A Letter to Dance

Acknowledgments (click here)

Prologue (click here)

Letter:

Dear Dance,

One might find it whimsical that I'm writing you a letter, to Dance; and that I'm calling Dance as a noun and not a verb. However, I think I need to say this out loud to the Art of Dance for giving me what it has been giving. To express gratitude for the emotions I'm feeling today.

Honestly speaking, I have not been constant & loyal in following my passion for Dance as much as I should have been. Yet, the Art of Dance has always embraced me during any interval that I've decided to follow it. And for that, I'm eternally grateful.

As a kid, I have followed every excuse to Dance; be it annual days in school, family functions or colony gatherings. And, if there was nothing happening, I would still be dancing - performing for an imaginary audience sitting on the living room couch. I would be dancing even when there was really no one watching. And isn't that the best way to dance, as if no one is watching? 

And while I'm on that topic, I must also admit that I am also low-key relieved that I haven't pursued the passion of Dance professionally. Because (quoting Liz Gilbert) now I do not have to burden the Art of Dance with the responsibility to pay my bills. Art is bigger than that. And, I have tremendous respect for the people who do this for a living, who Dance professionally - they are an inspiration for living the dream. I am just glad that I am able to have this sexy, naughty, wicked affair with the Art of Dance; that I get to sneak-out with Dance few hours every week  from the otherwise rudimentary life, and make the most of it with Dance because I only get limited time with it.

When dancing in the studio, it is bliss to feel the studio floor transform under my feet as I get lost in the music, learn new steps and express through Dance. It is the sense that Dance gives to my being. Transforming my muscles into the lyrics and poetry, the wind in my arms and sharing that moment with the other beings like me in that studio. 

I believe that to Dance is really worth every sacrifice. And, apparently that is the reason why I am always before-time to the classes (what a geek) and do not complain when we run overtime during our sessions or when we are called for Grand Rehearsals throughout the day as we inch closer to the date for the musical show. I might crib that it changes my other plans, but I am wholeheartedly satisfied to spend whatever time I get with Dance.

And, even though it would not be my first time performing on stage, the excitement I feel about this upcoming show is humongous (as always). I cannot wait to feel the warmth from the blinding spotlights, the ecstacy of executing the choreography in shiny costumes on stage and for the applause from the entertained audience who bought tickets and invested their time to watch us perform. 

The exhilaration is so much that all my plans these days are divided into two eras - "Before the Show" and "After the Show"; as if this show is a major life event (and I've always felt that with all the shows I've performed in the past; to the extent that I need to find my purpose in life again after the show is done - this time, the affair I'm having every Mon & Fri evenings would be over). I will miss the pleasure of walking into the studio, learning the choreography from my teacher, sharing the space with other dancers, the hard wood floor and the mirrors in the studio that would eventually get sweaty with us. 

Also, whether it's dancing in the living room, in the studio or on the stage - the passion towards Dance remains the same; to accumulate the wealth of experiences, to comprehend the full & unique pleasure of movements and to commit to the sweet passion of the Art of Dance. And, I hope I get to follow this passion consistently and with loyalty.

For now, looking forward to performing at the Namaste India show on Saturday, July 16th at Flato Markham Theater.

A Letter to Dance - Acknowledgments

To my wife: I am constantly amazed by your state of self-awareness and self-sufficiency. Thank you for your constant support. I could not have been doing this (or anything really) without you. I couldn't afford to live this dream growing up, everything else was more important than attending a Dance School or dancing with a professional group. Thank you for your compassion; and for understanding what it means to me to be able to pursue dancing. Thank you for putting up with me while I have been physically absent from the house Monday & Wednesday evenings for the past 4 months to learn & rehearse for the upcoming show. 

To my family & friends: Thank you for always cheering me up. I know I have been borderline annoying, advertising the show over my Instagram stories and WhatsApp statuses. Thanks for always sending your best wishes. It means a lot. As a wise man once said, Whatever you do in this life, it's not legendary, unless your friends are there to see it.

To my dance teacher Sue & Bollywood Dance School Canada: Thank you for offering this course and organizing this musical show. Thank you for teaching us the choreography and for your support & guidance throughout the course. Thank you for giving me that extra push when I was not up to the mark, for being patient with me while I was learning and for giving me the opportunity to perform in this show.

To my readers: Thank you for taking the time to read my work. You are the biggest motivation why I write and what I write. I always look forward to your likes, comments and feedback (both online and offline). They help me in ways that are beyond comprehension.

Back to the Letter

A Letter to Dance - Prologue

I am drafting this after a fun filled Sunday of intense dancing from 11am to 6pm for Grand Rehearsals of the upcoming show, Namaste India. I want to write this post, and draft this now so I get to feel these feelings as much as I can, so I can pen them down & revisit them a million times down the road even after the show is done and because (as I always say) writing is therapeutic. 

Today was a day filled with dance, with over 150 dancers gathered in the studio from across the GTA to rehearse for the musical; one group dancing after the other in the studio, showcasing their work to the director of the show and him working out the transitions between each act. During the time when we were not presenting our work and awaiting our turns, we were still rehearsing our sections in other areas of the studio - backstage, in the corridors, in the hallways and even in the parking lot under full sun. Almost each group had their own mini-speaker to play their track and rehearse their act; yet amidst the noisy musical resonance of all tracks, each group was following only their track; similar to how several teams simultaneously play cricket on the same playground in my hometown; yet each player only fields the ball that belongs to their team. It was bliss to be surrounded by so many dancers and so much of dance.

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Chai Therapy - Epilogue

Note: This is continuation from Chapter-3.

The Fairy Godmother Tea made me realize that I had been the thirstiest. It quenched a unique thirst and initiated a revolution within me. A revolution that was much easier said than it was done.

But the key was to start with baby steps. One of the first things I realized was that my Driver’s License had expired to the extent that it was getting impossible to prove who I was. I had ignored it long enough, focusing on the sadness in my life. I got it renewed and celebrated the small win by sharing a glass of wine with Fairy Godmother. And apparently, that was the last time she had walked the halls of my condo unit.

The Fairy Godmother is now back into the living room mirror, sitting in her comfortable rocking chair, sipping wine. I am back to my usual routine of morning jogs and evening racquetball, participating in tournaments over the weekends.

At times, I’m also hosting parties, inviting friends, Nicole and Nick. However, there is no trauma anymore. We meet, we greet and we can co-exist in a civilized manner.

The Fairy Godmother was right, he didn’t have to apologize for me to forgive him & move on with my happiness. I had it inside of me all along and will always have.

Chai Therapy - Chapter 3

Note: This is continuation from Chapter-2.

“Aren’t you getting bored of this, Ana?”

I hadn’t realized when the Fairy Godmother had entered bathroom. She leaned against the countertop on the vanity. I was astonished at the power she had assumed to walk out from the living room mirror into my bathroom.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I answered, attempting to ignore her. And she continued to stare at me, raising an eyebrow.

“I remember how he used to look at me,” I confessed, finding it hard to match her gaze. “He made me feel loved and honored. I don’t like what he thinks of me now. And I don’t know…”

“If at all he thinks in coherence with you,” she interrupted. “And I think it is unfair for your bathtub to have to hold your sad body while you sulk in your own filth and sorrow.”

“It was one thing for you to judge me with your twirling glass of wine from inside the mirror. But it is preposterous for you to be sitting in my bathroom and insulting me.” I snapped. “I will not take it.”

The Fairy Godmother laughed so hard, I could see the cavities in her molars. “Are you doing this on purpose? Putting on the act of sounding stupid, girl?” The Fairy Godmother went on. “That’s what happens when you call false love, love. The man doesn’t look at you the way you think he does. Not anymore, at least. And, I hope you realize that the more you chase him, the more you drive him away. Is that what you want? To chase him for the rest of your life?”

“I want him to apologize.” I spoke out. There was a part of me that wanted him to tell me that he was sorry. And, there was another part that was craving vengeance.

“Well, whether he apologizes or not, is up to him. However, whether you forgive him; is up to you.” She calmly smiled.

A long moment of silence followed while I tried to gather the words I wanted to say next, while the Fairy Godmother turned away and walked out of the bathroom. I drained the tub, threw on my robe and followed her.

The Fairy Godmother was now in the kitchen, filling up the kettle. She turned it on as I walked towards her.

“Do you even remember who you were when you met Nick?” She asked while I stared at her.

“For starters, you were a tea person,” she had assumed it wasn’t necessary to wait for my answer and poured a cup of tea for me. “You turned into a coffee person with him.” She went on, handing me the tea cup and leading me into the balcony.

“Do you remember when was the last time you showed up for racquetball?” She argued.

“I remember being happy with him.” I confessed.

“Your happiness is a consequence of your own personal effort. You cannot burden him with the responsibility to make you happy.” She continued, “would you prefer to date a person who is not happy with themselves and belittles their self-respect by chasing another person?”

“And enough with the mind tricks of trying to run into him and seduce him.” She went on, “it is only adding to his ego and making him treat you like a doormat. You’re mistaken to accept that as love.”

I took a sip from the tea she made. The steaming hot tea that she served hit different in the spring evening. It was delicious.

“As a matter of fact, you need to find yourself again, Ana. Rediscover yourself.”

Link to Epilogue

Chai Therapy - Chapter-2

 

Chapter-2

Nick & I

Note: This is continuation to Chapter-1. 

I started my evening routine of soaking myself in the bubble bath, attempting to ignore The Fairy Godmother. The synopsis of what was going on was annoyingly humiliating.

Last summer, I had met Nick at the engagement party of my best friend Nicole, allegedly my conjoint twin since our teenage years. The four of us would occasionally hangout together and we’d always be joking about how I was living the dream with my own version of The Knicks; Nick and Nicole.

By autumn, Nick and I had developed a routine wherein we would catch up after work and he’d join me for a coffee at my condo and we’d spend our evenings together. We would meet up with Nicole or Nick’s friends over the weekend and take trips to mountains in the North or get vibing in clubs of the city.

All of this lasted until the end of autumn when Nick had started to act distant and decided that it was time to end our relationship in the classiest way possible, by having a conversation about wanting to be just friends and nothing more.

The impact of this breakup was making me try everything to restore my life into “living the dream” status. I had pestered him to convince how the relationship was right for the both of us, had issued a general apology for him to forgive me for the mistakes I might have committed that I had no knowledge of and even tried to emotionally blackmail him by asking him to “return me the Nick that belonged to me”. When nothing else worked, I tried to be friends with him by hanging out with his friends and Nicole every time anyone made a plan that involved Nick.

I would deliberately walk in his neighborhood and run into him on occasions; act breezy and insinuate to have a coffee together at my condo. After we were in the unit, I’d try to seduce him, or beg him, or remind him of the times we enjoyed in each other’s company. It would mostly work, and at times, he’d walk away. Every time it worked, his face would turn into his “Look-What-You-Made-Me-Do” expressions and I’d go back into being miserable.

Link to: Chapter-3 

Chai Therapy - Chapter-1

Chapter-1

The Fairy Godmother

It was April and the weather was gradually warming up. I was finally able to have my evening coffee on the balcony of my condo while breathing the spring air and enjoying the colors painted by the sun setting on the horizon of Lake Ontario. I stood there, imagining shapes in the sky that weren’t really there and watching porter planes take-off and land on the runway of Billy Bishop airport.

I was deeply engrossed in the view, except for a portion of my mind, perhaps the most significant one, that wondered what Nick would be up to.

Nick and I used to enjoy our evening coffee together in the balcony of my condo last autumn, when we were still together. I would lean against the parapet of the balcony and he’d lean beside me. He would rest his palm on my neckline and sway my hair on one side using the back of his hand in one swift motion. The crisp fall air touching my neck would make me cold. He’d run his slightly chapped, warm flimsy lips from the edge of my shoulder to my neck, exhaling his scent on me, sliding toward my ear. He’d slowly whisper my name.

“Ana,” I jolted as I almost heard the musical magic his voice would add to my name and scalded my hand by spilling coffee over it. The burn from the coffee brought me back to the realization that Nick was already gone and that I was back to the isolating life of a single woman in her early thirties living in the city.

I raced in from the balcony to my kitchen to hold my hand under running cold water, crossing the tiny living room on my way in. It was decorated with coffee tables on both the sides of a sectional couch. The wall behind the couch donned an oval mirror that was edged with curling leaves. I could always see fragments of different women in that mirror, all the women that I have been ever since I started in the city.

There was a professional who wore blazers and pump heels, and there was a laid back one who wore PJs and her hair in a messy bun. There was a party hostess in a cocktail dress, and there was an athlete in her racquetball attire. And while the fragments of these women paid inconsistent visits, there was one woman who would be constantly present in the mirror, the one I would deliberately ignore, but she’d always make her flamboyant presence felt. She’d be comfortably sitting in her rocking chair, twirling wine in her glass and smiling; wearing a comfortable skirt-blouse and her hair casually untied. I call her, the Fairy Godmother.

I had ignored her for the longest time since I preferred not to empower her with the freedom of speech or being opinionated. However, I realized now, that she had assumed her power over me as I saw her get up from her chair and walk to the front of the mirror while I cooled off my burnt hand under the faucet.

She stood at the edge inside the mirror, still twirling her wine and smiling at me. I walked into the living room for her glances could no longer be ignored.

“Can you give me a synopsis of what’s going on?” She asked.

“The weather is nice,” I blurted out and ran into the bathroom and turned on the faucet in my bathroom to draw myself a bath.

“You are going to be so much more difficult than I thought.” The Fairy Godmother muttered as I headed out from the living room and the voice of Fairy Godmother faded away under the noise of water gushing into the bathtub.

Link to Chapter-2

Art and Family Loyalty

Photo by Shayna Douglas on Unsplash

“Do you think she can hear us?” I heard a voice that sounded like a ten year old girl.

“Of course, she can hear us.” A ten year old boy chuckled in a rude voice, “She can ignore us all she wants, but she can’t avoid us.”

Seated on the office desk and chair that we had setup in our bedroom, I pretentiously focused on my job, reading paper application forms for Bank Accounts and typing the data from the forms into Bank Database. It was this job that helped me monetize my time while my kids were at school. The money that could potentially enable me help my husband pay bills, the money that definitely helped me be self-reliant.

I fastened the hair-tie on my ponytail and continued to frantically type, voluntarily zoning out the voices. The more applications I digitize, the better the remuneration. If I exceeded my target, I could also treat my kids and husband with an exquisite dinner.

“Marina,” the girl called.

“Don’t even bother.” The boy interrupted her. “The Marina you’re looking for is far gone.”

I had evolved to give a cold shoulder to these voices over the past ten years . Yet, today, I was somehow following their conversation.

The voices came from the two tulips that I had hand-painted using acrylic glass paint in the left bottom corner of the mirror on the wardrobe in our bedroom, on the day we found out we were pregnant with our first child, ten years ago. Since we didn’t know the gender, I had painted them blue and pink. And, I was blessed with a son then; and our darling daughter arrived two years after.

Over the past ten years, my life has been devotedly revolving around our family. My number one job has been to ensure everyone has everything they need, from food in their lunch boxes to ironed clothes in their wardrobe and much more. It is this job that I adore the most, to provide for the people that I love the most; my loving husband and my adorable kids. And, since the kids were now nine and seven, I was able to find time when they were at school, which is why I had taken up the work-from-home data entry job.

“It’s a shame,” The boy exasperated. “Marina was a good artist.”

“She still might be,” the girl defended. “We won’t know unless she picks up the brush again. Remember all the accolades she received in her art school? And the countless exhibitions that displayed her paintings? That kind of talent never goes away.”

“That was ten years ago. She’s a mom now,” the boy interfered again. “The only time she really has is when her kids are at school. And, that’s when she needs to work.”

“But she could be a working mother who is also a painter.” The girl still argued.

“Can you, Marina?” The boy tried to poke at me.

I continued glancing through the papers and typing on the computer; tuning out the voices.

I could be a working mother who is also a painter. That thought always crosses my mind. But it is easier said than done. As therapeutic as it might be, painting is also exhausting. It would consume a lot out of me, potentially leaving me no time or energy to spend for my family, and they deserved a hundred percent of my time.

“No one deserves a hundred percent of you,” the boy rudely interrupted my train of thought. “If your husband, your kids, your work and your art are important for you, shouldn’t they all deserve your attention?”

“I agree,” the girl continued, in her calm voice. “If your art is important to you, shouldn’t you pursue it? If you don’t, wouldn’t it impact you? You’re hearing two tulips liaise with you. You may hear from other things too, overtime.”

But, there is no time. I have kids to look after.

“Ahh, the greatest argument of all times. There is never time.” The boy smirked with his rude remarks. “You have nurtured your babies into civilized, independent kids. They can’t practice that self-dependence unless you let them. They needed you all the time when they were babies. While they’ll always be your babies, they don’t need as much from you now as they once did.”

But, moms are supposed to be martyrs.

“Is that what you really want to demonstrate, Marina?” I could sense a comforting smile in the girl’s voice. “If you demonstrate martyrdom, your kids would grow up to be martyrs. But, if you demonstrate creativity, they will grow up to explore their creative side. Is that what you really want? For your kids to believe that motherhood takes away all your pleasure and that once you’re a mother, you can be nothing else?”

But, what if my kids need me?

The boy exhaled in frustration. “Unless, you enjoy being treated as a doormat for them to walk all over you when they’re bored. Shouldn’t they be old enough already to keep themselves entertained for a little while when you’re working on your passion? And, you’d still be here. The good thing about painting is that you can do it from the comfort of your home. If the house is on fire, or one of your kids has an emergency, you’d still be in the house to look after them.”

But, painting takes time and doesn’t make money.

“Art doesn’t need to make money. Don’t you have your job already?” The boy went on, but the girl shushed him.

“We won’t know until you start painting, would we?” She continued persuasion in her pacifying voice. “And, who is to say? You may be able to make money from your art, like how you’d have custom orders during your days at the University.”

She went on,”although, you need to pursue painting because you’re passionate about it, just like when you painted us. Whether it makes money could be secondary. And you don’t need to quit your job. What if you make the time for it outside your working hours? Worth a shot?”

But, I love my family too much to diminish any of my attention towards them.

The girl continued in her soothing voice, “you need to pursue your art so that you can continue to love them. If you don’t, you may grow to despise them. And, when you’re old, you may regret not having followed your passion for the sake of your family. And that would be the worst burden on you as well as them.”

And that would be the worst… I lost track of the conversation with tulips after this, or maybe I didn’t need to. The voices from tulips were right. It may not be in the best interest for any of us if I didn’t attempt to pursue my passion for painting again.

The Curious Case of Natalie

I vividly remember it was raining the day I met her.

I was walking down the streets of Downtown and my jacket could not do justice to keep the precipitation out. I was sprinting on the sidewalk and the raindrops made their way down the glass walls of shops. As the rain gained momentum, I clutched the collar on my jacket and turned the knob on whatever door handle I could find to seek respite from the rain.

The air inside was warm and welcoming, and I realized that I had walked into a bar. To my amazement, I was the only patron there. And, the only other person in the bar was the bartender behind the counter. She seemed to be standing on a step-stool and arranged the bottles in the bar cabinet, so I couldn’t see her face. Her blond hair was tied in a high ponytail revealing her slender body frame. She wore a black tank top and a sky blue denim that accentuated her features.

“What would you like?” She asked, her back towards me.

“Umm, maybe a beer?” I befuddled.

“That’s very generic. Would you like to narrow down?” She asked, turning her head only a little in my direction, revealing her sharp jawline. Her pale color complimented her blond ponytail.

"Do you have any recommendations?” I was still unable to make up my mind, trying to take a glance at her face, but also pretending to look away to avoid staring. I walked to the bar counter.

“If you’re cold, a beer might not be the best choice,” she chuckled. “Also, I’d expect a writer to be a little more creative.”

“Maybe I’m not a good writer, then.” I promptly replied, and then it dawned upon me. “Wait. How did you know that I was a writer?

“I know everything about you,” she said.

“You do?” I sat on one of the barstools near the counter.

“Well, anyone who wears that has got to be a writer,” she giggled, “or wants to be.”

“How do you know I’m not a wannabe?” I asked.

“Is there any such thing as an accomplished artist?” She went on.

“Hmm, I guess not.” I was at lack of words.

She stepped down from the stool, closed the cabinet and turned around, revealing her perfect face. She untied her ponytail and her straight hair fell on either sides of her face, covering her cheeks like golden curtains, not one hair out of place. She tucked them behind her ears.

“Have you decided?” She asked, she smiled a mischievous smile with her glistening straight teeth. Then, she walked around the bar counter, took a seat on a barstool next to me and poured herself a golden brown drink from a bottle. The gorgeous curled eyelashes on her almond eyes danced as she blinked and watched the drink stream into her glass.

“What are your drinking?” I asked.

“Jameson,” she answered.

“Yes?” I replied.

“You said my name, Jameson.” I muttered as she looked at me.

“I know,” she smirked. “I also know that your knowledge of alcohol is extremely limited. So, I thought of having a little fun with it.”

She pointed her index finger towards the glass and then her thumb at me, her fingers in a fist. I nodded, and she pulled another glass from behind the tray and poured Jameson in it. She pulled out two ice cubes from the ice bucket jar, added them in the glasses and slid a glass to me.

“Like what you see?” She asked, as she caught me staring at her.

“I have seen better,” I looked away, my tone unconvinced.

“How much better?”

“Not that much, really,” I confessed. This was the closest I have to come to any beautiful woman, let alone drinking with her.

“I can live with that,” she replied. “So Jameson, what brings you here?” She went on, trying to keep the conversation alive.

“The torrential rain,” I answered.

“You are not the most charming writer, are you?”

“I guess, maybe that’s why I’m not accomplished,” I frowned. “Are you allowed to drink on the job?” I tried to make an effort at the talk and immediately regretted it.

“Don’t you drink on the job?” She replied.

“I do. However, writers are not liable for it.” I argued

“Me neither,” she replied and nodded towards the door. The fact that I was looking at ‘Open’ sign made me realize that the bar was actually ‘Closed’.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I apologized, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“You seemed to need company,” she chuckled, keeping her hand on my hand that rested on the bar counter. I do not know whether it was her hand that was cold or if it was me that felt the chills.

“Most men would notice the sign before entering the bar,” I confessed.

“Most men would ask my name by now,” she batted her almond eyes and leaned close to me, firming up her grip on my hand. I nudged in the barstool, trying to avoid eye contact.

“What’s your name?”

“Natalie,” she smiled.

“Nice name,” I replied. “Nice to meet you, Ms Natalie.”

“Mrs. Natalie,” she corrected me.

“I can understand, you’re nervous because it’s your first time drinking with a woman in the bar.” She confronted.

“How did you know?” I pulled out my hand from her grip.

“I know everything about you,” she replied.

“So you have said,” I replied, irritation evident in my tone. “You didn’t mention how.”

“Because, I am a psychic, or a ghost, or a spirit,” she went on. “You’re the writer, you decide. I could be anything.”

“You think that’s funny?” I was on the edge of losing composure.

“I think Jameson’s cute,” she crossed her feet and took a sip from her glass.

I involuntarily followed her gesture and sipped on my drink.

“How much cute?” I asked.

“I have seen better,” she rolled her eyes to mock me and giggled.

The clock struck at 3pm with a loud ring.

“Oh, it’s time,” she sprang down from the barstool and walked to the door. I watched her as she walked away. However, got distracted as my cellphone vibrated in my pocket for a text. I stepped down from the stool and fished for my phone in my pocket.

“Can I help you?” A man walked in from the door on the wall besides the cabinet behind bar counter.

“Oh, no, it’s okay,” I answered. “Mrs. Natalie is taking care of my orders.”

“Are you kidding my friend?” The man gave me a weird look. “My wife died five years ago when this bar caught fire.”

I looked at the door but there was no sign of her. Also, the door was actually locked from inside and the bar was still closed.

“Take care, Jameson.” The text said, “-N.” And there was no number.