Kathak Attack

There’s a certain kind fun that comes from sitting on the fringe and watching. It’s fun to be the one who simply smiles and drinks tea. Care free. I get to do a lot of that in India.

Yesterday Anna arranged through some contacts to attend a dance class. I accompanied her to fulfill my duty as consummate observer, and walker-home-after-dark. We arrived at the house and spoke broken English with the dance teacher until the students arrived. Then we moved into the small dance hall with marble floors and a large mirror. I took to my post on a couch to one side while Anna joined the ten or so young girls on the dance floor.

I spent my time smiling, taking photos, drinking tea, and reading snippets of Kafka when the dancing got repetitive. They were concentrating mostly on foot work, performing intense stepping drills, accompanied by hand movements. One, two, three. One, two, three. While their thighs were undoubtedly burning, I was smiling, sipping my tea, eating a biscuit. The style they were doing was called kathak, a traditional Indian dance. I beleive that this weekend I may have an oppurtunity to see some professional kathak, so we'll see.