The National Council of Educational Research and Training’s (NCERT) decision to digitally obscure the torso of the iconic 4,500-year-old “Dancing Girl” figurine in its new Class 9 arts textbook, Madhurima, raises troubling questions about how we choose to present history to young minds. The “Dancing Girl” of Mohenjo-Daro is one of India’s most recognisable archaeological artefacts dating back to the Indus Valley Civilisation.
In the version shown in the textbook, the torso of the figurine is wrongly depicted compared to the original artefacts, with officials opting for sanitisation over authenticity. Artificial shading has been applied across the upper body of the figurine, obscuring anatomical details. Michel Danilo, who headed the textbook development committee, stated that the figurine was considered “not age-appropriate”.
This is ridiculous to say the least, more especially when the mindsets are skewed towards such a view in a liberalised era where historical objects are being seen through an “age-appropriate” lens. By distorting a piece of history, the NCERT is underestimating the maturity and intelligence of students. The purpose of art is lost if it is presented to students differently, away from its originality. The Dancing Girl is admired not only for its antiquity but also for its craftsmanship, proportions, posture, and remarkable demonstration of lost-wax casting technology.
The reasoning for such a change is baffling; one cannot comprehend the logic behind it, especially when generations of Indian students have studied the original figurine without controversy or objection. In fact, the original version of the image continues to appear in the current Class 6 social science textbook. If a younger student can view the artifact in its authentic form, why should a 14-year-old studying art history suddenly require protection from the realities of an ancient bronze sculpture barely 10.5 centimetres tall?
The contradiction becomes even more glaring in the broader context of the ongoing push to “decolonise” education. Policymakers and public figures frequently speak of reclaiming India’s civilisational heritage and freeing curricula from inherited colonial biases. Through such skewed mindsets, what are we achieving here? The decision to conceal the human form in the artefact does not align with the perceived goals.
For much of its history, Indian art did not regard the human body through the prism of embarrassment. For example, the Didarganj Yakshini at the Bihar Museum, Patna, is a polished sandstone sculpture over 2,000 years old and features a semi-nude, voluptuous female form. From the terracotta creations of Harappa to the sculptural grandeur of Khajuraho and Konark, the human form has been portrayed as a source of beauty, vitality, spirituality, and expression.
Beyond the academic implications, there is a more fundamental concern. Historical artefacts cannot be modified to suit contemporary discomforts. Their value lies precisely in their authenticity. As Danino has pointed out, such interventions echo the infamous “Fig Leaf Campaign” of the Catholic Church, when classical and Renaissance artworks were altered to conform to changing moral standards. Those episodes are now remembered as cautionary tales about censorship, not examples to emulate.
Educationists should not filter our rich and diverse history; rather, they must encourage students to think critically. If the goal is truly to cultivate a deeper appreciation of our past and free ourselves from inherited colonial attitudes, then we must trust students with the truth, exactly as history has left it to us.
