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IN Pakistan, the word most commonly used for dance — naach — is often deployed as a form of ridicule. To say someone naach raha hai is rarely neutral; it carries connotations of mockery, moral suspicion and social inferiority. This linguistic discomfort reflects a deeper unease with the art itself — one that has steadily pushed dance to the margins of our cultural life.
Kathak, one of the classical dance forms of the subcontinent, stands in stark contrast to this perception. The word derives from ‘katha’, meaning story. Kathak is not merely movement set to rhythm; it is a complete art form with theory, practice, meaning and purpose. Its purpose is storytelling — and any story, spiritual or otherwise, can be told through it. This is why Kathak has endured for centuries, evolving across temples, courts and public spaces, absorbing influences while retaining its core.
It is exquisitely beautiful to watch, embodied with immense grace and depth. But beauty alone is not why it deserves preservation. Kathak is worth saving because it is ours. It is cultural memory carried in bodies, gestures and rhythms, passed down not through books alone but through living practice.
Mohsin Babar, a highly trained kathakar with over 25 years of experience, recalls a time in Karachi when dance thrived through systems of ustaadi and shagirdi. The Maharaj, Samaraath and Patiala gharanas nurtured distinctive styles, and dangals — artistic battles — were held where dancers tested their skills before ustaads and peers. Dance was competitive, rigorous and alive, says Babar, who trained under Ustad Hamid Hussain Shaad Jaipuri and Ustad Shado Maharaj, Pakistan’s pioneering Kathak maestros, before going on to receive advanced training in India under Ustad Rajendra Gangani.
If dance is to survive in Pakistan, it must be supported intentionally.
That ecosystem has largely disappeared. There are still people who want to learn, but the scarcity of viable career pathways discourages serious investment in training. “You see many people wearing a peshwaaz with ghungroos strapped on,” Babar notes, “but that alone does not make them kathakars.” So diminished has the tradition become that even finding a tablanawaz who understands how to accompany Kathak can be difficult.
Today, the limited opportunities that do exist are often dominated by a small, elite clique, which is why the same names recur repeatedly. For most dancers — many self-taught, highly skilled and deeply committed — survival depends on sporadic, poorly paid performances at weddings and private events. Artistic growth, sustained training and meaningful performance platforms remain out of reach for the majority.
This marginalisation has been reinforced by institutional decisions. When Zia Mohyeddin founded the National Academy of Performing Arts, he insisted on including dance, recognising it as a vital pillar of the performing arts. Yet in a recent restructuring, dance was dropped as a subject altogether. This is deeply troubling, as NAPA is precisely the kind of institution that should house a full-fledged dance department, not erase the form.
Like many things in our society, dance has become exclusionary. It excludes talented performers from mainstream stages, offers virtually no scholarships to young, self-taught dancers seeking formal training, and denies audiences in villages and smaller cities access to the spiritual and aesthetic experience dance can offer. Cultural production remains concentrated in major urban centres, reinforcing hierarchies of class, geography and access.
Taboo only deepens this crisis. Almost every dancer has a story of intense familial opposition — of being told that dance is shameful or immoral. The fact that dancers can barely earn a living only heightens this resistance. When society offers neither respect nor security, passion alone becomes unsustainable.
And yet, dance endures. Because dance is not simply performance; it is an archive. It carries history, devotion, joy and grief through muscle memory and rhythm. It is culture preserved not in glass cases, but in living, breathing bodies.
If dance is to survive in Pakistan, it must be supported intentionally. We must invest in rigorously trained artists willing to pass on their knowledge, create scholarships for those with talent but no access, and support platforms that take performance beyond elite venues into towns, villages and community spaces.
Preserving dance is not nostalgia. It is an act of cultural responsibility. If we allow this language of the body to disappear, we lose not just an art form, but a way of telling our own stories.
The writer is a rural development specialist and social entrepreneur.
Published in Dawn, January 8th, 2026
