The golden-orange sun, weary from its day’s work, scurries down the horizon, its parting rays raking the tiers of the kovil gopuram. The huddled-up, almost-spilling-over carvings of Gods, demons, sages, dancers, and animals come half-alive in the magical play of light and shadow. The echoing bells of the evening aarthi casually slip into rhythm, putting up a fitting finale before the curtain drops.
Mamis draped in bright kancheevaram silk sarees, some with embellished shawls to brave the Margazhi shivers, move about with a purpose. Mamas, in off-white silk jibbas and pattu veshtis, stroll alongside – together, they paint the narrow, winding streets in vibrant hues. The air, though festive, is unhurried. As one walks past each sabha, the mundane traffic sounds are complemented by wisps of brisk swarams, haunting aalaapanas, and anchoring mridangam beats.
“Ennanga, let’s go for a quick bite before the next item starts,” says Sumathi, springing up from her seat in one such sabha. Spotting the winding beeline to the tiffin counter, she quickens her pace, tugging impatiently on her husband’s arm. “The rigorous varnam and the aroma of Mani Iyer’s kuzhipaniarams have made me very hungry.”
In the brief break between two dance items, while some, like Sumathi, await their turn for tiffin with chutney, sambhar and filter coffee, others gather in animated clusters, either living their Subbudu dreams or gossiping over colony politics.
The compere announces: The next item, Indendu Vacchitivira, in the captivating raagam Surutti, portrays a khandita naayika or an angry heroine….
Hidden in the wings, Kadambari carefully arranges her chalangai noiselessly. She dabs the lingering beads of sweat on her face with a tissue and discards it to the side. Taking a few deep breaths, she settles her mind and body into the mood for the padam she is about to perform. The music unfolds.
Why have you come all the way here? Now? That woman’s house is not on this street. Go away. Are you so blinded by your love for her that you cannot recognize the house you have come to, even in the bright moonlight?
Holding the alapadma and pathaka, Kadambari traces the rays of the moon, her gaze holding a bit longer than necessary, her shoulders heavy. As the lines repeat, her half-smiles, sighs, and sideways glances morph into raised eyebrows, piercing looks, pursed lips and a tense torso. When she sashays to the door with a coy smile but slams it shut on her imagined lover’s face, the audience gasps. There is a deafening silence as she strides off the stage with a sharp turn of the head, her chin held high. It takes a moment for the rapturous applause to follow.
The house is dark as Kadambari eases her car into the driveway. Letting herself in, she flicks on the lights and shuffles into her bedroom. She removes all her jewellery one by one, barring her thaali, and carefully places them in a box after wrapping them in a soft muslin cloth. With a wet tissue and some coconut oil, she wipes away her makeup. After a calming bath, as she plops on her bed, she notices a long strand of brown hair curled on the pillow. Reaching out for her chouri (false hair) on the bedside table, she examines it. It is black.
____
The creak of a carefully closed door makes Kadambari open her eyes. Her lids droop, but not with sleep. She pries them open and glances at the clock, though she has a fair idea of the time. It is well past midnight. At Naren’s approaching steps, she quickly turns to the side, squeezing her eyes shut.
It is unnecessary. She hears him walk across to the guest room and shut the door.
I used to think he cared enough not to wake me up.
Curling into a ball, Kadambari draws the blanket up to her chin.
“Mama, she is such a good dancer. It is a crime not to allow her to perform!”
“Naren, girls learn Bharatanatyam not for public display, but for private appreciation. As long as she lives under my roof, she will not perform on stage.”
“What if I marry her, Mama? Do I get the right, then, to let her perform?”
A faint smile lifts the corners of Kadambari’s lips. Naren, always with a water bottle, every time he met her after dance class. She giggles as she remembers the day they were in cahoots, hoodwinking her father and slipping out half-ready, costume tucked underneath her kurta. How furiously he had cycled her to school for the annual day, all along afraid that the jingling chalangai would give them away.
Her wedding to Naren had felt like the blossom showers. She could dance. And she was marrying her closest confidant. Life had felt full, then.
Kadambari curls up tighter, burrowing herself into the blanket. The rhythmic whir of the fan creates a facade of calm that she wishes is real. She closes her eyes, hoping exhaustion will win.
For a moment, her brows furrow.
Did he champion my freedom to dance, but lose his?
Her eyes jerk open and track the circling blades. Her jaw tightens, then relaxes.
No. She would have known.
____
“So sorry, Kadu. Got late at work, ma. How was yesterday’s programme?”
The wafts of freshly brewed decoction, Naren’s sweet volley and his arms around her slender waist make Kadambari heady. She swivels around, her face glowing. He strokes her cheeks, still red from the rouge.
“I didn’t disturb you last night, did I?”
She flushes redder than the rouge. Lowering her gaze, she leads him to the balcony to her favourite spot on the swing.
The sharp rustle of a flipped page breaks Kadambari’s reverie. Stiff as a tightly-strung marionette, she lets only her hands move, mixing the coffee with choreographed precision. A few drops spill on the otherwise spotless counter. She does not wipe them. As she places the coffee in front of the sprawled-open newspaper, her lips part just a little before pressing together almost immediately, as if weighed down by even a single syllable. Naren, still hidden behind the headlines, pauses to mumble a brief thanks.
The swing creaks, echoing the fatigue in the air. Kadambari’s eyes drift across the living room, lingering on the Buddha bust flanked by paavai villakkus, before resting on a framed photograph. Her first award. Nrithya Choodamani. Naren is beside her, the glint of pride in his eyes unmissable. A smile buds at her lips, then shrinks like a touch-me-not at the faintest brush.
The strand on the pillow…
The image returns with renewed vigour every time she pushes it away. Heaving up her slumped shoulders, she looks at the paper still hiding Naren.
“Naren.” Her words come in a whisper.
There is silence. She releases the breath she didn’t realize she was holding.
“Yes, Kadu, what is it? I almost didn’t hear you.” Naren peers at her from behind the paper.
Kadambari freezes.
“Did you sleep well last night? I heard you came in late.” Her eyes are fixed on the diagonally arranged close-ups of herself holding aesthetic mudras of different rasas.
“Yes. By the way, how was your programme? I remembered after I saw the chouri on the bedside table.”
She gives him a brittle smile. “The programme was well received… especially the padam, Indendu.” Her eyes bore into Naren, only to be checked by the wall of print that had sprung up again. She looks at the living room - it is a museum of her dancing. She is unable to imagine the room without him in it. Her hands fidget, scraping away the skin on her palms. Should I ask him?
After a long moment, her body relaxes.
Maybe the strand doesn’t mean anything.
Easing her back onto the swing, she rocks, holding the tumbler to her lips. The coffee has gone cold.
____
Dhitthangita thakatharikitathaka thom,
Dhitthangita thakatharikitathaka thom,
Kitathaka dhitthangita thakatharikitathaka thom.
The crisp, rhythmic flourish on the mridangam cuts through the auditorium, silencing the chatter like the piping call of a queen bee stilling her restless hive. On cue, the curtains lift to reveal dancers frozen in sculpturesque karanas. At the final beat of the theermanam, music, movement and rhythm fuse into one resonant narrative, like stars drawn into a constellation.
Standing erect between the wings, hidden from the audience, Kadambari watches her students perform. A steady smile rests on her lips, while her eyes trace the minutest movement. When she brings the cymbals together with precision, even the fumbling feet fall into rhythm, trained to catch her nattuvangam. The rhythm had done its work on her too.
Beaming at the lingering applause, Kadambari ushers her students backstage to get them ready for the next item. “Aunty, can you check if my chouri is tight? It felt a little loose when I danced,” chirps Lasya, her youngest yet seniormost student, who had joined her classes five years ago, when the academy was in its early days and her footing unsteady.
Kadambari yanks gently at the chouri to test its hold.
The brown strand on the pillow…
Her hands pause, but only for a moment. As she continues to arrange Lasya’s hair, only the faint curve of her lips betrays the thought in her mind. I never did find out if the strand meant anything.
The concluding item of today’s programme is the vibrant thillana…
With a buoyant lift, arms unfurled in alapadma, Kadambari and her students glide across the stage in a single, sharp line, every step claiming the syllables of the sollkattu with quiet command. In the charanam, they take turns in a spirited jugalbandi with the vocalist, mridangist and violinist, building the tempo beat by beat to a crescendo, before stilling into a sculpted final pose.
“Bye, Aunty! See you next week!”
“Drive safe, Aunty. Message when you reach!”
“Aunty…my back was straight, no? Bye!”
Kadambari’s eyes soften. She nods at them, an indulgent smile playing on her lips as she slips behind the steering wheel. The giggles fade as she raises the window.
____
The door creaks. Kadambari darts a quick look in its direction. Naren. There is an added spring in her step. Completing the sutral adavu, her eyes seek his shadow through the crack, and her movements deepen with anticipation. The shadow ebbs and returns. He finally steps in, but his hand remains curled around the doorknob as he quietly watches her. Executing the arudhi with aplomb, she turns to meet his gaze, a satisfied smile on her lips. The space is empty. The door closes in silence.
Tap. Tap.
A gentle knock on her car window pulls Kadambari back to the present.
“Amma…konjam malli poo vangikkonga ma…”
Lowering the window, Kadambari buys one muzham of the threaded jasmine and adjusts it around her bun. The signal timer nears zero. She shifts out of neutral, poised to move forward.
I danced freely because he held the door open. I never once asked if his hands were tired. I was scared then.
Today, I will.
She starts the engine and whispers a quiet thanks to the strand.
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