A few weeks back, I opened my eyes to the glorious sunshine one morning to exclaim, “Shit, I will be turning 27 this year!”. I scurried to the bathroom mirror for tell-tale signs of greying hair, wrinkles on my face, or even a receding hairline. But everything looked fine. However, I now felt that my life-wicker was waning while I did the same mundane stuff over and over again. Nothing was wrong in my life, not an extra pimple on the face, no degenerating hormones or dystrophic muscles. But the very thought of spending a life analyzing health impacts of metals on humans was depressing. So I decided to try something new, something exciting.
I’d heard that my university friends were performing a classical dance for the opening
of a new South Indian temple and were looking for another dancer. I speak or understand
no Tamil, but I found myself for the rehearsals, inwardly rolling on the floor
laughing when I heard the lyrics (which I understood nothing of). Having danced
to tapori songs all my life, a classical performance was not what I had
expected. Nothing had prepared me for a chance to dance Bharat Natyam to the
song “Margazhi Thingal” in a temple. Most people I know perform after years of
classical dance training, and the little bit of dance I had picked up was due
to my interest in Bollywood. Yet the choreographer had immense confidence in
me, no matter how long I took just to get my tripatakas and ardhapatakas and
the other mudras right. Not just was the song alien to me, there were parts in
the song where there were no words at all, but the tei-yum-dat-ta’s and the
Jatis. I do not know if ignorance gave me the courage to go classical the first
time in front of an audience, but here I was with a mini jasmine garden on my
head, kohl-laden eyes, my limbs painted resplendent red with the red highlighter
as a substitute for aalta, my mind vacillating in between controlling the
ticklish sensation and wondering how very dermotoxic the highlighter would be. When
I sent pictures, my family back home thought that I had dressed up all
classical and hired a photographer to take my pics just for kicks.
My group wanted to perform to another song. It was a far cry from
the Bharat Natyam I was religiously practicing. It was full of hip jerks and ovary-dislocating
pelvic thrusts. For the next few weeks, I danced to songs that I did not
understand with friends whose language I did not speak. I made my own version
of the song in my head, making strange words out of what I understood. Imagine
the fun you have dancing to something you do not understand, especially when
the dance moves looked like milking cows. Someone even told me that I looked “authentic
South Indian,” whatever that meant. Again, it wasn’t an earth shattering, but I
think I did well. I was also able to get out of the lethargy that prevents you
from trying out something new, getting pally with a group of unknown people
from different backgrounds, no matter how trivial or unimportant the act or the
effort itself was. I danced to kumbida pona deivam and yammadi athadi.
That summer, I also registered for level 1 salsa classes with my roommate and
her boyfriend and completed it. I tried my hand at some bowling, thanks to a classmate
of mine from Pakistan. I went to a bull riding show in Tacoma last month, starting
watching (and liking) South Park, and went for a dance audition for another
group last week.
sunshine.
