When I was about ten, I watched Sudha Chandran, a
Bharatnatyam dancer, in a live performance. I sat on the edge of my seat for
the entire length of the show, soaking up every footstep, every rhythmic beat,
every move, every expression. Skinny hands and feet trying to copy the dancer
in small and surreptitious movements, hoping no one would notice.
The danseuse was talented, well versed, beautiful, and an
amputee.
You really couldn’t tell. No, not when she danced. You could
tell, perhaps, from her uneven step when she walked. Her story was one of
heroism. Of grit. Of bravery. Of determination. Of not giving up. Of getting up
after every fall. Even as a child, I could tell she had overcome much.
I thought it was mostly physical difficulty. Undoubtedly so.
But as I think of her today, I marvel at how much she had to overcome -
emotionally.
In the past few weeks I experienced it myself. A few days
ago, I mustered up courage, a lot of courage, swathed myself in silks, and
jewelry and make-up and got on stage to perform a piece of classical dance. The
same skinny hands and feet of before – joyous, mirthful, always eager to dance,
were this time - doubtful, hesitant and somewhat weighted.
A few weeks ago, I thought it was insanity, a lot of
insanity, to sign up for this, to obtain music and choreography from a friend,
to re-choreograph the piece, to believe I could get on stage and perform classical
dance after a gap of 19 years, and a decade of illness.
Clarifications first. Although I preface my story with Sudha
Chandran’s, I come nowhere close in talent to this dancer and actress, and
never did. Dance was a hobby taken somewhat seriously. My story is neither as tragic
nor brave as hers. But as I sat down to write, her story and her strength came
to mind.
For me, performing classical dance after 19 years was a
daunting thought. But the emotional turbulence was in believing or disbelieving
that my body could do so after a decade of an unglamorous illness. That my body
was capable or worthy enough to create a beautiful form of art as classical
dance.
Art, to some extent, is innate. Sure, it can be taught, it
can be learnt, but even an amateur artiste exhibits an innate and inexplicable
quality, which goes beyond teaching and learning. There is only so much we can
be taught. At some level, the body has to participate in it, be present in it, to
unleash it and unfurl it, at an intuitive, incomprehensible level. Every performing
artist does so.
It was hard for me to believe that the same body that had
undergone so much; that had been tortured, seemed angry, ugly even, would be
capable of creating art… of creating beauty…
When I think of my body, I flashback to when I could see
almost every bone in my body at 73 pounds; I think of a puffy steroid moonface
and strange textured hair in an otherwise wasted body; I think of intestinal
perforation, I think of a harrowing ER trip in the middle of the night when a
cyst would not stop bleeding. I think of years of trying remedy after remedy,
cure after cure…
I think of a decade of trying to get better, to raise a
child, to lead a normal life, and in doing so, trying to hide, yet being fully
aware of the ugliness and anger my body held.
This is really not about my suffering or endurance. Many go
through much worse in life, with less support system and resources. And I have
much and many to be grateful for. What I’m trying to understand is that despite
the lack of any apparent body image issues, there may be a subconscious
underlying notion of ugliness that my mind holds about my body.
What I want to try and understand and share is how hard it
can be to change the images and notions our mind makes up about ourselves.
We don’t have to be sick to know that we let parts of ourselves
wither away. There are many such parts and there are many reasons and
priorities that cause them to disintegrate. Some we can turn back to, some we
leave far far behind.
A jolt of good health after my first surgery, gave me the courage
to dare to pick up this lost piece. Health dwindled later, but the intention,
even if jello-like, was set. I had acquired the necessary attire and jewelry in
my last trip to India and was determined to get into the garbs.
The small Indian community event didn’t seem as daunting, the
dance piece I found was simple, I decided to not beat myself up over perfection
in dance technique, I practiced only what little my body would allow 10-15 minutes once or twice a day… yet it took every morsel of courage I owned.
Perhaps it was because it was classical dance. There would
not have been as much angst over a group folk dance or a Bollywood based number.
But with a classical art form, defined by structure and a set of conventions
carried for generations, it is the dancer’s responsibility and privilege, to
share the art, and to create it even. Could I really dare? I did...
Possibly my least perfect performance. Possibly my most
proud performance. 
I believe all of us have these lost pieces. Some we
acknowledge. Some we lose without being aware. Some matter. Some don’t. As we
age, we seem to finally understand which of those pieces mattered after all.
Which of those pieces make us whole again. Which of those pieces make us feel
alive again.
But as we age, even when we see the pieces, we no longer
know how to pick them. For we no longer have the abandon of youth, the headless
energy, the reckless courage, the belief in infinite possibility… to chase
those pieces. To make them ours again.
True, we acquire different pieces and our mosaic of today is
beautiful in a different way. But what about the lost pieces? How can we fit
them into our mosaic of today?
When I look at a picture of myself in the dance attire, I am
puzzled. It looks like the old me. But I know it is not. The make-up takes away
years, and the picture in its stillness, and smile, hides away the lack of strength
and energy and the bodily guardedness that has crept in. Yet, when I look
closely I see it. I know it is there.
Yes. This may have been an attempt to find an old lost
piece. But I may have found a new one. It may be less dazzling or carefree as
the old, but it may have wisdom and gratitude which renders it new.
Here’s to the newness of old lost pieces… 
