Curating Culture & Dancing Identity

Interview with Anand Satchidanandan

This feature offers a rich and reflective look into the artistic journey of Anand Satchidanandan, dancer, curator, and educator, whose work bridges tradition and innovation in Bharatanatyam. From growing up in Indonesia to training under legendary gurus, Anand shares how cultural exposure, interdisciplinary research, and philosophical inquiry have shaped his practice. Through thoughtful teaching, collaborative productions, and a deep respect for the impermanence of art, his voice adds a vital perspective to the evolving landscape of Indian classical dance.

Your training journey spans multiple geographies and legendary gurus. How have these diverse influences shaped your approach to Bharatanatyam, both in performance and pedagogy? 

Growing up in Indonesia for about 20 formative years of my life was a crucial aspect in shaping my identity as an individual, both in terms of trying to understand who I was, what my heritage is, and what core philosophies I subscribe to. It also cultivated in me a very strong sense of the intersection of art and philosophy, largely influenced by my experience at a school that had over 120 nationalities represented. In that context, the salient elements of one's art and culture became an important part of one's identity, something that one brought to the table as a contribution, not in competition.

And that is a very important point, because when I look at the Indian diaspora communities in the US and Europe today, I feel that the climate in Indonesia was uniquely inviting, collaborative, tolerant, and celebratory of Indian heritage. It was never at odds with the environment we were living in.

In fact, the aesthetics of Indonesia helped deepen my understanding of Indian music, especially in relation to Balinese music and dance traditions. We were constantly exposed to these influences as children, and they enriched our perception of our own heritage. In terms of my training, I began with Nagarajan Sir in Mumbai, a relative in the family of Raja Rajeshwari Natya Kala Mandir. My journey honestly began because of my family’s interest, particularly my grandfather’s desire to see me dance. I still remember him vividly; he could be mistaken for a rather ordinary-looking man, but the moment he enacted, the grace was unparalleled. From him, I learned that the physicality of a person doesn't matter; what matters is the ability to make the viewer forget the body and focus entirely on the character being portrayed.

Following that, I trained under Usha Srinivasan, a prime disciple of Dandayuthapani Pillai. Here, the focus was on avuchattiyam, controlled and measured movements. I still recall how the pace of music was slightly slower, allowing the body to move musically. That distinct quality of the Dandayuthapani Pillai baani still lingers in my dancing.

Later, I was introduced to the Mysore baani through Rekha Subbarao, a leading indologist currently based in Bangalore. She happened to be in Indonesia around the time I was preparing for my arangetram, which I eventually performed under her guidance along with Vijayalakshmi Eashwar. The focus during this phase was on the musicality of the dance form, subdued expressions and refined movements.

A major shift occurred when I joined the Dhananjayans in 1990. That was when I was exposed to the sheer power and strength of the art form, not just from a Kalakshetra baani perspective, but also from a storytelling standpoint. Under Dhananjayan Sir and Shantha Akka, I learned to think about scale: how to build a narrative, how to elongate it, when and where to enunciate, and how to let the music support the story arc seamlessly.

Later, during my time at Wesleyan University, I had the privilege of watching and listening to archival material from the Balasaraswati baani. Though I have not trained in this style, the exposure deeply reinforced the idea that the absolute core of Bharatanatyam lies in its music, how rhythm (laya) and melody (raga) can be intricately combined with movement to create something seamless. In this fusion, dance and music are not separate but deeply interdependent.

This intrinsic quality reveals itself in the padam, javali, thillana, and even in the structure of a shabdam. I also had the opportunity to learn music with Prof. Balasubramaniam, a disciple of T. Viswanathan, the youngest brother of Balasaraswati. That too opened up a completely new perspective on how Bharatanatyam can move people emotionally and spiritually.

Altogether, these experiences speak to the power, capacity, and musicality of dance, and why, in today’s world, it is important not to focus solely on movement, but to understand how it moves you.

As a past director at Shanmukhananda and currently running your school, how do you approach teaching and mentoring young dancers in today’s fast-evolving cultural landscape?

I think one of the main learnings for us is to never, ever allow any kind of cultural bias to creep in, whether in terms of who we teach, or whom we assume can intuitively learn the art form. There is absolutely no way to predict this. Another piece of advice that Dhananjayan Sir gave me is: you never know at what point in time which child or which student will spring forth. In that regard, Shanmukhananda has been a crucial space for us. We’ve seen firsthand that, regardless of community, language, cultural background, or prior immersiveness in Carnatic music or Bharatanatyam, there’s something intrinsic that truly drives students toward mastery, exploration, and success in the art.

From that perspective, it’s been a wonderful journey connecting with so many people, and in doing so, understanding how a cultural institution with a legacy like Shanmukhananda’s can function and reach out meaningfully to diverse communities.

Particularly in today’s context, where we are constantly battling for attention, dedication, and commitment in a social media-driven age, the main challenge becomes helping students focus on the questions that truly matter, not getting misled or overwhelmed by all the surrounding noise. Silence, now, has become a luxury. And in that silence, we see the constant need to be learning, but not investing; practising, but not necessarily improving; this has unfortunately become commonplace.

So, a fair bit of cultural context must be provided, for where the art form comes from, and why certain things are done the way they are. A small joke I always share is: being called to the front of the class is not necessarily a good thing, you’re usually dreading a major correction! But I remember, when we first started teaching, students thought it was a compliment to be asked to come forward. Even more amusing, if the teacher asked you to sit down, the students felt very proud, thinking they had arrived. We had to gently explain that being asked to sit down often means the teacher wants you to observe because you’re not quite getting it yet.

Lastly, we emphasise the ability to watch without judgement, or to watch with a seeking attitude. That, we believe, is absolutely essential, and something we actively try to cultivate and propagate here.

Your productions often explore themes with philosophical and literary depth, like ‘Antardhwani’ and ‘Mahadeva Rahasya’. Can you share your process of conceptualizing such work and what you hope audiences take away?  

Mostly, it starts off as a kind of conversation with myself, about how to bring these intrinsic spiritual learnings and realities into connection with the present day, without limiting what that philosophy is. Half the audience walks away with a set of newly discovered knowledge, and the other half with a new application of knowledge they already possess. But what everyone takes away, definitely, is a sense of relevance and relatability.

Antardhwani was an exploration of Nāda Yoga, and it stemmed from some of the work I did in market intelligence and research, specifically where we were studying neuroscience in the context of how consumers react to TV ads. This research was actually conducted to understand how the brain processes music, how it perceives sound before it processes vision, and what kind of impulse is created when there is a synergy between music and visuals. That was the initial spark.

When I noticed the striking commonalities between Bharata’s Nāṭyaśāstra ślokas and what neuroscience is now able to map and explain, that became the foundation of Antardhwani, which is really about how nāda is created and how it resonates with everyone.

Mahadeva Rahasya is an exploration that brings together storytelling and Bharatanatyam. But unlike a conventional mārgam, it unravels lesser-known stories of Shiva, with the dance serving as the feeling, the bhāva of those stories. Vinay narrated the Purāṇas so beautifully, and we explored: what does that narration create as a feeling in our minds when we think of Ardhanārīśvara, or ākāśa, and such slightly abstract concepts?

So, the idea was to bring together two narrative elements and explore how one informs and the other emotes.

From artist to curator, how has this new role expanded your vision of dance in the wider cultural ecosystem? What shifts do you hope to bring to the space you now curate?

I think one major shift or change is actually looking at things through the audience lens. While the artist might want to do xyz, the key question becomes, what is the audience taking away from it?

Another important aspect is understanding different types of audience sets. Sitting in Mumbai, I’ve spent a fair bit of time on audience measurement and understanding how audiences decode visual material. When you look at that closely, what kind of audience actually comes to watch these shows, and what is their main takeaway, you begin to see a beautiful gradation. Not all audiences are looking to learn something. Not all are trying to reconnect with a cultural heritage. Some are in pure discovery mode. Some are looking for pieces that shock them. Others are looking for pieces that ask uncomfortable questions.

Literally, every dance form and every dancer has an audience. It is just about finding the right connect between the artist, their content, and the audience. I think this nexus is very important, something we must highlight to both artists and audiences: that such beautiful, creative pieces do work, and if we can showcase them in the right way, then we’re beginning to do our job.

For me, it's also about stepping back and noticing that sometimes, artists can go into tunnel vision, a result of the introspective nature of the work. But that introspection often produces very beautiful and unique creations. For audiences, it’s not always easy to want to watch something they haven’t seen before. There’s curiosity, yes, but there’s also a comfort in returning to artists they know, can count on, and understand.

Bringing both artists and audiences together is challenging, but also incredibly interesting and rewarding. Especially when someone comes up and says they never thought they would like it, but actually enjoyed it. 

You have collaborated across forms, from flamenco to Balinese dance, and even Broadway musicals. What excites you most about these intercultural dialogues, and how do you balance innovation with tradition in such projects? 

It is like a football match if you think about it, there need to be two goalposts, and that needs to be very clear. One is where you are coming from: what is the skill set and what is the aesthetic that you have in place, in a very deep-rooted sense. And then, of course, the other goalpost is what needs to be communicated, what is the rasa that you want to create in the piece.

Most pieces, I feel, get lost because these goalposts keep changing, either in terms of the training and the point of view that the artist has from where they are, or in terms of what they want to do and where they want to be. There is artistic vision in both, in identifying both of them.

From that perspective, whenever I’ve done collaborations, it has always been very strongly rooted in the lexicon that I know, the dance vocabulary that I know, and how that can actually match with whatever is presented. It’s not just because it looks interesting, but because there is a certain synergy or certain kind of experience that we want to create. And some of them, of course, are not so premeditated, they are just fun and interesting because there is a musical connect or philosophical connect that we want to explore and see what happens.

So it’s kind of experimental also, but I think at the end of the day it’s about seeing how much innovation you can find within the form itself. But that doesn’t mean you lose your own form or lose yourself, because then you don’t even know where you are running or where you are going towards.

Another thing about intercultural dialogues is that whenever you're faced with a different culture, it makes you understand or wake up to biases that you never thought to question. For example, when I was learning Balinese and working with a very talented Balinese artist, I realised that they don’t have a concept of taalam, there’s no cyclical nature to taalam as we understand it. Learning their pieces is like entering a continuous flow; once it starts, it keeps going. It was so hard for me to understand the musicality of it. There is a count, yes, but it doesn’t conclude the way we expect it to. That experience made me rethink and rehear the music altogether.

It also made me realise that while we have a structure in Bharatanatyam, that very structure can sometimes prevent us from seeing the full musicality of a piece, because we’re so focused on whether it's aligning with the taalam, whether it’s ending before or after the samam. It’s supposed to be a framework, but at times, it begins to limit us.

That’s just one example, but what I’m really trying to say is that this kind of dialogue is essential. It allows the internal biases within us to surface, to remind us that, aesthetically speaking, every tradition holds its own structural logic. What you choose to do with it, whether you want to hold onto it, question it, be cognizant of it, or celebrate it, is entirely up to you.

Looking back at your journey, what has kept you grounded in your practice, and where do you see your artistic journey headed next?

I think the most important thing that has kept me grounded is the understanding that the art is far beyond any individual. I genuinely believe that some good deed, some grace, so many things need to come into place, for one to even practise any kind of art form and to feel inspired to continue.

So from that perspective, when you look at it, once you realise you are in the hands of something far greater than yourself, it keeps you grounded in terms of who you are. It’s not at all about the “I” in there.

There have been so many beautiful moments that great artists have created, and it’s only in that moment, it’s fleeting, nothing is permanent. In that sense, there is nothing permanent about art either. So our quest for permanence is flawed. Because this vision of impermanence is what makes art so beautiful, that a particular sangathi or sanchari, no matter how many times a movement is done, that one moment when the artist truly connects and lets go, when you don’t even see them on stage anymore, that moment will never come back again. And yet, it stays with you.

So there’s both permanence and a certain impermanence in it. That’s what is so beautiful. That’s what keeps you grounded. You weren’t there before, and you’re not going to be there afterward either. What you’re doing now, enjoy that particular moment.