Object 6 of 101 : Ghungroo
The sound that teaches stillness
It was the first time I saw a pair of ghungroo—tied not to the ankles of a seasoned dancer but carefully wrapped in cotton and reverence.
In 2012, I was briefly assisting Omkar Chitnis, a photographer who—when not behind the lens—was quietly learning Kathak. One day, between talking and tea, he unwrapped something from a soft cotton cloth. A set of ghungroos. 100 tiny brass bells, strung together with thick red thread. Time stitched into sound. That was the first time I truly saw them.
Not just as an accessory. Not a prop.
But an object that felt like breath itself—measured, musical, alive.
In Indian classical dance, ghungroos are tied around the ankles. But they do more than mark rhythm. They mark devotion. Each time a dancer places her foot on the ground, it is not just a movement—it is a prayer. A conversation between the earth and the body. The ghungroo is witness. Translator. Echo.
Their sound is unmistakable—somewhere between a whisper and a call.
Like memory returning. Like rain beginning.
They don’t just accompany a performance—they become its pulse.
Every dancer remembers the first time they wore ghungroos. It’s a rite of passage. A moment of initiation. The knots tied tightly, the red cords digging into skin. Pain mingling with purpose. Brass bells that don’t just chime—they discipline.
They are worn, yes. But over time, they begin to wear you. They carry the dust of every rehearsal.
The silence of mistakes. The pride of the stage.
And sometimes, the grief of having no stage at all.
Each pair is personal. No two sound the same. They adapt to the dancer—her weight, her tempo, her moods. And in return, they ask for surrender. Because the ghungroo isn’t just about control—it’s about letting go. Giving in to rhythm so completely that you become indistinguishable from it.
You’ll find ghungroos tucked inside old tin boxes, wrapped in red cloth, stored under beds, or on high shelves—resting. Dreaming. Waiting for a dancer to return.
They say ghungroos were once used by temple dancers—devadasis—whose every step was a dedication to the divine. And even now, centuries later, that echo remains. In homes, in studios, in stories. The ghungroo holds all of it—the sacred, the mundane, the personal.
It teaches you grace. But also gravity. It teaches you rhythm. But also stillness.
And perhaps, most of all, it teaches you how to listen. To your own feet. To your own silence. To the sound you leave behind
I do not own the rights to these images; they have been sourced from Pinterest and are used purely for reference and inspiration. All credit belongs to the original photographers and creators, and no copyright infringement is intended.
101 Objects from India is an archive of memory—documenting everyday things that quietly carry the weight of culture, ritual, and meaning. Not just things that shaped our lives, but that have shaped India.