Natarajanjali Dance Academy By Ipshita Bhattacharyya_Bharatanatyam Dance Class
A Block, Indian Oil Nagar, Sector 55, Noida, Uttar Pradesh 201301, India
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Tucked away in the quieter lanes of Salt Lake, Kolkata, Natarajanjali Dance Academy is the creative home of Bharatanatyam founded by the effervescent Ipshita Bhattacharyya. In Bengali culture the word “aali” means a respectful home; here, therefore, the academy is truly “Natarajan-aali,” Lord Nataraja’s own household, an address where stone-eyed idols smile and granite floors blush with ankle-bells.
Ipshita—a disciple of the Kalakshetra lineage, carrying forward the choreographic vision of her guru Leela Samson—opened the doors in 2004 with eight tiny feet and a second-hand mridangam. Twenty seasons later, 180 dancers between five and fifty share mirrored walls that once belonged to a forgotten single-screen cinema; the plaster still carries faint flecks of turquoise paint that sparkle when sunlight pours in through the Kalpavriksha mural behind the raised teak platform.
Classes run five days a week. Freshers curl into araimandi while the monsoon-damp ceiling fans echo tala cycles above their heads. Intermediate dancers shed slipper-socks, etching pensive alarippu arcs upon rubber matting so worn that it remembers previous syllabi like an aging notebook. Seniors rehearse varnams with live violin and nattuvangam on Wednesdays; Ipshita insists that an electronic tanpura can never equal the tremble of gut strings. Saturday mornings are reserved for theory: palm-leaf sketching, Tamil hymn translation, and conversations on gendered abhinaya. An antique corner-cupboard holds fragile anklets that belonged to Ipshita’s grandmother, loaned only to students who complete their arangetram and promise to return annually for Guru Purnima, when the bells are sounded together in collective obeisance.
The academy produces one open-air evening each winter on the terrace—coconut-oil diyas lining parapets, mosquito-coils swirling like incense under Orion. Guests from nearby tea-stalls roll up shutters to watch Thodaya Mangalam float out over bougainvillea and the scent of singara stalls across the lane. Every alternate February the troupe tours villages in Birbhum under the Sufal Bangla cultural exchange, carrying rolled-up marley floors and straw mats in an old Ambassador. Children who have never seen a metropolis take selfies with silk-jasmine haired Bakul flowers that the dancers distribute after performances.
Dress code is deliberately loose: kohlapuri sandals stacked like playing cards, cotton kurtas stained with turmeric, hairpins lost and found in mason jars. Exams follow, but are oral—students recite jati patterns while clapping on their knees. Ipshita marks neither right nor wrong. “Rhythm that travels from your waist to my ears is the only certificate,” she says, tying a final knot in her silver-embossed veil before she herself becomes the final dancer, five minutes of stillness and the room learns the humility of silence.
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- Published: August 1, 2025
