Portrait

us (thaji, umi, heshi, harini and i) and mira, lionel wendt, january 2006.

as i sat at the battery dance company’s performance that night, i watched it all unfurl. the music, the dancers…it transported me to a place where i could sit awhile, forget about everything and let my skin absorb all the things i felt about it. the way i wanted to be up there with them, the way i dreamt about being a dancer like that ; with professionals, the way i wanted so much to see and embrace more of that, the way i imagined how i’d go to shows like that every night if i could.

when i watched vajira’s and chitrasena’s youngest grand-daughter thaji take the stage in her brief guest performance, things that i had long forgotten welled up inside me. there she was, beautiful as ever, more lithe and graceful than i had ever recognized, all dressed in red, flashing and enchanting. there she was, someone i had known since childhood, one of my oldest friends. someone that i’ve shared the best things in life with : dancing, performing, learning.

how many times i’ve watched her dance, and thought to myself ’she is going to be so fine one day’. and suddenly, as i sat in the audience and watched her, an opportunity i’ve never had before, in all of about the twelve years of having known her, both as person and as dancer, it washed down on me. she has the best of both worlds : she looks just like vajira, the beauty, the elegance, the posture, and dances just like upeka, the same fire, the same vigor and strength. but inside all of that, curled up, gently unfolding upwards, there was an undeniable sense of herself, her youth and her fresh-ness. her doe eyes, her glowing skin, her flair and her infectious joy. after all those years, of dancing with her, of sitting on the side and offering her advise as she rehearsed, it was like seeing her for the first time. like i had never seen her before.

and from deep inside me, there came a wave of happiness, slowly stretching itself up into my throat. there came an overwhelming urge to cry, to cry for the beauty, to cry for her success. from within, there came a childish desire for all of it again, to be able to share this with her, to be able to help her button up her costume and help her with her makeup. there came a deep, dull ache, not full of regret, but full of sadness for everything it once was to me.

i wonder sometimes why i don’t dance anymore. the question baffles me, even though the actual answer is pretty clear to me. but that night, i was happy and sad at the same time. i was happy for all the things i’ve become because of the dancer in me, all the things i’ve learnt to appreciate and all the people i’ve come to love. but i was sad, momentarily, fleetingly, for all the things i may have lost forever when i stopped dancing this year. i’m scared that i’ve lost the ability for good, that i’ve lost the drive, the edge for it. perhaps i’ll never be a dancer, perhaps some day, i will. perhaps i will never really want to, perhaps i will want it forever.

but as i sat there, watching the amazing dancing and feeling the soul in all of it stir deep within my own, i knew that there was a part of me that is indestructible, no matter how many years go by in which i don’t dance at all. a part of me that will always remember what it’s like and love simply remembering it. a part of me that will always thrive on the sheer memory of the euphoria of performing, of the feeling of music in my blood. a part of me that loves those that have shared this experience with me, all brought together by our love for the same thing, by our understanding of the same language. a part of me that will always love watching others dance and appreciate what an effort it takes to make it look as effortless as they do. a part of me that will always be a dancer. and that part of me, is one of the things i will always love best about myself.