Last summer, when my family and I visited my dad’s hometown in Goa, India, we saw a local dance form called samayi nrutya: literally, diya dance. The dancers, a dozen or so women between the ages of 25 and 45, each balanced a samayi, a foot-long, oil-lit diya, on their heads. In the background, a percussionist played a steady beat and a singer sang the same melodic phrase over and over as the dancers moved, synchronized and sure, creating elaborate acrobatic formations without ever letting the diyas on their heads falter. I watched, mesmerized. Graceful, strong, and feminine, the dancers captivated our small audience.
I am no stranger to dance. I remember, growing up, walking with my mom to a kathak (another Indian classical dance form) class twice a week for almost five years when we lived in Pune. But I also remember quitting it when we moved to the US and practically never dancing again as I sank deeper into the negative image I had of myself as a skinny, lanky tween. I was no stranger to dance, but I was no dancer, either.
Watching these older women, who had no doubt looked at least somewhat similar to me when they were in their early teens, be so naturally beautiful was incredible to me. The diversity in their years seemed to disappear as they molded their bodies to form stepping stones for the others or a namaste as they became the peak of a pyramid; they were ageless. In wordless communication with each other, they crafted each choreographed formation with ease, each woman an essential part of the final shape. And to do it all with a tall samayi on their heads! Dressed in simple, moveable sarees, with the flowing fabric tucked firmly into the waistband and their hair slicked back into a bun, they could have well been dressed for a day of running errands or keeping shop. But instead, there they were on stage. Samayi nrutya showcased these ordinary women being extraordinary, a pattern that I had heard of but now witnessed newly.
My after-school evenings that were once occupied with kathak eventually found new hobbies as I grew older, and while I continued being active, I never picked up dancing again. It was simply way too far out of my comfort zone. In my late teens now, I am doing much better than I was just a few years ago, and while I wouldn’t say that watching the samayi nrutya was the entire or even a significant part of that journey, it did help me realize the beauty that lies in normalcy.
I am taking a dance class for the first time this year after quitting ages ago. My intro-level modern contemporary class is miles away from Indian classical dance forms, yet amidst the cultural, social, and physical differences, I am reminded of the familiar freedom of dance: freedom to move, to be your full physical self, and thus, freedom to be beautiful. I saw it in the samayi nrutya, and I heard it in kathak when I tied ghungroo, small brass bells weaved on a jute rope, to my ankles and stamped my feet with power and intention against the stone floors. And I feel it in my studio now as my instructor tells us to embody an insect and crawl across the studio and I look so crazy but so much like myself.
Dancing is a privilege, but being a dancer is a fundamental; this is my reckoning. I am a dancer, made to move and be beautiful even when I am just existing.
