She may be the daughter of one of the most famous fathers in India, but danseuse Sharmistha Mukherjee is happier when people know her for her moves and mudras

Despite how cliched it might sound, I have noticed that in most middle-class, Bengali families there is an affinity towards art—most forms of it. Bengali children are encouraged by members of their families (whether a grandparent or an odd uncle or the parents themselves) to be part of muhollah programmes or generic ‘art schools’ imparting their dose of song-dance-recitation classes. Whether children take up any of the forms later, professionally, is not important to the families. What is essential is a holistic education that balances between scholastic, formal school lessons and a larger, more beneficial, scheme of activities vaguely termed as ‘extra-curricular’. I believe it helps children derive a world view not driven by a singular priority. Gladly, I was encouraged to go down the same route by both parents, especially my mother who remains exceedingly fond of Ranbindrasangeet. Though she was never professionally trained, apart from a small stint under an exponent called Sudhir Chandran who is quite a well-known name in Bengali circle within the NCR, she has continued to be a part of programmes out of her own initiative. She formed a group of her own—Geetanjali—eventually. Interestingly, she always wanted to be a professional dancer more than a singer. A few generations ago, women from ‘respectable’ families did not become performing artists, especially a dancer, thus her aspiration was nipped at the bud. Fortunately, by the time I grew up, the taboo was well broken, least to a large extent. Some affairs are love at first sight, some are not. When I was around five my formal training in Kathak began. After a few days I put my foot down and refused to learn. As my teacher would arrive during what I considered to be my play time! Those precious hours after school and before I had to sit down for home work. So the affair ended then. But the love for performance was instilled so deep that it never truly went away. In between I started to perform in presence of my family—my siblings, cousins and friends would put up shows for family during (Durga) pooja holidays. We were encouraged to plan, direct and perform skits, plays or pantomimes. And in between there was also a small stint in which I learnt Kuchipudi which I also enjoyed immensely. My turning point came when I was 12. I saw a magical performance by a maestro, the Late Durgalalji. He was such a master that he managed to capture the heart and imagination of a 12-year-old. Soon, he became my Guruji. That was perhaps the most fateful things to happen to me—the fact that I met the man who was so strict and yet full of love for his students, so dedicated to his art. On a day, when he could not conduct the classes personally, he would call me over the phone and ask me to perform. He could judge whether I had practised by hearing the sounds of my feet and ghungroo. I was humbled and terrified by his presence. And he instilled a deep love for Kathak which helped me to manage formal education and rigorous practise (often performing on stage) till I was a postgraduate. All along, my father remained my strongest and most silent supporter. He held some of the most important and busy portfolios for the Central Government and now he is the President of the nation. To me, he is a liberal father, one who has been encouraging all of us in whichever way he could. He was a terribly busy man and barely got to see me perform, but recently, he sat through an entire show. Post performance, he caught me by surprise with his intuitive analysis of each aspect of the show, Rainstorm and Autumn Leaves. It was inspired by a poem by Ranbindranath Tagore which in turn was inspired by Shelley’s Ode to the West Wind. For music I had used Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. In one part of the performance, I had draped a dancer in black cloth to convey a certain tension and conflict. My father felt that was “too vague”. Even if we are not on the same page as far as our interpretations of dance are concerned, I am infinitely glad that when he is there, he pays me his whole attention. But I digress. I started to perform in my Guruji’s troupe, one-and-a-half years after I started under his tutelage. But they were group performances where I would have a small space within the background dancers. My first solo happened when I was in Class XII. In a single word my practise was intensive. As I said before, the days he was not there, he would call me up over the telephone to hear the sounds of the ghungroo. When he taught me, he was so immersed in it, that my mother had to intervene at times and beg him to let me go so that I could finish my homework. I am endlessly thankful that I got him as my Guru. His untimely death in the early 1990s was a blow to me. It was always a task to balance studying and practising dance. I remember the only time when my father intervened was when I was about to sit for my final board examinations. Around that time I was also performing with Guruji’s troupe. My father called me to his room one day and quietly told me that he would pull no favours to “get me anywhere” if I did badly in the final tests. At the same time he praised me for my dedication to dance. That pinched my ego—that he could even think that I would seek his help. I pulled up my socks and dived into studies for those final months. I continued with my formal education till my postgraduation. I completed my Master’s in sociology from Jawaharlal Nehru University (JNU). It makes me strangely content to state that my admission into St Stephens and to JNU was based entirely on merit. And I know that my father derives a lot of pleasure from that as well. Whatever little time that he would spend with us, it would be quality time. That is how he is. My mother, on the other hand, has been a pillar of support. We have performed together. By that I mean that we have been part of the same programme. It is difficult to dance to Ranbindrasangeet and it is to sing for a form like Kathak. There are some words that come to my mind when I think of the love of my life; speed, rigour, grace, elegance, abstraction and a climatic language through movement. The abstractness in the form lends it a fluidity which makes it open to all sorts of experimentation and interpretation. Recently, a friend, who is also a well-known musician, and I, were talking about our life and art, and he remarked about how the feet and the ghungroo cannot be heard individually all the time. That lent the idea of the experimentation I did using different forms of ghungroo. As is with all artists, dancers too are struck by ideas at all times. Because all artistes, live and breathe their art if they are truly dedicated. It is that dedication that sometimes helps us to continue despite the long hours, the strenuous practise, the lack of respect and adulation. People ask me whether I grudge the obsession of the Indian populace with popular culture. Well no. It would be childish to even expect that the two can be comparable. Pavarotti was a genius, but he could never become a Michael Jackson. In fact the two were content being in their individual sets and having their share of fans. Both popular culture (by which I believe people are usually referring to Bollywood and the increasing ‘Bollywoodisation’ of art) and Indian Classical Art have their audience, the latter a smaller subset, a niche. Indian Classical Art will never become a popular set, perhaps. But artists would rather settle for a small but attentive audience, rather than a large group of distracted individuals. Having said that, it does hurt a bit when organisers call us and do not have the decency to clean up the stage or leave it in a state that is safe for dancers. But the show goes on. As we owe it to the audience and to our art. Especially, to our art.

I wish I would have been....

Would you believe it if I tell you that I always wanted to be an astrophysicist? Those marvellous minds get to travel across the Universe, galaxies, time zones, and through worm holes, thanks to the powerful faculty of their minds. What a cheap way to travel and what lucky people! Unfortunately, I have blundered through mathematics all throughout my life and probably would never had become an astrophysicist—but there are no limits to dreaming, is there?