Who does not pine for the naive invincibility of childhood? That sense of being uninhibited, being limitless; that feeling of being laden with potential, of being capable of achieving anything. This certainty of one’s own genius was neither hubris nor showmanship. It was, really, just an irrefutable fact one never thought to question.
You would see a cricket match on TV and run to the ground that evening nurturing dreams of smashing last-ball sixes to power your team to victory. You would see the football world cup and imagine yourself twirling your jersey over your head after scoring a hat-trick against the rival para (locality) team.1 You would watch Mission: Impossible and furiously tap the keyboard of a newly acquired desktop to train yourself in Hollywood’s patented style of computer hacking. You would read astronomy books for children and visualize the planet from the window seat of a spaceship. No vocation or calling was deemed out of reach. It was a time when you felt you could be anything and everything.
Such robust confidence in one’s abilities may have been a mark of healthy self-esteem but left unchecked, it could easily devolve into delusion. Like how, when I was younger, I genuinely believed I was a nifty dancer.
It started, as so many stories of our generation do, with Kaho Na Pyaar Hai. The mega-blockbuster Hindi movie released in 2000 and made Hrithik Roshan an overnight superstar - due, in large part, to that iconic dance move. You know what I’m talking about.
I had purchased an audio cassette - CDs were a luxury and I was yet to be tainted by piracy - and would play it in the portable stereo system at home. With the music blaring, I would perform the aforementioned dance step with vim, vigour, and - to my eyes - consummate elegance. I would observe myself in the large mirror on the wall in front of me as I splayed my limbs in different directions and tried to contort my body like an invertebrate. If this is dancing, I’d think, I’m a natural!
This went on for a few months, but then I stopped. You see, as we grow older our sense of self erodes. The unabashed self-assuredness of childhood gives way to the uncertainty of teenage, when one’s identity is brittle and dependent on the whims of the world. Carefree confidence is replaced by caution. We whittle ourselves down to present our most palatable version to others - the version most likely to garner social approval. But in doing so, we get trapped in these truncated forms of ourselves; we lose the freedom and abandon our imagination had offered us and we no longer trust ourselves to explore our latent talents; we stop taking risks and the myriad possibilities of childhood are soon forgotten.
In my case, however, none of this applied. I stopped because I was awful at dancing.
I do not recall the precise moment when I stumbled upon the truth, but the effect was devastating. One day I was joyfully cavorting to the thumping beats of Kaho Naa.., and the next, I was recoiling in horror from the ungainly contortions my reflection was performing in the mirror. The veil had suddenly lifted from my eyes and I saw myself in a different light.
When I attempted to throw my arms out in a graceful arc, the effect was uncannily similar to the twitching of a cockroach in the throes of death. When I sought to shuffle my feet in quick time, I discovered I possessed two left feet encased in plaster and tied at the ankles. Displaying a maturity well beyond my years, I realised the act of me dancing was a sight nobody should have to endure. And so, at the tender age of twelve, I resolved - for the greater good - to abstain from dancing.
Over two decades have passed and for the most part, I have been able to abide by my resolution. There have been parties and night-outs which necessitated the shaking of legs but a spot of head-bobbing and arm-swaying sufficed to see me through those shin digs. But now, an event looms large in my future that may jeopardise everything: I have been conscripted into a friend’s sangeet performance.
A bit of context here may be useful for some readers. The sangeet has been an integral part of Indian weddings since the turn of the century when a bunch of Hindi movies made a big deal about it and people getting married realised it was yet another excuse to drink, party and waste their parents’ money. The bride and groom (and their family and friends) perform choreographed dances on stage, in varying degrees of intoxication. Most participants make fools of themselves but there is always that one insufferable couple who dance like a dream, and are subsequently made the subject of vicious gossip for the rest of the wedding weekend. Oh, and the most important rule: every sangeet has the exact same playlist.
I should admit that I am not unfamiliar with sangeet performances. My own wedding, in fact, included one. But on that occasion, euphoric love and copious amounts of alcohol had persuaded me to set aside my misgivings for one evening. Besides, you can get away with doing the robot when its your own wedding. (I should know.)
This time around, things are quite different. I am a member of the supporting cast and required to play by the rules. There are rehearsals to attend and steps to practice. Our choreographer is kind and patient, but I could see her clenching her fist when I tripped on my feet for the seventeenth time. She smiled and coaxed me to try again even as her eyes betrayed her despair. Yesterday, one of my co-dancers said I should consider joining the dance performance being planned by the five-year-old niblings. Everyone laughed but they also looked at me a little expectantly.
I could, of course, withdraw from the performance but my pride will not allow me to quit. A ‘real man’ does not graciously admit defeat when the alternative is facing abject humiliation. Much like the doomed six hundred, I, too, am ready to ride into the valley of death, into the mouth of hell. Perhaps I should just go ahead and channel the twelve-year-old me and his devil-may-care attitude, while I’m at it. At least, I would go down in flames and give them all a sangeet to remember. And no matter what songs they play, I will be ready with that iconic dance move. You know what I’m talking about.
Yellow cards, be damned. (Also, you are old enough to have seen this celebration a thousand times before that pesky rule was introduced.)
Cliches get a bad rep but they often offer a wealth of wisdom: Dance like no one is watching. And then send us the video so we can watch 🕺