“Go, Jaya!” I hear from the audience. It’s probably my best friend Rani. But what I hear is, “Tuck in your bottom!”
OK, that’s not something people hear often but for me, it’s an everyday thing … and no one’s shouting it, it’s all in my head – like a seven-centimetre-tall grandmother, my own miniAmmamma, sitting on my shoulder and giving me reminders about what my body should be doing as I open this performance. I try to ensure that my arms are straight, my aramandi is a perfect diamond, my posture is as straight as a flagpole, and, like her voice in my head shouts, that my rear end doesn’t stick out.
Tucking in my bottom, in Ammamma’s funny way, means I should stand tall, not bend forward.
The stage lights are hot on my skin, like I stuck my face in the sun and buried it there. Sweat is already trickling down my brow and annoyingly slides down the side of my face. I wish I could swipe at it but I’m in the middle of a dance. My makeup feels seven centimetres thick; my eyeliner could scare away a burglar up close; and my fingertips are covered in bright red altha, a dye highlighting my hands, so the audience can see my movements more clearly. It’s jarring if I stare at it too long.
But I’m powerful when I’m like this: on stage, in an outfit and jewellery I’d never wear otherwise,
and in my full Bharatanatyam form. It’s like I’m wearing thousands of years of Indian culture; I am invincible. Nothing can get to me.
I’m wearing gold bangles, vanki armlets, necklaces, jhumka earrings and a nose ring (fake, because I’m only 11, but I feel way older when I wear it). I have jewellery across my head (some call it a matha patti, but in Telugu, it’s called a papidi billa), moon and sun jewels in my hair, and stone pendants in my plait. I love the way all my jewellery glitters with red and green stones and pearls underneath the lights and I love how they weigh so much that I feel like a royal princess from India decked in finery. They’re so heavy that I have to keep my head up and straight to balance, and my mum says it makes me look confident and unafraid. My silk saree, stitched to my measurements in India, is orange with a green border that has gold patterns all over it.
It’s a magical change from the jeans and T-shirts I wear to school.
The music starts with a veena, a string instrument like a huge lute, twanging a harmony, and a mridangam
drum thump thump thumping a beat behind it. Bharatanatyam tells stories of people and mythology in India that have been passed down for thousands and thousands of years.
For the next five minutes, I get to be the storyteller.
When I finish, there is dead silence. A baby coos and people laugh at the way the sound cuts through the auditorium. I put my hands together in a namaste – a gesture of thanks and respect – and bow at the waist.
Tuck in your bottom. Stand tall.
The audience starts to clap, slowly at first.
I think they’re a little confused because we’re not in India. We’re in central Pennsylvania and there are only five Indian kids in my school, so this isn’t something people see much. Maybe they don’t understand.
But the applause grows and grows until the whole audience is clapping loudly. Politely. But loudly.
“Great job, Jaya!” Principal Johnson, the host for the show tonight, says. “You did a great job of representing Indian dance tonight! Can I have the audience give one more round of applause for Jaya Chaganti?”
Phew.
I walk off stage, and immediately look for Ammamma’s face in the wings of the stage. She’s the only person I ever want to see after my shows. She’s my dance teacher. But she’s also my best friend.
“Jaya!” Her alto voice is strong, and it cuts through the noise anywhere.
“Ammamma!” I exclaim.
My Amma’s Amma. My mother’s mother. My favourite person on earth.
“You were remarkable! What a wonderful job you did. It was your best performance yet!”
I know I’m beaming.
“I also saw you changed that jaati that you never
seem to remember.” She glances over the top of her glasses at me. Busted.
A jaati is a sequence of steps in a line of a song, and my memory is like a goldfish with this one. But I know the rhythm of the song like the back of my hand, and I can always insert steps to fit the beat, so that’s what I did.
Ammamma is not a fan of improvisation, but she laughs now. “Luckily, no one but me noticed. You may have even made it better than the original!”
“I had a good teacher,” I say.
“Well, I have the best student,” she replies, and gives me a big hug.
My parents finally catch up. Nanna, my dad, was probably taping the whole thing on a video camera (he hasn’t graduated to mobile phones yet), and Amma loves to watch all my friends perform their talents too. She’s the neighbourhood favourite and the cool mother all my friends want. Shiva, my younger brother, is bouncing off