Shakuntalabai Nagarkar

The teaser of Maddock Films’ Eetha has become quite popular. This Hindi film, is based on the life of Vithabai Bhau Mang Narayangaokar, the Marathi Tamasha Empress. Who was this Vithabai?

“She was a tigress, a real tigress,” says Lavani artist Shakuntalabai Nagarkar, winner of the Sangeet Natak Akademi Award, “Today, when you see us dancing, making sensual gestures, you call it bold. But Vithabai was the true height of boldness. All of us used to dance till the ninth month of pregnancy. But after childbirth, we would take the usual three weeks of rest. Vithabai, after delivery, did not rest even for three hours. She tied her ghungroos immediately and got on stage. People like you would say, ‘Oh poor woman!’ But what poor woman? She wanted to prove only one thing—that a woman is not even a hair’s breadth less than a man! Those were truly great days. Money was scarce, but art flowed abundantly.” 

Was the past of Tamasha really so glorious? And what is its reality today?

For centuries, the Marathi dance form that has ruled the Marathi mind is Lavani, and the performance that entertains while also pricking the conscience is Tamasha. These forms belong to Mahar, Mang, Bhatu Kolhati, Dombari, Kalvat, Gondhali, Ghadshi and many other communities. Some of these communities are Dalit. Some are Muslim. Some are nomadic. Some are matriarchal. Lavani-Tamasha looks at the subject of sex with the most direct, simple, and unapologetic way. For these very reasons, the elite’s gaze upon it has always remained clouded, and social respectability has always stayed away from them.

Once the evening meal was over, what called the villagers were the sounds of the paypeti (large harmonium played with both hands and both feet), dholki and tuntuna, along with the ringing of ghungroos. “Earlier, whether in villages or in cities, the means of entertainment were gossip and folk arts,” says Tamasha artist Mirabai Punekar, “And in Maharashtra, Tamasha and Lavani are the queens of folk arts!”

When night fell, the programme would begin with many gans, gawalns, batawni, rangbaji—that is, Lavanis—and other songs and dances, and after midnight, the much-awaited Vag, the folk drama, would begin. Its themes could be mythological, historical or social. Characters would enter one by one, and the audience would sink into the story. Before dawn, when the Vag-natya ended, people would head off to their work. “Mostly men came,” says Mirabai, “Occassionally, women and children also came. Our songs and stories were all packed with raw, naughty humour!”

This was the Dholki Fadacha Tamasha. Marathi cinema made it very popular after 1950. But there is another place where Lavani was performed even before this Tamasha tradition, and that is the Sangeet Bari. In his book Marhati Lavani, M V Dhond writes that references to kolhatnis and kasbinis—women who entertained men through song and dance—go back to the 13th century. Lavani is truly an ancient art rooted in Maharashtra’s soil.

Sangeet Bari refers to small, intimate gatherings where Lavanis are performed for a limited audience. These are small rooms where the paypeti, tabla and dholki players, along with the artist women, perform for four or five gathered men. The artists here are from matriarchal communities. Even today, there are nearly 50 such theatres along the highways of Western Maharashtra and Marathwada. In the Lavani performed here, Nazaakat and Thehraav (delicacy, subtlety, and poise) are central. “Because of such spaces, the semi-classical form called ‘Baithakichi Lavani’ was born and could flourish,” says music scholar Dr Ashok Ranade.

At present, Lavani seems to be getting a fresh lease of life through TV channels, cinema, events, YouTube and Instagram. Many film stars are seen performing Lavani. New choreographers and self-proclaimed stars are emerging. In all these spaces, only one reduced version of Lavani appears again and again—as a traditional “item number.”

Vigorous movements of the body, especially the waist and chest, winking, biting the lips, spins, jumps, acrobatics and a super-fast beat—this is what Lavani is, isn’t it? The answer is yes. Lavani can be this too, but it is not limited to this alone. It can be much more.

“Real lavani is when you perform in harmony with the words, with eye contact and feeling,” says Sangeet Bari artist Shabanabai Ashturkar, “We can play many forms of Lavani — Khadi Lavani, Baithakichi Lavani, Thaayichi Lavani, Khandeshi Lavani, Chhakkad, Social Lavani, Zagdyachi Lavani and more.”

Lavani is not merely performed; it is played, like a game. In it live thrill, freedom, resolve, improvisation, and above all, the active participation of both sides. “We don’t memorise Vag or Batawni; we remember the broad points,” says Tamasha artist Mandarani Khedkar,

“Our real skill is in responding on the spot, while reading the response of both fellow performer and audience. We must hold the person before us for hours — otherwise they will drift to the next troupe, won’t they?”

This is the difference between Lavani-Tamasha and modern art forms. There is no invisible fourth wall borrowed from Western traditions; instead, there is an open exchange between artist and audience.

Earlier, Lavanis were written on many aspects of the body and bodily relations. Love before marriage, love after marriage, a kink, a sudden encounter with an old lover, the pull toward another man even while loving one’s husband, the ecstasy of union, menstruation, premature ejaculation, lack of erection, and excessive erection, among many other themes. Even today, some of these Lavanis survive in Sangeet Bari.

At an event in the Madras Music Academy, when Shakubai performed a Lavani on menstruation, scholars remarked, “There were once many Javalis on this very subject. In fact, all of this existed in our Dasi Attam. Your Lavani has preserved it well; we lost it in the name of respectability and sanitisation.”

At an NCPA programme, an 85-year-old woman, moved by the same Lavani, said, “Watching this today, I realized how simple and natural this act is. But our secrecy and false ideas of purity have given it a bad taste.”

In classical dances, many movements are considered prohibited, but in Lavani they are celebrated. “When traditional Lavani artists move the waist, chest, lips and tongue, it appears alluring, but when others do the same, it appears vulgar,” observes Vaibhav Arekar, a Bharatanatyam dancer. The reason lies in years of practice and inherited culture. For generations, Lavani has been absorbed into their bodies, so it comes naturally to them. But when someone imitates it and tries too hard to appear “sexy,” it becomes repulsive or ridiculous.

Another hallmark of Lavani is that the artist sings and often dances at the same time. When traditional performers do both, one wonders how they never tire or even lose their breath. But that too is part of the craft — the discipline of practice.

Gholvane is truly the soul of Lavani – comparable to what gatabhava is in Kathak or viniyasa in Bharatanatyam. Taking a single line and unfolding its many layers, bringing a character or scene to life through that process—that is gholvane. When such a moment or a word, is repeated again and again, it doubles the joy of the performance. How can this joy be experienced through a four-minute film Lavani or a thirty-second reel? For that, one must make time and experience live Lavani at leisure in an intimate set-up.

Tamasha has also done another important thing over the years: fearlessly questioning those in power and attacking social evils. “We are artists, how can we be timid?” says Padma Shri Raghuveer Khedkar, “We criticize the government openly, point out their mistakes, suggest reforms. We attack superstition and the ills of society. But all this comes with a layer of humour. First, the audience laughs heartily, then they think, and sometimes they even act.”

Pollution, environmental destruction, water scarcity, corruption, female foeticide, dowry deaths, rape, casteism and religious discord—countless Lavanis and Vags have been written on such themes. But what is the condition today? Is all this still alive?

Khedkar’s face falls. “Some of it survives. But honestly, we have reached a point where most people don’t want Vag or Batawni. They are too busy with their mobile phones. They only want beautiful, young girls dancing on recorded tracks.”

There has been a decline in these traditional art spaces. The Vag is fading; Baithakichi Lavani is becoming rare; and except for a few Sangeet Bari theatres, DJ music has taken over elsewhere. “Earlier, artists were safe; today, even with bouncers in place, there is still anxiety in our minds, and such incidents have happened too,” says Khedkar.

And yet, all is not lost. “How can it end?” asks Mirabai, “Art is in our blood. We simply cannot sit still. What we need is a discerning audience with good habits and good taste.”

And truly, this art and these artists need dignity — but just as much, if not more, we need their free and powerful expression. If their status rises, our own inner world will flourish too. Lavani must be given respect, yes, but not by sanitizing it. Its eroticism, rawness, boldness, ease, humour, directness, and cheekiness must remain intact.

A healthy society needs all kinds of arts. Just as a meal becomes nourishing and satisfying when it includes every flavour and variety, life too becomes richer when it holds all rasas and emotions. In today’s mechanical, technology-driven age, where division, hatred, violence and war are gaining ground, this becomes even more essential. The answer lies in bringing such traditional artists and their stories to the public. Films — and now reels and BTS content — have that power.

A film like Eetha will certainly give Lavani-Tamasha visibility beyond Maharashtra, but the real victory will come when this visibility moves beyond cinema and traditional artists are seen more often performing live, in their original flavour and form. This will benefit not just the artists, but us as well — and this will be the truest salute to Vithabai.

Through B Spot Productions, the author has revived Lavani for new audiences through productions such as Lavani Ke Rang, Love and Lavani and Rang Birangi Lavani, narrated in English and Hindi