The Stage… His Home

As he got ready, he stared at his reflection. He had clearly outdone himself. The person staring back at him was not a young handsome man but a beautiful gorgeous woman, who was decked in regal splendour. 

Her face was painted just right, as if it was painted for the Gods. The beautiful , dark red bindi adorned her forehead. She had her hair tied in a bun and covered with sweet smelling kajra. She was wearing a beautiful necklace and the most gorgeous and colourful bangles.

She was draped in the most beautiful nauvari, and had a kamar patta across her waist. On her ankles she wore ghungroos that created sweet sound with each step. He had certainly outdone himself.

He was introduced to the dance form as a child, in the films his parents took him for. As he grew up, his love for it grew deeper and he decided to do research on it. The more he learned about it the more he fell in love with it. He wanted to be part of it. But he couldn’t be a nat, he had to be in front centre. He was mesmerised by the movement of the dancer and the way she not only entertained her audience but how she captivated and held their attention, how she got them involved in her performance.

As a child he was bullied for being effimate. He was called names like bhailya, chackha, Hijra that really hurt him. But as he grew up he realised that the names he was called had more honour than the people who called him those names.

He was a disappointment to his father. He wasn’t the son he had hope for. He wanted a son that was more manly and not domesticated and effimate. He didn’t leave single moment to let him know his disappointment. And knowing what he was doing he was all the more a disappointment to his father , and he had somehow managed to soils the good name of his family.

His mother on the other hand was supportive of him, more kind and loving. She loved him unconditionally. In fact, he was wearing a nauvari she had given. How he wished she could be here, to be part of his first stage performance, to witness how happy he was.

He dabbed off the tear that was welling in his eyes, trying not to let let it smudge his kajal.

Just then the stage hand came into the dressing room to inform that it was time for his performance.

His heart began beating hard against his chest, racing at 100 miles an hour. He could feel the butterflies fluttering around in his stomach.

As he walked to the stage he tried to drown the voices in his head, in each step he took, in the sounds of his ghungroos. He tried to tune them out. 

He draped his palo over his head so he was able to conceal his identity. He wondered if they would be able to guess that this performer was a man, not a woman who traditionally performed it.

As he climbed up the stage, he touched it, paying respect to this stage, grateful to the  platform it provided, seeking its blissing for what he was about to do.

He held his breath as he patiently waited to hear the dholki. Once it started he began to move his feet so that the sound of his ghungroos were in sync with it beats, while at the same time keeping his pallo draped over his head, still concealing his identity from the audience.

When he finally threw over the pallo, he waited for a second to see the audience’s reaction. Were  they able to guess his gender?

He felt a sense of triumph when he realised that they couldn’t. For them he was just a beautiful performer.

As the song began to play he let the music take total control of him. All his nerves, his fears, his anxiety, went right out of the window. He felt one with the stage.

He lip synced the lyrics of the songs as if the words were coming out of his mouth, as if he was actually singing the song. As if he was lip syncing for his life, lip syncing for his legacy. 

He used every part of his body to express every word  of the song. He used the gunghroos on his feet to keep beat with the song. He let his hip sway to the music, using his hands to gesture and his eyes to express the sensuality of the song.

He felt an unbridled joy, and he let this joy fuel the energy he needed to performance. He let it flow from every pore of his being.

He danced with all his heart. He danced, not like a fool in a trance, but with elegance and grace, with the right amount of sensuality, that didn’t come across vulgar or obscene. He danced with all his heart, getting swept up by the music.

He occasionally stopped to tease the audience l, to get them involved in the performance, and they in turn, hooted and howled, whistled and cheered even louder, egging him on.

Just as the music began to reach its crescendo, he began spinning around the stage, going faster and faster as the the music picked up pace, finally falling to his knees and sliding to the front of the stage as the song reached its climax.

He raise his hand in pose, breathing heavily, almost panting from the exertion of the spins, waiting with bathed breath for the reaction of the audience.

And they erupted with applause, clapping and cheering for him, asking for an  encore. The whole auditorium reverberated from the sound of their applause and chants of “once more”.

It was in this moment he realised that this was what he was meant to do. This was where he was meant to be. This was his stage, this was his home!