An object that has significant personal meaning for me are my pair of ghungroos. I have been learning the Indian Classical dance form of Kathak for the past 12 years, and one of the most distinctive features of the performing art are the ankle bells that adorn the feet of a dancer, serving to emphasise their rhythmic movements. Customarily, an individual bell is referred to as a ghungroo, whereas strings of bells are called ghungroos. When performing, Kathakars (the name given to Kathak dancers) wear one string on either ankle, making them a pair of ghungroos.
Depending on the age, experience, physical build, and individual preference of a Kathakar, the way ghungroos look can vary immensely between dancers, but what is common amongst all of them is that they are essentially made of several brass bells (usually between a hundred to a hundred and fifty on each foot) braided together using a lightweight durable rope (generally off-white or red in colour) with long extensions of the string on either end of the braid to allow for the dancer to appropriately wrap and secure the ghungroos around their ankles. On my pair – which is strung using cotton rope – each ghungroo is approximately 1.5 centimetres in diameter and consists of two parts, a rounded base with an adjoining loop through which the cord is threaded, and a four leaved upper half. To construct the ghungroo, a small brass ball bearing is placed in the base after which the upper half is crimped on enclosing the ball in its leaves and leaving a ridge around the widest point of the bell. Over time, with simple wear and tear the malleable leaves expand outward increasing the volume of the ghungroos and causing their sound to become hollower and euphonous as it develops a higher pitch. This is why Kathakars, in order to preserve the unique chime of older ghungroos, rarely purchase entirely new pairs; and instead opt to simply restring their existing bells once the cord on their pair breaks (which is a very common experience for regular dancers).
My current pair of ghungroos are meaningful to me foremostly as they represent my passion for Kathak as it is a dance form that I have worked hard to hone my skills in and broaden my knowledge of. And, as the privilege of wearing a pair of ghungroos that consists of a hundred bells on either foot is one that must be earned through experience over the years, my ghungroos with their hundred bells are a testament to my dedication to this art form. Moreover, having lived in Singapore for over 13 years, they also keep me connected to my cultural background. Every time I tie them around my ankles and delve into a new choreography, I learn more about the varied religious histories, mythologies, social beliefs, and artistic sensibilities that have influenced the development of the Kathak repertoire, and invariably India itself. Additionally, my ghungroos also hold special sentimental value for me as they were gifted to me by my Guru (teacher) on the occasion of my Manch Pravesh, which is a solo dance recital indicating a student’s transition into the role of an individual performer with their own aesthetic and style, rather than only a representative of the teachings of their Guru.
If I were to speculate as to what meaning my ghungroos would have if they were discovered 1000 years from now, my most realistic guess would be that they would immediately be identified as fundamentally having the same meaning, function, and purpose as they do today. The tradition of wearing ghungroos is one that has already lasted well over 2000 years; thus, I think it would be almost expected that it remains prevalent for another millennium; especially considering the notable rise in the number of students pursuing Kathak and hence purchasing multiple pairs of ghungroos. Consequently, I believe the visual characteristics of my ghungroos themselves – such as the relatively higher number of bells and their expanded leaves, the tarnished, slightly browned brass, and a couple missing ball bearings – would be enough to convey that they were worn by an experienced senior dancer, due to the existing patterns in the use of ghungroos as objects. This notion may also be reinforced by the fact that the injuries I have sustained from the brass bells scratching against my skin while dancing has also left a few small blood stains on the cotton rope of my ghungroos, which could provide future historians some insight into the frequency and intensity of Kathak rehearsals. Apart from these characteristics, I believe the most important piece of context that would provide further information as to the more nuanced personal relevance of my ghungroos would be the location where they are discovered. This is so, as in Singapore, at this moment in time Kathak ghungroos are not made locally at affordable rates. Therefore they are often imported for most Singaporean students by their Gurus from a select few artisans specifically in Delhi, India, which is a hub for Kathak costuming, equipment, and educational resources as it is where the National Institute of Kathak Dance is located (notably also the institution from which a number of Gurus teaching in Singapore have graduated). Therefore, the act of obtaining the object from the modern epicentre of the dance form which happens to be located in a different country, and then going on to use it for a visibly extensive period of time, coupled with the fact that my ghungroos are very well-maintained for their age might be enough to indicate to someone 1000 years in the future, that they held immense personal significance if not deep sentimental value.
In conclusion, my ghungroos are an object that I think are quite telling of several aspects of my personality and identity. They are symbolic of my passion for Kathak, my experience practicing it, my work ethic, my connection to my heritage, and my relationship with my teacher. My hope is that the legacy of this object lasts long enough into the future, that it’s history and meaning are still accessible to people even multiple generations later.
