Aftermath

“…the most dangerous period is the aftermath. It is then, with all his resources spent and his guard down, that an individual must watch out for dulled reactions and faulty judgment.”
- Richard M.Nixon

I am not sure how it happened, but darkness loomed. I suppose it must though. If there is a light at the end of every tunnel, isn’t there darkness at the end of every bright corridor?

Don’t mistake me for a pessimist. I am the eternal optimist, an idealist. But in the moments after a dance production, especially one that is my own, emptiness creeps in. But this is a vacant feeling that I welcome.

Initially, the aftermath was one of elation and pride (well, mostly pride I must admit to) at having achieved. It was always accompanied by a hint of sorrow at being parted with friends who’ve worked tirelessly with you. Soon after, the only thought would be of the next year’s production, and how much better it had to be.

Over the years, though, the sense of ecstasy over success has replaced itself with a deeper sense of fulfillment. With it comes an understanding that none of it really matters. I am beginning to feel that praise and rejection are not to be viewed as the opposite sides of a coin, but as the coin itself. Discard that coin, and you divorce the mundane.

The numbness is fleeting however, and soon, you are back in the throes of disappointment. Someone decides a scene should have been choreographed differently, while another decides that some performers were not up to par. Poof! The heady sensation of nothingness is gone.
This time, though, the remnants of the black hole are still with me. I am not sure what has changed. It may be that in my 35th year, I feel the need to internalize my higher quest. I almost yearn for that singular moment when nothing but truth mattered.

I am certain that if I am to envision and choreograph my next show in my current state, it will be rewarding. For somewhere in my mind is the realization that it is not the applause or the disparaging moans that I hear. I seek to listen to that inner voice congratulating me on being true to the art form, and true to myself.

Perhaps the feeling will last longer next time.

Am I really back?

I spent the summer switching off from work. It occurs to me that I haven’t done that for years. Even vacations would be spent choreographing for a stray piece of music, or looking for a interesting piece of fusion work.

Back to the summer. I boarded the non-stop flight to the US, certain that I would write all the way. Not a word. Not even a thought. It appears that my mind had decided to switch off too early, and not just from work. I went through the hassle of taking out my laptop from the overhead bin, deciding that it was paper and pen that were the root cause of my problems.

I placed the laptop gently on my pull-out tray (Foreplay to writing, I believe is just as important and satisfying). I waited as the OS booted, all the while thinking that precious time was slipping away. Every second, the thoughts that I was sure I had somewhere were vanishing into the stale air of the aeroplane. I was sure of it.

I wonder what laptops or OS they use in movies – when a character opens up his laptop, its ready to go, and with a few random clicks on the keyboard, work is done. I would like one of those, please!

A little later, I was still waiting for a single word to start me off. I was sure that I had spent half the flight doing this, so I looked up the flight tracker. I could then just put down my writing inability to the inefficiency of the laptop. No such luck – a mere hour had passed.

Just as a thought surfaced (I still maintain it did), the sound of the drink cart rattled my ears. Ah! That was it! I needed some wine to clear my head.

Sufficiently intoxicated, I opened up the laptop again. This time, booting time didn’t bother me. I smiled (or maybe the wine smiled – not sure which) and began writing. I declined the meal service, refusing to be distracted from writing the greatest work yet!

An hour later, having completed my chosen task satisfactorily, I returned my laptop to its secure location, and caught up with some zzzs.

A sniffling sound startled me out of my dream (in which I was receiving the Pulitzer, no less). I shot an exasperated glance to my left, where my fellow passenger was watching a movie and crying. I decided the guy was identifying with some lost soul on reel, and decided to cut him some slack.

After catching a movie, it was time to go back to the creative board. I pulled up my most recent work of art, and began to read. “It was the best of times....”it read. As I read further, all my hopes of grandeur and awards receded. Suddenly, I felt like someone had taken my aspirations and squished them to pulp. Except that the ‘someone’ was me! The opening paragraphs of Charles Dicken’s masterpiece was all that I had typed .

Almost as an ode to my stupidity, the man next to me began to laugh. Shocked that another human was party to my folly, I turned to berate him. The poor chap, of course, was enjoying the comic relief in the movie.

I turned back to the screen, and proceeded to delete the file. Quickly, I returned the laptop to the overhead compartment, and spent the rest of the flight in discontented sleep.

This morning, I sat down to write the script for my upcoming dance production, with scribbled notes by my side. I began to write, and the result is what you’re reading right now!

I should submit a few more blog entries before another obstacle rears its ugly head. And I can only hope that the script from which I have sidetracked, doesn't meet with the same end as my in-flight creation!

Come into my world

It hurts that you won’t stop teasing me. I call for you repeatedly, but you don’t take the step that separates us. Or is it that you won’t take it? Is this an issue that will remain unresolved forever?

There is a simple solution, isn’t there? You walk into my life, and allow us the pleasure of being with one another. A win-win situation, if you ask me.

There was a time when you stood at my door, but didn’t make the effort to knock. How was I to know that you were on the other side? It didn’t take very long for you to change your mind and walk away!

If only you had stayed! My voice broke as I asked for you, and realized you had strutted off without a morsel of compassion.

I stood on the porch thereafter, hoping that you would turn back. I yearned for the chance to hold you, care for you. I waited to be healed by your mere touch.

Shadows and time crept by, and my weary eyes dried up. We are not meant to be together yet, I thought. Perhaps you had varied priorities ~ but I didn’t; you were, and remain my priority.
Perhaps this is a game that you mercilessly enjoy. You’ve won, you know. You’ve infiltrated every defense shield I had carefully erected.

You’ve allowed this plea to shape up quite well. It’s up to you now. Do as you must, for I do not have the strength to fight any longer. Come into my world, if you must, and know this. All the love in my very being is in storage for you. Incentive or de-motivation? I eagerly await your
judgment.

In acceptance, finally

I am utterly confounded. The reason for my state of perplexity is not a complicated math problem or even a law of science. I would have you know that I am quite alright with problems that involve logic, or even lateral thinking and all that. The creation of Mark Zuckerberg, however, is a different story altogether. Facebook, the social networking site, continues to bewilder and astound me.

It’s not that I am anti-social (I claim, rather, to be aloof due to circumstances). I too have my moments. With changing priorities and increasing workloads, though, social interaction comes down to a minimum. And if you believe that every moment counts, why spend a good number of them making small talk, right?

So then, good friends are a rare commodity. Not all conversations start off from the point at which it was interrupted by life! So, instead of picking up the phone, why would I POKE them (POKE = virtual notification). Also, explain this. How do teens chat with and poke friends that they saw roughly an hour before in school?

Ok, so I POKE someone and then what? I spend 2 hours on the Facebook site instead of the 2 minutes originally planned! I decide to check out Photos that friends have uploaded and suddenly realize there are REQUESTS waiting for me. I excitedly click on these, thinking someone would have started a thought provoking string, but NO! It’s a REQUEST to join a fan club for some TV series or the other.

For the young, FACEBBOOK is perhaps an outlet for interaction that would otherwise be considered rude. I don’t remember a time when it was ‘friendly’ to write on another’s wall! Then again, sending virtual gifts is probably a conscientious effort to save pocket money!
Now for something positive – the above thoughts were mine before I actually started networking on FB. Now, I am a regular, and love that I am getting back in touch with friends I never thought I’d see again!

I am most impressed with the myriad groups that find interested parties with shared aspirations. Of course, I also find the games (silly or not) irresistible. And hey, where else can I join a group that is titled ‘Bharatanatyam:Because we’re cooler than you!’?!?

Halo or no Halo

I feel a special bond with the mundu. There’s something elegant about the hand spun light cotton handlooms edged with golden thread. The simplistic image created when worn is in contrast to the richness of the golden zari border. And I simply love a paradox.

But my fondness for mundus probably stems from the annual visits to the Guruvayur Shri Krishna temple (Thrissur district, Kerala) that my husband and I make. This blog’s setting is one such viist.

For some reason, that particular year’s visit felt more sacred than usual. In the wee hours of the morning, I stood in queue and felt an unusual eagerness (I always maintain that I am more spiritual and philosophically inclined than religious) to get a glimpse of the sanctum.

The presiding deity, Mahavishnu, worshipped as Balakrishna, stands in all glory in the inner dimly lit sanctum. The rare stone Patala Anjana used to sculpt it just adds to its mystic aura. When you know that it is one of the few remnants of Dwarka’s Yadava clan, worship takes on a whole new meaning.

One is often expected to catch whatever slice of a glimpse of the deity while being prodded and
poked to keep the line moving. It was a rare day then, for I stood staring at the idol for what seemed like eternity. (Of course – after a few seconds, my mind wandered to anticipation of someone shoving me aside.)

Re-energized with a zing that only comes from purifying your mind (even if it was just a brief sojourn), I floated back to the hotel. My husband and I checked out and then took the taxi and drove (or flew?) to Coimbatore airport.

Inside the airport, amidst the chattering passengers, I felt a strange sense of calmness. It felt
exhilarating. I was on top of the world. I did a slow spin, and felt amazed that the bustling activity didn’t touch my serenity. I began to envision ….

Like a zap of lightning, something (or rather, someone) caught my eye. And I crashed down into the materialistic world. For there, in the corner, sitting with my sense of calmness was my favorite Bollywood actor. He seemed unmindful of all the commotion around him, and quietly sat, reading a newspaper.

In my mind, I was racing towards him, but something stopped me. I painted a mental image of myself at the moment – mundu, with flowers in my hair, vibhuti smeared on my forehead above my giant round bindi. Mmmm. … My worldly sense made me wonder if I was too ethnically dressed to meet him.

A tap on my shoulder reminded me that I was not alone. My husband had a gleam in his eye. Had he spotted the star as well? I knew we had the same tastes , but his enthusiasm surprised me. I began to wonder if I had overlooked the female costar.

But, no. My husband was still within the devout experience. He quickly pointed out to me that a revered Swami (one whose discourses we had benefitted from) was at the same airport. I followed his nod and spotted the saffron robe. If I had but seen him a moment earlier! I was already in a different frame of mind.

I grabbed my husband’s sleeve and pulled him to get a better visual of my discovery. Of course, the only response I got was ‘Oh!”

He quickly turned back and suggested we greet the swamiji. I pulled on his sleeve (a constant vice of mine) and insisted that I had to first meet the actor. The dubious look on my beloved’s face led me to meekly suggest that I would likely never get this chance again. This time I got an impatient,” Ok fine! Don’t be too long about it though.”

With the tenacity of a well, you know which four-legged animal -I took off to meet the man who had occupied much of my dreams as a teenager. Thoughts of Guruvayur and Shri Krishna exploded in my mind like those techno-flashbacks, and I felt the halo fading.

“Hello (Halo!?!)”, I said as the actor suddenly appeared, or rather, I appeared in his line of sight. At a loss for words, I quickly mumbled something about how much I love his work and watch all his movies (Sparks of ingenuity, I say! – I bet he would have never heard that one before!), quickly got an autograph (I can’t even find it now) and beat a hasty retreat.

Confused at the turn of events, I walked back to my husband, who now had a smirk on his face. “Happy?” he enquired, “Can we now go and meet the swamiji?”

So, we did greet him, and had a conversation about work being carried out to promote awareness of values among the youth. From the corner of my eye, I could see the actor walking towards us. My heart went aflutter and I wondered what I had said.

The actor, of course, had come to greet the swamiji, not me. My husband and I said our
goodbyes, and left, hearing our boarding announcement.

That day, I left with my halo half on, and half off. I am not sure of its present status.

Invisible or just a trick?

My super happy student, incidentally a 5 year old, walks with a characteristic spring in her step into my class. Motivating reluctant students is a familiar task for classical music teachers. So, I am pleasantly surprised when a student is actually content to be here.

The little one chirps her hellos, assumes the typical cross-legged position and begins her music lesson. After giving me an assurance that she indeed sing (and sing she can!), her eyes begin a journey around the room. A myriad questions leap into her mind, and I find it amazing that you can actually see these doubts being framed. What was that painting in the corner? And why would anyone have such a huge mirror in their living room?

Of course, within a few minutes, the questions are given a voice. The notes D and N suffer brushing aside, as the eager scholar ventures to get her answers. After supplying her with responses that I hope will suffice for the moment, I manage to lure her back to the patterns of S R G M…

My eyes closed, I listen as she effortlessly belts out an entire phrase. All too soon, the singing is cut short. I look up amusedly expecting a new question. Instead, I watch as the child adjusts her sitting position. The cross-legged position, she decides, is not comfortable after all. She swings her feet out in an attempt to assume a new pose, and unwittingly ends up with a foot on her music book.

Hastily, I pull the book out from under her foot, and remind her of our age old beliefs. She gives me an incredulous look and replies,” I know I shouldn’t step on my book!”
I decided to probe. “Why shouldn’t you?”

“Because God is in the book!”

Not the usual answer. “Yes”, I agreed.

She went on. “God is everywhere!”

Ok, so this conversation was getting a bit profound. “OK”, I intoned, not knowing what would come next.

“But,” she whined, “I haven’t seen Him. My mom says He is everywhere, but I don’t see Him”
Somewhere in my mind, I felt a little jump. And I knew I had to be careful with my response to this young child whose protest reflected mine.

At a complete loss, I decided to stick with a non-committal “I know. I haven’t seen Him either.”
I could almost hear the wheels churning in my little student’s mind. She’d gone into some deep puzzling thought. After a pregnant pause, she inched closer (in that adorable way little ones do), and in a conspiratorial tone, asked,” When you were little, did you complain to your mother too –that you couldn’t see God?”

Before a little laugh could escape, I replied in equally hushed tones, “Yes I did!”

Now the imp smiled. At least one other person (an adult, that too) shared her grievance, and hadn’t found a solution. At least one other person contemplated on the same issue that plagued her mind. All was well again!

Within seconds, she was back to singing a new pattern of notes, oblivious of the torrent of questions that had arisen in my cerebrum (I am not sure which side! – As far as this topic is concerned, I think the two halves of the cerebrum overlap).

I can’t think of a better way to conclude than with this quote I found -
“God, to me, it seems, is a verb, not a noun, proper or improper.” –Richard Buckminster Fuller

Innocence remembered

I began my foray into teaching dance without knowing what to expect really. Students of all ages began to enroll. Some tumbled in, some were pushed in (by over-zealous mothers with unrealized dreams of grandeur) and some actually walked in on their own two feet.

Among them was a child of no more than 5 years. Her lack of inhibition led to several rib-tickling conversations, and I shall always cherish them.

Once she had gotten over the initial few classes, she ventured to ask boldly, “Aunty, where are your children?”

I was married for just over a year at the time, and the question hadn’t started popping up too much (Ask me now, it’s a different situation altogether!). So I calmly replied that I didn’t have any.

The incredulous look on her face was a worthy sight. “But”, she insisted, “You must have them!”
“But I don’t!” I insisted back.

At this, my student took a few minutes to think things through, and decided she’d investigate further. “You are married, right?”
“Yes.” I assured her

“Ok see, aunty”, she sat down next to me (all too happy to take a break during dance class) and with a childlike sense of know-all, she stated, “You get married and then you have a child!”
“Ok!” Roles were reversed and I became the student who had to listen for a change.
“You see”, she continued, “You get married once, and you have one child. You get married again, and you have another child.” After a brief pause and thought, she whined, “I have been begging my parents to get married again, but they just won’t!” (She has a younger brother now )

Before the bubbles of laughter could escape, I quickly injected, “Oh! Ok!”
And then she capped it all. She was certain I hadn’t understood anything and reiterated, “Aunty, the 1st time you get married, you get your 1st child. Then you get your 2nd child … (Here she went on for a while, proud of her knowledge of ordinals). And then …. (I can still hear the imaginary drum roll in her head)… you will have a 101 Dalmations!”

After a few months of prophesying to me, she actually stopped classes.

Early this year, she actually came back –not to learn dancing, but singing instead. She had no recollection of the spark of ingenuity that she had displayed but laughed as long as her newly fit braces would allow. These days, it is her brother who shares his visionary insights. Another story, another time!