My Belgium performance, or the lack of it….....

A visa refused, first glimpse of Aya sofia, matured love, pumpkin dessert, 2 Indonesians, 1 Peruvian and me dancing in the lobby..............

Nine and a half hours before our departure for Belgium, with 90% of the my packing complete, pumped up on a good rehearsal, 4 of us fellows, (2 Indonesians, 1 Peruvian, and 1 Indian to be exact) were told that our Belgian visa didn’t come through. For no real reason, except our nationalities.

I have been travelling in Europe, US and Asia for more than a decade now. It’s the first time my visa was refused. I’m as surprised as I’m angry that such blatant racial discrimination still exists in our world, in the name of diplomacy. It takes me back to the 1920s when Gandhi was thrown out of a railway carriage in South Africa, even earlier to the 1800’s when Dadabhai Nowroji was thrown out of a hotel because of a signboard that read ‘Dogs and Indians not allowed’.
And people thought we were primitive because we eat with our hands.

I didn’t see this coming for miles. Of all the visa stresses I have had in the past few months, Belgium wasn’t one of them. I had spent the last days before our Belgium tour daydreaming about Belgian waffles, fruit beer, chocolates and fries.
Infact, it is only after 2 months of practice, 2 days before Belgium that I began to enjoy dancing! For the first time in this dance fellowship, I knew the choreography well enough to switch off my thoughts and enjoy dancing for the sake of dancing. I had finally re-learnt the phosphorescent sea wave dance without looking at others for cues. I heard the soundtrack like half a dozen times till I could hum the song and do the steps.

There was another choreography called ‘dance of the skeletons’; a poetic reference to Cassandra’s prophecy that even skeletons will return to fight the never-ending Trojan war, a dance I had learnt but wasn’t selected to perform on stage. On the last day of our rehearsal, while all the chosen skeletons practiced the dance, I joined them from the margins. I enjoyed walking the robotic, break dance inspired walk of a skeleton. I enjoyed the collective rhythm, now also my personal rhythm.

So when the four of us were called into the co-ordinators office after practice, I didn’t consider it ominous. When Daniella said she had a feeling we’re not going to Belgium, I told her off for being pessimistic.

I am confused. Sometimes, when I think of the bliss I felt in my last rehearsal, the irony of being unable to perform in front of ten thousands of people feels almost exquisite. Like the taste of the Turkish dessert Kadak, pumpkin soaked in sugar, served with walnuts to be exact. I shall explain the reasons behind that simile few lines down. It’s taken me 48 hours to regain my composure enough to write, surely you can wait a few lines.

Sometimes, when I think of the last minute shock value of the moment, I feel like the hapless participant of a reality show. Or Anil Kapoor from the Bollywood film Lamhe to be precise. When he see’s the lady of his dreams, devastated by her fathers death, running towards him, he opens his arms wide. Only to see her skip him and run into another guys arms, someone who wasn’t even in the frame till then. In short, I feel jilted!

I don’t quite agree with the philosophy that everything happens for a reason. Pointless things are good for health. If you need a reason for everything you do, and everything that you couldn’t do, then you think too much.
48 hours after the disappointment of not performing in the biggest stadium in Belgium, after all the consistent effort a writer could possibly pour into her groove, I know one thing. When I do perform again, it will be for an audience that wants me.
There’s a paradoxical argument most Americans give, about how Americans didn’t want George W. Yet he ruled as president for 10 years. A similar argument was given to me now. The Belgians don’t have anything personal against poor people, yet their embassy refused ONLY the developing country dancers and admitted the rest.

I somehow can’t buy that argument. If the government of a country the size of my palm, with the population of a burgeoning neighbourhood, housing the EU headquarter; if the government of such a country doesn’t reflect its people’s wishes, then democracy is a lie! (It probably is, but rants aren’t known to make astute arguments).
At the end of the first day of moping around in our Istanbul hotel, Oya and Faruk, our adopted Istanbul parents took us out to their favourite fish restaurant for dinner. Which is when I tasted the fantastic Turkish orange and pomegranate juice, cake-like savoury Black sea corn bread and an ‘ooh la la’ array of desserts.
While drowning my frustration with good food, I couldn’t help but notice the silent glances exchanged between Oya and Faruk. The two got married in 1985. When I asked Oya how they met, she gave a succinctly answered how they began as good friends, he, the girlfriend she could gossip and depend on. Till one day they went for a meal and returned as lovers. Before I could extract the menu of this meal from them, Faruk corrected Oya in soft-spoken Turkish. By the looks of it Oya had got things grievously muddled up, forgetting the long distance and two boyfriends she dated in between. While Faruk, the astute historian of their love remembers the date of their dates, 30 years on.

Oya loves fruits, and Faruk his Raki. She enjoys heartfelt, honest conversations. And he loves watching her. I noticed this because I sat between them, and only Faruk noticed the unnoticed speck of food on Oya’s face and passed on a tissue to her.
Watching the couple; siblings, lovers, old friends at once sharing their favourite meal with us was a special moment. It sliced through my cocoon of frustration and anger. It inspired me to each twice as much dessert, especially the pumpkin heaven called ‘Kadak’ and masterfully subtle ‘helva’. My better half will be visiting me in a month, and I must have my list of top Turkish desserts ready by then. On our first anniversary, he took me on a dessert buffet. It’s the only part of the meal we agree upon.

While I am the oldest fellow in this fellowship, Maulvi, the Indonesian boy is the youngest. He insists on playing the Troy soundtrack everywhere we go, and practicing the folk dance ‘Halay’. That evening, Danny, my Peruvian pal and I found the music unsettling. While walking back to our hotel Danny threatened to cry if he played it again. And I just threatened him to stop. By the time we had entered the whirling motion of the revolving door though, I got this intense urge to practice my Halay, to fix one of my many ‘out of rhythm’ steps.

So I asked the gang of dejected nationals if they wanted to dance the Halay in our hotel lobby, since it needs lots of space. And they agreed. While the rest of our fellows were performing in Belgium, in a basketball stadium, we, the left-behinders performed the dance at approximately the same time in our hotel lobby at Taksim Square. A confused man by the lift tried to look as normal as he could while the 3 of us danced to music from Maulvi’s mobile.
Something dawned upon me, 2 things to be precise. A professional will sulk at the thought of not performing in front of thousands, an artist will dance none the less.

I am an artist.