the tabla. In dance class, I could be near those sweet, beloved sounds and try to let my feet do what my voice had always wanted to do.
In the beginning, my senses were mollified. The dynamic between a guru and disciple, combined with the familiarity of the music we danced to, comforted me enough to think that I might have found a new interest, one that would take away the hankering to sing. Every morning I stared at the small dancing figure of Shiva I had picked up from an Indian store and reminded myself that the very God of Dance would help me. My recalcitrant limbs were not as easily convinced but I believed they would ultimately catch up. They had to.
Slowly, I let the idea of dancing seep into me. Because it was supposed to save me from singing, I sought a new, more solid identity in it. I stayed after class and commanded my sore, overworked feet to master the moves. I was too old, my body too inflexible to learn how to do a split or spin on one leg but I tried so hard that by the end of dance class I had no energy left to finish assignments for other classes. Rain or shine, I turned up for dance class, clutching my ankle bells, my body aching with hope. Every day I hoped to find the kind of bliss I’d found in front of the bathroom mirror, holding my pretend pencil microphone. Every day I was disappointed.
By the end of the year, I no longer went to dance class for the love of the ragas or in search of a new passion or even the longing to be delivered from music in the same way that one prays to be delivered from evil. I went because I had let loose a hunger in me, a blind and brutish hunger which proliferated in the perpetual absence of satisfaction. I had felt the first pang of this unrelenting hunger when, on that sweltering afternoon years ago, my friend Raqib and I had kissed and violated our fasts. I waited, ravenously, for the end of each dance practice, when my muscles were too tired to hold me upright, for only then, I was too numbed to feel the roar of that vicious hunger. Dance allowed me to survive by pulverising my body and anesthetising my spirit. Dance had become my saviour, my nemesis.
I was not a talented dancer but my tenacity alone made my teacher offer me a position in the small dance company she ran locally. The hours of dance practice tripled. Now that my teacher had a vested interest in me, she was no longer tolerant of my half splits and slow spins. ‘Oye! What’s wrong with you? You look like a Shiva with a broken leg. Lift your leg higher, higher, higher . . .’ she’d holler at me constantly. On the company T-shirt I wore was, once again, the picture of the same dancing Shiva, balanced on one leg, furiously dancing the universe into creation. Every muscle in my body felt the tautness of his incredible split, every cell of my being felt the tumult of his tandava, that thunderous dance, its explosive thrust, but I could not dance it. No matter how hard I prayed to Shiva Nataraj for a dancing boon, he was as silent and unreadable as the god of my childhood.
My mother’s reaction to my newfound occupation further unglued me. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she said emphatically. ‘You must continue to dance. I’m so happy to hear it.’
‘I’m not very good at it,’ I admitted to her.
‘So? You’ll get better. Just stick with it.’
What I would have given to hear her say that when I gave up my music lessons.
‘I wish I could resume my music,’ I ventured, emboldened by her enthusiasm.
‘Hmmm . . .’ she said. This time her voice was barely audible.
One afternoon after dance practice my teacher invited me to join her for a cup of tea. I was almost certain that she would fire me from the company. We drove down the narrow streets of Amherst in her black Toyota Camry until we arrived at a small Asian teahouse. We ordered Chinese tea in a round white teapot with blue and red dragon motifs and tiny matching cups. I sipped the pale tea, trying to identify the scent of the flower in
In the beginning, my senses were mollified. The dynamic between a guru and disciple, combined with the familiarity of the music we danced to, comforted me enough to think that I might have found a new interest, one that would take away the hankering to sing. Every morning I stared at the small dancing figure of Shiva I had picked up from an Indian store and reminded myself that the very God of Dance would help me. My recalcitrant limbs were not as easily convinced but I believed they would ultimately catch up. They had to.
Slowly, I let the idea of dancing seep into me. Because it was supposed to save me from singing, I sought a new, more solid identity in it. I stayed after class and commanded my sore, overworked feet to master the moves. I was too old, my body too inflexible to learn how to do a split or spin on one leg but I tried so hard that by the end of dance class I had no energy left to finish assignments for other classes. Rain or shine, I turned up for dance class, clutching my ankle bells, my body aching with hope. Every day I hoped to find the kind of bliss I’d found in front of the bathroom mirror, holding my pretend pencil microphone. Every day I was disappointed.
By the end of the year, I no longer went to dance class for the love of the ragas or in search of a new passion or even the longing to be delivered from music in the same way that one prays to be delivered from evil. I went because I had let loose a hunger in me, a blind and brutish hunger which proliferated in the perpetual absence of satisfaction. I had felt the first pang of this unrelenting hunger when, on that sweltering afternoon years ago, my friend Raqib and I had kissed and violated our fasts. I waited, ravenously, for the end of each dance practice, when my muscles were too tired to hold me upright, for only then, I was too numbed to feel the roar of that vicious hunger. Dance allowed me to survive by pulverising my body and anesthetising my spirit. Dance had become my saviour, my nemesis.
I was not a talented dancer but my tenacity alone made my teacher offer me a position in the small dance company she ran locally. The hours of dance practice tripled. Now that my teacher had a vested interest in me, she was no longer tolerant of my half splits and slow spins. ‘Oye! What’s wrong with you? You look like a Shiva with a broken leg. Lift your leg higher, higher, higher . . .’ she’d holler at me constantly. On the company T-shirt I wore was, once again, the picture of the same dancing Shiva, balanced on one leg, furiously dancing the universe into creation. Every muscle in my body felt the tautness of his incredible split, every cell of my being felt the tumult of his tandava, that thunderous dance, its explosive thrust, but I could not dance it. No matter how hard I prayed to Shiva Nataraj for a dancing boon, he was as silent and unreadable as the god of my childhood.
My mother’s reaction to my newfound occupation further unglued me. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she said emphatically. ‘You must continue to dance. I’m so happy to hear it.’
‘I’m not very good at it,’ I admitted to her.
‘So? You’ll get better. Just stick with it.’
What I would have given to hear her say that when I gave up my music lessons.
‘I wish I could resume my music,’ I ventured, emboldened by her enthusiasm.
‘Hmmm . . .’ she said. This time her voice was barely audible.
One afternoon after dance practice my teacher invited me to join her for a cup of tea. I was almost certain that she would fire me from the company. We drove down the narrow streets of Amherst in her black Toyota Camry until we arrived at a small Asian teahouse. We ordered Chinese tea in a round white teapot with blue and red dragon motifs and tiny matching cups. I sipped the pale tea, trying to identify the scent of the flower in
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