A woman of firm convictions, soft spoken Manjari Chaturvedi is a Kathak dancer with a beautiful presence on stage. A benign revolutionary, for she is experimental, fashions tradition to raise contemporary issues, is fairly emancipated from limiting beliefs and the normative sensibilities. She is a master in employing her exceptional dancing talent to bring to light causes that are important to her. And she does it with grace, elegance, and certain boldness. She is loud and clear without raising her voice.
“I’m from Lucknow,” she says. Ganga-Jamuni Tehzib (the quintessential syncretic culture of the region where art transcends the limitations of identities) was an integral part of her growing up. Pondering over the liberating power of art, she talks about classifications and identities that are created by people and then they become victims of these classifications. To Manjari, art cannot be limiting, it is the harbinger of freedom.
There’s a certain stability about her. She’s never dramatic, even when she’s swirling a thousand times performing Sufi kathak. She transcends herself, and gets into another domain. In the pivot of that swirling, is stillness—that’s her anchor.
Eloquent she is about freedom that comes from being an artist. “I’m limitless in my own time zone,” she says. She’s completely alone while performing, in sync with divine. Dancing is out of the body experience for her. The world ceases to exist in those moments, yet, she is aware. “I box myself in my art. (Despite) I’m aware that I exist on the stage,” she says. Paradoxical and empowering.
A dancer, choreographer, cultural academic, Manjari has always associated her art with a purpose. She has started many initiatives, a new form of Kathak—the Sufi Kathak—a break from the past, distinct from the temple or the court styles. It’s been a quarter of a century since she started this novel form of Kathak. Ten years later, took another initiative—the Courtesan Project to correct people’s outlook towards tawaifs, who are, as the popular perception is, not prostitutes. They are artists. They performed on thumari and gazals.
Manjari looks at the larger picture. It’s not just about performance but living an age-old tradition. She has used art as a way to correct history. There’s a perceptible change in the attitude. From Meena Kumari playing Pakeezah to Rekha playing Umrao Jan, are part of this change. This was a liberal set up, they were not divisive but inclusive. The eunuchs were confidantes and played an important role in the running of the establishment. The tawaifs were significant women, artists, and leaders in their own right. Gangu Bai played by Alia Bhat is just one of the many examples. They represented the best in the society.
I’m limitless in my own time zone,” she says. She’s completely alone while performing, in sync with divine. Dancing is out of the body experience for her. The world ceases to exist in those moments, yet, she is aware. “I box myself in my art. (Despite) I’m aware that I exist on the stage,” she says. Paradoxical and empowering.
Then came Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Netflix series on tawaifs titled—Heeramandi. She is not happy. “The British reduced all tawaifs to sex workers – so has Bhansali,” she says while sipping green tea at India International Centre’s (IIC) lounge. “They would have achieved something remarkable if Bansali had examined and portrayed the beauty, grace, talent and uniqueness of the tawaifs,” she adds. An opportunity missed. And, if I may add, misused.
Let this be said clearly, Tawaifs are both Hindu and Muslims, like their admirers, unlike how it’s been portrayed in the series. Manjari gives the example of the legendry Jaddan bai, she was a Hindu before she converted to Islam by choice. “I have spent 15 years recreating the songs and dances of tawaifs and telling their stories to build respect for their art and remove the stigma associated with them,” she says, therefore, Heeramandi kind of initiatives are heartbreaking.
For such popular series and movies have a profound impact on the mind of the masses, she explains, therefore should be done with responsibility. For instance, Vaijantimala Bali played Amrapali in the 1966 movie by the same name. Manjari clarifies, Vaijantimala, a Bharatnatyam dancer, used her dancing acumen to portray Amarpali with distinction. People think Amarpali was a Bharatnatyam dancer, that was not the case as she was from Bihar.
Manjari has an eye for details, for she just doesn’t hone her talent by rigorous practice, but also carries out relentless research to understand the legacy. Lately, Manjari spends a good part of the day in IIC’s library putting her decades of research into a seamless narrative on tawaifs—a definitive book on this age-old tradition of art that has been stigmatised. It will make a dent on the popular perceptions by giving a real picture. Facts are stranger (also interesting) than ill-conceived, misleading fictions. The families of many leading ladies of the Indian film industry, such as Nargis, were from such traditions.
There was a time when the elites, people of the ruling class, sent their children to a tawaif to train them to conduct themselves befitting of their status in personal and professional life. Manjari has strong views on it. I was fairly shocked to know that it was only the male child, in his teens, sent to tawaifs to learn suavities and social graces. “Not the girl child,” she points out, “why?” The reason for this gender bias stems from entrenched patriarchy. Girls don’t need such training? Or the girls weren’t to be exposed to tawaifs? Or was it that the boys were sent to be initiated into sex life to ensure they perform well in bed?
Talking to her is educational. And when we dig beneath the surface and look for finer details, the popular perception goes for a toss, things that appear good may turn out to be closeted evil, and evil as is projected may actually be something to admire, inculcate, follow. Paradoxical again!
She has planned her life well, makes personal five-year plans and lists things to do, personal and professional, and goes about it methodologically. She is doing many things at a time but never seems to be in hurry for she’s hooked on to the larger picture. She has marked her path in this uncertain world, therefore, never loses her way.
“I’m disciplined,” she says.
Manjari lives with her 84 years old mother and 12 years old daughter. They make a formidable unit because they’re individualistic and lead separate lives together. “You’d be amazed how independent Naazo is,” she says about her daughter. “There are 4 women and a male dog living in my home,” she corrects me. Just in case you’re wondering who the fourth woman is: she’s the housekeeper who takes care of things like a family.
Though she may appear slightly allusive, she has many friends, though very few actually know her well. She’s untouched by how people are perceived in society, she’s high on awareness, low on rhetoric. If she knows a person, it matters little to her what people have to say about him or her. There’s an enigma about her that's engaging.
She’s not a fair-weather friend, supports friends in dire straits and doesn’t sit on judgement when they need help. Art has empowered her to help the needy. For instance, during the Covid years, she organised a pension for musicians and accompanists who would have otherwise been pauperised. That’s what I like about Manjari, that she engages with the humanity of a person, and not their attributes.
She has planned her life well. She makes personal five-year plans and lists things to do, personal and professional, and goes about it methodologically. For example, getting a dog for her daughter was one of the items listed in her five-year plan. And by the end of the time frame, she had ticked almost all and wrote ‘done’ next to it in caps.
She is doing many things at a time but never seems to be in hurry for she’s hooked on to the larger picture. She’s a doer with a road map that gives her an edge. She has marked her path in this uncertain world, therefore, never loses her way. “I’m disciplined,” she says.
In these mercurial times only Manjari could have the audacity to say in a low tone without slightest hesitation, “This is the happiest phase in my life. Therefore, I’m very busy.”
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