feel the threat of the climate crisis? Do we allow ourselves to think of those outside our immediate bubble? When we begin to feel that unsettled world we live in, dance gives you a safer place to experience those feelings. To process. Even if you don't take tangible action, just feeling it is a first step.

I think it's worth considering how these tools can help with dealing with the contemporary world, but to also consider how these structures came to be. A certain kind of suffering is ignored when we take on some of these classical forms and techniques. I think we’ve had a number of years where things have gone wrong in the news, how do we learn to function during all of this? It makes me think about that Brecht quote: “in the dark times will there be singing? Yes, there will be singing. About the dark times.” My question is what are we going to sing?

More information on Sadler’s Wells’ Artist Development Scheme and Open Sessions can be found here: https://www.sadlerswells.com/for-artists/artist-development/open-sessions/

Eoin Fenton

Eoin (they/he) is a dance maker and writer based in Cork (Rep. of Ireland), and London (UK). They have danced across Ireland and London in venues including The Place, Project Arts Centre Dublin and Galway Cathedral. Eoin graduated with a BA in Choreography from Middlesex University in 2024 and began writing as part of the Resolution Reviews programme. They are a regular contributor to A Young(ish) Perspective.

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