Two Maharashtrian men on why lavni is more than whistles and jeers
A swirl of colours and in the centre of it all, a naughty wink. The lip half bitten, the chest heaving, the danseuse takes the audience into a world of flirtatious goodness. The lavni, a 700-year-old dance form from Maharashtra, has always had a strong hold on its admirers. The lavni dancers dress to get attention—the eyes are large and smoky, the lips bright red, the nose-ring gingerly placed, while the nine-yard sari embraces every womanly curve. All of which lilts to a song of lust and longing.

Many a Marathi movie has played tribute to this dance form, though if ‘item number’ is the word you try to identify it with, you could be mistaken. At its raunchiest best even the item number is like a bowl of bland oatmeal next to their Kolhapuri spiciness. The lavni has kept men hooked for years, sometimes even for life.

A case in point, Bhushan Korgaonkar, a chartered accountant with a media organisation, who six years ago, went to watch a performance by Maya Khutegaokar, a 32-year-old Lavni performer. While Maya danced to the song “Icha kaai haai tumchi” (What’s on your mind?) Bhushan got thinking. “Growing up as a Maharashtrian, I used to hate lavni and tamasha. I would find it cheap and vulgar. I used to feel sorry that this is our culture, while south Indians had the elegant Bharatnatyam and Carnatic music. Then somewhere I happened to see a performance by Maya Khutegaonkar, an eminent name in sangeet bari (a term used for a segment in tamasha-lavani, it literally means to perform to music). And my perspective changed. I realised the pain and the charm of this art form.”

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