Jati in Bharatanatyam: Caste, Culture, and the Dance Form's Hidden Layers

When you hear jati, a term from ancient Indian social and artistic systems that refers to lineage, community, or classification. Also known as birth group, it caste, it isn't just a word from Sanskrit texts—it's the invisible backbone of Bharatanatyam. In Bharatanatyam, jati isn't about steps or rhythms alone. It’s about who was allowed to perform them, whose stories were told, and whose voices were silenced for centuries. This dance form didn’t emerge in a vacuum. It was shaped by temple rituals, royal courts, and rigid social orders that tied movement to identity. The very gestures, postures, and expressions you see today were once coded by caste—passed down through specific communities, often Dalit or Devadasi women, whose labor was exploited but never acknowledged.

Think of Bharatanatyam, a classical Indian dance form originating in Tamil Nadu, rooted in temple traditions and codified in the Natya Shastra. Also known as Sadir, it Dasi Attam, it was once performed by women dedicated to temple deities. These women weren’t entertainers—they were spiritual conduits. But when colonial rulers and reformers labeled their practice as immoral, the dance was stripped of its sacred context and rebranded as "high art"—for upper-caste audiences. The jati that once gave the dance its soul became a taboo. Today, many performers avoid the word jati altogether, afraid of its weight. But silence doesn’t erase history. The footwork, the mudras, the rhythm cycles—each carries echoes of those who danced before they were allowed to speak their names.

And then there’s Natya Shastra, the ancient Indian treatise on performing arts, written around 200 BCE, that laid the foundation for all classical Indian dance. Also known as the Bible of Indian dance, it the foundational text, it didn’t just describe movements—it assigned meaning to them based on social roles, divine archetypes, and caste-based symbolism. In this text, jati was used to classify both people and expressions. The dancer wasn’t just performing a story—she was embodying a social order. Today, dancers are reclaiming this legacy. Some choreographers now weave in the forgotten names of Devadasi artists. Others use jati not as a label of exclusion, but as a call to remember. The dance isn’t just about beauty anymore. It’s about justice.

What you’ll find in the posts below aren’t just dance tutorials or performance reviews. They’re stories about who held the space, who was erased, and who is now stepping forward to rewrite the script. You’ll read about the quiet rebellion in a single adavu, the hidden caste markers in a rhythmic pattern, and how a dance form meant to honor gods became a mirror for human inequality—and now, for healing.