Indonesian stretching

photo by Maulvi

Dancers vocab

Journalism has trained me in an intellectual stamina, not a physical one. My idea of warming up for a long day is- a cup of tea. When I feel tired, I have a cup of tea. I snack all the time. When my entire office sits together for meetings, we are all angling for the Bourbon chocolate biscuits and calling the peon to make us tea. The physical ramifications of such a lifestyle are- flab, aching back, paunch, overworked wrist, acidity. And an enlarged capacity to sit and talk.
Now, let me explain what stamina in a dancers world means. It means being on your toes for more than 12 hours. It means that each day you warm up, stretch, do pilates and practice choreography. Contrary to logic, such an intense lifestyle requires you to eat lesser, healthier, and skip lunch if possible. In my world, eating salad and fruit ceases to make it a meal.
Just so we leave no confusion about the above terms, I shall explain them.
Warming up- A) refers to something cardiovascular, like running, swimming etc. Anything that has your butt stationery for more than one minute doesn’t qualify. Doing your laundry, strolling with your friends, having hot chocolate isn’t warming up (it seems everyone knew that except me). B) it’s really important before you begin exercising.
Stretches- are a euphemism. Especially when there is an 85 kilo dancer sitting on top of you! Stretches are supposed to be the magical antidote to hardcore dancing. They prevent your muscles from tightening and hurting. Right now though, the stretches hurt more than anything else! They are the only class when boys squeal like girls, and girls want to sink their teeth into the instructors arm. If nothing else, this class is definitely preparing us for childbirth, in terms of pain and opening up the hip region.
Pilates- is basically muscle building, using your own body weight. It helps chisel your figure to look like a Greek god. If only the creators of pilates knew that I worship different gods. My gods have a paunch like me. They are easily won over by sweets. (google Ganesha if you don’t believe me.)
I am currently more than 16 inches above the ground when I do a split. And my waist must be 30 inches or so. So I don’t know which class is more ambitious, pilates or stretching.
I definitely do know which one is close to impossible. Choreography! Since I promised my loved one’s not to get disheartened, I take deep breaths, say a little prayer and begin the 2/3 hours of choreography.
I’m quite geeky, and live in my head. My body just tags along with my mind. If aliens were to land on earth tomorrow, kidnap me and teach me their language, I would probably pick it up as fast I’m picking up the choreography right now.
The choreographer shows us the step methodically. I can see what is to be done. So I tell my body, ‘now come on, follow those instructions’. But my body seems to dislike me these days. It just doesn’t follow my orders. I’m yelling ‘move, legs, move!’ in my head, but my legs seem to have a mind of their own. They just politely ask me to go take a hike.
My body’s my renegade companion. Apparently, muscles are the cure for such situations. They help you control your body better. Yesterday, our choreographer teacher Muge asked me to control my torso when I jumped, to carry the weight with my abdomen, not my legs. To stress the point further, she poked her finger into my tummy to point out the muscle. Her finger though, just sank in. So she changed her strategy. “You must be having muscles somewhere, or else how would you stand?” she said
It is indeed a miracle how I stand these days.

My life as an 'Extra'

Being an ‘extra’, the artist in the fringes can be quite a task. I’m the girl who fills the faceless crowd in a music video, while the singer shmoozes the model. I’m the girl who’s head gets cut off in shots. If I’m lucky, I will get to wear a shiny cloak in the last row in the musical ‘Troy’, and dance like phosphorescent sea waves, while Hector bids goodbye to his wife Andromache. It’s a heart wrenching scene, as Hector too, like the audience, knows that Troy is doomed, and that’s the last time he will see her.
Life is tough being an extra. You’re caught between professionalism and daydreaming. Struggling to keep invisible in the darkness beside the spotlight. Even your struggles remain invisible. Like all artists, we too, require rigourous training and inspiration, and suffer from artistic insecurities.
My career as an extra began when my friend who was directing a music video on a shoestring budget, desperately sought fillers-in for her nightclub sequence. For free. With good intentions, I washed and conditioned my hair, wore some slinky dress at 9 AM and showed up. Only to be insulted by the make up dudes, who thought my hair needed re-doing and caked my face like the Joker from Batman.
If watching life pass by is a hobby of yours, then I would recommend the patient, thought provoking job of an ‘extra’. On the music video set that day while I tried to catch up with my favorite author Naguib Mahfouz, some models snorted a line of coke or two (for inspiration I’m assuming). As your role increases, the pressure to be inspired does too.
When my two minutes of fame- a shot where I try to seduce the singer away from his ladylove did arrive, I royally screwed it up. I had to sing the following lyrics in a seductive way. ‘O mere raja, paas to aaja, dono milke naachenge’. (oh my king, come closer, lets dance together). My laughter got worse each time I’d repeat the lyrics, and I just couldn’t get myself to look into his eyes and sing those words with a straight face. In the end I was in splits, with tears in my eyes.
My second experience as an extra was again when one of my dear friends, a filmmaker was ditched last minute by an actress. And that’s how I played the headless mother. Headless because the film is from a child’s perspective, and anything above the kids eye line, was cut off. I’d gone clubbing the night before the shoot, and it ended badly with my partner getting into an accident at 4 AM. So when I entered the shoot in high heels and a saree the next day, I was a zombie. The first few scenes were alright, I had to hold the protagonist, the child’s hand and take him to his grandfathers. The next one though, tipped the balance over. In the scene we discover the grandfather to be dead. And in the camera we see my back as I walk across, kneel down, hug the child and cry.
Irony is an over used, often abused word. But I can’t think of any other word that can describe the horror of shooting and re-shooting that scene, only to find the cinematographer complain my back couldn’t emote. He couldn’t see the tears that rolled down my eyes. My heart lay with an injured boy, and I had skipped seeing him to come for the shoot.
Every extra has her day. In August I applied for a fellowship that gave people a chance to follow their dreams. I got through, and am now in Turkey, living as part of a dance troupe ‘Fire of Anatolia’ for three months as a dancer.
The first few days were tempered insecurities and home sickness. I was too fat, too ungraceful, too shy, too amateurish to be in Istanbul with great dancers from the world over. It felt like I wasn’t supposed to be here. I was living someone else’s dream.
Have you ever silently mouthed the lyrics while a song plays? So while you sing, it is the voice of the singer that emerges? Bit like what our heroes and heroines do, make believe song and dance; shot over a span of days, edited into few minutes. This, in a way sums up my relationship with dancing. I love it. I groove all the time, be it in meetings, on the pot, in the car, shower, flirting, eating. I live vicariously through the great dancing I see around. The only time the music stops in my head is when I’m crying or fighting. That’s when make believe ceases.

When you meet me, you’re bound to notice the straight face I maintain. if I was to crack a joke or admonish you for your behaviour, you wouldn’t be able to decipher it from my face. I live in my head, and express myself through words. Which doesn’t make for a great dancer or actor. Feeling emotions, and expressing them are two different things. Expressing them with words, and expressing them with your body even more different.
Which makes being part of a world class dance troupe like Fire of Anatolia a challenge at best, stressingly stressful at worst. I must begin at the beginning, while everyone else is close to the top. I must learn to move in rhythm. I must learn to look at myself in the mirror. I must feel like the King of the World. “I want to see Shubhangi in the steps. I want you to use your arms, stretch them out. I don’t see you in your dance” complains my choreographer instructor Muge. And I smile back at her. The simplicity and enormity of her demand stumps me amidst the dance routines.
Muge is one of the lead dancers and assistant choreographers here. She is the girl with the winning smile, wooed by rows of dancers on stage. In other scenes though, she is also the masked girl in full black on the last row. Fire of Anatolia is probably the first glamorous group I have witnessed with an almost Gandhian style of working. Apo, who is currently handling the entire show here in Antalya, orchestrates everything with a mobile phone, walkie talkie, and a broom in case it rains. Two days ago, when it rained while the troupe was performing outdoors, Apo was among the sweepers who swabbed the stage in the interval. I could give you a million similar instances. Sinem, the gorgeous lead bellydancer has entire sequences dedicated to her moves in each show, including ‘Troia’. After completing those scenes though, she adorns the common costumes and joins her dancing mates in enacting the phosphorescent waves, while Hector bids good-bye to his love.
So when I say if I'm lucky I will adorn a shiny cloak and play the part of phosphorescent sea waves in Troia, I mean it. This is a dance troupe where no role is small enough for anyone. Being an extra, isn’t an apology for the being in the spotlight. It’s a role in itself. Which requires practice, hard labour and yes, inspiration. Extra’s too suffer from artistic insecurities. They too feel fat and ungraceful on days.
And that doesn’t mean we have a low self esteem. You don’t have to be in the spotlight to feel special. I know my family loves me as much off stage/on stage. And my friends have always stood by me.
So if watching life pass by is a hobby of yours, then I’d recommend the patient, thought provoking job of an ‘extra’. I'm always running late. As a journalist I pass deadlines, and as a dancer I'm almost always a step or two behind. But when I see the rest of team waltzing ahead, it is inspiring. It inspires to me catch up, to try harder and join them. In case I can’t, I just give up. Sometimes its either not worth keeping up or too plain difficult. Which is fine too. As my mother puts it, “eat good food and relax. Tomorrow is a new day.”

Burden of Bollywood

Everyone out here is interested in Bollywood, would like to know if India looks like the movies, and they would like to learn bollywood dancing. I feel as much an ambassador of bollywood as India here. My Argentinean friend Lucas, had downloaded the main song from Om Shanti Om and danced on it back home. My Turkish German friend Surreya loves singing ‘chali jaisi hawayen sanan sanan’. And my Sri Lankan friend Kasthuri has trained in classical Indian dancing and bollywood and aspires to set up her own Bollywood dance group in Frankfurt.
Few days ago, I was put in a tight spot when our dance teacher Apo insisted I show everyone an Indian dance, and Kasthuri eagerly switched on the song ‘ring ring ringa’ from Slumdog Millionaire for me. I had to yell out ‘I can’t dance on this song as its about the girl losing her virginity’ for the class to leave me alone. There’s no f#$ing way I’m dancing on Ila Arun going ‘achha’, ‘ohho’ about some khatmal in the bed.
I had to make truce by dancing later that night in my nightie (which people here think is an Arabian summer dress or something) on ‘Hawa Hawai’ from Mr.India. Maulvi, the Indonesian boy had the video downloaded on his laptop.
So I’m compelled to think about the following things- A) what are the quintessential bollywood moves and B) what are the quintessential dance numbers.
And somehow, Govinda, the king of pelvic thrusts comes to my mind. Be it in the song ‘Aa aa ee, o o o’ from Raja Babu or ‘soni de nakhre’ in Partner. Also, Madhuri Dixit from ‘choli ke peeche’ (you know the move I’m talking about) and ‘chane ke khet main’ comes up. In my opinion, the expressions, the context is as important in our songs as the actual moves. Which is why Govinda rocks coz he can emote and dance. I don’t know why, but running in slow motion, banging into each other in slower motion also comes to my mind.
As for the all time dance songs, I’m at quite a loss. Anything that can make your pelvic move is in, I guess. ‘Mehbooba O Mehbooba’, ‘Jawane Jaaneman’ from Namakhalal, ‘jahan teri yeh nazar hai’ are some of my old favorites. I like ‘Ahun ahun’ from Love Aaj Kal too.
I would really appreciate all you help in figuring out
A) typical bollywood moves
B) good dance songs.
Keep in mind youtube is banned in Turkey. If you expect me to get you a gift from Turkey, send me a non-youtube link to some songs, as I’m in deep shit here. I have to teach people bollywood steps and I was depending on a youtube crash course. The strategy was destroyed by the Turkish government, who banned youtube here. Why why why! Since it’s unlawful to openly criticize the government here in Turkey, I’m going to zip it now.

Turkey

Since 90% of what I’ve seen in Turkey is fancy hotels, and 90% of the people I’ve met are dancers, the Turkey I currently inhabit is partly borrowed from Lonely Planet and partly inspired by translated conversations. The only fact I can confidently share is- youtube is banned in Turkey. Which spells hell for all my hopes of watching bollywood numbers on youtube and learning the moves for the cultural exchange. Strangely enough, the only video I have is ‘Hava Hawai’ from Mr.India, or ‘hawai hawai’ as Maulvi the Indonesian boy calls it. He has the video on his laptop. You’d be surprised by the random bollywood artifacts people have here. Maulvi, after watching Slumdog, was told that Salaam Bombay is a better film on the same issue. In the film the kids keep on dancing to Sridevi’s antics as Hava Hawai, so curious Maulvi downloaded the video. He can even sing the ‘zum zum zum’ bit.
So I had to dance to hava hawai last night. The only thing I had in common with Sridevi was the big butt. Butt, by the way is called ‘popo’ here. We know that because the dance instructors who speak Turkish stress on the Popo all the time. An apple ‘popo’ is the ideal. And right now I have a watermelon ‘popo’.
The second thing I’ve learnt are numbers from one to ten in Turkish. Very important again, as most dancers count the dance rhythm in Turkish. Both, the choreographers are learning English and we, a bit of Turkish to bridge communication barriers. Third thing I’ve learnt about is the great beef, kebabs and food in general. Like Indians, they love their yoghurt; as a drink, as soup, as salad dressing. But extremely unlike Indians, meat means beef here. I was wondering why the meat tasted so different here.
Turkey is the land of mythic proverbs and nouns. This is the land that was defeated by the Trojan horse. It’s the land where the Gordian knot was dutifully tied up. It was believed that whoever could untie the knot would rule Asia. Along came Alexander the Great, and sliced it with his sword and proceeded to cruise on. I like his attitude; if you can’t solve it, don’t bother. He sounds like he’d make a brash driver, breaking signals and overtaking all the time.
There is ofcourse, the history of the Ottoman Empire and fall of Constantinople etc, but I will reserve that for my blog on Istanbul.
Fire of Anatolia
The founder of the dance troupe ‘Fire of Anatolia’ that I am here part of, Mr. Mustafa Erdogan, is an extremely gracious, scholarly gentleman. He has a deep interest in Turkish legends, history, indigenous dance forms, music etc. He has done a brilliant job incorporating the local, historical flavour into his production, ‘Legend of Troy’. He’s added salt, I’d say, because its the ingredient that brings it alive. Watching ‘Troia’ as they call it, in Turkey is very different from watching it in say, Europe, due to the emotions it evokes.

Legend of Troy and nationalism

The legend of Troy, in my mind suffers from the ‘babyfeed syndrome’. Most great stories worldwide face the danger of being reduced to its powdered skeleton; even worse get adapted into oversimplified children stories or Hollywood/History channel films. So by the time you get a whiff of it in another time, another continent, you think the Trojan Horse is either a computer virus or bizarre tale or something. The Arabian Nights is another story to have suffered from this syndrome.
Before coming here, I knew very little about Turkey and its history. I knew about Mustafa Kemal Ataturk though. Ataturk, I understand was this enigmatic, forward looking young hero who’s responsible for modern day Turkey. He instilled a spirit of nationalism and created a nation. And I can’t help but see parallels between Mr.Erdogan and him, besides their common first name.
Mustafa Erdogan is probably the dancing equivalent of A.R Rahman, the music composer at home, i.e an artist who inspires national pride. He revolutionized the way Turks perceive dancing; folk dances in particular. He brought respect to the profession. Many dancers in his company tell us how before ‘Fire of Anatolia’ dancing wasn’t considered a viable profession. Now, parents, friends take pride in seeing their loved ones on stage, and respect the hard work they put in. Mr.Erdogan’s also gained international recognition, an indicator most countries insecure about their worth hang on to. Take A.R Rahman for example, you didn’t need an Oscar to tell you he’s a genius.
The tagline for ‘Fire of Anatolia’s production on Troia is a ‘Dance show from its native land’. You can already feel the pride in that line. It’s the pride of knowing where you come from, and celebrating it. The musical is also designed to generate a spirit of national unity. It shows how men and women, mothers and female warriors alike, leave their newborns and distant homes to come to Troy’s defence. Which is why watching it in Turkey makes these subtle emotions palpable. Everyone speaks of ‘Fire of Anatolia’ with a sense of pride here.

Similarities in mythology

What I also found really interesting were its similarities between Troy and many Hindu mythologies. But more on that in the blog on mythologies as this one’s getting too long.

Spot the Indian. No I'm not the one in the saree.

Rarely does one get a chance to reflect on their Indian-ness. Most often, its confused with patriotism, or nostalgia for something that never existed, like ‘unity in diversity’. ‘Unity in diversity’ is an ideal we may all look upto, perhaps even work towards. But honestly, I don’t see it in practice at home, except when a drunk, slobbering moron enters the ladies compartment and all the ladies yell in unison to shoo him out.
It’s very obvious why I may be confused about my half an hour presentation on India tomorrow, to the dancers of ‘Fire of Anatolia’ and fellows from a dozen different countries, as exotic as Peru, Finland, Argentina, Romania etc.
We’ve all grown so weary about everything, we almost assume that the world is too well connected for a genuine cultural exchange. Thanks to google and the gang, we think everyone knows everything about everyone and everything. Twenty minutes into our first pilates class with Abdullah, our choreographer, whirling dervish cum pilates expert, I gave him, what I perceived to be the universal sign of desperation. I showed him my little pinky finger, which in India means ‘I want to pee so badly I can’t even speak’. Ofcourse, I was distressed when he didn’t even bother acknowledging it. 10 minutes down and I just couldn’t handle the paunch crunches on a full bladder and I just told him I’m going to the loo, which is when he asked me why I was showing him the little finger. The entire class cracked up when I told them that that, i.e ‘No.1’ as kids in the first grade call it is the sign for taking a leak. The laughter just worsened when I said that no.2 stands for taking a shit. Apparently such graphic details are not shared in the west. At home, we not only share such details, we also share the smells and actual experience on our beaches and railway tracks. I know because I live on Juhu beach, arguably the biggest communal toilet this side of the equator.
In less than a week here, my English has changed. I tend to speak 90% in the present tense. I was already used to lots of hand gestures and giving strange sound effects. But now, I feel like the animated Indian from Simpsons. Speaking of which I didn’t know Homer the poet was from Turkey. Or that Illiad was a text he wrote and not the name of another poet. Clearly, I slept through my education.
Enough of chit-chat. Now back to the serious business of presenting India. I have a rough idea. I guess once I present it tomorrow I can share my experiences with everyone. Lets keep it a surprise till then.

To be continued….

things to do before 30

Snuggled between the curiosity of 16 and adventurous spirit of 17, I stuck a piece of paper on my cupboard, and jotted all the things I wanted to accomplish before I turned 30. 30 back then was as far as I could plan for. It wasn’t just a milestone. It was a dead end. It was where life as I knew ended. And another one began.

Being true to my muddled brain, the master list included adjectives, verbs, life long desires and short-term curiosities. I wanted to start eating breakfast, something I loved skipping as much as early morning showers while growing up. I had to learn to be non-judgemental. I had to be a belly-dancer and a mahout, among others. A decade has passed since then. That paper was unceremoniously removed when I shifted houses and now exists as a fragile, mellow yellow reminder in a handmade file. I had never really forgotten the contents of that paper, but over the years, it became a secret of sorts. In the privacy of Google searches and daydreams, I would plot the budget required for learning belly-dancing in Cairo, search for volunteering options in elephant orphanages and so on. One day, a TV channel approached my boyfriend with a proposition. Ask any question you want to our panel of experts, and they give you an expert opinion. When he asked me what I’d ask, were I in his place, the secret slipped out. “What is the cheapest and best option for me to view whales in the wild?” Rather amused, he did all the research and gave me the answer. He even gave me an estimate and volunteered to come along.

That’s when I came out of the closet. I’m 27 now. For more than a decade have I harboured a loony bunch of dreams I would like to accomplish, like being a belly-dancer, performing magic, gazing wide mouthed at whales in their natural environment, unlike the circus of Ocean Parks.
And suddenly, it seems possible. While I was planning my December date with blue whales, my friend, a serial forwarder, forwarded me an application for a dance fellowship in Istanbul. Kicked by the idea, I applied. And while waiting to hear from them I cried. Working as a journalist gave me no energy to fill out lengthy applications, and I had applied at the cost of work and sanity.
Focus is a strange concept. We are taught to go on doing what we are good at, until we become better and finally start earning money. And the minute you begin to question this bogus concept, you lose focus. While waiting for the fellowships results to come, I actually began doubting myself. Perhaps I was wrong, even delusional to daydream.

Anyway, something proved me wrong. It generally does. (Which is why I’d like to learn to be non-judgemental in this lifetime). I left for Istanbul on 30^th Sept 2009 to join the ‘Fires of Anatolia’, one of the biggest dance troupes in the world for three months. I am leaving 5 kilos overweight and I wish it was the luggage. In my attempt to get a fancy haircut, I chopped off 5 inches of hair and now look like a smart cockatoo. If I touch my toes for more than 10 seconds, it hurts.

This blog hopes to capture my adventures of conquering my list of things to do before hitting 30. The timeframe, I admit, is arbitrary. But then so is my list.

List of things to do before 30 (Please feel free to add to it)

Belly-dancing

See whales in the wild

Be a mahout

Learn to be non-judgemental

Eat breakfast

Read Politics of Sexuality by Foucault

Read some book by Samuel Beckett

Be a fairy