Page 163 of One Indian Girl
‘Focus, Radhika madam. Your feet are not matching the beat,’ Mickey, the choreographer, said to me. Though he was ticking me off for the fifteenth time he had remarkable patience in his voice. In his place, I would have slapped my student.
‘Neither do I have chittiyan kalaiyan in real life, nor can I do the steps for chittiyan kalaiyan,’ I said.
He played the original song with Jacqueline Fernandes on the LED screen behind the stage. My six cousins who had to dance with me had mastered each move down pat. I couldn’t keep up beyond five steps.
I couldn’t hear the lyrics or Mickey’s instructions. I only heard the following in my ears:
Debu. Neel. Brijesh.
Debu. Neel. Brijesh.
I heard ‘I love yous’ in Debu’s and Neel’s voices. I heard Brijesh saying he wants to go apartment-hunting in San Francisco. I heard Neel talking about the waiting plane. I imagined Debu’s Bengali parents packing their bags along with their monkey caps and buying rasgulla tins for their Goa trip.
Mickey paused and replayed the song for the sixteenth time.
‘One-two-three, Radhika madam, start,’ he said.
Chittiyan kalaiyan ve, o meri chittiyaan kalaiyan ve.
Chittiyan kalaiyan ve, o meri white kalaiyan ve.
I tried to dance. The image of Neel making love to me on the Philippines island flashed in my head. It switched to Debu and me sitting in our Tribeca apartment and watching TV together. I came back to reality, and tried to remember the steps.
‘Madam, again you are missing the beat. What is happening? Cut, cut. Restart.’
Three more attempts for Radhika the wobbly-toed bride. Well, turns out I sucked at these attempts too.
Finally, Mickey stopped the music.
‘Only Radhika ma’am now. Cousins, please leave stage,’ he said. He meant business. He played the song again. I came to the middle of the stage. In the first stanza, I had to lift my wrists to my face and move my eyes. Instead, I stood still. My legs felt weak. I dropped to my knees. I sank on to the stage floor and burst into tears. I cried loud enough to make the choreographer come running to me. He feared he would lose his job.
‘Sorry, madam. I am sorry. We don’t have to do this dance.’
It wasn’t the dance. It was the thoughts that danced in my head. What on earth was I supposed to do?
‘Madam, I change song? Romantic song?Aashiqui 2?“Tum hi ho”? Just walk around looking sad. Easy. Try?’
I shook my head. My cousins ran up to the stage and surrounded me.
‘What happened, didi?’ Sweety said.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I am so useless. I can’t get these stupid steps.’
‘Didi, I can be the centre girl,’ Sweety said.
‘How can you be the centre girl? Are you the bride or what? Idiot,’ Pinky, another second cousin of mine, said.
My mother came up to us.
‘What is happening?’ she said to me.
I stood up. I gave her a tight hug. I cried again. She patted my back.
‘Calm down, my bitiya. Every girl has to leave her parents’ home one day.’
Sure, that’s what she thought this was. I am crying at the thought of leaving home. Never mind I have not lived at home for years anyway.
‘Give her a break. She will do it in a few hours,’ my mother said.
