As I peeked through a tear in the backstage heavy curtains, the ocean of darkness ahead engulfed me in a hug of quiet expectation. The air was rife with a sense of calm and every breath seemed to be floating in the auditorium, waiting, expecting…
Draped in my favourite sparkling white silk, bordered in golden zary, jhumkas, maang tika and a splendid kamarbandh, they embraced me in a warm hug, lending me an identity I loved. The ghungrus made their shy tinkle as I tiptoed away to take my position behind the curtains. The belphool garland on my head lent me that confident assurance with its sweet fragrance, much like a true friend.
The multitude of nameless and faceless audience would make my day, would leave the auditorium reverberating with their thunderous applause a while from now. The invisible darkness ahead would soon be one with me, as I would yield the power of talam and abhinaya, my Nritya and Natya holding the darkness in trance. Power was my adornment in that divine half an hour.
As the announcement of my performance was being made, the details of the drama being articulated in style, the first beat of the Mridangam spelt a magic. And my name sounded surreal as it floated around the length and breadth of the space around us. I took a deep breath, said a small prayer and felt that familiar sense of peace pervade through me like a cool breeze.
Hours of practice with the team of singers and musicians had me memorize every syllable and every beat. At the right time, I stepped in and did my Namaskar. And then I held onto my pose, waiting respectfully for the welcome applause to die down. And took my first step. The world transformed. It was a moment of truth.
How the next half an hour flew by, I did not realise. Like a dream. Like living my role in the drama named life. Like a fairy flying across blue skies with a magic wand. My senses prevailed and ruled over my body, made it step to the awakened six senses. The taal and the poses happened effortlessly. The end beat of the Mridangam was almost like a rude awakening. I slowed and I stopped. As I came back to reality.
Through the thunderous applause that followed, I heard a persistent ringing somewhere far. As I slowly came to my senses, floating in a realm of space, half real and half surreal, I reached across for the snooze button of my phone. A small sigh escaped me. A tearing of my heartstrings. As the sweet fragrance of my belphool tied a feeble string between dream and day, my eyes opened to the early hours in Sun God’s kingdom.
The days went on, working, cooking, teaching my son, reading books and the occasional web series. While I tried my best to soak myself head to toe in an ocean of responsibilities, interspersed with fun and some me-time, why does my inner voice keep humming to me the one same song, repeatedly…why does this dream keep coming back with a force intense and each time leaves behind in the wee hours of the morning, a fragrance sweet, often a lingering taal, at times the trail of an unfinished Naatya? I hang on to these bitter sweet memories as the morning breaks…a sudden sound of a musical lark, a rare rainbow or the choreographed chatter of weaver birds amidst the purple of Jacaranda tugs at my heartstrings and whispers “Not all is lost…yet.”