Ghoonghat: What the Veil Reveals

“While you might be seeking a loving life partner, all they want is an āgyākārī (obedient) bahu (daughter-in-law): one who doubles as cook, cleaner, caretaker, and mother—all in the body of a model. And a doormat that receives all the dirt but can never itself be dirty.”

These biting words by Mahima Saigal anchor Rovaco Dance Company’s Ghoonghat (Work-in-Progress).

Through humor, chants, vocal expressions, and a clear movement language—at times uncomfortable for the truths they confront—Ghoonghat is unabashed and unapologetic in its critique of cultural expectations around gender, obedience, respectability, and belonging. The dupatta the dancers wear reveals more than it hides, marking the boundary between how we see ourselves and how culture expects us to be seen.

The brilliance of Ghoonghat lies in how it weaves culturally specific elements into threads of identity, gender, expectation, and belonging. Its diverse ensemble brings these threads vividly to life, recognizing unexpected resonances across their own communities.

Provocative, uncomfortable, humorous, and deeply relevant, Ghoonghat, conceived by choreographer Rohan Bhargava and created in collaboration with the dancers, is a vibrant and incisive work that demands to be seen.

See Ghoonghat at the Rovaco Dance Festival 2026

Dates: Saturday, August 29 & Sunday, August 30
Time: 5:00–8:00 PM
Location: Downtown Brooklyn — Brooklyn Ballet & The Mark O’Donnell Theater
Address: 160 Schermerhorn St, Brooklyn, NY 11201
Tickets: https://events.ticketleap.com/tickets/rovacodance/RDF2026
More information:

https://www.rovacodance.com/

Piece Credits

Title: Ghoonghat (Work-in-Progress)
Duration: 15 minutes
Choreography & Concept: Rohan Bhargava in collaboration with the dancers
Dancers: Nico Gonzales, Karma Chuki, Isabele Rosso, Laila Garrett, and Connor Hestwood
Composer: Saúl Guanipa

Resident Dramaturg & Co-Script Writer: Mahima Saigal

Ghoonghat will be presented on both nights of the Rovaco Dance Festival as a work-in-progress, alongside other works by Rovaco Dance Company and performances by guest-commissioned artists.

In an interview, the former New York Times chief dance critic Alastair Macaulay described his work this way: “To reconcile heart and head; to show how emotion and intelligence can combine when absorbing works of art. To report on and to evoke an event for those who weren’t there. To provoke and enrich discussion of dance. To help people show how many elements—how many values—go into the process of judgment.”

It’s an apt description of the critic’s role: feel deeply, think clearly, write truthfully. But behind those thoughts, lies an ethical terrain every dance critic must navigate.

I started critiquing in 2014 for no other reason than my love for writing and dance. My first critique was on a performance by my gurus, The Dhananjayans and published in Narthaki, Soon after, I had a conversation with my Gurus about what I had written. In that exchange, I understood the power of words and the responsibility to choose them with care.

It was then I realized that if I wished to write honestly and critically, I could not also remain a performing artist in the same spaces. I made a conscious decision to step away from the stage and commit to critiquing. In the eleven years since, apart from the occasional performance for a non-profit or community event, I have not danced publicly. My love for dancing will never vane, I think of my transition form dancer to writer as expanding the artistic canvas.

I did not think much about that decision until, during the second day of the 2025 Intersections Conference, one of the presenters asked me:

What does it mean to be a dance critic?

After giving it careful thought, I offer these reflections.

Firstly, to critique is to observe keenly what is happening kinesthetically and emotionally and find words precise enough to carry that experience beyond the theatre. This translation matters because once written, a review outlives the evening. It becomes part of the record: future dancers, scholars, and audiences may look back and meet the performance only through the critic’s eyes. That alone demands responsibility: the review must be crafted with care, not by impulse or prejudice.

Secondly, writing a critique is an act of choosing. To write about dance is to decide what matters and what can be left unsaid. Each sentence includes and excludes; each focus shapes how a performance will be remembered. These choices aren’t casual. They come from the critic’s sense of value: what is essential to the work’s meaning, what reveals its craft, and what would only clutter or distort the picture.

Underpinning this craft are some guiding ethical principles that I remind myself to uphold every time I sit down to write.

The ethics of dance critique

1. Respect for artistic labour. Behind a single performance is disciplined practice, coordinating orchestra, thoughtful choices of costumes, ornaments and props, to name a few. A lot of emotional and financial investment is at stake. That labour must be respected.

2. Sensitivity to context. Dance is never “just movement.” It lives inside histories; of form, ritual, politics, and identity. A critic must try to understand the frameworks within which the work is made and offered.

3. Awareness of one’s own bias. It is my opinion that no critic, if human, is neutral. Each of us sees through our training, taste, and cultural predispositions. Acknowledging and being aware of this and staying curious and open to new ways of seeing is part of the job. This ethical vigilance is meant to keep our vision honest and expansive.

4. Deep knowledge of texts and nuance. To speak responsibly about any form requires more than surface admiration. The critic must study the texts, philosophies, and subtle aesthetic codes that shape each tradition. Without this grounding, commentary risks distortion, erasure, or the belittling of valuable work.

5. Courage matters. Writing honestly about a celebrated artist’s work requires courage and conviction. Fame can intimidate and tempt a critic to retreat into safe praise, but integrity demands courage to stand by what you have truly seen even when the subject’s stature makes candor risky.

Critique thus demands a kind of independence that is nearly impossible for someone still deeply enmeshed in their performing life. Here are some other reasons why an active performer cannot be a critic.

1. Conflict of interest and divided loyalties
A performer lives inside the same ecology she would be asked to judge: shared teachers, presenters, donors, funding bodies, and audiences. To write candidly about a colleague’s missteps risks real cost — invitations withdrawn, relationships strained, opportunities lost. That pressure can turn criticism into gentle polishing rather than truth-telling.

2. Unavoidable bias
Every performer’s years of training instills a vocabulary in their body that is unique. A dancer may instinctively value precision of nritta and clarity of line, while a contemporary improviser may privilege experimentation, rupture, or dissonance. Consequently, when this dancer critiques the work of another, there is a risk that the review unconsciously defends or validates the aesthetic values of their own practice. .

3. Erosion of trust
Audiences expect critical independence. A review penned by someone who will share the same stage or compete for the same grant feels compromised, however sincere the writing. That suspicion erodes the ecology of critique itself.

4. The need for distance
Performing demands immersion and vulnerability; criticism asks for detachment and broad vision. A critique must step back, take in the whole, and only then suggest how certain additions or deletions might refine the form. Trying to inhabit both roles fully almost always compromises one or the other.

5. Protecting the field
When the few visible voices are also performers, conversation shrinks into insider praise or veiled rivalries. Healthy criticism needs some writers who are free from those entanglements, so dialogue can be frank, risk-taking, and generative.

Performers have much to say about process, body, lineage, and craft. Their voices are vital in essays, artist statements, interviews, and reflective writing. But the role of the critic—the one who asks for accountability, offers perspective, and helps shape how history is recorded—requires a distinct kind of spaciousness. Critique needs independence not to take away agency or diminish the performer, but to serve the art itself. And while the pen, as the saying goes, may be mightier than the sword, it cannot be wielded safely by someone still moving within the very dynamics it must assess. To write truthfully, the critic must step out of the frame—not to detach from the art, but to see it whole.

June 5, 2026

As I write this newsletter from Visakhapatnam, I am sitting beside my 103-year-old father-in-law, Sriramulu Vallabhajosyula. Until the age of 101, he represented India in Masters Athletics, competing in walking, shot put, and javelin. Following a recent heart attack, he is slowly finding his way back onto his feet, stubbornly refusing assistance whenever possible.

What strikes me is not simply his longevity, but his will. An Indian Navy veteran, avid reader, and lifelong atheist, he has rarely spoken of God or divine intervention. Instead, he has relied on discipline, personal responsibility, and a deep curiosity about the world around him.

On the second day after being discharged from the hospital, he rose at his usual 3:30 a.m. and sat down to write. Not about his recent heart attack, but about an ordeal he had experienced in Australia in 2016. At 103, the habit of putting one foot in front of the other—physically and mentally—remains unchanged.

As I watch him take each careful step, I am reminded that resilience takes many forms. Sometimes it arises through physical discipline, sometimes through spiritual practice, and sometimes through the quiet decision to continue despite adversity.

The upcoming issue of Global Indian Artist explores the many expressions of courage found in the human experience. We are honored to welcome Dr. V.R. Devika and Geshe Tenzin Lhabsum as contributors whose essays invite us into conversations on courage, wisdom, and the inner life. We also introduce a new section, Cultural Storytelling, beginning with Food, Memory & Place, where personal narratives become a way of preserving memory, and tradition.

As always, thank you for reading, sharing, and supporting this growing community of artists, scholars, thinkers, and storytellers.

Warmly,

Anita Vallabh
Founder & Editorial Curator
Global Indian Artist

Sampada: Traditional Treasures brought together three Boston-based dancers exploring the emotional landscapes of Mohiniyattam and Bharatanatyam through post-medieval devotional literature. Moving away from excessive rhythmic display, the repertoire emphasized emotional inquiry and psychological nuance.

The recital opened with Sutikshna Veeravalli performing the huseini swarajati Ye Mayaladira, a composition centered on the khaṇḍitā nāyikā: the offended heroine wounded by betrayal. Sutikshna brought grace, restraint, and technical clarity to the piece, her nritta marked by fluidity and clean lines. A fuller exploration of the work’s emotional possibilities, particularly through greater dramatic contrast in portraying the “other woman” with shades of sarcasm, irritation, and the absurdity of gossip, would have deepened the audience’s experience of the heroine’s psychological turmoil. Her poised stage presence and measured approach nevertheless mark her as a dancer of considerable promise.

The second half began with Śiva Pañcākṣarī, a duet by Sapna Govindan and Gayathri Thampatty. The performance was aesthetically polished, marked by graceful movement and precise technique. Given that their inclusion in the program came at short notice, the dancers were notably well coordinated. Yet while the choreography appeared to juxtapose Śiva’s fierce and compassionate dimensions, the devotional core — along with the melodic and lyrical beauty of the composition — would have benefited from a stronger emphasis on devotion.

In her solo Madhava Mamava, Gayathri Thampatty revealed herself to be an expressive performer capable of subtle emotional modulation. Greater care, however, is needed while developing sancharis within the tarangam format. The beauty of this composition lies in its heartfelt surrender to Krishna: as Yādava, as sādhujanādhāra, and in the loving evocation of his physical beauty through phrases such as bimbādhara and bimbānana. A deeper exploration of these lyrical images might have enriched the emotional texture of the piece. By contrast, the repeated depiction of Yashoda chasing Krishna to feed him lingered longer than necessary.

In the following composition, Sapna Govindan’s rendering of Swati Tirunal’s padam Viditam Te Nisavrittam was as compelling as it was restrained. Sapna approached the khaṇḍitā nāyikā with maturity, allowing anger, longing, pride, and wounded dignity to coexist without melodrama. Her rendering of “mā mā spṛśa kitava” (“Do not touch me, deceiver”) followed by the gesture of opening the door wide for the wayward lover to leave — fully assured that he would return — captured the emotional center of a pragalbha khaṇḍitā nāyikā: mature, fearless, articulate, and self-assured.

While the individual interpretations were riveting, the inclusion of two khaṇḍitā nāyikā narratives within the same program created a degree of emotional repetition. A broader emotional spectrum in the repertoire would have allowed for greater dramatic variety across the evening.

The recital concluded with the mangalam Bhujaga Shayino in yadukulakambhoji, returning the evening to devotion as its final emotional anchor.

Photo Credit: Jack Tan

Lighting: Jason Ries

Sound: Vikram Nitin

The Nāṭyaśāstra reminds us that nāṭya ( theatrical performance) comes fully alive only when rasa is experienced by the audience: when emotion moves beyond the performer and becomes collectively felt. The stage, therefore, becomes a shared field of emotional and spiritual participation. In its finest moments, performance dissolves the distance between artist and spectator, allowing audiences to recognize themselves within what unfolds before them.

It is precisely this profound performer–audience connection that makes the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater one of the most emotionally resonant companies in the world. Beyond technical mastery lies its extraordinary ability to transform movement into a shared emotional experience. Presented as part of Artistic Director Alicia Graf Mack’s inaugural season, the evening unfolded as a journey through memory, suffering, longing, resilience, faith and joy.

Poignant, joyful, and deeply human, the multiracial ensemble moved with their entire being. Strong muscularity coexisted with tenderness and grace. Heaving breaths, cries, body percussion, jazz-inflected movement, blues, gospel, and spirituals merged into a performance language that was at once sacred and secular.

The performance opened with The Holy Blues. Under haunting blue lighting, dancers emerged through a solitary doorway to soul-stirring gospel and blues music. Bodies shook, collapsed, and rose again, evoking both suffering and resilience. Inspired by the Ring Shout traditions of Central and West Africa and the “Door of No Return” associated with the transatlantic slave trade, the work became an homage to remembrance. Through invocations such as “Lord help me on my journey,” the choreography transformed pain into endurance and spiritual strength.

In Blink of an Eye, set to Bach’s violin sonatas and partitas, the choreography demanded astonishing precision and athleticism. Expansive extensions, grounded footwork, and sharply articulated movement revealed dancers of extraordinary technical training. The work suggested how fleeting life and artistic inspiration truly are: moments appear, disappear, and dissolve almost instantly. The dancers inhabited this ephemerality with remarkable clarity.

A gentler emotional anchor emerged through A Song for You, choreographed by Alvin Ailey to the tender voice of Donny Hathaway. Gracefully rendered, the solo became a meditation on love and longing. Particularly moving was the concluding gesture: the dancer extending his hand outward from his heart toward the audience. In that instant, the emotional exchange between performer and spectator became palpable

.The evening culminated in the iconic Revelations, one of the defining masterpieces of modern dance. Set to gospel music and African American spirituals, the work transformed the theater into a communal space of joy, prayer, and liberation. Foot stomping, hand clapping, and ecstatic movement filled the stage as dancers carried audiences toward celebration and renewal. Inspired by Alvin Ailey’s childhood memories of the Black church, Revelations continues to resonate because it speaks to one community’s history as much as it does to universal human yearning for dignity, faith, joy, peace, and freedom.

The visual design of the evening heightened the emotional resonance of each work, moving seamlessly between intimacy and expansiveness: haunting blues in The Holy Blues, warm amber glows in Revelations, and stark sculptural illumination in Blink of an Eye. Flowing skirts, earth-toned fabrics, and the iconic yellow dresses and fans of Rocka My Soul carried both theatrical vitality and cultural memory, allowing movement, music, costume, and light to merge into a fully immersive experience.

What makes the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater extraordinary is its ability to embody opposites simultaneously: sacred and secular, grief and joy, sensuality and devotion, individuality and collective memory. Like the ideals articulated in the Nāṭyaśāstra, the company reminds us that the deepest purpose of performance lies in its capacity to awaken shared feeling.

As the audience rose in applause at the close of Revelations, a feeling of gratitude swelled within for having participated in something profoundly human.

Written by Matthew Lombardo and directed by Noah Himmelstein.
April 8, Huntington Theatre Company,Boston.
By Anita Vallabh Ph.D.

The premise of this backstage comedy is disarmingly simple: What happens when an aspiring, slightly neurotic playwright’s carefully crafted script is derailed by a pill-popping diva?

Inspired by a real theatrical engagement at the Huntington Theatre Company, Matthew Lombardo transforms a difficult experience into sharp, witty theatrical comedy.

What gives this production its vitality is its command over performance. Pitch, inflection, and tonal shifts are handled with precision. Pace becomes a central device, with rapid-fire exchanges punctuated by well-placed pauses that allow the humor to land fully. The comedic timing across the ensemble sustains a high level of energy throughout.

In the opening scene, Matt Doyle as Jack Hawkins, the playwright, sits in a moment of constrained tension, his body held tight in a straitjacket. The restrained image is brief and deliberately awkward, quickly undercut as the shirt is whisked away in a neatly rigged transition. From that point on, the production shifts into high energy, with the entries of Kevin Chamberlin as director Oliver Kendall Walker and Adam Heller as producer Henry Carlton setting the pace for a sequence of sharply timed comic exchanges.

One particularly striking moment occurs as Jack delivers his lines while the director and producer, standing in dim light at center stage, engage in a silent, heated exchange, in slow-motion. The layering of simultaneous actions deepens the theatricality of the scene and heightens its humor.

Moving on, Beth Leavel as Brooke Remington delivers an unraveling that becomes a comic thread of its own. She folds over, turns away, and mumbles through forgotten lines and missed cues, her attempts at recovery only deepening the chaos.

The arrival of Marissa Jaret Winokur as stage manager Liz Jennings and Tomás Matos as Remington’s prompter adds another dimension, grounding the unfolding chaos while amplifying its comic energy.

In the end, When Playwrights Kill succeeds because each actor inhabits their role with complete conviction. It is backstage comedy at its theatrical best.

The creative team includes set design by Alexander Dodge, costume design by Alejo Vietti, lighting design by Elizabeth Harper, sound design and original music by John Gromada, wigs and hair design by Charles LaPointe, and illusion design by Skylar Fox and Daniel Weissglass.

Sowmya Rajaram and her disciples of Samskrithi School of Dance, Ananya Srinivasan, Sumedha Giridharam, Sharmada Rajaram, Kayal Balachander, Shantni Ravindrababu, Samyuktha Rajaram, Aaradhya Sivakumar, Sara Raturi, Meenakshi Senthil, Pallavi Shankar, and Manjari Shankar, presented a much-needed repertoire in a diasporic context.

The title Samīkṣaṇa—suggesting both introspection and reimagining—aptly frames the intent of the presentation: to remain rooted in tradition while situating it meaningfully within the present context. The use of traditional costumes and jewelry further reinforced this orientation, as did the careful selection of lyrics and choreographies, which remained anchored in lineage while resonating with contemporary sensibilities.

Through her brief introductions, Sowmya traced the socio-cultural history of the form as it thrived in temples and courts, foregrounding the symbiotic relationship between dancers, musicians, and patrons. In doing so, she offered a clear and concise lineage, extending from its historical roots to its contemporary presence in a diaspora far removed from what she aptly framed as “the arts’ ancestral soil.”

The presentation opened with the Tanjore Quartet’s Bhairavi Jatiswaram, in the choreography of Rukmini Devi. The dancers were arranged in a central group of three, flanked by two groups of four. The piece demands a sustained grounding in vilamba and madhyama kāla, and while the dancers demonstrated clarity and energy in their technique, there were moments where the rhythmic precision wavered, with the pace moving slightly ahead of the intended tempo. That said, the patterns were interesting, and the coordination across the ensemble was commendable.

This was followed by the Śabdam, Sarasi Jākṣulu, by Vadivelu of the Tanjore Quartet. As an ensemble, the dancers brought a sense of innocence and indignation that sits naturally with younger performers. Greater attention to specific textual nuances—such as in “Getti tannam idi kadayya” (this is not a wise or courageous act)—could, in future iterations, open up a wider range of interpretive possibilities, including shades of sarcasm layered with indignation.

The varṇam, Mohalahiri Koṇḍēn, another composition of the Tanjore Quartet, formed the central axis of the recital. Here, the virahotkaṇṭhitā nāyikā’s intense devotion to Lord Rājagopāla Swāmy unfolded through a spectrum of emotional states, interwoven with precise and effortless nṛtta. Sowmya’s portrayal of the virahotkaṇṭhitā nāyikā, a woman deeply in love, longing for her lord, yet finding moments of joy in remembered connection, eschewed overt dramatization. This restraint, often shaped by diasporic performance contexts, allowed the audience to access the heroine’s emotional interiority with clarity. Her performance reflected the assurance and depth of a seasoned artist, grounded and authentic in her voice.

The jāvali, Vāni Pondu cālu vodanē, by Patnam Subramania Iyer, offered a shift in tone. The dancers engaged with the emotional content with sincerity; however, the demands of abhinaya in such compositions call for a more nuanced internalization of text and subtext—something that will undoubtedly deepen with time and practice.

In the subsequent padam- Yella Vachitive by Kshetrayya, the sakhī admonishes the heroine: how could your feet have carried you away from him, my friend? The emotional texture here was handled with sensitivity and clarity by Sowmya.

The recital concluded with a tillāna in Simhendramadhyamam, a composition of Maharaja Swati Tirunal. The group choreography was well-structured, and the dancers executed it with precision, bringing the evening to a cohesive close.

Samīkṣaṇa: Lineage Reimagined in Context ultimately underscores that artistic lineages endure through re-imagination and interpretation. This presentation gestures toward that ongoing process, where what is inherited finds new meaning in where and how it is lived.

Sowmya Rajaram, known for her grace and technical precision, brings her strengths as a teacher into focus through the clarity and intention of this presentation.

All photos: HerBehindtheLens

Hema Rajagopalan’s Sharira/Shariri unfolds in darkness; as the overhead lights slowly rise, nine dancers come into view across three levels: on the floor, in araimandi, and in full stance. The prologue takes shape through nṛtta, marked by a subtle interplay of synchrony and counterpoint, where alignment yields to patterns of divergence and convergence. A sustained kinetic tension runs through the ensemble, as nṛtta and music coalesce into a measured rhythmic continuum. This opening serves as a prologue to Sharira/Shariri, establishing its rhythmic and visual vocabulary.

The work draws on the emotional landscape of the individual ego (sharira), rendered through the evocative metaphor of the river in relation to the divine whole, the ocean (shariri). Presented in segments, the work unfolds as a contemplative exploration of Vishishtadvaita, translating a complex philosophical premise into an accessible, embodied narrative. The river, personified by three dancers—Rekha Iyer, Vidya Govind, and Parvathi Achari—emerges as a force imbued with agency, ego, and a fragile sense of autonomy. In its early trajectory, it appears self-assured, imagining itself to be the center of its own universe, charting its course with an arrogance born of its perceived centrality. A recurring movement motif has the dancers walking with a self-assured, almost pompous swagger, swinging arms held in dolā hasta.

This sense of ego is further amplified through social veneration. In a striking sequence, dancers Rathna Kalluri, Shreya Mages, Kiran Prakash, Aditi Ram, Amuktha Samudrala, and Diya Srinivasan hold lamps and set them afloat, invoking the familiar hymn “Yā Devī Sarva Bhūteṣu…”, here reimagined as “Nadī rūpeṇa saṁsthitā.” The image of drifting lamps is handled with restraint, the illumination creating a gentle devotional atmosphere while reinforcing the river’s exalted yet illusory sense of self.

In the third segment, the river, now driven by an inflated sense of self, turns destructive, sweeping away crops and livelihoods. Subbarama Iyer’s “Yārukkāgilum bhayamā…” is reinterpreted here as the river asserts its absolute power, defying any obstruction to its course. While the conceptual shift—from a heroine asserting her agency against social judgment to a river embodying defiance—is interesting, the musical transition does not integrate seamlessly with the rest of the score.

Running parallel to this devastation is the loss of human life. A mother’s grief at the death of her child is rendered through ‘Chinnanjiru Kiliye,’ where Rathna Kalluri, in a deeply internalized abhinaya, recalls the joy the child once brought her even as she mourns its loss. This moment anchors the segment with emotional clarity and restraint, though a longer pause and a more withdrawn gaze before the song may have clarified the transition from memory to grief, heightening the contrast between these opposing emotional registers.

In the subsequent segments, as barricades take form—river embankments and dams—the once forceful current is reduced to a restrained flow. This transition is effectively choreographed, the three dancers negotiating the floor through gliding, low-level movement, registering the river’s gradual trickling as they exit the stage.

In the final sequence, as the diminished river makes its way toward the ocean, the backdrop opens to an evocative suggestion of marine life. The shift is both dramatic and imaginative. The dancers, with arms raised, register a moment of recognition—of a force greater than themselves—culminating in a surrender and alignment with the larger whole.

This is followed by a high-energy tillana, a celebratory culmination that gestures toward the soul’s recognition of a higher source. The ensemble moves in kaleidoscopic formations; lighting design by Elijah Kleinsmith and sound design by Sai Shravanam, supported by Karl King’s sound engineering, sharpen the work’s visual and sonic filed.

Costume and make up remain understated and aesthetically resolved: minimal jewelry and simple costumes, rendered in a subtle palette of blues, bronze, mauves, gold, off-white, and peach, create a cohesive chromatic landscape while sustaining an overall visual unity, mirroring the philosophical interplay of multiplicity within unity.

The strength and precision of each dancer reflect the rigor of training and the guiding presence of the teacher. Hema Rajagopalan’s ability to nurture and sustain this level of artistry within the diasporic context is no small achievement. Sharira/Shariri – Held Within emerges as a fitting marker of Natya Dance Theatre’s five decades of sustained artistic inquiry and commitment to evolving the language of Bharatanatyam in the diaspora.

All photos: Sibu Kutty, courtesy of Natya Dance Theatre.

The last day of this memorable journey arrived with mixed feelings.

Before leaving Khajuraho, we decided to do some shopping for friends back home. This gave us the opportunity to spend time chatting with the family who run Kuber, a local store. Behind the shop, skilled stone sculptors were at work, patiently carving sandstone into intricate forms.

Later in the day we returned to the Southern group of temples to visit the Dulhadev Temple, built around the 11th–12th century. Known as the “bridegroom temple,” Dulhadev is dedicated to Śiva as the divine bridegroom. In the sanctum stands a Śiva liṅga, notable for the delicate carvings of 1,101 miniature liṅgas etched across its surface—an extraordinary sculptural detail that reflects the continuing refinement of temple artistry even in the later stages of the Chandela period.

The temples of the Southern group, particularly Dulhadev and the nearby Chaturbhuja temple, belong to the declining phase of Chandela rule. Yet they reveal two distinct responses to that moment in history. The Chaturbhuja temple, dedicated to Viṣṇu, is striking in its simplicity: its walls are relatively plain, devoid of the elaborate sculptural programs and erotic imagery that characterize the temples of the Western complex. Dulhadev, by contrast, continues the decorative vocabulary of earlier Khajuraho temples, its walls filled with celestial figures and sculptural ornamentation—though the workmanship suggests a gradual waning of the refinement seen in the earlier Chandela masterpieces. In this sense, the two temples mark a transition: one reflecting simplification and reduction, the other a continuation of established forms, even as the artistic momentum of the dynasty began to fade.

As we made our way toward the evening venue, I found myself reflecting on the immense effort undertaken by the Government of Madhya Pradesh, which has hosted this festival for more than five decades. The organization of the event is impressive: the grounds are clean and well maintained, restrooms are accessible, and nearby cafeterias serve warm snacks for visitors and performers alike.

If there was one challenge, it was managing the audience. Since the event is free, the seating area is divided into sections for media, VIPs, and the general public. Inevitably, many visitors consider themselves VIPs and attempt to occupy reserved spaces, resulting in constant movement and occasional disruptions as people walk across the seated audience.

In the evening the performances began with Sunayana Hazarilal, an exponent of the Banaras gharana of Kathak, known for preserving the Jankiprasad tradition. However, it was clear that age had begun to take its toll on the performer. While one cannot help but admire the enthusiasm that keeps an artist on stage, there are moments when performers must also recognize when it is time to step away and pass their knowledge to the next generation. As one fellow artist quietly remarked later that evening, “I only hope I know when it is time for me to stop performing.”

The following performance Samarthya: The Women of the Ramayana, by Pratibha Prahlad was a theatrical dance presentation exploring the stories of several women from the epic. The narrative framed Maharshi Vālmīki, the Ādi Kavi, as the sūtradhāra, guiding the audience through the lives of Sītā, Kaikeyi, Śūrpaṇakhā, Urmilā, and Mandodarī.

Each character was interpreted through a different classical dance tradition: Kaikeyi in Odissi, performed by Sanchita Bhattacharya; Urmila in Mohiniyattam, performed by Dr. Aishwarya Warrier; Mandodari in Kuchipudi, performed by Alekya Punjari; Shurpanakha in Kathakali, performed by Sripriya Namboodiri; and Sita in Bharatanatyam, performed by Pratibha Prahlad.

Among these, Alekya Punjari’s portrayal of Mandodari stood out for its intensity and emotional clarity. Her interpretation of Mandodari pleading with Ravana to abandon his path of adharma and release Sita—warning him of the destruction that awaited him—was particularly compelling.

Equally striking was Sripriya Namboodiri’s Kathakali portrayal of Shurpanakha, where the anguish and fury of the character were rendered with dramatic force.

The production concluded with Sita’s final return to Mother Earth, interpreted through Bharatanatyam by Pratibha Prahlad. The linking ensemble passages connecting the individual narratives were well executed. One particularly memorable moment was the Setu Bandhanam scene, and the final tableau—where the dancers surrounded Sita and slowly descended into muzhumandi as the lights faded—was deeply evocative.

One aspect that remained somewhat confusing, however, was the narrative framework. While Valmiki was presented as the sūtradhāra, the storytelling incorporated elements from multiple Ramayana traditions, including interpretations from the Kamba Ramayana, which made the narrative perspective slightly unclear.

Despite these narrative complexities, the technical aspects of the festival—particularly sound and lighting—were handled very well. The volunteers and ushers assisting visitors were courteous and patient, even when faced with occasional frustration from members of the crowd.

Yet as we walked away from the temple complex for the last time, what lingered most were not only the performances or the monuments, but the many small human moments of the journey—the conversations, the laughter, and above all the precious time spent with my mother, whose energy and enthusiasm continue to surprise and inspire me.

Khajuraho reminds us that history lives engraved as much in stone, as in the people, memories, and shared experiences that gather around it.

All photographs by the author. Courtesy Global Indian Artist (GIA).

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The following morning, we made our way to the Chaturbhuja Temple in the Southern group of temples, dedicated to Lord Vishnu. Standing somewhat apart from the more frequently visited Western complex, the temple has a quiet, solitary presence in the landscape

.

.Unlike many of the temples at Khajuraho, the Chaturbhuja Temple contains no erotic sculptures and lacks the dense sculptural ornamentation characteristic of the Western group. Instead, its architectural program is restrained, drawing attention to the imposing nine-foot-tall image of Vishnu that dominates the sanctum.

Another distinctive feature is the temple’s internal layout. There is no circumambulatory passage around the sanctum, nor the elaborate sequence of architectural spaces—antarāla and maṇḍapa—that one encounters in the grander temples of the earlier Chandela period. The relative simplicity of the structure is often interpreted by historians as reflecting the gradual decline of Chandela political power and, with it, the scale of royal patronage that had once supported the extraordinary artistic flourishing of Khajuraho.

In the evening, the program opened with Saswati Sen’s Kathak performance. She began with a Śiva ārādhana - Bho Śambho, venerating Śiva–Naṭarāja placed at the centre of the stage. She then moved into the celebrated composition Niratata Shankar Parvati Sang, choreographed by her guru Pandit Birju Maharaj.

What followed was a series of rhythmic explorations—tehāī patterns and layakari articulated through intricate footwork. Interwoven into these passages were evocative motifs of an Abhisārikā Nāyikā, along with moments drawn from everyday experience. Watching her perform it was a reminder that age often deepens the beauty and assurance of an artist’s expression.

The next performance featured Odissi dancer Sushree Mohanty, who began with Surya Ashtakam. However, the balanced execution required for the form—the sustained chauka (deep square stance) and the flowing tribhaṅga (triple bend)—along with the expressive depth that characterizes Odissi, did not quite come through with the clarity one hopes for.

The group presentation by Noyonsakhi Devi, an eminent Manipuri dancer followed. Opening with an invocatory Shantakaram Bhujagashayanam evoking the imagery of Vishnu in his many manifestations before moving into Aaja Hori set to Rudra Tāla, depicting the gopīs celebrating Holi with Krishna. With eight female and two male dancers, the stage was filled with graceful patterns and vibrant movement.

Watching the performances unfold was also a reminder of the distinct identities of India’s classical dance traditions—each with its own movement vocabulary, rhythmic sensibility, and aesthetic imagination.

As I noted in my journal: Khajuraho does not overwhelm merely because of its erotic imagery or depictions of everyday life. It overwhelms because of the many ways it continues to speak—of devotion, sovereignty, artistic imagination, and the enduring dialogue between the human and the divine.

All photographs by the author. Courtesy Global Indian Artist (GIA).

Khajuraho Chronicles Series
← Previous: Day 5 | Next: Day 7 →

The fifth day at Khajuraho began under a bright morning sky. After breakfast, we set out toward the Eastern group of temples with Salman, our driver, who cheerfully warned us about what he called the “jumping road”—a bumpy stretch that would make the car seem to dance its way across the countryside.

We had deliberately chosen not to read or research the temples beforehand, preferring instead to encounter them as they revealed themselves. There is a particular freshness in approaching a historic site without preconceptions, allowing first impressions to shape one’s understanding.

What struck me immediately upon arrival was the coexistence of old and new structures, and with it a striking contrast in workmanship. The ancient temples display breathtaking precision: every inch of stone alive with intricate detailing, layered iconography, and sculptural rhythm. By contrast, the more recently constructed temples nearby appear far simpler in execution.

It raises an intriguing question: why are we unable today to reproduce the same extraordinary intricacy achieved by these medieval artisans? The answer perhaps lies not only in technique, but also in the time, devotion, and collective imagination that once shaped sacred architecture.

The Jain temples offered a markedly different experience from the Western complex. If the earlier temples celebrated the vitality of life through their sculptural exuberance, these spaces invited a quieter, more contemplative engagement.

The Ādinātha Temple stands toward the front of the complex, while the Pārśvanātha Temple lies further behind. The sculptural program here is noticeably less erotic and more mythological in character, with figures such as Sūrya and Kubera and Jain Tirthankaras appearing among the carvings. Our guide Rajendra Verma informed us that these temples are active places of worship. Historical accounts suggest that the temple was commissioned by a wealthy merchant, with the permission of the Chandela king—an important reminder that sacred patronage in medieval India extended beyond royalty.

The site today is beautifully maintained by the Archaeological Survey of India, and nearby stands an old well—an evocative reminder that temples were not merely places of worship but part of a living landscape of water, community, and daily life.

In the stillness of these Jain shrines, Khajuraho revealed yet another dimension of itself—one of meditation and inward reflection. Their presence speaks to a time when Jainism and Hinduism coexisted here, each finding expression within the same sacred landscape.

The evening performance back at the Western group of temples began with Shinjini Kulkarni, Kathak dancer and granddaughter of Pandit Birju Maharaj. She opened with a vibrant invocation to Lord Ganesha, Gajananam Bhutaganaadi Sevitam, before moving into energetic passages set to tāl dhamār, followed by a traditional bandish.

Her solo abhinaya, Bihari ko apne bas kar pāo, was particularly engaging. In this piece, different devotees attempt to draw the attention of Lord Krishna in their own ways—each calling out to him through their devotion—while Krishna, playful and compassionate, responds to each in turn. Kulkarni rendered these shifting emotional shades with sensitivity and charm, bringing the narrative alive.

The next presentation was Odissi by Dr. Ileana Citaristi and her group, which began with Adi Shankaracharya’s Ganga Pranaam. While the piece held promise in concept, the performance unfortunately lacked the clarity and structural precision that are hallmarks of the Odissi tradition. The grounded articulation of footwork, the sculptural definition of the form, and the cohesion within the group choreography did not fully come through.

Driving back that evening, I was struck by how the day had unfolded in two distinct registers. The Jain temples of the Eastern complex offered a quieter vision of Khajuraho—one sustained by merchant devotion and the contemplative ethos of Jain practice. Their presence revealed the site as a shared sacred landscape where different traditions once coexisted with remarkable ease.

The evening’s performances, unfolding against the monumental Western temples, seemed to echo this layered inheritance in their own way—each artist negotiating tradition, lineage, and contemporary interpretation. Between the stillness of the shrines and the energy of dancers on stage, Khajuraho seemed to remind us of the inherent beauty within inherited traditions—whether expressed in stone or through the living body of dance.

All photographs by the author. Courtesy Global Indian Artist (GIA).

Khajuraho Chronicles Series
← Previous: Day 4 | Next: Day 6 →

By the fourth day, the deeper layers of Khajuraho’s history — as both seat of power and site of devotion — became clearer. I found myself drawn to the Lakshmana Temple, one of the earliest and most refined temples of the Western Group, commissioned in the AD 10th century by the Chandela ruler Yashovarman (925-950), also known as Lakshman Dev Verman.

Here, the familiar “king–god” idea, so central to many South Indian temple traditions, finds a northern articulation. In what I can think of as a brilliant strategy, the Chandela ruler, in commissioning this temple, and the idol of Vishnu with four faces ( the fourth unseen to us) aligns himself with a deity who embodies not only divinity but vigilance and order. The central face is human, composed and assured. To one side emerges the lion aspect, recalling Narasimha — fierce, protective, unyielding. To the other appears the boar form, Varaha — the cosmic rescuer who lifts the earth from chaos. In a single body, preservation gathers its many expressions: calm authority, contained ferocity, decisive intervention. Just as Vishnu holds multiple aspects within one body, the king must hold strength, restraint, and responsibility together. Preservation of land, of people, of dharma becomes both divine mandate and royal obligation.

As we walk across the temple base, we encountered a striking motif: a human figure grappling with a rearing lion. The image appears repeatedly in Chandela architecture in front of the temples and is the central motif in the Mahadev temple as well. Local legend speaks of a Chandela prince Chandra Dev Verman ( Nannuk Dev Verman) who killed a lion, in an act that affirmed his right to rule. Whether historical memory or symbolic metaphor, the message is that sovereignty must be tested before the power to govern is bestowed.

The overarch theme of the temple concept resonates with : The king commissions the temple. The deity legitimizes the king. The temple becomes a conduit between earthly authority and cosmic order. This is the “king–god” concept made visible — rule aligned with dharma, sovereignty sanctioned through devotion.

By Day Four, the comparison between temple and dance felt natural. The myth of the temples and the content of dance sustain them and as the temple architecture rises like a spine — strong and ordered. The dancers, disciplined within their respective traditions, move, turn, leap, and bow within that architecture of meaning.

Returning in the evening for the performances, I began to see the three temples that frame the festival differently. Śiva rises in disciplined verticality. Devī embodies generative force. Viṣṇu preserves and stabilizes. Together they articulate a worldview in which power is aligned with divinity, tested, and sustained across generations.

The evening’s performances unfolded within this extraordinary setting.

Divya Nair opened the program with a Bharatanāṭyam recital. While technically competent, the curation did not fully engage with the grandeur of the venue. Khajuraho, with its associations of kingship, ritual, philosophy, and its powerful evocations of Śiva, Pārvatī, and Sūrya within sacred architecture, invites repertoire that resonates with such themes. Instead, pieces such as the jāvali Samayamu Idera felt more suited to the intimacy of a proscenium stage than to this monumental setting.

The evening then shifted in tone with the Kathakali presentation of Subhadra Haraṇam by Kottakkal Nandakumaran Nair, with Athira Nandan performing Krishna while Nandakumaran Nair essayed Balarama. Accompanied by the powerful rhythms of the chenda and maddalam, along with the metallic resonance of the chengila and ilathalam, the performance brought the dramatic intensity of Kathakali to the Khajuraho stage. Although the distance between the audience and performers made the subtleties of eye and facial expression difficult to discern, the theatrical power of the form remained unmistakable.

The final presentation of the evening was a Kuchipudi recital by Padmaja Reddy and her disciples, opening with Śrī Vighnarājam Bhaje. The dancers appeared in costumes representing different forms of the Goddess. However, since the recital was not structured as a thematic exploration of the Navadurga, this visual choice felt somewhat excessive. Across the performance, neither the choreography nor the musical composition rose to the evocative possibilities inherent in the Kuchipudi tradition.

Soon after the second piece we made our way back to The Scala, where warm food and a quiet room awaited us. Another day had unfolded in Khajuraho filled with the visual splendor of sculpted temples, the resonance of music and dance, and the gradual revelation of a civilization where power, devotion, and art once moved in profound alignment.

All photographs by Neeraj Chaurasia for Global Indian Artist (GIA).

Khajuraho Chronicles Series
← Previous: Day 3 | Next: Day 5 →

By the third day, the Western Group of temples felts overwhelming as it began to reveal a deeply philosophical motif in its structure.

Our guide Mr.Rajendra Verma spoke of sandstone — the warm, honey-toned stone that gives Khajuraho its luminous quality at dusk. It was quarried locally, he told us, from Panna, known for diamond mining. The sandstone that was removed in search of diamonds was used to build the temples; and the diamonds, legend has it, helped pay the artisans who shaped them. Whether apocryphal or factual, the interplay between stone rising from the earth and diamonds funding labor while devotion shaped through both material and wealth.

Standing again before the Kandariya Mahadeva Temple, I was drawn not just to its height but to its alignment. The temple rises like a spine — central, ascending, steady. The clustered śikhara-s gather upward in rhythmic gradation, vertebra-like. Along the exterior walls, vertical projections intersect with horizontal sculptural bands, creating a sense of contained ascent.

It is difficult not to see in this verticality an echo of yogic anatomy — iḍā and piṅgalā flanking the central suṣumṇā, energies rising in alignment. Whether intentional or not, the motifs suggest upward movement of energy.

In the evening, the performances opened with a Manipuri recital by Thokchom Ibemubi Devi, who began with a Gaudiya Vaishnavite prayer, Ajnana-timirandhasya, prostrating in devotion before placing down a lit lamp. The gesture was unhurried, inward. The invocation established the devotional tone before movement began.

She then set the context for the Gīta Govinda with its opening verse, Meghair meduram ambaraṁ. To the gentle resonance of the pung, four gopīs and one Krishna entered. The compositions — Chandana Charchita, Māmiyaṁ, and Yāhi Mādhava — unfolded with the characteristic grace of Manipuri: rounded torsos, soft footwork, restrained abhinaya. The evening concluded with a dramatic ārati — the waving of a white fan before the image of Rādhā-Kṛṣṇa — bringing devotion full circle.

The next presentation brought nine disciples of Guru Shri Durga Charan Ranbir to the stage. Using the central staircase as an axis, they moved in synchrony for Āditya Archana, offering homage to Surya. Beginning with movements resembling sun salutations — the bending and rising echoing the temple’s vertical spine — they transitioned into Pallavi and Bāl Gopāṣṭaka, depicting the playful deeds of young Krishna.

The choreography was expansive and detailed. However, the presentation extended beyond the allotted forty minutes. In festivals where multiple classical forms share a two-hour window, timing becomes part of artistic discipline. When one segment exceeds its time frame, the continuity of the evening is disrupted. By the time the next performance began, several audience members had already begun to leave.

The Sattriya presentation by Sattriya Kendra restored energy to the stage. A dynamic blend of male and female dancers moved in synchrony through Dāyan Bāyan Ki, incorporating chari-s and bhramari-s. The opening, reminiscent of the pūrvaraṅga described in the Nāṭyaśāstra, featured five male dancers — three playing drums while dancing, two striking large bortaal-s — creating a powerful rhythmic foundation.

This was followed by Krishna Vandana, depicting Devaki and Nanda’s welcome of Krishna and prayers for his divine compassion, including the lifting of Govardhana to protect his devotees. The staging, at one point adorned with lotus imagery, carried devotional warmth. The evening concluded with Daśāvatāra, tracing the incarnations of Vishnu with synchronized clarity.

By the close of Day Three, what remained was the depth, scale and dramatic differences in each of the classical styles, informed by social and cultural mile that shapes the art form. The comparison between the dance, dancers and temple was evident. The temples rise like a spine, disciplined and aligned. The dancers, disciplined by their respective forms in their own ways, rise and bow within that frame.

Khajuraho does overwhelm by scale but the many ways it speaks to its visitors, through time

All photographs by the author. Courtesy Global Indian Artist (GIA).

← Previous: Day 2 | Next: Day 4 →

My mother and I set out the next morning with our guide Mr. Rajendra Verma, a history teacher at the local Angel Secondary school and photographer Mr. Neeraj Chaurasia. We set out walking along the lake Shiva Sagar toward the older temples. The morning sun was unforgiving, flattening shadow and sharpening stone. Our first stop was the Chausath Yogini Temple, among the earliest surviving shrines in the complex, dating to the 9th century.

Unlike the soaring sandstone temples of the Western Group, this shrine is circular, built of granite, and open to the sky. It once housed sixty-four Yoginis — fierce manifestations of the feminine divine associated with Tantric practice. There is no towering śikhara here, no sculptural abundance. Only enclosure and sky.

From there we moved toward the Western Group, built between the 10th and early 11th centuries under the Chandela rulers. The Kandariya Mahadeva Temple, completed around 1025–1050 CE, rises in clustered śikhara-s that gather toward a central spine. Facing it, one senses upward movement. The structure unfolds through successive mandapa-s toward the sanctum, while its exterior walls pulse in horizontal registers — musicians, dancers, warriors, lovers. The erotic imagery, so frequently foregrounded in popular imagination, is integrated within this wider visual narrative. Above these sculptural bands, the carvings grow increasingly abstract — repeating miniature spires and ascending motifs.

By evening, this stone landscape became the stage once more.

The opening Kathak performance by Vishavdeep of the Jaipur gharana felt entirely relevant in this Śaiva setting. His Rangila Shambhu Gowrare padharo pyara pavana welcomed Śiva and Pārvatī before moving into a tīntāl upaj, improvisation, within the sixteen-beat cycle. The dialogue between rhythm and Bol was measured. He concluded with Sunder Gori re, Nadaan Gori re,”weaving Rajasthani folk inflections into Kathak vocabulary. There was grace in his dancing — and the sense of an artist still growing into his authority.

The next presentation, Abhimanyu Vadh by Guru Prabhat Kumar Mahato in the Chau and Paika idiom, was marked by high energy and spatial precision. The Chakravyuha unfolded with clarity, the dancers moving in tightening concentric circles around Abhimanyu. Droṇācārya stood in white with a flowing beard; Abhimanyu, also in white, appeared valorous yet exposed; the remaining warriors — Karṇa, Kṛpācārya, Aśvatthāma, Śakuni, Duryodhana, and Duśāsana — encircled him in orange.

Rhythmic shifts distinguished Abhimanyu’s youthful intensity from the seasoned calculation of the elders. The moment he sought his teacher’s blessing and was refused marked a turning point. What followed was a young warrior confronting masters of war before attaining veer gati. Remarkably, even behind masks, the dancers articulated character with conviction — stance, tempo, and attack carrying emotion with striking power

.The evening concluded with Bharatanatyam by Akmaral Kainazarova of Kazakhstan, trained at the Kalakshetra style. She began with an Alarippu in chaturasram — clean, centred, unembellished. The Muruga Sabdam expanded her expressive range, followed by an interpretation from Kumara Sambhavam, exploring the love of Śiva and Śakti through brisk jatis and controlled abhinaya. She concluded with a Nattabhairavi tillana.

There was sincerity in her performance, and visible joy — the kind that comes from devotion and immersion.When Indian classical dance is embodied by artists from other cultures, it reveals its ability to travel without losing its core. The vocabulary remains intact; the accent broadens.

By the end of Day Two, Khajuraho felt less like a site and more like a continuum — from Yogini austerity to Śaiva monumentality, from carved narrative to living gesture.

← Previous: Day 1 | Next: Day 3→

February 20th, 2026

Khajuraho Chronicles is a series of reflections drawn from my time at the 52nd Annual Khajuraho Dance Festival. Across a week-long celebration of Indian arts and crafts, these notes capture performances, histories, and encounters that prompted deeper reflections on what it means to be an artist in a secular age.

Khajuraho, known to medieval India as Khajurvāṭikā, a garden of date palms, evokes dancers poised against the sculptural silhouettes of its temples.

Nothing — I mean nothing — in the mind’s propensity for imagination prepares a visitor for this town. One is welcomed upon arrival at the airport by a stunning sculptural mural — a teaser, a trailer, if you will, of things to come. Even before you reach the temples, the grammar of movement is chiseled in stone.

The 52nd Khajuraho Dance Festival, organized annually by the Madhya Pradesh Kala Parishad, unfolds against the backdrop of the UNESCO recognized Western Group of Temples, built between the 9th and 12th centuries under the Chandela kings. This year’s umbrella theme was Nataraja, the cosmic dancer. Where else could one invoke the Lord of Dance except in a landscape where every wall breathes movement between the sacred and the secular, architecture and sculpture, artisans and patrons?

On the first evening, as we enter the venue, we are welcomed by the beat of drums and dancers in brightly colored mirrored costumes. Sculptors sit chiseling new forms from stone. Painters add finishing touches to canvases. Tents rise steadily in preparation for the craft carnival opening on the second day of the festival. The air feels less like a performance venue and more like a celebration of the dynamic interaction between the arts.

As we walk further, along the long ceremonial pathway leading past the illuminated stone façade of the Chitragupta temple , we arrive at the open air auditorium of the main temple complex.

First-timers like my mother and I with no clue on what to expect ( we had purposely not googled anything about the temple or its history) had to pause to take in the simple grandeur of a temple built by the Chandela kings. The Kandariya Mahadeva Temple, dedicated to Shiva, rises in clustered shikhara-s like a mountain range carved to the left ( facing the stage) the smaller Mahadev temple to the centre and the Devi Jagadambi temple to the right, all three serving as a dramatic backdrop.

Under the evening sky, as light gradually washes the temple façade in amber and gold, one begins to understand something essential: Khajuraho is all about rhythm and synchrony between architecture and sculpture.

The inaugural performances began an hour late. As much as our politicians espouse the importance of culture and the efforts being made by the Government to support the arts, something as simple as showing respect to artists by arriving on time seemed to evade them.

After what felt like an endless wait, with the audience beginning to boo, perhaps compelling speeches to be shortened, the performances finally began.

Framed by the illuminated temple, the Kathak dancers, Maithreyee Pahari and her group, dressed in pink and orange, arranged themselves on the steps of the main temple, waving lamps. Against mellifluous chants invoking the Pañca tattva, the sight of dancers holding light before a temple steeped in history and religiosity was breathtaking.

Extremely well curated, the ensemble performed a range from traditional to contemporary, engaging audiences of all kinds — Indian and international, those fluent in the language of dance and those simply there to enjoy the beauty of form. For the duration of the performance chronology collapsed. The 10th-century temple, with all its social, political, and religious history, became immediate, relevant, and alive.

While Bharatanatyam by Anuradha Venkataraman and Odissi by Subhadra Varadkar followed, the early morning flight to Khajuraho and the delayed start to the evening had taken their toll. I carried both aesthetic fullness and physical fatigue back with me.

Day One at Khajuraho, for me, was about entering a site where art and architecture, devotion and aesthetics merged seamlessly. And as I returned to my lodging at Hotel Scala, under a startlingly clear sky, one thought lingered: at Khajuraho, every intricately chiseled surface holds the memory of movement across time.

All photographs by the author. Courtesy Global Indian Artist (GIA).

Day 1 | Next: Day 2 →

Presented by Global Indian Artist in partnership with Kanakavalli, celebrating tradition, lineage, and rootedness. This feature is written by one of the disciples of Nrityavali Gurukul ( Pallavi kathak LLC) reflecting on the work and legacy of their Guru in the United States.

Introduction

In a world moving at lightning speed, where attention is fleeting, conversations shrink into notifications, and the noise of modern life grows louder: it can be said that deep cultural learning has become increasingly rare. In the multicultural rhythms of New York and New Jersey, where identities overlap and diaspora stories evolve daily, many children quietly wonder: Where do I belong? Who am I? What will guide me as life accelerates around me?

For more than two decades, Guru Pallavi Degwekar has been answering those questions through the pure, meditative discipline of Kathak, one of India’s eight major classical dance forms. Rooted in the ancient practice of storytelling, Kathak is a sacred art form of rhythm, expression, and devotion. Traditionally performed by Kathakars, storytellers who carried history and philosophy through movement, the form weaves together intricate footwork (tatkaar), rhythmic cycles (taal), expressive storytelling (abhinaya), and musical improvisation. In today’s diaspora, Kathak holds an even deeper meaning, it becomes a bridge between generations, a way for young people to inherit memory, identity, and cultural responsibility through the body. As said by famous cultural anthropologist William Haviland, “Culture is learned rather than biologically inherited” (Haviland 2016). Within this statement, it is fair to say that Guru Pallavi Degwekar is not only a cultural educator, but an advocate and preserver of culture in the United States. To hundreds of students, she has offered a rare inheritance: time, attention, and a sense of belonging shaped through discipline.

A Journey Shaped by Lineage

In 1980, in a modest chawl in Dadar, Pallavi Degwekar was born into a household where art lived inside the home and rhythm flowed through daily life. Even as an infant, her feet were restless—flailing, tapping, responding instinctively to sound. This was no coincidence; it was inevitable. Art coursed through her lineage long before she could name it.

Her grandfather, Shri Mahadeo Degwekar, was a respected Hindustani classical vocalist of the Gwalior Gharana, deeply rooted in the discipline of India’s musical traditions. Her father, Shri Vishnu Degwekar, carried this legacy forward as a gandabandh shagird (a formally initiated disciple) of the legendary tabla maestro Ustad Thirakhwa Khan Saheb, absorbing rhythm as a way of life rather than merely a skill.

Her mother, Shrimati Shubhangi Degwekar, expressed artistry more quietly but with equal depth. Poetry written in reflective moments, melodies softly hummed, and the values she instilled—discipline, sensitivity, reverence—formed the atmosphere of the home. Within this environment, sound, rhythm, and expression became part of Pallavi’s earliest consciousness.

Close your eyes and imagine this:

It is the early 1990s in Dadar, Mumbai. A young Pallavi walks with her mother past Bal-Mohan Vidya Mandir. From an open classroom window rises the unmistakable resonance of ghungroos. Dozens of ankle bells sounding together, creating a textured rhythm that feels at once distant and immediate. They pause.

Inside, students are dancing under the guidance of Guru Asha Tai Joglekar, one of Mumbai’s most respected Kathak teachers. In that instant—that burst of sound and movement—something awakens. A spark, quiet yet irreversible.

At ten years old, she stepped into Asha Tai Joglekar’s class and began the journey that would shape her life.

Asha Tai Joglekar had trained under masters such as Pandit Birju Maharaj, Pandita Rohini Bhate, and Nataraj Gopi Krishna. Through diverse training, she integrated the rigor of the Jaipur Gharana, the grace of the Lucknow Gharana, and the raw authenticity of the Banaras Gharana. Pallavi absorbed this amalgamation deeply and carried forward the same vision with dedication and discipline.

As a young performer, she was awarded the title Singar Mani, recognizing her promise as a Kathak dancer capable of sustaining her Guru’s lineage. In the early 2000s, she performed at prestigious festivals across India, including the Sadhana Festival at Kalashram and the Sangeet Natak Akademi Festival in Delhi, establishing herself as a promising artist.

In 2009, she moved to the United States. Immigration brings inevitable challenges, but her commitment to Kathak did not waver. She carried that inheritance across continents, bridging cultures through practice rather than proclamation. Over time, she founded Nrityavali Gurukul (Pallavi Kathak LLC) in 2021, building an institution rooted in authenticity within the American landscape.

Recognition followed. She received a National Award from New Delhi, an Individual Artist Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council on the Arts, Dance New Jersey Regrant support, and the Rays of Hope Award. Invitations to perform at Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Indian Consulate in New York, and other major venues affirmed her stature. She has been invited as a guest lecturer at Colgate University and has organized productions such as Quintessence, which raised funds for underprivileged children during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Yet titles and venues tell only part of the story.

On stage, there is assurance and energy. In the classroom, there is precision and discipline. In daily interaction, there is warmth. Students often speak of the balance between strict training and genuine care. The rigor of the art is never compromised, but correction is offered with clarity rather than harshness.

What stands out most is intention. Each lesson carries purpose. Each correction is deliberate. She sees students not only as they are, but as who they might become. Tendencies are observed carefully, weaknesses addressed patiently, strengths nurtured steadily. With patience and persistence, she shapes training so that each student can rise toward their fullest potential.

A Gurukul in Practice

In the bustling suburbs of New Jersey, far from the traditional landscape of India, Guru Pallavi Degwekar has steadily built something extraordinary: a proper, authentic Kathak institution — a Gurukul in practice.

Here, children and adults alike gain in-depth knowledge. Because many students are Indian American, the challenges differ significantly from those of a traditional Gurukul in India. From the beginner levels, students are taught how to pronounce bols such as “Dha” or “Takita,” yet due to different linguistic capabilities, pronunciation itself becomes a struggle. Relating to mythological stories such as Radha and Krishna is also challenging, especially when outside influences, including Kathak being incorporated into Bollywood, shape expectations.

Each of these struggles becomes part of the process. She ensures that every student receives proper knowledge, respect, and care for Kathak. She reminds them that Kathak is not “just dancing,” but an art form that accepts us for who we are — and that through hard work, we can create our own identity within it. Further, beneath the technical repertoire lies a deeper curriculum: confidence, humility, introspection, self-worth, cultural responsibility, and the courage to find one’s own voice.

Students often stay at her home for days dancing late into the night, sharing meals, reflecting on life, and experiencing the Guru–Shishya relationship in its most intimate and transformative form. Many describe her home as a second home: a place where they feel steadied, challenged, nurtured, and deeply understood.

Running what is essentially a one-woman institution requires carrying many roles and responsibilities at once. It is safe to say that she herself has become this institution of knowledge.

Preserving Art, Building Community

Nrityavali Gurukul (Pallavi Kathak LLC) mirrors an Indian education system even without a permanent physical space. Through Guru–Shishya Parampara, knowledge is passed down with discipline and devotion. Through her affiliation with Bharati Vidyapeeth School of Performing Arts, structured examinations are conducted across multiple classical streams, and students from other Gurus also participate.

In 2023, she established The Mahadeo Degwekar Foundation, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit in loving remembrance of her grandfather, who believed in seva — service to the arts. Through this foundation, platforms are created for Indian classical artists, dance is brought into community spaces such as libraries and eldercare facilities, underprivileged children are taught, and spaces are curated where artists are celebrated.

Her work strengthens entire artistic ecosystems. Culture is preserved not through performance alone, but through community, access, and integrity.

A Global Artist, A Grounded Soul

In an era where classical arts often bend toward spectacle, Guru Pallavi Degwekar’s approach stands apart. She honors tradition while embracing globalization, embodying what it truly means to be a Global Indian Artist:

“A Global Indian Artist is untethered to geography or genre, guided by a worldview that sees unity in all performance.”(The Global Indian Artist)

Her journey affirms a deeper truth:

“We do not step outside tradition by crossing borders; we reveal its deepest promise.”

(The Global Indian Artist)

Through the propagation and preservation of Kathak training on foreign land, she continues to uphold that promise. The work demonstrates that one does not need a perfect environment to sustain authenticity. Even in spaces where Indian classical art is not widely understood or immediately appreciated, devotion and discipline create continuity.

In a rapidly changing world shaped by technology and constant reinvention, a quiet question remains: What does it mean to carry tradition forward without compromising its depth?

A Dream Her Students Now Carry

It is often said that we can never fully repay those who change our lives. As her students, we carry that awareness with gratitude. For years, she has created an environment where students can learn, grow, and find a sense of belonging, sustaining it without complaint and rarely revealing the effort required to keep it alive. As we grow older and begin to understand the depth of that labor, we recognize her resilience and share a single wish: that the space she has created may one day take form as a physical home, a true Gurukul.

A space where future generations can walk in and immediately feel the warmth, the discipline, the joy, and the sense of belonging she has cultivated.

A place filled with rhythm and laughter.

A place where students can learn deeply and grow boldly.

A home worthy of her lineage and worthy of the community she has nurtured.

Her legacy lives not only in the dancers she trains, but in the individuals they become — rooted in culture, confident in identity, and secure in their heritage. Through the dream of a physical Gurukul, her students hope to offer something in return: what she has quietly given for so many years,

A place to belong.

Photo Credits
All photographs courtesy of Pallavi Kathak LLC (@pallavikathak).
Pallavi Kathak:

https://www.pallavikathak.com

References

Haviland, William A., et al. Cultural Anthropology: The Human Challenge. 14th ed., Cengage Learning, 2016.

Vallabh, Anita. “Beyond Boundaries: What It Means to Be a Global Indian Artist.” Global Indian Artist™ LLC Newsletter, 14 October 2025.

War, wherever it unfolds, leaves behind an immeasurable human cost. As I write this, I feel the weight of that loss — the grief and helplessness experienced by families whose lives have been irrevocably altered by decisions made far from the battlefield. When war becomes a tool of power or political theatre, one cannot help but ask: what does it truly accomplish? How exactly does it “Make America Great Again” when it wreaks havoc across every fabric of life and diminishes our collective humanity?

In moments like these, the work of artists becomes even more essential. We may not shape geopolitical decisions, but we can create, reflect, question, and remind ourselves and others of the deeper values that bind us. Through art, scholarship, and dialogue, we attempt, however modestly, to hold space for imagination and with it, the possibility of a better world.

On the Global Indian Artist front, I am happy to share some encouraging news. GIA is delighted to partner with Kanakavalli, whose thoughtful stewardship of the Kanchipuram textile tradition reflects the same commitment to heritage, artistry, and cultural continuity that guides our work.

As Global Indian Artist continues to grow, I am also pleased to welcome two wonderful additions to our team. Aishwarya Balasubramanian joins us as Program Curator, helping shape our expanding public programming and curatorial initiatives. Manasa Jayanthi joins as Community Educational Director, strengthening our engagement with students, schools, and communities. Together, we hope to continue building a vibrant artistic ecosystem .

At Global Indian Artist, we hold in our thoughts all those whose lives have been lost and forever altered by war.

With prayers,

Anita Vallabh
Founder & Editorial Curator
Global Indian Artist

In this conversation, Global Indian Artist speaks with Mattie Fenton, Executive Director of the American College Dance Association (ACDA), at a moment when dance in higher education is undergoing sustained re-examination. Founded in 1971, ACDA has long functioned as a national platform for collegiate dance, offering students opportunities to perform, receive feedback, and encounter practices beyond the confines of their home institutions.

Our dialogue moves across ACDA’s evolving mandate, touching on questions of access, curriculum design, adjudication, and the changing needs of students entering an increasingly complex dance ecology. The conversation also reflects on the significance of hosting the 2026 New England Conference at The Dance Complexin Cambridge.

For the first time in its history, ACDA brings the conference off campus and into the city, positioning an active civic and community-based dance ecosystem as a site of learning. Taken together, these reflections offer a window into how one national organization is asking what it truly means to support dancers both within and beyond the university.

Conversation

Q: ACDA was founded in 1971, at a time when dance in higher education was still finding its footing. What do you think the organization was responding to then—and what does it need to address now?

Mattie: That’s such a good question, because it has shifted so much. I’d actually want to speak directly with people who were close to the original founders. But essentially, it began when dance faculty members came together and said: we need a national platform to recognize the excellence happening in performance and choreography in higher education. It was an opportunity for students and faculty to share their work outside our own academic setting and experience the diversity of what was happening in the national collegiate dance world.

As the dance field evolved over the years, the scope of the conference and festivals expanded to include a wide range of dance forms. These now encompass, but are not limited to, hip-hop, Irish dance, salsa, Caribbean and West African dance, stepping, and the integration of technology in dance.

Q: I’m particularly interested in why South Asian dancers often don’t access spaces like ACDA. Many of us form our own clusters and don’t always know how, or where, to enter broader national platforms.

Mattie: Over the last two years, that’s actually been a major initiative for us. I’ve been working closely with Kaustavi Sarkar, who is on our board of directors, to engage the South Asian and Indian dance community. Over the past two years, we invited artists from across the country to teach and perform at ACDA conferences, and it really took off.
The challenge is that ACDA is deeply student-focused with an emphasis on Institutional membership. Many of these professional artists didn’t come with students, and most of the South Asian student groups we engaged with weren’t tied to dance departments or dance majors. The question we’re still working on is how to create pathways for those students to join ACDA.

Q: ACDA has a long history, and The Dance Complex has its own strong legacy as a site of learning and community. What feels especially alive or relevant to you about bringing the New England conference here?

Mattie: This is a historic moment for ACDA. I took a risk on this conference because I loved everything about The Dance Complex—the artists, the teachers, the civic engagement. To be honest, ACDA had been operating in a bit of a bubble, and that’s not how the arts work.The Dance Complex tells the story ACDA wants to tell: that dance is part of a larger community. This conference is unlike anything we’ve done before. There are daily community discussions and civic engagement across the city, not just movement classes and performances inside the building. It aligns with where ACDA is headed.

Q: College dance curricula today sit at the intersection of technique, theory, identity, and social context. From ACDA’s vantage point, what shifts are you seeing—or encouraging—in how institutions design dance curricula for this moment?

From ACDA’s perspective, we’re seeing several institutions move beyond a one-size-fits-all model of dance training. Many programs are rethinking what “core” means, expanding technique requirements to better reflect the diversity of forms shaping the field today, while also placing greater emphasis on context, history, and lived experience.

There’s a growing recognition that students need tools not only to move well, but to think critically about why they move, whose traditions they’re engaging with, and how dance functions within social, cultural, and political frameworks. We’re also seeing more programs integrate creative research, interdisciplinary collaboration, and technology as essential parts of the curriculum.

Overall, the shift is toward preparing students to be adaptable

Q: Feedback can be both affirming and destabilizing for young dancers. How does ACDA frame adjudication and response so that feedback becomes a learning tool rather than a measure of approval or ranking?

Mattie: Feedback is one of the main reasons people attend an ACDA conference. Our adjudicators go through a rigorous vetting process developed with our Equity and Justice Committee. They receive orientations on how to give feedback, how to speak across styles, and how to prioritize student safety.
At most conferences, adjudication is blind—the panel doesn’t know who choreographed the work, or whether it’s a student or faculty. That helps reduce, not eliminate, bias. Students are also provided with various resources prior to the conference to help prepare them for the feedback process.

Q: And this conference is doing something different?

Mattie: Yes. The Dance Complex wanted a community-based feedback model. After performances, there will be facilitated conversations where everyone can speak, and choreographers can ask their own questions. The intention was to move away from what can be perceived as a “top-down” model, in which adjudicators are the sole voices offering feedback, and instead create a space where everyone who shares is valued equally and no single perspective dominates the conversation.We use various adjudication and feedback models at our conferences and they can all work beautifully.

Q: In many South Asian families, dance is often encouraged only as a part-time pursuit. How is ACDA thinking about supporting dancers once they leave college?

Mattie: Supporting dancers beyond college is something ACDA thinks about very intentionally. While technique classes remain important, our conferences are designed to offer much more than what happens in the studio. We’re creating spaces for students to build professional skills, make meaningful connections, and begin to imagine sustainable futures in the field.

This year in particular, conferences include résumé and portfolio workshops, networking events, mentorship opportunities, and both mock and live auditions with dance organizations and agencies. These offerings help students understand the range of pathways available to them and connect directly with professionals who are working in the field now.

ACDA’s goal is to support dancers as whole artists and people, by giving them access, context, and community as they move from college into the next phase of their lives.

Q: How is ACDA addressing financial access for low-income students and under-resourced programs?

Mattie: That’s one of our biggest challenges, especially as arts funding and institutional budgets continue to shrink. We’ve created a fund that will allow underserved programs to become ACDA members at no cost, starting next year.
Conference-related expenses like travel and registration remain difficult, but expanding access is a central priority in our ongoing strategic planning.

Q: Where do you see ACDA heading nationally?

Mattie: We’re deep in strategic planning. The model that worked for 53 years may not work 10 years from now. This year, at every conference, we’re hosting community forums and asking hard questions about the future of dance and higher education. They’re not comfortable questions, but they’re necessary ones.

Conference Context

The ideas explored in this conversation are reflected in the range of classes and gatherings programmed at the 2026 American College Dance Association New England Conference. Together, they point to an expanded understanding of dance education as culturally grounded, socially situated, and globally informed.

Sample classes and events include:

• Afro Contemporary

• Haitian Folkloric

• Bollywood

• West African

• Flamenco Fundamentals

• Capoeira

• Samba & Afro-Brazilian

• Boston Area Arts Resources Meet and Greet

• How We Get Thru: Black Dance and Getting Free

Jan 29th at MEDAI: The Stage, Chennai

A warm yellow spotlight illuminated Kuchipudi dancer Pragnya Thamire in a deep forward bend, her body folded in supplication, offering what seemed to be herself along with flowers. There was something profoundly devotional in the way she held the muscular tension of her spine—strength born of discipline. This opening image set the tone for a recital grounded in control and reverence for the form.

She rose from this position to a śloka—Ya Kundendu—on Saraswati, followed by Muthuswami Dikshitar’s Sri Sarasvati Namostute, a choreography by Guru Sri. Jai Kishore Mosalikanti. Gliding across the stage with ease, Pragnya sustained clean lines and clearly articulated mudra-s. Her long, graceful limbs shaped symbolic and metaphorical narratives with clarity, embodying what yogic philosophy describes as the quality of practice—sthira and sukha, steadiness and comfort.

In her second piece, Balamurali Krishna’s Omkara Karini, she unfolded—by contrast with the first piece—from a forward bend into a deep backbend, her spine curving and opening to the syllables of Om, offering a visual rendering of the sacred symbol itself. With her left hand held aloft in alapadma and the lower hand in haṃsasya, she portrayed the Goddess as the primordial sound, Omkara. Drawing from the Devi Mahatmya, the narrative describes the demon reduced to ashes by the Goddess’s resonant utterance of Huṃkara. While Pragnya’s spatial use of the stage clearly bifurcated the demonic and the divine, the distinction in facial expression remained less precise—the smirk and quiet laugh of ridicule appeared similar in both portrayals. Here, sharper differentiation in abhinaya would have strengthened the dramatic contrast the story demands.

Jayadeva’s ashtapadi Sa Virahey Tava Dina, choreographed by her guru Anuradha Nehru, formed the emotional core of the recital. This piece would have benefited from a slower, more deliberate pacing, allowing deeper engagement with the layered emotions of Radha, the sakhi, and Krishna. Viraha in this ashtapadi calls for a gradual emotional build-up, from the sakhi speaking of Radha’s plight to her narration of Radha’s laments, laughter, dejection, and tears in her longing for Krishna. A more nuanced exploration of the lyrics and emotional transitions could have enriched the internal landscape of the piece.

The concluding item, Aloke Bala Krishna from Krishna Lila Tarangiṇi, was a refreshing and assured finale, even though it is traditionally placed as a central piece. Pragnya presented it with characteristic grace, rhythmic precision, and a clear sense of joy, closing the recital on an affirmative note.

Lighting by Harsha remained consistently supportive throughout the evening, drawing attention to her movements.

What remained most compelling throughout the evening was Pragnya Thamire’s confidence and unmistakable respect for the form. She dances from the heart, and the feeling carries through. It is heartening to watch young performers from the diaspora engage deeply with our dance traditions—creating worlds shaped by word, meaning, and emotion, inspired by mythology and the human condition, and sustained by an artistic journey of rigorous training and self-discovery.

Positive health is not just the absence of disease, but a state of optimal well-being; a state of balance and vitality, a feeling of being at ease in one’s body during everyday activity. The World Health Organization reminds us that health is “a state of complete physical, mental, and social well-being.” Here, I will turn to just one essential dimension: our physical health, the foundation upon which energy and movement can flourish.

While several factors contribute to a person’s wellbeing, one major factor that often pulls us away from a healthy life is excess weight. In the United States today, nearly two-thirds of adults are overweight — and this pattern is steadily becoming more prevalent in other countries to varying degrees. Genetics, hormones, and medical conditions certainly play a role, but the most powerful influences come from our daily choices: too many calories, ultra-processed foods, sugary drinks, and a sedentary lifestyle. Why does this matter? Because carrying excess weight sets off a chain reaction creating a biological environment that promotes inflammation, disrupts hormones, and increases insulin resistance. Over time, this can heighten the risk of conditions like type 2 diabetes, heart disease, stroke, and even certain cancers. Recognizing this link is the first step toward reclaiming balance, energy, and health.

I offer some simple, easy to follow suggestions — small steps that can be woven into daily life and, over time, create a lasting impact:

Timing Matters as Much as Quantity

When it comes to caloric intake it’s not just about what we eat, but when. Research shows that calories consumed late in the day lead to more weight gain. Our metabolism follows a circadian rhythm: insulin sensitivity is highest in the morning, allowing carbohydrates to be processed efficiently. As the day progresses, insulin sensitivity declines, making it easier for glucose to be stored as fat.

Late meals also impair sleep quality, which in turn disrupts hunger (ghrelin) and satiety (leptin) hormones, leading to increased appetite. An old adage captures this well: “Breakfast like a king, lunch like a queen, and supper like a pauper.”

Central Obesity: The Hidden Risk

Beyond general obesity, a more subtle though equally dangerous problem is central obesity—fat accumulation around the abdomen and more importantly inside the abdomen in the form of visceral fat.. This “visceral fat” wraps around internal organs and is metabolically active, releasing inflammatory chemicals and fatty acids that worsen insulin resistance, blood pressure, and cholesterol profiles.

It doesn’t take much visceral fat to cause trouble. Less than 0.5 kg is normal; over 1 kg is considered high-risk. More important than absolute weight is the ratio of visceral fat to skeletal muscle mass. Indians in general have a smaller muscle mass, raising this ratio and partly explaining why India now accounts for more than a quarter of global diabetes cases—over 212 million.

The TOFI Paradox

Alarmingly, one can appear slim yet harbor dangerous fat deposits. This condition is called TOFI—Thin Outside, Fat Inside. You may be aware of members within your own family with normal overall weight but with central obesity who could have the same potential risks. DEXA scans provide the most accurate measure of visceral fat, and awareness of TOFI can help individuals adopt healthier practices.

Food Quality: The Glycemic Index

I would like to discuss the Glycemic Index of foods because it has a direct bearing on the subject of weight control.

Glycemic index (GI) ranks carbohydrate-rich foods by how quickly they raise blood glucose. High-GI foods cause rapid insulin spikes followed by crashes that trigger fatigue, hunger, and cravings. Over time, this pattern drives insulin resistance, fat storage, and chronic disease.

One of the biggest culprits is rice and I bring this up because it is a staple for so much of the Indian population. While sugar has a GI of about 65, white rice can reach 90—meaning it raises blood glucose faster than sugar itself. In contrast, brown rice and parboiled rice fall in the 55–65 range. Grain size and cooking method also matter: larger grains have lower GI, while overcooked mushy rice has very high GI. Please remember that commercial idli and dosa is made up mostly of white rice.

One practical solution is to cook rice and let it rest overnight before consumption. Cooling allows starches to re-crystallize into resistant starch, lowering the GI. Remarkably, reheating the rice does not reverse this effect. Studies—and even experiments within my own family—have shown lower blood glucose (about 20mg) after eating day-old rice compared to freshly cooked.Other foods with similar behavior include potatoes, pasta, and legumes.

For comparison: wheat (45-65), barley (28), bulgur (47), oats (55), quinoa (53), and corn (52) have far lower GI than white rice. The exact GI of these foods depends upon how they are prepared etc..

Practical Guidelines

• Shift your main meal to midday. Make lunch your “dinner” and keep supper light.

• Eat earlier. Avoid heavy meals late at night to align with circadian rhythms.

• Watch the waist. Pay attention not just to weight, but abdominal fat.

• Choose lower-GI foods. Prefer parboiled or brown rice over white rice; explore grains like wheat, barley,

oats, and bulgur.

• Consider resistant starch. Cook rice or potatoes ahead of time, let them cool overnight and consume the next day.

Towards Positive Health

Optimal health lies not in a single diet or fad but in mindful choices. Timing meals, reducing visceral fat, and favoring low-GI foods are small yet powerful shifts. Remember: health is not merely the absence of disease but a harmony of body, mind, and spirit. With thoughtful attention, we can reclaim that balance.

This article was first published in the first issue of Global Indian Artist magazine.