Tulsi
Badrinath

Text for Blog

I began learning dance when I was eight. During the day I attended a convent school, happy in my blue scalloped pinafore worn over a starched white shirt, my long plaits secured with white ribbons.

At school, the language spoken was English and we followed a secular syllabus. But in Bharata Kalanjali (BK), Dhananjayan’s school of dance, there was a richly populated universe that revealed itself, parts at a time, in every class. I loved dancing.

Excerpt from the Book

Speeding to BK after school, I inhabited a completely different vernacular at dusk – filled with clouds carrying messages of love, cupid’s five-flower scented arrows and peacocks who lent Krishna their feathers.

Various ‘bee-loud glades’ appeared and faded: Ashokavan where Sita was imprisoned, sylvan Vrindavan where Krishna and Radha dallied, or the many gardens where damsels pined for their lovers.

Ganesha’s tiny mouse, Vishnu’s fiercely loyal Garuda, Devi’s lion… they all dwelled here.

It was as though the cottage were an enchanted grove where the characters found in my cherished Amar Chitra Kathas came alive.

In Bharata Natyam, the ideas expressed in a particular ‘item’ ride on those contained in the verse or poem set to a raga.

The text defines the areas the dancer will venture into.

While one can expand upon an idea or use many metaphors to convey a basic idea, one cannot introduce ideas, situations or characters that are not supported by the song.

Through mudras and facial expressions, the dancer makes visible the musicality of a poem, conveying emotions and meaning.

All imagery was drawn from nature.

None of it was visible; it had to be imagined first and then projected.

The first item we learnt that had an element of bhava in it was the shabdam, aayar sheriyar.

In narrating the mesmerizing effect of Krishna’s flute on the gopis, the deer who heard it, we learnt basic descriptions.

We had to conjure coral lips, curly locks, Krishna’s radiant face, lotus eyes, pearl drops of sweat and playful gopis.

Leaving behind layers of my everyday self – school life, home, parents, books, exams – I was rapt within the music, the words, this Krishna whom I hadn’t seen but whose aplomb I had to adopt, lifting the mountain Govardhan as he had, with great ease.

As the ragas changed and musical variations spilled into the class, Dhananjayan became Krishna’s little dancing self, briefly.

‘Imagine his small hands and tiny fingers holding a big flute. How do you show small? See…’

And having seen and imagined, we could go on to essay our own version.

Only, our flutes turned out to be bent, or short, or twisted.

He sang that one line several times.

Trying to teach city girls pastoral tropes had its own share of frustrations for Sir:

‘Carry the pot on your head, like this. Before you actually dip it into the river, you remove the debris on the surface. Thus… gently.’

We would watch him – the way he reached the river, swished the water, and then dipped the imaginary pot sideways – with utter concentration.

Far easier to admire him than to imitate what he had done!

‘Now you can fill your pots.’

Six containers of various sizes and shapes crashed on the riverbank.

‘I must see a deep shining river in front of each of you! I see a muddy puddle!

Okay, now lift it up, onto your head.

It’s heavy, my dears.

You have to make it look like there’s a lot of water inside.

You look like you’re carrying paper pots.’

A good thirty minutes would vanish in getting the swaying voluptuous walk of a gopi carrying a pot of water right.

‘Sangeeta! Do.’

Watching others get into trouble was loads of fun!

‘If you carried a pot like that, there’d be no water left by the time you got home!

Hold it straight!

Haven’t any of you seen women carrying pots of water?’

Sangeeta tried valiantly.

Irritated, fuming at her inept handling of the pot, his hand flew close to her cheek, just stopping short of a slap.

Instantly, her eyes glazed with unshed tears.

‘Walk up and down twenty times. Start!’

As whoever was ‘caught’ stumbled on, we froze, inwardly relishing both our temporary safety and her discomfiture.

His temper flared suddenly, when someone did not pick up something fast enough, but subsided just as soon, and he would forget transgressions by the next class.

Today her; tomorrow me.

It all depended on one’s luck that day.