‘I believe only in a God that knows how to dance’

(Friedrich Neitzsche)

I placed my feet together first, toes huddled up like little children on a dormitory bed. Then I spread my feet out slowly until they formed a perfect V. I gingerly spread them out even further to form a straight line like I used to when I was a child- flexible, unafraid and agile. My knees immediately screamed in protest, their anger resonating through my entire leg. I hurriedly brought my feet back together, an incident from college rudely reminding me that I could injure myself in this experiment. My knees calmed down and went back to sleep. I carefully spread my feet out again. With crooked knees and hands gently placed on hips, I squatted and stared at nothingness with rising determination. It was a test after so long that I was sure that I would topple over like I had once before, sure that I was cringing while awaiting the pain. Instead, sheer practice and habit made the corners of my mouth automatically break out into a wide smile. The smile, now fixated on my face, grew more and more ghastly as the pain reverberated through my entire body. I closed my eyes. Flashes of inner joy, varied expression, heavy make-up, elaborate jewellery and costume, sweat-soaked bodies, the simple and yet powerful thattu kazhi, song and anger, light and shadow rushed to my head. But the sound that struck out uniquely most was the rhythmic thudding of feet on ground in sync with the thattu kazhi.

It has been three long years since I was in that environment. It was a routine in my life, much like eating and sleeping. I grew accustomed to it and let it flow in my blood. I was a child thudding my delicate feet on the ground, trying to impress; I was a teenager awkward and ugly, doing everything wrong; I was an adult, passionate and energetic, striving to improve. I remember days when I gawked at my Gurus, their display of emotions not a lesson but a wonderful awakening of the senses.  They evoked joy and sorrow in the audience as they did in their characters. They were stern with us, and then sterner, and then exasperated, and then angry, and we shook like terrified chickens waiting for slaughter. I remember days when we did nothing but just walked when they instructed us to. Yes, just walked-like ducks do, bobbing up and down a river in a graceful manner. We went round and round the classroom until the shadow of the window panes started to accompany us and the number of rounds being walked multiplied themselves. We walked around until our legs remained in that manner and we even walked back home like ducks!

I remember those days when we learnt to do wondrous things with our fingers, stretching them out to form beautiful patterns that symbolised everything in the world and then used them to accompany our legs and bodies in geometrical movements. I remember those days when we begged for the fan to be switched on during water breaks and then rushed to find the coolest spot under it. We would settle down, rigidity and posture crumbling, as we sloppily lay against the wall.

 I remember the days when the momentum kept increasing until we swerved around like dervishes in tenth speed, pains of the world and pains of the body both forgotten. Speed brings an unimaginable thrill but the wonderful transition to a slow, graceful movement was even more exhilarating. With beads of sweat tickling our eyes, arms glistening and insides groaning, we would still have this smile plastered on our faces. The smile that is on my face right now. The smile represented the joy of movement and expression but it slowly functioned to hide our pain and would slowly cease to look pleasant as the hours passed; we’d soon be looking maniacal.

I’m sure I looked maniacal now and I suddenly stood up. The images disappeared and my legs, startled and shivering, did not seem like they belonged to me. I don’t know what I expected to see or imagine when I closed my eyes. However, the aesthetic images that seem to have firmly planted themselves in my memory brought back more than just the joy of dance; they made me realise what I have been missing all these years and what that void was all about.