Saavitri, Mallika Kodavatiganti

SAAVITRI

Mallika Kodavatiganti

The dancer should sing the song by the throat, express the meaning of the song through hand gestures, show the state of feelings in the song by eyes, and express the rhythm with his or her feet. —Abhinaya Darpana, a defining book on the techniques of Bharathanatyam

Bha: From Bhava, for emotion Ra: From Raaga, for music Ta: From Tala, for rhythm Natyam: For dance In essence, Bharatanatyam is a dance form full of grace, richness, variety of movement, mime, and music.

“Yato hasta stato drishtihi...” ”Where the hand is, the eyes follow”

I had always loved dancing—I grew up learning Bharatanatyam, a South Indian style of dance. I hated having all eyes on me, but when I was on stage dancing, that was the one time I felt okay with being seen. I was still nervous with plenty of butterflies fluttering around my stomach, threatening to fly out, but once the music started it was just me. Granted, I couldn’t see the audience anyways because of the blinding lights, but that helped me be less self-conscious of what my body was doing. My mind, in its numbed state of fear, trusted my limbs and let my muscles take over. They remembered even better than my mind. When I was thirteen, I had a three-hour long solo show, and I can’t tell you a single thing I thought during that time. When I close my eyes and think back to that day, August 20, 2011, I just see black. I can’t remember anything about that performance, besides a few details that stick

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out. My dad, making a joke about chocolate-covered apples while he welcomed guests. My mother, looking like an elegant peacock in her dark green sari. Sniffling at some point, my nosering dropping in the process. Sips of Gatorade, but only through a thin straw so I don’t mess up my lipstick. Besides these few moments, it was my body that was in charge that day, carrying me through my hour-long Varnam and seven other dances:

Pushpanjali, a prayer to remove obstacles. I forgot to stretch, but it’s too late now.

Jathiswaram, a tapestry of rhythms. Breathe.

Padam, a prayer to Goddess Saraswathi. My favorite dance.

Varnam, the story of Lord Karthikeya. When will this be over?

Padam, another one, this time depicting Lord Shiva. Core tight, don’t lose your balance.

Bajan, a gopika’s praise of Lord Krishna. I’m wearing my mom’s wedding lehenga.

Thillana, rhythms and poses, also for Lord Krishna. You’re almost done. Smile!

Mangalam, thanking Goddess Lakshmi. You did it.

I was only 13 years old then. I didn’t realize how much dance did for me until I took a modern dance class in college. I often

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found modern dance to be far too abstract, and honestly way too out there for me. I had seen modern dances at multiple shows and I always left confused, wondering what I had just watched, what it meant, why it mattered. Even though I respected the artistry and athleticism of the dancers, I felt unsettled by not being able to understand their movements and what they meant. So, I enrolled in the next modern dance class I could.

On my first day in the studio, Lindsay, our teacher, had us sit in a circle and breathe together. We stretched together. We moved around the room in any way we wanted, feeling silly, but beginning to feel free. But I remember that it took me a long time to let myself go. I was nervous and rigid, and I didn’t like moving without control. The music was weird and twangy. As I watched the people around me, I saw that a few people, like me, were too frozen and nervous to move. But a few brave dancers simply didn’t care what they looked like. With their eyes half closed, they let their limbs and momentum carry them across the studio, getting close to others, but never bumping into them. They looked like they were enjoying themselves and having fun. It reminded me of watching videos of amoeba in my biology classes, freely moving around however and whenever they wanted.

Over the next few weeks, I worked on mimicking these looser motions, telling my body that it was okay if my arms weren’t straight or if my posture wasn’t perfect. I became more aware of myself and of the people around me, and collectively, I felt all of us learning to let our bodies do what they wanted without being restricted by our thoughts. We learned to work with our bodies and what we’re capable of. Not all of us were long and lithe, built like gazelles, but each of us had a special way of moving that was uniquely us. We learned to love and appreciate ourselves and each other and we created a community of

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support within the studio. There was no such thing as a bad dancer in that room. All we needed to do was listen to our bodies, move without overthinking, recognize that we deserve the space we take up.

“Yato drishti stato manaha”...”Where the eyes go, the mind follows”

When I started third grade, my family had just moved to India. My parents knew my siblings and I were struggling to adjust to a life so different from Long Island, and they were trying their best to make us happy. Every weekend, they took us to the American store to buy the things that reminded us of home. This meant Oreo cookies, Barilla pasta, and Heinz ketchup. There was one day where my mom brought a surprise snack for me: chocolate Nesquik. I was thrilled to see the large brown bunny on the yellow plastic box. My mom went to change out of her work clothes, and I immediately headed to a kitchen and armed myself with a spoon, ready to feast on the addicting chocolate powder. I searched all the cupboards, frustrated that our maid put it away without telling me where it was hidden. I found it on the highest shelf.

Determined, I grabbed a stool, climbed onto the counter, and eagerly pulled the Nesquik closed to me, safe in my eight-yearold arms. Or so I thought. I lost balance for a moment, and the yellow box fell in slow motion towards the white tiled kitchen floor. I saw the lid fly off as it crashed into the ground, allowing a mountain of chocolate powder to form. I started panicking. I knew how hard my mom worked for this treat that I loved so much, and I knew it would break her heart to see any of it go to waste. Though I prayed that the loud crash was inaudible, my mom came running into the kitchen, worried I had hurt myself.

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She saw me trying to scoop the powder back into the container and act like nothing went wrong, but I saw both anger and sadness on her face. “I can’t believe you already ruined it,” she said. I can’t believe I already ruined it.

“Yato manaha stato bhava”...”Where the mind is, there is the feeling”

I took an African dance class my sophomore year in college. I didn’t know this when I signed up, but it meant unprecedented body pain and bruises. I was nervous about the intensity, and I struggled to keep up. By the end of our 80-minute sessions, I couldn’t breathe. My lungs simply refused— it was too hard. By the end of the term, my knees were gone. They were on strike, protesting the jumping and stomping and lunging. Even with my body in mutiny, this class was my heaven. In this tiny studio, I found a community of people I didn’t realized I could love so strongly in the moment. Most of the time, we couldn’t breathe, but when we really couldn’t breathe, we would look at each other in the mirror and shout in encouragement. Somehow we found the energy and oxygen to laugh so we could keep each other’s’ spirits up. I’ll smile and push through it, but you have to stick with me too, we would challenge each other.

I was reminded of Indian dances I grew up learning. The movement wasn’t just about moving, it was about sharing our stories, our people, our gods, their mistakes, and their adventures.

Sister Antoinette taught us about Lamban, a traditional dance from Mali. We learned about the Griot, whose responsibility was to learn the oral history of the tribe and pass these stories down. They were musicians and storytellers, the ones who kept their ancestors alive as well as their gods.

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In order to understand an art, I believe you must first understand its culture. “Chest down, knees up.” Sister Antoinette told us that this was the foundation for the dances we were learning. It meant paying homage to our ancestors because they paved the way for us.

I realize how little I know about my parents and my grandparents, their experiences growing up in India. Combined, their lives span a greater part of the 20th century, a time filled with wars, declarations of independence, technological changes, and immense globalization. I always wonder what their experiences were with all this change, what they thought and how they felt. It may be too late to learn some of these stories from my grandparents, but I’m hoping that one day my siblings will have the kids that I don’t want, and these children will be able to hear my parents’ adventures.

“Yato bhava stato rasaha”...”Where there is feeling, there is flavour”

We don’t cuddle and dance together, and I can’t think of the last time I leaned on my siblings. We love each other, but it’s usually embodied in food. Whenever someone comes home, we make their favorite dishes or get takeout from their favorite restaurant. For my first pandemic birthday, my family went all-out with cooking savory, Indo-Chinese dishes for me. A few weeks ago, just for fun, my dad made my mom a mini-buffet of vegan Mexican foods, which she reminisced about for days after. I had a temper tantrum last week because I had a paper due and I was cutting it close, and my mom made me samosas and chai because she knew I hadn’t eaten. We may not say “I love you” to each other, but remembering who prefers ketchup or mustard is all that we need.

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Food is how my family shows that we love and care about one another. I wake up early every morning to make my mom tea, with two spoons of sugar and half a lime, and my dad coffee, with one spoon of sugar and a splash of milk. They both work long, stressful days, especially now with the masks and risk of exposure. The least I can do is help them start their day. For my brother, it’s making him coffee before he can even ask, or baking him cookies if he’s had a bad day. My sister, well she’s definitely more of a picky one, but that also makes caring for her more special. It usually involves fried chicken, or seafood, or sometimes Starbucks. She’s all over the place, but figuring out her mood is part of the joy.

For my family, caring is a physical act, but one with significant, personal meaning that brings a little light to their day. A culture of care starts with empathy, with thinking about what someone else would want, what makes them feel loved and appreciated... what you could do to make their day just a little bit better, like remembering if they like ketchup or honey mustard.