Words, love & dreams

For my muse, Harish Kavirajan and my inspiration, heroine & sister, Shalini Srivatsan

If you are the moon, then I am that imperfect impression nested in the heart of your golden-silver light. Together we create a faultless moon glade

There was a firm, but gentle wind: A zephyr where I carefully planted my dreams, and watched as the wind glided away. Skies beyond, the wind slowed down at your door, and the wind chimes tinkled in delight as you opened the doors, and let my dreams flower at your side.

Your love is like the snow on a mountain top, melting into life when you kiss my warm lips.
Your love is like a summer breeze settling under the shade of a tree when your hand weaves into mine.
Your love is like autumn leaves, full of hues, filling my eyes with the colours of desire.
Your love is like the green of spring, wholesome and sweet, serenading me with sacred promises.

I wish I was the rain, so you would look at me with the dream filled eyes that gaze endlessly into the storm.

I'll smile today, and laugh heartily. And, if I cannot, then I will smile and laugh through you.

I would like to be loved the way the morning dew kisses the soft petals of a blossoming rose.

Your eyes mesmerise me. I look into their depths and see the missing pieces of my own heart.

When my hand rests against your heart, I feel my soul sing in it's every beat.
And when our lips meet, then, oh, I know I am complete.

A sister's hold is like none other. It will steady you forever and swathe you in love.
A sister's hold is like a protective seal of gentle perfection.
A sister's hold is an intimate conversation promising love, eternal.

I am the wind that flies with you as you ride into the sunset,
I am the sparkling river that bends with you towards the sunset,
I am the warmth lighting the road that you ride on,
I am the heart that stays with you, always, as you ride on

At the end of a long, tiring day, coming home is warm and reassuring. Finding you there - that is magic.

Weird....

I find myself inching away from living. It is, at times, a terrifying experience, but in the spaces between the scary moments, it is liberating.

When I am not bound by anxiety or panic, I love this feeling of obtuse indifference - like I am in the calm before the storm. And somehow, everyday more blandness and blankness pushes the storm farther and farther away.

It is an interesting experience, this: to not think, or feel. The downside is that I am walled up against experiencing the good things too. The upside, well now that is out of this world - like a caged animal on display that is sitting sedately in a corner of it's prison, unmoved by passers by - by their jibes, or by their awe. I carry on with life, unmoved and unfazed by the rashness or judgement of others

Love by choice

A few words inspired by a quote I read today!

It's about choice isn't it? Everything boils down to choice. No matter what I say or do, or don't say and don't do, choice is what matters. My choice lays the foundation for every further action, inaction, or next choice.

I choose to love you. And I am glad I have the ability to make that choice. I choose to love you despite the fact that many times, I am flummoxed by your choices; your decisions; your actions.

I choose to love you. I also chose to tell you how I feel. I chose to acknowledge that shunning you from my thoughts and feelings leaves me feeling incomplete and alone. I choose to share all my hopes and dreams and my trials and tribulations.

The best thing of course is that I choose to love you - time and time again

Bike hard, Bike far

I could hear it,
the sound was guttural - deep.

It was growing louder still,
The nuances of the biker's movements
Clear from the sounds

Again, I heard the throttle,
There was a distinct sound,
The rider would have carved
The bend in the road.

Then, there was a sudden pull,
I could see the beacons of yellow light
Illuminating the road ahead

And then, I could see it,
Rider and bike,
Twisting the wick,
Approaching at full throttle

A beatific beast
Powerful and sure.
Triumph - the name suited
both rider and bike.

It slowed down, next to me,
Eager to journey on,
I waved it off,
Watched as they rode into the sun,
Ready to move the soul

A place of escape

There is a scene in The Lion King, where Mufasa and Simba are overlooking a beautiful landscape. This scene has been used and misused world over to express a variety of emotions. To me, that view and looking at it is what my heart yearns for now, and time and time again.
There is a gentle breeze and my hair finds freedom in the wind. I breathe in freshness and a sense of life. I see the savannah grasslands for miles on end, lone trees scatter the land beyond, and even further - at the end of everything - the distinct, crisp horizon.

It is a pleasant day. The African sun shines gently on my arms and then pleasantly moves behind the almost grey (is it almost white?) clouds. It is weather that appeals - not hot and stark, not cold and bereft, but just pleasant.

There is a wholesome quietness around me. It awakens my senses. I can smell the rain soaked mud from yonder. I see the golden light fall between the shadows of the blades of dancing grass. I hear the lilting melodies of birds - some that I can see, some lost in the surrounding fauna. A stark vulnerability and humility exudes from me as I stand here alone - exposing my soul to the universe.

And then I see it. At first it is just an inconsequential movement. My eyes anticipate the flicker of a dark tail, my heart beat has picked up in excitement. Possibility is turning into a silhouette and has gradually formed an existence. She is beautiful: A graceful yellow matching the play of light on the wheat-like carpet of savannah. I can see her stride confidently, queen of camouflage; queen of the savannah; queen of everywhere. She lifts her head now and looks about her. The air brings her news of my presence. She turns slowly and sits back on her haunches. Her golden eyes scanning her surroundings, stopping at me for a few minutes, capturing my soul with her gaze and then she is gone: into the grass, and far beyond my sight: from lioness to a shadow, to movement, to a flickering, to quiet, and an imprinted memory.

Around me the wind blows on, the birds sing, things I cannot see live on. The sun plays with the clouds and I feel the tears pour down my face, cleansing the anguish in my heart, purging the daily worries in my mind. The cares have vanished with my tears, and laughter gurgles out of me. I smile, content. This is my moment of peace and acceptance. It is my place of complete escape.

A Magical Friend

We had the strangest feeling as we looked to the North. It was as if the whole forest was moving and coming towards us. Slowly, we could make out the comical figure of a harried man, with a top hat befitting a wizard, running in front of the blackness, dashing madly as if death itself was behind him. A minute later we spied the sprightly shadow of a cat and it was soon evident that the magician was pursued not by an onerous monster, but a wee cat!

Winter Fairy and I were grappling with a fit of laughter as the man in a wizard hat dashed past us, into the comforting circle of trees that was doused in the golden light of sunset. Soon the cat, in it's black fur, and startling blue eyes was in front of us, paused as if considering something, and then stopped down.

Convinced that the cat was harmless, I approached her cautiously. She sat on her haunches, watching me with an air of confidence that belied the trembling fur on her body. She purred frightfully as I bent down and reached for her, but slowly snuggled into my arms.

For a few minutes I was paralysed and surprised that I did not throw her out of my hands in fright. This little cat had just spoken to me, as a human would. As if in a daze, I found myself listening to her tiny voice. She was not pursuing the wizard out of malice, but simply trying to explain to him that she was not some evil manifestation. She explained to us how one of the wizards experiments had given her speech. She had kept this a secret for ever so long and had finally taken a chance and spoken to the startled old man a few minutes earlier. I couldn't help smiling as she described how the wizard had burst out of his hut, running like the wind, stark fear evident in his every stride. I sobered down as I noticed the pearl sized tears filling the cats eyes.

I turned towards the trees where the wizard had taken refuge and I could see that he was listening to the cat's story. I made my way cautiously towards him, Winter fairy at my side, not wanting to frighten the quaint cat, or the fidgety wizard.

We were almost at arms length from him, when the wizard leapt out from behind his hiding place, and strode towards us mumbling and muttering, "That spell - always, always getting me into problems. Oh dear, oh dear. I shall never again alter it. But what a cat to give me a fright. A poor old wizard like me. And how they laughed. Oh, this cat." The rest of his soliloquy was obscure.

He was at our side now and he quickly took cat out of my arms and bowed down low to us. He continued walking towards the forest, holding cat gently, and muttering to her. I saw him look back once, a twinkle in his eye and a merry smile on his lips. And then he was lost in the dense greens of the forest.

I have learnt since then that the clumsy, comical wizard is more than that. He has a reputation of being one of the most powerful magicians of this land and beyond; perhaps of this time and beyond. Winter fairy narrates stories of great battles that have been won because of him. There is a desire now, deep in my heart, to meet the wizard and to be friends with him. I believe he will have the most interesting stories to tell. But more than that - I think of that twinkle in his eye and I know that we must be friends - I feel it in my bones. Winter fairy will have nothing to do with it and thinks I am unhinged. She says wizards are best left alone. I don't think so. I think the wizard and I will be the best of friends...

Today, I find myself walking into the Northern forest and approach a lopsided cottage. I am excited as I knock on the rickety door in front of me.

A familiar white hat and blue robe welcome me inside. Beyond at the tiny table laid out with scrumptious looking food is an old man.

"Welcome, child, " he lifted his goblet, "to happy times."

I walked in and gave him a hug. This was the start of a wonderful friendship"

Your love, my life.

You teach me to love what I know:
The was, is and what will always be.
You look at the things I know,
The things I have and treasure -
Brush it gently with colour
give it taste and flavour.
You let me love all that is mine.

You teach me to look deep within
And see the things I don't often see.
You show me beauty,
Outside of what I already know.
You show me that here and there,
now and later, old and new, can all come together.
You let me love all that can be.

You are my tree trunk with it's deep roots.
You are my branches dancing in the wind.
You are my eternal shade,
You are my hope for the sky.
You are who I am and all that I can be.

Why you should...

... spell my name the correct way.

For those of you who know me, you are well aware of the fact that my pet peeve (if it can be called that) is having my name spelled incorrectly. From when I was young, I have had people kill my name by pronouncing it in ridiculous ways. Whilst this is annoying, I often find myself understanding the difficulties associated with speaking foreign words. My sympathy, however, does not extend itself from phonetics to spelling.

It seems to me that people enjoy spelling my name wrong. And I can tell you here and now that that is the pinnacle of rubbish-like things to do. Why?

Well, let me tell you something. When I read my name spelt Shruti or Sruti or any thing that is not Shruthi- you have already dropped about 50 levels down into my moron - alert box. But being the nice person I am, I communicate and let you know that my name is spelt SHRUTHI. At this point I feel that anyone with half a brain will understand that I expect to be addressed correctly. Sadly, sense is really very uncommon, and many a times, I will have people communicate back and still use the incorrect spelling of my name.

Whoa! So, now you are not only at the bottom of my moron list, you have now told me you are a brainless git. Those who write to me in the professional sphere, and continually misspell my name - you have got to be kidding me! It tells me that you are a moron, with no brains, and no interest in actually paying attention to what you are doing, and what you are telling me. If I respond to you - it is simply me being professional. Kindly note that anything I do for you hence-forth is done because it has to be, and under duress... and as you continue misspelling my name, the number of curses you are accumulating grows at an alarming rate.

Then, there are the personal messages - from friends, uncles, aunts, cousins, acquaintances etcetera etcetera. So, I get all sorts of excuses - typos, default spell checker options, memory lapse, aggravation (aggravating me on purpose, that is) and bull shit and bull shit and more bull shit. So, there you have it. That is exactly what I am thinking. My reaction to you may vary - I may laugh it off, I may get mad, I may ignore it.... but remember the moron level always keeps note!

So let's do us all a favour and spell my name correctly - SHRUTHI!

Heart & Soul

What do you know of my heart,
Heart of my heart?
Do you know the unrelenting worries
that fill my mind, unseen by the world?
Do you know the assiduous doubts
that oft plague my heart?

What do you know of my heart,
dearest friend of my soul?
You see my smile and my tears,
but do you see deeper still?
You hear me dance and see me sing
but can you feel my pulse within?

Heart of my heart,
dearest friend of my soul,
Between the two of you,
there is me.
And yet, how distant you
strive to be!

Listen, Look, Feel

Listen.
Listen to the rustling leaves
as they whisper the Earth's secrets;
Look.
Look at the magical colours
of the Sun warming the illumined Sky;
Feel.
Feel the Water wash against the
Shining shore, bathing it in eternal bliss.

Little Cat's Adventure

Once upon a time there was a little cat called, Little Cat, who was often mistaken for a kitten. Little Cat was happy to be thought of (well, majority of the time) as a kitten.

This was one of those times. If people knew that he was not a kitten he was going to be in big trouble. He didn't mean to have done any damage. It just sort of happened, you know?

It all started in the wee hours of the morning. The sun was shining bright and Little Cat was having trouble sleeping, so he crept out of his tiny basket and stalked lazily to the window sill. The sun was exuberantly inviting beyond the curtains that were in Little Cat's way, blocking him from the delights of the mirthful sunshine. Little Cat crouched low on his paws and sneaked under the giant cream curtains. The sun glistened against the silver sheers and Little Cat pranced about, enjoying the play of the sun rays against his golden fur.

But, Little Cat soon tired of this game, so under the sheers he went and stood overlooking the wonderful garden outside: how delightful it all looked! Now, Little Cat simply did not understand why he should be here, inside, behind this big boring window when all the world's delightful things were on the outside.

Little Cat cried out in a kitten-like mew and turned away from the window, almost as if he was resigned to his imprisonment, when a noise from the glorious world outside caught his attention. Lo and behold, there outside was Little Cat's arch enemy - Big Cat. And, Big Cat was mewing and prancing around the garden with no care in the world.

This was the last straw! Little Cat would not tolerate this. He had to go into the sun and smell the roses too, and loiter around with his tail straight-up, he was sure he would look better than Big Cat. Little Cat made a plan. He was going to break free. He scooted back into his room, where his tiny basket was resting disapprovingly in the corner. He looked around and meowed in satisfaction as he found what he was looking for - his escape from misery, out into the garden.

Silently, Little Cat stole into the cupboard and emerged hastily pawing and moving a hard, white golf ball and a soft yarn of wool. He easily lopped onto the table and expertly looped the wool, using his paws and jaws,around the golf ball and then over and around the light bulb. Little Cat, then clamped his jaw over the other end of the yarn, where the golf ball was secured. He began to spin around in giant circles, faster and faster, till he was dizzy and clumsily scampered to a corner, as the white ball, also dizzy, hit the gap in the curtains and tore through the sheers.

"Bannnng," there was a huge clatter and Little Cat slinked out of his corner, a big grin spreading across his whiskers:a Cheshire grin, calling to mind the larger than life grin of the cat in Alice in Wonderland.

Little Proud Cat strutted towards and examined the big break in the window. It was perfect. He squeezed through and flopped straight into the muddy garden patch. He eventually crawled out of the mud and continued to strut along the stony path where Big Cat had strolled, earlier. Little Cat stopped in front of the red roses and sniffed the air and shook his head in delight.He then had a delightful time chasing a red robin from it's various perches. Mewing in delight, he walked around and about, heedless to the mud he was depositing on the white stone path.

He crept under the bushes and spotted Big Cat. Deciding that nothing would be more fun than to scare Big Cat by jumping on him, he stealthily inched his way towards his adversary. "meoooowwww!" Little Cat leapt ferociously onto Big Cat's stunned and startled back!

"MEEEEEOOOOWWW!" Big Cat, bewildered, threw off his attacker and scrambled into his kennel.

Little Cat was the happiest animal in the world! He whistled and played around in what was now his garden.

Some minutes later, Little Cat was playing catch with a butterfly, when a dark looming shadow passed over him. He wasn't scared of Big Cat, so he didn't care. He moved left to see if the sun would shine on him again, but it didn't. He moved to the right and still no sunshine fell on him.

Little Cat turned around to see why Big Cat had such a big shadow, but there was no Big Cat to be seen, and before he could turn around again, something hit him hard on his back, and then many things pelted him. Little cat mewed in terror, he had never felt such big rain drops! And how they pursued him as he scrambled onto the stone path and sprinted for his life. Knowing he couldn't enter Big Cat's kennel, he dragged himself past it and ran towards the great big window with the golf ball hole.

But Little Cat had a problem, he needed to climb a pretty white ledge to reach the window, and he was as muddy as muddy can be. Little cat was shivering now, his fur dirty and wet, as the thunder boomed, and the lightning seemed to chase his tail. Little Cat climbed and slithered, climbed and slithered, and at last he reached his window sill. The thunder boomed again and little cat scampered into his little hole; scrambled over the sheers, leaving them brown; tangled himself, panicked, into the curtains (marking them brown with his wet, soiled fur). How the rain scared him!

Disentangling himself, he ran to his basket, leaving paw marks behind, and cowered in his basket. He heard his mistresses voice call out to him, and he was relieved that she thought he was a kitten, because a cat like him would never do all the naughty things he had, and a cat like him would not be scared of the rain! He mewed piteously as she approached him.

Memories

This is no common log. I don’t care what anyone says. I don’t care that they say it is just a log. This log has soul!

Over the last twelve months, I had frequently sat on the log, or next to it; near it. My tab, a stylus, a blanket to sit on, and a dream accompanied me there, last November. I remember slipping into slumber with a smile on my face, reminiscing. The smell of the rain-soaked soil and the whiff of wild Cyprus accompanied the gentle breeze, and I lazily opened my eyes to watch my mum stroll towards me, and sit down. Snuggling my head on her lap, we shared a few laughs.

Tears flooded down my face. I vainly attempted to fight back the wrenching sobs that had begun to master me. It was futile. I was lost. I was in pain. I lay down and crouched, clutching my legs close to my heart, the thudding head ache starting to get unbearable. And there she was again; my head was resting on her lap once more, and her soothing words quietened my broken heart.

We decided to have a little picnic. There was a new patch of moss on the elephant skinned centre of the log. It was the perfect seat, soft and comfortable, as we enjoyed herb scones and tea. Mum was reading my latest blog entry, a smile playing on her pearl pink lips. How beautiful she looked in her pastel - green sari with big, red, rose prints. Her brown eyes looked at me as I watched her. Her motherly hands, slightly wrinkled now, beckoned me to her. I sat at her side as she planted a kiss on my cheek and held my hand in hers.

“It’s a fantastic piece. You should send it out to some magazines or newspapers.” I clutched those words to my heart and locked them there, securely.

It became our regular haunt. Today we were sketching and painting. Mum on a chair, with a shawl wrapped around her delicate shoulders, as she painted on her canvas, every line perfect. One would never know that the log was something dead – discarded and left alone, abandoned from its heart and life. The painting said otherwise; you could see the moss thriving on it; the birds that visited it regularly were full of life, you could almost hear their trills, their bright colours perfectly set against the dark grey tree stump. And in front of it, there was me. How beautiful she had made me look. A strand of hair fell across my face; I sat cross-legged, busy sketching in a book that lay open in front of me. That evening, we stayed out until the sun set and then slowly made our way back home, my hand safe in my mum’s.

I saw the tremor in her hand as she wrote down recipes for me, and my whole life shook. With a catch in my throat I approached her.

“Look Amma! I think we have a visitor today.”

She turned to see what I was pointing at. He was a chubby little fellow. And scared, he was quickly retreating into the hollow of the log. But curiosity must have got the better of him. He peeked again, smudged with the mud around him. I called to him quietly, picked him up and placed him on her lap. Her laughter was as beautiful as a child’s. She almost gurgled in glee. How many little secrets we had shared here! I never knew before, how much mum loved dogs. And here he was - her very own little Alsatian pup; my little gift to her. But her gift was more precious – her life, her secrets, her laughter, and her love! How much love she showered on me!

I promised to come here to learn and grow; to watch and live. Our visits to the log were more spaced now. I remember the last time we were there together. Mum insisted we spend the whole day out. She was beautiful as always, but paler and weaker. I remember clearly the warmth in her brown eyes as she gently spoke to me as if afraid she was running out of time to say everything she wanted to. We were leaning against our log, Bruno bounding along the garden chasing away at anything and nothing, triumphantly prancing back to us at intervals, seeking our attention, and finally sitting next to mum, as she gently ran her hands over his soft fur. I inched close to her and we wrapped ourselves in a single blanket, I rested my head on her shoulders, and kissed her soft cheeks. But mostly I listened to her - straining to imprint every word in my mind; I quenched my thirsty eyes by watching her; I desperately clung on to her wizened hands; I wanted this moment to last forever; I wanted every moment with her to last forever.

And here I am now; sitting next to our log. I close my eyes and I can feel her with me. She is in the wind and in every beautiful sight that meets my eye. I see the moss that has grown graciously over the log - adding such beauty to its stark greyness. I see it like I would see it with her. I will let the log go, when it wants to. I will not leave it abandoned, again.

Questions

Am I a rain drop,
Falling delicately onto
Your heart's earth?
Or, am I the torrential
Storm that brims your
Heart with longing?

Am I a red rose
You gaze upon
In wondrous pleasure?
Or, am I a thorn
That pricks your soul
Marking you forever?

Am I the sparkle in your eye
that blooms into
a hearty smile?
Or, am I a well of sadness
hidden in your glance,
searching for liberation?

Am I the love,
sweet and steady
filling your life?
Or, am I the love,
passionate and erratic,
capturing your soul?

A different way of doing common things...

Time

​Here is my story, or a part of it - a little Time captured for you. Come if you wish and take a look. Call me what you will, Judge me as you will. I have been mortal, and felt what mortal's feel​; I have done more than most. I was time and I am time: I change and still, never change. I am here, I am there; Timeless and omniscient. I am time and without love I seize to be. Come then, take a look at a hidden part of me.

He perched himself atop the tree and looked ahead​​ into the distance. Today, he was a little tired. He slowed down. He would fly onwards soon​ - not just yet. It was the right kind of place to ​rest​: trees nestled close together and a beautiful quiet hummed in the background. ​Time wished he could enjoy the beauty of it all​. He knew he ​should not stop​; Yet, how tempting it was to halt and ​see everything when he was immobile​​ - to gaze at the golden, crimson sun rising, manifesting its majesty over the world. 

Sighing, he lifted his pearl white wings and set off again.

"Time! Time!" He heard the distinct voice from somewhere below. It was a voice that appealed. It reminded him of a river gurgling at the start of its journey from the mountain springs.

Oh, how long it had been since Time had heard such a call. 

"Time! Time!" The call was unmistakable. Time landed, lightly​,​ on the rich soil, pulled in his wings​ and halted. Before him was the yesterday he was denied. 

She w​as clothed in elven green. An inch shorter than Time, she wore her flowing dress like it was part of her figure-perfect body. The sunlight glistened in her hazel eyes and the natural, pinch-me cheek colour, just above her dimples, turned deep red in pleasure as she saw Time. Her mouth was exactly as he remembered - pink, full, soft.

"Time," she smiled as she walked towards him. "How you take my breath away, darling!" 

Time kissed her; almost like nothing had changed. "I looked for you," he breathed between kisses, "I searched and searched."

A sadness filled her eyes and Time was sorry he had said anything. "I know, my love. I've found you now." 

And Time forgot to fly on. He was here with her. He only knew her. He loved her and held her close to his heart. The sun was still and inert; the breeze stunned in mid-air; the river stood silent.

"You must leave now, Time." 

​Time looked at her. "Would you have me leave, and break our hearts?"

Her voice was heavy as she responded, "I would have you leave, so everyone can taste love. I would have you leave so we can meet again. I will have you leave so we can see the beauty of the night again. I will have you leave, my love, because you must leave, to live and let everything live." 

Time looked at her again, his heart full. He was angry and defeated. He turned around and flew far, through the day and into the night, ceaselessly, carelessly - willing his mind and heart to forget her. He flew endlessly and fast, through the rains​, past the mountains; He didn't see the lovers' sorrows as they parted in minutes, he didn't see the disappointment or excitement anyone felt. Time was broken, angered at his destiny; angry at her for letting him go. And so, he flew on and on, perpetually. His pace changed at times, but he never stopped. At times he heard her voice call out to him and he flew farther and faster. He vowed to never stop for that voice. How it pained him.

Eons passed and at last Time slowed down, and on a moonlit night he pulled in his ever bright wings. The pain had eased over the last few flights. The anger had slowly given room to understanding. He looked into the river and saw the moon light there and a reflection of himself- silver haired & ageless. Time had learnt to see, now. He saw everything - he saw the trees grow, the flowers blossom. He saw everyone and everything. He wept and laughed with people who couldn't see him. And he wept and laughed for himself and her. He knew at last what to do. 

"Time?" she sounded nervous, afraid she would be spurned again. 

He turned around. Her hazel eyes filled with the wisdom he had never understood. Her smile, as she looked at him was wholesome, as if she knew that Time now understood; She knew that at last he knew her. 

He watched her approach him, as the moonlight enveloped her in an ethereal light, cloaking her body in moonlight attire. He found his breath catch, as she sat next to him. 

"Your hair is silver." It was a simple statement but he could think of nothing else to say.

She merely nodded. "Yes, Time"

"You are love and I love you," He whispered. His hand found her waist and he held her tight against him as he kissed her lips, There was no longer a need to question. This was their destiny. The moonlight cloaked them both as if binding them forever. 

" I am love, and you are Time. I love you" 

He would fly again with love by his side. He kissed her again​. They were together now, timeless.

Bharatha Natyam: A corruption of the Art

Bharatha Natyam is a classical Indian dance form. When I say classical dance form, I mean that it adheres to certain core techniques, structures and rules. It is a disciplined art that has gained fame world-wide, so much so that Bharatha Natyam and Indian culture are near synonymous.

As a student and teacher of this beautiful art, I am often thrilled that it has gained such a centric role in society's understanding of dance and culture. But this popularity has come with a heavy price - one that makes me shudder at the core. It is my opinion that Bharatha Natyam is now the most corrupt of all Indian dance forms. 

I recently read an article that classified practitioners of this art form into four categories: Those that adhere to the traditions and only the original themes of the art, those who stay within the traditional aspects of the dance but emote newer themes and ideas, those who experiment with new ideas, but still remain within the framework of the art, and finally those that completely ruin this beautiful art form.

Over the years, there has been a change to the way in which I react to the poisoned dancing that is passed off as Bharatha Natyam - From amusement, to contemplation, to tolerance, to anger and now, succinct intolerance. I find it completely offensive that someone would say they are performing Bharatha Natyam and appear on stage, shoddily dressed, with murky make up, body posture that would make a hyena weep in shame, and run amok across the platform with no concept of Bharatha Natyam involved.

A week or so ago, I was at one of those shows that had yet another one of those performances where, as a dancer, I want to hit my head against the wall and bleed to death - an experience that is bound to be less painful than watching the dance. Better yet, I wanted to go up on stage as the dancers were performing and tell them that whilst I appreciate the supposed hard-work they have put in, they are insulting the stage, the art the audience, themselves, and most definitely Lord Nataraja (The Indian God of Dance) and they should stop with immediate effect.

Unlike informal dancing, or the non-classical dance forms, classical dances cannot be performed by all and sundry, often it is not even enjoyed by all and sundry. This is something we must accept at the very outset if we are to find a way to free Bharatha Natyam from its current poisoning. 

To dance Bharatha Natyam one must inculcate discipline in life and within the dance itself. While experimenting within its boundaries and exploring a dancer's creativity can be magical, stepping too far out of Bharatha Natyam's borders has disastrous consequences. 

Let us take a close look at how Bollywood dancing and Bharatha Natyam are often mingled into some kind of distasteful gumbo. Bollywood movies are such fun, not only for their drama, but also because of the dance and song that is central to their structure. In the old days, dancers such as Vyjayanthimala would be seen dancing gracefully to semi-classical steps. Sometimes, you would see them render Bharatha Natyam as well - and they would dance it as it was meant to be danced. As time moved on, we had another set of dancers gracing the screens with delicate and nimble moves, but when they rendered Bharatha Natyam to Bollywood music, small changes began to appear: Suddenly, there was an introduction of exaggerated hip movements; the hands were stiff, as required in Bharatha Natyam, but the movements were not defined; The Aramandi (demi-plié) that is the core posture of Bharatha Natyam was ignored; The foot work was obscure and far too light to be called Bharatha Natyam. Audiences focused on the lilting music, the pretty faces and natural grace of the heroines, and wrote off any concerns - "It isn't really Bharatha Natyam, It is graceful; it is pretty." 

And today, horror of horrors, we see numerous dancers (sometimes and horrifyingly) the hero and heroine, in Bharatha Natyam attire, hobbling up and down, pretending to do an adavu (or step). (Thai hath thai hi and tha dhith thai ya - the two most misused steps, leave us dancers cringing in embarrassment. Any dancers who read this will relate to me). Things get even worse when Bharatha Natyam is danced to Bollywood songs, in Bollywood style (for lack of a better word). The excuses for this are many fold - people enjoy the music better, the meaning of the songs are more relate-able for dancer and connoisseur, the song is so catchy....this and that. Hear this: STOP! All of that is frankly a load of crap. Bharatha Natyam if executed well, will endear itself to any audience, who have an inkling to appreciate the art.

For the dancers out there - If you are graceful and want to dance - please go ahead, pick any music, from anywhere, and dance your heart out, but leave the Bharatha Natyam out of it, unless you treat it with the respect it deserves. (Truth be told, some dances are truly horrific when called Bharatha Natyam but fairly decent as far as informal or contemporary dance is concerned). If you are learning from a teacher - ensure that you learn the true art. If you do not know what you should be learning - gather information, from the right sources. Ignorance is no excuse. Do not lie to yourselves and say that you are dancing Bharatha Natyam; more importantly be honest with your audience. As the artiste it is your rendition that will educate an audience. For someone who has never heard of, or seen Bharatha Natyam, your performance speaks to them - in effect faking it means cheating them and corrupting their understanding.

For the educated audience - false praises serve no purpose except to further poison the dancer and the art form. If you know what Bharatha Natyam should be and you watch something that holds no validity in the field and persist in congratulating the dancer(s) on their superior and articulate performance, you have failed. Do not get me wrong, I am not advocating for everyone to be a critic - but if the dance was not what it should be, praise the dancers beauty, tell her to move into different arts, suggest that they look up references that you know of where they can learn about good, sound Bharatha Natyam. Do your part in fostering and caring for the art you love. These days there are too many artists trying too many fancy things and forgetting the original beauty of Bharatha Natyam - innovation does not mean corruption. 

For the uneducated audience - learn before you appreciate. It is not that hard to distinguish between a good dancer and a bad dancer, if you know what to look for. Yes, it is slightly harder to recognize and appreciate technique, but as an audience to a classical performance, you have to learn. For example, Bharatha Natyam is a classical dance from Southern India. It has some basic techniques that must be followed. The dancer's posture is a basic stance, where the back is straight, the feet open at 180 degrees and the knees bent in a demi-plié. The hands and elbows are lifted at shoulder level. Footwork is structured and well defined. There is a gracefulness and delicacy of movement wherein hands, eyes, feet, passion and emotion come together beautifully to create an unforgettable dance. The dancers make-up, jewellery and attire all have significance, and should be worn with care. The first indication of the authenticity of a performance is the dancers posture and mien - if these are wrong, it is very likely that the dancing is not what it claims to be.

To the parents of Bharatha Natyam students - dancing Bharatha Natyam is a commitment from everyone involved. If you do not know about the dance, watch, learn and ask. Do not accept anything less than the actual art form, from teacher or student. It is wrong for you to allow your child to go on stage and do a mere jig in the name of Bharatha Natyam - you are failing your child and yourself. And parents, whilst it must be thrilling to have your child perform, be patient. Read the paragraph above, explain to your children the importance of posture, of precision, assist them and the teacher in getting them to a level where, even when they are not performing on stage, people can tell that they are dancers - there is a natural, almost ethereal beauty that becomes an integral part of a dancer - allow them and yourselves to learn and understand the true magic of Bharatha Natyam

To the teachers out there - we understand the beauty that is Bharatha Natyam. For a lot of us, it is an integral part of our daily lives. We embrace it in our routine task and when we dance or choreograph, we aim to impart our students with the same appreciation of the art. And yet, there are some of us who will settle for less, allow ourselves to be coaxed (or coax others) to introduce blatantly non-Bharatha Natyam concepts to the dance. We have to ask ourselves, why? If it was not love for the art form that got you teaching, then perhaps it would be better to stick to contemporary dancing. To be sure, let us encourage creativity within the dance form - but let us leave Bharatha Natyam untainted and pure. 

If we all take the responsibility, at least within our own spheres of influence, to really distinguish between quality dancing and vacuous movement in the name of dancing - perhaps then, we can slowly remove the corruption that is eating at the heart of Bharatha Natyam.

Malady

I awake knowing there is another day ahead -

My body rebels against my conditioned mind.

I feel my muscles yearning to stretch,

A sigh escapes me as they crumple in surrender:

a soundless defeat.

There is a heaviness in my movement

and a slowness of thought, reminding me of Keats -

this is "a cold numbness", and yes,

my sluggish mind strains, as if

I have absorbed all the hemlock in the world.

But I crawl on, holding back the melancholy

tears that permeate my being.

"What is the matter with me?"

The face in the mirror stares back sullenly, mutely.

My lips stretch out into a plastered smile;

I plod on through the day.

I bite back the savage piques

That prey on my tongue.

They slither away from me on occasion -

Swell my fretfulness to bursting point.

My brain thinks of a million things

And forgets in moments all the important ones;

The futility of the day

Is almost tactile.

I idly seek understanding,

I leisurely pursue patience,

I despair in failing and

Hide my dreary self,

From the world outside,

From myself inside,

I only hope that as I lose myself

There are those who can find me yet

Rain

The weather is stunning this morning: it is cold, grey and raining pleasantly. I love this "gloomy" weather. It makes me think of reading a captivating novel, wrapped up in a warm blanket, sitting in bed or on the couch, and sipping on a satisfying, hot, chocolate drink.

It makes me dream - of things such as walking up a hill, barefoot, feeling the muddy glory of the earth on my feet, as it pours down on me. It awakens the romance in me; getting drunk on the smell of a sweet bunch of red roses; the taste of a long, lingering kiss, from my lover's lips, as the rain falls on us - a benediction from nature.

The rain is propitious because it speaks of freshness - a reawakening of nature and of self. It always makes me feel calmly happy when I see the grass, lush green and inviting, in the aftermath of a downpour. This is a stark and dramatic transformation especially when you are surrounded by Savannah; a thrilling transformation. Every thing looks clean and fresh, and the smell of rain-mud is tantalising. Dew drops, resting on leaves and petals alike, are not only gorgeous to look at but seem to serve as a reminder that water is life. And I, in my dreamy, rainy world, feel at one with the elements - like I am new and ready to be one with the rain.

I suppose it is the power of nature that reaches out to me when it is raining. It carries my mind in any direction it chooses. Irrevocably, when it is raining, I find myself staring out the window watching the pitter-patter of rain drops against the glass; I soak in the varying moods of the rain shower as it thunderously ravages the earth, and then sanguinely slows into a soft, sensual drizzle... And my thoughts are one with the rain excited, full and robust, questioning, playful, thoughtful and then calm matching the gentle rhythm of the rain fall...

Love's comfort

Some days I am a world of unhappiness,

When loved ones and their happiness

Seem aloof; I do not belong with them - 

Lest my unhappiness blemish their sparkle

Yet, in that sadness I crave most

The wholesome sweetness of

A loved one's comfort -

That moment when they reach out

And cover my broken spirit

With a warmth of compassion

Just a thought

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Charles Bukowski's The Perks of Being a Wallflower, a few months ago. I am not sure if the story on its own would appeal to me, but the writing and flow of the book are simply stunning; many of the quotes stuck with me (If not verbatim, their meaning and sense are still very vivid in my mind)

" I think that if I ever have kids, and they are upset, I won't tell them that people are starving in China or anything like that because it wouldn't change the fact that they were upset. And even if somebody else has it much worse, that doesn't really change the fact that you have what you have. Good and bad." Charles Bukowski, The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

The gist of this quote keeps popping in and out of my brain, and has been preoccupying a lot of my thoughts over the last day or so. I love it and at this moment in time feel that it is so relevant to my life. It captures things perfectly - every one has problems and I am sure people out there are going through things that are a lot worse on the problem meter than my issues...but right now, to me, my daily stresses are significant and are no more or no less important than anyone else's. I just love the way C. Bukowski has said so much in such a simple way....