Balaji Rental Dresses and Dance Classes
VVIP Homes, D-103, Greater Noida W Rd, Sector 16C, Gaur City 2, Ghaziabad, Chipyana Khurd Urf Tigri, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India
Balaji Rental Dresses and Dance Classes sits near the busy Tambaram–Velachery main road, a tiny first-floor corner unit painted a cheerful turmeric-yellow. If you drive too fast you’ll miss the narrow steel staircase wedged between a scooter repair shop and a florist; climb it and the faint thud of mridangam and the sweet rustle of silk hit you at once. Inside, the space is a living marriage of tradition and necessity: 260 square feet, split straight down the midpoint. One half is a classroom—mirror-paneled walls, terrazzo floor annotated with grids of green tape to guide eighth-beat footwork for Bharatanatyam; stacks of ankle bells hang on hooks beneath shelves of harmoniums and tablas. The other half is draped ceiling-high in stitched sarees; iridescent Kanjeevaram folds, jewel-embroidered Kutch-work lehengas, and tester tubs of vermilion and sandal paste line three collapsible racks that can be rolled aside when student count swells beyond eight.
Sri Balaji himself, a compact man with a voice that starts quiet and ends in konnakol syllables, runs both wings. His day begins with 5 a.m. nritta lessons. Senior disciples drop in after school hours; beginners, often hesitant five-year-olds holding parental hands, occupy weekends. Private sessions cost ₹800, group batches ₹400, but he keeps an unwritten rule that any child who shows promise and can’t pay learns free— “Guru Dakshana comes later; art has to live first.” Rental charges fluctuate between ₹150 for a plain Bharatnatyam practice half-saree to ₹4,500 for a bridal nine-yard. Silk costumes bear code numbers such as KJ23A, handwritten on muslin tags so last-minute fixes are traceable. He owns exactly 347 outfits, all catalogued in a spiral notebook whose margins are filled with varnish stains and lipstick smudges—crimson ‘M’ for ‘Makeup shade tested’.
The ensemble inventory is props, too: brass imitation temple jewelry in airtight Anant’s pickle jars, detachable peacock-feather fans, LED-embedded Nataraja crowns rented out for stage competitions. If you book a costume on WhatsApp—Balaji answers messages at 3 a.m. because orchestras like to practice overnight—he’ll ask three questions only: “Theme color, hair length, foot size.” From this, by magic, a parcel arrives sealed with turmeric-saffron stapled pins. The place smells perpetually of kata powder, benzene from dupatta starch, and Nataraj pencil eraser rubbings—an olfactory time capsule for anyone who ever stood nervously backstage adjusting pleats.
Practice soundscape ranges from Tyagaraja Kritis rendered in childish falsetto to experimental synth beats laid under kuthu footwork for fusion shows Balaji choreographs annually. Tal-framed photographs of winning teams—Pongal fest 2005, IIT-Saarang 2011, Malaysia Temple circuit 2016—cling above the single ceiling fan that works, creating a low flapping like half-severed wings. Festivals mean pandemonium. The week before Navaratri, nieces and nephews from Madurai camp here stitching extra falls into kalakshethram costumes; rice-lamps flicker in papercup diyas on every surface not covered in fabric. Come 9 p.m., Balaji piles instruments into an autorickshaw, locks up, but keeps the windows open; sometimes neighbor kids climb the stairs and run through talas on bare feet, leaving the anklet bells gently singing long after.
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- Published: August 5, 2025
