The legend of the Indian prince who is the forefather of all Cambodians

 The love story of prince Preah Thong and Naga princess Neang Neak is intrinsic to Cambodian culture, passed on to every child at a young age.

One of the most beautiful theatrical spectacles that a person can witness in Asia is the Preah Thong Boung Soung, a rendition of the story of Preah Thong and Neang Neak that is performed by the Royal Ballet of Cambodia. With elaborate costumes, gentle music and exquisite dance, the opera depicts the story that every single child in Cambodia is told at a very young age – the saga of an Indian prince and a serpent (Naga) woman who are the ancestors of all Khmer people.

Like the Indian epic Ramayana, there are several versions of the story of Preah Thong and Neang Neak. One of the most popular versions goes like this: Thousands of years ago, Cambodia was a small island called Kouk Thlouk, meaning the land of the Thlouk tree, a Cambodian species of Chrysobalanaceae. The island belonged to the Nagas (serpents) who lived in the ocean. One day, Naga princess Soma and her subjects transformed themselves into beautiful women and came to the island. The same night, an Indian prince named Kaundinya sailed with his followers to the island. The prince saw the Naga princess dancing in the moonlight and fell madly in love with her and asked her to marry him. She agreed under the condition that the Naga king, her father, approve of the marriage.

Representational image. The story of Preah Thong and Neang Neak is performed often by the Royal Ballet of Cambodia. | David Van Der Veen/AFP

Since the Naga palace was in the depths of the ocean, Kaundinya had to ride there by carrying Soma’s tail. The king found the Indian prince to be a suitable match and agreed to let his daughter marry him. After their wedding, the Naga king expanded the island by reclaiming more land from the ocean. This territory was then ruled by the Kaundinya and Soma, who were given the Khmer names Preah Thong and Neang Neak respectively. The Cambodians, or Khmers, consider themselves the descendants of the pair.

“The description of the land as an ‘island’ is linked with the idea that all of the country was formerly underwater,” German scholar Rüdiger Gaudes wrote in a paper titled ‘Kaundinya, Preah Thong and the Nagi Soma: Some aspects of a Cambodian legend’. “Determining the geographical location of Koul Thlouk is impossible, particularly since it is said to be situated near the Dangrek Mountains, near the town of Siem Reap (where, indeed the classical metropolis of Angkor Thom was located), or far to the south of Angkor Borei – its supposed location evidently depending upon the place of origin of the respective narrator.”

Scholars widely agree that the notion that ancient Cambodia was an island was because of the widespread floods that the country has been witness to for thousands of years.

Another version of the story says Kaundinya waged a war with Soma, while another claims he killed the Naga king who refused to allow his daughter to marry a human. One thing that is common between these and almost all versions of the story is the part about the Indian prince carrying the tail of his future wife to the depths of the ocean. It is such a part of the Cambodian ethos that it has been incorporated into Cambodian wedding rituals: while entering the honeymoon room, a Cambodian groom is required to carry the end of the long train of the bride’s dress. This gesture and the story behind it indicate that the woman is the head of the family. Cambodians consider Neang Neak as their matriarch.

Elements Of Truth?

Like many epics and legends of Asia, the story of Preah Thong and Neang Neak may have an element of truth. Chinese historical texts mention the Kingdom of Funan, a loose network of Indianised states in the 3rd century CE. Funan is probably a Chinese variant of the Khmer word Vnum, which means mountain. The state’s ancient capital Vyadhapura did not survive the ravages of time.

In his book Account of Foreign Countries at the Time of Wu, 3rd century Chinese traveller Kai Tang documented the existence of Funan and Vyadhapura. He mentioned that the script of the kingdom was similar to what he called the Indian script. Kai Tang wrote about Kaundinya in his book, while talking about the origin of Funan. The Chinese name for the Indian prince was Hun Tian.

German historian and Indologist Hermann Kulke was the first to suggest that the Indian king was a Brahmin and that Kaundinya was actually the name of his gotra. In his book The Ocean of Churn: How the Indian Ocean Shaped Human History, Sanjeev Sanyal added that Kaundinya probably was from northern Andhra Pradesh or southern Odisha.

Tenth century Chinese encyclopaedia Tai Ping Lu Yuan says Kaundinya (Hun Tian) was a devotee of a Hindu god and dreamt of his god giving him a divine bow and asking him to take to sea in a vessel. The Chinese text that was translated by historian and academician Ramesh Chandra Majumdar said Kaundinya went to a temple of his god and found a bow the morning after the dream. “Then he embarked on a trading vessel, and the god changed the course of the wind in such a manner that he came to Funan,” the Chinese encyclopaedia said. “Liu Ye (Soma) came in a boat to plunder the vessel. Hun Tian raised his bow and shot an arrow, which pierced through the queen’s boat from one side to the other. The queen was overtaken by fear and submitted to him. Thereupon Hun Tian ruled over the country.”

The marriage of Kaundinya and Soma is mentioned in several ancient Chinese texts as well.

“These accounts undoubtedly reflect historical events from the 1st Century AD (that is two hundred or more years before Kang Tai’s visit) relating to the process of Indianisation: the influx of Indian religion, folklore, political and legal theories and other cultural elements brought by Indians into Southeast Asia in connection with social changes and the formation of states there,” Gaudes wrote.

Cultural Linkages

After Cambodia broke free of colonial rule, Cambodian stateman Norodom Sihanouk, who was first king then prime minister of the country, made it a priority to popularise the story around the world. Under the patronage of Sihanouk’s wife Norodom Monineath, the Royal Ballet of Cambodia performed the opera in several countries.

The ballet has since become an international symbol of the country and the dance depicting the story has been inscribed on the Unesco World Heritage list. It even survived the murderous and genocidal Khmer Rouge regime, which wanted to ban the story and ballet.

Sihanouk also developed a strong personal friendship with Jawaharlal Nehru, who he considered his mentor. During a 12-day visit to India in 1955, the Cambodian statesman spoke of both the influence of Sanskrit on the Khmer language as well as link the story of Preah Thong and Neang Neak created between the countries. “We [India and Cambodia] are cousins,” he said during the visit. “Khmer civilisation is the child of India’s civilisation, and we are proud of it.”

This story and dance, which are a powerful and important cultural link, can be the basis of strengthening India’s relationship with the most Indic of South East Asian countries. In a post-pandemic world, audiences in Indian cities would welcome the performance by Cambodian dancers of the story that shows the love between an ancient Indian prince and his Naga princess.

(Source: Scroll)

Instagram has largely replaced TikTok in India, and erased working-class creators

 “TikTok was a canteen; Instagram is a café. But the canteen has better food, and the café serves costly coffee that not everyone drinks.”

Savitri and Sanatan Mahto were unlikely influencers. Sister and brother, they live on the edge of Nipania, a village in the Indian state of Jharkhand. It is remote from any city: if the siblings feel like eating at a restaurant, it entails half a day’s walk down a 15-mile-long dirt road, dotted with swamps. 

While India’s Instagram elite presented a polished facade of overseas vacations and perfectly groomed cats, the Mahtos shot to fame dancing on TikTok, singing indigenous rhymes as floodwaters clogged their mud house. Over three years, their unvarnished, but joyful, depictions of village life amassed them 2.7 million followers on the short-form video platform.

When the Mahtos started using TikTok in 2018, they found they could earn decent money, and a certain level of celebrity. If they went to a restaurant, the owner would barely register their presence. Waiters, though, would approach to snap a selfie. In a gleaming motorcycle showroom last year in Dhanbad, their nearest town, the manager ignored Sanatan when he asked for a test ride — but a regular mechanic came up to congratulate him, requesting a shoutout.

At its peak in 2020, TikTok had 200 million users in India. What made it remarkable was the opportunity it offered for creators like the Mahtos, economically downtrodden and from marginalized caste backgrounds, who were otherwise invisible on the Indian internet. It allowed them to become bona fide pieces of the nation’s digital culture, and to build a career online. 

“I’m not able to connect with the songs in the trends on Instagram,” said Sanatan Mahto. Courtesy of Sanatan Mahto

That was taken from them when, in June 2020, the Indian government banned the platform, along with 58 other Chinese-owned apps, in retaliation for the deaths of 20 Indian soldiers in a border clash.

What was a gutting blow for Indian creators has transpired to be a gift for Facebook, whose Instagram Reels, a competing short-form video platform, has grown swiftly to fill the vacuum. But Facebook’s expansion strategy involved courting upper-class and caste influencers, who set the tone for a very different online space. Critics say that Reels has replaced the textured, complex, and often inclusive creator community on TikTok with bland, aspirational content: an advertisement for a middle-class lifestyle unobtainable for Indians from marginalized communities, like the Mahtos. 

“Instagram has been the place for a … fantasy of a better life; of fashion and better aesthetics,” said Divya Kandukuri, a 24-year-old anti-caste activist from Andhra Pradesh. “TikTok was a more democratic space, more acceptable to change.”

As social media spread in India, it replicated the class lines that divided wider society. TikTok launched in India in 2017 and soon became wildly popular, particularly among users — and creators — from outside the middle classes, who themselves congregated on YouTube and Instagram. 

Among TikTok’s library of songs, which run in the background of its videos, were exuberant, regional Indian hits. It was a feature that users loved and couldn’t find on other platforms, which were built around mainstream U.S. and Bollywood cultural references. That, together with TikTok’s intuitive UX design and short, 15-second upload length, which lent itself to showing snatches of daily life, endeared the platform to rural users.

At the same time, TikTok users in India became accustomed to online harassment. In an infamous tussle with a YouTuber community in 2020, casteist remarks were directed at TikTokkers by the popular creator CarryMinati, calling them “cringey” and talentless.

But the huge audiences coming to the platform soon attracted advertisers. Leading brands, including fast-moving consumer goods suppliers like PepsiCo, adopted TikTok strategies to reach the youth market across India, looking to access the vast rural market. Creators benefited.

“[TikTok] democratized the creator economy and brought money to marginalized groups,” Sahil Shah, managing partner at WatConsult, a leading Indian digital agency, told Rest of World. Someone like Mahto could make $2,000 per month from brand partnerships, said Shah, compared to around $130 as a farm laborer.

Before the ban, India had four of the top 15 paid TikTokers around the world, according to HypeAuditor, an influencer analytics company. The firm located 7.7% of the total TikTok influencers in India. Top influencers could make around $25,000 per partnered post.

Then, in late June 2020, came the ban. Instagram Reels appeared almost instantly, in early July. 

There was no question that Reels wanted to fill the vacuum left by TikTok. But rather than court the same creators who had driven the Chinese company’s success, Facebook, Reels’ owner, kick-started its launch campaign by courting a set of influencers from upper-class backgrounds, including Komal Pandey, Kusha Kapila, and Ammy Virk: “A catalog of aspiring lifestyle [examples] for middle-class and upper-middle-class Indians,” was how Dr. Rahul Advani, a research fellow at the University College London, described the launch to Rest of World. 

Advani has studied the ways that the poorer strata of Indian society engage with the internet, particularly methods of self-expression, like selfies. There is a clear difference between Reels and TikTok, he said: Reels is for curators, not creators, which makes it a more upmarket space.

“The aesthetics of curation were defined very early on by people [with resources],” Advani said. That is, that first round of influencer recruits established the tone for future content.

To keep its curated look and feel, Reels has stricter requirements on quality. In its latest guidelines, Instagram announced a change in its algorithm, stating that it wouldn’t recommend videos that are blurry, bear a watermark or logo, or have a border around them. This raises the barrier to entry for users. Instagram did not respond to request for comment from Rest of World. 

To achieve stardom on TikTok, Sanatan Mahto had only to access a low-end smartphone and a limited data connection. “My smartphone was so slow that I couldn’t upload a YouTube video on that. A 15-second was easy,” Sanatan said. He taught himself to use the TikTok app by playing around with the buttons, and never gave too much thought to the image he was presenting of himself.

“We never realized that [the elements in our] frame would make a difference. I never placed a plough or the cow dung in the frame,” Savitri, his sister, added. “This is my life.” 

Divya Kandukuri, the anti-caste activist, was a devoted TikTok user who migrated to Reels after the ban. Describing the difference between platforms, she drew parallels to her first day at a privileged government-run college in New Delhi in 2014, when her classmates admonished her. Where they were eating was not a “canteen,” they said, but a “café.” 

“TikTok was a canteen; Instagram is a café,” said Kankaduri. “But the canteen has better food, and the café serves costly coffee that not everyone drinks.”

WatConsult’s Shah said that the changes have effectively shut people like the Mahtos out of the creator economy.

“Tier three and tier four [creators] have lost, again,” he said. “On Instagram, to get 30 million followers, you have to be a Deepika Padukone,” referring to India’s highest-paid actress.

Reels has grown dramatically since it launched in India. Instagram itself has 210 million active users there, who are uploading 6 million short videos daily. Several desi, or local, alternatives of TikTok, have also launched. The largest of those is ShareChat’s Moj, with 2.5 million videos uploaded per day. 

The short-video boom has helped boost the overall influencer economy. Rahul Vengalil, managing partner at agency Isobar India, told Rest of World that the share of marketing budget his clients devote to digital advertising has risen from 5% to 25%. Reels, unsurprisingly, is the home of premium brands like high-end skin care and accessories, Vengalil said — a break from TikTok, which would commonly feature ads for instant loans and cheap homewares.

But the India now reflected back in Reels — and, by extension, the majority of India’s short-video market — is unrecognizable to former TikTok stars and to many of the now-banned platform’s users. 

A year after the ban, Sanatan Mahto remembers going to the restaurant nearest his home. The waiter came to him, he said, and asked in a curious whisper: “Where are you hiding these days? Where are the videos, brother?”

“Instagram,” Sanatan replied, with a grin. “And what’s that?” the waiter responded.

Instagram’s dominance in the short-video market isn’t yet assured. The landscape continues to shift, with a reported re-emergence of Snapchat, and a rise in the popularity of YouTube.

In their village, the Mahto siblings are still visited by fans. A YouTube vlogger duo — who arrived dressed in tight jeans and neat shirts — drove 62 miles to meet them, unannounced, in August, when Rest of World visited. To produce a quick Reel, the duo asked if Sanatan would like to perform an “Alors on Danse” trend; Sanatan wasn’t sure what they meant. 

“I’m not able to connect with the songs in the trends on Instagram,” he later said, loitering on his pebbled porch, barefoot. “Samaj hi nahi aata hai.” (I cannot understand it.) 

The Mahtos have found some success on Instagram, with Sanatan collecting around 482,000 followers and Savitri 137,000. They upload vlogs to YouTube. Comments praise the “rawness” of their content. But when well-meaning followers suggest that Sanatan smarten up his appearance to better suit the new platforms, he objects. 

“I wanted to alter the idea that you are more than the [aesthetics]; you are what you do,” Sanatan said, rubbing his hands nervously. “But I think that’s not true.”

(Source: Rest of World)

'That took long enough!' Black ballerinas finally get shoes to match their skin

Ballet shoes have always been a pale peachy pink because it was assumed dancers were, too. Now a British footwear company is striking a blow for ballerinas of colour everywhere

When Ballet Black pack their bags for their coming spring tour, there’ll be some unusual footwear among their costumes. Not just the wellies they wear to portray striking South African miners in Ingoma, their latest work, but dozens of pairs of pointe shoes that are making their own little piece of history. Ballet Black have collaborated with shoemaker Freed to create the UK’s first pointe shoes in colours to match black and mixed-race skin tones.

 ‘A real change in ballet’ … pointe shoes by Freed. Photograph: Tyrone Singleton

The new shoes come in two versions, bronze and brown, and they’re a huge leap forward for inclusion in the ballet world. Indeed, the most common reaction from outside ballet, says troupe director Cassa Pancho, has been shock that they didn’t already exist. “I was a bit put out by that,” says Pancho. “All the effort that’s gone into this and the first thing they say is, ‘That took long enough!’ But you forget how different the dance world is to the wider world.”

Freed is one of the world’s leading pointe shoe brands, hand-making 300,000 pairs a year. But until now, every one of them was a pale peachy-pink. The ballet shoe was originally designed to look as if the dancer had bare feet, foot and leg in one seamless line, but of course dancers don’t come in one standard-issue colour. And with the rising profile of black dancers – the likes of Misty Copeland, Michaela DePrince and Precious Adams – the ballet world is slowly coming to terms with reality.

Freed weren’t the first to notice, though. US company Gaynor Minden launched a new colour range in 2017, but Freed has always been a favourite brand among professionals – and when you find the shoe that works, you tend to stick with it. After people’s shock, says Pancho, came fascination. “It caught hold of the public’s imagination in a way I don’t think Freed or Ballet Black had anticipated,” she says. “We’ve had media from France, America, Brazil, Japan, Greece. We’ve made so many TV and radio pieces about the shoes – and unfortunately, in every one, they want to see our dancer Cira Robinson pancaking some pink shoes. So she’s actually done more pancaking since the brown shoes came out than she’d ever done before.”

‘It’s just going to look right’ … from left, Cira Robinson, Sayaka
Ichikawa and Marie Astrid Mence. Photograph: Tyrone Singleton

Pancaking is what dancers do to make their shoes match their skin colour by covering them in makeup. For Robinson, it was just part of the ritual involved in preparing your pointe shoes for dance: darning the ends, sewing ribbons on, breaking them in. Even when she danced with New York’s Dance Theatre of Harlem, where almost all the dancers are black or Hispanic, there was little disquiet about it, other than how time-consuming it was. “It was just how it was,” she says. “Before shows, at break-times, everyone was always pancaking.”

Robinson actually felt more uncomfortable about ballet’s traditional pink tights, which didn’t match the rest of her body. “Pancaking is a tradition,” says Robinson, “but ballet is also about inclusion. And the pink tights are, you know, ouch!”

 Ingoma by Mthuthuzeli November from Ballet Black’s triple bill.
Photograph: Tristram Kenton/The Guardian

Freed is now also manufacturing tights to match the new footwear shades. One dancer who has already ordered hers is 12-year-old Afrozina Abaraonye, a student at Ballet Black’s dance school in London since the age of three. “Because I’ve been wearing pink since I was little, I’ve got used to it,” she says. “But there was always that weird thing when I was standing next to my friends and the pink ballet tights and shoes always looked better on them.”

On darker skins, pink tights sometimes give the girls’ legs a bluish-grey tinge, her mum points out. Abaraonye is impatient for her order – bronze pointe shoes and matching tights – to arrive. “I think I’m going to feel really happy because I won’t look awkward with my brown arms and white legs among the other girls. It’s just going to look right.”

Pancho echoes this point: “To walk in and see shoes in your own skin colour is a real change in the ballet world. So it might not seem like much that one little shop in London is doing this, but it’s a really significant change.”

Orders have been flowing in since October, especially from South America, South Africa and New York. The feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. “The message I’ve taken away is that people feel very ‘seen’ by it,” says Pancho. By this she means the ballet world is acknowledging that not all dancers are white. “A lot of people who didn’t become dancers for various reasons have said, ‘If only this had existed in my day.’”

No more pancaking … Misty Copeland. Photograph: Danielle Levitt/The Observer

There has been online trolling, too. Of the “We’ve fed you, clothed you, educated you and now you want pointe shoes in your own skin colour!” variety, says Pancho. “I don’t follow it up, but there’s definitely an undercurrent of, ‘Ballet is pink, it’s meant to be pink.’”

That would be easily dismissed as internet nonsense if it wasn’t for the fact that some people in the industry see no place for black dancers in the traditional corps de ballet. When Benjamin Millepied resigned as director of the Paris Opera Ballet in 2016, he spoke of hearing a colleague say black dancers were a “distraction”.

The new shoes have put the issue back on the agenda. “This has really sparked something,” says Pancho, “which is a testament to the fact that it is really important that we keep talking about race – even though it’s uncomfortable.” She thinks people get too caught up in worrying about terminology (Pancho is still criticised for the name of her company, 18 years after it was founded) and it often shuts down conversation.

“It’s so easy to go down a path of being offended,” she says. “Sometimes you have to push through that to talk about the actual issue, which in our case is the lack of black women in ballet.” In their own small way, these shoes should go some way to changing that.

(Source: The Guardian)

Kylie on how ageing, breast cancer and Nick Cave all influenced her greatest hits

The Australian pop great picks out her favourite songs of a three-decade career, from escaping the creative boredom of the Kylie & Jason years to the dancefloor classics of her new album, Golden

Better the Devil You Know (1990)
You can look at Kylie Minogue’s career in terms of statistics – seven UK No 1 singles, 34 Top 10 singles, 118 weeks in the Top 10, plus five No 1 albums and seven more in the Top 10 – and those figures are impressive. But they don’t truly measure the love that people hold for a singer who has been part of the fabric of pop for 30 years. To launch her latest album, Golden, she played a handful of tiny club shows, including one at the Cafe de Paris in London. She says she was terrified. “I thought: ‘People only know one song …’” She need not have been: there was an air of hysteria from her fans at seeing her return in such intimate surroundings. Frankly, she could have read a phone book while someone dug up the stage with a pneumatic drill and people would still have swooned. She laughs at this, adding: “With a banjo!”

Maybe the moment where Kylie – Jenner notwithstanding, it somehow feels wrong to use her surname – transmuted from aspirant pop star to someone people really invested in was Better the Devil You Know, a sudden leap from her previous singles with the Stock Aitken and Waterman writing and production team.

 I was bored – I wanted to understand the process and the craft more
Kylie on the SAW years

“It was the first time Pete Waterman had said: ‘All right, kiddo, what are you listening to? What kind of record do you want to make?’ And I was really into Cathy Dennis and D-Mob’s C’Mon On and Get My Love …” Kylie starts singing the hook that crops up in both songs. “It really does mark a turning point for me, sonically and visually. I still don’t know that I had a clue what I was doing, but I was doing something that was different for me.”

And is it true that Waterman wrote Better the Devil You Know as a warning to her to stick with nice Jason Donovan instead of getting involved with Michael Hutchence? Kylie laughs. “It could have been. They never really told me that much about the writing process. In the early days it was: ‘There’s the waiting room, do you want a cup of tea? We’ll let you know when we’re ready.’ That bothered me a bit later, being bored in the waiting room; I wanted to understand the process and the craft more and be involved.”

Confide in Me (1994)
In 1993, Kylie made a definitive break with the past, signing to Deconstruction, with Confide in Me becoming her debut single for the label. “All I had known for five years was PWL,” she says of Waterman’s company, “so this was certainly different. And I was aware that it was being perceived as a bit of a radical move, which I loved.” Confide in Me was a bold statement: a stripped-back single, coloured with sitar and strings, sounding unlike anything she had done before. “It was the first time I had sung like that,” she says, referring to her breathy, seductive vocal, “because PWL songs all had a particular sound.” (Specifically: bellow-it-out-as-quickly-as-possible.)

Just as important as the change in music was the fact that Kylie was now working with people who would help her move in different directions – Deconstruction was where she met the Brothers in Rhythm production team of Dave Seaman and Steve Anderson (Anderson has been musical director for her live shows ever since). She had no doubts about the change, although she accepts that “me feeling like I could do it is different to the public reacting in a positive way. But I think it’s indicative of various steps I’ve taken throughout my career where I’ve made instinctive moves and hoped for the best.”

Where the Wild Roses Grow (with Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, 1996)
Which brings us to Kylie’s most hope-for-the-best move of all, the point at which two entirely unrelated sets of fans said of their favourite artist: “They’re working with who?” Kylie laughs, again, hard. “I KNOW!” She had first heard of Nick Cave a few years earlier, when she was dating Hutchence. “Michael said to me: ‘My friend Nick wants to do a song with you,’” she recalls. “I didn’t know who Nick Cave was. And I just said: ‘Oh, that’s nice,’ like your nan would say: ‘Oh that’s nice, dear, do you want a cup of tea?’”

 Everything I did with him was just so tender and epic and close
Kylie Minogue on Nick Cave

By 1996, though, the pair were sharing an Australian label. Cave was working on his album Murder Ballads and Kylie was asked if she would like to contribute. A CD of the track – featuring Blixa Bargeld singing her lines – was sent to her parents’ house, where she was staying, and a game of phone tag ensued. Cave was also at his parents’, so the prince of darkness and the queen of sunshine were busy leaving messages with each other’s mums. “The first time I met Nick was at the recording studio in Melbourne,” she says. “I speed-read a biography to understand him a little bit. And there was some interesting stuff in there. But everything I did with him was just so tender and epic and close. He’s so amazing and loving, and it’s one of my favourite things I’ve ever done.”

You might have thought that the dalliance with Cave would have contributed to Kylie’s decision to “go indie”, recording with the Manic Street Preachers on 1997’s Impossible Princess album, but she says not. “Nick didn’t like my indie jaunt. He said: ‘Why aren’t you doing pop songs?’ So, he’s responsible for my realisation that I wanted to get back to pop. He’s definitely infiltrated my life in beautiful and profound ways.”

Spinning Around (2000)
And so we enter Kylie’s imperial phase (“Oooh, ‘imperial’!” she says, laughing), though it did not come easily. In fact, she had recorded Spinning Around and no one at Parlophone, her third UK label, thought it sounded like a hit, Kylie included. But A&R executive Jamie Nelson, who had found the song as a demo in New York, was sure there was a smash in there somewhere.

“He was like a dog with a bone and kept chipping away and having different mixes done,” she says. “He didn’t give up and he was right not to.” What was crucial in the end, she says, was the whole package: song, video, promotion. The video, in particular, with its focus on Kylie’s bottom, became something of a tabloid obsession. Did that not get tiresome? “Well, I knew what I was wearing. But I didn’t know there was that closeup shot. I did it, it looked good, there’s no need to do it again.”

Can’t Get You Out of My Head (2001)
Even before she had finished hearing Can’t Get You Out of My Head for the first time, Kylie knew she needed to record it. “I was thrown into a panic, going: ‘Have we got it? Are you sure we’ve got it? Please tell me we’ve got this song.’” Of course, she did get it – and a No 1 in every European country except Finland, as well as in Australia, New Zealand and Canada, plus a Top 10 placing in the US. At this point, Kylie was one of the biggest pop stars in the world. “It was weird,” she says. “When you have an amazing time like that, you’re so busy you can’t get out of it. You’re in a bubble and you work, work, work, but things are going so well that hard work doesn’t seem so hard. If you’re trying to push a record up the hill – I also know that feeling – it does feels hard. You’re doing the same amount of work, but it feels harder.”

The actual business of being famous, she says, is harder now, because everyone has a camera everywhere, not just the paparazzi. “There’s no rhyme or reason,” she says of the hassles of being Kylie in public. “I’m going: ‘What’s the story? There’s no story, why are you here?’ It almost makes the old days feel romantic, when a paparazzo would have to make the decision: ‘Do I click that off? I’ve only got two rolls of film in my bag.’ But, at the time, I’d be running down the street to get away from them.”

Slow (2003)
In which the often maximalist Kylie embraced minimal techno, with a ghostly, stripped-down recording that, as well as being a huge hit, became a critical smash and a club success, topping the US Billboard dance chart. Back then, she was still making the effort to stay up with club trends (“I feel like I’m the last person to know anything these days”), although the Body Language album ended up a mish-mash of styles. “I’m not sure as a body of work it stands up, but Slow stands up and it was a no-brainer for the first single.”

She suspected that something so stripped back might be more selective in its appeal than Spinning Around or Can’t Get You Out of My Head, but “its reach was much further than any of us could have anticipated. I’ve done corporate shows where I’ve not planned an encore, so I’m going: ‘Are there any songs you’d like to hear again?’ And a lot of times Slow is the song that’s called out, which I still find surprising. It’s actually had longevity of sorts, which is amazing for a song that is so sparse and electro-cool.”

No More Rain (2007)
Kylie’s 10th album, X, had been prefigured by a breast cancer diagnosis. There were some people, she says, who were expecting X to be her dark-night-of-the-soul record, and they “were disappointed that it wasn’t about that experience. But I’d just gone through it all and I don’t think I had enough distance to really wallow in it and be back in that space.” No More Rain, however – a song of redemption, of the “sun coming up on another day” – did seem to symbolise her survival.

 Doing No More Rain I’d just stand with the mic and enjoy the shower of emotion. It's about coming out of the other side
Kylie Minogue

“I performed it on the X tour, and it might have been my favourite moment every show, because there was no choreography, there was no nothing,” she says. “I’d just stand there with the microphone and just enjoy the shower of emotion I felt. It was about coming out of the other side.”

But mortality and age are two things that pop struggles with, especially pop of the Kylie sort, in which glamour and sequins and disco lights make a promise of eternal youth. How does a pop star make that promise as the years advance? “You spend longer in hair and makeup,” she laughs. “I think I’ve found my groove. I’m more accepting of myself.”

Dancing (2018)
Kylie’s latest album, Golden, is a reaffirmation of identity: in her personal life, following her split from her fiance Joshua Sasse in 2017; musically, with her relocation to Nashville to record the album with softer country tinges instead of hard dancefloor trim; and psychologically, with its addressing of age.

“That’s why there’s the word ‘golden’ on the album,” she says. “I wanted to address it, hence the line in Golden: ‘We’re not young, we’re not old, we’re golden.’”

Nevertheless, she still wanted something for the dancefloor. Dancing provides that and, in a roundabout way, a summary of her career. “To me, it’s like a neat triptych of three stages of life,” she says. “I went to Nashville, arrived on a Sunday, and started work. I put my hands together and looked out at the sky and said: ‘Please, God, just give me one song. Two or three would be just great, but I really need one song!’ Next day I met Steve McEwan, and he said: ‘I don’t want to get you straight in, let’s just have a chat and suss each other out, and he played me just on acoustic guitar the idea of Dancing, and then we fleshed it out through the week. It’s two minutes and 58, and there’s no messing about.”

That seems apposite: three minutes with no messing about has long been the platonic ideal of the pop single and ideal pop singles are what have defined Kylie’s career. After all, you don’t get those 118 weeks in the Top 10 without getting somewhere near perfection.

(Source: The Guardian)

Japan’s geisha battle to protect their future

Masamito from the Japan Times gives  a rare look into the world of geisha and how they are sustaining their ancient traditions in modern times. Read on: 

On a chilly evening earlier in November, geisha Kikuno and her two apprentice maiko host an event that gives guests an opportunity to experience a dinner party with traditional female entertainers.

The atmosphere at Sushi Isshin, a restaurant in Tokyo’s Yushima district, is boisterous as the guests chat among themselves or with their neighbors. The entertainers, who are visiting from Nara, invite the guests to sip on sake and enjoy a full-course sushi dinner served by second-generation owner Hirosada Okamoto.

However, a hush descends on the crowd when the three hostesses begin their performance, with Kikuno dancing gracefully to the soft plucking sound of the shamisen.

Home and away: Kikuno (center), her maiko apprentice and three other geisha from Kochi and Ehime prefectures traveled to New York to promote geisha culture. | KOTARO OHASHI

The guests applaud enthusiastically once the performance comes to an end, and the hostesses turn their attention to games. The games aren’t particularly difficult, but they’re often accompanied by a song and the loser is required to down a cup of sake. With Kikuno leading proceedings, the guests laugh loudly as each loser throws back their drink. It’s a scene reminiscent of a college party, albeit with wildly different participants.

At the conclusion of the evening, the guests shuffle out onto the street contented. Kikuno also looks satisfied, having proven to be a charming host with a dry sense of humor.

The evening is part of her Kagai Restoration Project in Ganrinin, which she launched in 2012 to revitalize geisha culture in Nara’s Ganrinin district, where she has been the only active traditional female entertainer for the past 15 years.

“It’s not enough just to continue doing what we have done in the past. I have a responsibility toward the younger girls,” Kikuno says. “Speaking as someone who has been part of this world for a long time, I want to give something in back.”

Kikuno has been involved in geisha culture for about 30 years. She describes herself as being a bit of a tomboy with short hair at school, and she initially had little interest in becoming an entertainer. Kikuno had just completed junior high school when she was scouted to become an apprentice through her aunt, who was running a teahouse for geisha at the time.

Kikuno’s training began at the age of 15, when she learned such things as how to fold and put on a kimono and how to sit with her legs folded beneath her. She was instructed to avoid spending time with her family and friends as well as shun pop music, because it would affect the way she could hear notes on a shamisen.

Dressed to the nines: Geisha Kikuno launched Kagai Restoration Project in
Ganrinin in 2012 to revitalize geisha culture in Nara. | KAZUHIRO TAKAHASHI

“I was completely isolated from the world,” Kikuno says, “but I was only 15 at the time and accepted it for what it was.”

Her days were filled with nagauta and kouta music lessons as well as classes on tea ceremony, flower arrangement, calligraphy and Japanese dance.

In the evenings, she was instructed to sit in the corner of a tatami room in a kimono and watch the geisha in the teahouse entertain. She learned when to change ashtrays, pour sake and how to converse with guests.

“At first, I just sat and watched, but it was interesting,” Kikuno says. “Men who had arrived with stern looks on their faces soon began loosening up after drinking and talking to the geisha.”

Kikuno made her debut as a maiko at the age of 18 and her life instantly became more hectic. She would put on her makeup and kimono and attend dance lessons in the morning. This was typically followed by a lunch party, after which she would go to a nagauta lesson and then attend an evening party, finding time to eat light meals in between. After 8 p.m., Kikuno would return to her teahouse and attend to guests until about midnight.

Kikuno recalls being so physically exhausted that she would collapse once every six months or so after suffering from such ailments as a hernia and liver damage.

She became a geisha at the age of 23. As the years passed, the other geisha in her circle retired or quit and, before she knew it, she was the sole geisha in Nara.

“I noticed a drastic drop in dinner parties about 17 years ago but no one did anything about it,” Kikuno says. “Some say it’s possible to be a geisha forever, but people grow old and their looks deteriorate. A geisha’s customers will eventually stop coming if they don’t offer something else, like being an excellent dancer or a great conversationalist.”

Kikuno (center), her maiko apprentice and three other geisha pose for a photo alongside members of the Hanaakari orchestra in New York. | KOTARO OHASHI

Experienced entertainers
Geisha culture dates back to the Edo Period (1603-1868). Some of the oldest and most prestigious karyūkai geisha districts in the country are Kyoto’s Gion Kobu and Kamishichiken, and Tokyo’s Asakusa, Kagurazaka and Shinbashi.

Sumi Asahara, a journalist who has been covering geisha for the past 20 years, finds the culture fascinating.

“These women are unique in the sense that they’re true masters of hospitality,” Asahara says. “They’re skilled in various traditional performance arts and they know how to entertain a guest.”

It is estimated that between 40,000 and 80,000 geisha operated nationwide in the early Showa Era (1926-89). Through her research, Asahara estimates that about 600 geisha are currently active in some 40 districts nationwide.

“Places that existed 20 years ago have since disappeared and the remaining geisha areas have lost their vitality,” Asahara says. “It is natural as more and more traditional restaurants close due to fewer customers and the entertainers’ age. Everyone is struggling to preserve this culture.”

Thirty years ago, geisha numbers in Niigata Prefecture were dwindling.

Renowned for its abundant rice paddies and thriving trade, Niigata served as a distribution hub on the coast of the Sea of Japan. With so many merchants coming to Niigata, traditional Japanese restaurants and their geisha flourished from the Meiji Era (1868-1912) to the early Showa Era. At its peak, researchers believe there were about 400 geisha in the Furumachi district of Niigata, but that number had dropped to about 40 by the mid-1980s.

But according to Susumu Nakano, a Niigata native and director and executive adviser of Bandai Silver Hotel, no apprentices in Niigata had started training for about 20 years, putting the youngest geisha in their late 30s. Like many other geisha districts, traditional Japanese restaurants had begun to close and fewer patrons supported the women.

In a bid to halt the slide, Nakano founded Ryuto Shinko, a groundbreaking corporation that hires women and trains them to become furisode and tomesode, terms unique to the company that mean “apprentice” and “geisha,” respectively.

“Businesses that lack successors will disappear … and we wanted to do something to preserve a culture that is valuable to us,” Nakano says. “Traditional arts and culture cost a lot of money to maintain … and that was when I came up with an idea to use the Takarazuka business model (as an example).”

The all-female musical theater group Takarazuka Revue was established in 1913 in Hyogo Prefecture by Hankyu Railway Co. founder Ichizo Kobayashi. The group is actually part of the rail company and, as a result, each member of the troupe is also an employee.

A former tomesode of Ryuto Shinko (center) and two furisode make waves with towels in Niigata Prefecture. | COURTESY OF DAIICHI PRINTING CO.

“The answer was to create a production company like Takarazuka to hire young women as “talents” and train them (to become furisode and tomesode),” Nakano says. “Without patrons to support (geisha culture), I proposed that we unite as one and become one huge supporter.”

Ryuto Shinko was established in 1987 with the financial backing of about 80 local companies. The company offers social security benefits, provides allowances for dancing and music lessons, and covers the cost of the entertainers’ kimono and wigs. The company also dispatches the women to events.

Nakano says that it was hard to attract women at first because the job wasn’t something that was on the radar of many high school graduates.

Ryuto Shinko was forced to offer a salary that was nearly twice that of regular first-year company employees, as well as provide accommodation.

“Those formative years were difficult,” Nakano recalls. “We talked to various young women and tried to persuade them to try it out for a year. We told the women … that everything would be provided for them.”

Thirty years on, Ryuto Shinko typically attracts between one and three new recruits each year, Nakano says. More recently, college graduates have joined the company and some continue to work after marriage and having children.

“Founding a company was the only way for this culture to survive,” Nakano says. “And if we hadn’t done so, the Furumachi geigi (geisha) and its rich history would no longer exist.”

Geisha Megumi (center, back) poses with other geisha in Hachioji. | COURTESY OF GEISHA MEGUMI

‘Seeking someone cheerful’
In the west Tokyo city of Hachioji, meanwhile, another group of businesses came together to support the local geisha community — in particular, an entertainer named Megumi.

Megumi was born into a family that had no ties to geisha culture. However, she was asked if she was interested in becoming a geisha after meeting her future mentor at a Japanese restaurant where Megumi worked as a waitress. She was 22 years old.

“Everything was new to me, so everything was wonderful,” Megumi says. “I didn’t even know that such a world existed. Everyone took care of me and welcomed me into this world … and I felt that I had finally found a place where I belonged.”

In the years between the Meiji and early Showa eras, Hachioji thrived on its textile industry. And as the city flourished, so too did its Nakacho geisha district, with more than 200 female entertainers operating in the neighborhood at its peak.

After World War II, however, women increasingly stopped wearing kimono and began dressing in Western-style clothing.

Hachioji’s geisha population faced certain extinction, with only 10 entertainers working in the industry in 1999, writes Asahara in “Geishashu ni Hanataba O: Hachioji Karyukai, Fukkatsu” (“Flowers for Geisha: The Revitalization of Hachioji’s Geisha District”), which was published by Fuuseisha Corp. in June this year.

“The relationship between garment shops and geisha was so intimate that the district’s prosperity was directly affected,” Asahara writes in her book, which details the manner in which Hachioji’s geisha district has made a comeback. The book documents Asahara’s decade-long reporting in the district.

Megumi continued to be the youngest geisha in Hachioji’s Nakacho district despite being well into her 30s at the time.

In 1999, she decided that she needed to find some new recruits and created an advertisement seeking candidates.

“Seeking someone cheerful who likes kimono,” the poster said. “Age up to around 30 years old; no experience necessary; an hourly wage of ¥3,000 or more; and free kimono rental. Part time OK.”

“I felt that many girls out there, like me, didn’t know about this world,” Megumi says. “To be honest, I didn’t start out on a mission to revitalize the geisha community or anything like that. Rather, I just wanted other women of my generation to know about geisha … and to attract a colleague, because everyone else around me was my mentor’s age.”

By coincidence, Hachioji Kurobei ni Shitashimu Kai, which was named after the Kurobei (Black Wall) street district where geisha once flourished, was also founded by local businesses in 1999 for the purpose of preserving geisha culture, says Shingo Fukuyama, current chairman of the group. Like the corporation in Niigata, businesses in Hachioji were also concerned with the decline of geisha culture in the city and decided to do something about it.

Fukuyama, owner of local liquor shop Tsuruya, says there are currently about 150 active members of the supporters’ group, including some women.

“To be honest, there’s nothing in it for us,” Fukuyama says. “We are not doing this to get something in return. We just want to support traditional Japanese culture and the geisha who have devoted themselves to doing something unique in this area.”

Megumi opened her own okiya boarding house for geisha in 2001, the first such establishment to open in Hachioji in 20 years. Three geisha at the lodging have since gone on to open their own boarding houses and in the 18 years since Megumi first put up the advertisement, Hachioji has seen its geisha population almost double. And last year, for the first time in more than half a century, a hangyoku apprentice called Kurumi made her debut.

In 2014, Megumi started Hachioji Odori, a dance performance featuring geisha, which played on stage to a full house at Hachioji Icho Hall. The second performance was held in May this year.

Her activities have even helped take geisha in Hachioji overseas to such locations as Australia’s Cowra, Hawaii and Shanghai. They’ve also performed in the lobby of a hospital, as well as at elementary schools.

Geisha Megumi 

Megumi even appeared in the German film “Fukushima, Mon Amour,” a fictional story inspired by her actions following the 2011 earthquake and tsunami in Tohoku. After the disaster, Megumi had taken a shamisen to a geisha in northeastern Japan who had lost everything.

“It is important to learn the traditions of a culture, but it is also important to continue evolving with the times,” Megumi says. “Through change, I think we are able to continue this culture.”

Asahara says the geisha district in Hachioji has recovered to some extent but the things that have worked there won’t help everyone, adding that change is also difficult to bring about if many active older geisha prefer to do things in a traditional manner. “Each geisha district needs to come up with its own way to revitalize the culture,” Asahara says. “It is very difficult to re-create a culture once it is gone, so it is important to do something about it while it still exists in order to hand it down to the next generation.”

Passing the baton
Back in Nara, Kikuno is also trying new strategies. Using the internet, Kikuno has begun to reach out to geisha from other parts of Japan that are also struggling to attract a new generation. Traditionally, geisha don’t collaborate with groups outside their geographical areas, but Kikuno understands that it’s time for her to take a different approach.

Kikuno also has a more personal reason for launching the Ganrinin project: She wishes to avoid dying alone. She has watched several geisha who don’t have an apprentice grow old without anyone to look after them.

She pauses at length, eyes welling with tears, when recalling the plight of her shamisen teacher of 15 years, who passed away surrounded by just a few of her students.

“Luckily, we were able to hold a funeral for my teacher, but there are geisha out there who can’t organize this on their own,” Kikuno says. “Elderly geisha end up dying in solitude, and I do think that could happen to me someday. That’s why I want to connect with other geisha.”

In February 2016, she hosted the inaugural Naramachi Hanaakari event and invited geisha from eight districts to perform their local dances. The event also included a symposium that featured experts discussing the rich history of geisha culture.

Just last month in October, she was joined by one of her maiko and three other geisha from Kochi and Ehime prefectures on a trip to New York to perform at the first Hanaakari project abroad.

Kikuno stresses the importance of preserving the good parts of the geisha culture but also the need to evolve, enter new territory and try various things.

Because of her determination and creativity, three maiko and one trainee are now working in Nara. What’s more, one of her maiko, an apprentice named Kikukame, is set to become a geisha in January. Kikuno will finally have another geisha with whom she can work together side by side.

“Like many other traditional arts and occupations, the world of geisha needs someone to pass the baton to the next generation,” Kikuno says. “As someone who has chosen to be a part of this world, I believe it is my fate as well as my duty to do so.”

Sumi Asahara’s tips on geisha terminology and manners

• Geisha are female entertainers trained in traditional Japanese performance arts, including dance and shamisen. They are sometimes also called geigi or geiko.
• Maiko are geisha apprentices, although the term is mainly used in Kyoto and surrounding areas. In Tokyo, they are called hangyoku.
• Karyūkai and kagai are both words used to describe geisha districts nationwide. They both begin with the kanji for “flower.”
• Call them by their stage names such as “Megumi-san” or “onee-san” (“older ma’am”). Even if the geisha is 100 years old, never refer to her as “obasan” (“middle-aged lady” or “obāsan” (“old lady”).
• Always wear socks or stockings. Never stand on a tatami mat with bare feet.
• Dress code should be business casual or more formal.
• Don’t forget to offer some sake to the geisha.

The mysterious phenomenon of Medieval Europe that drove people to dance until collapse

Before the world was struck with Beatlemania–much, much before, for that matter―a different kind of craze swept through Europe, one that would reveal ties to demonic forces, religious cults, and hallucinogenic drugs.

The Dancing Mania was a strange social phenomenon that escapes clear explanation to this day. It was recorded throughout the history of the Middle Ages, with earliest accounts dating from the 7th century.

The symptoms varied, but there was one constant―those “infected” would move in groups, performing something similar to dancing as their bodies twitched with spasms, leaving an observer with a sense of dread. People who engaged in this activity didn’t seem to be aware of themselves. As if in some sort of trance, sometimes the dancing mania would possess a person for days, weeks, and in some cases months. This was no joking matter, as the people afflicted by this peculiar obsession would sometimes die of exhaustion or hunger.

In 1237, in Erfurt, Germany, a group of children showed signs of the dancing mania, as they traveled the 13 miles to the nearby town of Arnstadt, dancing and jumping throughout their journey. Once they reached their destination, they fell to the ground, as a result of exhaustion.

A chronicle that perhaps dates from the time of the event claims that most of the children died soon afterward, and the ones who survived fell into a state of permanent mental illness accompanied by tremors.

It’s likely that it was this or a similar story from which the legend of the Pied Piper of Hamelin sprung―a folk tale about a piper with supernatural powers who leads a group of children to their death, as an act of revenge against the townsmen who refused to pay him for his services of eradicating rats in times of plague.

A native of Erfurt, Justus Friedrich Karl Hecker, wrote a book published in 1888, titled The Black Death and the Dancing Mania, in which he collected numerous accounts of Dancing Mania, relating it to the horrific consequences of the Bubonic plague that reached its peak in Europe in the mid-14th century.

Engraving of Hendrik Hondius portrays three women affected by the plague.

In the book, Hecker, a doctor of medicine, describes the dancing frenzy as a reaction to the years of Black Death, as the plague epidemic was dubbed. He believed that the hardships brought by the disease indirectly manifested themselves in the form of a collective madness. It is certainly true that the pandemic, which wiped out one-third of the world’s population, left a devastating effect on the human psyche.

One the largest outbreaks of the mysterious dancing “sickness” happened in Aachen, Germany, in 1374. Several thousand frenzied people danced in fits that lasted for weeks.

Hecker’s description of this strange gathering invokes rather hellish visions, resembling the miniatures of Hieronymus Bosch:

They formed circles hand in hand, and appears to have lost all control over their senses, continued dancing, regardless of the bystanders, for hours together, in wild delirium, until at length they fell to the ground in a state of exhaustion. They then complained of extreme oppression and groaned as if in the agonies of death, until they were swathed in cloths bound tightly around their waists, upon which they again recovered, and remained free from complaint until the next attack.

The Church was suspicious of these events right from the start. The theological explanation fell into three categories: people affected by the dancing plague were either under the control of the devil, or they were cursed by a saint, most probably St. John or St. Vitus. The third explanation was that this was nothing but a band of heretics, who through the guise of madness found a loophole to practice their unholy rituals without being disturbed.

Apart from claims that all these events were staged, the use of hallucinogens was also considered a potential explanation, by both the church and contemporary authorities. The names St. Vitus’ Dance, or St. John’s Dance, were soon accepted, and the people begged the ancient saints for forgiveness.

From Aachen, the mania was reported to spread to Utrecht in the Netherlands and Liège in Belgium. Around that time, a report from Metz in France claimed that 11,000 people had succumbed to the Dancing Mania. The rich trading city was turned into a bizarre gathering of the insane. The death toll was rising, as the “dancers” fell like flies after a while of non-stop jumping and dancing.

In order to soothe their sufferings, music was played, and in order to keep them off the streets, huge guild halls were adapted to fit a large number of people. The “sick” would then be herded into these structures, together with musicians, as if the entire spectacle resembled a modern musical concert.

After the outbreak in Aachen, the next documented case in which a large group of people was involved occurred in Strasbourg, France, in 1518.

Allegedly, a woman started the dance and within a month, more than 400 people were “possessed.” Historian John Waller, who is the author of the book A Time to Dance, A Time to Die: The Extraordinary Story of the Dancing Plague of 1518, studied the archives and concluded that the event indeed happened, as he confirmed it from various different sources:

These people were not just trembling, shaking or convulsing; although they were entranced, their arms and legs were moving as if they were purposefully dancing.

Many died of strokes and heart attacks, after pushing their bodies to extreme limits of endurance. During the course of history, experts have tried to produce a medical explanation on this subject but all have failed to properly explain the causes of this hysteria.

One of the most prominent theories claims that the main reason behind this mass mania was poisoning by Claviceps purpurea, a fungus known to infect rye and other cereals, a condition called ergotism. Symptoms of ergot poisoning include hallucinations, convulsions, delirium, psychosis, a painful burning sensation in the limbs and extremities, headache, and it can cause damage to the central nervous system.

Italian women dance the tarantella

Others propose that the symptoms were similar to encephalitis, epilepsy, and typhus, but none of these explanations could answer for all the symptoms exhibited in the reports.

In Italy, a similar social phenomena called the tarantella was attributed to spider bites. The poison produced by spiders or scorpions was considered to cause such madness, but this scenario is hardly possible in such mass cases.

Even though sources are scarce and unreliable, everyone agrees that the phenomena was no fiction. It indeed happened and it was the earliest-recorded case of a psychic epidemic that shook the world of medieval Europe just as the plague was retreating, leaving a trail of more than 350 million dead worldwide.

(Source: The Vintage News)

Nearly every male kathak dancer in the world is connected to this family of performers in Karol Bagh

The Gangani clan has nearly 100 members, all of whom are either expert dancers or percussionists, writes Malini Nair in the Scroll. Read on: 

Gaon Badabar, Post Office Sujangarh, Churu. Till about a century ago that used to be the Thar address of the Gangani clan. Today they are scattered around the mohallas of the Regarpura area in Delhi’s Karol Bagh, around half-a-dozen households which spring to life every morning at 7.30 am with the sounds of tabla, pakhawaj and feet-beating tatkar on the floor.

The Ganganis are among the biggest families of kathak dancers and percussionists in the country. Three generations of the family are still visible on stages across India and abroad. For them the drum and the dance are intertwined arts: all of them can represent a complex tihai, a polyrhythmic technique found in Indian classical music, with both their hands and feet.

Harish Gangani (foreground) with his nephews Sanjeet Gangani and Bhawani Gangani at the end of the
rhythmic cycle i.e. sum. | Photo credit: Indranjan Banerjee, OddBird Theatre.

The oldest Gangani, the clan’s presiding kathak guru, is Rajendra Gangani, 54, and the youngest is Nishit, 15, who is still in school and is an aspiring tabla wiz. Between them exists a network of siblings, cousins, fathers, grandfather, nephews and uncles, all engaged in some manner or the other with the world of taal, or rhythm.

Up until recently, theirs was a tradition that kept the women out. But last month in a unique baithak, when three generations of Gangani artistes came together at the Oddbird Theatre in Delhi, there was one surprise appearance: Harish Gangani’s daughter Nayanika, 16, came to dance with her brothers, uncles, father and cousins on stage.

Family Portrait: Gangani Family rehearsing for the Kathak Baithak at OddBird Theatre.
Photo credit: Virkein Dhar, OddBird Theatre.

Honed in the desert
There are 100 Ganganis scattered across India and now the world, said Rajendra Gangani, doing a rapid reckoning of their global kathak footfall from Gorakhpur to Vadodara. How do you spot them on stage?

“We belong to the Jaipur gharana of kathak and our dance, I would say, is rather like fiery red chillies, it has pace, flare, dazzle and also grace,” he said. “And, of course, we are known for our tayyari (readiness or flawlessness).”

Harish Gangani, Rajendra’s younger brother and a guru himself, said there is muscularity and power in the Jaipur shaili or style, that the family follows. The style grew fostered by the royal families of Rajasthan in the temples of the desert, and the themes of their dance usually revolved around veer rasa, bhakti and sringar.

The khandan prides itself on its sure-footedness around taal. “One talks of taal mein naachna but we talk of taal ko naachna – to make the rhythm dance to one’s tune, instead of dancing to it,” said Harish Gangani.

Family Tree

It isn’t as if the gurus of Jaipur gharana did not teach women. In fact, two of Kundanlal Gangani’s best-known disciples were women – Urmila Nagar and Prerna Shrimali, who has been known in Delhi for decades for the lyricism and quietude of her kathak. But the dance stayed off limits for the women of the family.

“There was a time when the men made a living with their art by taking it to distant places in the desert,” said Rajendra Gangani. “The women stayed in Badabar and kept the family together. If they had joined us on our journeys on camel-back...But we now live in different times and I was keen that even women in the family who have talent should not be denied a chance to take it to connoisseurs.” Rajendra Gangani was the keenest to get Nayanika on stage.

Innate rhythm
The family moved to Delhi in the 1960s when classical dance was finally beginning to find a place in cultural institutions, colleges and school. Gurus started landing jobs in these institutions as teachers and mentors. The first from the family to arrive in Delhi was the master guru, Kundanlal Gangani. Today those whom he taught, or those who were taught by his sons and nephews, make for three generations of artistes.

“I would say that about 80 per cent of male kathak dancers today are connected in some manner or the other to the extended Gangani family,” said Aditi Mangaldas, a seasoned kathak dancer who has had a long association with the Ganganis’ talent since the early 1990s. “Their percussive style is strong, they have a penchant for intricate laya patterns, and they are incredibly hardworking.” Mangaldas’s dance centre Drishtikon has been manned by percussionists from the Gangani clan for decades now.

Every member of the Gangani family can play the tabla, the pakhawaj and perform kathak – while not with the same level of expertise and talent, but certainly with competence. In the senior league are Fatehsingh Gangani, who plays the pakhawaj, and Yogesh Gangani, who plays the tabla. The two of them are among the most sought-after percussionists in India.

Harish Gangani reciting the bols, i.e padhant with nephews Sanjeet and Bhawani Gangani.
Photo credit: Indranjan Banerjee, OddBird Theatre.

As pakhawaj player Ashish Gangani said, it was watching the impressive travel and flight schedules of the taus and chachas that inspired many of the youngsters to take to percussion. “One of our dreams is to be as busy as them, to find as many grand and good stages to play on as them,” he said. Some of those dreams are certainly coming true. Ashish Gangani plays the pakhawaj for Drishtikon, which has a considerable presence on the cultural circuits of the West.

The Gangani seniors pride themselves on never pushing youngsters into kathak or percussion. Mohit Gangani, who plays the tabla for Drishtikon, said it is standard for all children in the family to pick up various skills along the way and let time and interest decide their destination.

“The sounds of pakhawaj or tabla or kathak are like surround sound in our homes,” he said. “I was set on playing cricket as a child, so I would sit for my riyaaz or practise session with the tabla, but my attention was elsewhere. Then I heard the great Anindo Chatterjee play the tabla and suddenly it seemed the most glamorous thing in the world. I then put my mind to my classes with [uncle] Fateh Singhji. I did learn dance. When [Rajendra] guruji would teach other dancers he would say ‘Come!’ and you went, but it didn’t take me long to realise that dance is not my forte. I am way too heavy-footed. But my awareness of dance and rhythm and their interlinking is strong.”

Gangani Family gather for a picture just after rehearsal. Photo credit: Indranjan Banerjee, OddBird Theatre.

Some youngsters take a while to figure out their forte, others know where they want to head – but a solid grounding in all things percussive is a given in the family. Sanjeet Gangani is an emerging kathak dancer but he is emphatic that the years of tabla tutelage in the family have lent his dance a distinct quality.

“It becomes far easier to grab a bandish or a laya pattern if you have some skill with the tabla or pakhawaj,” he said. “There is severe competition among younger dancers today and the fact that riyaaz in multiple disciplines is an aadat, or habit, for us gives us an advantage.”

For both, Nishit and Nayanika Gangani, the youngest members of the clan, kathak and tabla are first on the agenda once their school bags are off their shoulders and homework is out of the way. There really isn’t anything else they would rather do, than follow in the footsteps of their tauji or chacha, they said.