Paati has a faraway look in her eyes.
“Dr. Dhanam is a different kind of dancer.
Your thatha and I went to watch her once.
She focused on pure abhinaya—emotional expression.
A very unusual performance.
When she was done, the audience didn’t clap.
Everyone was weeping. With joy.
It felt as though she’d given us a glimpse of heaven.
She danced only to devotional songs
expressing Bhakthi rasa, the love of God.
Onstage she became—invisible—”
“Invisible?” I’m not too sure what Paati means,
but maybe Dr. Dhanam
could teach me to improve my dance
in ways I’ve ignored.
If she doesn’t turn me away.
“I’m not explaining well.” Paati sighs. “How can I?
I never was a dancer.”
The wistfulness in Paati’s tone surprises me.
“Did you want to be a dancer, Paati?”
She never hinted at such a desire before.
Or maybe I wasn’t listening.
“Dance was too much
for me to want.
It was forbidden to Brahmin girls like me.
Those days,
dance was practiced only by devadasis:
women who were supposed to dedicate their dances to God.
Bharatanatyam was meant to be a sacred art,
through which dancers could reach
a higher plane, carrying the audience with them.
They had a measure of freedom,
those women of the dancer caste.
Even wealth of their own.
But they paid a price, a terrible price.
They weren’t allowed to marry.
And somehow, somewhere along the way,
society retracted
its promise to respect these women.
They were treated as prostitutes
and their sacred art degraded
into entertainment to please vile men.”
NAILS
and
SPEARS
Thrust out of a nightmare
I wake to
pain.
Feel
nails and spears.
Jabbing.
Flesh throbbing beneath my knee
where nothingness should be.
My bladder is full.
I feel for my crutches.
Not by my bed
where they should be.
Clenching my teeth to keep from crying out,
I fumble for the light switch.