May 11, 1998

A male bastion falls as women take to the war dance.

By Ruben Banerjee

There's a glitter in her eyes as 16-year-old Amita Barik sways centrestage. "It's a bad omen," she recalls her mother telling her, her movements all the more graceful at the thought. The accompanying dhola and dhumsa get louder, and she and the other girls dancing with her leap skywards, their swords shining under the strobe lights. Their footwork is swift, the fury kinetic.

"What if ..." one of the villagers huddled around whispers. Another cuts her short, knowing fully well the fear within. Girls like Amita are not supposed to perform the fiery chhau war dance, traditionally a male preserve, in backward Baripada of Orissa's Mayurbhanj district. Dancing invited death, that too after throwing up blood. Wasn't it just the other day that a girl who had dared to try her hand at the martial art died mid-way through her performance?

That was 20 years ago. For the set of girls on stage now, it is a renewed beginning. It's a battle against such ill-founded notions as much as it is a need to make a mark for themselves. From three girls two years ago, their number has grown to 20 now. "It's as if a revolution is going on here," says Rudra Narayan Das, the girls' guru. The streets of an otherwise nondescript Baripada seem different today. Another male bastion is falling, and the women walk with a spring in their steps.

It hasn't been an easy turnaround. The stigma apart, there was the caste factor to overcome. In the past, it was only the lower classes which danced the chhau. So the battle was that much more difficult for girls from middle-class families. Moreover, as chhau exponent Manas Rath points out, "Girls were seen as too delicate for the rough and tumble of chhau." But with their growing presence in the field today, such beliefs are being questioned. In fact, the girls are imparting an elegant touch to the fiery martial dance. "When women can go and fight real wars these days, what prevents us from being part of a mock war?" asks Trupti Barik, a dancer, who started out learning the more glamorous Odissi. She also dabbled with the Sambalpuri folk form before shifting to chhau.

Mastering the gruelling dance, the girls know, has its rewards. For one, it gives them a sense of achievement, of bringing about social change. "In a way, we are the true foot soldiers of feminism," gushes Jarina Barik in the midst of an arduous practice session. There is also the lure of foreign travel and fame. "For a girl from distant Baripada, chhau is a passport," says Trupti, pointing to the fact that chhau dancers of yesteryears are widely travelled.

However, chhau as a popular dance form is well past its prime. For centuries, it flourished under the patronage of the maharajas of Mayurbhanj. With royalty gone and concepts of entertainment changing, chhau dancers are receiving little support today. Offers for public performances are few and far between, and exponents like Srihari Nayak are a frustrated lot.

The girls are undeterred though. Having overcome many hurdles in their path, they are determined to find themselves patrons and restore to chhau its lost glory. In fact, they feel the martial dance has already been enriched by their presence. For the foot soldiers of feminism, the real battle starts now.

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