Archives for category: Journal

Astad Deboo, a magician, a sorcerer, a poet, a muse!

It is an evening buzzing with life, breath, and humid dew, before the unveiling of the unseen, unheard, the unfathomable. I am drawn to drape in vibrant, vermillion, and white muslin silk, fired up from within, after a meal with the artist, a day earlier. I am led to take a center seat, an uninterrupted view, of the dimly lit stage. A soft, golden glow illumines the compassionate face of Rukmini Devi alongside idols of the Devi and Nataraja. Well-groomed students of dance, sit cross-legged on the floor ahead of me. I drop inward. Feeling the energy around me, and within.

At the scheduled hour, the bells begin to toll, and in the silence and resonance, a row of sculpturesque, bodies shimmer, in a haze of soft light. The bells toll at an interval, laying me gently inside a trance. Some begin to move forward, while the central figure is cloaked in flowing streams of fluid fabric, holding a fulcrum of silent energy. He moves into the center of the large, riverbed. There is orderliness in the rippling waves of life around him. The blooming, the blossoming, is tender, is unpredictable, is beauty in motion and rhythm. I feel inspired. I feel open. I feel a tingling sensation of life and dance, mirrored in my body and breath.

The river-scape is flowing, ever changing, thinning into an expanse of nothingness. Dropping me into an endless void of peace and tranquility, only to be jolted awake to receive the throb of one thundering heartbeat, multiplying into several. I break open further, the reverberating beats reveal delightful lily pads, crawling with crocodiles, digesting life with ease, rising and ebbing waves of energy, liquid and splashing, making me wet inside out, outside in. I close my eyes, reveling the wetness. The silence, returns. From the dark void, now appears, an indigo-blue being, with a shimmering, ornate, blood moon delicately woven on the back, illumining the dark night ocean. This being is quiet, playful, mysterious, alluring, with silken streams, swirling from the limbs. She dances, He celebrates, He beckons inward, She reveals her scrolls of calligraphic poetry. I listen to their music and movement, as He and She swirl, entwined in the love. For a brief moment, their veil lifts, blinding these eyes by their dazzling, silver skin. I gasp! I return to the sparkling space of magic and wonder, recollecting the poem of a Sufi Mystic, Rumi,  ‘To my eyes, lovers touching are folded wings in a beautiful prayer.’


They arrive. Luminous symbols in their hands, with vibrant, red, woolen tails. The red tails and gold symbols swirl and spin, like dancing leaves twirling down in autumn. A being now appears in sunset orange, quick witted, with a penetrating gaze, glancing at the minutest details, in all those who dare look into those hazy eyes. The rhythms, movements, and swirls, gather momentum with an orange sunrise, as mountain goats and rice fields of the East, meet the wild, dark, mendicants from far away lands. Eastern, delicate sinuous, yellow mountain men, meet the music of the dark skinned, muscled, meat eating, loud men, from the land of the wild beasts and great hunts!

Enters into this, a being, like a dark tornado, with gilded edges. This tornado is steady in its gait, its fierceness tamed, commanding worship. The delicate, mountain men offer their spirals into those darkening, swelling and ebbing edges of the towering tornado, and then disappear back into their homes with humility. With the last man gone, the winds halt unexpectedly, revealing the ugly face of Satan screaming aloud in his Jaguar tongue.


Into the void, is a halting, an unsettling scratching, of the otherworldly sort.

From this emptying, appears a being dressed in virgin white, holding two, ivory conch shells to his mouth. His deep breath enters into the conch, enveloping us with a circular sound, neutralizing the resonance of the Jaguar tongue, and allowing clouds of milk-white light to float down the serpentine river bend. A soft mist of clouds, crackle upon the golden dry riverbed. Moistening it slowly. Allowing tiny beads of dew to unite with others. These droplets quench the thirsty, invisible life, running through the unseen depths of parched riverbeds.

And a brook begins its joyful gurgle ~ ~ ~

 

 

What is it, when you chance upon the fragrant soil of a sensitive being? 

There is a lingering, there is healing, there is release. Judgements, first impressions, opinions, moments, timing and portals open up suddenly, and then abruptly disappear into the dark void. I fell into the depths of a story, an happening, a history, a universal moment of thought, desire, despair, hurt, rejoicing, suspicion, doubt, mourning, and the transmutation of it all. Today, I see an elderly woman, braving to express, to revisit, to speak, to share an opening to Shakti. May there be art, may there be theatre, may there be sweet surrender to the opportunities knocking at our doors.

The divine drops a presence, a friend, a woman, a mother, a sister, an artist, at my door. We share a meal in innocence, and then enter a portal of healing, transformation, and fire. The fire burns, waters rise, the ocean swells, and we both crack open into Her light. An island of sisterhood births. Stories make manifest.  Whisperings, tremble upon our skin and pores. In gratitude, I swell and deepen in breath. Held inside an hushed embrace, devoid of words, music, and sound. A simmering revelation of an unending, divine beauty, and an all encompassing, unfathomable love …

{Inspired by dance and theatre production of Dancer Vidhya Subramanian and Gauri Ramnarayan}

He leaves a bouquet of wild blue flowers at her doorstep. She rushes in delight with his gift, upstairs to her studio. A large, square and dusty white canvas, lay staring at her for many weeks. She’s had visions of painting each morning, when she strolls meditatively through the gardens. She paints many paintings in her minds eye. She has grown fearful to begin painting despite these months of quiet observation. A stubborn antennae guides her for many moons now. She is afraid of its madness as she dusts her canvas. A sensation in the belly reminds her of a ravenous appetite, as aromas from her kitchen seduce her senses. She is fighting to keep lit, a tiny spark inside of her that may catch the strong wind of the sensory world outside. If her inner light dims and retreats into that unfathomable dark abyss of nothingness, many months may pass before this frail, flame of light will appear to her again. She makes bold.

Pulling out her multilayered grey oil-paint box, she picks out a tube of the oxide of chromium. With the warmth of her wooden brush with the bristly hair, she let’s loose. The dance of darting glances between the wild grass in her left hand, and the canvas, gathers momentum. She finds it harder to paint nature than to make portraits of people. The random orderliness in the chaos of the web of leaves, stems, flowers and seeds, are a great challenge for her to simplify. Yet years of inward vigilance, her pregnancy, motherhood, marriage, the scars, and the love-bites from the fire of life’s many lessons, have strengthened her. She is calm inside the deafening noise of the inner resistance. She allows herself to feel. She allows herself, her darkness. She allows herself, her light. The voice of judgment, the burden of applaud & admiration, try hard to suffocate her. She envelops herself in the awareness of a divine intervention, and the soft music of playfulness. She let’s go. She surrenders. Her fingers move at an uncanny speed, her minds chatter begins to recede. She struggles to do the portrait of the wild blue flower.

She breaks down in frustration. She used to be good at portraits. She desperately searches for herself. The wind inside her is getting stronger. She fears that this rising inner gale may extinguish the tiny spark of light within. She halts. Steps back. She rests. She listens. She prays. She senses the warmth of a non-judgmental presence. They whisper to her, “Let go of fleshing the flower in paint. Listen. Look. Allow.

Stepping farther away from the canvas, she takes distance. She gently closes her eyes. When she opens them, she sees someone lying amidst the leaves of her canvas. She picks the blue of the flower. She begins to flesh her out. She reaches the outer limits of a contour of blue. A silhouette of limbs lay languidly upon the whiteness of her canvas. The poetess within whispers her a line:

   A veil of delicate green leaves, rests lightly upon a blue lake of hushed limbs … 

‘On a day when the wind is perfect, the sail just needs to open and the world is full of beauty. Today is such a day.’ ~ Rumi

The morning sky is laden with a gathering of monsoon clouds. A light breeze caresses my body. The loose garment makes its softness felt, whenever the breeze swings itself towards me. An enchantment envelops this crisp air. It pulls my naked feet in the direction of a striking presence. He is dancing. His eyes boldly lock into mine, hypnotic, and commanding. Losing all sense of space, I outstretch my fingers to caress his silhouette. He turns away. Now, I see him, only from behind. As he turns away, his palette of enticing colors, metamorphose into subtler hues of grey, black and vandyke browns, with a sudden dash of electric blue appearing, only when he sees me with his profile. The rhythmic sounds of his graceful dancing put me into a state of trance. Like a bashful bride; like a first blossom about to be kissed; he looks at me, through his translucent veil, coyly, enticingly, with a tinge of shivering trepidation that awakens only inside the river of attraction. I allow him to take his time. He waits and watches. The tension lengthens. My heartbeat weaves itself into an eternal gaze. Our eyes lock into each other, once again. Then, in trust and surrender, he swirls around. I receive his ocean of unending beauty. He steps forward, awaiting my reaction. My body remains like a statuette in ecstasy. I remain frozen. He loses interest. He turns around, and speaks aloud a mono-syllable, in a foreign tongue, with a mocking tone, that seems to say, “O Women! such a Mystery!

I remain spellbound. He quietens, momentarily, only to then crescendo into a grand finale, allowing his entire body and being, to ripple and cascade down like an icy and biting waterfall, of pure ambrosia, overflowing across our infinite cosmos. I remain transfixed. He continues to be aware of my locked gaze. Slowly, ever so slowly, he begins to lower his magnificent cape of feathers, reminding me of a delicate, ornate, snowflake swirling down on a slight flurry in winter; like an autumn-leaf, twirling off the branch ever so gracefully; like the thick and sensuous weight of a village woman’s wet knot of hair, suddenly, let down like a rope swing, after her head bath. He walks away from me with panache. With an agile, charismatic leap, he perches regally on the branch of a mango tree, his face turned away, yet, fully aware of my admiring gaze …


Below: A link about ‘The Dance Lesson’, filmed at the ancient temple town of Swamimalai, in Tamilnadu, India, on the 16th of April 2015.

Lord NatarajaThe auspicious day of Maha Shivaratri was a week away. My travels were taking me to a heritage village in Karnataka, to receive the blessings of a mystic. I have a premonition that on the night of Maha Shivaratri, I am to offer my dance to the Lord Nataraja. Intuitive processes, guide me to pack my bags for this journey. I choose a range of beautiful ornaments and choicest silk saris. I carefully place these in my suitcase. The classical dancer within begins to gather her additional belongings. Firstly, she picks hues of pigment colors to accentuate her eyes, lips and face. Then she packs a range of vibrant liquid enamel bottles to paint her nails with. She chooses to leave behind the bottle of deep red, liquid alta that usually outlines her palms and feet. However, she’s drawn to take with her, two pairs of specially cast, brass-anklets from Bali, Indonesia. The sound of one pair of anklets with the smaller sized, brass bells is suited for intimate spaces that have a more contained sound vibration. The other pair of anklets has larger, brass bells, which seem, better suited for large open spaces with high ceilings, or spaces, unbarred to a vast expanse of sky. She places all her delicate ornaments in a range of cheerful, silken pouches; cushioned on the inside with layers of soft, fine cloth. She chooses to take along a pair of delicate, grape-vine string of tiny pearls for her ear-rings, an ornate bindi with a crescent moon motif fringed with loose pearls, to hang from the central divide of her parted hair (a spool of thin black thread to hold it in place while dancing), a range of gold necklaces of varying lengths, embedded with rubies, emeralds or diamonds, along with finger rings, bangles in glass/gold/diamonds, a gilded waist belt, a variation of two pairs of black parandas which are bejeweled at its far end with rubies, pearls and diamonds. Then, she wraps up finely crafted pairs of leather slippers, a few silken purses to match the saris, ornate safety pins, and handkerchiefs with flower motifs. She places small glass bottles of attar-perfumes in suitable pouches, along with silver dabbi (small box) of two shades of red kumkum powder for her forehead. Next comes a smaller ornate, dabbi of translucent wax, fragrant with pure sandalwood paste, to stick this dry red kumkum powder upon her forehead.

I arrive at my destination. The journey leaves me fatigued. Maha Shivaratri dawns twenty-four hours later. I am nervous, as my body and mind, are still finding their center. But time waits for no one. I am told that in an hour’s time, an intimate audience will await to celebrate my dance offering to Lord Shiva. With an inward chant of ‘Om Namah Shivaya’, I begin to get ready. The deep, blue silk, Paithani sari from Maharashtra beckons me. I lay it carefully next to my dressing table. First, I comb my hair, the paranda weaves itself into my hair, at the precise length. Then comes the makeup. The eyes transform, the lips redden, the eyebrows take the shape of a classical bow. This time, my fingers are guided to color-pigment cakes of blue, orange and golden hues. With some trepidation, I observe my face as a blank canvas ready to be transformed into an ancient, classical painting. I highlight the plain contours of the face with bold coloured, brush strokes. I allow myself to be my own master. It is the night for the Lord of destruction and transformation. I make bold. And soon, the painted muse steps out from the blank canvas of my face and body. She is ready from head to toe. Her hair bereft of flowers, she searches for a temple to buy flowers for her hair from a flower seller. She is guided to small shop. The delicate jasmine flowers of Karnataka have a subtler fragrance than the ones she delights in Tamil Nadu. Yet, her heart rejoices. She enters the heritage village, and is led to the doorway of an illumined rustic house built with Laterite stones from Karnataka. As she steps inside, a blazing golden hue welcomes her in. She stands before a gallery of the most beautiful, gilded, Pantheon of Hindu Gods and Goddesses. The most resplendent of them all is a huge Tanjavore painting of Lord Nataraja, with a towering gopuram, embellished with 108 dancing poses of the Lord himself! She feels blessed, over-whelmed, every cell in her body rejuvenated, alive and awake. She prays with all her heart. Her body, mind, and spirit, become one. Her being brims with reverence, delight and gratitude. The elder mystic takes his seat along with few other rasikas. The music begins to play and she dances, dances and dances. At the end of her offering, silence returns into this sacred chamber of divinity. She bows down in gratitude, and receives the applause.

We return into the silence of her room. I look into the mirror. Wiping off the layers of colored pigment with a wet cloth, she leaves, and the canvas of my face returns to its natural pallor. I carefully place all the ornaments in their pouches, untie my hair, loosely fold the nine yards of silk, and let it lay to dry. Entering a waterfall of flowing water, this body cleansed, I lay myself down into the quietness of the night. The fatigue metamorphoses into overflowing vitality. I lay awake until dawn, restless, and charged with an inner fire. At first light of dawn, this body surrenders to deep slumber. I awaken to a beautiful new morning, cloaked in love and happiness …

This afternoon, all my senses were absorbed in a conversation with a dear friend over the telephone, when my left foot felt the gentle tickle of something beneath it. My eyes spontaneously closed shut, as I felt the spirit of my blind grandmother awaken inside of me. In the silent darkness before me, my foot momentarily suspended in the air like a crane in slumber, I tried to imagine what caresses at my feet? The delicate wisps of carbon from a burnt paper scroll or a wooden log? A fragile wing of a large, dead moth ? Or was it a leaf, half dead and half alive.

Soon after, my eyes lit open to see extraordinary pieces of ART everywhere. They lay silently strewn upon the expanse of an ordinary, one foot by one foot square, earthen hued, tiled floor held together in a dull grey cement grid. The artists: Lichen, Moss, Black ants with pale lime-green, rounded bottoms, tiny grains of Sand, a sprinting ashladen Spider! All of these artists seem terribly busy inside an unpredictable, silent, inward randomness that leaves me awed !

Dancer Indu G, during her 'Nangiar Koothu' recital. Photo courtesy ~ Vinay Kumar

Dancer Indu G, during her ‘Nangiar Koothu’ recital. Photo courtesy ~ Vinay Kumar

I HAVE A DEEPLY HIDDEN AND INARTICULATE DESIRE FOR SOMETHING BEYOND THE DAILY LIFE – Virginia Woolf

On the night of 7th January, 2015, I saw an intense and moving, ‘Nangiar Koothu’ performance by Dr. Indu G. Seated close to the oil lamp that framed her face, I entered the grief of separation and longing, through this abstract narrative enacted by one woman, supported by four percussionists. She transformed to become a mystical channel for both the masculine and feminine energy.

This classical recital was an experience of sensuality and passion through theatre, music and dance, that made me go pale, as well as blush with delight. I saw her, the beautiful Indu G, transform herself into a celestial being, and create before these plain eyes, from a portal of gaping, dark void ~ an elephant couple flaming their love with delicious bites of choicest tender leaves, with a range of provocative, body nudges; The lustful love turned tender and compassionate, when a fragile and hungry fawn, nestled at the breast of a fierce She-Leopard; Butterflies magnetised towards the light of a flaming fire only to meet their death, but later miraculously reborn; I rejoiced at the sight of a dancing, cautious yet magnificent peacock, lured by scattering grains, at the hands of a playful, dancing maiden; Then alarmingly, the moments of heightening sensuality, were jarred open with a crescendo of maddening drums. The dancer’s body took form of Musth elephant, gone mad with the heat of sexual desire. The earth flung open as he ripped everything apart on his path with his sharp tuskers! Destroying and uprooting trees with his heavy, steaming, and muscular body. Two sparring elephants raged into battle to win their lady love.

Washing over this entire narrative was the love and longing between Rama and Sita, both separated from each other’s physical presence, now torn with grief as they witnessed in wilderness of nature and in the animal kingdom, an ebb and flow of cyclical sensuality, compassion, heat and desire. This unbearable solitude created mirages of hope, making the other’s physical presence so real throughout the performance. At the end, the spirit of love wins despite the absence of the physical presence of the one you love. Three hours had passed when I awakened from this celestial dream. The dancer left the proscenium, her yellow-hued face hidden behind a blazing gold hand fan, and the music returned into expanse of a silent, dark, black void.

This Nangiar Koothu recital, was curated by dramaturge and writer, Rustom Barucha, in collaboration with the American author, Professor Paula Richman. This performance was a beautiful ode to the passing of Theatre veteran, Veenapani Chawla, founder of Adishakti Laboratory for Theatre Arts and Research, and her eternal presence in the world of theatre.

20th December 2014,

There are moments, when one gets entangled in thoughts that pull one’s morale down. Reaching out to kindred sister souls, a playfulness returns. One turns to the journal, allowing oneself to hear one’s own thoughts, with soft eyes. Then, these fingers pick up a paint brush, and from a pool of darkness, there appears the swirling image of a fiery Kathak dancer, Aditi Mangaldas, under the blanket of dense and dark air, singing poetry with her breath and limbs…

I live my life in widening circles
that reach out across the world.
I may not complete this last one
but I give myself to it.

I circle around God, around the primordial tower.
I’ve been circling for thousands of years
and I still don’t know: am I a falcon,
a storm, or a great song?

~ Rainer Maria Rilke.

Aditi Mangaldas, a delicate maiden draped in translucence. Her bronzish~orange organza lingers upon a quiet dawn. A poetry, a page, unwritten for the Sun God. Luminous speckles, swirling like mad mystics, dance upon a single shaft of sunlight. Her darts hit the core. A painting comes alive. Rain drops from a painted curtain, gently part with her dainty fingers, peeping out through an ornate scroll of a Persian Manuscript. Afloat upon a haunting melody of the sarangi, she carries me into the thicket of a dark and dense valley. All around, a forgotten ancient civilisation. She lays me gently in the soft light of dawn. Hidden behind the dark veil of swelling monsoon clouds, she appears, and then disappears. I am alive in the total surrender of her hallowed embrace. Every cell in this body, wet and glistening inside her sudden rain. A bud within, feels the warmth of his nearing lips, a million miles away. Your Pakhavaj speaks to me. It pleads not, but commands me to enter. Open the door. Your command rips open this heart, and there I see a resplendent warm face, bloom from deep inside of me. I receive your light, your sound, your breath.

O Who are You, Who Spins & Unspins?
O Madness!
O Thundering Drums!
O Sweet Melody!
O Mother!
O Grave from Yonder!
Who are you resurrecting from this brokenness?
Who is beating at my heart?

You tease me.
You beckon me to taste you.

O love sweet love!
How you play at my heart?
Plucking the tiniest string of my being.

I am tuning in to your music, to your chiselling.
Your beak pecks at this dead wood.
You peck open a cave, place an egg in its hollow, and say,
“”NOW. Yes, it is now. You are ready, my love! NOW. NOW. NOW.”

Now it is.

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5th September, 2014

Well, this drawing is raw, the flaws camouflaged behind the shading! Every art needs practice and sadhana. Talent is endowed, and yet what remains in our hands is to see them blossom and bloom, like the constant tilling of the soil.

The look: it’s like looking frontally into your mirror, boldly, confidently. It is not a side glance, timid, hesitant, or a sheepish look into a passing reflective surface. It is the same look of a village woman, who if drawn to observe you, stops boldly in her tracks, and stares directly into your eyes.

Before Shyamala Akka pointed these corrections to me, I often felt like I was extremely graceful in my tilts, looks, and jumps for this particular movement. But it was the play of the ego. Many a times, I’ve observed that if one thinks one is a master at something, quite often the beauty and grace of that movement escapes oneself, and one’s flighty joy bellows out a discordant note! It is of such importance to walk upon this path, with care, attentiveness, and an inward vigilance. It reminds me of the village women of rural India, who carry brass water vessels on their heads, water full to its brim. They walk with such exquisite poise, balance and grace, their upright posture is in perfect alignment with their fluid breathing, and not a drop of water spills out of their brimming vessels!

Lord Natraja

Lord Nataraja of Chidambaram, 4′ by 4′, oil painting by Ashwini Pawar Kaarthikeyan

The Ritualistic Initiation:

In the quiet hours of dawn, on the morning of 6th March, 2013, five classical dancers entered the Chidambaram temple, one of the five holiest Shiva temples representing the classical element of Akasha ~ ether. We silently walked toward the main Sanctum Sanctorium. There, a silken curtain veiled the sacred idol of Lord Nataraja. Behind this veil, the priests were readying the God, for the early morning Abhishekam ~ the most elaborate puja of the morning. Praying inwardly with excitement and nervousness, I stood at the edge of the still, shimmering curtain. At the auspicious hour, the veil dropped, and lo and behold, these eyes fell upon the resplendent image of Lord Shiva, in the pose as Nataraja, performing the Ananda Tandava, “Dance of Delight”! The brass temple bells chimed all over Chidambaram in synchronicity, as the gathered bhaktas ~ devotees, joyfully participated in the magnificent pooja. We were asked to place our brass anklets upon a large brass plate by the temple head priest. This plate was then kept at the feet of Lord Nataraja. Our names and our Nakshatram ~ birth star, were spoken aloud in prayer by the priest, a unique tradition in Southern India, when receiving the blessing from the Lord. At the end of the pooja, our brass anklets were returned to us. We were felicitated by the head priest of this ancient temple with a silken shawl, also garlanded with a densely woven, yet light weight, fragrant grass called Vettiver ~ Khus, dear to Lord Shiva. After a pradakshina ~ circuambulating the temple, we sat down for Homan ritual, making offerings into a consecrated fire with the temple priest. He chanted mantras for the well-being of the dancers, and once again each of our name, and nakshatram was pronounced into the fire, for blessings. The morning ritual was complete just before the first Maha-arati, a prayer for the Lord. We were led to the platform opposite the main sanctum of Lord Nataraja. The senior-most amongst us, Dancer Malavika Sarukkai, was invited first to offer her dance to the Lord, followed by the four of us.

The Offering to Lord Nataraja:

Four dancers, before me, sanctified the temple space through their dances with an accompanying live orchestra. I was the final one to offer my dance. An archival recording of musical compositions sung by Shri M. S. Ramdas & Shri Ramiah Pillai, from the T. Balasaraswati tradition, was handed to me by my teacher, Smt Shyamala, who had initiated me into their tradition, only two months earlier, at the Kamakshi Amman Temple in Kanchipuram. Shyamala Akka had also surprised me by arriving all the way from Chennai, moments before my dance offering to the Lord. It was my first public performance in this tradition. I felt blessed with the unexpected presence of my teacher, whose wise words of blessing still remain etched in my being. She reminded me that my offering of dance to Lord Nataraja of Chidambaram was a kind of a spiritual test of presence and single-minded devotion. The ego will be challenged. I may experience trepidition and an inward struggle. Yet, it will also be a direct experience of feeling the powerful and compassionate presence of the Lord of dance. And this is precisely what unfolded. I began my dance with the Alarippu, with the awareness that through this opening dance, I journey inward. As I struggled to unlearn my habit body to charm the gathered audience, my being suddenly dropped into an inward prayer. The space within softened. The breathing calmed. This body trembled with life and vitality. The lilting alaapana of Khamas ragam, prepared me for the chosen Padam, ‘Theruvil Varano’, which is a devotional song about a Nayika, who stands at her gate, watching the festive temple procession of Lord Shiva, going past her home. The refrain in this song to Lord Shiva is, “ Will you not turn back and give me a fleeting glance, O beloved Chidambaram Natham~Lord?”. I stood still with a beating heart, eyes closed. Moved by the raga, these eyelids looked up slowly, and saw Lord Natraja standing right ahead of me. Enveloped in his resplendent presence, this throat choked up with emotion, tears welled up inside bhakti, the crowds disappeared, the gait calmed down, the sound of my anklets merged with the voices of my accompanying musicians, transporting us all into eternity. In William Blake’s words, ‘To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palms of your hand and eternity in an hour’. I felt the Lords presence. I recognised my destiny. I was humbled. Drowning into a blissful state of gratitude, tears cleansing a hidden past, once hindered, blocked, repressed, but not anymore, I heard a voice say.

Today, like a Phoenix rising from the ashes, these wings soar towards light of love, unhindered, unafraid and adorned in happiness!