Kalbeliya Women of Rajasthan, Art and Appropriation

It’s 10 pm. I’m about to go to bed when my phone starts pinging with constant WhatsApp voice messages. It’s Suwa Devi—one of the senior, respected dancers and artisans of the Kalbeliya community in Jodhpur Rajasthan). She is upset—deeply disturbed—after receiving a couple of website links from one of her former dance students, a school teacher from Rajasthan now living in Australia. The student had asked whether any Kalbeliya artisans were involved in the two projects featured on the sites. As I browsed the websites, I discovered that one site belongs to an Australian who presents herself as a globetrotter exploring crafts and textiles. She sells embroidered kids' denim jackets under the name 'Kalbelia Queen Pink', pricing them at 250 USD per piece. The second website belonged to an Indian fashion designer with a high-end lehenga line titled 'Kalbeliya', marketed as 'in tune with international sensibilities and style, while remaining true to its ethnic aesthetics.'Each outfit retails for no less than Rs 2.5 lakh. What pained her most was the use of her community’s name—Kalbeliya—without any involvement or regard for the sensitivities within it. As Suwa spoke on the phone, her voice trembled with frustration. She kept repeating, “We Kalbeliyas would never wear anything like this—these outfits don’t belong to us at all.” The products, she said, bear no connection to our actual culture or artistry. What disturbed her deeply was the branding of these items using images of women in short blouses (cholis)—a modern fashion style considered highly taboo in her community. While she acknowledged that some younger women have started experimenting with such clothing, she emphasised that their choices continue to spark high tension and resistance.Inside Bastar's Haat-Bazaars: Relics of Shrinking Tribal Cultural SpacesSuwa was so distressed, as the experience triggered memories of her own personal trauma. She reminded me of the struggles she and a few other pioneering female artists have endured over the past decades—fighting for their right to perform, and to be respected while doing so.She spoke of how hard it had been to earn even a measure of dignity as a female dancer, both within her own community and in the outside world. The profession of dancing, she said, still carries a heavy burden of stigma. Dancers are often unfairly judged—seen as “available” or accused of having “low morals”—simply because of the profession they practice, often out of sheer necessity. "People think dancing is just fun and glamour, but it’s hard, relentless work. I’ll never deny my love for it; I’ve always been passionate about dancing. But I’ll also never forget the first time I was paid—100 rupees. It felt like a fortune. For the first time, my family could afford to purchase something. Yes, dance is an art. But at its core, for many of us, it is about survival. And that’s what truly matters." Suwa Devi, Kalbeliya artist, Rajasthan“What’s worse,” she added during our conversation, “is the constant circulation of vulgar portrayals online”— videos on YouTube and social media showing women, and sometimes men in drag, falsely presenting themselves as ‘Kalbeliya’, dancing provocatively to DJ music in front of intoxicated crowds. These misrepresentations, she said, only deepen the stigma and erase the dignity of their real tradition.“Our fight for dignity and safety as women is real—and it’s anything but easy,” she said. “The last thing we need is for these brands to promote our name with tinseled images of posh women in cholis as if that is who we are. If they normalise that image, how will we protect and guide our daughters?”Suwa was also frustrated about the use of machine-made crafts being sold under the Kalbeliya name. “We create each piece with hours of labour, imagination, and handmade precision. They sell something made in ten minutes by a machine and call it ‘Kalbeliya.’ It completely devalues our creativity and effort."Though she didn’t say it outright, I could sense the underlying frustration—speaking about money and earnings is often uncomfortable, even slightly taboo, but the tension was there, just beneath the surface. Suwa is a gifted craftswoman, constantly designing new handmade products, yet she struggles to build a sustainable business or even get basic validation. She painstakingly creates beaded jewelry and large patchwork blankets—each piece taking anywhere from 6 to 12 hours, sometimes even days to complete—only to face relentless bargaining that drives the price down to a few hundred or a thousand rupees.Meanwhile, designers earn a fortune selling machine-made imitations. The inequality in resources and access is stark, and painful.That night, Suwa called me. “I want to fight this misinformation,” she said. “You need to tell me what to do.” Her words carried urgency—and, also, expressing a clear dependence on me, as a scholar and cultural practitioner who has worked closely with her and other Kalbeliya artists.Recently, I’ve also been helping her develop sustainable models for her handicrafts. I was honest: confronting such misrepresentation is never easy and rarely yields quick justice. “Perhaps the stronger response is visibility,” I said. “We’re already building your webshop—let’s keep going. Take your work into the world. Let’s make Kalbeliya-crafted products as recognisable and valued as designer labels, so your voice has its rightful place in the market.” Still unsettled, Suwa wasn’t entirely convinced. I suggested writing something together based on what she had just shared. “If we can publish your perspective,” I said, “we might shift the conversation.” She paused, then said, “Yes, let’s do that.”After the call, I was reminded of the asymmetries that shape our collaboration. As someone with access to platforms that Suwa and many others are often excluded from, I am aware that I hold a certain degree of representational power—and with it, responsibility. I want to acknowledge the irony and contradiction I feel in this situation: it is precisely this imbalance of representational power that lies at the heart of Suwa’s frustration. Her concern is not about artistic freedom or creative inspiration—it is about who has the authority to represent whom, and who benefits from that representation. Who creates the images, and who gets confined by them? The frustration of artists like Suwa stems from this: despite their struggle, creativity, and resilience, they have little say in how they are portrayed. Worse, those misrepresentations often come from voices more powerful than theirs—voices that are heard, published, and celebrated globally.Kashmir's Outrage Over 'Obscene' Fashion Show Has Nothing to Do With MoralityThroughout my research, I’ve seen how open the Kalbeliyas are about their creative skills. They share it generously—dance, music, crafts—with anyone who comes. They don’t claim rigid ownership or practice protectionism. On the contrary, their strength lies in innovation, shaped by a nomadic lifestyle and a culture of improvisation and upcycling. Their dance and crafts constantly evolve—there are no strict “traditions,” and that’s what keeps their creativity alive.That’s why, in conversations about cultural appropriation, a highly intellectualised term in the West, Suwa and others often respond with curiosity or pride, not anger.They feel “honoured” that people take interest in their art. I remember a talk I gave with Asha, another established Kalbeliya dancer, when someone asked her, “What do you think of foreigners dancing your dance?” She answered, “Dance is not a possession. Nobody owns it.It is about personal expression. The only problem comes when our voice is not heard. When others speak about us without really knowing us—or take away our livelihood for their own gain—that’s when I feel hurt.”That’s the crux of it: the problem isn’t the sharing of art or its creative interpretation—it’s the erasure of context, the lack of interest in listening, the indifference to impact. Like the designer who creates revealing blouses under the Kalbeliya label—he likely doesn’t even know how offensive that is in this context. He may never have considered the impact of his choices on the community at all. It’s a token use of a name, devoid of understanding or regard for meaning and consequence.Suwa, and many other Kalbeliya community members, want to speak too. They want to be consulted, respected, engaged. They want a voice, not sterotyped erasure. And when they reach out to people like me, it is because they feel powerless to respond on their own. They are seeking for spaces to be heard.I write this with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I’m uncomfortable speaking for them—I don’t want to become yet another priviledged middleperson in a long chain of cultural dominance. On the other hand, ignoring their call for help would be an ethical failure as an activist and scholar. There is no perfect position in this. But if my written words can help amplify a voice that otherwise wouldn’t reach far, then this is my small, imperfect attempt.This piece was orally co-created with Suwa Devi, over a series of phone calls in Jodhpur. I have written it down as an interpretative summary and shared it again with her. It is a modest effort to raise awareness—and to send her voice into spaces she cannot yet reach.(The author is an Associate Professor for the Arts, arts facilitator and curator from Belgium, currently based in India. This is an opinion piece, and the views expressed are the author’s own. The Quint neither endorses nor is responsible for them.)The Caste and Class Politics Behind Mocking Chikankari Kurtas

BECOME A MEMBER

What's in a Blouse? Ownership, Representation & Dignity for Kalbeliya Women

Consentless appropriation of Kalbeliya culture through mass-made products erases the very identity of the community.

Read Latest News and Breaking News at The Quint, browse for more from opinion

Topics: Rajasthan women labour force Womens Rights