The Devadasi of Tanjore – A Tale from Tamil Nadu

In the ancient city of Tanjore, where the magnificent Brihadeeswara Temple rose toward the heavens like a mountain of carved stone, there lived a devadasi named Sivakami. Her name meant “beloved of Shiva,” and indeed, she had dedicated her life to the service of Lord Shiva who resided in the great temple as Brihadeeswara, the “Great Lord.”

Sivakami was no ordinary temple dancer. From the age of seven, when she had been dedicated to the temple in the sacred ceremony of pottukattu, she had shown extraordinary talent. Now, at nineteen, she was considered the foremost dancer in a tradition that stretched back thousands of years. When she performed the sacred dances before the deity, even the temple priests would pause in their rituals, mesmerized by the perfection of her movements and the devotion that radiated from her like light from a flame.

The devadasis of Tanjore were respected artists and ritual specialists, learned in dance, music, and the sacred texts. They were considered “married” to the deity they served, wearing the special jewelry that marked them as nityasumangali—eternally auspicious women whose connection to the divine protected them from widowhood. They performed essential roles in temple rituals, led processions during festivals, and were patronized by the royal court for their artistic excellence.

Sivakami had been raised in this ancient tradition by her mother, Madhavi, who had also been a devadasi before her. From earliest childhood, Sivakami had awakened before dawn to practice her dance positions, had studied Sanskrit texts to understand the stories she portrayed through movement, and had learned the complex language of mudras—hand gestures that could convey everything from the flight of a bird to the most abstract philosophical concepts.

The great temple of Brihadeeswara was her home, its rhythms the heartbeat of her existence. She knew every corner of its vast complex—the main sanctum where the massive Shiva lingam received offerings day and night; the long, pillared halls where devotees gathered; the smaller shrines dedicated to various deities; and the sacred tank where ritual bathing took place. Most of all, she knew the natyamandapa, the dance hall where she performed the sacred dances that were both offering and prayer.

Sivakami’s life followed the ritual calendar of the temple. During the major festivals—Mahashivaratri, when devotees stayed awake all night to honor Lord Shiva; Navaratri, the nine-night celebration of the Divine Mother; Panguni Uttiram, when the divine marriage was reenacted—she would dance for hours, telling sacred stories through the classical movements of Bharatanatyam. On ordinary days, she performed at the evening arati, when lamps were waved before the deity, and taught younger devadasis the intricate art that had been passed down through generations.

It was a life of discipline and devotion, but also one of privilege. The devadasis received a portion of the temple’s income, lived in comfortable quarters near the temple complex, and were respected for their learning and artistic skill. Sivakami, as the principal dancer, was especially honored, receiving gifts from wealthy patrons and invitations to perform at the royal court on special occasions.

Yet changes were coming to the ancient kingdom of Tanjore. The old ways were being questioned, particularly by those influenced by foreign ideas. Some began to look askance at the devadasi tradition, misunderstanding its sacred purpose and seeing only its outer form. Whispers and judgments began to circulate, especially among those who had adopted the moral perspectives of the British colonizers.

Sivakami was largely sheltered from these changing attitudes, immersed as she was in the temple world that continued according to rhythms established centuries before. But the wider changes would soon touch her life in unexpected ways.

It began with the arrival of a new temple administrator, Venkataraman, appointed by the British authorities who now held ultimate power even over religious institutions. Venkataraman was a complex man—educated in British schools but from a traditional Brahmin family, respectful of ancient traditions yet influenced by new ideas. He was also young, not much older than Sivakami herself, and unmarried.

From the first time he saw Sivakami dance during the Panguni Uttiram festival, Venkataraman was captivated. It was not merely her physical beauty that moved him, though she was indeed beautiful with her large, expressive eyes and graceful form. Rather, it was the complete devotion evident in every movement, the way she seemed to embody the divine stories she portrayed, becoming not just a dancer but a living connection between the human and divine realms.

For several months, Venkataraman observed Sivakami from a distance, watching her performances, noting her interactions with other temple servants, learning about her reputation for both artistic excellence and personal integrity. As temple administrator, he had legitimate reasons to speak with her about scheduling performances and allocating resources, and during these conversations, he discovered her to be not only a gifted dancer but also intelligent, well-versed in sacred texts, and possessed of a quiet wisdom that belied her youth.

Gradually, a friendship developed between them. Venkataraman would seek her insights on temple matters, valuing her deep knowledge of traditions and rituals. Sivakami, in turn, appreciated his genuine respect for her role and his efforts to ensure the devadasis were treated with the dignity their sacred function deserved.

Neither acknowledged, perhaps not even to themselves, the deeper feelings that were growing beneath their professional relationship. Such feelings were complicated by their respective positions—he as temple administrator, she as a woman dedicated to divine service—and by the changing social attitudes that increasingly viewed the devadasi tradition with suspicion.

The situation might have continued indefinitely in this unspoken balance had not a crisis arisen that forced both Sivakami and Venkataraman to confront not only their feelings but also the changing world around them.

The crisis came in the form of a new British official, Colonel James Wilkinson, who arrived in Tanjore to conduct a “moral assessment” of local religious practices. Wilkinson, influenced by Victorian sensibilities and evangelical Christian views, had already written scathing reports about various Hindu traditions he deemed “heathen” and “immoral.” The devadasi system was high on his list of practices he believed should be abolished.

When Wilkinson announced his intention to observe temple rituals and interview the devadasis, Venkataraman was deeply concerned. He knew how easily the sacred could be misunderstood when viewed through a foreign lens, how the complex symbolism of Hindu worship could be reduced to simplistic and often distorted interpretations.

He went to Sivakami with his concerns. “This official does not understand our traditions,” he explained. “He sees through eyes clouded by his own cultural assumptions. I fear he will misrepresent your sacred role and use his report to advocate for ending the devadasi tradition entirely.”

Sivakami listened calmly, though her heart was troubled. “What would you have me do?” she asked. “Should I refuse to dance when he comes to observe? Should I decline to speak with him?”

Venkataraman shook his head. “No, that would only confirm his prejudices. I believe you should dance as you always do, with complete devotion and artistic excellence. And when he interviews you, speak your truth—explain the spiritual significance of your role, the years of training required, the sacred texts that guide your practice. Perhaps if he sees and hears directly, he may understand, at least a little.”

“And if he does not?” Sivakami asked softly.

Venkataraman had no answer for this. They both knew that the power dynamics had shifted, that ancient traditions now existed at the mercy of foreign rulers who often neither understood nor respected them.

The day of Colonel Wilkinson’s visit arrived. He came to the evening arati, accompanied by several Indian assistants who would translate and explain the proceedings to him. Sivakami performed the traditional dance offering, telling through movement and mudras the story of how Lord Shiva saved the world by drinking the poison that arose from the churning of the cosmic ocean, holding it in his throat which turned blue from the deadly substance.

She danced with all the skill and devotion she possessed, her body becoming a vessel for the sacred narrative, her expressions conveying both the cosmic drama and its inner spiritual meaning. The temple lamps illuminated her form as she moved, casting multiple shadows that seemed to multiply her presence until it appeared that many dancers performed as one.

When she finished and prostrated before the deity, the temple resonated with the traditional appreciative response from the gathered devotees. But Colonel Wilkinson sat stiffly, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts. He had watched the entire performance with narrowed eyes, occasionally whispering questions to his translators.

The following day, Sivakami was summoned to meet with the Colonel. She dressed simply but with dignity in a traditional silk sari, wearing the special jewelry that marked her status as a devadasi. Venkataraman accompanied her, both as temple administrator and as a translator if needed, though Sivakami spoke some English from her extensive education.

Colonel Wilkinson received them in the government bungalow where he was staying. He was a tall man with a military bearing, his gray hair cut short, his eyes sharp beneath bushy eyebrows. He did not rise when they entered, merely gestured for them to sit in the chairs placed before his desk.

“I have been researching your… profession,” he began without preamble, his tone making the word sound distasteful. “I understand that you were dedicated to the temple as a child, before you could possibly consent to such a life. Is this correct?”

Sivakami answered with quiet dignity. “I was dedicated at the age of seven, following in my mother’s footsteps. It is a great honor to serve the divine through dance and ritual.”

“An honor,” Wilkinson repeated skeptically. “To be bound to a temple for life, to be prevented from having a normal family life, to be—” He stopped, perhaps realizing that his next words might be too direct.

“To be what, Colonel?” Sivakami asked, her voice still calm though her eyes flashed briefly.

“To be exploited,” he finished bluntly. “I have read accounts of how devadasis are treated, how your so-called sacred status often leads to very unsacred arrangements.”

Venkataraman started to object, but Sivakami placed a hand on his arm, silencing him. This was her battle to fight.

“Colonel Wilkinson,” she said, “I understand that you view our traditions through the lens of your own culture. But I must respectfully suggest that you have been misinformed about the true nature of the devadasi tradition, at least as it exists in major temples like Brihadeeswara.”

She went on to explain the rigorous training devadasis received, their respected status as ritual specialists and artists, their economic independence through temple endowments, and the deep spiritual significance of dance as a form of worship and storytelling.

“The mudras I form with my hands,” she demonstrated a few, “are a language as precise as any spoken tongue. Through them, I can convey the most profound philosophical concepts from our sacred texts. The movements of my feet create rhythmic patterns that connect the physical world to cosmic rhythms. When I dance, I am not merely performing—I am praying with my entire being, offering not just movements but my complete self to the divine.”

Colonel Wilkinson listened with a slightly softened expression, though skepticism still dominated his features. “Your explanation is eloquent, Miss Sivakami, and I do not doubt your personal sincerity. But surely you must be aware that not all who follow your path do so with such… spiritual intentions. And even if they did, times are changing. Modern sensibilities cannot condone a system that dedicates young girls to temples before they can make their own life choices.”

“Change comes to all traditions over time,” Sivakami acknowledged. “But should change be imposed from outside, by those who do not fully understand what they seek to alter? Or should it evolve naturally from within, guided by those who have lived the tradition and understand both its essence and its outer forms?”

The Colonel had no immediate answer for this. After a moment, he changed direction. “I noticed during your performance that you portrayed male deities despite being a woman. Is this not confusing to your audience? In our theatrical traditions, roles are generally matched to the performer’s gender.”

Sivakami smiled slightly. “In our tradition, the dancer transcends ordinary identity. When I portray Lord Shiva or Lord Krishna, I am not pretending to be male—I am embodying divine energy that transcends human categories entirely. The audience understands this symbolic language. They do not see a woman playing a man; they see the divine quality being represented.”

The interview continued for nearly two hours, with Colonel Wilkinson asking increasingly detailed questions about temple practices, the economic arrangements supporting devadasis, and the relationship between artistic performance and religious worship. Throughout, Sivakami answered with patience and clarity, neither defensive nor confrontational, simply presenting her lived reality with honesty and dignity.

When they finally left the bungalow, Venkataraman was full of admiration. “You spoke beautifully,” he told her. “Even someone as prejudiced as the Colonel seemed moved by your explanations.”

“Perhaps,” Sivakami replied. “But I do not think it will change his report significantly. He came with his conclusions already formed. At best, he may include some qualifications, some acknowledgment that the tradition is more complex than he initially believed.”

Her prediction proved accurate. When Colonel Wilkinson’s report was published several months later, it recommended the gradual abolition of the devadasi system throughout British-controlled territories, though it did include a section acknowledging the artistic and cultural significance of temple dance and suggesting that these elements might be preserved in a “reformed context.”

The report sent ripples of anxiety through the devadasi community. Though no immediate action followed—the British authorities were generally cautious about directly interfering with religious practices—it was clear that their way of life was under threat. Some younger devadasis began to consider alternatives, while the older ones clung more firmly to tradition, insisting that the sacred could not be abolished by secular decree.

For Sivakami, the experience prompted deep reflection. She had defended her tradition with complete sincerity, believing in the sacred purpose of her role. Yet she could not deny that the world was changing, that new values and perspectives were challenging ancient ways. What would become of the art form she had dedicated her life to mastering? What would become of her own future?

These questions became even more pressing when Venkataraman approached her one evening after the temple rituals had concluded. He asked her to walk with him in the temple garden, a quiet space filled with flowering trees and sacred plants mentioned in ancient texts.

Under the spreading branches of a neem tree, with the temple towers visible against the star-filled sky, Venkataraman spoke words that both shocked and moved her.

“Sivakami,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “I have come to care for you deeply—not just as a temple administrator respecting a devadasi, not just as a friend valuing your wisdom, but as a man admiring a woman of extraordinary qualities.”

Sivakami stood very still, her eyes wide in the darkness. Such words should not be spoken to one dedicated to divine service. Yet she could not pretend she did not understand the feelings he expressed—or that she did not share them.

“You know this is impossible,” she said softly. “I am married to Lord Brihadeeswara. My life is pledged to his service.”

“I know what tradition dictates,” Venkataraman acknowledged. “But I also know that traditions evolve when they must. The devadasi system is already changing, whether we wish it or not. Colonel Wilkinson’s report is just the beginning. In time, the British authorities will likely pass laws against temple dedication. What then?”

“Then we will find ways to preserve what is essential—the dance, the music, the sacred knowledge—even if the outer form must change,” Sivakami replied. “But that does not change my personal dedication.”

Venkataraman took a step closer. “What if there could be a way to honor your dedication while also allowing for… personal happiness? The essence of your vocation is devotion to the divine through art. Must that be incompatible with human love?”

The question hung in the air between them, challenging centuries of tradition yet resonating with a truth Sivakami could not easily dismiss. She had never questioned her path before—it had been her destiny from childhood, a sacred responsibility she had embraced wholeheartedly. But now, faced with both external threats to the tradition and the unexpected flowering of human love, she found herself at a crossroads she had never anticipated.

“I need time,” she finally said. “This is not a small matter, to reconsider one’s life purpose.”

Venkataraman nodded, respecting her need for reflection. “Take the time you need. I will wait, and whatever you decide, know that my respect for you will not diminish.”

In the weeks that followed, Sivakami entered a period of intense spiritual practice. She fasted, meditated, studied sacred texts, and danced before the deity with renewed fervor, seeking guidance. She consulted with her guru, an elderly devadasi named Ambujam who had taught her since childhood.

Ambujam listened to Sivakami’s dilemma with compassion. “The path of devotion takes many forms,” the old woman said. “When I was young, the devadasi tradition was different than it is now. It has already changed in my lifetime, and it will change again after I am gone. What matters is not the outer form but the inner truth—the dedication of your art and your being to the divine.”

“But my vows—” Sivakami began.

“Your vows were to serve the divine through dance and ritual,” Ambujam interrupted gently. “Can you not continue to do so, even if other aspects of your life change? Many great bhakti saints were householders—Andal, Mirabai, Tukaram—yet their devotion was absolute.”

These conversations, along with her own spiritual practices, gradually led Sivakami toward clarity. She came to understand that while the traditional devadasi system had nurtured her art and spiritual development, its outer form was not identical to its inner essence. The dedication of her dance to the divine could continue, even if her personal life took an unexpected turn.

When she finally met with Venkataraman again, her decision was made. “I will always be a dancer dedicated to the divine,” she told him. “That is the core of my being, the purpose for which I was trained. But perhaps there are new ways to live that purpose, ways that can preserve what is sacred in our traditions while acknowledging that the world is changing.”

Their marriage, when it took place six months later, was unlike any the city of Tanjore had seen before. It combined elements of traditional Hindu wedding rituals with unique aspects that honored Sivakami’s status as a temple dancer. She wore her devadasi jewelry alongside the new ornaments Venkataraman gave her, symbolizing the continuity between her past dedication and her new path.

Most significantly, the wedding included a dance performance by Sivakami before the deity, a final offering as a traditional devadasi and a first offering in her new status. She danced the story of Parvati’s devotion to Lord Shiva—how the goddess performed intense tapas (spiritual austerities) to win the love of the great ascetic god, ultimately achieving both divine union and a sacred partnership.

The marriage of a temple administrator and a devadasi caused considerable controversy. Traditionalists were scandalized, seeing it as a betrayal of sacred vows. Reformers, on the other hand, celebrated it as a progressive step. British officials, including Colonel Wilkinson who attended the wedding, viewed it as validation of their efforts to “modernize” Indian customs.

But for Sivakami and Venkataraman, it was simply the path their devotion had taken—devotion to the divine and to each other, intertwined in ways they were still discovering.

Their life together became a bridge between worlds. Sivakami continued to dance, but in a new context. She established a school of dance near the temple, where she taught young girls the sacred art of Bharatanatyam without requiring them to be dedicated as devadasis. Her school preserved the spiritual essence and artistic rigor of temple dance while adapting to changing social realities.

Venkataraman supported her work completely, using his position to ensure that temple dance continued to be valued even as the traditional devadasi system gradually declined. Together, they documented the intricate details of temple rituals, dance techniques, and musical compositions that might otherwise have been lost as the old system faded.

Their home became a center for artists, scholars, and spiritual seekers. Discussions ranged from the technical aspects of dance and music to philosophical debates about how ancient traditions could remain relevant in a rapidly changing world. Through these conversations and their own example, Sivakami and Venkataraman demonstrated that reverence for tradition and openness to change need not be opposing forces.

As the years passed and colonial policies increasingly restricted the devadasi system, Sivakami’s school became a sanctuary for the art form. Former devadasis came to teach, sharing their knowledge with a new generation who would practice dance as an art and spiritual discipline without the institutional structure that had supported it for centuries.

When India finally gained independence in 1947, Sivakami was an elderly woman, her dancing days behind her but her influence widespread. The devadasi system had been officially abolished, but the dance had been preserved, transformed from a temple ritual to a classical performing art practiced throughout India and increasingly around the world.

On her eightieth birthday, a grand celebration was held at her dance school. Hundreds of her students gathered to honor her, performing pieces she had taught them over the decades. Among them were women who had become renowned dancers in their own right, carrying her legacy forward in diverse contexts—on traditional stages, in international venues, in films, and in academic institutions where dance was now studied as both an art form and a cultural heritage.

During the celebration, a very old woman approached Sivakami—one of the last surviving traditional devadasis who had chosen a different path than Sivakami’s, remaining unmarried and dedicated to temple service until the system was legally abolished.

“I once thought you had betrayed our tradition,” the woman confessed, taking Sivakami’s hands in her gnarled ones. “But now I see that you preserved its heart while letting its body transform. The dance lives on because of you, because you found a way for it to continue when its original context could not survive.”

Sivakami embraced her old colleague with tears in her eyes. “We each served the divine as we were called to do,” she said. “Different paths, same destination.”

That evening, after the celebrations had concluded and she sat quietly with Venkataraman in their garden—both now white-haired, their faces lined with age but their eyes still bright with shared purpose—Sivakami reflected on the journey of her life.

“When I was dedicated to the temple as a child,” she said, “I could never have imagined the path my life would take. Yet looking back, I see a continuous thread of devotion running through all the changes. The forms shifted, but the essence remained.”

Venkataraman nodded, taking her hand as he had countless times over their decades together. “That is the true meaning of tradition—not rigid adherence to outer forms, but faithful transmission of inner truth, allowing it to find new expressions as times change.”

“And that will continue after we are gone,” Sivakami said, looking toward the dance school where lights still burned as advanced students practiced late into the evening. “The dance will go on, telling sacred stories in new contexts, connecting new generations to ancient wisdom.”

In the distance, they could hear the temple bells ringing for the evening arati, the same ritual that had structured Sivakami’s early life as a devadasi. The sound floated over the city of Tanjore, where the great temple of Brihadeeswara still stood as it had for nearly a thousand years, witnessing the flow of human lives and the evolution of traditions within the greater continuity of spiritual seeking.

Sivakami closed her eyes, her hands automatically forming the mudra for namaskaram—respectful greeting—toward the temple. In that gesture was the essence of her life’s journey: reverence for the sacred, expressed through the disciplined art of her body, adapting to change while honoring the eternal.

Adapted from “The Devadasi’s Choice,” a historical folktale from Tamil Nadu, South India. This narrative draws on the rich cultural heritage of the devadasi tradition centered around the great Brihadeeswara Temple in Tanjore (modern Thanjavur), built by Raja Raja Chola I around 1010 CE. The story reflects the complex historical transition of the devadasi system during the colonial period and the evolution of Bharatanatyam dance from sacred temple ritual to classical performing art, while exploring themes of tradition, adaptation, and the preservation of cultural heritage through periods of social change.