In the quiet precision of her footwork, and the thunderous defiance of tradition she carried in every performance, Kumudini Lakhia—often hailed as India’s own Martha Graham—rewrote the language of Kathak. Her passing, early on Saturday morning in Ahmedabad, at the age of 95, marks more than the end of a luminous life steeped in dance. It is the silencing of a voice that taught an ancient form to speak anew—with spirit, soul, and startling modernity.
With every twirl and glance, she transformed Kathak into a mirror of the contemporary world—bold, expressive and unapologetically individualistic. A trailblazer, mentor and visionary, Lakhia’s legacy pirouettes far beyond the proscenium—etched into the spirit of generations of dancers she nurtured at Ahmedabad’s Kadamb Centre for Dance.
Born in 1930, Kumudini Lakhia entered the world at a time when women in the performing arts were bound by unspoken rules and visible walls. But she was destined to move differently. Krishna Mohan Maharaj, son of the Kathak legend Pt Shambhu Maharaj of the esteemed Kalka-Bindadin gharana, recalls: “Though her early training under my father and Sunder Prasad grounded her in tradition, even then there was a quiet rebellion in her rhythm—a longing to push boundaries not out of defiance, but in pursuit of a deeper meaning.”
He fondly remembers touring abroad with her in 1992. “Nothing we did could be without reason. ‘What parampara? Tell me why it was created,’—that was always her refrain.”
Aditi Mangaldas, one of India’s foremost Kathak exponents, who began her dance journey under Lakhia’s watchful eye at Kadamb, echoes Krishan Maharaj. “That’s what made her a force of nature,” she says. “Though I later moved to Delhi to train under Pt Birju Maharaj at the behest of my aunt, Pupul Jayakar, Kumiben’s teaching—to not be a slave to tradition, but to find one’s own voice—remained with me. It shaped my approach to Kathak and gave me the roots from which my contemporary expression grew.”
Mangaldas recalled a cherished moment from Kumiben’s 94th birthday last year. “She received us, her Kadamb students, with much warmth. After hours together, we thought she must be tired and left. Later that evening, while dining out at a tony Italian restaurant, I ran into her again—effervescent as ever, laughing, posing for selfies. That was Kumiben—spirited and radiant, always.”
Fellow Ahmedabad native and dancer-actor Mallika Sarabhai reflected on Lakhia’s transformative impact. “The founding of Kadamb in the 1960s was her vision taking flight,” she said. “She reimagined Kathak, liberating it from its darbar roots and placing it firmly on the contemporary stage. Group choreography—once alien to Kathak—became her hallmark. Narrative gave way to abstraction, ornate embellishment to stark clarity. Yet the soul of Kathak—the heartbeat of the ghungroo, the nuance of abhinaya, the taut geometry of movement—remained, if anything, more pronounced.”
“She didn’t merely train dancers,” Sarabhai added. “She cultivated thinkers. In her studio, tradition wasn’t a cage—it was the ground from which wings grew.”
Pt Puru Dadheech, veteran Kathak guru and scholar, concurred. “Her works—Dhabkar, Yugal, Atah Kim—were not just choreographic triumphs. They were reflections of post-Independence India, of a modernist ethos, of a woman deeply attuned to the intellectual and emotional resonances of her art.”He remembered her later years vividly: “Even in old age, her mind was sharp, her spirit undimmed. Elegantly attired, she commanded reverence not through pomp, but with quiet intensity—someone who had long made peace with her purpose.”
Tributes poured in from across the dance world and beyond on Saturday. Bharatanatyam legend Malavika Sarukkai said, “She was more than a dancer or choreographer—she was a movement and her intellectual take on dance made me look up to her; a classical artiste who was never afraid to be modern.”
Sumeet Nagdev, contemporary dance practitioner and one of India’s most popular choreographers, reflected: “Few artistes possess the awareness, power and resilience to transcend human limits—and fewer still bring their imagination to life with such selfless grace. Kumiben was true to her art, but truer still to her imagination. The goonj of her sam will echo through generations.”
From London, Ustad Fasih Ur Rehman of the Lahore-Lucknow gharana of Kathak remembered a personal gesture. “At one of her workshops at Kensington’s Bharatiya Vidya Bhavan, everyone was buying Atul Desai’s Yugal cassette to practice at home. I couldn’t afford it. She quietly called me to her room and handed me one.”
Jonathan Hollander, founder of New York’s Battery Dance Company, shared: “Waking up in New York to news of Kumudini’s passing unleashes a flood of emotion. She was one of the world’s most brilliant dance artistes. Watching Yugal, performed at the Battery Dance Festival, moved a non-Indian audience to awe—therein lies her genius. Her work transcended borders, speaking in a language all hearts understand.”
PM Narendra Modi too paid tribute, calling her “an outstanding cultural icon” whose “passion towards Kathak and Indian classical dances was reflected in her remarkable work over the years.” Only recently, on Republic Day, she was awarded the Padma Vibhushan, India’s second-highest civilian honour.
President Droupadi Murmu also expressed her sadness, saying Lakhia’s contribution in the field of performing arts would be cherished forever. “My deep condolences to her family, friends and admirers,” the president said in a post on X.
And yet, accolades never defined her. Movement did; as did inquiry. The flick of a wrist, the lift of a chin, the thunder of a footfall.
Perhaps, somewhere, in a mirrored studio bathed in morning light, a lone dancer still rehearses her lines. The ghungroos echo through memory, and in that rhythm, Kumudini Lakhia endures—not in stone or scripture, but in motion.