Of Dancing - Part II

I lived in Kolkata – at the Trivoli Court – once, as a little girl. That was the time my late father broke my pencil. I remember those little moments when I would be dancing in the middle of a circle of adults (Bhutanese), who were in the service of the Bhutan Royal Family. I think for them it was a good break from the monotony of daily chores. For me, it was just an opportunity to dance and, of course, to show off my dancing ability. If only they were auditions for dance contests! I could’ve perhaps made my otherwise conservative father proud of her daughter for being crowned the Dancing Star. My mother lived in oblivion of her daughter’s crazy dream. She was too busy with her backbreaking household chores, making sure everything at home was how they should be by my father’s standards. How could I have felt the energy to dance if not for her love and care? My mother was that quiet strength in me – never spoken about, yet ever so vibrant.

It wasn’t surprising then that I participated in dances in school. My first ever experience of dancing on the stage was at Sherubtse (a school back then, a college today), where I joined in 1971. At first, it felt strange to be there, having come from the hustle bustle of Kolkata City. Sherubtse seemed like an altogether different world. The rich greenery. The fresh cool air. The quietude of the atmosphere. The warmth of the people. The nobility of the teachers. I was nevertheless pretty homesick and crying almost every night in bed, not having lived as a boarder. Late Rev. Fr. Mackey (the Principal then) assured my father I would be looked after well. He gave me VIVA (something like horlicks) and chocolates to calm me down, but that lasted a very short while. I would be back to sobbing. My father must have felt his heart breaking to see me cry like that. I wonder what he went back thinking!

I grew up participating in every Dzongkha dance (compulsory), although I never sang a word of the song. I was more of a hindi song singer and didn’t have the voice for Bhutanese type songs. However, I do have faint memories of my mother’s uncle teaching me Bhutanese songs and remarking, “Rigpa du; tsondrue kaygobey.” One of the songs I quite liked was ‘Namkha yuyi (???) phodrang la…’ So, now I’m wondering if music/dance thing is actually in my blood. Was I being groomed to be a national singer and dancer? No idea. When I visited Kathmandu in 2004, I was told by an astrologer that I loved singing and dancing. It was the first time ever any astrologer had said that about me. The other thing he said was that I had two minds about dharma – sometimes following, sometimes hesitating. That’s exactly how it was with me and how it still is. I guess I’m just confused by the increasing world conflicts despite the existence of religions. I settle with the thought that I must try to be good in heart, mind and action and my dharm’s practised. Now I’m thinking… can dance really be bad if mask dances are of gods and deities? There are dances of devis and devtas too. Unless, of course, certain categories of dances are considered immoral because they are ungodly or ungoddesslike….

In Sherubtse those days, we would be staging all sorts of dances besides the Bhutanese ones. There would be Nepali, Hindi, Spanish and other innovations such as the Umbrella Dance. Any dance came easy to me and I remember being a favourite of Mother Peter (Swiss), who would teach us to sing with hands clasped and resting against our chest and our mouths opened four finger wide while she played the piano. I realized later it was the pose of nuns singing hymns at the church. A song I remember most of all is ‘Ma a rch winds…ooh ooh ooh…Ma a rch winds….ooh ooh ooh…’ with the notes getting higher at each repetition. The dance I enjoyed the most was the Spanish dance Mother Peter taught us. She would say, “Look! Point your toes like Tshering. She’s the only one pointing her toes correctly. Very good.” I took dance seriously, so I paid very close attention to her every movement. I wanted to be perfect at what I was doing and in many ways this symbolizes me - the perfectionist! (I must be hated for this by many, but I'm not convinced that it's bad.)  

The Umbrella Dance was a graceful Japanese type dance that we did in traditional colourful handwoven kiras minus the toegos. (I wish we had worn kimonos actually, for experience sake) We twirled the umbrella held horizontally with both hands to our right as we walked a few steps to one two three and up the umbrella was pushed gracefully upright with our left leg raised equally gracefully and our body slightly tilted to the right. The movements were slow but being able to maintain gracefulness throughout was something to be immensely proud of.

Among all types of dances, I was known for my Nepali ones. I’d be in every one of them. I’d be among the chosen ones to do the Nepali Dance when we had functions in honour of special visitors. One of the ones I’m most embarrassed about is when I could not wear my petticoat inside the transparent saari. The girl who was supposed to take care of our costume had left my petticoat behind at the hostel. I couldn’t be spared, so I danced on the stage with my underwear showing. I cried all night and no amount of consoling helped at any point. I think it built some kind of fear in me, for as I grew older I’d be more and more reluctant to participate in Nepali dances and when I got to class eleven, I found every possible excuse to not participate and so ended my Nepali dance episodes. ‘Till death do us part’ was inapplicable here. We had separated from each other much before the dying of either. Not once since then did the occasion arise for me to pick it up again.

When we were in class eleven, we girls had a separate Reading Room at our hostel that girls like me preferred to use as a Dance Room. The record player was with the matron. We’d request her to play music and with the sound blasting through the sound boxes fitted in the Reading Room, me and a few others would dance away to glory. No care. No worries. I remember one of the lady teachers visiting us sometimes and teaching us ‘One Two chacha cha…three four chacha cha…’ She swayed her hips so well, I instantly fell in love with her. She was our history teacher, who repeated ALSO so many times that we’d pass our time in her class counting the number of times she repeated it with the help of tally marks. A good use we had found of the tally system that we had learnt in math!

...to be continued