A warm yellow light illuminated an empty stage while soft tunes— ghazals and qawwalis—soundtracked the chatter of an expectant audience. Abhay Tole Trivedi (ASP '25), curator and lead dancer of Jo Dooba So Paar, performed at the Black Box theatre on November 18th and 19th, introduced the performance as 'an immersion in Kathak.' Accompanying him were musicians Meyhaa Kilam (ASP’25) and Swayam Nath (UG’26) on vocals, Debarghya Mukherjee (ASP’25) on vocals and harmonium, Anirban Bhattacharjee (PHD’23) on the viola, Aditya Ramdasi (ASP’25) on padhant and manjira, Raghav Ghei (UG’26) on the tabla, Dhruv Aryan (ASP’25) on the electric guitar, and Arijit Bhattacharya (PHD’23) on sitar and harmonium.
With Tole Trivedi at the center, the vocalists and instrumentalists were situated on either side of the stage, diagonal to the audience. The performance consisted of four pieces broadly surveying Kathak as a form: from tales surrounding the birth of Lord Krishna canonical to Hindu mythology, to explorations of taal and Sufi odes to Nizammudin Auliya, the spiritual guru of Amir Khusrau.
Tole Trivedi introduced the first piece – Dhrupad – a piece about Shiva and Shakti, and surrendering before the lord. A blue spot illuminated him, while the tabla developed a gradual, jovial beat. His striking facial expressions and unwavering eye contact went well with the deep, male vocals. Although the vocals broke slightly at a point, they made a brilliant recovery, sustaining the rest of the piece. Tole Trivedi, masterfully covering and uncovering his face to reveal pointed expressions, invoked Shiva, the God of Dance, inviting the audience to view the performance.
The next piece was my personal favorite – Avartan, the exploration of the taal. The time cycle of teen taal is sixteen beats, and the intention of the piece was to illustrate how the taal gradually picks up pace. With the rhythmic clang of the manjira, the melodic, high-pitched sitar notes joined the harmonium, coming together to create a lively sound. Ramdasi on both the padhant and manjira was phenomenal, which went well with the dancer’s fervent chakkars. Ramdasi and Tole Trivedi, making constant eye contact with one another, conversed through the gradually increasing beat of the taal. Tole Trivedi interacted with the audience, asking what three numbers add up to nine, which was unexpected and engaging.
Although Tole Trivedi's padhant was audible, the parts where he provided context and introduced pieces were at times inaudible, possibly owing to the difficulties often faced in the Black Box with the faulty microphones. The mixing, handled by Aditya Padinjat (ASP’25), Srijith Poosarla (UG’26), and Prachet Sinha (UG’26), however, was impeccable. Technical errors did not take away from the sound of the piece or the mesmerising end, which was thirty-three chakkars.
For the third performance, fairy lights were spread near the musicians and vocalists. The lighting effectively shifted the tone to a more solemn one whilst enhancing the stage presence of the performers.This piece, Pragate Brij Nand Lal, was about Lord Krishna and his mother(s) Devaki and Yashodha. The harmonium and viola came together to create an eerie and melancholic tone, while Bhattacharya created a mellifluous and playful sound on the flute. Graceful yet commanding, Tole Trivedi depicted scenes from Krishna’s birth, mischievous childhood, and eventual divine providence, famous in Hindu mythology. Higher notes played by the viola reverberated significant feedback on the microphones, owing to the deficiencies of the Black Box’s sound system. The entirety of the piece, although creating a dramatic effect, felt rather long in comparison to the others.
The final piece was Aaj Rang Hai, a qawwali based on Amir Khusrau’s poetry. Tole Trivedi spoke of how the composition was about wanting to become one with the lover and can be interpreted as speaking of romantic love that defies social norms of gender and sexuality. There were three vocalists for this piece— Kilam, Mukherjee, and Nath. The electric guitar, played by Aryan, added a reverberating, warm base to the piece, which coincided well with the warm tone of the harmonium. Kilam’s voice was crystal clear, echoing beautifully throughout the room, prompting exclamations from the audience.
Certain parts sung in Farsi, however, sounded inorganic, as if the singer was not familiar with the nuances of the language, particularly the distinctive ‘khe’ sound that comes from deep in the throat. Tole Trivedi changed from his green costume to a white one, in homage to the Sufi whirling dervish. His sudden movements juxtaposed the coy and smooth ones, making the performance a striking and memorable end to the show, which was only enhanced by the red light spotlighted on the dancer as the last image.
Since this was an “immersion” in Kathak, I did expect more nuance in the song selection; for instance, Mohe Panghat Pe originally sung by Indu Bala, a tawwaif, would have served as an acknowledgment of a vital sub-genre of the dance form, and paid due credit to a class of people historically erased from the Kathak canon. This issue is much larger than this performance, extending to the sphere of Bollywood as well, which organisations like The Courtesan Project, run by Kathak dancer Manjari Chaturvedi, hope to remedy.
One thing was evident throughout the repertoire—how much the performers were enjoying themselves. Their chemistry with one another created a contagious energy that rippled through the audience. It was an engaging and well-conceptualised production, and, with Tole Trivedi’s narration, accessible and enjoyable to those unfamiliar with the dance form.
(Edited by Keerthana Panchanathan)
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