Body language

I was at a dance performance at the National Centre for Performing Arts last night. It was a social event as much as it was an artistic one, with lots of hugging and kissing and high-pitchedly happy greetings breaking the silence of the vast and usually serene lobby of the auditorium. It had been a long time since we had been there to watch a show and it felt wonderfully familiar even as my feet protested the conjunction of deeply plush carpet and four inch stiletto heels with every step. We were, as almost always, very early, and sat on a studded leather seat watching the world cruise gently past…until the frenzy began.

The show was Sharira, the last created by Chandralekha, she of the flowing silver hair and huge bindi, darkly kolhed eyes and black sari. I had seen only a couple of works by her – the iconic Leelavati being my absolute favourite – and was looking forward to this one. I knew it would probably be mysterious in theme and fabulous in physicality and was interested to know more about a production that had come so long after the ones that I had watched, not wholly understood, but was fascinated by. Also, perhaps the best part, I did not have to watch it to write about it or its creator or, in fact, anything at all. And it was indeed worth the drive into town and the change out of comfortable home-wear pajamas into a more visually-appealing sari, complete with makeup, jewellery and, of course, the heels.

The show began almost on time, with some talking – by the deceptively slim lady who seemed to be part of the NCPA, Pinakin Patel, the small and seemingly mercurial “sponsor”, a well known architect formerly based in Mumbai and Dashrath Patel, the artist (for lack of any other single word to describe his craft which includes photography, painting, sculpture…) in whose honour the event was being staged. A very old man held up by a cane and a couple of devoted arms, he spoke of memories and experiences, people and times that most of us watching and listening would want to hear more of but identify with perhaps very little. There was a blithe spirit in the gentleman, a briskness that belied his years and his weaknesses. He was funny and touching, sharp and wandering, all at the same time. Why don’t they let him be, I wondered, even as I applauded his demands for attention with his very being and his small bites of wit.

The performance had its own vocabulary, only some of which made sense to me. There were just two ‘dancers’, Tishani Doshi and Sabu John, woman and man, each playing a part as an individual even as they coordinated perfectly in their dialogue on stage. As with all of Chandralekha’s creations, the bodies were perfectly trained, honed, controlled, each movement precise and slow, speaking along the arc from start to finish. This was a virtuoso ‘dance’ that seemed to bring in the process of creation, of cosmic power, of the principle that unites man and woman even as it differentiates between the two. There was a power struggle on even as each person displayed a strength and allowed a domination.

What it was all about, what was being said, I could not explain, since I did not understand, but the overall communication between the performers and me was that it was the various forms of power and interaction, creativity and awareness, with sensuality and sexuality, each playing off the other and thereby giving both a new level of existence. Was there a story being told? Not obviously, no. Was there a theme? Not that I could figure. Was there a meaning? It escaped me. But there was a beauty, a grace, a fabulous control and an almost-otherworldly power – the only way I can describe it – that came off that couple doing slow and strong movements of body and, presumably, mind, on the stage.

Sharira was, for me, a fresh awareness. A knowledge that there was a life outside my small world, a life that I was once part of and consciously retreated from. And it became a tiny seed of wanting, to regain at least a little of that previous self that I knew made me more complete. This time, with my rules.