The Hidden Curriculum in Indian Classical Dance: Teachers, Trust, and the Lessons Beyond Steps

When we enroll a child in Indian classical dance classes, there is a general understanding of what they’re there to learn: posture, rhythm, repertoire, discipline. But alongside this visible curriculum, there runs a quieter and sometimes more powerful one — what a dancer learns about their body, their worth, their voice, and what it means to be seen. And because classical dance training often begins so early, those lessons are learned before we necessarily have the language to interpret them.

Photo credits: Isha Nager

The student-teacher relationship as the vessel for learning

In Indian cultural contexts, the teacher is rarely just an instructor. We grow up with deep reverence for the person guiding us — not only for what they know, but for the way they shape how learning happens. At a young age, that reverence can become one of the deepest forms of trust. In that sense, the student-teacher relationship becomes a vessel for learning, holding not only technique but also a young dancer’s sense of self. The words used in correction, the tone of a room, and who gets encouraged or ignored, all teach a young person what they are allowed to feel about themselves. At Kritya, this vessel is built intentionally: teachers aim to know each student as a person and meet them where they are, while still holding them to rigor and excellence. 

This vessel isn’t shaped by intention alone, but also by the structure of training: whether learning happens in a large group, or in a more intimate format. I have experienced both ends of this. My earliest group training was structured and traditional, later moving to a more intimate, small group format. In the best versions of that model, the closeness can be grounding - more tailored feedback, more intensive training, and more mentorship. That kind of care lets students work hard because their nervous system isn’t spending its energy bracing for harm. But that same closeness also means the teacher’s influence runs deeper, for better or worse.

Alongside technique, students absorb lessons about belonging and worth. These messages aren’t delivered as formal instruction, but are embedded in everyday interactions:

• “Your body is an instrument” (neutral, respectful, changeable), OR “Your body is a problem” (to be managed, judged, compared)

• “Mistakes are information” (how we learn), OR “Mistakes are humiliation” (what makes you unworthy)

• “Performance is a skill” (you can be coached into confidence), OR “Performance is a prize” (you earn it by fitting an ideal)

Students can learn these through non-verbal cues like the expressions on a teacher’s face, or the patience or impatience that follows an error. When we’re young, we rarely interpret these patterns as “teaching”. We interpret them as reality.

Performance literacy: learning to be seen

The teacher’s role becomes especially important for performance literacy — the practical and psychological training that turns a student into a performer. In addition to stage practice and stamina, it also includes the invisible grammar of being onstage: how to prepare, how to handle nerves, how to recover from an error, how to feel at home in your own presentation. When this is missing, students may become technically strong, but they often carry a quiet uncertainty: “I can dance, but I don’t know how to be seen”. I’ve met many dancers who relate to that feeling; I do too. Over time, I tried to make peace with the idea that I was someone who trained in dance but wasn’t a “performer”. That belief didn’t come from one dramatic moment, but grew from what wasn’t taught. Having said that, not everyone wants to be a performer, and that is completely valid. At Kritya, teachers meet students where they are and make room for many different relationships with dance. But performance literacy still matters because it gives students a real choice, instead of leaving them to quietly assume the stage is not for them.

Photo credits: Steven Vandervelden

When “presentation” becomes shame

Also in the realm of performance readiness is how we talk about appearance and presentation. A respectful approach treats presentation as part of the craft, taught with care and clarity: what supports your storytelling, what is customary for the tradition, what helps a student feel grounded. It’s specific, actionable, and preserves dignity. A harmful approach makes appearance into a moral judgement, sometimes treating the teacher’s aesthetic as the template students must match, and using comparison or humiliation as “motivation”. Unfortunately, many dancers carry memories of comments and behaviors that crossed a line — moments when the body stopped being an instrument and became the object of harsh judgment. The tragedy is not only the immediate pain, but also its long-term consequences of stifling artistry and making the stage feel unsafe. Having lived a version of this latter approach, I can say that it did not make me a better dancer but made me want to disappear. It muddied my relationship with dance and my body, long after all choreography was forgotten.

Making mentorship visible: what healthy teaching can look like

The hopeful part is that none of this is inevitable. Student-teacher relationships can be intense and safe; ambitious and kind; traditional and emotionally intelligent. Below, I list some ways that this can be done in practice.

For teachers and schools:

• Teach performance literacy explicitly and step-by-step: stage skills, preparation, confidence-building.

• Use feedback language that is specific and skill-based (alignment, timing, stamina), not identity-based.

• Treat bodies as living instruments, not fixed ideals.

• Normalize questions and boundaries.

• Create pathways to performance that are developmental, not punitive.

For students and families:

• Look for environments where rigor coexists with respect.

• Ask: “How do you support performance readiness for students who want to perform?”

• Notice whether correction builds clarity and body awareness, or creates fear and shame.

Ending with hope: the culture we can choose

Teachers shape more than technique. They shape what students believe is possible for them — both on stage and off it. That’s why schools like Kritya give me hope. Their philosophy emphasizes that regardless of age, gender, or body type, anyone can dance with the same rigor when there is proper placement, clear intention, consistent conditioning, and deep body awareness. Teachers like Yamini Kalluri, who see training as both artistry and stewardship, offer a different future: one where discipline doesn’t require humiliation, where performance is taught rather than gate-kept, and where students are supported not only to dance well, but to grow well. 

Classical dance asks so much of a student: time, devotion, repetition, and resilience. The least we can do is ensure the environment gives something back: a steadier sense of self, a healthier relationship with the body, and a stage that feels like home. As for me — I am healing, and with the right mentor, have found the courage to return to learning Odissi with a renewed motivation and an openness to performing in the future.

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About Me

I’m Shreya Jain, a longtime student of Odissi and a new volunteer with Kritya Foundation. My own training journey has made me care deeply about thoughtful, responsible teaching, and I’ve long admired Yamini Kalluri’s artistry and mentorship from afar, which is what drew me to Kritya. Outside of dance, I work in public health and neurorehabilitation research. After a workshop with Bijayini Satpathy gave me the courage to return to learning, I now study Odissi with her student, January Low.