by Deepti Dilip Kumar
“Left and right and three and four. Come on, girls, dance,” the dance teacher urges. “Five and six, and seven and eight. Why are you turning so quickly? From the beginning again.”
I’m getting tired and dizzy. The room is too small, filled with nine sweaty dancers and the smell of talcum powder and lipstick. I wipe my face with a towel and join the other girls in the ring again. Hop, skip, twirl, repeat. Left – no, right – no, wait, what’s happening? My group is spinning around me and I’m confused again. I need a break.
“You need to have this routine perfected by Friday morning,” she intones. “I’ll give you a five-minute break.”
I join the other Grade 9 girls at the wash-room. They are all laughing and talking about Annual Day on Friday, notably the costumes they’ll wear in the dance. The dance and math teachers have ordered the intricate costumes, but simpler embellishments like sequins and ribbons have to be made by hand, and I’m useless with my hands. I repeat the words of my primary school report under my breath: I’m useless at craft-work, stitching, embroidery or painting. Poor development of fine-motor skills, I recall Sister Teresa calling it in my Grade 2 report card. The same grade, E: Poor, in Handwork, Art, Craft-work, embroidery and gardening all the way up to Grade 8 when my mother finally decided it was time for me to switch schools. Unfortunately for me, my gross-motor skills are no better. Poor hand-eye coordination, poor judge of space and motion. No wonder I can’t dance to save my life. The ribbon-detailing of my costume and my stage make-up and hairstyle will have to be left to the other girls in my group. If I can get the one-two-three-four down pat, I will consider myself lucky.
“Don’t think so much about it,” the math teacher tells me, taking me off to a side. “Dancing isn’t for everyone. I like dancing and arithmetic, things that you don’t. You know that God has made everyone differently.”
Yes, I think, God has made me an untalented slob who picks at her fingernails when she gets nervous and takes far too long to finish a small meal. I hurriedly place my hands behind my back, immediately self-conscious of my brittle, broken nails. Anyone would think, from my posture and facial contortions, that this lady is chiding me relentlessly. I swallow with some difficulty. “Have some cold water, and relax” she says, patting my arm sympathetically. “You’re going to look gorgeous in your costume, you know.”
By Thursday, I am actually dancing – not gracefully or extremely well-coordinated, to be sure – but at least I can follow the eight-beat rhythm five times without breaking step. All through the week, I have had my sympathetic and assisting partner, Miriam, three inches taller than me, who has guided me through the steps, which she has had simplified for my sake. We are the tallest of the group and will be leading everyone else. It’s a dance to replicate the Maypole dance of England, and we’ll be wearing pretty frocks, holding ribbons, and have ribboned wreaths in our hair. While I love the aesthetics of the set up, the ribbons constantly trip me up. “Think of them as your arms,” Miriam coaches me. “Wave your ribbon like you would wave a flag.” It doesn’t work at first; my ribbons twine themselves around my skinny arms and I almost choke when they wrap around my neck. The other girls smile and whisper to each other about my nervousness. But today is Thursday, and I can finally make it through the routine without accidentally choking myself or anyone else. That evening, after two litres of water and a hectic dance practice, I wrap up my things and make my way home praying for the best.
On Friday morning, I wake up feeling slightly ill. I tell myself that I have body pain from all the activity off the week before. I’m not used to this sudden active routine. My schedule has gone from sitting at a table in the classroom all day reading textbooks to hopping, skipping and twirling around for hours in the sun – too drastic for my frail, uncoordinated body to handle. But my partner is counting on me. My phone beeps as I am in the bathroom washing my hair, trying to massage the dreadful thoughts out of my head. She has used her mother’s phone to message me. “Best of luck! Don’t forget costume, ribbons, hair-pins, shoes, eye-liner, lipstick, smile :)” There’s also a text from the math teacher but it’s brusque and short: “Bring Maypole notes. See u at 8:30.”
Five minutes to go-time. Rhymes with show-time. Time to show. Time to show off my non-existent dance skills. I shake my head in irritation and focus my thoughts onto the notepad in my hands. I’ve written the opening speech in pink, my favourite coloured ink, so that I can focus on the words I am reading and forget the hundreds of pairs of eyes on me. Why am I thinking in rhyme? Stop it, now it really is time.
“The Maypole dance originated in western and central Europe as a part of the summer celebrations,” I begin. My voice is loud, clear and confident. I have no stage fear to speak of as I talk. In fact, teachers have always praised my oratory skills; Elocution, along with Dictation and Creative Writing, were always A+: Excellent! Has real potential. “The Maypole dance, practised in England in the 16th century, typically depicts the appearance of fairies or princesses during the height of summer. One woman presides as the May Queen, the protector of the spring and summer-time, while fairies dance around a garlanded pole in her honour.” I stretch my mouth into a smile, aware of the bright red lipstick gleaming on it. “Enjoy as the young ladies, or should I say fairies, of Grade 9 dance and enthral you and take you back to the golden days of summer in England.”
I step back from the podium at the corner of the stage and into the wings. I hold my partner’s hand as we fix our eyes on the pole in the middle of the stage. The lights are dazzling, I’m beginning to sweat, and suddenly I don’t know what colour my ribbon is, or where my place in the ring is. I will have to follow Miriam. Oh god! Here we go!
The crowd applauds politely as we make our way to the stage, and the camera-man positions himself in front of the gathering, but I barely notice. One-two-three-four-one-two-three-four. I swing beside my partner, that ghastly smile plastered to my face the whole while. She is clearly enjoying herself for real, her hair flying behind her and her ribbon swaying effortlessly like it’s a part of her own arm. I am just trying to keep upright and listen to the rhythm, remembering her “smile :)” command. We join hands, we break away, we skip around in a ring of other girls, we meet again on opposite sides. Every eight beats, I count faithfully, she comes back to my side to rescue me again. She is like my very own May Queen. My buoy in this vast open space of stage. My guide.
Before I realise it, it is over. She grabs me by the waist, as I likewise do to the girl next to me, and we bow down to the audience. My bow is long and low. I am exhausted and relieved. I am also humbled. To my right is this tall girl, tallest in the class, good at so many things, and now she has taken charge of my night. Single-handedly, with patience and simplicity, she has made a dancer out of someone who could never fathom that she would be one. We all hold hands and skip out again, this time in reverse. The crowd begins to clap again, and the applause goes on for quite a while. I can hear the students at the back of the room shouting, “Way to go!” and other such calls. The math teacher has taken the stage now, and her voice is loud to drown out the crowd, which makes me shake my head – she should be waiting for the applause to die down first.
“Thank you to the high-school girls, our midsummer fairies, for that beautiful performance. And can we have you on stage again, Dolly ma’am? For the first time in all our Annual Day performances, our English teacher has decided to join her own students in their own dance! A round of applause for the beautiful and sporting May Queen of the evening!”
I walk back onto the stage shyly, blushing from the heat and flashing lights as my students in the audience clap, hoot and call my name.
“I chose to be a part of this dance for my students, actually,” I explain softly. “I just wanted to know what it felt like to be on the other side of the teacher’s table for a change.”
In the wings, my real May Queen gives me a thumbs up and mouths, “smile :)”.
