We simultaneously leap both up and down as our heels lift off of the ground, the bells, shimmering around our ankles, ringing. My teacher sits at the front of the room on an old mat, rapping a stick upon a block of wood, as we struggle to keep up with the unrelenting beat. I am in bharatanatyam (Indian classical dance) class with three of my classmates, wheezing for breath and wiping sweat off our faces with our scarves. “It’s better,” my teacher said, “But you”—she gestured at me with her stick—“need to relax and be more graceful.”
I nodded. It was the same criticism she had given me from the first day I had begun to learn from her. I have never been able to attain that perfect ease, the appearance of effortlessness and joy that is grace. At every performance, my teacher tells me to remember why I am performing, and that I will achieve gracefulness through demonstrating my own passion to the audience. Every time she repeated this, I would be forced to reflect upon the answer to the question: Why do I dance?
Somehow bharatanatyam resonates with me. Its neat lines, symmetrical choreography, and emphasis on the musical beat all strive towards creating a grace formed out of order and harmony. I have always loved the perfect order, the rational beauty of math and science, but I also love connecting this to other types of beauty within music, poetry, and dance. Bharatanatyam combines all of these principles and gives me a true sense of intellectual fulfillment when I practice it.
However, the raw truth is that dance will always be mired in my tangled, confused identity as an Indian-American. I used to view my weekly dances classes as my cultural certificate, a way of proving to my family that I do hold my heritage to be important. Yet, I still would blame myself, since I knew that practicing bharatanatyam is supposed to be about revering the art, making a connection with the audience, and reaching introspection within oneself. I realized that to exude true confidence and grace, I would first need to make peace with my identity and my relationship with dance.
A few weeks later, we started to learn a new item, a piece about women’s equality in Indian culture. The story it depicted had themes I could relate to and a message I was passionate about. I practiced it fervently at home in anticipation for the upcoming performance. As I walked onto the stage with the bright lights blinding me from seeing the audience, for the first time I allowed myself the freedom of letting go of worries, fears, and guilt. I acknowledged the ever-present misgivings, the fear that I would forget my steps, that the red sharpie-substitute-henna would stain my white dress, or that my parents would be disappointed in me. I felt my anxiety dissipate, and for the first time, I allowed my passion to rule my need for rationality. As I exited the stage, my mother congratulated me, a look of surprise on her face. “You smiled,” she noted. “You were relaxed.”
As I considered my relationship with dance, I realized that it had evolved. Though I had not yet attained a level of complete grace and harmony while performing, I realized that I wanted to.
