Few artists in India have worked as consistently and as rigorously at the intersection of performance and preservation as Manjari Chaturvedi. Best known as the founder of Sufi Kathak, a form she developed over two decades ago, her practice moves between stage and scholarship, reviving lost traditions, reinterpreting histories, and reframing how we engage with classical arts today.
With projects ranging from the ‘courtesan archives’ to the Royal Darbar Series, Chaturvedi’s work is about ensuring that what has survived centuries is not lost in a generation. In this exclusive conversation with Robb Report India, she reflects on the origins of Sufi Kathak, the politics of gender in performance traditions, and why recreating the royal mehfil feels urgent today.
Manjari Chaturvedi: Sufi Kathak is something I started way back in 1998. It has been over 25 years now. When I created it, there was no social media and barely any internet. For me, to create an art form from scratch required a great deal of research. I travelled to Central Asia (Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan) and worked with artists from Iran and Turkey. Over time, this evolved into what is now known as Sufi Kathak.
I formally launched it in Lucknow in 1998 and then in Delhi in 2000. Since then, it has been a very interesting journey because it brings together two philosophies. Kathak, like most classical forms, is rooted in Sagun Bhakti — the idea of a divine with form. Sufi Kathak, on the other hand, explores Nirgun Bhakti — the formless divine.
There was already a strong Sufi musical tradition in the subcontinent, but no organised dance vocabulary for it. Sufi Kathak gradually became that. Of course, like anything new, it went through a phase of doubt and resistance. But today, after all these years, it has found its place within performance art.
MC: This is something very close to my heart. I feel strongly that we are not doing enough to support our traditional arts. I have travelled to over 32 countries, and nowhere has anyone asked me which brand I am wearing. What they want to know is about our cultural traditions — our music, our dance, our jewellery, even the colour applied to the feet. These are the details that define us globally.
With the onslaught of global fashion and culture, it becomes important to preserve these intricacies of identity. Our art forms are not just performances; they are cultural histories, preserved orally over generations. Today, attention spans are reduced to 30-second reels, but our traditions are thousands of years old.
Whether it is The Qawwali Project I started in 2011, or The Courtesan Project in 2009, or documenting Sufi saints and women’s narratives in Punjab, the intention is the same — to ensure these histories are not erased. The Royal Darbar series comes from a similar concern. Classical music was once patronised by royalty. With that patronage gone, we are left asking, do we let these traditions fade? My answer is simple: I won’t let them die.
MC: We live in a deeply patriarchal setup, and that shapes how we perceive art. In royal courts, male performers are remembered as ustads and pandits. Women who performed the same art were called naachne-gaanewali — a term used derogatorily.
The same work is respected when done by men, but diminished when done by women. These are questions we need to ask even today. Even now, male artists are given formal titles, while women are often identified by marital status — Shrimati. What does that have to do with art?
Art cannot be defined by gender. It must be judged by raag, taal, mudra — by the quality of performance. Interestingly, even within Sufi poetry, the voice of devotion is feminine. Whether it is Amir Khusro, Bulleh Shah, or Kabir, they all write from a feminine perspective — the lover surrendering to the divine. I am not creating something new. I am bringing back what we have forgotten.
MC: Everything I have done, from 1998 to now, has been research-driven. I often say, I do not write research papers, I dance them. Each of my projects required extensive fieldwork. These were oral traditions. I had to go into old neighbourhoods, meet performers, speak to people, visit former kothas, and document what I could.
Even costume design comes from research. When I create a courtesan costume, it is not inspired by Bollywood — it is based on paintings, archival photographs, and historical references. Similarly, in the Royal Darbar series, what musicians wore in Gwalior would differ from Patiala. What they sang would differ, too. If I am recreating history, I have to be as accurate as possible. So if I am not dancing, I am either in old city lanes speaking to people or in libraries.
MC: Today, there is a tendency to dismiss royalty as indulgent or frivolous. But what we don’t talk about is their role in nurturing classical music and dance. There was no film industry, no streaming platforms. If you wanted music, it had to be performed live. Royal courts became centres of artistic excellence. It was considered a matter of prestige to host great musicians. We rarely acknowledge this legacy.
For me, recreating the royal mehfil is about two things. First, helping audiences understand what cultural life looked like then. And second, preserving compositions that exist only in oral tradition. Unlike Western classical music, which is written and archived, our music is passed down. If we don’t keep performing it, we lose it.
I also realised that many people say, “We don’t understand classical music.” But that’s simply because they haven’t been exposed to it. So I decided to present it in its original format. And the response has been overwhelming — people are curious, engaged, and eager to experience it.
MC: The Patiala Darbar was perhaps the most flamboyant of all. But it was also incredibly refined. Maharaja Bhupinder Singh’s famous Patiala necklace is often spoken about, but that same eye for detail extended to music and patronage. They invested heavily in bringing the best musicians to their court. In many ways, it was like acquiring top talent today. The Patiala Gharana itself flourished because of this support.
For this presentation, we are recreating not just the music and dance, but the compositions, the choreography, and the setting. We are also working with museums to showcase artefacts, and with hospitality partners to recreate traditional recipes. So it is not just a performance; it is an experience of the Patiala court.
MC: This is the most critical time in our history to document and archive traditions. Much of our knowledge exists in oral form, and the people who carry it are between 70 and 90 years old. If we lose them, we lose entire histories. What will remain then? Perhaps just short-form content without depth. It is essential that we document, archive, and preserve this knowledge urgently. Everything we see today — even popular music — is rooted in these traditions. If we don’t protect them, we lose the foundation itself.