This week, various South Asian student organizations hosted a Raas Garba, a dance native to the Indian state of Gujarat to celebrate the festival of Navaratri. One of the dances, Dandiya, is performed with wooden sticks, and the other, Garba, involves dancers forming a circle. Both, however, were worth this poem.

Rains settle in favor of a cool breeze,

As silk-clad figures begin to congregate

The full moon is at its perigee

While "Berkeley Time" gives way to "Indian Standard"

Familiar faces, from floors and Foothill, to discussions, meetings, and office hours,

A fresh change from drab jeans and sweaters to striking lehengas and kurtas

"Infinity scarves" replaced by dupattas

Rotating hems forming striking spectacles

All in (successful and failed) attempts at garba

Arbitrary changes of the circle's direction

Lead to inevitable collisions– "Sari, not sorry?"

Picking at loose threads from a scarf like horsehairs on a bow

Matching steps to dhol drum beats to time signatures

And singing to Deepika's songs– always on Bollywood radio stations...

But also folk melodies and ragas handed down throughout the ages,

As the wooden sticks clack,

Their ribbons inadvertently fly,

Wielded by those of every possible identity,

But for these few hours, they are all Gujarati