Reveries VII

Soon this will feel like a distant dream. Until then, may you rest in a deep and dreamless slumber. - Elise, Westworld

Chantham Kalindi Nadam - Chess

ചന്തം  കാളിന്ദി നാദം  - ചെസ്സ് 

I loved this movie when I first saw it. (I can never be accused of having particularly good taste). This was mostly because I used to be a huge Dileep fan. (I can never be accused of having particularly good taste). I used to be a huge Dileep fan because I found him extremely funny. (I repeat, I can never be accused of having particularly good taste). 

I wouldn't go so far as to say that it was love at first sight for the Chantham Kalindi song and I. But it was definitely crush at first sight. And then this thing happened at dance class, and my crush developed into a full strength infatuation complete with angry jealousy and fantasies inside my head. 

I may have mentioned this before, but I am not a naturally talented dancer. Today, yes, I am a good dancer - but talent played little to no role in this. In fact, I am naturally inflexible, unimaginative, and have a face like poker met stone. For my first ever dance performance on stage, the teacher spent three whole days trying to explain the concept of shaking my hips to me. I just kept looking between her and my mom, like, "Wait, you guys want me to act like a floozy?" 

(In my defence, I was ten and would never have considered myself sexual in any way.)

An unnatural, disjointed version of the hip shaking was eventually mastered, and I was sent on my way. Onto the next dance class and teacher, where I kept wondering why Sila, the short, round, chubby girl with the huge eyes, kept getting praise, while I stayed invisible. Mellow, my best friend in dance class, was a stunning dancer, way ahead of the rest of us. Tall, graceful, irreverent and funny - she kept acting the goat, thus instantly capturing my heart. On the other hand, the best that could be said of me was that I was not the worst. But where Mellow was careless and Sila childish, I was determined. I didn't know what it was that they were doing, but I would do the things I knew how to do as best as I ever could. I memorized the steps, drank in every last bit of instruction the teacher threw our way, and took to absorbing the other girls' performances. Yes, I literally aped my way into being a good dancer. That's not an exaggeration. 

From Sila, I learned that 90% of what makes a good dancer is a pleasant face. If you smile constantly, beautifully, winningly, nobody will really notice what the rest of your body is doing. And even those that know what to look for will forgive you your flaws, because you made them smile, made them feel glad. 

My last dance class was also my most instructive. Our teacher was - still is, I presume - a complete asshole. As a teacher, he wholeheartedly embraced nepotism and tongue lashing. As a salesman, he wholeheartedly embraced rich parents. I was gawky, ungainly, nervous, super focused on not bursting into tears in public, and very decidedly not rich. I had nothing going for me - nothing except perhaps the lesson of Eklavya. 

My height, age, and the fact that I was not completely rubbish at dancing (despite whatever the teacher would say) meant that I was placed among a group of dancers meant to display the best of the institute's talent. The best of that group has today gone on to start dance schools of their own - and no doubt, do reasonably/ very well at it. 

Shortly after Chess released, two of our best dancers choreographed and performed duets with one of the senior male performers (this guy was a working adult in his 20s, whereas we were all in the 14-16 age group, but no one would dare say these girls didn't pull off their roles as women who danced fabulously.) And one of them chose to dance to Chantham Kalindi Nadam.

The speed and grace with which this song flows (as well as the great justice Bhavana did to it) made it one of the greatest challenges I'd encountered. And my friend pulled. it. off. Everyone agreed that she'd done a great job. And I knew I'd never be able to do something that amazing. 

In third year of college, long after I'd left serious classical dancing behind, it occurred to me that perhaps I might want to participate in the classical solo category for our Eastern Music and Dance competition. You know, I blame the BPD, I blame whimsical impulsiveness, I blame sheer madness for making me think I could actually aspire to such a height. Granted, it wasn't a category likely to see much competition, but there was such a thing as not embarrassing oneself. And I figured, what the hell, why not go all in? 

I picked this song. I listened to it constantly and obsessively for three days straight. I choreographed my own steps, based on the video, cutting out stuff that I most definitely couldn't do. Choreographing slow steps to a fast beat is a dance cheat code, and one I am justly thankful for. I skipped the group dance practices (they made me want to act snobbish and condescending) and hid away in our hostel common room, practicing where no one could see me act like a moron. And the butterflies. were. insane. Sheer physical nausea. Constant breathlessness (what made a chainsmoker think she could dance?) Trying to avoid pain in my feel (thanks, ligament laxity). 

My then roommate was nice enough to download and edit the song to the length I wanted it - something I still don't know how to do. Three or four people came together to help me get ready, although there really wasn't much to it. I was going with a semi classical look rather than a classical look - and I have exactly one picture to commemorate all this (not a great one at that).

EMD 2012

Once on stage, I promptly forgot most of the steps that I'd myself come up with. The golden rule of dancing is, if you slip up, keep smiling. Act like it's all part of the plan. Improvise. 

And nobody noticed a thing. 

I came offstage with my heart in my eyes and my eyes in my ears. Everything was pounding, there was no air left in the world, and why in the world did a chainsmoker think she could dance anymore? 

Having regained my breath, I went out onto the quad and it became instantly clear that the dance had been a hit with the malayalis. (Choosing a malayalam song was also kind of an unusual choice - EMD meant going with Hindi, or if you were feeling South Indian, Tamil.) Upon checking my phone, the first thing I saw was a text from a senior who I'd never spoken to outside of completely random, Kerala-centric conversations or outings. He was telling me I'd done great, and I wondered what compelled him to tell me so - we barely knew each other, after all. But then again, it was a quad party. Everybody was in the process of getting drunk. Such things tend to happen sometimes. 

I then literally ran into a mallu junior who seemed overjoyed. Two steps away from him, and surrounded by my friends when another malayali - the senior who tended to go around being extra macho each time he got drunk - clapped me on the back so hard I was propelled forward. It was a celebration of identity - for a brief moment in time, it had become the sort of celebration of identity we mallus didn't usually indulge in around the rest of the college. After all, it was important, for all of us, to maintain our cosmopolitan cred if we wanted to be taken seriously.  

"Why haven't you been married off yet," someone asked me, in malayalam. "നിന്നെ എന്താ ഇതുവരെ ആരും കെട്ടിച്ചുവിട്ടിട്ടില്ലാത്തത്?" It was the guy who had texted the minute I'd gotten off the stage. The question was so blatantly rude and patriarchal that I was at a loss as to how to respond. And yet there was also the underlying implication, no matter how gawar it may have been, that I had somehow risen in his estimation as being attractive enough that it was now considered dangerous to leave me unmarried. (It's a typically Malayali sentiment/ way of hitting on someone, and one that I'm sure is shared by many other parts of our amazing nation at that.) It was surprising, to say the least, and even more so when he repeated the statement to one of his batchmates. She responded with, "Well, aren't you people (the mallu seniors) supposed to take care of that? Instead she (i.e., me) runs around dating Odiyas and such like." It was important, it seemed, to keep things in the family. 

This was six years ago. That night was important to me - and still is - because I've never performed onstage after that. Until I do, it stays a fixed memory, a marker in time that silently ticks off inconsequential years. But I didn't that anyone else remembered.

A couple of months ago, we invited a couple of our law school neighbours to my best friend's birthday party. I was extremely enthusiastic - making fun of everyone, making people the centre of attention so they feel uncomfortable, laughing "like a hyena", as my dad would say. "Make N dance," I said snarkily, causing N to glare daggers at me. "Whoa," responded A, the other law school invitee. "What about you? I remember you once danced in college and everyone whistled," he said, attempting to pull me into the centre of the room. I promptly sat down and refused to be social for a good five minutes after that. 

Well, damn me and my big mouth, right? A would have been a first year at the time, he was the last person I'd have expected to remember something from so long ago. 

It’s always surprising to be reminded that while you’re watching and thinking about people, all knowing and superior, they’re watching and thinking about you, right back at you.

- Tiffany Aching, A Hat Full of Sky

Speaking of dances in general, a friend linked me the following video - a wonderful piece that also includes Rima Kallingal (🙏🙇‍♀️). Do listen if you have the time, the music is sublime, and so is the dancing. 

Baale - An Anthem for Womanhood

“Why do you go away? So that you can come back. So that you can see the place you came from with new eyes and extra colors."

- Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky