Chapter 10: Nandini

# Chapter 10: Nandini

## The Rehearsal

The rose petals in the copper deg were soft and bruised, yielding between his fingers like wet silk.

Day fifteen.

Seven days until the competition. Seven days being the number that divided the remaining time into two halves: the half that had passed (fifteen days of learning, of marble and tabla and attar and the slow accumulation of a vocabulary that was both physical and olfactory) and the half that remained (seven days of refinement, of polishing, of converting the raw material into the finished product, the finished product being seven minutes on a stage at the Lucknow Mahotsav).

Today was the first full rehearsal. Not practice, rehearsal. The distinction that was: practice was learning. Rehearsal was performing. Practice said try this. Rehearsal said do this as if the audience is watching. The audience, which was imaginary today — the imaginary audience consisting of Sultan the cat, who sat in his usual position near the doorway, and Junaid, who had been invited to watch because Junaid's feedback would be the first external assessment of their work and external assessment was the data that internal assessment could not provide.

Junaid sat on a wooden stool in the corner of the baithak. Junaid, who was large and who sat the way large men sat. Occupying the stool fully, his engineering boots placed flat on the marble, his hands on his knees, his face wearing the expression of a man who had been asked to watch his friend dance and who was not sure whether his role was to be supportive or honest. She pressed harder. The ink spread into the fibres.

"Honest rehna, Junaid bhai," Nandini had told him. Be honest.

"Main hamesha honest hoon," Junaid had said, and the statement was true, Junaid was a civil engineer whose profession required the assessment of load-bearing capacity and structural integrity, and a man who assessed load-bearing capacity for a living was constitutionally incapable of dishonesty because dishonesty in his profession led to collapsed buildings.

The JBL speaker was on the windowsill. The music was loaded. Not tabla today but the performance music: a composition that Nandini had assembled from three sources. Source one: a teentaal tabla recording by Anindo Chatterjee, the recording providing the Kathak base, the base that their feet would follow. Source two: a sitar piece by Anoushka Shankar, the sitar providing the melody that would accompany the contemporary fusion section. Source three: a two-minute passage of silence, actual silence, no music, the emptiness: section where the audience would hear only their feet, only the tatkar, only the conversation between foot and marble that Kathak was.

Seven minutes. Assembled from three sources into one performance track. The track: the architecture within which the dance would occur, the architecture that she had designed with the precision of a spreadsheet: every beat mapped, every transition planned, every silence intentional.

"Tayyar?" she asked Ishan.

He stood in the centre of the baithak. He wore the black sherwani — the sherwani that he had purchased three days ago from Manish Creations in Aminabad, ₹4,800, the purchase, the largest clothing purchase of his life because his life's clothing purchases had been: kurtas (₹400-₹800), salwars (₹300-₹500), chappals (₹599 from Bata), and the occasional jacket for winter (₹1,200 from a street vendor in Chowk). The ₹4,800 sherwani was the competition's investment — the investment that his Abbu had not commented on when Ishan had brought it home, the not-commenting being the Lucknawi father's restraint: *I see the sherwani. I note the price.

The sherwani fitted him — fitted the long body that had been learning to move differently, the differently, which was the Kathak's gift: fifteen days of tatkar had changed his posture. The slouch was gone. The duck-through-doorways habit was reduced. His spine was vertical: the thread from the crown pulling upward, the pulling having become habitual, the habit replacing the slouch the way the tatkar was replacing the stumble.

"Tayyar," he said. Ready.

She pressed play.

The tabla began. Dha dhin dhin dha. The sixteen-beat cycle entering the baithak through the JBL speaker and filling the room the way incense filled the dukaan: completely, unavoidably, the filling: sound's nature, the nature of sound being: occupation. Sound occupied space. Sound did not ask permission to occupy space. Sound entered and the space became the sound's.

They stood on opposite sides of the baithak. The entrance, the first forty-five seconds; required them to walk toward each other from opposite ends of the room. Walk, not dance. Walk with the deliberateness that their first impression demanded, the deliberateness, which was: we are not rushing. We are arriving. Arrival is not speed. Arrival is presence.

She walked. He walked. The walking was: after fifteen days, the walking was different. His walking was different. His walking had acquired the quality that she had been working toward: the measured step, the level head, the arms relaxed at the sides, the body moving as a unit rather than as a collection of parts. The walking that was: she assessed with the teacher's eye. The walking; 8/10. The deduction: his right shoulder still lifted slightly on each step, the lifting that was remnant of the perfumer's lean, the lean that the counter had produced over fifteen years.

They met in the centre. They met and they assumed the frame, his right hand on her waist, her left hand on his shoulder. The assumption taking two seconds. Two seconds being acceptable, one second would be better, the better —: the frame should appear instantly, the instantly: illusion that the couple had been dancing together for years rather than for fifteen days.

The tabla intensified. Her solo tatkar began.

She danced. She danced and: she danced and the baithak became what it had been built to be. The marble received her feet the way it had received the feet of dancers a hundred years ago: with resonance, with amplification, with the precise acoustic generosity that marble gave to Kathak: every tat producing a sound that was fuller than the foot that made it, the sound filling the room the way the tabla filled the room, the foot and the tabla in conversation, the conversation that Nani had taught her was the conversation that Kathak was.

Junaid sat forward on his stool. The sitting-forward being the audience's response to something worth watching, the body responding to the visual stimulus the way the ear responded to the musical stimulus: involuntarily, with attention.

Her solo lasted seventy-five seconds. Seventy-five seconds of tatkar that built from slow to moderate to fast, the building, the Kathak's narrative: begin gently, accumulate, arrive. The arrival — the full-speed tatkar: her feet striking the marble at a tempo that was faster than anything she had shown Ishan, the tempo: dancer's tempo, the tempo that fifteen years of silence had not erased.

She stopped. She stopped in sama. The abrupt stillness after the fast movement, the contrast that was the Kathak's signature: motion to stillness. Sound to silence. The contrast, the thing that made the audience gasp, the gasp, which was body's response to the unexpected, the unexpected —: how can a body that was moving that fast stop that suddenly?

Then: the duo section.

The tabla slowed. The tempo dropping from fast to moderate, the moderate: Ishan's tempo, the tempo at which his body could perform the tatkar without the wobble, without the stumble, without the tall man's imbalance. The tempo: the choreographic choice: she had designed the duo section at his speed, not hers. The design — the partner's accommodation: I am faster. You are slower. The duo is at your speed. Because the duo is about us, not about me.

They danced. They danced the duo tatkar. Right, left, right, left: in synchrony. The synchrony; after fifteen days: the synchrony was 80%. Eighty percent being: eight out of ten strikes landing at the same time, the same time: beat, the beat (tabla's instruction), the instruction, obeyed by both feet most of the time but not all of the time, the not-all being the 20% that eight more days. No, seven more days; would reduce.

The tukda. His tukda came next: the tukda that she had taught him on Day Five and that he had practised for ten days and that was now, the tukda was now his. His body owned the tukda the way the shop owned the attar bottles: the tukda was inventory, the inventory that the body had stocked through repetition, the stocking, which was complete enough that the tukda could be performed without conscious thought. She shifted her weight. The cold followed.

He performed the tukda. And — she watched. He performed it well. Not perfectly. But well. The foot-strikes landing at the right beats. The slides smooth on the marble. The pauses — the pauses in the right places, the right places (negative space that she had taught him), the negative space that said: silence is sound. Pause is movement. The not-striking is as important as the striking.

The contemporary section. The sitar entered: Anoushka Shankar's sitar replacing the tabla, the replacement: transition fromKathak to contemporary, from the classical to the modern, from the feet's language to the body's language. The contemporary section was, the contemporary section was the section she had designed for his body. For his particular body. For the body that was tall and that moved slowly and that had the recognisable quality that she had discovered on Day Nine: when he moved slowly, he was beautiful.

Beautiful. The word that she had not used; not to him, not to herself, the word, which was word that the boundary did not permit because the boundary was the deal and the deal was dance and dance used words like technique and precision and rhythm and not the word beautiful. But the word was there. The word had been there since Day Nine, since the pair work, since the moment her hand was on his shoulder and his hand was on her waist and they walked across the marble and his body — his tall, careful, slow body, moved with the deliberateness that she had been teaching him and the deliberateness was beautiful.

The contemporary section required him to move slowly. To extend his arms. To occupy the space that his height gave him, the space that he usually tried to shrink, the shrinking, the tall man's apology: I am too big for this space. I will make myself smaller. The contemporary section said: *no. Do not shrink. Expand. You are tall. Be tall.

He moved. He extended his right arm, the arm that held attar bottles all day, the arm that knew how to be precise in small movements. And the arm extended fully, and the extension was, the extension was the arm claiming the space that the arm's length entitled it to, the claiming, contemporary dancer's act: this space is mine. My arm reaches here. This is my stage.

The silence section. The sitar stopped. The tabla stopped. The JBL speaker produced: nothing. Silence. The silence in which the audience would hear only feet.

They danced the tatkar in silence. Without music. Without the tabla's instruction. Without any external rhythm. The rhythm —: the rhythm: internal. The rhythm; between them. The rhythm that fifteen days of practice had built, the shared rhythm, the shared tempo, the shared understanding that dha dhin dhin dha happened here and here and here even when no instrument played it, even when the rhythm existed only in their bodies, the bodies having internalized the sixteen beats the way the heart internalized the heartbeat: automatically, permanently.

Their feet struck the marble. In silence. In the baithak's silence. And the sound, the sound of their feet on the marble — was the performance. The sound was the thing that the audience would hear. The sound was the conversation between four feet and one floor. The sound was Kathak.

The finale. The silence ended. The sitar returned — a single note, sustained, the note, the runway on which herchakkar would launch. She released the frame. She stepped back. She spun.

The amber dupatta flew. The Banarasi silk caught the baithak's light, the afternoon light through the arched windows; and the silk glowed, the glow that was amber's gift: the colour of attar, the colour of sandalwood, the colour of the shop, the colour of everything that Ishan was and everything that she was becoming in his proximity.

She spun. Three chakkars. Four. Five. The spins accelerating, the marble under her feet turning from floor to axis, her body becoming the line that rotated on the line's own centre, the centre, the spine, the spine that was thread, the thread pulled upward by the invisible hand that Nani had described and that she had taught Ishan and that she now used herself: up. Always up. The thread pulls up. The spin follows the thread.

She stopped. Sama. Stillness. The dupatta settling around her like the final note of a ghazal, the settling, which was silk's choreography, the silk's own dance, the dance that the silk performed after the human dance ended: a slow, spiralling descent from flight to rest.

He stood behind her. Still. His stillness being the choreography's contrast. Her movement and his stillness, her spin and his stand, the spin and the stand, which was yin and yang of the performance, the yin saying I move and the yang saying I hold.

The speaker was silent. The performance was over.

Seven minutes. Done.

Junaid was quiet. Junaid was quiet for eight seconds. Eight seconds being a long time for a man whose profession required quick assessments (this bridge can bear 40 tonnes, this wall needs reinforcement, this foundation is cracked).

Then Junaid spoke.

"Bhai," he said, and the word was not the casual bhai of Lucknawi greeting but the bhai of genuine response, the bhai that meant: I am about to say something that I mean.

"Yeh; yeh achha tha."

This, this was good.

"Achha matlab?" Nandini asked. Good meaning?

"Achha matlab; main iss kamre mein hazaar baar aaya hoon. Main yahan bada hua hoon. Mera baap yahan bada hua. Mere Dada yahan mehfil karte the. Main ne iss kamre mein bahut kuch dekha hai. Lekin; lekin aaj pehli baar maine iss kamre ko woh karte hue dekha jiske liye yeh bana tha." She extended her wrist. His fingers steadied it. The contact was brief, dry, precise.

Good meaning, I've been in this room a thousand times. I grew up here. My father grew up here. My grandfather held mehfils here. I've seen a lot in this room. But: today for the first time I saw this room doing what it was built to do.

The assessment. The civil engineer's assessment: the assessment of a man who assessed buildings for a living and who had just assessed this building's purpose and found that the building had, for the first time in perhaps decades, fulfilled that purpose: it had held a performance. It had amplified the feet. It had resonated with the dance. It had done what Nawab Syed Qamar Ali had built it to do.

Nandini looked at Ishan. Ishan looked at Nandini. The look. The look: shared response toJunaid's words, the shared response of two people who had made something together and who had been told that the something was good, the good: not perfection but purpose: the room had done what it was built to do. And so had they.

"Lekin," Junaid said. But.

"Lekin?"

"Ishan, tera chakkar kab aayega?"

Ishan, when will your spin come?

"Mera chakkar nahi hai. Choreography mein main spin nahi karta."

I don't spin. In the choreography, I don't spin.

"Kyun?"

Why?

"Kyunki; kyunki main gir jaaonga."

Because: because I'll fall.

Junaid looked at Nandini. The look, which was the question: *is this true?

Nandini considered. She considered the way she considered all data, with the precision of a woman who knew that precise answers required precise assessment. The assessment: Ishan had not attempted a chakkar. She had not taught him the chakkar. The chakkar was not in the choreography. The chakkar was not in the choreography because the chakkar was the Kathak's hardest movement and because fifteen days was not enough time to teach a beginner the chakkar and because the risk of a fall on stage was higher than the reward of a successful spin.

"Ishan chakkar nahi karega," she said. Ishan won't spin. "Lekin — lekin woh aur kuch karega."

But, he'll do something else.

"Kya?"

What?

She looked at Ishan. She looked at him with the look of a teacher who had just had an idea, the idea arriving the way ideas arrived in data analysis: suddenly, from the intersection of two unrelated data points, the intersection producing the insight that neither data point could produce alone.

"Tum attar lagaaoge," she said. You'll apply attar.

"Stage pe?"

On stage?

"Haan. Finale mein. Jab main chakkar kar rahi hoon, tum mere paas aaoge. Main rukungi. Aur tum; tum meri kalaai pe attar lagaaoge. Stage pe. Sab ke saamne. Attar lagaaoge — aur phir hum dono saath mein tatkar karenge. Last tatkar. Saath mein.

Yes. In the finale, when I'm spinning; you'll come to me. I'll stop. And you, you'll apply attar on my wrist. On stage. In front of everyone. You'll apply attar: and then we'll do the final tatkar together. With that attar.

The idea. The idea being. Fusion — the idea. The fusion of the two things that they were: the perfumer and the dancer. The fusion that the stage had not seen before: the fusion that no Kathak competition had seen before because no Kathak competition had featured a perfumer applying attar as a dance move, the dance move being: the most natural thing in the world for a man who applied attar ten thousand times and the most unusual thing in the world for an audience that had never seen attar application as choreography.

Ishan's face changed. His face changed the way it had changed when she had asked him to teach her attar, the change from uncertainty to ease, from the anxiety of the stage to the comfort of the familiar. The familiar being: I know how to apply attar. I have done this ten thousand times. This is my movement. This is my dance.

"Kaunsa attar?" he asked. Which attar?

She smiled. The smile, which was the teacher's smile, the smile that said: *I know the answer. The answer is obvious.

"Gulab," she said. Rose.

Rose. The beginning. The first attar. The first lesson. The attar that had started it all: the attar that she had smelled on the bench in Aminabad and on the marble in Qaiserbagh and on her left wrist every evening for fifteen days. Rose. The constant. The constant that was love.

"Gulab," he repeated.

Seven days to go.