Dancing in the dark

In the midst of her performance,the front row audience,mostly men,break into hoots,whistles and impromptu jigs. It brings a smile to her deep lacquered lips,but lavani dancer Devyani Chandgadkar doesn’t break stride. Her white and silver sequined nauvari — the traditional nine-yard Maharashtrian sari — strikes a contrast with the deep red bindi and rose buds in her streaked hair. As Chandgadkar walks up the stage at Mumbai’s Damodar Hall in Parel,she shields her eyes from the arc lights,and flirtatiously asks in Marathi if the people in the back rows are asleep. As the audience breaks into laughter,she takes centre stage again with her gyrating moves.

Lavani,which dates back to the 16th century,is a folk dance native to Maharashtra,Karnataka and Madhya Pradesh. Interestingly,its origin lies in Kathak. Though the traditional form employs all the nine ras,sringar,virah and anand ras emerged as the more common themes in the 18th century,putting erotica at the core of it. “Lavani performers tread a very fine line as latkas-jhatkas and winking are often part of the narrative,” says veteran dancer Maya Jadhav. The erotic nature of the dance form,and the fact that the performers mostly came from the bottom of the pyramid of the Indian caste system,did not go down well with the emerging middle class after Independence. By the 1960s,the cultural relevance of lavani and its performers was almost lost.

Chandgadkar and her various colleagues find themselves at the centre of a recent popularity. Propelled by media,popularised by movies and received by an educated audience over the years,lavani’s status in the society was changing by the time Chandgadkar joined a dance troupe a decade ago,at her mother,a school supervisor’s encouragement,to pursue “Maharashtrian culture”. At 29,Chandgadkar is a senior performer with her own group,Lavani Moti and has television performances and international shows to her credit. “Our themes are love and marriage,but there is no time for either once the curtain falls.”

Chandgadkar,says,Madhukar Nerale,a social worker who works with rural lavani performers,is an urban phenomenon. Things are far more complex in the rural setting,where traditional performers from lower castes enter the profession to survive.

“Due to their standing in the society,they cannot get married and often resort to sexual relationships outside of it,which further sullies their reputation. But this should not be confused with prostitution,” says Nerale. Lack of government support means they have no post-retirement support.

The ambience at these performances is not always conducive to safety. “The stage is often set up under a canopy,men come drunk and pass lewd remarks or misbehave. Once,when a man started to throw money in the air,our producer stopped the show and we left the venue,” says Bhakti Mistry,a performer with the Mahakali Chitra Mumbai. The city groups are insulated against unpleasant experiences by their organisers and their competitive remuneration — anywhere between Rs 10,000 and Rs 50,000 a month — makes up for the inconveniences. Bollywood’s interest in the form too has been a morale booster. Amita Nitin Kadam,27,has her nine-month-old son in tow as she gets ready for a performance. “Films have helped change my family’s perception about working after childbirth,” she says.

While the girls are glad that actresses like Madhuri Dixit (Sailaab),Katrina Kaif (Agneepath,2012),Chitrangada Singh (Housefull 2) and Vidya Balan (Ferrari Ki Sawaari),are popularising their genre,the actress’ lack of authenticity makes for green room jokes. “They are good to look at,but the moves lack the punch. It takes practice to get the nuances right,” says Kavita Karshe,37,a seasoned performer.

Nautanki

It is past midnight in Palwal,a Haryanvi township,70km from Delhi. Dogs and men huddle by a makeshift fire. Gentle snores emit from a loaded Qualis. “Artist log so rahe hai,” we are told. They,like the rest of the village,are awaiting the errant baraat.

Two hours later,the young groom arrives on horse. Artistes from the Brij Kala Sanstan are led to their “green room” — a kitchen-cum-warehouse. Latarani,the founder of the group,stands imperiously,hands folded,gaze fixed,as the bride’s family members scamper around removing dekchis of milk and dal.

The Mathura-based nautanki performer for over 35 years doesn’t take kindly to putting on her queen’s makeup next to a mountain of ladoos. She did not want to perform at this wedding,but the promise of Rs 18,000 reeled her in. Used to the grand spring and summer melas of Rajasthan,Uttar Pradesh and Madhya Pradesh,she tides over the lean winter months with these makeshift performances.

Devendra Sharma,a performer and director of nautanki,and an assistant professor of Communication at California State University,Fresno,says “Nautanki is an operatic tradition,combining humour,farce and melodrama,where we sing everything,including the dialogues.” Originally,the shows would last 10 to 12 hours across north India. Sharma learned the form from his father Pandit Ram Dayal Sharma,a renowned nautanki artist who has taught at the National School of Drama and performs even today. Unlike contemporary cultural performances with fixed repertoires,nautanki obeys the audience’s demands. Artists must be strong of voice and fearless in their acting to transfix the audience.

As Latarani and her dancers Baby Naaz,Sapna and Tamanna line their eyes and paint their lips,a folk song about Abhimanyu’s chakravyuha booms out. Impatience and marijuana smoke hang in the air. The audience — with the men drinking Thunderbolt beer and the women peeping from behind their ghoonghat — fidgets. They have no time for song,they want entertainment,they bay for “tamashaa”.

When Tamanna and Sapna,enter,shimmying in their spangled outfits,hoots rend the winter night. Men shower the dancers with money,but a senior male artist warns,“Kalakaar ke haath me na de,” and takes the notes himself. Gudduji,the local don,resting on a hockey stick,records the night on a camera,and repeatedly sends rewards to the stage. “This is not nautanki,” says Devendra — who is writing a book on nautanki — to himself.

Sapna transforms from a reticent girl to a dancing diva in front of the leery crowd. She never went to school and started dancing when she was 15. “I am not scared,” she says,“this is my job,we sing,we dance.”

For Latarani,these dances bait the crowd but don’t further the form of nautanki. With the crowd appeased,the “real” nautanki begins at 4am. It’s the story of Amar Singh Rathore,the brother of the king of Marwad. The operatic play tells of wars between the Rajputs and Mughals,of loyalty and betrayal,of love and romance.

Devendra believes that the “whole structure of Bollywood is based on nautanki.” He traces the roots of the song and dance routine of Hindi cinema to this form and says songs like Salman Khan’s Dhinka chika or Bipasha Basu’s Beedi jalaile reflect the obvious influences of nautanki.

While Sharma is assured that his son Devendra will carry forth his legacy,Latarani has no such certainty. Her children haven’t even seen her perform. But she and her troupe will continue to perform,one wedding,one village,one mela at a time.

Mujra

Nestled between a row of tiny shops in a semi-commercial,semi-residential area,it is easy to miss the entrance to Bacchubaiwadi. The pathway,however,opens up to reveal a cluster of one-or two-room tenements with a web of wires overhead. It is nearing dusk but the wadi feels removed from the city outside that lives with a sense of urgency at all times. The flurry of activity begins as the clock strikes eight. Young girls step out to dry their towels as the older women brush their paan-stained teeth with neem twigs. “The work hours start at 9pm and end at 12.30am,” explains Laalmani,who is waiting for her niece Vimlabai to turn up from Mira Road,at the other end of the city from Mumbai Central’s Bachubaiwadi.

A popular name in the business,Vimlabai,a fourth-generation tawaif,moved out of the neighbourhood a few years ago to escape the taboo of the address for the sake of her young son. But she comes to “work” every evening. Laalmani — she says she is too old to remember her own age — was once a tawaif herself. Today,she depends on her son,a shop assistant and a heart patient,and her niece for survival. “Look around you,we would be relegated to poverty if we didn’t encourage our children to get education and take up jobs outside this profession. The culture of mujra is dead,what you see here are the dregs,” she says,her language nuanced with Urdu poetry.

Once considered the keepers of culture and high etiquette,the tawaifs,who practised the mujra,flourished under the patronage of the Mughal empire,reaching its peak in the 17th century. An authority on the performing arts,especially Kathak,Hindustani classical music and ghazals,they were court entertainers to nobility in north India. “We trained for six years before we could dance professionally,” says Vimlabai,47,who was born in Uttar Pradesh’s Faizabad and trained in Lucknow. “I started riyaaz at 10. The day would begin with training in music and dance and end with it too. Education,especially the knowledge of Urdu,was important to understand works of poets like Ghalib and Rumi,” she says.

Though her memory has begun to fail her,Vimlabai can rant off a few couplets by the literary greats even today. “It was a great embarrassment if we didn’t know something the client demanded to hear,” says the woman whose career began at 19 in Lucknow. By the time she entered the “mahaul”,courtesans had already been relegated to kothas. They would still be invited to perform at elite weddings and family functions,and treated with respect.

The downfall began with the dissipation of royalty under British rule,and the eradication of the zamindari system after Independence. The emergence of the middle class hit the tawaifs hard,their morality equating them with prostitutes,their private lives mostly sagas of unrequited love. “People misunderstand tawaifs because they know little of their contribution to society,” says Saabir Patel,72,a musician at Bacchubaiwadi who married a tawaif,“Mothers of actresses Nargis and Saira Bano were from the mahaul. But now,there is little left for anyone in this profession.”

Four years ago,the government had cancelled their licenses as performing artists,causing a shutdown for six months. More recently,they were charged with illegal sale of alcohol on their premises. “Our destinies have always been doomed,” says Laalmani,“but that was part of our lives. It is this fall of our art that we didn’t anticipate.”

The loss isn’t financial alone; the tradition is endangered too. In Kolkata,an average weekend arrives at Rajni’s doorstep with a fairly elaborate to-do list. Son’s tuition classes,fixing the cable connection,riyaaz in the afternoon — it all runs like clockwork in her mind. But it’s difficult to tick off the items on her pet peeves list as easily. Some just won’t go. Like the stubborn paan stains that continue to gather on the staircase of the old building in Boubazar in central Kolkata,where she lives. Or the “weird” song requests she gets from patrons. “How can you sing Chhammak Chhallo to a harmonium and two tablas? Isn’t it common sense? And what’s there in the song anyway if you take Kareena Kapoor out of it?” says the 32-year-old.

Ten years of performing mujras in the heart of Kolkata,just off the office district of Dalhousie,has given Rajni good reasons to be cynical about the famed Bengali taste in “culture”. Daughter of a mujra performer who migrated to Kolkata from Kalka in the ’70s,Rajni was born and brought up on the fringes of mehfils that lit up central Kolkata in the Seventies and Eighties. Her impatience with her work takes a backseat when she talks,almost with awe,about times past. “Businessmen would send their children to my mother to learn tehzeeb (etiquette) in the day. In the evenings,my mother used to dress up in beautiful anarkalis,not a speck of extra skin on show. On rare days,we managed to sneak close to the mehfils,” she says. Her own repertoire includes ghazals of Jagjit Singh and Mehdi Hassan. “These days,there isn’t much choice left to us. We get all sorts of Bollywood requests — everything from Dil cheez kya hai to Ooh la la,” she says.

Nostalgia is a large part of their lives. Sheetal,in her mid-20s,says.“Bollywood is so misleading. Those huge spaces,those chandeliers,expensive dresses,the jewellery,they are in the past. We have to make do with a 10 by 10 feet room. I still make sure I wear a lehenga,but some don’t even wear Indian clothes.” It’s difficult to anticipate what tomorrow will bring. “The government has decided to extend the Metro rail service and pull down these buildings to extend the tracks. We might go out of work,” she says.

Launda

Nearing the eastern fringes of Kolkata,the stretch of Kadapara (a literal translation of which would be muck-lane) mirrors the scraped knees of a city restlessly stretching its limbs. Homes,grocery shops,make-shift party offices and public urinals fight for elbow space with the manicured lawns of a posh housing estate across the road. Here,the modest two-storey mint-green building at 54 Narkeldanga Main Road houses Prothoma,the only shelter home in the city for the ‘gender-variant’ male. Bappa smoothens his ochre checked shirt over his trousers every now and then as we speak. “I hate crumpled shirt ends,” he explains.

“There is more me than what you see now,” he says,pointing to a dusty,yellowing poster that screams “Proud to be a Woman”. There,he is seen in a classical dance pose — kohl-rimmed eyes,orange choli and flower-in-hair et al — for the poster celebrating International Women’s Day. A commerce graduate from a middle class Bengali family in south Kolkata,Bappa is a launda dancer by profession and also works with an NGO. At 35,he is eager,talkative,slightly short of patience. “Say you have promised to make a pandal for the Pujas,can you back out a day before it? It’s the same with us. Once,we have been booked for a dance performance at a wedding,there’s little chance that we can cancel the dance,” he says.

Launda dancers,cross-dressing men,are a staple at weddings,mostly in eastern UP and Bihar. They usually dance as part of the baraat (wedding procession),during the haldi ceremony of the groom and when the baraat leaves for the girl’s house. “Like Bengalis boast about wedding feasts,there,people boast about the launda dancers,” he says.

The dancers are mostly booked through dance companies owned by bandmasters who also double up as musicians accompanying them. There isn’t a thumb rule to launda dancing. “We receive no formal training. We learn from other laundas and the movements are mostly spontaneous — the kind of stuff you see at festive wedding dances,a little flirtatious,a little celebratory,” says Bappa. However,the one thing that needs some rehearsing is handling drunk men. “When there are 100 drunken men dancing around you,you have to also be a kick-boxer-on-standby while dancing,” says Bappa.

“The bandmaster plays and sings popular Bhojpuri songs to a harmonium or drums. The beats have to be catchy,and in sync with our moves,for the patrons come to watch us,” he says. Booking is done through the bandmaster,based on past performances and how “fashionably dressed” they are.

Cross-dressing men,Bollywood’s most reliable joke-trap,is far from funny to them. A few years junior to Bappa,25-year-old Bapi,says he feels embarrassed to watch a Bollywood representation of launda dance with his mother at home. “When the extras and the others in the frame are shown laughing,it feels as if they are laughing at me,” he says. He has seen better in real life. “When I wear my sarees and backless cholis,very few men have the guts to laugh,” he says.