Bharatham is my love, Mohini is who I am

Everything seemed so auspicious. I was bathed in turmeric powder and decorated, my father made me wear my paatti’s Pathakkam. A fresh veshti was draped around my waist in the kshatriya fashion. The moist and sweet-scented smear of Sandalwood paste on my forehead looked like the Third Eye. I lifted my left foot and squatted on the floor looking at the idol of the  eternal dancer, Siva as Nataraja, that was before me, glowing bright in the middle of the nilavilakku and the agalvilakkus, oil-wick lamps of various sizes and shapes, placed in rows and circles. The beating of the cymbals began, and I moved my feet in exquisite patterns drawing crescents and suns on the floor.

“He will be called a sissy boy”, my mother protested. My father did not echo her sentiments, nor did he voice his support for me: he was the proverbial cat on the wall. I had to fight the most vicious demons called religion, gender and caste. At the end I emerged the victor.  I simply must  have it, the joy of dancing; yes I have to; and forever. “Aadinakaalum paadinavaayum chumma irukkadhu!!” The feet that dance and the lips that sing never stay quiet….

The aptly-named Guru Uma Maheshwari hails from a family of Devadasis, dedicated temple dancers for several centuries. Her face is  calm and  always exudes joy and peace, making her look like she really is the daughter of King  Malayathwajan, the Pandya king who fathered Goddess Meenakshi. Her curly locks, decorated with pearls and held in place with pins, always look proper and prim; the string of mallika, pearly white jasmine flowers, subtly entwined with her hair,  makes one wonder if she was born with it. In rich red fabric, she is a carefully and gorgeously decorated Amman statue ready for an Oorvalam, a procession to grace the world with the vision of her beauty. My feet danced, feeling no weakness for hours, to her brisk chollukattus[1] and the beats of her thattukazhi[2]. I was her only male student, and she was proud of me. She knew it all and taught me all she knew. We would finish choreographing intricate pieces of dance in just two or three classes. We became mother and son in dance; I started calling her Amma. She taught me shringaaram, love. Not the mortal shringaaram, but  Shringaaram, the essence of life, the love that is without blemish; unconditional, true love that is omnipresent, andomnipotent, the love that is divine, the love that is me, the love that is God. I was shringaaram myself, mortal yet immortal.

The words of one lover in the middle of a sweaty coital rendezvous resounded in my ears – “You Malayalee boys are blessed with huge eyes that are hypnotic and gorgeous”. The memory is still fresh. Though only partly Malayalee, I felt flattered and cocked my head to the side, avoiding his breath in a gesture of sheer modesty. He said,“I want to look into your eyes,” and held my face tight in his strong, virile hands. I looked into his eyes as he closed them tight, and I knew what would follow–a moment of rapture as we both reached the peak of what seemed like a mixture of lust and love, and exploded. Covered in sweat and our own love juices he lowered his head to place soft, wet kisses on my eyes; kissed my upper lip with passion and probed into the warmth of my lips. I felt like his exclusive courtesan. He unleashed the Mohini that remained dormant within me, hitherto unknown even to me.

The part of me that is from the God’s Own Country needed acknowledgement.  The beats of the edakka and the maddalam,  drums that rarefy the air during dance and theatre performances in Kerala, have always made me sway in unending semi-circles. She brusquely said no when I articulated my desire to learn Mohininadana, the dance of the enchantress. “It is against my faith and I have taken a vow not to dance again, I am a baptised Pentecostal Christian and you are a BOY!!!” my aunt Omana explained. I convinced her with my promises:“ Ammayi, you will only teach and not dance.” I sold her my sh#t.

I moved my torso in the crescents of ardhachandraas and strutted like a peacock. I swayed in rhythm like the paddy field that dances to the breeze. I moved my eyebrows to the enchanting edakka drum, emoting love.I needed an elaborate bath in chandanam, kasthuri and milk to quench the Shringaric fire within me. And men noticed it, the fire called Moha. Even women-lovers appreciated it,  and one said , “You have the eyes of the Mohini, I smiled turning my head towards him  and said, “I am the MOHINI, and I enchant.”

This essay is part of the Orinam V-Day 2013 series called The Original L Word