Curtains before the show!

This happened in March too. Two weeks before my sixth birthday.

School Day was an exciting prospect and the preparations for it pre-occupied us all a month before the event itself. Being in school was more exciting than ever because there were only practice and rehearsals instead of counting and handwriting. Besides, being selected for a dance bequeathed celebrity status on a first grader!

“Shantala, Jayalakshmi, Jayasheela...”My class teacher Mrs. Padma would call out after the prayers. It was for practice. “Lucky them!” “Could we go and watch too?” The class would break into a restless murmur. Strutting to the door, I would leave behind bench-fulls of wistful faces and jealous hearts.

Practice was in the first floor of the new building that was due to open from the coming academic session. Our dance teacher was Mrs.Padma’s niece-pretty, lithe and all of eighteen. I loved to be her. Her colorful lengha-choli or half-sari ensembles.... mesmerized, I would watch her single long braid snake and swish on her backs when she danced.  “Don’t stand there dreaming. Common dance,” she would chide me. It was a Kannada song about a summer storm – “Eenidu dhooli? Ho! Ho! Gaali...suliyutha banthai suntara gaali...” it went; as dancing, we swayed and shielded ourselves from the oncoming gale. Four rows of two girls each and I was the second right, paired with Jayasheela. (I settled for No.2 because the teacher’s daughter had the natural right to be in the front!)

By the end of the first week, I was street-performing. All the way along, from and back home which was two and half kilometers from school, I would sing and dance the storm-song, oblivious to passersby. By middle of third week, everyone in my house knew the song by-heart. Only they didn’t care to learn the steps! The D-day was barely a week ahead.

We had no individual diaries for the teachers to write instructions. They just told us and we went back home and repeated the instructions. “Amma, Thursday is the School Day. Padma miss has asked me to be there by eight in the morning,” I had told my mother. She was excited too. It was after all my first stage performance! She had her standard set of instructions (“You must concentrate on dancing. Don’t search for me in the crowd. You know I’ll be there watching you, all right?”) And admonishments. (“Haven’t I told you to leave the dance dress alone? Keep trying it out often- it will sure be dirty for your school-day!”)She had stitched the dainty long skirt and the matching sleeveless choli. We had shopped for matching bangles, necklace and nail polish. The henna leaves were procured from her friend’s garden and she had ground it into a fine powder. It would adorn my hands the night before the D-day. She even let me wear the gold ‘jhumkis’ which were my festival-exclusives.

However, as a final confirmation, my mother chatted up with the ayah, who was my escort to and from school daily.

“Tomorrow, isn’t it, Gowramma?”

“Hmmm..”

“She says we have to be there by eight?”

“Avva...Always the programme starts only after eleven thirty. If you dress her up here only, then you can report by eleven also.” she suggested. The idea appealed to my mother.

                She washed my hair the next day. Braiding into a plait, she adorned it with colorful tassels and flowers. All the while I kept whining,”Amma, Padma miss said eight o’clock!”

‘That’s ok puttu. I will tell her. Children who want to get dressed at the venue need to report early. I am doing all that here itself....it will keep you from sweating in a crowded green room,” she cajoled me.

And so, at a quarter past ten we set out. Being dressed in dance finery kept me from frisking. I had to walk only. “Thank God.  That’s more lady-like” amma had grumbled. People on the street nodded or smiled indulgently. Some even came across to pinch or peck at my cheeks. I hated it. “Amma, my  rouge got smudged! Oh! The powder rubbed off!” I would whine then, prompting her to pull out the make-up box and fix my face under the next tree. I did however manage to run the last few yards to the school. “Amma, I am thirsty. I will drink water and come back,” I had said disappearing into the compound. Actually, I had asked my friends to wait for me at the school tap. I wanted them to see all my finery before I went on stage.

The place was empty. I ran to the washrooms and there was no one there too. “They ought to have been here by now...” I thought as I dragged myself back to where my mother was standing. I didn’t  see her face. But looking beyond her, for any trace of my friends, I asked her, ‘Amma, what time is it now?” She knelt down and took me into a tight embrace. I squirmed. ‘Amma, you are spoiling my skirt...”I tried pushing her.

“Sweetheart, I should have listened to you...Your dance is over baby,” she said. As I was still pushing her away and looking for my friends, her words failed to sink in. “Lets go in Amma. They must be getting ready in the green room.” I said finally freeing myself and running forward. “Shantu, listen to me. Your dance got over an hour ago..” she repeated. I thought she was insane. I thought she was lying. How could it happen? I was the star dancer.. I ran inside and stopped agape at the door of the noisy auditorium! I saw all of them...laughing and clapping...the show was already on!

My friends spotted me at that moment.

“Hey, what happened to you? Why didn’t you come for the dance?”

“Why, you’re even dressed!”

             “Aunty, why didn’t she come?”

“Hey, Shantala, wait till Padma miss sees you. You’ll get it.”

 “Oh, the cleverest girl in class and she misses the dance!” someone snickered.

My mother was by me then trying to hold my hand. “You know putti, the ayah had got it wrong. The primary school function-yours- was in the morning and the middle school was for the afternoon. Sorry sweetheart. Look at me,” she was saying. I refused to let her hold my hands and ran away. Head bent, l rustled my beautiful cream skirt with saffron border and tinkled the matching bangles. Kneeling down, I pretended to finger my new silver anklet, hoping no one would see my tears. People were milling all around me. The henna on my hands looked redder than ever, drenched in my tears. I didn’t care now if anything smudged my kohl or rouge. Could this be happening to me? ‘She’s my best student!” hadn’t the dance teacher often said? And I missed the dance?

Someone pulled me erect. It was Mrs. Padma.

“Hey, aren’t you the bold girl? And you’re crying? Common, it wasn’t your fault. It’s OK. There is always a next time,” she took me in her arms, as amma looked on. That didn’t help. It only dug in deeper. So losing out- for no fault of mine, hurt even more than losing itself.

“Look here, sweetie. So what if your dance is over?  You could still be on stage, “she said, hoisting me onto someone else. The next moment I was in the arms of our principal, Mr. B.P. Rao. “Common, child. Up you go on the stage. They are beginning to sing, join them,” so saying, he set me on the stage- first row and forward! I looked behind me, staring at two-three rows of new faces- older children, all happy to be on stage, ready to sing. “I practiced the storm-dance. I don’t know any song.” But no one heard me. First row forward, even lip sync could be caught!  Helplessness only doubled my sorrow then.  I looked sideways, to scoot off the stage. Before I could even take a step, the room went quiet and the song began.

“Jana gana mana adhinayaka jayahe...” The National anthem! Of course, that was a song I could well sing! Not relief, but a deep sadness washed over me then.  The happy hours of practice, the beautiful dress, henna, jhumkis...the futility flooded me! I stood there, the only one not singing the National Anthem, with tears streaming down my cheeks as the principal, teachers, friends, amma and all dulled into a misty blur.... For me, being on stage was no consolation to not performing.

The show was over. The red curtain came slowly down.

Mirage (Pastels on paper)