Celebrating Dalit Contributions to Indian Music and Dance

When we think of Indian music and dance, names like Bharatanatyam, Carnatic music, and Hindustani classical tradition tend to dominate the conversation. But this picture is deeply incomplete – and deliberately so. For centuries, Dalit communities have been the backbone of India’s musical and performing arts landscape: crafting instruments, composing songs, and developing dance forms that are woven into the very fabric of Indian cultural life. Yet their contributions have been systematically erased, appropriated, or dismissed as “folk” while Brahmanical forms were elevated to “classical” status. Understanding Dalit contributions to Indian music and dance is not just a matter of cultural history – it is an act of restoring justice.

Art as labor, not leisure: a fundamental difference 🔗

The most important distinction between Brahmanical and Dalit approaches to music and dance lies in their relationship to everyday life. In Brahmanical tradition, art has historically been positioned as a spiritual and leisurely pursuit – something performed in temples and royal courts for the enrichment of the elite, meant to elevate the performer and audience toward the divine, away from the material world. Classical dance forms like Bharatanatyam, Kathak, and Odissi, and music traditions like Hindustani and Carnatic, were cultivated within this framework of ritual refinement.

Dalit music and dance operate from an entirely different premise. For Dalit communities, art was never separate from work, community, or survival. It was embedded in daily rhythms – played at births, deaths, harvests, weddings, and protests. It was communal, not elite; functional, not decorative. As scholars have noted, Dalit musical traditions are historical, spreading across individuals, groups, and generations, continuously being passed on with change and continuity – a living tradition tied directly to the labor and struggles of the community. This is the first and most crucial point: Dalit art is an expression of collective life, not an escape from it.

The hidden architects of Indian instruments 🔗

One of the most striking and least-discussed dimensions of Dalit contribution is in the making of musical instruments themselves. The majority of Bahujan musical instruments – Dappu, Nagara, Oggu, Dholu, Mrudangam, and others – are made from leather, a material considered “impure” by Brahmanical ideology. Yet these very instruments form the rhythmic foundation of Indian music. Dalit artisans, particularly from communities such as Madiga and Paraiyar, transformed what the caste system declared “polluting” into the heartbeat of Indian cultural expression.

The Mridangam – the pivotal percussion instrument in classical music – is made from animal hide, crafted by Dalit artisans, yet the credit and prestige flow exclusively to the Brahmin performers who play it. This is a pattern repeated across Indian music: Dalit labor builds the instruments, Dalit knowledge develops the techniques, but Dalit communities receive neither recognition nor the economic or cultural rewards. Indian music thrives on the labor of oppressed-caste communities who crafted instruments and contributed performances to India’s musical canon, all without due credit or representation.

Regional traditions: the Dappu, Parai, and the voice of the land 🔗

Across India’s regions, Dalit communities developed their own distinct and ancient musical traditions, each carrying deep social and political significance.

The Dappu of Telangana and Andhra Pradesh 🔗

Dappu is widely recognized as one of the oldest instruments in the Telugu-speaking region, just as the Parai is in Tamil Nadu. Among untouchable communities, Madigas are particularly associated with the Dappu, and in virtually every village of the Telugu states, it is played across occasions – from birth to death, marriages, festivals, and political movements. The Dappu is not merely a percussion instrument; it is a community announcement, a marker of presence, a declaration that Dalit life matters and will be heard.

The Parai of Tamil Nadu 🔗

Parai, the traditional drum of the Paraiyar Dalit community of Tamil Nadu, carries a similarly powerful history. In Tamil Nadu, the Parai drum, traditionally associated with the Paraiyar Dalit caste, is used to express protest and resistance through music. Ironically, the very word “Pariah” – which entered the English language as a synonym for social outcast – derives from the name of this community and their drum. What colonial and caste discourse turned into a slur, Dalit communities have reclaimed as a symbol of pride and defiance.

Gaana music: the rap of Chennai’s Dalit streets 🔗

In Chennai, Gaana emerged as a distinctly Dalit urban musical form. Gaana is a rap-like collection of rhythms, beats, and sensibilities native to the Dalits of Chennai, evolving over two centuries by drawing on the traditions of Tamil Sufi saints and ancient siddhar practices. Gaana songs are performed at weddings, political rallies, and funerals, addressing the full spectrum of Dalit life. Contemporary Gaana bands like The Casteless Collective, led by filmmaker Pa. Ranjith, are now bringing the genre to new audiences while using it explicitly for anti-caste social activism.

Shahiri and Bhim Geet: Maharashtra’s tradition of singing justice 🔗

Perhaps no regional tradition captures the fusion of art, labor, and resistance more powerfully than Maharashtra’s Shahiri. Shahiri is a traditional performance art combining song, poetry, and street theatre, originating primarily from communities like Mahars, Matangs, and Mangs. Jotirao Phule radically used the traditional Tamasha art form as a weapon against caste and patriarchy, starting the Satyashodhak Jalsas in 1873 – recognizing that cultural reform and social reform were inseparable.

When Dr. B.R. Ambedkar launched his anti-caste movement in 1927, Shahiri acquired a new urgency. Lokshahirs like Amar Sheikh and Annabhau Sathe blazed the trail in the pre-Independence period, lending their voices to socio-political movements through fiery performances. Ambedkar himself once famously remarked that a single song from a Shahir was worth ten of his speeches – a recognition of music’s unique power to reach hearts and mobilize communities.

From Shahiri grew Bhim Geet – songs of praise, protest, and solidarity composed around Ambedkarite ideology. These songs range from Ambedkar jalsas sung by Shahirs to Ambedkar Bhajans, Bhim Palnas sung by women as lullabies, and contemporary Bhim Rap and Dalit pop. They are sung at political gatherings, personal celebrations, during agricultural work, and on daily commutes – demonstrating how Dalit music is never extracted from life but always embedded within it.

When art is stolen: the appropriation of Dalit dance 🔗

The history of Indian classical dance cannot be told honestly without confronting cultural appropriation. The most documented case is that of Bharatanatyam. The dance form now celebrated as India’s foremost classical tradition was originally practiced as Sadir or Sadirattam by hereditary communities – including Bahujan castes such as the Isai Vellalar, and Dalit dedication communities. What was originally accessible to broader society has, through a nationalistic “classicizing” process, become a privilege of only the affluent few, while the original practitioners were pushed to the margins.

The last blow to the hereditary performers came with the appropriation of Sadir by more privileged sections of society and its transformation into a national dance form, renamed “Bharatanatyam” at a 1932 meeting of the Madras Music Academy – a renaming that simultaneously erased the communities who had sustained the tradition for generations. In both Bharatanatyam and Kerala’s Mohiniyattam, the original practitioners – the real creators – were pushed to the margins once the art form gained cultural prestige. This pattern – extract the art, discard the artist – is a defining feature of how caste has operated in Indian cultural history.

A similar dynamic is at work in the making of the Mridangam. Dalit mridangam makers still live under graded caste inequality while a Brahmin mridangam player can move up the ladder with no social hindrance – benefiting from the labor of the former while inheriting none of the stigma. This speaks to a structural injustice that goes far beyond individual discrimination.

Dalit dance: community, labor, and defiance 🔗

Dalit dance forms are fundamentally different from their Brahmanical counterparts in purpose and form. Where classical dance is designed for individual artistic display and spiritual aesthetics, Dalit dance is communal and participatory. Dalit folk dance is closely connected to labor, community rituals, and resistance – a communal experience rooted in collective action and the rhythms of daily life.

Forms like Dhimsa, Chindata, and Bathukamma – performed by Bahujan communities – do not impose rigid rules on the performer. Both men and women participate freely. Unlike Bharatanatyam and Kuchipudi, Bahujan communities have not imposed codified rules for their dance forms, and artistes enjoy full freedom in performance. This is not a lack of sophistication – it is a philosophical difference: dance that belongs to the whole community cannot be policed by gatekeepers.

In Maharashtra, forms like Lavani and Tamasha – originally performed by Dalit communities – have evolved to incorporate Ambedkarite themes and social commentary. What was once performed for upper-caste audiences as entertainment has been reclaimed as a space of assertion and political storytelling.

The digital turn: new voices, same resistance 🔗

Dalit music is not frozen in the past. Today, a new generation of artists is carrying forward the tradition of resistance through contemporary idioms. Digital platforms give Dalit musicians equal cultural space, allowing them to shape public conversations on caste and community, reaching audiences far beyond their local regions. Artists like Arivu and Isaivani in Tamil Nadu, Ginni Mahi in Punjab, and Rapper Dule Rocker in Odisha have created works that blend Ambedkarite politics with hip-hop, rap, and pop – attracting listeners globally.

New bands like The Casteless Collective, Dhamma Wings, and Willuwandi are contributing to anti-caste consciousness while modernizing traditional art forms for new generations. In Maharashtra, Dalit shahirs continue creating content of Ambedkarite ideology against caste oppression, while hip-hop and Bhim rap are giving the same message a global reach. The medium evolves; the message – dignity, equality, and resistance – remains constant.

The problem of invisibility: documentation and recognition 🔗

Despite their richness and depth, Dalit musical traditions remain dramatically under-documented. In the absence of Dalit musical traditions in documentation and institutionalization, Brahmanical art forms continue to be projected as having national and classical status, receiving state resources and institutional support generation after generation. Dalit artistes, by contrast, are often limited to small pensions – with no real recognition of the value and knowledge they bring.

This invisibility is not accidental. The untouchability caste system denied Dalits inclusion in many forms of art, particularly instrumental music, and barred them from the Guru-Shishya tradition of classical music education. Excluded from formal training institutions, denied performance spaces, and stripped of credit for the instruments they built, Dalit artists created and sustained a parallel cultural universe – one that has fed into mainstream Indian culture while receiving almost nothing in return.

The parallel with Black musical traditions in America is instructive. As scholars have pointed out, the journey of Black artists through the Harlem Renaissance – and America’s formal recognition through Black Music Month – offers a model for how Dalit musical traditions could be documented, celebrated, and institutionalized. India has yet to build equivalent institutional structures for its own marginalized musical heritage.

What do you think? If the instruments, rhythms, and dance forms that define “classical” Indian culture were largely shaped by Dalit labor and creativity – does that change how you understand India’s cultural heritage? And what responsibility do institutions, educators, and audiences have in acknowledging and actively restoring credit to Dalit artists and communities?

References

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