Fifteen years ago, scrolling late one night, Tokyo resident Mayumi stumbled upon a clip of Kalbeliya—black skirts flaring, khartals clapping, bodies moving like living flame. “I don’t know why, but tears began rolling down my cheeks,” she says. That moment lodged itself somewhere deeper than fascination. Something had shifted. Rajasthan, though thousands of miles away, had found her.
Since childhood, movement had been second nature. “I always loved ghumna,” Mayumi laughs. “My mother says I used to twirl endlessly as a child.” Almost as if her body knew before her mind did. When she decided to pursue Rajasthani folk dance seriously, her family was surprised—but never opposed. In 2013, she arrived in India for the first time and felt an immediate sense of recognition. “It felt like I was home.”
She spent three months travelling through Rajasthan, absorbing the heat, the colours, the rhythms. Somewhere along the way, she decided she needed a simpler name. “My guru named me Madhuri,” she recalls, “which eventually became Madhu, and blessed me to become a dancer as sweet as honey.” Two years later came another turning point—meeting Kalbeliya dancer and singer Asha Sapera. Under her guidance, Mayumi plunged into the form’s fierce expressions and serpentine curves. Today, distance hasn’t dulled the discipline. “I record myself while practising and then correct my moves,” she says of her online classes with her guru.
What she cannot explain is the depth of the bond. “I don’t understand my connection with Rajasthan,” Mayumi admits, “but I know it ignited my soul.” The transformation has been emotional as much as artistic. “Earlier, I never used to cry. Rajasthani culture pulled me closer to my emotions—it taught me how to express them.”
By day, she works full-time in e-commerce operations. By evening and weekend, she becomes ‘Rajasthani Madhu’, hosting dance classes and workshops in Japan. Many of her students come from belly dance backgrounds, drawn in by the romance of gypsy culture. Teaching, she soon realised, meant going beyond steps. Through slideshows and stories, she introduces desert life, music, communities. “How do I explain the difference between Rajputs and Manganiyars?” she asks, smiling. “Or how folk movements change from region to region?”
Japanese audiences, she says, are instantly captivated by Kalbeliya’s dramatic black costume—heavy with mirror work and multicoloured embroidery. They love songs with infectious rhythms: Kalyo Kood Padyo Mele Me, Mhari Ghoomnar Chhe Nakhrali. The beats are easy; the feeling, immediate.
In 2022, a heart condition threatened to end her dancing altogether. Doctors advised her to stop. Instead, she slowed down. Kalbeliya gave way to Ghoomar. Where one is fire, the other is restraint. Kalbeliya spirals like a snake; Ghoomar glides, regal and measured, eyes lowered beneath a veil. “Ghoomar requires control—to not feel breathless,” she explains. Draped in a Rajputi poshak, a borla maang tikka resting on her forehead, her Instagram reels capture the gentle back-and-forth sway, quiet yet commanding.
Cultural parallels comforted her along the way. “Old Japanese culture wasn’t so different,” she reflects. “Arranged marriages, living with the husband’s family, strong bonds with neighbours—we had all of that.” What shocked her instead were phone calls at any hour and India’s elastic relationship with time. “Five minutes can become one hour,” she says, laughing.
Language posed its own challenge. Hindi came through films—Jodhaa Akbar among them—and Marwari through repeated visits to Rajasthan. Religion, she admits, remains complex. “In Japan, we follow Buddhism and Shinto and aren’t very religious. In India, people are deeply connected to many deities. It’s essential to understand that.”
She returns to India every year—and cries every time she leaves. The memories are small but seismic. “People in Rajasthan accept me,” she says. “They teach me their language, food, clothing.” Once, visiting a friend, her grandmother—who hadn’t walked in years—rose and insisted on escorting Mayumi to the gate. Back in Japan, her room is filled with instruments, carpets, costumes. She calls it her chhota Rajasthan.
Her dreams stretch further still: learning to sing Rajasthani folk music, hosting a Rajasthani folk dance festival in Japan. And then there is the question she’s asked repeatedly. “People say, ‘Is it your hobby?’ I say no. It’s not exactly my profession either.” She pauses. “Perhaps it’s an identity that I am living.”
She has thought, briefly, of letting go of ‘Rajasthani Madhu’. But then a familiar sound cuts through—the melody of the poongi, the thump of the dafli. Her eyes fill. The answer is immediate. Rajasthan, once again, is calling.