Red Ghungoors

Blank faces. Painted faces. Mature faces. Faces holding passion and sacrifice. Faces all around me, smeared with blood red lipstick, fish shaped kajol. Smiling faces and nervous faces. Faces who want to prove some kind of worth tonight. Anticipation is bubbling inside me.
How am I supposed to tell you how I feel? It's like how a player feels when a stadium electrifies with his name. Or when your mother pins your A+ script on the refrigerator. When Buddha finally knew Nirvana was close by or when you are reading the climax of your favourite book. When you combine all those feelings together, you'd know how I feel: waves tumbling inside my stomach, heaving breaths and ecstasy.
My legs moved impatiently and I saw the ghungoors jingling on my carmine feet. My fingertips painted with alta, a round red circle designed on the middle of each palm, crimson glass bangles clinked against each other. I rotated and twirled my hands to familiar hand gestures. Alapadma, Migashrishya, Mayurakhha. I am dressed and prepped, hair sprayed and decorated, ready for my name to be called on.
Arangetram. My first solo. An hour long performance. If I did this right, I'd be a professional dancer. I'd know my path, my destiny and all the other clichés that go around. It was a sunny Friday when I woke up to one of Tagore's classics and saw my limbs involuntarily moving to the song's rhythmic beat and my expression changing to its melodramatic tunes. And I knew what was to come of me, what I was to do for the rest of my life. Everyone on earth has a purpose, right? Maybe this was mine.
Dancing away fears, jealousy and dislike. Dancing away those negative feelings. Dancing when I'm happy, excited and emotional. Dancing to welcome the goodness around us. The world was more beautiful when I danced. But my parents did not think so. If I perform well today, maybe Amma will finally accept it. My daughter will be a dancer, not a doctor. An artist, not an engineer. A student of Kalakshetra, not Harvard. And I am proud of her. The bell chimes twice and my name is called.
I walk on to the stage, at the centre. Namaste. I silently pray to God to remove all negativity around me and to be able to dance well to make my gurus proud. I take my opening stance. The stage dimly lights and a yellow centre light sheds on me. My eyes look at the stage floor. Ta Tai Ta Ta Tum. The sitar starts playing. The vocals go along the same beat. I lift my eyes and I look straight at whatever indefinite horizon lay in front of me. The audience was so quiet and the room so dark that it seems almost empty.  Like I was dancing by myself. A certain peace fell over me. Ta jhum Ta ki-te Ta Ka. My eyes moved from one diagonal corner to the other with my neck. Right to left. I was at ease. My body swayed to Ni Sa-a, Sa-a, Pa-a. Expressions stiffened to Ganesh's proud face. Practice paid off. I was at the right place. All too soon though, the centre light shone too brightly, I heard a cord snap and Shiva's mighty hands pushed me to the floor.
It was dawn at the Madras Beach, Chennai and while I practiced, little waves crashed and subsided at my feet. I was wearing a white half-saree with a waist length braid. The sun was about to rise and I smiled its picturesque magnificence. 'Oh the girl could have become a brilliant dancer. She had what it takes. Pity, though,' brought me back. 'Is she para-parali…?' From where I was, I saw too many feet moving to and from the stage. My stage. Too many voices spoke at once with panic and urgency. The stage was a spiritual and scared place. The voices were ruining it. I tried to make my ghungurs jingle but nothing moved. Legs numb. The yellow centre light was gone, replaced by blue side lights, I think. My eyes looked straight. I could only see dust particles and tiny shards of glass as I lay there. Centre stage. Somehow there was too much alta, warm, thick and red, on my hands. My head rested on Amma's lap.
My frail voice called out, 'Amma-aa..'
Her face was stone cold, tears in her eyes, up to the brim. Was she sad? I thought I was dancing my best. Her croaked voice replied, 'Jee Ma?'
I had to confess about my dream. 'Amma, I want to be a dancer when I grow up.'

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