Thaka Dhimi Thaa

Guess the status message on my face book wall that got the most delirious responses and ‘likes’ from friends and distant family? The one  announcing  that I had resumed dance after 30 years. Six months ago, I posted that message rather diffidently, seeking reassurance from those who matter. And was clearly overwhelmed by the response.

I was taught bharatanatyam as a child. It was the norm in Brahmin households to train girls in all classical art forms – carnatic music- vocal or instrumental and bharatanatyam. I learnt all of the above.

My week days after- school hours were devoted to vocal and veena lessons and weekends were devoured by dance lessons. While I went to the next street from our home to learn veena and vocal music, a couple came home to teach me bharatanatyam or their version of it. I must confess that I enjoyed none – in vocal classes, I looked forward to the ‘prasadam’ ( usually a banana with some sugar sprinkled on it!) paattu mami gave me after class more than the geetham or varnam she painstakingly taught me, her hands moving dexterously on the harmonium.

 Veena was slightly better. I first learnt from an ill-tempered old man who had a permanent scowl on his face and later from a more genial family who took turns to teach in between their household chores. The only thing I remember from those classes is the delicious aroma of rasam that emanated from their kitchen as we students twanged the veena in the next room. Nevertheless, I won a few music competitions playing the veena, more as a reward for transporting the instrument with it’s paraphernalia than for the quality of music it produced in my hands. 

  

As for dance lessons, the couple came home during weekends and almost settled in. Since we had a famous hotel and a never ending supply of milk, coffee, snacks and food at home, hosting dance teachers was never a problem. No wonder I was their favourite student whose latent talent they seemed to recognise! The lady sang and her husband did the nattuvangam. I was coaxed into practising a few hours a day. My grandmother, mother and aunt closely followed my progress and insisted I do the ‘arai mandi’, footwork and hand gestures properly. My father hated this noisy intrusion in the house and chided the women for torturing the ‘poor child’ and not letting her study! My brothers were ambivalent. One of them, very musically inclined, knew all my dance songs and sequences by rote and annoyed me, singing them all the time at home.

Was I really interested? Not too sure. Parents barely cared if the child had interest or aptitude for something and considered it their bounden duty to enrich them culturally. Which I think is a great idea since we do end up appreciating the art more later on in life, even if we don’t make a living out of it.

 My debut performance was when I was 8 years old, in a small hall near our home. If wearing heavy make- up and glittering costumes was exciting, the praise and accolades after I got off stage were heady. That’s what egged me on. I performed very often, in every major event in school and college, in most family weddings with cousins and sabhas all over Salem. So much so I came to be known for my dance more than anything else. When I visit Salem now, my children are bemused by the nostalgic praise I still receive for my dance from elderly neighbours and friends, almost as if I was a legend in my time!

Marriage decisively closed the door on my dancing and I was strangely relieved with the respite it provided. However, over the years, whenever I watched a dance recital, I felt a pang. My feet involuntarily tapped to beat as I tried to recollect the adavus I had learnt. But apart from ensuring that my daughter Tara started lessons when she was 7 and accompanying her to every class, I did nothing about it. Tara hated it too, and just went through the motions with utter indifference, just to please me. Luckily, after her arangetram when she performed exceedingly well, she has never looked back.

 

But for some inexplicable reason, I have had more people assume that I am a dancer than the lawyer that I really am, and I wonder what special looks a dancer is supposed to have that sets them apart? Does learning the art influence one’s gait, stance and posture? But each time someone  made that mistake, I couldn’t help feeling elated.  Tara’s guru and students in her class urged me to start dancing again. I always dismissed the idea as improbable, even ludicrous. Somehow, bharatanatyam as I had learnt it then seemed a piece of cake. But in Chennai with so many dance schools propagating various distinctive styles, the art form is intensely competitive and requires disciplined hours of rigorous practise by an aspirant. I was not even vaguely tempted and was happier seeing Tara blossom into a fine dancer, fulfilling my aborted desire.

Then fortuitously, Tara started Kuchipudi lessons and I happened to watch one of her sessions. The alluring sound of the thattukizhi and the lilting tune of the jathis haunted me. Could I possibly start dancing again? After a month spent in thought and hesitation, I approached her Guru,  almost expecting  polite rejection or even ridicule, considering I am in the wrong side of forties. On the contrary, he welcomed me with open arms, pointing out to a 63 year old retired bank officer who started learning bharatanatyam and kuchipudi at the grand age of 57 and has done arangetram in both! I started classes – twice a week and love every minute of it. Our classes are a great leveller – from 6 year olds to a 63 year old, we come in all ages and sizes. And that is what makes it even more special.

 I sometimes wonder what stopped me from taking this leap a few years earlier. But, I am glad I listened to my heart now. Better late than never!