The Dham of Dhamaal: Culture, Memory and the Urgency of Arts Education

It is the last day of February 2026. Holi is three days away. I sit in a seminar hall waiting for a speaker to arrive for a National Science Day celebration while Seema Mishra's “Aajya Re Bateu Khadi Neem Ke Tale” plays softly in my earphones. In this institutional space of microphones, PowerPoint slides and formal knowledge, my mind drifts to a very different site of learning – the Holi ground of my village, Bissau, in Shekhawati.

I am 13 again, insisting to my father that I, too, want to be part of Geendar, a community dance traditionally performed by men during Holi. In the Shekhawati region, Geendar is often described as dandak raas – a circular dance where performers wield wooden sticks, striking them rhythmically as they move in coordinated patterns. The dancers arrive costumed as kings, saints, mythical figures, gamblers, national leaders and local heroes, transforming the performance arena into a living archive of collective memory.

My father initially resists, saying it is a “boy” thing and that I might get hurt. Eventually, he allows me on the condition that I stay beside a cousin. I am filled with excitement. My costume is far from traditional: a Hannah Montana T-shirt and half pants.

Holding my father’s hand, I walk to the Holi ground where my cousins Arti, Aina and Pooja are preparing. We collect sticks from an uncle’s house, carefully selecting them for size, weight and smoothness – an informal initiation into the material culture of the dance. Girls are not expected to perform; they usually watch from the sidelines. Yet that evening, accompanied by male cousins, we enter the Geendar circle.

The dance begins at seven in the evening and continues late into the night. Men step in and out, but we children remain relentless. Performing for the first time, I struggle. Nobody wants to dance next to us girls – we are inexperienced. After an hour, something shifts. I begin to understand the rhythm: “Ghalya Geendar, Bajya Danka.” The sticks beat in sync – Da Daa Dum Dum. I finally find my place in the music.

Students learn how to sing and dance during Dhamaal. The first co-author is in the right.

Later that night, I encounter Chaukdi, a faster variation specific to Bissau, performed when the nagada drum accelerates and the choreography intensifies. I am asked to step out; the pace is too fast. I refuse. Instead, I position myself beside an elderly dancer whose movements are steady. Matching his rhythm, I remain in the circle, learning through observation and repetition – an embodied pedagogy rarely acknowledged in formal discourse.

At the end, prizes are distributed: best costume, finest singer, most enduring dancer. Then an unexpected announcement – a special recognition for a young girl who participated for the entire duration. My name is called.

By then, most women have left, as late-night Chang performances are considered a male domain. We return to collect the prize: Rs 50. I display that note proudly for days. My father comes home the next morning, having celebrated through the night. But for me, the significance is already clear. I had crossed an invisible boundary – not through protest, but by dancing. My palms hurt from striking the sticks, but the pride surpasses the pain.

This memory is not merely nostalgia; it reveals how traditions are inhabited and sometimes quietly transformed through participation. Geendar, like many community forms, survives not only through preservation but through such small acts of inclusion.

My name is Payal Saini. I am a scholar from Rajasthan studying the musical practices of my community. I recently shifted from English literature to performing arts as a student of ethnomusicology.

Growing up, I was surrounded by this cultural ecosystem. Every month brought a new festival. Holi was always special. I belong to the Mali community, traditionally farmers or gardeners. During Holi, my relatives became musicians, performing Geendar every night for a month – beginning with Geendar and ending with Dhamaal in the morning. Each gwadi (extended family) had its own performance, but people from other communities also joined.

Geendar is performed with sticks struck to the beat of the nagada, while Dhamaal involves dancers tying ghunghroos, holding changs, and dancing. What remains constant are the songs. While the rhythms of the nagada and chang differ, the same melodies are sung. The flute features in both, while the manjeera becomes part of Dhamaal.

These celebrations take place around Holi, after the rabi harvest and before kharif sowing, when farmers have time to rest. Women, however, largely remain spectators, seated around the circle watching men perform.

Students experiment with the Chang.

§

India is known for its rich cultural diversity, and Rajasthan in particular attracts global attention for its heritage. Yet, with rapid modernisation and urbanisation, vernacular cultural knowledge is eroding – even in rural areas. One must ask: what remains if these traditions fade?

Despite widespread pride in culture, arts education remains undervalued, especially in higher education. BA and MA programmes in the arts are still limited, and careers in the creative industries are often seen as impractical.

We argue that studying the arts as a professional discipline is more important than ever. In an era marked by AI, rapid change and cultural loss, arts education sustains living traditions, fosters creativity, enhances communication and nurtures emotional intelligence. Its value extends far beyond financial returns – it is essential.

To illustrate this, we turn to one of our own – Payal's – journeys. From a small village in Bissau, she moved to Jaipur for higher education, became an assistant professor of English literature, and was selected for a Fulbright scholarship to teach Hindi in the United States – an unprecedented achievement for a young woman from her community.

One might see this as a complete success: higher education, urban life, a stable career. Yet, the memories she shares remain central to her identity. During her Fulbright experience, courses in cultural studies and ethnomusicology led her to recognise the importance of her roots, alongside a growing sense of disconnection. She became increasingly aware of the gradual disappearance of the traditions she grew up with.

Upon returning to Rajasthan, she shifted her focus to ethnomusicology and began researching these practices. Around the same time, she met the co-author of this piece, Ayla Joncheere, and together we worked to establish the Department of Performing Arts at Poornima University.

Drawing on Payal’s experiences, a workshop on Dhamaal was organised at the university. A relative from her nearby village was invited to teach students how to play the chang, sing and dance. The process filled Payal with a deep sense of pride and belonging.

Group picture from a dance class.

When the workshop took place – after the Holi season – it resonated deeply with students, many of whom were enrolled in non-arts programmes such as engineering or management. Most were from Rajasthan, often from Shekhawati. They responded with enthusiasm and emotional connection. Many had heard of Dhamaal but had never experienced it firsthand.

Students wanted to return the next day. They asked for videos to share with their families. Some expressed a desire to return to their villages and practise Dhamaal. They began asking their elders about traditions they had never previously questioned.

This experience demonstrates that arts education is not merely about skill acquisition – it is about reconnecting individuals with their cultural worlds, fostering dialogue across generations and creating spaces of shared meaning.

After witnessing this, it becomes difficult to argue that arts programmes are unnecessary or merely recreational. In Rajasthan – where traditions are still alive but fragile – we cannot afford to overlook this moment.

What is at stake is not only preservation, but the shaping of future societies. By investing in arts education, we are not looking backward; we are building forward – nurturing individuals who are creative, critically aware, emotionally connected and culturally rooted.

The responsibility lies with us to engage younger generations in sustaining these living traditions and carrying them into new contexts. Only then can Rajasthan’s cultural richness continue to evolve – vibrant, relevant and resilient in a rapidly changing world.

Payal Saini and Ayla Joncheere are professors at Poornima University.

The Wire is now on WhatsApp. Follow our channel for sharp analysis and opinions on the latest developments.