dancing the Halay in front of a Doner shop at Sultan Ahmet

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.

Flirting with Istanbul by night

This is probably my favorite self portrait, you can see my silhouette in front of the bar. Despite the jet lag and dirty taste in my mouth I was super excited to see the Istanbul skyline- the Bosphorous, the Sultan Ahmet, Hagia Sofia, Topkapi Palace, world famous bridge connecting Europe to Asia; the monumental sites nestled among sleepy apartment buildings, half open windows giving a glimpse of urban Turkish life at 9pm. What I found the most endearing were the mellow yellow lights preferred by every household I could peer into. I was standing on the rooftop restaurant ‘Leb-e-Derya’ in Taksim, an area that prides itself as the heart of Istanbul.

Body is the new brain

From today, my body is my brain. Instead of puny 8 kgs (estimated weight of a head), my new brain weighs 58 kilos! 59 actually. Since I have started dancing, I have gained weight. I’m assuming its all muscle.
For a dancer, it’s the body that responds. They hear the rhythm in their feet, not their ears. They feel emotions in a trembling arm, a tightened butt. They express joy in a complex footwork, split second jumps. And they swirl in the same spot, like earth encircling the sun to commune with god.
God, of course, is the greatest dancer if you’re Hindu. The greatest beloved if you’re Sufi. Most just if you’re Muslim. Most kind, if you’re Christian. For Buddhists, you, yourself are the Buddha. If only you realize it. Overwhelmed by the first chills of a Mediterranean winter, all these qualities merge. They seem like different aspects of divinity. If only I could see the divinity in me.
On stage, Muge, one of my dance teachers has the smile and excitement of a little girl in wonderland, and the grace and confidence of a woman. When teaching, she pays attention to all the students, and helps me overcome many obstacles. It may sound like counter-intuitive behaviour, but generally, the slow learners in our class tend to haunt the backbenches, and all the confident, good dancers stand in the first row. Muge insists on telling me that standing in the back row will make learning more difficult. She also expects me to ask more questions when I falter. She doesn’t allow me to give up.
“You think too much! Don’t count your steps, let yourself loose!” she yells, as much as her soft voice permits her. She is constantly telling me to let my feet, not my head do the dancing. To pick rhythms instinctively. So I am trying to make my body my brain.
Most people spend their childhood jumping over gates and walls, punching, kicking, dancing, cycling, playing in general. When I look back at my childhood, I have no clue what I spent my time on. I skipped school, I skipped the swimming classes, cycling, badminton. I would cheat in exams, space out in singing classes. I am probably the only adult on this planet who can’t hit 3 balls in a row with a racket, cant balance, can’t even jump!
Out here I am constantly told to carry my body’s weight in my abdomen. If I want to spin or jump and land in the same place, I must carry the weight of my body in my tummy. It’s a beautiful thought. Using your navel to find equilibrium. But I have no freaking idea what this means. Period aches and gas are the only times my awareness shifts to my belly. I am sure most of you will be laughing at me at this point. Which twat doesn’t know how to clench their tummy when someone punches them, or when they jump. Guess what, some of us just get punched.
All brains need to unwind, especially when they are burdened by their own weight. And swimming, I’ve just discovered, is my body’s meditation. The water steals the weight from my feet, gently picks my knees and carries me instead. It washes away most aches and helps me stretch after hours of intense tightness. It’s the closest to my mother’s hug I get these days.
But sometimes, actually very often, the pain doesn’t go away. You stretch, you swim, you sauna, you sleep, you pray that when you wake up, the pains gone. But as soon as you lift your leg to get out of bed, the pain wakes you up to remind you you’re human.
Since I’m straddling between two worlds; the instinctive and the intellectual, the physical and the mental, I hold on to analogies to make sense of things. Incessant physical pain may be a new acquaintance, but I have lived with pain before. I think anyone who’s bothered to fall in love has.
When an activity is this physical and sensuous, the sexual can’t be far behind. And most of the spare time here is spent practicing the peacock dance of display and attract. I, though, am a penguin. I waddle miles away and towards my emperor penguin. This means I generally come home immediately after practice and read a book instead of coffee with big nosed, six packed beings.
And on one such early night, I happened to go through special folders in my email inbox, full of intense exchanges, passion and heartbreak. In life, after each heartbreak, I’d not only shift continents, I’d also pack all those email relics away into a folder and change email addresses altogether. Don’t ask me how many email addresses I now have.
Anyway, I could never go through love mails the past without crying, without feeling cheated, hurt, and worse, heartbroken all over again. Each mail would rip the fragile scabs time had placed.
But for the first time in my life, in a totally new country, I could read my cherished love letters without shedding a tear. Ofcourse, there’s always remorse and longing, but the pain didn’t overwhelm me.
I was fine. I slept well.
So I reckon if broken hearts can breathe new life, so can broken limbs (painful knees in this case). And now you know why I’m always a beat late in my dance steps, why Muge yells at me to stop thinking. I’m a daydreamer. I use the heart’s wisdom to pacify knees.

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.”