I’ve started dancing again, with the recently-emerged Boston Bollywood performance company. I take two classes, and twice a week for an hour I find myself smiling uncontrollably, giddy and elated at practicing precision while experiencing freedom. Twice a week I’m reminded of what it really is to be alive.
Someone recently asked a friend of mine if I’m Indian. I suppose that’s a valid question, given my propensity for listening exclusively to Bollywood music, wearing Salwar Kameez at the most random times, and interjecting India into every conversational opportunity. My first instinct was to take offense. I’m not Indian. I’m just about as blond and blue-eyed as they come. I like Christmas and drinking liter steins of German beer while standing on a Bierhalle bench in my Dirndl, singing at the top of my lungs.
But after the shock of being called Indian had worn off, I began to see it as a compliment. The Indian people are collectively full of vibrancy and life. They are friendly, welcoming, in search of a good time. Many facets of their culture are so vibrant that they outstrip their counterparts in most Western cultures.
The food is the embodiment of flavor and spice. It tinges the air, the sweat, the conversation, with a compelling scent.
The music dances to beats both ancient and new; it compels those who listen to join in with its exuberance. The folk dances are a translation of joy, of worship, of celebration, of the universe.
Everything is suffused with color. Buildings cluster in many-hued pinks, blues, ivories. Whole cities colored against the midday sun sprawl uninterrupted into the desert. Clothing flashes by as a kaleidoscope of red, green, yellow, orange. Prayers and vermillion are applied as frequently as the passing from night to day, the deep stain of mehndi never fading for long.
Why would I not wish to find myself so captivated, so engrossed by this plethora, this dream, that I should be charged as being part of it? It is true that ever since my time there, none of these things has ever left me. I have always been drawn to color, to flavor, to the more adventurous beat. Yet it has taken six months as a young professional, beholden only to myself, to allow me to find out this part of who I am. It is how I breathe, in every moment that passes.
I know I will never be satisfied with normalcy. Blandness will never whet my palate. Poise and composure will never be a substitute to honest feeling, to wild abandonment, to a daily celebration of all the beings I know, a daily prayer of gratitude.
Nothing will ever be a substitute for the intricate, incandescent dance we call life.
